We're Talking 135 Years, People

What did you do for Family Home Evening last night? My older sis and her fam took care of fundraising business for her oldest son's trip to Germany. My fam? Not so exciting. We only discovered that we have 4 CATS LIVING BEHIND OUR SHED! Yes we do. A mommy and 3 babies. Remember how the husband and I are so fond of animals?


I don't even know what you have to do to get rid of cats- humanely. We called animal control. They don't deal with cats. Yay. And, really, I hate to separate a mom from her babies. A little bit of the "Golden Rule" application here. Cause I wouldn't want anyone to do that to me. (please remember that if you ever find me behind your shed)


I was wondering how long we might expect these kitties to hang around, so I went to Google to see what the life expectancy of a feline might be. Around 15 years. And we all know cats have 9 lives- ergo (and you can check my math) we can plan on these cats being around for 135 years. Unless we can figure out what to do with them. Which we will. Figure out what to do with them, because my limit is like 100 years. Besides, I don't even know how I would get a cat to adhere to a curfew. You just can't parent those guys. So, sorry cats, you are out of luck.


The children vote to keep them. Um, I hate to tell them this, but they didn't even register to vote yet. And besides, they are under 18, so they aren't even eligible for a vote. Phew. Majority rules here. The husband and I are unanimous. The cats will go. The method is unclear.


Ideas?

What's In Your Dryer?

I wore a dress the other day. On a week day. That's how I knew. It was time to do some laundry. (actually, I tend to wear dresses a lot in the summer around here- and yes it is still summer around here- but I thought it was a pretty good way to start, so I went with it.)

I threw a load of the girls' clothes into the washing machine, waited the customary 41 minutes for the cycle to run its course, and at the chiming of the bell, I promptly (because I have nothing to do but stand by the laundry room door and wait for a load of laundry to cycle through) entered the laundry room to put those damp clothes into the dryer- with a smile on my face, my hair swept into a glorious up-do and in heels (to go with my dress).

While I was so doing I heard the periodic clanking of something tumbling from the clothes as I moved them from one machine to the other. I immediately stopped the process to determine what treasure I might find this day. And there it was- a sparkly white rock, rustled from some deep pocket where it had been peacefully resting until it met with my cobalt blue master of a washing machine and was shaken loose. I placed it on top of the appliance and continued transferring the remaining clothes. Again, I heard the familiar clank of a sparkly white stone.

This scenario would be played out 5 additional times before I was able to complete the removal of the wet clothes and help them find their place in my dryer.

I turned on the power to the dryer, selected the appropriate cycle for tiny colored clothing, and pressed the start button. As if on cue, the familiar clank, clank, clanking of foreign objects could be heard. How many more can there be? I paused the dryer and opened the door and began the rummaging process to extract the offending clankers. I found 3 more rocks, closed the door, and resumed the tumbling of the clothes by pushing the start button again. I listened. Nothing but the thump of damp clothes as they tumbled against the drum. So I turned to leave. No sooner had I done that then a tiny timid clank reached my ears.

I pushed pause once again, kicked off my heels, opened the door, and searched for that little pebble. Finally, I found it in all its sparkling white glory, pushed the door closed and activated the cycle once again- confident(ish) that all pebbles were accounted for. They weren't. Once again I could hear a rock free-falling in my dryer as it spun round and round.

I left the room. Not willing to deal with that rock because do you know how painstaking a process it is to find a small rock in a pile of damp clothes? You have to totally commit. "Let it have its thrill ride," said I. I was not about to mess with it any longer and satisfied that I would let it believe it had really pulled one over on me. Even as I walked away, though, I had visions of an exploding dryer, but I just couldn't spend any more time searching fruitlessly for the item. I will find it when I go to fold the clothes and it will receive its punishment at that time.

In all I rescued 10 rocks of various sizes and shapes from my one load of laundry- and who knows how many stowaways escaped detection. (I really need to start checking pockets since my daughters are really into collecting- anything.)

Since this laundry experience I have been troubled and I am struggling with coming to terms with a certain discovery. And, how do I teach my children to shun this concept? Out of all the rocks in our yard- pink, grey, black, brown, spotted and striped- my girls chose ONLY white ones. I think they are racist.




*and guess what? there is a blog called "rocks in my dryer"- i think it's in honor of my experience. check it out sometime... but don't go there expecting it to tell you how to deal with actual rocks in your dryer- i think it's metaphorical :)

Sleep in and enjoy it...

It's SATURDAY!!!

No BYU Football today.

Enjoy the break, and get rested up for next week's game!

Go You!

Funny, seriously funny

you gotta go here and check out this site- eventhough it rips on glitter. because we all know that glitter is the magic ingredient. is this news to you? did you know me and not know that i love glitter? you gotta get to know me better then. come back on monday and we will start getting to know one another all over again. and it will be worth it. see you bright and early...

Life's Tough in San Francisco

It had been a trying day. A mother in a sweltering Arizona city wearily entered her bedroom to find a note penned by her pre-teen son, lovingly placed on her pillow and another note on the pillow adjacent to hers that was "To: Dad".

Curious, the mother picked up the letter on her pillow and opened it. She found a beautiful, short love note from a young son. It lifted her spirits and brought a smile to her lovely face. The letter expressed a son's love for his mother, words extolling her virtues and appreciation for her being.

Buoyed by the sentiments, she called her husband in that he might read his letter and experience the same loving feelings. After sharing the words of her note with her husband, she encouraged him to read his letter. He tenderly openend it, read the words to himself, and stood rooted to his spot. The wife couldn't wait to hear what treasures her husband's letter contained. He passed her the letter. This is what she read:

Dear Dad,

Life's tough in San Francisco.

Love,

Bob

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*the young son is my brother (now a grown man whose name is not bob, but for some reason he signed the letter "love, bob")- and on occasion, in order to console one another during a difficult experience, you may hear us recite to each other "Life's tough in San Francisco..."

Come, Swap Howdies

I love reading people's words written from the depths of their souls typed onto the pages of the Internet. I love the wit, the warmth, the wisdom, the wonder that is another's life. I love to catch a glimpse of what their everyday may or may not be. I am inspired when I come across blogs of human beings caught between mortality and eternity. And yet, at times, I feel like I am intruding on moments too personal for me, a stranger, to even be reading.

I find myself wanting to sit with them. Learn more about them. Connect in a way that may be only possible through a blog. Most times I read their thoughts and move on. Sometimes I visit their comment page. And even less often, I leave a comment- I am especially hesitant if I don't know the person. (I tend to comment on the blogs of those I know, or the blogs of those who comment on my little blog.) This is ironic, because I would love to hear from those who visit my little neck of the Internet woods, yet I feel shy to "swap howdies" with all the bloggers I stalk, especially if they have a long list of comments because I feel like my meager offering is swallowed up in the ocean of words.

Here is my problem: I just don't know what to say when I comment. Sometimes it is obvious how I should respond, but other times I am at a loss. Mostly I am just a lame commenter. I just can't find my humor or wisdom when I need it, so instead of sounding ridiculous and un-witty, I pass on the comment page. Oh, the pressure. Pathetic, I know. Honest? Yes. And then sometimes, I wonder if they would really even want to hear from me. Hello? That makes no sense to me because of my own personal feelings on desiring to hear from others when they are in my wedgie neighborhood.

I will find a way to reconcile all of this. And when I do, you bet I will write about it. In the meantime, I am wondering this: what are your expectations or hopes regarding comments and commenters? Do comments matter to you? And what compels you to comment or not? Please don't keep your comments to yourselves, because I know there are a few of you who are reading right now who have never joined in the discussion. Come on, comment- you don't even have to raise your hand first. We're pretty laid-back around here.

Beam Me Up, Scotty

Not long ago I was faced with a parenting dilemma. Since much of what I know about parenting comes from being raised by the master parents- my very own mom and dad, I often draw on their techniques when faced with the challenges of rearing three small children.

I recall my mom sharing with me a particular experience involving my two older sisters that I have often reflected upon- usually with a smile.

This is the experience (to the best of my recollection) of my mother: she had just completed reading a book on proper discipline by the oh-so-famous Dr. Spock (no, not the one of Star Trek fame--- live long and prosper) (btw, when the husband and I lived in married student housing at BYU we had some neighbors who were Trekkies in a MAJOR way! They even studied the Klingon language. Weird. One time they invited us over for dinner and they kept talking back and forth to each other in Klingon. Then they would giggle. Really weird. Just for fun, you should Google "Klingon" and see what pops up. Again, weird. Note to self: dedicate an entire post, or series of posts, to the colorful peeps we met while at Wymount.) Anyway, among other principles of raising children, this Dr. Spock taught the principle of teaching children the value of respecting another's property.

My mom relates that my grandfather (her father) came one day to repair the screen door that had a gaping hole in it. Not an hour after the repair my mom passed by the screen only to find that a brand new gash had been made in the screen. She was upset beyond description and called her two darling girls in to witness the spectacle. Upon interrogation, she determined that oldest sister was the offending party and asked her (in true Dr. Spock disciplinary style) to please bring her favorite toy to my mom.

Oldest sister did as instructed. She ran to her bedroom, gathered up her favorite Raggedy Ann doll and returned to my mom where she presented her with the beloved toy. Obeying the guidelines set forth in the Dr. Spock Bible, my mom fetched a pair of scissors and snipped the arms and legs off poor little defenseless Raggedy Ann, thus illustrating the point of how it might feel when someone damages something we hold dear and therefore we should appreciate and treat with respect another's property.

Immediately, after the toy oldest sister had presented was amputated, the younger sister began to cry. When my mom questioned her as to what the problem was- after all it was oldest sister's toy that was snipped- she promptly explained that oldest sister had retrieved her toy and that it was not a doll belonging to oldest sister, but it was in fact younger sister's doll.

Not long after, my grandfather entered the house and, finding that two of his granddaughters were in distress, questioned my mother what might be the problem. She explained about the screen, the doll, Dr. Spock, the scissors, and the mistake. My grandfather then sheepishly admitted to putting the new hole in the screen as he was folding up his ladder to be stored in the garage.

Now, on to my own parenting dilemma. I happened upon a broken ring lying on the floor of my family room. This was not an expensive ring, but one that held small significance in relation to the husband and myself. I questioned my daughters and found out that oldest daughter was the offender. Calling upon the wisdom of my mother and attempting to teach oldest daughter the importance of respect for another's property, I asked her to hand me the necklace that she was wearing- a string of tiny faux pearls. She obediently removed the pearls from around her neck and handed them to me. I promptly snapped the string they were on, sending a cascade of pearls onto the carpet. She sat in stunned silence as she watched me perform this attempt at teaching a small lesson.

I then explained why I did what I did. Still she looked confused. I told her to please pick up her pearls and to have a little more respect for someone else's belongings in the future. She replied, "Mom, those are not my pearls, they are sister's." What? Was I hearing her correctly? Hadn't I studied and scrutinized and been taught the Dr. Spock model by my loving mother? Hadn't I vowed to not make the same mistake in its execution that she had made? Had I heard something before about history repeating itself? It did this day at my house.

The pearls sit in a Ziploc bag on a shelf, waiting to be restrung. I don't know if I will use this Dr. Spock technique again, but I certainly will pass on the story to my children and let them perpetuate the legacy. I look forward to the day when I receive the phone call that begins, "Mom, you will never believe what happened today..."

I'm Flattered, Really

This, dear friends, I forgot to tell you. I made a special pilgrimage to JoAnn a few days ago to pick up an extra special picture frame that the husband had custom made for our anniversary (which, by the way, is beautiful and I don't deserve it, nor do I deserve him, and which I will have to take a photo of and dedicate a special post to the frame). While I was there, perusing the piles (or you may call them aisles, we choose to call them piles because little son prefers that term) with little son, we decided to check on the fabric department to determine if there might just be some remaining magic blanket fleece. I just knew there would be since there were two ginormous bolts and one half-way ginormous bolt when I purchased the original wizard/dragon combo.

I was not prepared for what I encountered. No magic blanket fleece was to be had. I'll admit, I was a little bummed, for I was geared up to purchase all that remained and lovingly create snugly magic blankets for my entire darling family. (mostly because of the fact that it was on clearance at a ridiculously low price and low clearance prices tend to haunt me, and then of course, because of the fact that my magic blanket has been overtaken by my loving and beautifully warm (because of the blanket) family) (how about that parenthesis inside a parenthesis?)

I was close to tears. It was ALL GONE. ALL OF IT! How could this be?

I came to the conclusion that at times like this, we can't try to explain, we must just accept. Even though this is my conclusion, I must explain. I realize that the only explanation for the missing fleece is that because of my post, many people must have run out and snatched up all they could get their little meat hooks (my mom always said meat hooks) on. From the clearance pile. And what's more, I know all people don't live here where I live so I understand that they probably made special order arrangements in order that they might be a partaker of the magic blanket. Who knew the power of the blog?

Go my people! I am now ok, realizing you got your share of the magic. This is the best medicine for my vexed heart. It means a lot to me because, you know, imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.

Call for Entries

Anyone interested in submitting a witty blog-style essay for a book to benefit Stephanie and Christian Nielson, please go here. Submission deadline is September 30, 2008.

The Thrill of Victory and the Agony of Da Feet

The Sabbath Day dawned glorious. Little son crawled into bed with me upon hearing the garage door shutting, signifying that the husband had left for early morning meetings, and knowing that the spot to my left had been vacated. Little son was confident he could occupy that space and excel at launching leg and limb into my side and face. He did a grand job. I was glad to have him as a barnacle for the last 30 minutes of my heretofore peaceful slumber.

As I readied myself and the children for church, I was ecstatic to find that my hair was behaving wonderfully and even found myself gazing blissfully into the looking glass, realizing that this could be that often elusive "good hair day." The planets had aligned. It was a good hair day. I was even able to tease my bangs into submission, sweeping them to the side and securing them with just the perfect amount of hairspray- ensuring that they would stay put and leave my eyes alone on this day- something that HARDLY EVER HAPPENS. What more can one ask for?

I skipped triumphantly down the stairs and herded the children into their proper positions in the car, escorted the canine to her kennel and pulled out of the driveway- ready for spiritual feasting.

We arrived at church on time- even early- and took our places, listening to the prelude music and greeting our fellow ward members. Still beaming from the pride I felt in my most cooperative tresses, I scooped little son up onto my lap as the services began. No sooner had I done this then little son, as if in slow motion, raised his arm and balled his little fist, directing it towards my bangs. His fist of doom performed a noogie right there on my perfectly coiffed bangs, separating the web of hairspray so delicately applied not even an hour before. Noooooooooooooooooo! (uttered in slow motion) Oh, the horror! Immediately those bangs sagged into my eyes. And for the rest of the church services I was compelled to move them to the side, over and over, using my hand or, alternately, the side head shake that would perform the task when my hands were occupied with essential tasks such as folding paper fans out of the program or peeling the paper from the tips of well-used crayons.

I resigned myself to a bang-in-the-eye meeting and continued listening to the speaker. Soon little son tired of being perched on my lap and slid down- and in the process, the Velcro (did you know Velcro must be captitalized? It must, according to the spell checker.) on the pocket of his pants caught on my skirt and pulled a little village of threads loose, thus blurring the floral arrangement pattern as multiple threads slid out of place and hung suspended from their original position in the weave of my raiment. Oh, how I don't love it when that happens.

Soon I was able to usher the children to Primary and nursery classes and the rest of the meetings proceeded without incident.

I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that we should all wear sweats and baseball caps to church meetings in order to protect ourselves from our children. Will someone second this motion?



In other news: I am feeling the beginnings of a newly ingrown toenail- the big toe on my left foot. The toe just to the right of the toe that had issues last month. So, you know the drill, I need proper sympathy and attention for help and healing of this malady.

My wish for you this day is perfectly formed and hairsprayed bangs (if you have any), skirts without blemish and toes with nails that know where they may grow and stay away from where they may not.

Happy News...

My oldest sister is at this very moment at the hospital

bringing new life into the world.

What an awesome miracle birth is.

Congratulations, sister!

I love you.

Rise and Shout!!

It's GAME DAY!!

Do you know where your BYU Football is?

click on the "Y" for a link to season schedule

The Cougars are in Provo taking on the Cowboys of Wyoming.

Go Cougs

It's shutout #2!

BYU 44 Wyoming 0

Shameless Advertising

So, did you notice that I have some new buttons on the right hand side bar? Did ya? Huh? Yeah, I do. You may have noticed that they are for Time Out for Couples and Time Out for Women and Girls. Both events coming to Phoenix in November. I am on a committee to help promote these events in Phoenix and sooooooooooooo, I am doing my committeal part. Click on either button for more information. And if you would love to attend but don't have the funds at this time, let me know, we can work something out. (Don't worry, I don't get a commission- just blessings:)



Now, on to the matter that is closer to my heart- but ONLY because it is oldest daughter's fund raiser- not because I particularly love soliciting. Because I don't. Love soliciting. So, if you want to purchase you may, if you don't- no pressure, no worries, no guilt, no shame, no judgment, no shirt, no shoes, no service.

These are some of the offerings. Click this link to take you to the site. And if, by chance, you would like to order something, God bless you for supporting your local elementary school fundraiser. And even if you don't order anything, God bless you anyway! Amen.

Things that bring me great pride...

disclaimer: this really is a ridiculously random post, written way too late at night. but #3 is totally worth reading!


Things that bring me great pride #1

I have the most intelligent grass in the neighborhood. It totally tells us when it is ready to be cut. When it is ok with how it looks, all the blades stay nice and even- very flat across the surface. But when it is ready to be cut, some of the blades start raising their hands. And I am so proud, because some of our little blades have learned how to really shoot their little arms WAY UP THERE. Yes sir. Now, we don't usually mow at the first raised hand- this is the trick- sometimes we wait until the vote is unanimous and all the blades are raising their arms. Then we know it's time. They are so smart that way.



Things that bring me great pride #2

I can just about always tell you what tomorrow is going to be. So let's say today is sunny, 107 degrees, sunrise at 4:38 AM, pleasant breeze at 9:25, and the Today show lasted 3 hours, then tomorrow is Friday. But, if the moon clouds over, and this is the tricky part, and a gecko runs across your path at high noon and the orange blossoms are in bloom and emitting a pleasing fragrance, you can almost bet you're going to get a Wednesday. Conversely, if you attended church today, ate roast and potatoes and had a great nap- most likely Monday will follow. I know. It's a gift. Don't ask me how I do it. Most people in my family have this same gift. Ask them what tomorrow is and they can tell you. I am beginning to see the gift manifest itself in my children, too. You either have it, or you don't. I think my kids have it- oldest daughter for sure. I questioned if she did at first, but this last year, she has certainly shown the signs. So proud! I guess I was lucky to find a husband with the gift- that must be why our kids are blessed with it.



Things that bring me great pride #3

I have totally smart and entrepreneurial neighbor girls- three of them, probably around 9 or 10 years old. They come around every few weeks touting and peddling their latest wares. Sometimes they just leave fliers, but I love when they knock on my door. They have many product lines. Some being: friendship bracelets, pet service, babysitting, pet rocks and my personal favorite- money-filled Easter eggs. These are pure genius! The beauty part of the eggs is that you name your price- 25 cents or 5 cents- whatever you want to pay for a plastic Easter egg with money in it! Then, you purchase the egg and if it has a quarter in it, then JACKPOT! they give you an EXTRA DOLLAR!!! Brilliant! I will tell you this: we spent $1.00 on eggs and made $2.75! You can't beat it! And they are so in it for the thrill of the sale. When you pick that special egg with the quarter in it, those girls are smiling from ear to ear and jumping up and down with pure excitement. Thanks, neighbor girls! You bring ginormous excitement to our day. What will you think of next?

I wonder if their mothers know what they are up to... And where do you think they got those quarters?

Did you know?

Our household has increased by an additional pair of Hannah Montana footwear. For middle daughter.

Our family recently celebrated our 12th Birthday!

Sam's Club has moved Underwear to the front entrance, so it is extra traumatizing when we go there now.

Younger sister and her family are home from their summer in Virginia. And we are thrilled. We are lining up for haircuts!

Oldest daughter is LOVING her new class and teacher.

Middle daughter thinks she is curriculum director for her new preschool.

Little son now requires 3 songs before he will fall asleep at night.

The husband is the most awesomest PR guy around! I am so proud of that man.

My parents celebrated 41 years of marriage this past weekend.

I have 3 loads of laundry waiting to be folded. Good thing laundry is pretty patient.

Oldest sister is days away from baby #5!

The canine is thriving.

Only 99 shopping days till Christmas.

Oldest daughter gets to sell Girl Scout Cookies this year! She can't wait.

Middle daughter built the ultimate fort for the canine. What a giver.

Little son is a milk drinker. In a big way.

The husband is brilliant. Just brilliant.

The gospel of Jesus Christ brings me joy.

The Corner Store

Pssst! You wanna hear something about me that I am not totally proud of, but looking back I think it is kinda funny? K, since I totally trust you and I know that you won't let it go beyond this moment (you won't, right?) I am ready to share. Yay us! A new stage in our relationship- the trust stage. This is huge.

I went to Esma (yeah, I know) Lewis Elementary School in Rifle, Colorado- home of the fighting Eagles! Those were some great times. Oh, yeah, this is the school with the third grade teacher who can't pronounce orange. Remember that one time I told you about her? Yeah. See, we are even in the stage where we can remember stories together. This is awesome!

I had a great friend who lived down the hill from me and we did pretty much everything together, including a vicious fight and break-up EVERY DAY followed by a sincere make-up the next morning on our walk- uphill both ways- to school. We were total BFFs.

Most days our moms told us, "Girls, come straight home from school- no stopping at the Corner Store." And most days, we would. But then some days we wouldn't. Those days when we wouldn't go straight home we would stop at the Corner Store for a treat.

The thing is, I didn't have a job in the third grade, and therefore no moolah. So what did I do? I basically picked the pockets of my family. Loose change pretty much belonged to me whenever I "found" it around the house. Not too proud of that. Sorry Mom and Dad- even sisters- that you have to find out like this. Did you suspect? I probably owe you about $10. Do you take payments?

One day in particular, my friend- let's call her Mindy- and I stopped at the Corner Store for an after school treat and found ourselves about a quarter short for what we wanted to purchase. What would we do? It didn't take me long to hatch a brilliant plan. We would tell the clerk that we were trying to make a phone call on the pay phone outside the store and it ate our quarter before we could place our call. Genius! No fail. So that's just what we did. We told that clerk our sad story, expecting full sympathy. What we were not expecting was his response. He told us that his phone didn't accept quarters- only pennies, nickels and dimes. (Uh-oh, didn't see that one coming) But, he would get the key from the office and check it out.

The clerk disappeared in the back of the store and into the office.

You know that song that goes:
"My teacher told me I should never tell a lie,
Because a lie will bring you trouble, sure as pie.
It's an awful thing to do.
And it's true as true as true.
You'll get caught and then you'll start to cry.
You'll have a horrid, painful pounding in your head.
And you will feel your face get hot and turn bright red.
Then your heart will start to thump
In your throat you'll get a lump
And you'll feel so bad you'll wish that you could lie right down and die.
You're much better off to never tell a lie
Not even sometimes,
Remember, Never ever tell a lie....."

That totally sums it up. All these are the feelings Mindy and I experienced as the clerk walked back to his office.

What were we going to do? The only thing we could do, of course. We took off running as fast as our little Esma Lewis Fighting Eagles legs would take us. And we didn't stop. Not even when we got home. Until we were safe in Mindy's pantry. And the door was securely barricaded. With stacks of food storage. And we didn't come out. For a long time. And we listened. To every sound. Because it could be the cops.



K, bring out one of your skeletons from the deep recesses of your walk-in closet and share a "corner store" moment. Please? I'll give you a quarter.

The Adventures of Wormboy (by the Husband)

I hacked into my wife’s masterpiece you call a blog today to leave a post. Yes this is unusual - I’m typically just an observer of her art.

Well, saying I hacked may be just a bit of an exaggeration. She had some problem with the layout a few weeks ago and asked for my help. I simply kept the password after I was done helping. Husbands are like that. We never forget anything that might benefit us in the future.

Anyway, since I’m officially a hacker, I’d like to take time to do the normal hacker graffiti, and do a shout out to oldest daughter, middle daughter, my son Wormboy, my Mom and Dad, my co-workers (I know some of you are reading this) and my other peeps. You guys rule.

Before I get to Wormboy, let me first tell you more about Twitter since the wife brought it up as my latest interest. And how could I be a proper husband unless I kept on going on about my latest interest until it becomes annoying to all of those around me. If I didn’t, I might lose my man card. And you wouldn’t want that.

I’ll tell you what Twitter is: fun and a challenge. Twitter allows users to do “microblogging.” What the wife does here is normal blogging. It is big. Microblogging is not big. It is small. You only have 140 characters in which to write a post (called a tweet), which you can do from your mobile phone (through text messaging), from the web, or from a twitter client (a program that lets you post right from your computer through something similar to instant messaging). It is a challenge to get your message across and keep it within 140 characters.

For me Twitter is perfect. I don’t typically have time to sit down and draft up a long drawn-out blog post that shows what a witty and great guy I am, but I always have my phone with me. It is easy for me to quickly Tweet something wherever I am. And I can send photos as well.

All of you who know me may think I’m a bit of a geek (or a lot of a geek), and that this is the latest phase in my “geekiness.” You are right. It is.

So, now on to Wormboy.

After watching “How to Eat Fried Worms,” a few months ago, my son was captivated with the term “Wormboy.” For some reason he didn’t just pick up on the term, but has decided that it is “cool” enough to apply to him. So he now calls himself “Wormboy.” This has of course extended to the rest of the family. We may either call him by his given name or Wormboy. There is absolutely NO compromise in this.

A recent conversation, which I tweeted about, went as follows (he had just helped clean something up and I wanted to shower him with gratitude):

Me: Thanks dude!
Son: I'm not dude.
Me: Thanks man.
Son: I’m not man.
Me: Mmm, okay. Thanks son?
Son: I’m not son.
Me: Thanks little helper?
Son: I'm not little helper
Me: Thanks buddy-boy.
Son: I'm not buddy boy, I'm worm-boy!

So with that, I give you photos of our little superhero in action. Perhaps he will soon take on Frankenstein Underwear.





As I can post more of the adventures of Wormboy, I will. After all, I have the password to the blog.

In the mean time, you can read my Twitter feed at http://twitter.com/cjwalkerman.

Rise and Shout!!

It's GAME DAY!!!

Do you know where your BYU Football is?

click on the "Y" for a link to season schedule

The Cougars are in Provo taking on the Bruins of UCLA.
Go Cougs!!!

It's a shutout!

BYU 59 UCLA 0

Twitter-pated

Do you Tweet? The husband's latest love is tweeting. He is always sending out tweets. He likes the challenge of getting a message across in under 140 characters. Ugh, brevity. Not my forte. I prefer the blogger's arena where there is a blank canvas that goes on- page after page. Is there a page limit even?

My older sister (shout out to ya, sis) and I are kindred spirits in that we can make a short story longer than necessary. I think it's a gift. It's a gift, right?

Anyway, I am all signed up on twitter.com thanks to the husband's incessant (incessant- does that word work in this context?) pleadings. He has like 30 followers. I have one. Just him. But I am following 3 people: the husband, a bro-in-law, and a sis-in-law (wife of said bro-in-law, evidence that we are both doing the twitter thing for our husbands). I think my sis-in-law is as excited about tweeting as I am. She has sent out ONE tweet. 2 months ago. I have sent NO tweets. Gotta do that sometime. So the husband will say, "Wife, you rock! You tweeted! I so love you!"

The husband seems to have a sense for whatever the latest and greatest thing will be. Just like Kip, the husband loves technology (listen to the song here). Could this be the latest and greatest? I just haven't caught the tweeter's vision yet, I guess. Maybe this all goes along with the "Nobody Cares About Your Blog" thing, meaning you can't really appreciate it until you have experienced it. I haven't really experienced it, but I do follow his tweets. Because I do care about his twittering (or is it tweeting? Whatever.). And because I love him that much.

But tweetie, I means sweetie- today I will try my first tweet. And I will dedicate it to you: the visionary of our family, the love of my life, the rooster in our nest. And you will be soooooo proud- in a righteous way. (So, um, since you are my IT guy- could you call me and tell me exactly how to go about sending that tweet?)

Defining Myself

Recently I have found myself thinking heavily upon my role as a wife and mother, both of which roles I truly have come to love, love, love.

As a couple, the husband and I have assumed the traditional roles of husband as breadwinner and wife as homemaker. I have no feminist issues with being a homemaker, rather I have embraced this role wholeheartedly. What I have found however, is that I sometimes desire to be recognized in this role, and it is a role that largely goes unrecognized.

First and foremost, the title of homemaker must be defined. In my world, a homemaker is one who sets the tone in the home, the one who makes the home a pleasing place to be. Not one who makes bread beautifully, cleans immaculately, crafts superbly, or pleases constantly.

I adhere to the standards set forth in The Family: A Proclamation to the World wherein is stated,

Husband and wife have a solemn responsibility to love and care for each other and for their children. "Children are an heritage of the Lord" (Psalms 127:3). Parents have a sacred duty to rear their children in love and righteousness, to provide for their physical and spiritual needs, to teach them to love and serve one another, to observe the commandments of God and to be law-abiding citizens wherever they live. Husbands and wives—mothers and fathers—will be held accountable before God for the discharge of these obligations.

To me, this outlines the job the husband and I are to do together. This is the easy job- tag-teaming and having someone to bounce ideas off of.

I have had a more difficult time coming to understand what exactly my role as mother and wife is. I feel like I have almost, finally, come to know just what I should worry about as a mother and wife and what I should let fall by the way- and not feel guilty for allowing them to fall by the way. Again, in The Family: A Proclamation to the World, it states:

By divine design, fathers are to preside over their families in love and righteousness and are responsible to provide the necessities of life and protection for their families. Mothers are primarily responsible for the nurture of their children. In these sacred responsibilities, fathers and mothers are obligated to help one another as equal partners. Disability, death, or other circumstances may necessitate individual adaptation.

After pondering on this statement, and after a little personal inspiration- maybe even revelation, I take a new meaning and gain a new understanding than ever before. Mothers are primarily responsible for the nurture of their children. It doesn't say Mothers are primarily responsible for the upkeep of the home, the cleaning of the toilets, the washing of the laundry, the emptying of the dishwasher, the mopping of the floors. Mothers are primarily responsible for the nurture of the children! How liberating is that? I love the new (always there) meaning I have found in the Proclamation. That is wonderful! As long as I am nurturing my children, I am doing my job.

Now, knowing that my primary role is in nurturing these sweet children and his is in the providing for the necessities and presiding in the home- this leaves the upkeep of the home to both of us. And in our case, this is something we both agree on. What a wonderful husband! I am not excusing myself from the main upkeep of the home, but I am allowing myself to invite the husband in and to realize that this is his responsibility, too. Together, the housework is our responsibility. Even still, I have felt guilty that he has had to help. Why? It is because of those traditional roles that we placed upon ourselves.

I am grateful for a husband who works hard to provide for our needs- and who does an awesome job at that. And who supports me in my role. He is truly the biggest champion of mothers and hugest ally in parenting.

So, what am I going to do with this new found knowledge? I am going to nurture my children more. I am going to read to them more. I am going to play games with them more. I am going to talk to them more. I am going to allow them to help with the housework more. I am going to play barbies and babies with them more. I am going to build forts with them more. I am going to show them the nurturing love and power of a woman and by that rite, a mother. I am not going to feel guilty if the dishes are left in the sink, or the laundry is on the couch waiting to be folded. I am not going to feel the guilt because of a floor screaming to be vacuumed.

I love this talk by Elder Ballard in the April General Conference where he talks to women about being daughters of God. He quotes Anna Quindlen who said:

The biggest mistake I made [as a parent] is the one that most of us make. … I did not live in the moment enough. This is particularly clear now that the moment is gone, captured only in photographs. There is one picture of [my three children] sitting in the grass on a quilt in the shadow of the swing set on a summer day, ages six, four, and one. And I wish I could remember what we ate, and what we talked about, and how they sounded, and how they looked when they slept that night. I wish I had not been in such a hurry to get on to the next thing: dinner, bath, book, bed. I wish I had treasured the doing a little more and the getting it done a little less.

I love that! I am going to be that woman who treasures the doing a little more and the getting it done a little less. My children are my second greatest treasure, my husband the first. I love these people. I don't want to rush past these times. I want to savor them. I want to remember the details, the scents, the sights.

What Are You Wearing?

Over a year ago my younger sister told me about a shirt her sister-in-law has that says "Nobody Cares About Your Blog!" At the time we laughed and made merry, joked and mocked. Oh, and guffawed. (Because, don't most people guffaw? And I have always wanted to use that word.) That was then. Before I had a blog. Now, I just have to put that shirt out of my mind like, "la la la shirt, I can't hear your message."

It's true. Probably nobody cares about my blog. But I do. So if I had a shirt, it would say "One Person Cares About Your Blog". Wait, I do have ONE fan (you know who you are), so maybe it could be edited to say "Two People Care..." No matter. I write so that I have an outlet. And outlets are good. Aren't they? I have to believe they are.

This shirt is a prime example of how we really can't appreciate something until we are faced with it. If you have never have had chocolate, you just can't get it. So, I say that I am glad I have experienced blogging so that I can appreciate all those under-appreciated blogs out there. To all bloggers I say:

I Care About Your Blog!

(except if it is inappropriate, then I don't really care about it.)

going global

all i know is that i have gone international. thank you australia, canada, germany and puerto rico (in alphabetical order since i don't know who arrived first, so the accountants at price waterhouse helped me arrange you). according to my feedjit map on the right side i saw your little flags yesterday and i felt all the pride that the mother of miss teen usa south carolina 2007 must have felt at the completion of her daughter's fine speech.

i personally believe that u.s. americans need more support from germanic germans and such as. good thing i have feedjit because some people out there in our nation don't have maps and we need to teach people like south africa and the iraq and everywhere like such as.

you have made the day, maybe even 24 hour period, of this u.s. american. you are helping me to build up my future for my children.

Prayer

Last night on the way home from our extra irreverent Family Home Evening with the whole fam, my youngest sister called and told me she and her husband had a flat tire on the freeway. I was just a couple minutes behind them. Scary to have any type of car trouble on the freeway, not to mention having to change a flat tire on the side of the car with the rushing traffic. I stopped my van behind them (the husband being in San Diego), lights flashing, so that I could be the buffer.

Youngest sister jumped into my car and we expressed to each other our thoughts on being stopped at the side of a busy freeway. We were in agreement, neither of us liked this position. We offered a prayer of safety. It calmed us.

This experience took me back to a year and a half ago when I was Young Women President and we were returning on the freeway from a joint activity. I had a carload of girls 12-14. (I love those girls.) All at once traffic on the freeway came to a crawl and almost immediately we saw smoke. There was a car in the middle lane pretty banged up and sideways and then we saw a car against the concrete barrier of the HOV lane that was in flames. It was frightening. People were trying to break windows to get the passengers out. As we drove by, I could feel the heat from the burning car and witnessed the driver of the car who was on fire. It was the worst scene I had ever experienced. And of course, all the girls saw it, too.

Some of the girls started into some mild hysteria. I could sense that it would be something that would traumatize them for a long time. I had the instant impression that we needed to say a prayer. A prayer was offered. There was a palpable spirit of peace in my van that night. The girls were able to process the scene and we worked through it on the 30 minute drive home.

Prayers are heard and answered. I know they are.

I learned later that the accident was caused by the banged up car in the middle lane who had run into a car that was pulled over to the side of the road with a flat tire. The impact of the crash sent the car across 5 lanes of traffic and into the concrete barrier where it burst into flames. Both passengers in the car died.

We were blessed last night. Safe at the side of the freeway while youngest bro-in-law changed that tire. Since they are newlyweds and without children, I was able to provide the wipes for youngest bro-in-law's hands. No need to offer a hero's medal. It was the least I could do. Go me. It' nice to feel useful.

And of course, photos were taken- for youngest sister's blog- and then the injured tire, the black microwave (?) and cases of bottled water were loaded back into their trunk and we drove off. They with their doughnut tire and I in the buffer van.



******Sorry Dad, no blog post about the diaper. Maybe another time...

Rise and Shout!!

It's 12:00------ Do you know where your BYU Football is?

click on the "Y" for a link to season schedule

The Cougars are in Seattle taking on the Huskies.

Go Cougs!!!

BYU Wins!

BYU 28 Washington 27

I don't think she got the memo...

I admit to having a blanket fetish. Heaven help me. My kids always want to use my blanket- not theirs. They have a trazillion- or is it brazilian? tee hee . I have ONE blanket- only one. Can't an old lady enjoy her blankie without it being ripped away and used by a little tiny thing? I am beginning to think no.

This is my original personal blanket. It lasted only a few days before my kids discovered it and commandeered it.

No matter, thought I, I will just purchase a new personal blanket. Thus was born the green fuzzy fleece (from Kirkland's):

The green fuzzy Kirkland's special was soon discovered by one offspring and then another. It has been passed throughout the family and I was only able to enjoy its comfort and warmth a few short moments before I resigned myself to the fact that I should accept defeat and seek new pastures. Enter brown fuzzy fleece, also of Kirkland's:

Brown fuzzy was nice for a bit. But, alas, it was swept up by the undying love of a 2 1/2 year old. What to do? What to do? Right. Go shopping.

Accordingly, I was shopping at JoAnn yesterday. (If you don't mind, let me digress for a moment as I ask you: Why JoAnn and not JoAnn's? I hate saying the name of that store, because it kills me not to add the obligatory "apostrophe-s-" at the end of the name. Pretty much all stores called by a proper name add that apostrophe-s-. Like McDonald's, Mervyn's, Kohl's, Albertson's, Mimi's, um- Kirkland's, even Michael's, etc, etc. So, when I am talking about JoAnn, I sometimes go ahead and add the apostrophe-s- because I think most people expect that, yet when I do add it, I am left wondering if that person is thinking I don't know the correct name of the store. Yet, when I say the name in the proper way, I am left wondering if the person thinks I am not using the store name correctly. Did no one tell JoAnn this would be awkward? Quite the conundrum! ) Now we return to regular programming: I was checking out the clearance fabrics and came across this deliciously soft and fuzzy, although a bit juvenile and not too feminine, fleece. I mean, this is the soft, sink your body into, kind of fleece.

Ahhhhhhh, love it! ON CLEARANCE, might I remind you. I quickly purchased two wonderful yards! Bonus! Length is always important- this is something I was not getting out of my previous blankies. I came straight home and sewed up those edges and voila! instant heaven.

Never mind about the wizards and dragons. I have a long, soft blanket that I will be able to enjoy for the next two hours until it is whisked away by a little person and I am off to JoAnn to see what other treasures await. Meanwhile, you can go to sleep with a smile on your face, satisfied that I have had a little enjoyment out of this magic blanket. And, try not to laugh at this 30 something who has the wizard/dragon combo.

I know you want it.




NEWSFLASH...NEWSFLASH...NEWSFLASH...NEWSFLASH...NEWSFLASH.....

Oh, one more thing. Guess what happened last night? I won the silver medal for three person amateur normal clothes wearing street volleyball in the Olympics! Yes I did. It was amazing. Even more amazing because I was playing with two people I didn't know and we didn't even know we won the silver medal until it was the medal ceremony and they announced it. Boy were we surprised! But I was a little puzzled as to why our medals were on a normal necklace chain and not the beautiful red ribbons that everyone else was presented with. Then, our bouquet was a pot of planted chrysanthemums (I know how to spell that word because I learned it from Anne of Green Gables) with a shrink-wrapped cellophane pot. It was lovely. And the announcer really played up the fact that I love the Olympics so much and so she was thrilled that I was able to take home the silver. Oh, I can't wait to see what I accomplish tonight...(all curled up in the magic blanket)

addendum: shortly after posting this- within minutes even- the husband called to inform me that I had forgotten one blanket- in fact, the one that started it all even before the striped one- a maroon beauty with black blanket stitching around the edges. Oh, yes, the memories. What would I do without the husband?

P.S. The husband originally laughed at the magic blanket. Then later yesterday evening, when the children were in bed, he wanted to snuggle up in it with me while we were watching a movie. Are you kidding me? No one makes fun of my magic blanket and then tries to use it later. I think I'll repent and let him snuggle in it with me tonight.

Let this be a lesson to you, Cinderella

The other day I was talking to a woman who said this to me at the end of our conversation: "Well, I hope all your dreams come true."

I was like (thinking in my head), "Uh, wow, thanks. But you really need to stop and re-think what you are hoping there."

Cause I really hope ALL my dreams don't come true, because if they did, this is what my life would be like. For starters, I would spend the majority of my life half-naked in public, usually terrified as the world carries on about its business- not really giving me a second glance- and I'm left wondering how best to hide myself. I would also have a huge wad of pink bubble gum in my mouth that would be IMPOSSIBLE to get out. I would pull at it and pull at it and it would just keep on coming. And I would be trying to talk to someone and of course they wouldn't be able to understand me. And then I would stick my whole finger in my mouth and do a sweep, but it wouldn't do any good because the gum would still be filling up the whole opening regardless of all the sweeping and pulling I did. It would just stick in there. Never to be completely removed. Then, I would spend an eternity trying to open my eyes while performing life's daily tasks. I would be walking whilst reminding myself 'open your eyes', but they would only open for a split-second and then close right up again- not really conducive to walking. And then, I would find myself at the end of the semester, facing the final, and having only attended class one time. To make matters worse, this would be the last final before graduation. And of course, I wouldn't be able to remember the combination to my locker.

What I actually said, with an awkward half-smile on my face, to the lady who had this hope for me was, "Yeah, thanks. K, bye."

Lots of moms hope all their children's dreams come true. But knowing what I know, I will be an educated and sympathetic mom and say, "I hope all my children's dreams DON'T come true. Because I know for a fact they have nightmares sometimes. And I know for a fact that middle daughter's fingers were chopped off last Thursday night (possibly early Friday morning) by a guy that looked like Underwear."

So, well-meaning lady- I know you were wishing me the best in your most innocent and unimaginative way possible, but I have to say that you should think about your hopes for others. Because maybe, just maybe, your hopes for them are not what their hopes for themselves might be.

Oh, and Cinderella, I don't really think that in all cases a dream is a wish your heart makes when you're fast asleep. You're really beautiful and all, but also a little incorrect because I don't really think your heart would make some of the wishes that you dream of. Something to think about while you're feeding the chickens. Amen.