Falling.

Did you all enjoy our week and a half of fall? I'm pretty sure that I woke up to winter this morning.

At least we knew that it was coming.

We drove up to the cabin on a whim on Monday night (thanks, KFC) to admire the leaves.

Before the snow.

What the heck?

How beautiful is this?


I decided that I need a new profile picture for facebook, as in my old one I am in a sleeveless bike jersey and it occurred to me that, as I often judge people I haven't seen for a while by what they are wearing, others might think I've gone to the Dark side from my current pic.

My sister, her husband and darling two girls came with us. They are so cute!

Here's my little brood.

I love this view, but unfortunately I had really crappy light. You get the picture.

This is looking out over Tibble Fork Reservoir. It looks like a patchwork quilt.

Yesterday, leaves fall.

Today, snow fall.

Tomorrow, sun, yes?

Wearing Hats

For many years, if anyone asked me what I did, my only answer would be that I was a wife and mother. I guess you could say that I was a specialist-- kind of like a dermatologist or a podiatrist or something. I did one thing and pretty much that was it.


Quite honestly, when your kids are tiny, you don't really have a choice. When they need you to meet every single need they have, you're lucky just to keep up, let alone to ever get ahead. It was sometimes frustrating, but there's something very fulfilling in being EVERYTHING to three little people.


However, in the past few years, my children have started to figure out how to meet some of their own pressing needs (i.e. I haven't had to wipe anyone's butt for a few years now) and I've found myself with more time. Funny thing, though-- just like they taught me in my high school physics class, nature abhors a vacuum-- meaning that as soon as "free time" is created, there are many things waiting to fill it.


Sometimes I wish that it was as easy to switch gears between all of the things I'm doing as it is to take off one hat and put on another.



On any given day, I could wear my mom hat until the kids go to school in the morning. (It would probably be my tie-dyed do-rag which I put on to keep my hair out of my face when I clean the bathrooms.)

Next, I'd put on my bike helmet (that's a hat, right?) for 45 minutes or so and get a little exercise.

Next, I'd put my work hat on and go into the office. (What hat would I wear at the office? I think that a firefighter helmet might be most appropriate, as I spend most of my time putting out small fires.)
In the afternoon, I'd usually have to put on my Relief Society hat or my PTA /District Community Council hat. The Relief Society hat probably is one of those giant purple things with flowers on it-- you know the ones you see women wearing in old movies when they went out to "make social calls"? The PTA/DCC hat would be one of those frat boy hats with cans on either side and straws coming down. Not beer, though. Just Diet Dr. Pepper.

Come 3:30, I'd switch for a chauffeur hat to take the kids to swimming, piano, sports practice, the dentist, etc.

Around 5:00, I quickly switch for a chef's hat.

At bedtime, I'd switch for the cowboy hat because it feels like herding cattle to get my little brood into their beds at night.

From 9:00 to 10:30, I try to wear all of the hats at once. I have two precious hours to get everything done that didn't get done during the rest of the day. It would be easier if I had more heads to wear the hats-- and more hands to do whatever the heads need done.

Maybe for that time, I ought to put on my awesome Trek cowboy hat that looks totally stupid but makes me happy to wear. It could be the Kim hat-- the one I wear to do whatever the heck I want to do. Read a book, write my blog, paint my toenails-- wouldn't it be cool to have an hour every day to yourself?

Or maybe I ought to order this one-- what do you think?

The Lost Symbol, by Mr. Predictable

I spent every spare second of last weekend reading Dan Brown's new book, The Lost Symbol. I can descibe it in one word:

Predictable.

It's just like the DaVinci Code. Here's how predictable it is:

Layne read the book the week before I did. I told him when I was about half way through it that I had it all figured out. He thought the same thing, but he said, "There is one pretty big twist at the end."

To which I replied,

"Oh. You mean that _________ is _____________?" (I won't give it away for those of you who still want to read it.)

He laughed and wouldn't confirm or deny, but when the end came, I was right. I was also right about what the lost symbol was and where it was hidden.

Seriously. I could have stopped reading the book with 100 pages left and told you exactly how it would end.

Dan Brown is just too formulaic for me.

The major theme in the book is the Masons (as opposed to his typical rant against the Catholics.) He actually treats them pretty fairly, I thought. Layne said that he heard an interview with Dan Brown where he said he was tempted to become a Mason after researching them, but didn't want to take a vow of secrecy because then he couldn't write his book. (Anyone else find that hypocritical?)

My problem is that Dan Brown is so liberal in his mixture of fact and fiction, that I don't trust a single thing that he listed in the book as fact-- not about the Masons, or about American history.

I don't think that you can even call his books "historical fiction"-- I think he's firmly placed himself in the category of "fantasy."

That being said, if you are going on a trip and need a good airplane/beach read, let me know-- you can borrow my copy. I won't even ask for it back. :-)

Superstar

Have you seen me on t.v.?

I'm famous.

About a month ago, the guy who did my kitchen called and asked if I'd be in a commercial for him. I didn't want to do it, but Layne reminded me that we ask our patients to give us testimonials all of the time. Reluctantly, I said yes.

These guys moved out all of my chairs and set up tons of lights and cameras. They stuffed a microphone up my shirt, posed me like a Barbie doll in front of my sink, then told me to "act natural."

I don't think you really want me to do that. "Natural" me is a total klutzy nerd.

I made some jokes about valium and beer and stuff-- then realized that I everything I said was being taped.

Man, I'm a brain surgeon.

At least my kitchen was clean.

I kind of forgot about it until Sunday when I was conducting Relief Society. I told all of the sisters that whoever went to the General Relief Society session at the Stake Center was invited to my house for my fantastic hot fudge sundaes after. That's when someone from the back piped up, "Is it a housewarming party for your new kitchen? We saw you on t.v.!"

Great. Conducting makes me nervous already, so bringing up that little fact really made me forget what I was doing.

Valium and beer anyone?

So today, I'm folding clothes, watching the 5:00 news, when Emalee pops up, "Hey, Mom! You're on t.v.!" (Apparently I forgot to tell my kids what I'd done.) The funniest part was that I think that I've seen that commercial before and just not noticed myself. I've developed the strange (but useful) talent of tuning out whatever is on the tube.

Even if it is myself, I guess.

When it comes down to it, I'm really ignorable. You've probably seen me too and just not paid attention.

I'm fairly certain that the camera really does add 10 pounds. Or 20. So, if you do happen to notice my 3.4 seconds of fame, try to take off a few pounds.

And don't mention to me that you saw it.

I'd like to pretend it never happened.

I Lost The Battle. Again.

Every spring, I get delusions of grandeur. Yard grandeur, that is. I envision beautiful flower gardens, a perfectly manicured lawn, and a garden that will fill my shelves with bottles of food for the winter.

Yeah, right.

I always start out with a bang. I planted the garden. I mowed, edged, trimmed, and weeded. Things looked fantastic.

Until July.

That's the point of the summer where I always just start to fizzle.

Take this year, for example.

My beautiful lawn definitely enjoyed the luxury of regular watering which came with the new sprinkling system. Enjoyed it so much that I had to mow it twice as much as usual. Enjoyed it so much, that it invited a whole bunch of thick, gross weed-friends to come live here too. (I'm not kidding-- these weeds are so thick that they stall out my lawn mower when I go over them.)

Speaking of my lawn mower, I think that dumb thing has had it with summer too.

After losing one of my children as he waded through the grass this morning on the way to school, I decided it was time to mow. When I start up the trusty Ranch King, he starts making a HORRIBLE racket. (Sorry to my neighbors. And to the residents of surrounding states.) Seriously-- this was BAD.

I open up the hood and find that the muffler has detached itself on one side. I get my pink tool set and get to work. Two burned fingers (Dang! That thing's hot!) and a FEW (ahem!) bad words later, I think I have it fixed. I mow the front and half of the back before I hear the bad sound again. This time, come hell or high water, I'm finishing the lawn.

I'm hoping to recover my hearing (and the goodwill of anyone who lives within a 5 mile radius) tomorrow.

I didn't edge.

I didn't blow.

(I did find a heck of a lot of dog poop that was much too small to be from my dog. If it belongs to you, PLEASE come get it.)

As for my garden, it's been disappointing too.

"Big Boy" tomatoes the size of small prunes. (Have to cut 4 of them to make a sandwich.) Earwigs in my corn. 4 tiny pumpkins. Cucumbers that look like feet.

Ahhh, but the good old zucchini. Is there a category for biggest zucchini at the state fair? I have one out there that I may carve into a canoe next week.

I don't like the cold, but I have to say, I am looking forward to a blanket of white to cover my pitiful excuse of a yard.

I surrender.

Again.

Until next April, that is...

Being Peculiar

I don't know if I've mentioned yet that I've gone back to work.

That could explain in part why my blog posts have been cut pretty drastically. (Probably no one has noticed but me.)

Luckily, my boss is pretty dang awesome and I can work whenever I feel like it. (He has to be nice or I will make him sleep on the couch.)

Anyway, this was a pretty good weekend to choose to go to work, as Layne took the whole office to Las Vegas for some staff training.

For the most part, we repeated what we did in Vegas a couple of months ago (without kids this time). Stayed at the Palazzo. Went to see Blue Man Group and Phantom of the Opera. Ate too much. Saw WAY too much on the Strip.

It was interesting this time because, as my mom works for Layne too, she and my dad (along with our other audiologist Jeana and our other front office tech Sharon) came with us. My mom had never been to Vegas before.

She was dumbfounded. On the night we got there, a drunk guy in the elevator used the "f" word and shocked my mom. She'd never heard that word used in real life before.

I like to think that I've been places. Really, though, when it comes right down to it, the whole Vegas thing dumbfounds me too.

Take last night, for example.

The closing dinner for this convention was at a nightclub called Tao in the Venetian. This is a pretty exclusive club-- people line up for hours to get in. The plan for the group was to have dinner from 7-9 and at 9, it switches over to a nightclub.

I got pretty gussied up for the evening. I wore a red and black dress that comes to my knees (as opposed to my mostly shin length skirts.) I wore black high heels and shaved my legs. I made my hair big and even wore eye shadow AND lipstick.

I asked Layne if I looked too slutty. He said no, but he also looked at me like he hadn't met me before. (Maybe I should wear makeup more often?)

So, we walk into the night club-- Layne and I along with my parents and two other 50+ women and I really had to laugh at myself.

You see, in spite of my best efforts to not stand out, we definitely did.

It could have been that no other woman in the room had sleeves.

It could have been that most skirts hit mid thigh. Maybe.

It could have been that everyone else was taking advantage of the open bar and doing their best to get sloshed before 9:00 pm.

The six of us sat in a corner eating our Kung Pao chicken and drinking our fruit punch (which the waiter brought with a noticable smirk on his face) and looking about as out of place as a rock star would look sitting in sacrament meeting.

This is the stamp they put the inside of my wrist as I walked in.

It looked like a tattoo.

I hated it.

It took me about 10 minutes to realize that:

a. No matter what I picked out of my closet, I would never fit into this crowd.

b. I had absolutely NO desire to fit into this crowd.

c. I would rather be back in my room watching football and enjoying this view from the 34th floor:

We said our thank yous and good-byes, then walked our country-bumpkin selves past the beautiful people who were drinking and gambling and laughing too loudly. We were out of there before 7:30.

Honestly, the whole experience made me thankful for standards and for a sheltered upbringing. When we went to leave this morning, all of those party people looked like death warmed over.

It was so great to fly into the peaceful Salt Lake airport and drive home to my family and kids.

I've decided that, if dressing modestly and not drinking, swearing, or gambling makes me not cool, then so be it.

I'm okay with that. Actually, I'm proud of it.

I've also decided that next time we go to Vegas, I'm not even going to try to blend. I'll just wear my Levi's and BYU sweatshirt and walk around in my Reeboks. If I'm going to be uncomfortable, I might as well be comfortable, right?

The No-Labor Day

I was born on Labor Day.

I thought for a long time that it was called that because my mom was "in labor" with me. (Kind of like when I was little I thought that the line in "We wish you a Merry Christmas" that says "Good tidings we bring to you and your kin" really said "good tidings we bring to you and your KIM". I know, I know. I was a very self-centered little kid.)

It was a while before I could see the irony of having a day off of work to, well, celebrate work.

I had a few projects that I thought about doing today, but true to Garrett fashion, we decided to play instead.

We went for a 30 mile bike ride.

We hit the REI Labor Day clearance sale. (can't beat $20 Keens!)

And then, we went to the last Salt Lake Bees game of the year.

Layne's dad had 3 tickets for our family to his company's suite. Layne, ever the gentleman, insisted that I stay in the suite and he and Michael got tickets in the seats below us. Here they are:

The suite was awesome. The Bee paid a personal visit to us. He danced with Emalee and they put it on the JumboTron. Here's Doug with the Bee:
We were in the best suite in the stadium-- right next to the announcers, right behind home plate:

This is what a suite looks like inside, in all of its air-conditioned, catered glory. There was a fridge full of drinks. There were gourmet hot dogs and hamburgers. There was a tray full of cookies and brownies. And, yes, there was even a big ole' bowl of peanut M&M's.

Here's the thing about the suite, though-- with my husband and my son sitting below me paying $6 for small drinks and sweating in the hot sun, I couldn't really enjoy my luxurious surroundings. It made me wonder, is this what it would be like if only half of my family made it to the Celestial Kingdom and the other half were somewhere below? How could I really enjoy an endless and eternal supply of M&Ms if I knew that the people I love had to settle for stale churros?

I know it's a silly comparison, but it was definitely a learning moment for me. One of those moments that made me re-commit myself to doing everything in my power to make sure that we ALL end up in the BEST place TOGETHER.

It was a lot of work to get that analogy all put together so nicely.

I guess I did some LABOR after all . . .

Be Here.

Today is my birthday.

I have now left that survey category for 25-34 year olds. I am now closer to 40 than to 30.

I'm okay with that.

I've been thinking a lot about how my life has changed-- how I thought I'd be so much less busy this year, but I've let myself get even more busy than I was. (I forgot "no" again, dang it!) I thought I was handling it pretty well, but I keep getting this message in my head that tells me that maybe I'm not.

The message is simply "Be Here."

You see, when I'm talking on the phone, I'm also doing laundry, paying bills, or peeing. (C'mon. You know you do it too.) When I'm talking to Layne or the kids, I'm also trying to figure out what to fix for dinner. When I'm blowing my hair, I'm also reading my email.

I guess it means that when it looks like I'm "here", I'm really "here, there, and everywhere."

The news had a story the other day about a study done on multi-taskers and how they were actually less efficient than people who focus exclusively on what they are doing. I think that there's something to that. Sometimes I get to the end of the day and I feel like all that I've done is check things off a list. It seems like I am always looking forward to something else-- even if I'm in the middle of doing one of the things that I was looking forward to!

I've never been a "joy in the journey" kind of person-- I'm always rushing to get wherever I'm going. (Just ask anyone who tries to keep up with me when I'm walking!) I don't know that I will necessarily stop doing that-- some things (like walking and driving slowly :-) still seem like a waste of time to me.

However, my goal for this next year is to really BE wherever it is that I am-- especially when I am with family and friends.

I guess that means I had better stop typing and pretending to listen to my son read.

Some habits die hard. . .

Big Fish and Little Fish

Sorry in advance.


Another Doug post.


One of Layne's patients is in charge of the fish tanks at Cabela's. He's told us a few times to bring the kids down at feeding time and he'd let them feed the fish. Last Wednesday, we took him up on it.


We were supposed to meet him at 5:45 for the 6:00 feeding, but somehow missed him the first time, so we decided to watch the feeding just like everyone else. It was really interesting to see how the fish knew the food was coming even before they started throwing it in the water.

At first it was just pellets. The kids were fascinated to see how quickly the fish would snap up the pellets as they floated down in the water. That was all fine and good.

Until it was time for the goldfish.


They threw in bunches of goldfish, which the huge trout snapped up even quicker than the pellets. They were so quick, that it took us a moment to even realized what the big fish were eating.

That's when tender-hearted little Dougie started crying his little eyes out and begging for me to make the big fish stop eating the poor little fish.

Mike feeding the fish.

Fish frenzy

Before I could run him out of the observation area, he witnessed one trout swimming around with half a goldfish hanging out of its mouth-- with many other large trout nearly attacking the gluttonous fish because they kept getting glimpses of orange.

It really was brutal.


Our friend came down and found us about then and offered to take the kids up to the tank to let them throw in a few more pellets. The other kids (who thought the fish feeding was awesome) were very excited to go up. Not Doug.


He wants NOTHING more to do with the fish. He burst into tears every time we even walked near the fish tanks from then on.


That right there is one of the reasons that it was so hard for me to send Doug to kindergarten last week.


My funny, crazy baby boy has a kind, tender heart and I'm afraid that school is going to beat that out of him. Dropping him off at school on Thursday-- then walking away without him might have been one of the hardest things I've ever had to do.


I absolutely understood his crying about big fish eating little fish. To me, he's the little fish entering a really big fish tank. I'd like to keep him in my own little bowl-- for only me to enjoy, but I know that he's destined for bigger oceans than that.


Sometimes it's really hard to be the mom. . .

Why I'm Starting to HATE the Color Orange

I've always thought it was a myth that bulls get pissed off when they see red. Seriously, how could a color tick you off?

However, I'm starting to empathize with the bulls-- except that my trigger is now the color orange.

Orange has never been my favorite color, it's true. I don't think that I've ever owned a single orange piece of clothing, and I can't imagine using it to decorate my house. I like oranges and orange juice, but I've always wondered why they named a fruit after a color? And, orange is one of the few words in the English language that you just can't use in a poem because NOTHING rhymes with it.

My negative feelings toward orange began when I got married and my husband went hunting with his brothers. Not only did he get to leave to play all weekend, but then he came home and dumped his orange-covered hunting crap in the entry way. My dad used to do that too. Must be a primal thing.

Man hunt. Then take shower and nap.

Woman clean up the crap.

All that being said, my reasons for HATING orange have nothing to do with any of that. I hate orange for one reason:

Road Construction.

I don't know how the karma has gotten so misaligned this summer, but between the American Fork Irrigation Fiasco, UDOT's SR-92 projects, the AF trails project and regular old road repair, I swear that EVERY road that goes ANYWHERE from my house has been under construction.

I'm getting to the point where my blood pressure rises when I see so much as an orange cone on the side of the road. The flourescent orange paint that they use to spray-paint the road before they dig it up makes me shake. And, when I see one of these:

I want to go CRAZY.

Orange is REALLY messing up my cycling. I have about 5 standard 10-16 mile rides that I do regularly. Last week, 4 of the 5 were impossible to ride due to orange.

Nothing ticks me off more than waiting forever in a line of cars because they've closed a road down to one lane of traffic-- and when you finally pass the area where the work is being done, you see maybe one guy dinking around with a shovel while 4 or 5 others are smoking cigarettes on the curb.

All of them, of course, are wearing ORANGE vests. Their orange vests make me see red.

Can you feel my pain? It's no wonder to me that they make prisoners wear orange jump suits.

It's part of their punishment.

Hard Stuff

I don't live on a farm.

Granted, sometimes it could pass for a zoo. And, according to my dad's old saying, my children obviously think that they live in a barn because they are always leaving open the doors.

Be that as it may, there aren't a lot of opportunities for my kids to learn to do hard things. Not like when I was young. :-)

I remember my parents put in the yard of our house. As they chose to live in the rock farm which is called Highland, I remember picking up TRUCKFULS of rocks before we could plant the grass.

My grandparents also owned a fruit farm, so we carried TONS AND TONS of peaches from the pickers to the sorters. We weeded flower and vegetable gardens. We planted and harvested acres of corn.

Now that I think about it, we were virtual slaves! :-)

But, we learned to work.

Like I said before, though, I don't have a farm. So, we've had to come up with other ways to teach our kids to do hard things. Coincidentally, we found a way that we could teach them this lesson AND ride our bikes at the same time.

It's a talent, I know.

Mike told us a while ago that he wanted to do a 20 mile ride this summer. We found one called the Jared Hess Cancer Foundation ride. They closed down the Legacy Highway for the morning for a 20 mile out and back ride-- perfect for kids.

This is us at the start of the ride-- in all of our Lycra-clad glory:
Here is Emalee. We expected her to struggle a little bit, but she surprised us and led us out nearly the entire race (once she warmed up up after a couple of miles!)
Here's Doug-- he rides on a tandem attached to the back of my bike. He and I ride together quite a bit. (Well, we did before I had to send him to kindergarten last Thursday. I'll have to post about that trauma (for me, not him) one of these days...)

Here's our little Michael with his chicken legs that are so scrawny that his spandex bike shorts are actually BAGGY on him:

Poor Michael-- he struggled. Before we were even 8 miles in, he was already having a hard time. At one point, he started crying and I asked him if he wanted to quit. He said no. I thought about trying to bribe him with a new video game or something, but that "be a good parent" voice in my head told me that he needed to push through this on his own, just for the satisfaction of finishing. I prayed for him, distracted him by talking with him for miles and miles about what Wii games he'd like for Christmas, and finally we got him to the end.

Here's Doug with his medal. I love riding with him-- he's such a cutie! They were running a half marathon at the same time, and Doug would yell to all of the runners we passed (who all looked miserable, by the way) "Good Job!" or "Way to go!" If he saw cyclists stopped on the side of the road, he'd yell and ask them if they were okay. He's such a good kid.

Here's Michael with his medal. When you figure in entry fees, gas, dinner and hotel for last night, etc..., this little goal of Mikes probably cost us $300 or so-- but every cent was worth it. I don't know how else you could give a 7 year old such a sense of accomplishment. I was so proud of him for sticking it out!

Here's my daughter-- who I decided rides just like me. She doesn't like to ride behind anyone. She will kill herself to keep her brother from passing her. She speeds up when she sees a "Wabbit" in front of her. I'm super-proud of her too.

You never know if the lessons you try to teach your kids really sink in. I know that our kids will have to do hard things in their lives-- probably much harder than the things that I've faced in mine. I can only hope that experiences like today will get them through.

And if not, at least we had fun, right?

You Know You're Done When...

My mother announced to me out of the blue the other day that she thought that I should have another baby.


I had no response to that.


Well, other than that word that I learned a few months ago-- remember? However, I didn't say, "Hell no!", I just said, "No, thank you."


She is my mother.

But it got me thinking again-- how can I be so sure that I'm finished? I've come up with a few good reasons:


1. I was late once this summer and, instead of feeling that little flutter of "could it be?" I felt what I can only describe as holy terror.

2. In a week or so, I MIGHT be turning 35. This is the age where you are considered "High Risk" and they have to do amniocentesis to make sure that your baby doesn't have two heads and stuff. I've heard that this "amnio" test thing hurts really bad. Hence, I must avoid it.

3. Speaking of pain... they say that you are ready to have another one when you forget the pain of the last one-- it's the body's natural way to encourage procreation. I haven't forgotten-- must not be ready.

4. In reference to the getting old thing, I must say that I need sleep more than I ever did before. If I had a baby, it would leave us with three options:

• I get up with the baby, live on very little sleep and one day snap and kill everyone around me.
  
• Layne gets up with the baby, hates me for it and eventually leaves me for some hot chick who refuses to have children all together.
  
• Emalee gets up with the baby, flunks school because she falls asleep all of the time, and grows up to work at McDonalds with all of the Mexicans, where she meets Jose' and all of my grandchildren end up speaking Spanish.

5. As we are self-employed and have no maternity insurance, having a baby would cost us like $15,000. We might as well adopt a two year old and save ourselves the baby stage. I saw these beautiful kids from Chile' the other day-- how do I get one of those?

6. I've gotten really used to carrying a purse and not a diaper bag-- I don't think that I could ever go back.

7. I turned the nursery into an exercise room.

8. Speaking of exercise, I worked REALLY hard to lose 3 babies worth of weight-- I CAN'T go there again!

So, in spite of the fact that, when Dennis Smith painted our picture, he mysteriously added a 4th child into it, I have to say I'm done.

This is me with the extra child. It's not mine. It's one of the neighbor kids that are always at my house. Or maybe it's my niece Olivia-- she could come live with me any day.

Either way, I'm sorry, Mom, but I'm afraid that you're only getting three out of me.

Unless I can figure out how to adopt one of those cute little Chileans...

What Goes On In Doug's Head?

I know, I'm always posting about Doug. If you lived with a five year old as interesting as this kid, you would too.

Two funny things he's said in the last few days:

First. Doug has been telling me thanks for everything lately. "Thanks for fixing me my favorite cereal, Mommy." "Thanks for letting me have zucchini casserole for dinner, Mom." (What? I know-- just one other way Doug is wonderful-- he LOVES vegetables.)

We're driving along and I tell him, "Thanks for noticing all of the things I do for you and telling me thanks, Doug. I like that."

Doug replies, "I was wondering how long it would take you to notice that I've improved."


Second. This will embarrass him if he ever reads this. He wet the bed last night. I was thinking that it was some deep psychological reaction to kindergarten or something. When I asked him in the morning what had happened, he told me that he'd had a dream that he was in a swimming pool and he really had to pee. (That was probably due to the huge drink he had before bed.) He got out and went to the bathroom-- and then woke up wet.

I laughed and told him that happens sometimes. He says,

"Dream-Doug is luckier than me."

Me: "Why is that, Doug?"
Doug: "Because he made it to the toilet."

I laughed so hard that I almost didn't make it there myself.

How in the world am I supposed to share this kid with school for half a day?

This Story May Be True

Once upon a time there was a queen who lived in a house on a quiet cul-de-sac. The queen was the mother of two princes and a princess.

While the king went to work every day ruling the kingdom and helping deaf and dizzy people and such, the queen spent her time battling her most fearsome foe-- Mess. Armed with a broom and a dust cloth, the Queen bravely fought day by day to overcome her mortal enemy.

Some days were better than others.

On one day, (we could call it last Monday), she planned a vicious attack in Mess's strongholds-- the children's rooms. It was an epic battle-- and the fate of the queen hung in the balance for a time, but finally she was victorious. At the end of the day, the rooms were clean and she was left with 6 bags of trash and 6 bags of items which she quickly took to Ye Olde Deseret Industries-- before Mess had the chance to reconquer the items and reclaim his territory.

She was tired, but proud of herself.

Until that night.

When it was time for Small Prince to go to bed, he suddenly noticed that something was missing from his bedroom. Out of all of the items that had fallen victim to the Great War, he noticed the absence of one red fury monster (we'll call it Elmo) that used to do the Hokey Pokey. This Elmo had belonged to his sister and had been in the Small Prince's room for a few years-- residing mostly under the bed. The queen had never seen her son play with the toy, and hence did not expect this reaction.

The small prince figured out quickly that his mother, the queen, had taken Elmo to the D.I. (Something similar MAY have happened before.) She tried to comfort him-- figuring that, if she could get him to go to sleep, he'd forget about it by morning.

She was wrong.

Throughout the next day, she often found the small prince with a sad look on his face. (Small Prince is very good at making sad faces.)

Small Prince missed Elmo terribly and began to experience what the queen could only assume was the stages of grief. Panicking and feeling guilty, as any mother would, she decided to mount a recovery operation.

She and the small prince went to the D.I. to search for the lost toy. She gave the expedition a snowflake's chance in hell, but as some say that hell may be made of ice, she thought they'd try.

Elmo was not to be found on any of the shelves. (Other very strange things were there, but we'll save that for another story.) The queen asked to see the manager of the store. She explained her predicament. He was not terribly helpful. In fact, he seemed to mock her for even thinking that perhaps she could recover the toy. He did, however, offer to take her name and number and "call if it turns up."

The queen tried to distract her son by taking him to a store to find another toy. Small Prince, being very wise for a five year old, saw through this ploy quickly. When they could not find another Hokey Pokey Elmo (apparently they stopped making those a while ago), Small Prince looked up at his mother and said,

"You see mom? Wouldn't it have been better if you would have listened to me and not taken my stuff to the D.I.? You would have saved yourself all of this trouble." Well, really it sounded more like "twubble", because Small Prince still can't say his "r"s and his mother thinks it's cute and doesn't really want him to learn yet.

She took his hand and told him how sorry she was and how everybody makes mistakes. Small Prince looked up at the queen and said, "Yeah, even moms. Sometimes they make wee-lly (really) big ones."

The queen thought this might be a teaching moment, so she tried to explain to Small Prince how when we are really sad, we can pray and Heavenly Father can help us to feel better in our hearts. Small Prince looked at his mother and said, "My heart is too torn up for that."

The queen didn't know whether to laugh or to cry. She took the small prince home and, as penance for her crimes, played video games with him for a very long hour and a half.

The queen formulated a plan. As there may be spies out to get her secrets, she will only mention that she is searching for Hokey Pokey Elmo on ebay. Wish her luck.

Meanwhile, Small Prince keeps hoping that the nice man at Ye Olde D.I. will call to say he found Elmo. He is trying to forgive his mother. In fact, Small Prince even let his mother rock him to sleep tonight-- something which he hasn't done for years.

Small Prince is growing up. He starts kindergarten this week. The queen knows that he is ready, but she thinks that she is not. She is not ready to be the Queen-Whose-Children-All-Go-To-School yet (even if it means that she can ride her bike more often.)

This could be a rough week for the queen...

My Better Half

Last Friday was Layne's birthday. For a few years now, Layne has let the kids decide what to do for his special day-- and some of their choices really have been "special". (I'm sure that every guy wants to spend his 35th birthday at the Children's Discovery Museum?)

This year was no different-- the kids helped us to plan a camping trip to Bryce. He got to eat PB&J for lunch and cook his own dinner on a camp stove. What a party.

We've been so busy all week, that I haven't had a chance to make a bigger deal of his birthday than that. He hasn't seemed to care, though-- Layne is that kind of guy.

Layne and I are the poster children for late 90's couples. We actually met on the internet in a chat room. I was goofing off at work and he was pretending to do homework for graduate school. We talked for a couple of weeks, then after much flirting on my part (seriously, was this guy ever going to ask me out?) we finally went on a date.

He picked me up driving his Infiniti G20 (that was impressive), wearing a pink shirt (not as impressive.) He took me to dinner and then to a haunted house. (How was he to know that I really hate those places?) This is the one scene I would most like to see replayed from my life when I get to heaven-- he swears I grabbed his hand, and I'm certain that he grabbed mine. Either way, we were holding hands when we came out.

He didn't want to take me home yet, so we drove up to Salt Lake and went on a carriage ride around the city. Who does that? We just talked and talked and by the time he took me home, I was fairly certain that I was going to marry this guy-- in spite of the fact that he admitted to watching rated R movies which offended my newly returned-missionary sensibilities.

When he took me to the door step, I figured (as he had already grabbed my hand and all:-) that he might kiss me goodnight. Instead he just said, "That was fun. We'll have to do it again sometime." And away he went.

Talk about a brush off! Every girl knows that really means "You'll never see me again."

However, two nights later, as I am sitting playing Rook with my family, the phone rings, my crazy brother-in-law Jared answers it, and a guy on the other end says, "Hi. Is Jill there?" Unfortunately for Layne, we had caller i.d. and I knew that it was him. He's taken a lot of crap over the years for forgetting my name.

However, he came over that night and played games with my family-- he stayed and even seemed to have fun in spite of my family's quirks and insanities. (Jared, did you really have to burp and blow in front of my new friend?)

And, in spite of continually discovering my own quirks and insanities, we were engaged 6 weeks later, married 10 weeks after that, and now we've been married for 11 and 1/2 years.

Layne is such an incredible husband and father. He's changed half of the diapers, cleaned up at least half of the barf and he even does the dishes on most nights. He's never surprised by anything I do-- he thinks that I can do anything (and how could you fail when someone believes in you like that?) He is freakishly smart, plays romantic songs for me on the piano, and have you seen his calves? Michaelangelo could have used him for a leg model.

One of my favorite things is to run into Layne's patients when we're at the movies or the store and for them to tell me what a wonderful doctor he is and how much he has helped them. I am so proud to be married to a man like that.

So, I'm sorry to you all for the mushy post-- I promise to wait a good long while before I do this again, but every once in a while, you have to break down and give the world a diabetic coma, you know?

Happy Late Birthday, Honey. I love your guts.

Is It Over Yet?

Getting ready to go back to school has not gone as smoothly (or as quickly) as I would have liked. Yesterday was not a good day. Everyone wanted to do something different and as a consequence, we didn't really do anything and everyone was grumpy. (Have you ever had that day where nothing you do makes anyone happy, so you might as well do whatever the heck you want? That was me.)

To top it off, Doug got bitten by a hornet at the school playground. Within an hour, his hand looked like this:

He called it "balloon hand" and thought it was funny. I was worried about it, as it actually got about twice as big as this photo at one point and I didn't sleep well thinking about it. When we got up in the morning, it was huge, so I took him to the doctor where we discovered that the bug bite had turned into cellulitis. (Which is NOT the same thing as cellulite, but both make you look fat. :-)

Doug is now on a course of steroids, Benedryl, and antibiotics with instructions that, if he's not better by Friday, I have to bring him back for I.V. antibiotics.

My bigger concern is that Doug may never play on the playground again. This could make for a rough 7 years of recess. Not to mention the fact that his hand is too swollen to hold a spoon, let alone a pencil and his kindergarten assessment is Friday. His teacher is going to think that either I've been a total slacker mom or that Doug is retarded.

No, Mrs. Hurst, Doug doesn't need resource. Just more Bendryl.

I tried to make today better, but with all of the doctor's appointments and running around to get prescriptions, my best laid plans were, well, laid aside. I totally skipped the PTA teacher's luncheon (good thing I wasn't in charge of it this year!) and my kids were seriously ticked off because they missed a good chunk of their slip-n-slide party.

I think they were lucky to get there at all. Here's Mike and Balloon Hand racing down the hill:

Here's Emalee sliding down in the swimsuit that's just about worn out it's welcome this summer:

Just to cement my "Mom of the Day" award, I took the kids to the pool for the afternoon. Have you noticed that the pool is NOT as much fun as it used to be since you became a mother?

I have.

Em and Mike had fun, but I think that Doug's Cellulitis Cocktail made him a little loopy. He was happy to sit and eat Doritos.

Yes, he is my son.

It is now 8:30 pm and my kids are in bed and I am experiencing peace for the first time in 3 months. Sure, I'm going to have to start getting up early, but I think it's worth the trade...

House of Order

Monday is my "scrub day". I think that it's the masochistic side of me that says, "it already sucks that the weekend is over-- let's make it even worse by scrubbing the house and doing laundry Monday morning!" Actually, it's not really a choice. Every Monday morning, my house has a hangover that must be addressed.

And so, when I woke up today, out came the Ajax.

The downstairs went pretty well and I was happy to have at least part of my house in order.

Until I went upstairs.

And I made my grand mistake.

I went into the kids' rooms to put away their new school clothes, but there was no room to put them. So I started to clean out their dressers. Which lead to cleaning their closets. Which lead to under their beds. Have you ever done that? Half way into the project you start to wonder if it wouldn't be better to just move.

Four hours later, I had 6 trashbags full of trash and 6 trashbags full of stuff to take to the D.I. (which I did quickly before anyone could whine about missing stuff.) I also have two perfectly clean kids' rooms.

I told the kids they will have to sleep somewhere else because those clean rooms are now art to me and you don't sleep in art, do you?

I did find some funny things in those rooms, I have to say. Things like:

*a molar with a filling in it (did the Toothfairy drop it on the way out?)
*water balloons-- fully inflated
*the missing pair of church socks for which I have been searching for months
*2,504 Nerf darts (okay, maybe not quite that many, but there were definitely more than there should have been!)
*petrified pizza crust (shouldn't that belong in a museum?)
*Hannah Montana everything. Which I am now going to have to confiscate because of her risque' performance last week.

I've already had to apologize to Doug for sending Hokey Pokey Elmo to the D.I.

Just wait until the little pack rat figures out what else is missing.

Coming Around Again...

Have you ever had the chance to take your children on a trip that you went on as a child?

My mom worked really hard to always make sure that we had some kind of family vacation in the summer. My favorite memories of my childhood are mostly from those trips. We've tried to do the same thing with our kids.

This weekend, we took our kids down to Bryce Canyon National Park. I remember going down to Southern Utah and hitting Zion's, Bryce, Grand Canyon, and Canyonlands one year as a child. We weren't that ambitious, though-- we only hit Bryce.

Confession time--Layne and I realized this summer that we have never taken our kids camping. Sure, we've gone on lots of trips, and we've even bought tents, sleeping bags, camp stoves, lanterns, etc., but we've never even gotten some of them out of their boxes.

Until this weekend.

Quite honestly, we had a great trip. I never realized how much work it was for my parents when I was a kid-- until I became the parent and my dad wasn't there to do the cooking and my mom wasn't there to buy the groceries and pack and keep things clean.

I do have to admit we cheated a little-- we stayed in a tipi that was already in place. There were flushing toilets and showers and even a pool. But, you've got to start somewhere, right?

Tipi, Sweet Tipi

Down into the Canyon. Which isn't really and canyon. (No stream in the middle.)

The Kids and I at Rainbow Point


Bet you wish you had my hat.

Emalee was pooped after 5 miles of hiking.

Happy Birthday to Layne. (I love you, Honey!)

Breakfast in the morning (That was always my favorite part of camping when I was little. Not as much fun now that I'm grown up and Dad wasn't around to cook.)

Going down Navajo Trail into the canyon. (Again, not really a canyon.)

Wall Street slot canyon. Em hated the heights getting there and I hated the walls once we were down.

Doug and Layne.

Weird things about Bryce-- everyone we ran into was German. I don't know what the draw is, but English was definitely in the minority. They even brought their own buses to sleep in-- European plates and all. I didn't appreciate them smoking in the jacuzzi, but other than that, it wasn't a big deal.

We had a great time-- it went way too fast. There was no cell service, so we actually went without phone, email, etc. for a whole weekend. Just what we needed.

Layne and I both found ourselves wondering why we don't do stuff like that more often. Now, we're going to start planning small weekend trips to Zion's, Canyonlands, Arches, etc...

Who's in?