Hair Experiments #2 & #3: A Yikes and A Nice.

This is the next Pinterest hair experiment. It sounded fascinating to me that I could get beachy waves from a flat iron...

My hair after twisting and ironing on the left, partially pulled through on the right, and then a shot of how it ended up.









It's not too beachy. Wavy, yes. A little crazy and frizzy, yes. With the exception of #2 on the right, the pictures don't truly show how wild and unkempt and uneven it all was. I don't think your styled hair should make you laugh, and then post picture taking, be thrown into a ponytail for the rest of the day. I'm calling this one a FAIL. But then it could just be my hair.

Then there's the curling wand. It looked fairly promising to me, like I might not totally mess it up with this.

I wrapped sections of hair around at its highest heat, and it turned out pretty well. The back, I cannot do to save my life, but so far this is the easiest way to get some decent curls/waves. The curling wand: for styling idiots.

Temporary Lunatic

I lost it. I don't like to yell or scream at my kids, but I did this morning. In fact, I am still in tears about it as I write. It's a good thing I'm a lousy typist, because two of my fingers are throbbing with so much pain, I wouldn't be using them now even if I could type properly. I got quite the beat down from Noah this morning. I was screamed at, kicked, hit, grabbed, scratched to bleeding, and this kid is no lightweight. What was my offense, you might ask? I was trying to get the boy dressed.

I don't say too much about what day to day life can really be like with a kid with autism and a seizure disorder. Partly, that's because I figure, who wants to hear it, and partly, there's no real point to it since very few understand, and no one can do a thing about it. There have always been challenges, but many of those grow as he does. He is getting big. I am not a big Mum. He is still in diapers at 8. Sometimes he does NOT want to be changed. It has to be done.

I have what I think is an extreme fight or flight response. Mostly I don't choose flight. I've been that way my whole life. If I felt under attack, or that someone I love was under attack, I would instantly turn to fight. Sometimes verbally, occasionally physically, but even when I was clearly going to be way outmatched, I would act first, think later. Thankfully a couple of times I had a good friend talk sense in to me, or in one case, a very wise male friend who picked me up and carried me out of a room during college, when some foot-taller-than-me guy was lying about my sister. My response is good in the appropriate situations, but not so much in others.

It is instant, if you are ever physically attacked or hurt by someone you just want to defend yourself and fight back. It's instinctive. But when it is your child, who is nearly as big as you are, that is kicking you in the ribs, or head butting you in the head or face, taking large chunks of skin off of your hand, you can't react that way. I do have to block him, and defend myself like that, sometimes I have to sit on his legs or something when he is just wild, but all that adrenaline and stress has to go somewhere, so I yell and/or cry. It's not pretty. It's not helpful. It feels like the world is ending in those moments. But it's better than going a few rounds with my son.

I have recently started exercising regularly again after a year+ hiatus, and honestly a portion of the reason for it is so that I can get stronger to better handle Noah as he grows and not get beaten to a pulp. Any parent of a child with autism will tell you that when they are melting, they get freakishly strong, it's as though they turn super human for a little while. You have to be able to hold them off, or physically remove them from situations where necessary. It is weird to even have to think about that with my nearly 9 year old boy. But it is reality for me.

So if I'm out and about all banged up looking like I've taken up cage fighting, or wearing helmets or padding at seemingly inappropriate times, or completely lose it when you ask me how I'm doing, just smile at me and know the lunacy is temporary. I will return to a relatively normal human being capable of rational thought and good conversation again soon. Just please, today, don't mess with me. Or risk having your own fight or flight response tested.

Dough of the Playing Variety

If you too would like to be known as the best Mum ever, make some of this play dough over the Christmas break. Of all the recipes I have tried, I think this one yields the smoothest, softest dough. My kids LOVE it. One batch makes about the same amount as two of the larger size playdough cans, so I usually divide it and do 2 colours per batch. Here is what you need:

1 c. flour
1/2 c. salt
1 c. water
1 TB oil
2 TB cream of tartar
Food colouring (primary colours are great, and the fluorescents work really well too)

Combine dry ingredients in a pot, then add water and oil and stir. Cook 3-5 minutes over med-low heat, stirring constantly until a ball forms. Remove from heat. Take it out of the pot and put on a surface that won't be ruined if colour gets on it. Add colour and knead in. Store in airtight container.

Dip: Not Fit For Celery

Have you ever made a new recipe and then wished you had never found it in the first place? I'm not talking the colossal failures, I'm talking the ones you can't stop eating. I have found a few of those this past year, but the most recent is a little Pinterest gem:

Cookie Dough Dip.

Here's the recipe:

8 oz cream cheese, soft
1/2 c butter, soft
1 c. powdered sugar
2 TB brown sugar
1 1/2 tsp vanilla
1 c. chocolate chips (any kind you like, I prefer the Mini chocolate chips)
1/2 c. Heath toffee bits (get them already smashed up, right by the chocolate chips in the baking aisle)

Beat the cream cheese and butter together. Add everything else, and blend at low speed. Chill.

Serve with graham crackers or some other plain cookie. If you like the salty/sweet combo, you can also serve it with pretzels. And in the interest of decorum and good manners, I would remind you that it's not polite to just shove your whole face in there.

This is what theirs looked like:

Here's mine:

I Know Merry Christmas and I'm Not Afraid to Use It

Every time I hear "Happy holidays" or "holiday shopping" or "holiday sale" I cringe a little. In fact I'm out and out bugged. I find myself asking aloud, no matter the circumstance, "Which holiday is that?" And 99% of the time, the correct answer is Christmas.

In Canada, the word 'holiday' is used interchangeably with the word 'vacation' (and I believe in the UK, the word holiday is used over the word vacation, but any of my Brit friends can correct me there if I'm wrong). It also means any official day off of anything.

Just wish me a Merry Christmas. Heck, wish me a Happy Hanukkah, I'd cheerfully say that right back to whomever offered it. Do not wish me Happy Holidays. I'm not on holiday, I'm not going on holiday, but I am very busy getting ready for Christmas.

I am a Christian. I believe in Jesus Christ. I happily celebrate His birth this and every Christmas season. Some people don't. That's just fine. But not believing in Christmas' true meaning doesn't make it any less what it is, any more than not knowing or liking me makes my birthday not my birthday.

What is everyone so worried about? Who is getting so offended by hearing the word Christmas? No one is forcing anyone to take part in any of it if that's not what they choose. I have had people say all kinds of things to me that have nothing to do with who I am or what I believe, but if the intent is kind and well meaning, I will never take offense. I was once wished a Happy Mother's Day when I was not yet a mother, and in fact was having a difficult time trying to become one, but I smiled, and said the same thing back. It was somebody trying to be kind, I could never have grumbled at that sweet lady for what she said.

So if there is any confusion left, I give you a tutorial in pictures.

Holiday tree


Christmas tree


Holiday lights









Christmas lights

Hanukkah 'lights'











Holiday card





Christmas cards











If you were hoping for some warmer, gushier Christmasy post, try one of these: http://hoopdeedoop.blogspot.com/2009/12/i-believe.html
http://hoopdeedoop.blogspot.com/2010/08/wonderfully-wrong.html

I'm Not the Girl That I Intend to Be

My title is a line from a Sarah Bareilles song, and every time I hear it, I am tempted to shout an "AMEN!" I am falling short pretty much across the board these days (please refrain from making any height jokes). It's not just a matter of not getting to things on my to-do list, although that is one glaring category. It's big things like the dreams I had once, the person I thought I was, or that I thought I'd be by now.

But life doesn't go in a straight line.

Sometimes that's my fault. I have made decisions and choices that have been everything from dumb to questionable to freaking brilliant. But that's the thing with decisions. They lead places. And you don't get to pick all the destinations.

And other people get to make decisions too. Sometimes they are not good at it.

Bad things happen even when you have good intentions and make good decisions.

You can mean well but make things worse.

You don't know what's coming. Ever. So what you do today, though it's great for today, might make the you five years from now crazy, that you were such a blockhead and so shortsighted.

Some good choices make other good choices impossible.

Some goof-ups won't ever go away. Ever.

You can have a dream, and even some talent, and the answer may still be no. Or it could be yes. And the no could be good and the yes could be bad in the end. Or vice versa and all that.

I intend to be better, smarter, happier, more productive, nicer, funnier, more care-free, more helpful... but. You know. I'm not.

Come to think of it, the girl I intend to be sounds like somebody I probably wouldn't hang out with. I kind of dig imperfection. What's that saying? "Everything has a crack. That's how the light gets in."

And light is good.

I may not be who and where I thought I'd be by now, but there is an awful lot of light in my life.

Hair Experiment #1

This is what I tried:

This is my hair, damp, before:

Here's what it looked like after:




It doesn't look like the how-to, but it looks decent. When following instructions to a tee, I hoped for better than decent. But my hair is nuts, and it doesn't curl in the back, so I guess I'll call this one a partial success. On to the next... ;)

Nothing But Respect, Grandma, Nothing But Respect.

I did a little bit of grocery shopping this morning. I had 2 kids with me and a full cart (thanks to the car seat) and could barely see where I was going. We were approaching the check out lines, and since there were only two open, we headed toward the shorter of the two. A little white haired old lady was slowly, gingerly making her way with her cart, alongside us. I began my turn toward checkout #7, and suddenly, out of nowhere, Little Old Lady sped up, darted to the inside lane, passed us, and cruised right into checkout #7 where she then slowly, gingerly unloaded her few groceries onto the conveyer. I hid my face behind the car seat and burst out laughing, and then not loud enough for her to hear said "Well played, Grandma."

Had it been anyone else, any other demographic, I would have been bent out of shape and may have even let that person know what I thought about them butting in. Instead I waited with a huge smile on my face because honestly? I was impressed. Get back to me in about 45-50 years, I'm stealing her move.

Pin Worthy?

I am a little behind, as usual, but I have finally gotten on Pinterest.com. Overall, I am loving it, as it allows me to remember and keep all the awesome things I find online all in one place. No more million bookmarks, or spending hours trying to find that-one-thing-I-found-on-that-one-website.

Some of the things I have pinned on my boards are things that are tried and true that I love, other things are just cool finds that I hope to have/make/try at some point. To this end, I have decided I will hold regular Pinterest experiments here on my blog. I will take pictures and report on the outcome of whatever I'm trying out. This will include recipes, hairstyling techniques, household or cleaning tricks or shortcuts, or heaven help me even a craft or two, pretty much anything I find that looks awesome.

This is prompted by some hairstyling tutorials I have found online that I absolutely know will not turn out on me the way they are portrayed. Mostly due to my lack of skill, but also because I swear some people post how-to's or things online that they know an average joe can't do, just to mess with us.

So here's to hopefully some successes (Pin Worthy!) and lots of failures, because goodness knows the failures will make for a much more interesting and entertaining read.

In the meantime, here's my Pinterest page. If you aren't on there yet, but want to be, send me an email and I'll send you an invite. If I know you. And I know for a fact that you aren't nuts. There have to be minimum requirements.

I Don't Get It: High Heels

We all know it, so I'm just going to say it. I'm short. I don't like it, but there it is.

High heeled shoes should be my greatest love, but I hate them. What sadist came up with this torturous bit of brilliance, anyway? They are uncomfortable. They hurt my feet, mess up my posture, the taller ones have to be at least a little bit dangerous, and let's face it, they're one of fashion's more dishonest items (Spanx or padded bras I think win that category). "No really, I'm this tall, and my calves always have this impressive muscular looking indentation..."

For me, I feel a little self conscious in heels, like everyone must be looking at me the way they do a guy in a bad toupe or driving a souped up I'm-trying-to-compensate-for-something sports car- "Look at the short girl trying to look tall." with a half pity-filled, half sneering head tilt. I don't need that grief, even if I'm only imagining it.

I haven't ever really needed heels. I only ever had one boyfriend who was tall enough that I had to stand on a step to be anywhere near his face, otherwise, I've never had moments where I haven't worn heels but wished I had.

I'm far too practical I think, as I think about things like getting mugged, or Noah running into the road- I need the ability to run. I cannot run in high heels. I cannot balance babies and diaper bags when I wear heels. My impressionable teen years were spent playing soccer (cleats), riding horses (equestrian boots) and babysitting (socks). Not a stiletto in sight.

Why haven't women as a whole realized that the guys are running around pain free, using their entire foot to propel themselves around, while we stand there in heels? Or we gingerly follow behind, aerating the grass as we go. Don't you think visitors from another planet would take one look at us and assume we were all being punished for something?

I can appreciate a nice dress shoe, on occasion, with a little boost in the back for creating a bit of a feminine line, a slightly dance-y walk. But wear anything too tall, and you know if the balls of your feet could talk, they'd be screaming for mercy. Or swearing.

And winter?! Crossing an icy parking lot in high heels could easily qualify as an extreme sport. I swear I can actually hear the low voices of commentators critiquing my technique or lack thereof as I exit church some freezing Sundays. "She's going to have to stay focused and stick that curb landing after such a disappointing bumper grab by the minivan earlier..."

I may be in the minority on this one. But tall girls don't need to be taller, short girls aren't fooling anyone. I'd like to adopt an all flip flops or boots policy for myself, but in the meantime, just know that any time I'm wearing heels, you can totally steal my purse and I won't be able to do a dang thing about it.

Mum Speak 101

1. "Give me a break." means nothing. Nobody can and nobody will.
2. "I'm so tired." means I want to tidy non-stop, break up fights, and make a lovely dinner which most of you will complain about having to eat.
3. "Come here." means stay right where you are and pretend you didn't hear me.
4. "Put away your clean laundry." means take it into your room complaining mightily the whole way, and then toss it around the room so that none of the floor is visible.
5. "I need to get out." means, when it's convenient for everyone else, and not at all for me, I'd like to explore the grocery store thoroughly, all alone, at an ungodly hour and call that time for myself.
6. "No more candy." means quick, run to the pantry, grab what you can reach, cram it in your mouth wrappers and all, and I'll be happy to clean up the vomit in your bed in an hour or so.
7. "Be quiet, the baby is sleeping." means scream, yell, throw things, ride every possible wheeled toy across the wood floor, chase your siblings, and feel free to walk right in to baby's room for no reason at all.
8. "I don't want to watch this." means I want to watch one of the other shows that I can't stand, just not this one.
9. "Go clean your face." means sit right there and use that perfectly clean shirt you're wearing to wipe up dinner and your runny nose all in one convenient swipe.
10. "I love you." means I love you. And we'll do it again tomorrow.

I Only Have One Minute Left In My Brain

When I am grumpy or otherwise struggling with my day, there is something that usually helps. Kid History.

Some brothers had the brilliant idea to have their own children recount stories they had been told about their Dads' or Uncles' childhoods, then the Dads and Uncles (and a couple of friends) re-enact the stories just how the kids tell them. I can watch these videos in this series over and over again.

I bring it up now, because I have recently introduced my kids to them, and now I'm hearing some of my favourite lines and hilarious moments being repeated by them. Here's the first one. Watch all six. You will laugh. FACT! Faaaaa-c-t.

My Blog Could Beat Up Your Facebook Page

Facebook has messed up the blogging world. Before everybody got on Facebook, I could read so many friends' and strangers' blogs and get to know what was going on in their lives or minds or families in some detail. It was actual reading, of something that took some effort to write, at times with some humour, or heartfelt sentiment, or insight that a few scant sentences could never hold. I loved that. I still love that in the blogs of those who take the time to write or update.

But Facebook stole people away to a place where you could feel like you were interacting and reading and writing without any actual investment of time or energy. You can get on there, scroll through some posts, "Like" some statuses or comments, or if you're feeling bold, write an entire comment, and walk away feeling like you've done your bit to connect with people for the day. There, you can craft a sentence that is funny/informative/clever/sad and if enough people "Like" it, you think to yourself, "My work here is done." and then busy yourself with more important matters like choosing a new background for your blog that you no longer write on.

Isn't Facebook kind of gossipy and even a little Peeping Tom-ish at its worst? A lot of people know your tiny bits of business, and, mind you, these are mostly people who wouldn't strain themselves clicking that link over to your blog. Rumours have the potential to blow up into mammoth fire-breathing creatures before anybody thinks to question the veracity of what one of your many degrees of "Friend" has written.

About those friends... I have to wonder about that word being used to describe so many people that couldn't even say a simple congratulations when I had a baby, or haven't commented on or liked anything I have written on Facebook ever. The category should read "People I Know" or "People I Met and We Mutually Figured the Other Wasn't Insane, So...". Because you know what? My Friends? Most of them read my Blog. Yes, this archaic thing. And as many of them who have blogs and write on them? I read. Even if a friend announces something on Facebook, I will look forward much more to reading their blog post about that very announcement.

Those blogs of virtual strangers that I read? We aren't "friends" on Facebook. We could be. I mean I'm not opposed to it, because I read the blogs of people with whom I feel a kinship or connection, people who, if we lived in the same place, would likely become friends.

Facebook isn't terrible. I'm guilty of partaking in the drive-thru socialising extravaganza on there just as much as the next guy. I have met some great people through Facebook (but even with them, I'd rather read their blogs). I reluctantly admit Facebook does serve some good purposes.

But...

Blogging is best. It is more interesting. I believe it is closer to the essence of the person, and I love that. Facebook is the energy drink and blogging is the long cup of (herbal?) tea on a comfy couch.

Though, for those days I'm in a hurry, I wouldn't mind a "Like" button at the bottom of a really great post.

'Tis My Season

Fall weather. Grey skies. Apples all over our lawn and kitchen. Scents in the air touched with cinnamon. Crunchy leaves. Sweaters. All things I love. I realize I will shortly be griping about freezing my butt off and it taking 45 minutes to get everyone out the door, but for now, aaaaaah.

There is something about fall. It makes me all at once happy and nostalgic. It is sort of my New Year's. This is when I tend to reflect and renew and daydream. Some years fall has been a fabulously happy time, and others it has been heavy and hard. This year is some of both, but more happy than hard. When I was nose to nose with my smiling baby today (who incidentally was rocking a sweet grey sweater vest), well, that's bliss. Noah actually tossed and caught a football with the rest of the family after dinner. That's big. Like tears in my eyes big. Maybe that's making me a bit sentimentally foggy tonight.

Fall is when I see beauty all around. To all those I love, past and present, all those who inspire, uplift and enlighten me, those who make me laugh until it hurts, those who love me even at my most unlovable, those angels in my life who masquerade as mere mortals, to kind strangers, beautiful souls, Happy Autumn.

Of Bread and Beefcake

Sometimes you shouldn't go into a grocery store hungry. And you probably shouldn't get a sample of bread, let alone when that bread is called "White Chocolate and Pecan Artisan Bread.". I did not buy any. I may or may not have been coming up with excuses to go back to said grocery store in the middle of the night while up feeding baby. If you see me excitedly running through a parking lot with a paper bag tucked under my arm in a football hold, I am not on a klepto high. I'm just transporting some very good very bad bread home where I may or may not hide it behind some canned goods in the pantry.

On another note, if I see Mike "The Situation" lifting his shirt and showing his abs in one more picture I may die of a massive eye roll. Seriously, dude. We get it. You have abdominal muscles. Yay for you! Abdominal muscles that you spend time sculpting and developing more than you do your brain or personality. Impressive. Go eat some Artisan Bread and put your shirt down.

That is all.

All You Need to Know

The next time someone asks me how I'm doing, I will refer them to this photo.

This was taken a few days ago. That's my baby's socks. He had kicked them off while we sat at the dinner table one night last week. I didn't pick them up. I thought about it, but I was too tired. On the socks is some spaghetti. Spaghetti is my fall-back meal when I am sleep-walking through the dinner time hour. Note how dried out the spaghetti is. That is because it too fell on the floor at dinnertime last week. Again, I was too tired to pick it up. The kicker? The two events were not even on the same night. The socks fell one night, the spaghetti the next. And I left them both there, overnight, and I didn't even feel that bad about it. Until the next day. I cannot believe what I allow sometimes as far as cleanliness goes these days. It's disgusting, I know. It's all cleaned up now. But the picture is quite a good response to the query "How are you doing?". Dried spaghetti on baby socks on my kitchen floor for over 24 hours. That's how I'm doing.

Versatile Blogger. Yup.

I've been awarded. I'm award-winning.


I never win anything. And yet, thanks to a new friend-through-blogging, I feel as though I have. I will spare you all the ramblings of an impromptu acceptance speech, but now, as per the bloggy award rules:

*Thank the blogger who has awarded me and link back to them
*Share seven things about myself
*Pass the award along to 15 other newly discovered blogs

A BIG thank-you to the lovely Ms. Clay at http://12hourstobedtime.blogspot.com/



So seven things about me- it may be hard to do this without repeating things I have already posted. Hmmm.

1. I am Canadian. I have lived in the U.S. for 15 years, but I am still Canadian.
2. I have had 5 babies, at home, all with the same midwife. I consider these to be some of the greatest blessings of my life.
3. I lived in Belgium for a summer when I was 19. I spoke fluent French, ate the best bread, cheese, and chocolate of my life, and had a wild terrifying ride in the back of a police car when I took a day-trip to Paris. I did nothing wrong, but was guilty of being a cute 19 year old that these two policiers just had to help. I think one of their phone numbers is still floating around in a photo album somewhere...
4. I was a full-time actor up until I had kids, and at some point hope to get back at it.
5. I am a nearly 16-year vegetarian. During this time I have experimented with veganism, and raw foodism, but I'll always be a veggie-head.
6. I had never driven a stick shift or pumped my own gas by the time I got married. Both things changed fast.
7. I was a Highland dancer for a few years growing up. I was quite good, won several medals, but sprain-prone ankles finally did me in.

Here's my list of 15 blogs to whom I will pass this award. They are not all brand new, but they're some of what I regularly read:
http://imadhis.blogspot.com/
http://theproulxs.blogspot.com/
http://jorgensensblog.blogspot.com/
http://werewinginit.blogspot.com/
http://motherblogginguilt.blogspot.com/
http://benandjanet.blogspot.com/?zx=b7dd5b66b4dd0e92
http://peace-forme.blogspot.com/
http://bleylbanter.blogspot.com/
http://rachelparkerbishop.wordpress.com/
http://pieandbear.wordpress.com/
http://wouldbewritersguild.blogspot.com/
http://5boycheesesandwiches.blogspot.com/
http://chezshumway.blogspot.com/
http://meganknorpp.blogspot.com/
http://colquittclan.blogspot.com/
http://thesuperangie.blogspot.com/

I could add more, but some folks have private blogs, and I must spend time on other things today. Everybody should have a blog. And write on it often. Hint, hint.

Halloween. This Year, Meh...

A lobster. That is what my 3 and a half month old baby is going to be for Halloween. There is nothing cute about shellfish, but my baby dressed as a lobster? Come on.

I have friends who sew and make awesome costumes for their kids- I don't. There are not even costume ideas floating around this over-occupied mind right now.

I used to have great ideas. One year during high school I had one of the cooks in my school's dining hall save all the cereal boxes for a week or so, and I went as the cereal section of the grocery store. And in last year's Halloween blog post, I mentioned my very realistic arab costume. We're talking award winning costumes here.

Halloween can get expensive, even if you go the home-made route. Marley would love to be Strawberry Shortcake, but $30 for a costume and another $15 for the must-have accompanying pink wig, for a 2-year-old mind you, is not happening. Part of me doesn't get all this effort and expense just to get a bit of candy. If you're going to get all dressed up, put in all this preparation, shouldn't it be for Christmas, or at least a birthday, where people are giving you actual gifts, and everyone knows exactly who and what you're celebrating?

What are we celebrating again? Costumes? Candy? Scariness? That slimy crud inside pumpkins? I love little kids dressing up, and fall, and all that, but I'm not a fan of the really creepy ghoulish parts of Halloween. The bottom line for me I guess is just letting my kids have an excuse to dress up and run around outside past their bedtimes. But then if that's the case, why do I dress Noah up when he couldn't care less? I mean, at 8, he has only been eating solid food for 2 years, and even then, only a select few foods. He doesn't eat candy. He looks at us with some disdain and minimal tolerance as we're sticking him in some get-up that he has absolutely no use for. And the baby, why do I feel the need to dress him up? Certainly it's not for him. It seems Halloween is as much about the parents' entertainment as the kids'. There's too much pressure to have some brilliant, original or cute costume- this year at least, it feels like pressure.

Why can't I just dress my kids up on a Thursday, pump them full of candy, chuck them into piles of leaves, roast marshmallows over our fire pit, and call it good? On to Christmas, I say. Which this year may feature a very cute Christmas lobster.

Why I Like Rain

I like water.

I never have to squint when it's raining.

I like food. Food comes from plants. Plants need water.

It makes different sounds on my roof, windows, the driveway and trees. All of the sounds make me happy.

It cleans the earth a little.

I love when the sky is filled with big, dark, grey clouds.

There might be thunder and lightning, and I get to make up answers about where they come from when my kids ask. They believe whatever I say.

There might be a rainbow. Marley screams like a little girl when there's a rainbow. Because, she's a little girl. And rainbows are awesome.

It gets cooler outside when it rains, and I like it cooler.

My hair actually gets better when it's rained on.

Puddles are extraordinarily fun. Especially driving though them at high speeds or jumping in them with my kids. Or without my kids. I'm just saying.

Rain is the closest thing to a car wash that I ever get.

I have on occasion cried in the rain, and then no one can tell. They just think I look like crap because of the rain.

The Everly Brothers (who I love) have a most excellent song about Crying in the Rain (that I love). Rain and the Everly Brothers are a nearly unbeatable combination.

One of this planet's all time best smells is the air right during and after the rain falls. I swear that smell extends life or creates brain cells or something. It's magical stuff.

It makes me feel some of my British and Scottish heritage right on my skin.

God made rain. How can you argue with that?

Hooligans

I'm not a Mother. I may be an unwitting gang leader. I am in charge of a pack of wild beasts. They are hooligans, all.

They wake up. They destroy the kitchen, pilfering every last bit of cereal or breakfast-like food they can find.

They will smile to your face and say something cute or funny whilst they spread sand, clothing, jam and toothpaste on the furniture and carpet.

They steal. Food, make-up, debit cards... nothing is safe.

They're sneaky and underhanded, pretending to play Roblox on the computer, when I'm fairly certain they're actually hacking into my bank information hoping to purchase Duncan's online shopping cart filled with $2800 worth of Thomas toys and then resell them on ebay for a profit.

They spend an awful lot of time digging holes in the back yard and then covering their tracks with a good dousing from the hose. Who knows what I'd find back there if I started digging?

I've seen outgoing phone calls on my cell to numbers and area codes I don't recognize.

They have their own language and it's so sophisticated that it sounds like they're all speaking different dialects. But I've seen the knowing glances.

Two of the diapered kids have been caught hiding various items in their diapers. I haven't figured what their intent was with those, but I'm sure it wasn't good.

They regularly use sleep deprivation as a means of manipulation and infliction of harm.

They leave, they come back and they throw clothing and bags and books all over the front room. Just a careless mess, or the beginnings of a barricade in preparation for a rumble with the next poor sot to come to the door?

If you don't hear from me for a while, please send help. The hooligans are running wild.

Locks

I have inner turmoil. Confusion. Uncertainty.

Bad hair.

My hair is too long. It's wild, unruly, unkempt and pretty much a hot mess. Really it's not even a hot mess since that would imply the use of a hairdryer or some styling tools. Not happening. I'm lucky if I get it washed these days, and air drying has been the name of the game all summer long. But when my kids went to school this morning, it was only 55 degrees and I was whomped in the face with the fact that fall is coming, and soon air drying soon won't be an option.

For some reason, after I have a baby, I always want to cut my hair. I think somehow less hair means simpler hair, and I cut it and then remember that you really have to do shorter hair for it to look decent.

I no longer want to appear as though I'm channelling Medusa, or doing a trial run on my scary Halloween hairdo. And at only 5'1", it doesn't take much to be totally overtaken by my hair. So just cut some, right? Well there's part of the dilemma- I could, but for one, I'm nearly to the point where I could cut it and donate it if I went short-ish. And, with shorter hair my comes my unfathomable fear of one dreaded thing: Mom Hair.

Yes, much to my chagrin I drive a minivan, but I don't want people to know that about me by looking at my hair. I am a Mom, but high waisted tapered jeans are not mandatory, and neither is the "I stay home with small children all day, so I've given up" haircut. I don't even know what that haircut is. There are many variations, but you know one when you see one. And if I get one, I won't ever really know it. No one will tell me. They'll think it, but never tell me.

I'm not good at doing my hair, so I'm limited by that. Round brushing? Forget it. You'll be cutting brushes out of my tangled mass by the time I'm done. Plus I have the post baby new growth coming in, so for about a year or more, I will look like I've sprouted several antennae any time I try to add any sort of volume to my hair. Styling my own hair is just not an area where I have any know-how or confidence whatsoever.

I'd like to look fabulous.

My guess is I will look something like me. Minus some split ends.

Where Deep Thoughts Meet the Sleepless

It may appear I'm moving backwards, upside down or nowhere at all, but I know I'm always growing. Well not literally growing, but you know what I mean. I'm still short. I just meant that I... aw, crap. Never mind.

Baby

My baby I'm tired, and just want to sleep
I know you'll be up before long
You'll awaken and need me all through the night
I'll force my eyes open and hum you a song
The night will seem endless, the sunrise too soon

Your sweet little smiles
Your warm little sighs
Your soft fuzzy head
Your hand finding mine
Your perfect round cheeks
Your angelic gaze
You're beautiful, beautiful


So though I am tired, I'm secretly glad
For I know you'll be bigger by morning

I Get It: Angry Birds

A deviation from my usual "I Don't Get It"-themed posts, finally something I get. I heard about people playing Angry Birds for quite a while before I actually saw the game myself. To me it seemed like one more of those trends that would catch on, it would seem like everyone was talking about it and participating in it but me. Kind of like scrapbooking or the whole Twilight thing, which I just never got into.

Right around the time I was due to have a baby, my phone started flipping out. Battery drains, dropped calls, turning off by itself, etc. This would not do. Phones need to work when you're going to have a baby any minute. So, new phone. With Angry Birds on it.

Jeremy started playing first, and was hooked like a crack addict within the first day. He's not one to engage in much fluff entertainment, so this was weird to me. The kids played. They cheered, yelled at the phone, growled and screamed "YES!!" and I wondered what all the fuss was about.

Soon after baby arrived, I found myself sitting holding him, exhausted, trying to get him to sleep. I also found I could hold my phone and have a look at Angry Birds with my free hand. And, turns out I could fling some unsuspecting birds with that free hand. Soon things were cracking, crashing to the ground, blowing up, and pigs were disintegrating into thin air. This is AWESOME, I thought! I didn't know how badly I had been wanting to blow something up until I was doing it.

I shouldn't have been so surprised since I do have a side to me that likes a bit of chaos and mayhem, mostly the kind I can walk away from, and that somebody else cleans up. I've long thought that as an actor, I'd be the only one whose career consisted exclusively of period films (Jane Austen or some castles, anyone?) and action films (guns, running, chase scenes, and yes, blowing stuff up) if I had my way.

So maybe flinging birds at structures and pigs isn't quite the same, but there is a certain satisfaction to obliterating everything that was on a screen, level after level. I'm not hooked. I sometimes see birds when my eyes are closed, trying to go to sleep, but I'm not hooked. This game is not enriching my life or making me a better person, but if I'm going to yell at something, better some green pig in a helmet than my kids, right?

Angry Birds. I get it.

Why the Sleep Deprived Should Not be Making the Decisions

To say we had some trouble naming this last baby would be a wee bit of an understatement. I wish we had our happily ever after where that's concerned, but I'm not so sure. That's the root of the problem really, I'm not so sure.

Once we had narrowed down to Theo and Graham, I figured we'd just sort of know after we sat on it for a few days. Didn't happen. Jeremy, who I'm sure thought he was being accommodating and helpful, was great with either name. The kids were split. Duncan and Marley liked Theo, and Gabriel preferred Graham. So it came down to me.

My first choice was and still is Graham. I have loved this name for a long time. I grew up hearing it since it was the name of one of my dad's friends and past business associates. He and his family let our family use their vacation cottage in Nova Scotia a few times growing up which made for some great vacations and memories. This Graham also worked with the British government alongside Margaret Thatcher, and ended up being knighted. So then it was always Sir Graham after that, which upped the awesome factor in my mind.

I planned on at least some of the time, nicknaming the baby Grey for short, also positively associated with something in my childhood. My hands-down-no-contest best years of school were grades 6-8, when I attended a tiny private school called Grey Gables. Just hearing or saying the name still makes me smile.

The problem came 10 days in once we actually turned in his papers with "Graham Jack" on them. I was initially happy with it, but 2 and a half days later, I couldn't take it anymore. With just the few people we told, it was already being pronounced wrong. Well, wrong to me. In Canada (and some other countries and states), it's pronounced "Grey-em" or "Grey-um", with two distinct syllables. Here in Utah, most people say "Gram". That's what I have called my Gramma for years. You can't call my baby boy Gram.

He's already going to run into correcting pronunciation all the time with our last name, and I didn't want him to have to do it with his first name too. So back we went. Mulling it over. In a last minute decision, just hours before his baby blessing, we decided to go with Theo, which we really do like, and keep Graham as the second name so we had the option to use it if we changed our minds again. Theo is a good boy or man name, and has a wonderful meaning as the short form of Theodore which means "gift of God". So fitting for this boy.

But then everybody was calling him Theo, and I wondered why we even kept Graham in there since nobody's using it. It's just going to mean one more name he has to write on forms for his whole life. I still call him Theo Grey much of the time, and honestly, I still think of him as Graham in my mind. I'm second guessing myself all over the place, and I have no idea if there's a way to settle it and then just leave well enough alone.

All the other kids' names just came and then just fit. I didn't expect to struggle, ever, with naming my child. He's six weeks old today. I'm still sleep deprived, and still wondering if I've made the right choice. Maybe Marley's got something- she was calling him Snuggers the other day (well, Thnuggerth, the way she says it). I'm sure he wouldn't hate us at all for using that one.

For All of us Parent Types

Yes, this is a post that's a link to someone else's post. But it's so good. And I just had a baby and am getting no sleep, so give me a break. Geesh.

Motherhood Is a Calling (And Where Your Children Rank)

Introducing...

Graham Jack.
Born June 15, 2011. 8 lbs, 9 oz, 21 inches of pure baby yumminess.
Pictures on his first day and his 12th day (bath and blessing). He's just a sweetie, calm, peaceful and a great daytime sleeper. :) His name has gone through many changes and evolutions and may continue to confuse and annoy those we love. But at least we decided what will go on the birth certificate. I am so in love with this little boy. I don't know why it still surprises me how instant and overwhelming that love is, but we and I would not be complete without him. I'll post more about his birth, etc some other time. For now, try not to smooch those little cheeks on your screen.

That's Not a Beer Belly...

I realize, living in Utah, that pregnant women are a dime a dozen. They're everywhere. It seems the general population here has grown so accustomed to seeing, passing and associating with expectant ladies, that maybe they don't even really see the stomach anymore. At least that's all I can assume.

I'm 9 months pregnant. It's hard to miss. And yet I've had doors not held, people cutting me off or making me go around them in stores, people passing right by as I struggled with a huge box at the post office... it's baffling to me. Even pregnant, I'll hold a door open for someone who is more pregnant than I am. All of us pregnant ladies just sort of blend together, I guess. But each one deserves a little notice, some attention, some help. You don't know which of us wants to scream out in pain with each step. You don't know which one just came from the hospital where she had to have IV iron, or drugs to stop her from continuously throwing up. You don't know who just found out one of the twins she's carrying might not make it. I know there's not always something so dramatic going on, but pregnancy is a big deal. It's not an illness, but it's amazing and miraculous and hard and there's a brand new, never-before-seen person happening in there.

Part of what I don't understand is that Utah is a place where families are of the utmost importance. Those of us who are LDS believe that families are eternal. So why does it seem that pregnancy and birth are sort of a non-event here? Sometimes after I've had a baby, I've wanted to yell and scream and shake people, "I just changed my family for ETERNITY!! Who we are is now different FOREVER, do you hear me???" It's a big deal.

I think there should be baby showers for every baby, even if the family doesn't 'need' anything. For heaven's sake, just throw a party. There's a new person coming to the planet. There's a woman who is sacrificing herself in some way, every day from the first day of pregnancy on. Doesn't that deserve a little celebration? My mom says every new baby should have something new. Yes, my boys wore hand-me-downs, as will this boy, but how much do I love the thought of wrapping him in a brand new blanket that one of my best friends just gave me?

Babies should be acknowledged and welcomed. Moms should be honoured and supported (no matter how their babies come into their families). Take notice. You're probably passing right by miracles every day. If you're in Utah you're probably passing miracles every few minutes. If that doesn't mean anything to you, just at least hold the *#!@# door open.

Sigh. Hormones.

The Musings, Mayhem and Mental Breaks

A while ago on Facebook, I posted something to the effect of "Do you ever wonder if maybe you've already gone crazy and nobody told you?". I'm contemplating that notion once more. If I had gone nuts, would I know? I can find fairly strong evidence that that may be the case, all around me, I don't have to look too hard. Luckily most of the time, I'm so busy I don't have a lot of time to really think hard about anything. When I do stop and take stock of where I am, what I'm doing, the mountain of insurmountables in front of me, I wonder why my parents ever let me out into the world on my own.

I've got this ever growing tummy right under my nose, and yet I can't wrap my head around a baby actually showing up next month. There's baby gear all around, I'm feeling a near-psychotic need to clean everything in sight, it all points toward a tiny person arriving shortly. Apparently I am the one who will be giving birth. Huh...

I keep waiting for my van to clean itself. Every time I get into it, I am appalled and annoyed that it's as filthy as it is, as though I've been promised it will be different the next time I open the door. My fairy god-mother is a slacker.

Would you believe I was envisioning pulling some lady's hair and growling something rude at her in Sunday school this past Sunday? I didn't. She would have deserved it, but I didn't. There was a guy at church a few weeks ago I could have happily let have it too, but lucky for him, we never wound up in the same room. I realize my attitude is probably due for some tweaking. I think I can handle quite a bit of nonsense from people, but heaven help you if you treat my kids poorly, or if you just happen to be the straw that breaks this camel's back.

Bathing suit shopping. Maternity bathing suit shopping. Maternity bathing suit shopping when you only need the stinking thing for one week. Maternity bathing suit shopping for something you'll use for a week when money has about 80,000 other places it needs to go. Yeah.

On the upside, cuckoo goes both ways. I'm confessing here that I do actually believe that I have parking space angels. I get the best parking spaces probably 99% of the time. I'm almost never more than three spaces from the storefront. The seas of cars part before me. It's maybe not the most highly-coveted kind of angel to have, but I've got them. They do come in handy.

My kids are probably a massive piece of the pre-school type puzzle that explains my less-than-stable state of mind. But they're awesome. Between Marley's hugs and saying "I mish you!" anytime we've been apart for more than a few minutes, and Duncan busting a move for anyone who'll watch, and Gabriel explaining some complex story with his photographic recall, and Noah making up songs that include all of us (and oftentimes Jesus) in some unexpected or hilarious way... they are the joyful glue daily putting this particular mind back together.

Best wishes from the institution,
Wendy

Better Than I Could Say It

My lack of blogging this month is not due to a lack of something to say. I'm trying to show some restraint because there have been so many annoying, exhausting, overwhelming and tiresome things to complain about. Nobody wants to hear that. Any time I complain about something on here, I can almost hear the exasperation of some readers who undoubtedly think I'm being petty or ungrateful. The fact is, most of the time, for each complaint, there are a few things going on that are far more difficult, and a few things happening that are great blessings or events. I suspect that's the case with most people most of the time. So if an occasional vent helps, I'm all for it, whether I'm the venter or ventee. I've just decided that my blog is not the forum for it this month. I don't know why.

In the meantime, I'm thinking back to a link a dear friend of mine posted a while ago to some stranger's blog who's post echoed so much of what was in my head when I read it. Beautiful. Read it here.

I'll write something not altogether complain-y soon.

My Answer

Lest there be any confusion or question on anyone else's part, let me clear something up.
No.
That is my answer to the question "Did having Noah have autism make you not want to have any more kids?".

As though my whole intent and purpose in life was to give birth only to typical, normally developing kids that the world would embrace and adore. As though I see Noah as some sort of punishment or unfair burden hoisted upon me. As though I'm arrogant enough to tell God how it's going to be.

No. Having Noah definitely made me ask questions I might not have otherwise asked, made me consider more seriously what we as a family could manage, made me amazed at the trust and faith God has in me as a mom...

But how many kids this family welcomes, who is meant to be here, those are not arbitrary decisions or numbers, based on my fear or ideal or stress or desire or feelings of total uselessness (at times). That's for God to know, and us to find out.

I'm not offended by the question. Well in the spirit of full disclosure, I was for a while. But me being offended doesn't help anyone. Everyone, including Noah, needs to know that he is a gift. At times a very challenging, scary, overwhelming gift, but he has purpose. My kids are learning things from growing up with him that some people take a lifetime to learn. They need him. He needs them. To think that I could have taken that away from all of them by giving in to my initial sadness and fear over Noah's "special" path...

No. No. A million times, no.

Some Sundays

Sundays are a mixed bag for me. I love being able to change up the pace a bit, and not spend half my day in the car. We usually get some pretty good family time in, and of course, I love the idea of going to church and learning and being uplifted. Currently, and for some time now, that is only an idea. We begin church at 9am this year, and it is not agreeing with us. Church is generally one big noisy, frustrating wrestling match that is mostly a blur to me when I look back on it. Since I can't say Sunday is all about being spiritually fed these days, I have to just catch the moments that happen because it's Sunday and different from the other days in the week.

This last Sunday, those moments included:

Noah repeatedly putting his hands out and shaking his head, saying, "And he's like, where's Jesus?" all through Sacrament meeting.

While the bread and water were being passed, Noah tried with all his might to feed both to Steve (in his Blue's Clues book). We figure that's better than when he used to pray in the name of Steve.

After living here 11 and a half months, being asked to introduce myself to the class in Sunday School. Seriously? I included this one because I might find it funny at some point.

Marley constantly checking on the old lady behind us who was "thleeping". She actually seemed relieved when the lady finally stayed awake for a while.

Being told by the lady that does music in Primary that my Duncan is "just enchanting" and "so fun".

Playing a game with the kids that ended with everyone laughing and no one crying.

During a nice long dinner time talk about lots of things including what to name the new baby, Duncan completely flipping out on the family when names were being suggested other than the one he likes. Screaming, "Will you guys stop it with this first name and middle name and last name???? Will you just stop it already?????". I think he figures he didn't get the gender he ordered, so he's getting his name choice, period.

Noah told everyone he loved them, by name, at bedtime. Okay, so I can't say for sure that this one happened because it was Sunday, but I do think Noah picks up on a good day, good family time and love in the air, and that seems a lot more likely for us on a Sunday.

These are the things that keep me sane on Sundays. There are many that are just ridiculously hard from start to finish, and I wonder if there's any point to it all. I think for now the point might be noticing and having gratitude for the moments. You know, in between the screaming, floods, fights, complaining... aaaah, Sunday.

Stretched

Physically, yes, there is stretching happening. I feel like I look about 11 months pregnant right now, and I've still got a long way to go.

I don't have tiny babies. With Marley, I only gained 19 lbs, and she was 9lbs 3oz of that. I am not a large person, so babies have no choice but to grow outward, there is no stretching out lengthwise for my kids. Plus, you know, after a certain point (ie baby number 4 or 5), your muscles hang on for a while there, and then they're just like, Meh, forget it. That would explain why within about a week I went from being able to suck it in, to well, not.

With pregnancy I get a gimp hip that sometimes hurts so much it stops me in my tracks, leaving me unable to stand without support, and carpal tunnel that makes it really hard to do anything that requires a bit of a grip, like cutting with scissors, doing my hair or make-up, using a knife in food preparation, writing, etc. It's a trade-off that I'm happy to make considering I get an entire baby at the end of this thing, it just makes things a bit more challenging than usual right now. Which leads me to the other reasons I'm stretching and feeling some growing pains.

We've lived in this house for 11 months now, and still don't feel at home here. We love the house, we just don't have friends nearby which we have always had our whole married life. The kids have always had friends right outside the front door too. Not here. Noah is getting bigger and that's creating new challenges all the time. Jeremy's schedule is anything but regular, though he's working on several things at any given time. We are far away from family. That part is tough for me.

Our life is just not normal or in any way predictable and I'm realizing that's the way it's going to stay. So while part of me wonders how on earth we're going to manage with one more child, the other part of me is thinking, heck, let's adopt a couple more. We're already a zoo, we already have limitations on what we can do and where we can go, we already have to divide and conquer at church and everywhere else, we already have a necessary lack of spontaneity as a family, so what else are we doing? This. This is what we're doing. We hit crazy a long time ago, and you don't get more crazy. You're crazy. We're there.

I used to ask my mom with each pregnancy, "How do you go from one to two? (Or two to three?) We can barely manage where we are!". And she would wisely tell me that your abilities stretch and grow as your family does. It just happens. I haven't asked those questions in these last two pregnancies, because I've seen what she said work in my own life.

The other thing that's changing in me is the tendency to regret what we're missing due to our unusual life. There's no need for it. All I want is a happy family, to know that I'm following the path God would have me follow and doing the things He'd have me do, to be a good person, and beyond that? Just details and bonuses. And then, guess what? I'm not missing anything. I'm living precisely the life that I "should" have. Is it perfect? Far from it. There's still noise and impatience and tears and trial... but again it's that trade-off thing. I'll take the mess and chaos if it means having and associating with my amazing children. I will grow into being a mother of five. I'll be stretched beyond paper thin at times, but I'll have this family. Where much is given much is required. But much, much more is given.

For the Love of Pete (And Other Baby Boys)

To the designers of baby boy clothes,

I do not want my baby boy wearing dump trucks, tractors, tow trucks, cement trucks, footballs, baseballs, dinosaurs, airplanes, rocket ships, bears dressed in fishing gear, bears dressed in jammies, cars, trains, jungle animals, anything indicating his future brattiness or troublemaking, anything stating how good looking either of his parents might be, dogs or motorcycles. And don't even get me started on tv/movie characters. Make a note of it. And stop it.

Sincerely,
A mom of (nearly) 4 boys who can't take it anymore. Seriously.

Sole Sister

The rumours (like you've heard any) are true. There's another person crazy enough to be joining our family this coming June.
Unexpected? Pretty much.
Insane? Yes, yes it is.
Kind of awesome anyway? Absolutely.

With six prior pregnancies (4 with happy outcomes, 2 not so much), I am not one to be blase about the whole process. It's astonishing that anybody ever gets here with all that can go wrong. It blows me away every time, every ultrasound, birth, squinty wrinkly brand new face- there is nothing that I find more amazing, fascinating or wonderful.

I worry about those things that can go wrong. A lot. I try not to worry. It never works.

That's the reason I wait as long as humanly possible before letting anyone know what's going on. In some weird way, it lessens my stress, just not having to talk about it, answer questions, etc, when the whole time I'd just be thinking, "Yeah, we'll see...".

So here we are, 21 weeks in. I had an ultrasound today. On Valentine's Day, which historically has not been a good day for that. But today was happy. Baby looks great, healthy, active, and as 2-D as the picture was, awfully cute.

And we're going back to blue. That surprised everyone. Duncan is not thrilled about this latest development. He had staunchly maintained that he was having another sister, and today's news just would not do. He kept saying, "But why is it a boy?", and then would explain with great confidence that there will be another baby, and it will be a girl. I kept my thoughts about that to myself.

My one momentary pang of sadness comes from the fact that Marley won't have a sister. I know girls everywhere survive this every day, but it's hard for me to imagine. I have a sister. I love having a sister (it helps that mine is exceptionally awesome), and I so wanted that for my little girl. But she's meant to be dainty and dirty, pushing dolly strollers while making loud motor revving sounds, mingling Strawberry Shortcake dolls with trains. She'll probably be the coolest girl ever.

My to-do list is a little longer than it was this morning. This boy can't wear the flowery newborn gowns I have stored in a bin in the attic, and I gave away all my baby boy gear once Marley was here because we thought that was it, and someone else needed that stuff more than we did. The online searching and shopping begins. And I'd love it if he had a name. We've used so many boy names we really like already, I don't want to name him something lame because it was all we could come up with. (Ideas are welcome)

So Marley's the sole sister, and one more brother will surprise us with just how unique and amazing he is, even though he's the fourth one. And I get to sit and sniff one more heavenly baby head. Mmmm.

Moved to Tears at Church

Yesterday I was at church. We were on time. That was a good start.

A prayer was started, we all sat quietly, listening.

A few words in, Noah leaned over against me. Aaw, I thought, he's snuggling his mom! A rare thing indeed.

That thought was gone in less than one second when he let rip the loudest toot I think I have ever heard, then quickly shifted and returned his left cheek to the chair.

At least somebody got their hallelujah moment.

Get This.

If you know us, you know we're a strange family. Most of what we do is at least slightly off the beaten path. I have to plug, just briefly, one of our newly adopted loves.

We love real foods, natural products, you know, basic stuff. So when some dear friends of mine started a company selling the most natural of natural, green of green laundry product, I was excited to try it out. I'm especially interested in this kind of thing with my guy Noah in the family, as he is extremely sensitive to fumes, chemicals, and synthetic or harsh anything. We're talking seizures here, breath stopping, debilitating seizures, that at times have been caused by some of the junk listed above. And I figure, if it's better for him to get that stuff out of the house, it's better for all of us.

Soapberrysolutions.com is where you need to go to get the full scoop on what they're about, but I'm telling you, this stuff works, my clothes are clean. It stores for ages, is gentle on clothes and skin, is environmentally super friendly, and unlike certain other detergents, this doesn't knock you over the head with -ugh- a bunch of stinky fragrance that frankly, makes me a little woozy.

I am a repeat buyer on very few products, but I'm going for my third round on this stuff. And who doesn't want to support a small family business that is doing something good? So really, if you're a human being that likes clean clothes and other people, just give them a try. Seriously, go.

Green.

I am slightly green. With envy.

My husband gets to go to Spain. I am in love with Europe. He got some random job and gets to go for a week next month. He will miss Valentine's Day, and his birthday. More importantly, he will have access to bread, cheese, and chocolate that trumps anything I have ever eaten on this continent. He's also in for an architectural feast like nothing he's ever experienced.

Sigh.

I'm happy for him.

Really.

'Round the Bend: Part 2

We were supposed to leave my parents' house on the Thursday after Christmas. (I will say, Christmas was really good. The kids were a riot to watch, and sick or not, they had a ball with the grandparents and their uncle)

After a quick weather check, and much debate, we decided to wait an extra day because the weather forecasts were looking ominous along our whole route home. So off we went early Friday morning, half full of high hopes for a better trip, and half full of dread, knowing even the smoothest trip would still mean 18-19 hours in the car.

Duncan started asking how much longer until we'd be home, after 2 1/2 hours.

The first nine hours passed by fairly uneventfully, just some fatigue/sadness/grumpiness on everyone's parts. We were half way home, and starting to feel somewhat relieved. We were suddenly informed by a lit sign that the freeway was closed, and we were directed off at the next exit. This had happened on the trip up too, but after a slight detour, we had gotten back on the freeway and carried on. So we weren't worried, we simply looked for the nearest path back to the freeway where we could resume our trip.

Enter know-it-all transportation worker. He hopped out of his pick-up and flagged us down. We roll down a window. "You trying to get yourselves poisoned?" Um, no...? He went on, very condescendingly mind you, like somehow we were already supposed to know, explaining that there had been a huge train wreck just a bit south of where we were, with a chemical spill, and it would take at least 2 to 3 days to clean up, so our best bet was to head home. The Utah plates apparently didn't give him any clues as to where that might be. He told us that finding a hotel would be near impossible anywhere near there. And then for some reason, though we had said next to nothing to him and definitely had not been in any way rude, he goes off on this snide, "But you can do whatever you want. You're probably way smarter than average. Keep going, see what happens." tangent. We were too tired and baffled to come back with anything. I could not speak, for about 15 minutes. I was so tired, still not totally well, I was angry and in denial.


There was no other way to go south. We were nearly at the OR/ID border. We did not have 2 to 3 days to mill around Oregon, waiting for a freeway that may or may not open sometime soon. So we turned around, and started heading north again. North. We drove all the way to Spokane where we found a hotel to stay in overnight. For our 13 hours of driving on Friday, we had a net gain of 4 hours.

After a not-great night's sleep, we were off once again. But only after discovering that two pairs of pants that had been pottied through the day before were left in the van overnight. Both parents evidently thought the other had grabbed them and/or bagged them up. So I neatly packaged up the frozen-solid-potty-pants-sculptures, and we carried on.

Spokane is pretty. Coeur D'Alene was gorgeous. And then on to Montana.

Montana was cold. Our antifreeze froze. There were all these little tiny pockets of towns throughout the mountains, and we were trying to figure out how anyone could live in most of them. Apparently in this particular section of the state, there is no limit to the number of sheds one can have in a yard. Everywhere I looked, sheds. Different sizes, shapes, colours, scattered across yards with no clear plan or purpose. We also passed a yard with a huge collection of dollies in one part, and a huge army of traffic cones in the other. Someone else had abandoned 2 newish looking fire trucks on a median, where they sat, under about 2 feet of snow. I do not understand Montana.

We hit some snowy conditions (that were not forecasted) which slowed us down some more. The kids were punch drunk by Pocatello. I fed them French fries for dinner. Again, no one slept. Saturday ended as we pulled into our driveway at midnight, after another 14 hours on the road. Kids down, car unloaded, bed at 2 am. I woke up coming down with something else. I'm still unpacking. I will not drive anywhere more than 3 hours from my house, ever, so don't ask.

Public bathrooms.
27 hours.
In-car diaper changes.
Spills.
Screams.

You want to see us? We'll be at home.

Driving 'Round the Bend: Part 1

We left home 2 days after I started on antibiotics for walking pneumonia. Dumb. I shouldn't have been going anywhere but my own bed.

The 18 hour drive took almost 25 hours. I was ready to turn around and come home when we hit Boise (6 hours in), where we stopped for some supplies. I was getting Marley out of the car so she could come inside with me and stretch her legs, and she promptly barfed all over both of us. In my very ill fog, I had not thought to put extra outfits for the kids or myself in the car, and all the clothes were in suitcases strapped down to the top of the van with cords, rope and tarps. There was no undoing and then re-doing all that in a very cold parking lot. We cleaned up as best we could, but little did I know we had 19 more hours to enjoy the faint smell of vomit floating about the car. (Where ever you think of it from here on out, insert a screaming child, some cup throwing, a few "He's touching meeeee!" 's, some over-tired crying, and many potty stops)

Me, still sick.

We hit some nasty weather, though not in the Snoqualme Pass, which was the stretch we had been most worried about. No, these patches came in other mountain passes, in the dark, boxed in by transport trucks on every side. We got stuck behind 2 separate accidents. The first, we sat for and hour and a half without moving an inch. The second accident had us sitting there for an hour and 45 minutes before we started creeping forward. And two of us had needed a bathroom stop well before that.

Me, so sick.

We finally got out of the second jam, though still drove carefully since it was alternating between snow and rain, and then some psychotic transport truck driver (FedEx needs those How's My Driving? numbers on the backs of their trucks) decided it would be fun, for no reason at all, to speed up, start wildly honking his horn, and then pass us, seriously maybe 2 inches from taking our side mirror off. We were not in his way (no one else was around), we were squarely in our lane the whole time, and the roads were anything but dry. It's good I wasn't driving because you mess with my kids, and it's over for you. I would have done something stupid.

Sick.

We made it to the border eventually. Mind you, none of the kids have slept more than cat-naps at this point, about 23 and 1/2 hours in, but Noah was trying. The border agent had us take the blanket off of Noah's head so he could see that he matched his passport photo, and Noah flipped out. With a raised eyebrow and a bit of a scowl, the agent asked several questions, including whether Jeremy had ever been arrested, and why we were coming through the border at 4 am with a van full of kids. Yeah, that was our plan, border man, to get to the border at some insane hour after driving ALL DAY so that we could enjoy Christmas with our sick cranky kids. Yup. That was the plan.

Bleh. Duncan, Gabriel, Noah and Marley, coughing.

My parents' church starts at 9 am. We did not attend. This frustrated me because the Sunday before Christmas is one of my most favourite times to be at church. By Monday, the entire family was on antibiotics. I needed a good cry and 12 hours of sleep. I got neither.

That's that, I thought. The trip back will be better.