An Irresistible Love Song

Alright, ladies, try to watch this clip just once. And men, do your marriage a favor and learn to sing and dance. But on the in case that's just not going to happen, at least take your wives somewhere they can watch other men sing and dance. It's good for the soul.

This duet is part of a performance by Riverdance Live in New York. If no one told you, you could still guess that the star couple is madly in love (they're actually married, which I think makes it all the more sweet) just by the way they look at each other. Just watch the first three minutes, with an emphasis on the third minute.

The lyrics are just as endearing as the performance.

Lift the Wings
How can the small flowers grow
If the wild wind blows
And the cold snow is all around

Where will the frail birds fly
If their homes on high
Have been torn down to the ground

Lift the wings
That carry me away from here and
Fill the Sail
That breaks the line to home
But when I'm miles and miles apart from you
I'm beside you when I think of you - a Stóirín a Grá

How can a tree stand tall
If a rain won't fall
To wash its branches down

How can a heart survive
Can it stay alive
If its love's denied for long

Lift the wings
That carry me away from here and
Fill the Sail
That breaks the line to home
But when I'm miles and miles apart from you
I'm beside you when I think of you - a Stóirín

And I'm with you when I dream of you - a Stóirín
And a song will bring you near to me - a Stóirín a Grá

I did a little research, and the foreign words are some sort of Irish folk talk, although I have no idea exactly what they mean. I don't think it detracts at all, though, from the overall feeling of the song; in fact, quite the contrary -- it makes the message more mysterious because it contains some secret code love language.

From Bad to Worse to Worser

We all know that when it comes to Nicole's backpacks, I need to find the perfect one. It's a very strong, inner voice that cannot be ignored (great, now I'm obsessive and schizophrenic). I toss and turn at night until I find it. Just kidding, but I do fret somewhat more than I ought.

Nicole's most adorable, all-matching, all-white backpack from last year didn't quite hold up. *Sniffle.* I knew we'd have to get another one, but instead of going on a hunt, I just shoved it to the back of my mind and pretended that a brand new equally as cute backpack would appear in Nicole's closet, ready to go for the first day of school. It wasn't until I took Nicole to the airport to fly to Utah that I even began to give serious thought to this year's backpack. Nicole found a hot pink furry one that had a pouch to take a stuffed animal to school. It was really cute, but it was too small for her folder and it was $35. My mom said, "No way!" ($35 is much too expensive for a backpack -- no matter how cute.)

While Nicole was in Utah, I searched online everywhere. Ebay, toy stores, designer kid stores. No one had the same backpack, or even anything close. That's when I decided I would make the backpack myself. Shouldn't be too hard, I reasoned. I wanted to make it out of pink corduroy, and I was going to make it big and with a pouch for Sally. So I called all over town and discovered that (1) Spokane is the worst place on earth to buy fabric due to lack of interesting stores; (2) none of the stores in town carry pink corduroy ("We have earth tones this year," one employee told me.); and (3) of the available corduroy colors, if I chose one of them, I would have to spend $20 in fabric and notions, so what's the point? (You know backpacks are $10 at Wal-mart?) Ugh. So frustrating.

We finally ended up with a store-bought pink backpack that was, admittedly, very worthy of approval. But it was constructed with an odd fabric that cannot withstand washing machines (ingenious). I can't very well send Nicole to school with a dirty pink backpack, so we took that one back to the store, and decided to "make do" with one that we already have at home, which is usually the most economical and practical route. I said usually.

I happened to have three identical, high quality blue backpacks in my closet. As I held one up for examination, I thought, "This will be perfect for Grant when he goes to school." (I really am going to save it.) But I wondered if one of them might also work for Nicole. I called my mom and she told me to buy some applique letters of Nicole's name to personalize it for her.

This is where the less economical and completely unpractical part begins. (And you can bet it involves Grant. Or rather, revolves around Grant.) We were having one of those days where Grant was too tired to take a nap and only wanted to scream and pout and do everything naughty instead. For background information, you should probably know that Clint has been working nights, which I've learned is something so treacherous to endure that no one should ever have to do it. Close Wal-mart for eight hours in the middle of the night. We'll all survive. Give the Walgreens pharmacists a break. We can borrow medicine from our neighbors if we have to. Just let people sleep at the time of night when people should be doing nothing but sleeping. And so it was that on the night prior to this particular day, Clint had no chance to sleep at work. Sometimes it slows down a little at night and he can sleep for a couple of hours. Not this night. He had new admits, codes, a patient with a stroke, and many other tasks to keep him busy ... all night long. So my goal, as dutiful wife and mother, is to try to keep the house quiet so that Clint can sleep. It's not my favorite part in job description. In fact, it's quite loathsome. But it is part of my job, nonetheless, and experience has taught me that sometimes it's easier to just get the kids out of the house instead of constantly reminding them to hush down at home. I said sometimes.

Seeing as Grant was apparently not going to succumb to a nap, and also how he was refusing to shush, the stupid part of me thought, Why fight him here when you can fight him at the fabric store? (I haven't endured enough humiliation lately.) I should have known things were turning sour when Grant wouldn't ride in the shopping cart. He agreed to walk right beside the shopping cart, though, and he actually followed through on his word. Good boy, I thought.

We found the applique aisle and both Nicole and Grant loved sorting through them to find the perfect letters and shapes. Grant was so helpful, even putting back the appliques that we decided we didn't want. At the end of the applique conversation, and I know it was at the end because it came to an abrupt halt once this was discovered, I turned my head to check on Grant, who was standing only two feet away, and found liquid black RIT dye on his face, in his hair, on his clothes, hands, arms, and shoes. I don't think he was planning on telling me because he was completely silent as he put the bottle back on the shelf. I grabbed him and put him in the back of the shopping cart (no protests from him this time) and we headed to the front of the store to check out.

The clerk gave me an odd look, but I didn't respond. I don't have to explain my child's behavior to every nosey person. He's two, and there's almost nothing I can do about it. $18 credit card dollars and a ruined set of clothes later, we left the fabric store. This is when the thought occurred, I should have bought the backpack at the airport.

But I didn't, so I took a deep breath, removed Grant's shirt (the dye was thick and still wet) and buckled him in his car seat. Whew, a moment to relax. I love the feeling of buckling him in. I know he can't get hurt, hurt anyone else or ruin anything. As could have been expected, Grant fell asleep in the car just minutes before we pulled in the driveway. But since it was 3:30, I didn't want him to take a nap anymore because I feared he wouldn't go to bed until midnight. (How can you expect a toddler to please a neurotic mom like me? Take a nap, don't take a nap. Which one is it, lady?!) I transferred him to the couch, in hopes that he would only sleep for a bit. No luck. He slept through piano-playing, jump-roping, and mixers-mixing for three hours. Truth be told, even though I worried how I would get him to sleep later, I was relieved to have a break. I tell you in all seriousness that I was on the verge of running away.

But since Grant slept, I didn't have to run away, and I was able to iron and sew on all of Nicole's appliques. And now I know that she has a unique backpack that will never be confused with anyone else's and that she loves because she helped make it and that cost me way too much money and minutes off my life. But that's what parents do, right? Sacrifice their lives for their kids? At least so it goes around here. But we don't know how to do it any other way.

Signs Your OCD Is Out-of-Control

1. You shop for Halloween costumes before the school year starts.
2. You worry that your daughter will have the same backpack as three other girls in her class. (This would probably be a good thing, though, because then she'd have something in common with other kids on the first day of school and then they'd turn into life-long friends. But you're not about to let that happen.)
   
3. You've already studied the lunch menu at the school where you want your daughter to attend a year from now. (And you don't even own a house in those boundaries. Ooh, the pressure's on.)
4. It's August and you're wondering what goodies to take to your neighbors for Christmas. (Perhaps you should conduct a poll?)
5. While we're on the subject, you're wondering if this is a good year for electronic Christmas cards. (Don't do it!)
6. You're acting like a squirrel trying to store enough food in the house so that you won't have to drive in/step in/touch snow this year. (That is, if squirrels had houses. And, of course, if they ate a full range of food instead of nuts. Such a boring diet. Maybe we'd all be thinner if our food was as bland. Oh, and as a side note, I'm not certain if squirrels have as adverse reactions to snow as I do. Such reaction can be described as a scrunching of the nose, squinting of the eyes, a shriek of terror, and a barely understandable utterance relating to how cold it is outside.)
7. You're trying to finalize a baby boy name for a baby that is neither yet conceived nor planned or promised to be conceived.
8. You already have a baby girl name.
9. You picked the name six years ago.
10. You generate a list to demonstrate your OCD capabilities.

Bonus!

Nicole's home, but just barely.

When I bought Nicole's ticket to visit in Utah, my mom was worried that I wouldn't be able to get Nicole on the plane. I told her getting to Utah wouldn't be a problem, but getting home would. (I could never keep up with all of the running around and fun things that Nicole and my mom did together. Not to mention the constant stream of cousins to play with. Why would Nicole ever want to come back? Nicole refused to talk to Clint, Grant and me until her last night there. She had heard that Grant was naughty, and she only called to hear the story first-hand. Other than that, I don't think she gave any of us two thoughts' worth.)

All the way up until five minutes before boarding, Nicole was excited to fly and ready to come home. But as the passengers deplaned one by one, Nicole held on tighter and tighter to my mom's neck. I think the story goes that by the time the gate agent showed up to escort Nicole to her seat, Nicole was in hysterics and clutching onto my mom for dear life. A fellow grandmother and observer was in tears just watching. The gate agent told my mom to buy a ticket or go home and try again another day. Wasn't he relieved to discover my mom could fly standby?

Just before push-off, my mom called to tell me that she was coming, too. She was bringing no luggage, her car was parked in short-term parking, and the sheets from her bed at home were in the washing machine. She wasn't exactly prepared for the trip, as it were. But I was so excited! I had asked her to come back with Nicole, but she had gracefully declined just the day prior.

On the plane, Nicole asked my mom if she had told me that they were both coming. My mom told her that I knew, but assured Nicole that she wasn't going to be in any trouble at all. (Way to go, Nicole! Oh, and for the record, I swear on all that is good and holy that I did not stage this.)

Today, as we were driving my mom back to the airport (all good things must end), Nicole from the backseat said, "I made you to come here, huh, Grandma?" Nicole and I both smiled. After all, who can complain about an extra day of Grandma? For starters, never us!

Lorena 3-2-1

Three things I do everyday, no matter where I am:

1. Pray (let's face it, I need all the help I can get)
2. My hair and makeup (hospital, camping, you name it because I'm vain like that)
3. Call my mom (more like every waking hour)

Two things I wish I could do well:

1. Speak Italian (Arriverderci!)
2. Play the violin (I once knew Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star)

One thing I love to cook (or rather eat after I cook it because homemade tastes so much better):

1. Candy (was there any doubt?) -- divinity, caramel, fudge ... mmm!
   

While the Cat's Away ...

Things Grant has been able to do with Nicole gone:

• Watch Charlie and the Chocolate Factory 9 times
• Sit on any bar stool he chooses (sometimes all four in one meal)
• Dump all of the chocolate chip ingredients into the mixing bowl
• Mix the dough, roll and place the dough, and lick both beaters and the bowl
• Pour the laundry soap into the washing machine every day
• Play in the treehouse unrestricted
• Take extra-long baths
• Ride Nicole's scooter without being madly chased

Normally they share/take turns with all of those things. But despite Grant's free reign around the house, I think it's possible he's missed Nicole. After all, she reads him his favorite books, unbuckles his car seat (so he can get out faster), holds his hand to cross the street, joins forces with him against me in fight for children's rights (a.k.a. cookies for breakfast), giggles with him, plays Hungry Hungry Hippos with him, shares her Barbies with him, and loves him so much.

Since Grant's not talking much, I'll serve as voice for the both of us: we can't wait for our Nicole to be home again!

The Score Has Been Settled

Round 1
Grant's been locking doors a lot lately. It's really annoying (and sometimes scary!). A few days ago, Grant didn't want to take a nap, but he agreed to lay on our bed instead of his. A few minutes later, I caught him getting into my makeup in the master bathroom. I threatened to make him sleep in the port-a-crib in our bedroom if he got into something else. Grant couldn't resist and came walking downstairs all sheepishly a few minutes later. I marched him right back upstairs, tossed (nearly literally) him into the port-a-crib and told him to stay there and go to bed. A quiet twenty minutes later, I thought I had better check on him. My door was -- not surprisingly -- locked. I opened it with our spare key and found Grant fast asleep under the covers in our bed.
Grant: 1, Mom: 0

Round 2
Another nap-time disaster. I put Scotty and Grant down together for naps today. Scotty went to bed, and Grant went to work. I thought Grant was sleeping, but also thought it would be foolish not to check. When I grabbed the doorknob, I discovered it locked. I knocked on the door and ordered Grant to open it immediately. He unlocked it, cracked the door open and yelled, "No, Mom!" I got an overwhelming whiff of baby powder and pushed the door open to assess the damage. Huge. The entire (brand-new) carton of baby powder was all over Grant's freshly washed bedding, all of the carpet, the changing table, the desk, the walls and even the doors. The only part of the room left unscathed was fortunately little Scotty in his crib, who was oblivious to the whole thing (even when I vacuumed).
Grant: 2, Mom: 0

Round 3
Grant got out of the bath prematurely tonight, and I was busy putting Scotty down. I heard Grant go into the garage, and I was worried that he would get his clean little body all dirty again. Plus, I couldn't imagine what sort of trouble he would be getting into without me around to chase him out of it. I had been taking pictures upstairs, so I had my camera around my neck when I went downstairs to find Grant (he's not to be trusted much these days, you know). I laughed so hard when I found him, and as I took his picture, he yelled, "No, Mom!"Grant: 2, Mom: Even

Ah, revenge is sweet.

Almost a Family Portrait

When we got our picture taken, a man nearby said, "Wow, what a group!"

And my witty-sister-in-law whispered, "Does he know that this is only half of us?!"

Add It to the List

When rotten kids grow up to be rotten adults, they blame their rotten life on their rotten parents. (How original.)

Well, as my mama says, the street runs both ways. Kids, as I'm about to explain to you, take many years off their parents' lives and stunning outer beauty. Children give their parents premature gray hair and excessive wrinkles; they create cause for ulcers, bruises, headaches (let's just go with a blanket statement on aches in general), sleepless night, and public humiliation (Do you really want to hear about how Grant shrieked at the top of his lungs, kicked and hit his mama, and threw a fistful of pennies on the floor of hospital cafeteria tonight in front of Clint's colleague because he was mad we left early? Yeah, I didn't think so.); they also possess an extraordinary capacity to induce poverty.

I could go on, but I'm afraid you might get the wrong idea about me. So I'll share just one more because I think it's based on cutting-edge research and it comes from a trusted scientific source (my new dentist with whom I happen to be quite [surprisingly] satisfied -- partially due to this *fact*): children cause cavities in their mothers' mouth. There you have it. Straight from a dentist, so it must be true. Now I know who to thank for my eroding teeth and resulting anxiety two weeks prior to any dental office visit.

I love you dear children, but when I'm old, please pay for my dentures.

Just Passing Time

Since I'm notoriously late, and would have had one very upset little girl if she missed her plane, I thought it best to wake up extra early to take Nicole to the airport Wednesday. It worked, but then we had to sit in a very small airport and keep three kids happy for two hours before we could go home. We tried a gift shop, but that lasted about 10 milliseconds before Grant wanted to get out of the stroller and manhandle everything. So here's what we did instead ...

Giggled

Touched things we shouldn't

Giggled some more

Searched for a key for this lock and kicked the gate when no such key presented itself

Sat for a moment of silence to avoid brutal beating at home

Watched the jets, of course! (We were at an airport, after all.)

Such Brave Girls

Did you know that it is completely legal for a child of merely five years of age to travel alone on an aircraft to a different state? Don't airline executives know that five-year-olds and their parents should never be separated by such distances? It's semi-outrageous!

Nicole, against my advice and futile persuasion, flew to Salt Lake City today to visit half of the family. All the way until the last second, I told her it wasn't too late to change her mind. (It's like when you're engaged to be married and the officiator says to the couple at the alter, "It's not too late to back out." That's what happened at my sister's wedding. Her then-fiancé-now-husband [Matt] later said he felt like wringing the guy's neck and asking him what the heck he was doing. Matt finally got his girl in a wedding gown, and this wise guy was about to ruin the whole plan. The officiator must have read Matt's mind because he added, "Just checking. A couple earlier this morning backed out, so I wanted to be sure before proceeding." Thanks, Buddy.) But Nicole is a stubborn girl and wouldn't hear any of my backing-out speech. "Moooom," she chided, as if to tell me to grow up.

Unaccompanied minors (that's what they call these near-orphans who fly solo) board first, so we said our good-byes with hugs and kisses and I-love-yous, and I didn't even cry as I watched my baby walk down the ramp holding hands with the gate agent. Although I badly wanted to run after Nicole and say, "I'm your mom and you have to stay here because I say so."

I hate to toot my own horn, but I feel justified in reporting that it takes a brave mama to be able to send her firstborn off into the atmosphere without revealing her inner fear and falling into some sort of fit on the ground and screaming, "I want my baby back!"

I suppose Nicole also sported an admirable amount of bravery -- leaving her family and all. But when she grows up and has a little firstborn of her own, she'll know that my job was much harder than hers today.

Don't Be Deceived

From the looks of this picture, one might easily conclude that (1) Nicole and her daddy spent all afternoon building this sand creature and (2) that this creature was not a creature at all, but a bright, shining sun.

When in actuality, Nicole and her mommy built this creature, but forgot the camera. This picture was taken an hour later when Nicole and her daddy went back to the beach and took a picture without Mommy. And as for the bright, shining, sun ... it's an octopus. (We're artistically-challenged around here, but that doesn't stop us from making fools of ourselves.)

Introducing My Sister

My sister is a hip, 30-something with a heart of gold. My mom has often said of Shari, "She'd give you the shirt off her back if you needed it."

Shari loves children. Whenever we visit her place, she packs my babies around like they're her own and spoils them rotten. I'm never surprised that Nicole wants to live in Arizona instead of wherever we are.

I don't think Shari realized what she did by relocating to Arizona, but she will go down in our family history books as the one who began our family migration south. As early as next year, almost half of the family will live in Arizona.

Among other things for which Shari is famous, she is also crafty ... sewing curtains, pillows, and quilts; painting walls or cabinets; crocheting baby afghans; installing tile and experimenting with various home improvement projects. I could never do all the things this girl does.

In her spare time, Shari can be found at the mall. I like to think that she has good taste, but when I'm around, it's even better taste. Shopping is one thing that we like to do together. That and talking until 2:00 a.m. on the first night of every time I visit. We talk all the time on the phone, but it's different in person. I think if I didn't have a sister, I'd call my mom a whole lot more (which would get annoying real fast because, as it is, I call my mom 17 times a day to shoot the breeze).

I always forget to send birthday cards, but not Shari. So this year, here's to you, Sis! Please enjoy your poem, I wrote it myself.

Clint Takes Us to the Most Wonderful Places

In the background, you catch a glimpse of Multnomah Falls in Oregon.

In the foreground, you see a little girl who is sick of getting her picture taken, ditto for the daddy, and a baby who smiles no matter how many pictures his mommy takes.
Ooh, and what's that we have over here? I sense autonomy and mischief.

Smile If You Love Your Papa

Enquiring Minds Want to Know ...

... if Scotty looks older if you haven't seen him for three days.
... if Scotty remembers how to suck on a binkie.
... and if so, if he looks like a baby again when sucking on said binkie.
(The answer is "yes," unless you see him sucking his binkie while sitting up by himself.)
... if Scotty still holds his bottle that funny way.
... if Scotty can make any expressions that resemble his daddy.
... if Mommy can cut Grant's hair without any help from Grandma. (... and if Grant still brings Mommy the milk jug whenever he needs a drink.)

All Boy

Sometimes little boys do things they shouldn't.
For example, Grant shouldn't turn on the hose water.

But after he's been playing outside for so long ...
Sometimes he just can't resist.
Besides, it tastes sooo good.
Misbehaving little boys most especially shouldn't be so cute when they're doing things they shouldn't.

Our Travel Curse

We travel to a lot of places, and we usually get there by car. And experience has taught me that it always takes us longer to get there than it takes everyone else. I know we drive slooow (part of a dying breed), but when we arrive hours later than we should, it cannot be attributed to our miles per hour only.

For example, on our way home from Omaha in the middle of March, a massive snow storm hit the major freeways leading home (I-80 and I-70) due to wild winds in Wyoming. We were forced to exit the closed freeway in a small Nebraska town and were told we would have to stay at least one night. The hotel clerk at the Holiday Inn told us that he heard some people were getting through a back road, and gave us directions. We got about another two hours further before having to stop at an even smaller town for the night. The next morning, we had the option of staying another day and night (freeways still closed) or trying our luck through Wyoming. It was an eight-hour detour, but we finally made it home, following the pioneer trail. It would have been cool to stop at the Martin Handcart visitor center, but by the time we reached it, all we wanted to do was get home. (Now I wish we would have stopped anyway because that is one road I don't ever want to drive again.)

When we moved to Spokane, one of my friends (who lived an hour and a half further away than we did at the time) told me they made it to Spokane in 10 hours -- driving at the grand speed of 92 mph and one large fine. We didn't have to worry about any speeding tickets during our 12-hour trek, though, because we were stuck going 35 mph uphill in strong headwinds through most of Montana. What could be more fun?

Oh, I know. How about sitting in deadlock traffic in Barstow, California for TWO HOURS with a baby in the backseat because the freeway is being repaved. We were also detained for an unfair amount of time in Arizona while a car company shot a commercial near the Grand Canyon. We watched a race car speed up and down the road 100 times before they quit for a bathroom break and let everyone through. I think we should have been paid for that one.

Another time we were on our way to Arizona, and since we had taken all of the most obvious roads on previous visits, we decided to go through Colorado and see Mesa Verde. *Side note: to see anything worthwhile inside Mesa Verde, you have to drive at least one hour on very windy roads inside the park first. They don't write that in their brochures.* Anyway, on our way out of the park, we took a wrong turn trying to find Monument Valley (I think Clint's still upset about not seeing this ... he'll probably make us drive through it with our U-Haul next summer) and ended up traveling through an Indian reservation with no mile marker signs and Indian police cars and intermittent trailer homes every ten miles or so. No signs for food or gas or bathrooms or anything for three hours.

Finally, on our way home from the Oregon coast yesterday, instead of making it home in time for dinner, the kids fell asleep with empty tummies in the backseat of a pickup truck with our Tahoe being towed behind for 180 miles. Clint and I shared the bucket seat up front. It was all nice 'n cozy, if you know what I mean. Most of the trip, I was facing the backseat with one hand rubbing Grant's arm, trying to reassure him (through his screams) that we would get him milk once we got home, and with the other hand being used as Scotty's teething ring (also through screams). I've almost never been so happy to be home ... four hours past schedule. I bet Mike (our driver) had similar sentiments when he got home.

Believe it or not, this is not an exhaustive list. But one thing is sure, we're going to have to make a change to our family travel plan. We can (a) quit traveling; (b) get a new car -- no pressure, Clint; or (c) travel by plane, boat, train, bus or hitch-hiking (preferably in a car that can properly seat six people).

The Impersonator

This looks awfully familiar ...

Thoughts on Death by Nicole

I hate it when my family dies.

Mom, I feel sad.

I miss Grandma Connie ... I loved Grandma Connie.

Why do people have to die?

When can I see Grandma Connie again?

Twenty-Nine Short Years Ago ...

... Clint's mom sat in a Colorado hospital bed holding my sweet husband as an infant. For the most part, Clint's still a sweet baby boy.

Sweet.
Whenever I want Clint to hold me tight, I roll over to his side of the bed until there's no more room between us. And even if his back is toward me or if he's sleeping, he rolls over and puts his arm around me until I'm ready to fall asleep. He also does the dishes.

Baby.
Clint lets me pick out his clothes every day.

Boy.
Clint loves to tinker with parts -- car parts, gun parts, machine parts, doctor parts.

Oh, how I love this birthday boy!

The Only Grandma I Ever Knew

Since my dad's parents passed away before I was born, the only grandparents I have known were my mom's parents. And they lived really far away (from a kid's perspective). About every year or so, Mom drove as many kids as she could fit into the car to the Oregon coast to visit her family (parents and sister). We loved those trips.

Grandma and Grandpa had a great house. It sat on a lake, and as far as I was concerned, it was the best house on the lake. The backyard gently sloped down to the lake; and at the end of their yard was a nice dock from which to fish (although we never caught any -- my grandpa always blamed the waterskiers). Grandma had berries in her yard, and I loved to eat them as I picked them for her.

When I was 12, I flew to my grandparents' house by myself. It seemed like I was gone from home for a long time, but I don't remember missing home -- probably because Grandma kept me so busy. Grandma and I went on a walk around their neighborhood and she told me all about her neighbors. As we walked, we ate a Breyer's vanilla ice cream cone. Grandma also took me to the beach, shopping for souvenirs (I bought my mom a small ceramic whale, which she still has), taste-testing at the chocolatier in Lincoln City (I've never had better), and clothes shopping. This was where I was introduced to Grandma's style of shopping. I remember her saying, "Now if you see anything that you can't live without, you just let me know." I found a cute little outfit that Grandma appeared to love also (she didn't say otherwise). I've kept her motto with me ever since this trip.

One evening after dinner, I took the yellow paddle boat out on the lake all by myself. Five minutes after leaving the dock, I noticed a very large spider in the seat next to me. I'm not such a fan of spiders, so when it came crawling toward me, I stood up and traded seats with it. This may have happened multiple times. Finally, my eyes caught sight of Grandma back at her house waving her arms wildly at me trying to get me to sit down in the boat so that the boat wouldn't tip over. Seems like they reminded me of that story every time I visited for several more years.

Something I didn't know about Grandma before that trip was that she kept a stash of candy in her glove compartment (now I do, too). Only LifeSavers, though. But she bought the best flavors. Where Grandma and I differ is that she ate one at a time, and I ate one also, but was dying for the next car trip when we could have another one. I never understood why she didn't eat the whole package in one trip.

I have too many memories of my grandma to share them all here. She passed away suddenly yesterday and I haven't been able to stop thinking about her since. She hated getting her picture taken, but since I liked to torment her (that's how she viewed it), I have collected a few and would like to share them. If they have computers in Heaven (because I know that's where she is), and she gets a chance to read my blog, I hope she'll forgive me for posting just a few.

Circa 1940
My grandma (on the left) as a teenager with her brother, sister and sweet little Italian parents. By little, I mean little. I never met one Italian relative that was taller than four-foot-eight. And by Italian, I mean real Italian. They were born in Sicily, and though they spent most of their lives in California, they barely spoke broken English.

Summer 1964
This is one of my favorite pictures (and so I may have posted it before) because it has my parents and both sets of my grandparents all together for a joyous occasion: my parents' wedding in their hometown of Quincy, California.

Memorial Day 2004This was one of our impromptu trips. My parents flew up to Oregon, Clint had some unexpected days off, so we hopped in the car and did a quick trip with Nicole. I think we spent more time in the car (traveling to and fro) than we did at their house, but it was worth it.

Miss you already, Grandma.

Go hug your grandma today. Tell her it's from me.

Take Your Wife to Work Day

Do you know how long I've wanted to go to work with Clint? Forever!

Clint and I knew he'd only have to work a few morning hours yesterday, so we called for a babysitter and planned our first date since we've moved. We were all dressed up, which makes me giddy. I just love to be dressed up and out of the house with my husband. Anyway ...

Ten minutes into our date (as fate would have it), a nurse called about Clint's only patient. I thought the on-call doctor was supposed to take those calls, but Clint wanted to be informed about any changes (because he cares so much). Before the date ended, Clint and I were on the fifth floor of the hospital taking care of business. Well, I wasn't taking care of business, but Clint was -- and I loved watching him -- all professional and handsome (he's my husband, I can add that if I want to). Unfortunately, I couldn't peek around the corner to watch him with his patient, but instead I sat at the nurses' station and watched him write up his orders and tell all of the nurses (who probably would have been so rude to him a year ago) what to do (in a very polite manner, I must add).

I can't wait for Clint to take me into a surgery where he administers the anesthesia. I think I'm second in line behind my dad.

I Wish I Had Nicole's Hair

Nicole has incredible hair. It's blondish, long, thick, wavy and full of natural highlights. I love to fix Nicole's hair. She likes it out of her face, and I like it fancy; so it's pulled up or back 360 days a year (every once in a while I leave it down -- always a mistake).

We were ahead of schedule (Can you believe it?! Must be an epidemic.) on the way to the dentist's office (such a waste of a good hairstyle). So I decided to experiment. I came up with this:
And now it's my new favorite 'do. (I wish I could fix my hair like that and not look like a first grader.) Problem is that this new style takes about 25 minutes to complete -- maybe because it was my first time. And I wasn't exactly in a hurry. But still, it's definitely one of the more time-consuming of our repertoire.

A lot of moms tell me their little girls would never sit still long enough to get their hair fixed. But truthfully speaking, I think hair-time is one of Nicole's favorite times of the day. It's just the two of us and we talk and joke. Oddly enough, it's also the time of day when Grant is the most pesky. He dumps out of all the elastics and ribbons, sprays water on the clean mirror and then in Nicole's face, unravels the toilet paper roll, sucks on the hairspray bottle, immerses his hand in the bucket of gel, hides the comb, stands on Nicole's feet, and all sorts of other mischievous acts to steal attention away from Nicole's hair. I fear one night he'll sneak into Nicole's room and chop off all of her hair so as to not ever again get locked out of the bathroom during our morning hair routine (sometimes it resorts to that). I guess my problem isn't the little girl cooperating, it's her kid brother!

I've always loved Nicole's hair; even when it was platinum blond, short and wispy. When Nicole was a baby, she was as bald as Scotty. Clint was sure that she'd be hairless until kindergarten, like one of his older sisters (it's true, I've seen the pictures). But by the time she was two years old, her curly golden locks were already starting to thicken up. On one of those early haircuts, I saved a soft locket that I keep in my special drawer. I take it out to look at it at least every other week.

Nicole has been asking to get her hair cut "as short as mine" so we can be twins, but I just won't let her. I'm turning into my mom, I tell you! I always wanted my thick, long hair chopped off, too (I don't know why), but my mom kept telling me it was a crime to cut such hair. I finally understand what she was talking about all those years. Now I'm old with short hair and would love to have hair as long and healthy and beautiful as Nicole's!

My Plans

I've heard whisperings of families losing children this summer. And this has prompted many to reflect on their love for their kids and on all of the sweet things that their kids do. (Yours truly not excluded.)

But last night, just as I was tucking Nicole in bed, I thought about how the day before she had asked me to play Barbies with her (or Polly Pocket -- my choice). I told her "no," and yesterday afternoon I heard her playing Barbies solo in her treehouse. She didn't ask for my company -- probably because she's been rejected so many times. However, I do play on occasion, which gives her hope and courage to ask every other day or so. But when I listened to her playing all by herself yesterday, I thought about how one day in the future, I would give a million dollars (or two, or three, or four ... or as many as it would take) to have her ask me to play Barbies one more time. She also asked me to help her with her piano practice before going to bed, but it was so late, that I told her she had to wait.

So today, I'm going to play Barbies, Round 9 (she's keeping track -- it's a whole soap opera and she only counts the episodes when I play, too). I'm also going to sit right by her side when she practices all of her piano songs until her sweet, little fingers ache.

I'm also going to ride our plastic cars on the back patio with Grant. He wanted me to ride yesterday, but I was wearing white shorts, so I wouldn't hop in. Today, I'm dressed in blue jeans and ready for our adventure. Then we'll blow bubbles until there's no more air left in his lungs.

And little Scotty. Well, I'll just pack him all over the place until my arms fall off. My hip is his favorite spot of the whole house (wouldn't you know?).

Last, but most definitely not least (sorry for the cliché, but it's so à propos -- sorry, no more French), my husband also deserves some attention. I'm going to try to get him to swing dance with me in the living room. My grandparents used to do this with their friends on Friday nights. I once saw a picture of them dancing, and it looked like more fun than dinner, a movie, mini golf and a concert combined. I already cleared out a big area, so there's plenty of room; and we already own a great CD. We'll dance the night away while the kids contemplate the oddity of their parents (or dance along -- I personally think it will be too irresistible to sit on the sidelines and watch).

When it's all said and done, I love to watch my kids and see all of the cute things they do. But what counts more are the things that I do with them.

So today is a day for us to spend together.

Simply Nicole

Grant's Little Projects

Grant's short attention span and knack for finding trouble have made Clint wonder if Grant was going a little ADHD on us. I tell Clint that Grant's just a two-year-old, and that he's doing what two-year-olds do: keep busy.

And it's so cute to watch him be busy. This week I opened the case of the free TV we found because the sound quit working (just like that). I thought maybe there'd be a quick fix ... loose wire, burned out fuse -- but let's face it, I'm not a TV repair-woman and once I glanced inside, I had no idea what the heck I was looking for.

I don't think Grant had a clue either, but that didn't stop him from trying. All day long. I would have let him keep the thing for a little project in his room if I weren't worried about him electrocuting himself.
Grant also likes to do yard work. He follows Clint mowing the lawn and hands him the big, black garbage bags when it's time. He also pulls any weed he finds and makes a pile to take to the trash. Imagine that, a kid that weeds the yard cheerfully without being asked. Or paid. Or bribed. It's almost too good to be true!
If he could fine-tune his skills before he loses interest, I'd let him take over all of the household chores. Hmm, maybe something we can work on this fall while I'm trying to not think about potty-training.

A Final Thought on Long Hours

During third year of medical school, when Clint's weekly hours often totaled 100 or more, I complained to my dad that it wasn't safe for the doctors or the patients to be so exhausted at work. My dad replied, "Do you want a surgeon who can only perform an operation if he's had a full eight hours of sleep? Or do you want a surgeon who can do his job no matter how long he's slept?"

Touché.

Apparently Clint's one of those doctors who can get the job done no matter how much he has slept (or not slept). Last night (his last call night of surgery EVER -- hooray), Clint and his attending successfully performed an appendectomy at 1:00 a.m. Three hours later, Clint got home and had just enough time to shower, change into a shirt and tie, and head back to the hospital for rounds.

We Made It

For the first time since we moved here, we arrived at church five minutes early. Since we were ahead of schedule, I had enough time to snap this photo before pulling out of the driveway. Yesterday we (including Clint) all drove to the hospital together, and I turned around to hand something to Nicole and saw Scotty smiling at me. It was such a pleasant surprise. I was accustomed to his old car seat and only rubbing the top of his head when I reached into the back seat. Scott loves his new seat -- he looks all around and out the windows. I think his favorite part is not having to lie down anymore. He was always trying to lift himself up and out of the baby seat.

Back to today. As soon as we sat down on our chairs, Scotty started flirting with the teenage girls behind us. Worked like a charm. They played with him, tickled him, fed him, and put him to sleep while Grant and I wrestled. Nicole, as usual, colored in her notebook and probably heard more than I did.

Clint never made it. I came home and found his ironed church clothes still hanging in the closet where I had left them for him. Poor guy. He's been sleeping all afternoon to make up for only getting five hours (max) of sleep a night for three nights now. I think he's going to enjoy his next two weeks. He'll be working 40 - 50 hours and have all of his weekends off. If you ask me, he's earned it.

I Wasn't Done

I can think of worse things than going to church alone with three kids.

How about this ...

• Sleeping alone in your king size bed
• Sleeping alone in your king size bed in a house whose overnight high is 71 degrees in August (I know, it's old news; but if I just tell you one more time, I promise to maybe never again complain about Spokane being the coldest place where I will ever live)
• Not sleeping in your king size bed when you're supposed to be sleeping because you're worried about your tired husband
• Locking up your house alone ... with three kids already sleeping
• Blogging at midnight to distract your mind from the reality that you really are alone

I think we'll end on that note.

The Nature of the Beast (and other late night ramblings)

Clint got stuck with this terrible call shift because his attending took a week's vacation last week and had to pick up extra call shifts to make up for his playtime. Clint didn't get the week-long vacation, but instead worked his regular shift and two of his five required call shifts. (Sob, whine, please feel bad for us.) To finish off his second week in surgery, he is scheduled (with his attending) to work three call days/nights in a row. (*Sniff. Sniff.*) I don't even know how this is legal. Fortunately, it's home call at night, so we get to see him in between trips to the hospital.

As Clint walked out the door a few moments ago for a late night emergency, I told him he needs to find patients who are more considerate of his time.

Last night was Clint's first of the three consecutive call nights, and I begged him to attend a party with the kids and me. At his suggestion, we drove separately (which, the whole way driving there I thought was a complete waste of gas). Less than five minutes after he took his last bite of dinner, he got called in for a cholecystectomy. Several of the other guests laughed and asked each other if they had their gall bladders removed yet (all four of the ones involved in the conversation had). Then they all laughed harder when they compared notes and realized they all had it done by the same surgeon. "Gotta get rid of that gall bladder as soon as you can," one man said. Still don't know what that means.

Tonight is the second call night, and I sent Clint to bed early because he's been waking up at 4:30 or 5:00 a.m. everyday for rounds, even if he's been up in surgery all night. Just as I was about to head for bed myself, I heard large footsteps upstairs, and a moment later, Clint was downstairs and in front of me in his scrubs. Appendectomy. 11:00 p.m. Don't know why these people couldn't have showed up five hours ago when Clint was already at the hospital buying us dinner.

Clint and his attending will round on all of the hospital's surgical floor patients this morning, which means the kids and I are going to church alone. It's certainly not our first time, but the last time I was in charge of the kids alone was last week when Clint gave a talk in church. Somehow we ended up with Nicole sitting on the second pew alone, a stranger holding Scotty outside the chapel doors, and me gently and lovingly man-handling Grant in the hallway, trying to keep him from running to the pulpit to attack his dad.

If anyone in our family is going to take three kids to church alone, though, it best be me. I don't mind if the kids make intermittent squawking, while Clint, well ... suffice it to say that he minds a great deal. That's why he works and I don't. It's just that sometimes his work gets in the way of parties and sleep and church and dinner. But Clint and I knew the deal before we signed up for it. (Unfortunately the kids didn't get the same luxury -- they're stuck with our deal whether they like it or not.)

I just thought of an ironic story related to this whole medicine-signing-your-life-away-deal. The other night, Clint was trying to talk a young college-age boy into becoming an anesthesiologist. Clint was really adamant about it and how it is one of the most spectacular jobs out there, and how it's stable, and on and on. The poor boy didn't know what to say. Finally I interrupted and told the boy not to feel any pressure, and then I reminded Clint -- in front of this lad -- that he doesn't even want our own boys to go into medicine. "Oh yeah," Clint said, as if all of a sudden remembering the tortures of medical school (can't believe how easily they're forgotten -- must be akin to having a baby). Then he added, "Unless they want to be anesthesiologists; then it's worth it."

I'm glad he feels that way. Even when he's on call from Friday morning until Monday evening.

Seven Month Scott

Scotty's got a new car seat. I only had two requirements: (1) hold his own bottle and (2) ride in the shopping cart with the built-in seatbelt instead of his baby seat. Not only can he do both of those things, but he can do them at the same time!

Time for the stats.
19.5 lbs.
height unknown
vocabulary: giggle, giggle
mobility: scooting (see video)
idiosyncrasies: hates eating off a spoon, and has consequently only eaten two bites of baby food; loves to chew on Clint's metal watchband; apparently also likes to be strapped down (now I know this can't possibly be my baby)
favorite pastime: smiling (it's how he gets dates -- the women can't resist)
deepest desire of his heart: grow up and marry Nicole

Baby Scotty is quickly transforming into Little Scotty. It's the saddest thing ever. I keep telling him to quit growing, but I just can't get him to listen to me. He's nearly crawling; it's more of a scoot actually. Scooty Scotty.

Out to Make a Buck

I love living in a neighborhood.

While we were eating dinner tonight, we heard a loud knock on the door. We can see our front porch from the dinner table, so I peered over and saw a group of boys that looked like they were about 10 or 11 years old. I thought it was probably Boy Scouts collecting money for a camping trip. Clint has a soft spot in his heart for Boy Scouts, so he jumped up and answered the door while I waited at the table (I don't have as soft a spot as Clint).

As soon as the door opened, I heard one boy say in a loud, confident voice, "We'll knock down all of your beehives for two bucks."

I only knew of one beehive, and it is too high to reach, but Clint readily said, "OK!" I rolled my eyes and thought, What a waste of money.

As soon as they got the go-ahead, they went crazy, running all around the house. Apparently they had already scoped the place out because in about five seconds' time, the four boys had already knocked down seven or eight beehives and were ready to collect their fortune, which they were going to split amongst the four of them.
I couldn't believe it! First of all, I didn't know we had so many hives, and secondly, these kids were fearless -- almost kamikaze. I asked them if they got them all, and they reported yes -- all except one that they couldn't reach, but they'd be happy to get it if we had a ladder. We don't have a ladder, so they asked if we had "a stick or something."

Clint found a white metal rod, which they attached to their series of sticks.
But it still wasn't long enough to reach the highest point of our house.
So then they resorted to this:
They still couldn't get it, but we gave them their two bucks anyway; plus a $5 tip for the entertainment. Maybe next week they can parachute off the roof, or, er, mow the lawn. That ought to be worth at least ten bucks.