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.

Sick of Being Sick

This year has been great for me, health-wise. I've started to get sick a few times, but have warded it off each time with some combination of Zicam, Airborne, garlic, green drinks and sleep. December hit, and I'm thinking I'm pretty much in the clear for the year. Not so.

We are supposed to be nearly half-way to my parents' home by now, about 7 hours into the 18 or so hour drive. The whole family has been bouncing-off-the-walls excited to go see Grandma and Grandpa for Christmas. Monday night I felt a little run-down. Not surprising given the way the last 6 weeks have gone around here. Tuesday I knew I was fighting off some sort of bug. I was smug. I was confident. I don't get sick.

Tuesday night I could not sleep or breathe. Wednesday I pretty much thought this was the end. I'm a fairly tough girl I think, it takes a lot to knock me out. Yesterday I sounded like a man, and couldn't cross the room without flying into some wild horrific coughing fit that left me gasping for air. I went to the Doctor. He listened to me breathe. He heard me cough. He said "Wow. You are SICK.". Before I knew it I had nebulizer attached to me, and various prescriptions were being written out. Suddenly I was watching our travel plans get sucked into a black hole.

So far Gabriel and Marley seem to be alright. Noah and Duncan are coughing. I am bummed. Anything we do now will mess up something else. If we go tomorrow, there's no way we'll make church on Sunday. If we wait longer than that, we're getting into territory where the length of the stay might not be long enough to justify what is sure to be a very long and trying drive. The house is a mess. I hate leaving a messy house. Now I've got to food shop since I had perfectly metered out what we'd use before we left, and now we haven't left.

The oddest thing came to mind today. When I was a kid, I used to get sick a lot. I got it first, I got it the worst. The joke in our family was that we'd get to see the hospital anywhere we travelled thanks to me. My Grandma at one point gave me this great little book called The Sick of Being Sick Book. It had all kinds of ideas of things to do when you were sick and stuck at home and/or in bed. Some were serious, like making sure you were resting and drinking enough. Then there were some like: Collect all your dirty kleenexes. Wad them up. Paint them orange. Put them in a clear bowl. Pretend you have fish.

I read that book probably a hundred times. It made me laugh and gave me something to focus on besides how rotten I felt. At some point, I must have gotten rid of it. I tried a few times to see if I could find another copy, but didn't have any luck. Today I don't want to pack. I don't want to use my stinking inhaler. I just want my book.

And my Mom.

Thanksgiving Week: The Reviews Are In

The Good
Being a part of one of my very best friend's labour and delivery, and Mom and baby being well
Time off of our regular schedule
Amazing food
Time with friends (though some of it was much too short)
Surviving Blizzard 2010
Time for movies
Snow
Now everybody else will join me in ramping up for Christmas

The Bad
The week-end went by way too quickly
I'm realizing how little time I have and how much I have to do before Christmas
My birthday is fast approaching and they're not all they're cracked up to be anymore
No one forecasted the actual snow storm and the "blizzard" was 15 minutes of snowfall that didn't stick
Haircuts, cleaning and organizing that didn't quite happen

The Ugly
Noah's worst seizure week since they started 2 and a 1/2 years ago
Very little sleep because of the above
Wishing far-away family and friends, well, weren't
I've been seriously considering a smack -down death match with Noah's neurologist's office

I hope your "Good" list from this last week is your longest list too.

Sushi, Sushi, Bo Bushi

I found the best ever home made sushi recipe. Usually with ethnic foods, things I'd normally only ever get in a restaurant, when I try the home cooked version, it's a let down. Not this time. All you fish lovers need not read on, because this is a veggie recipe. I'm posting it here because so far 5 people have requested it, and if you tried it, you'd be asking for the recipe too.

Sushi Rice

4 C. short grain white rice

2 TB red quinoa

1/2 c. rice vinegar

3 TB sugar

3 tsp salt

Bring rinsed rice, quinoa, and 4 c water to a simmer in a large pot. Reduce heat to low, cover, and cook 15 minutes, or until water is absorbed. Remove from heat, and let stand, covered, 20 minutes.

Stir vinegar, sugar and salt together in a bowl until sugar and salt dissolve. Fluff rice with wooden spoon and then fold in vinegar mixture. Cover with a damp towel until ready to use.

Spicy Tofu

2 12 oz pkgs. extra firm tofu, drained and cut into 1/4 in. cubes

3 TB soy sauce (or Shoyu or Bragg's aminos)

2 TB sriracha (or other Asian hot sauce)
2 TB rice vinegar
1 TB maple syrup
2 tsp toasted sesame oil
4 green onions, thinly sliced (1/2 cup)
2 TB vegan mayonnaise (Vegenaise is the best one)

Heat non-stick skillet over medium high heat, and add tofu. Cook 10-12 minutes, or until cubes are golden, stirring occasionally.
Stir together soy sauce, sriracha, vinegar, maple syrup, sesame oil, and 2 TB water in a small bowl. Add mixture to tofu in the pan. Bring to a simmer, cook 2-3 minutes until most of the liquid is absorbed. Remove from heat, stir in green onions and mayonnaise. USe either warm or chilled.

USE:
24-ish nori sheets
assorted vegetables, sliced or julienned, such as carrots, cucumber, bell peppers, avocado, etc
wasabi (if desired)
pickled ginger (if desired, or I just add a little fresh grated ginger to the soy sauce you use for dipping later)
sushi mats if you have them, though mine turns out fine without.

On each nori sheet, spread a thin layer of sushi rice over the whole thing, leaving about a 1/2 inch of space at the bottom end.
At one end, lay some of the tofu, and 2 or so of the veggies (otherwise it can get too bulky and it won't roll as tightly) across it. Starting at the "food" end, roll it carefully and tightly until it is resting on the closing seem. Using a sharp knife, slice into about 5-6 pieces. Repeat, or store the rest, this makes a lot of sushi in one recipe and it's always better when it has just been freshly assembled. Serve with wasabi and soy sauce for dipping. I will be very shocked if this isn't one of the best things you've ever tried. :)

When I Grow Up

Janey Cutler - Britain's Got Talent 2010 - Auditions Week 4 @ Yahoo! Video

I smiled through this whole thing, and may have shed a tear or two. Lovely.

Apple Time!

Remember these?

I'm thinking ahead for Christmas this year, and hope some of you are too. I'm going to make these oh-so-good apples again this year, and will start taking orders right away. Here's what you need to know:

They will be $8.00 each.

I will need payment two weeks before the date you want them.

The last pick-up/drop off date will be December 16th.

I'm not set up for long distance delivery, so I'm afraid we're limited to Utah, within reasonable driving distance of my house.

There's still a choice between dark or milk chocolate, just specify how many of which when you order. I did a couple with white chocolate last year for some friends who don't love chocolate of the brown variety, and they were really happy with them, so I can do that too.

I tested a few apples last year, trying one after a week in the fridge, another after 2 weeks, another after 3 weeks, (I didn't test any longer than that) and after 3 weeks in the fridge, they are just as good. None had ever lasted longer than a week at our house before that, because everyone had devoured them, so I wanted to see how they held up. Turns out, pretty darn well.

Email or call me to order, if you don't have any of my info, leave me a message here or on Facebook, and I'll get it to you.

After such a great response last year (I sold 234 in the end), this year some of the money will go toward Christmas for my family, and some will go toward helping somebody else have a better Christmas, like so many of you helped us have last year. We want to pay it forward. :)

"Ooo-ooo" Went The Wind

Does anyone else take issue with the words "Gourmet" and "Candy Corn" being used together? Gourmet high fructose corn syrup, gourmet artificial flavour and gourmet artificial colour. Mmmm.

When I think gourmet, I think of something so good, so decadent, that you kind of want to sneak into a closet to eat it, away from anyone who might try to make you share. The vast majority of Halloween candy does not fall into that category. Most of it is not even good.

My best years of trick-or-treating were between the ages of 12 and 17. That's right, I said 17. It's the only time my being short has been an advantage. Well then and for installing car seats. Luckily for me, my best friend during my teen years was also short, and we made the most of it. She and I would meet up at my house (she lived on a farm sort of in the boonies, so my neighbourhood was the more "mother-load-of-candy friendly" of the two), and decide what the quotas would be for that year. We'd determine how many of what kinds of candy we would acquire before calling it quits for the night. Usually near the top of the list were Kit Kats, with other kinds of candy coming and going from year to year, depending on our mood.

After a while, we got really good at singling out those houses that had "good" candy, and those that would always give out lousy stuff like those nasty beige/grey chewy things that you only hand out if you don't really like children. What were those things anyway? It wasn't toffee, or taffy, and had no distinctive flavour... just sticky, tooth decaying nothingness.

The problem was, not every house would give both of us the same candy, so a mini (friendly) competition would start between us to see who could hit their targets first. The night was always full of laughter, like the time my moustache fell off (I was an Arab Sheik, ok?) in a yard covered in knee-deep leaves. We got down on hands and knees, and searched for about 10 minutes before my friend declared, "We need to say a prayer." I launched into a massive laughing protest about how I was not praying over a moustache.

After we said "Amen", I put my hand down on the ground to balance myself to stand up, and there was my moustache. We were in tears. Not the kind you're usually in after an answered prayer.

But then there was another tradition we had, that wasn't just about fun. The owner of the company where my dad worked, and his wife lived on the street behind us. They were really nice people who for years let us come and swim in their pool in the summers. Most kids would run up, get their candy and run off. When we came to the door, we got invited inside. The lady of the house had MS, and couldn't come see the kids all dressed up. So we'd go in and say hello, and chat for a bit, let her ooo and ah over our costumes and it was one of the best parts of trick-or-treating for us.

Come to think of it, almost none of my best memories of Halloween had anything to do with the actual candy, (except for the favourite chocolate bars of 2 of my grandparents, which I would mail to them some years). Don't get me wrong, I was not above hiding and hoarding my candy after I got home, but that was just secondary to all the other stuff.

Maybe that's why Halloween candy mostly stinks, and no one cares. Gourmet Candy Corn. Please.

Who Are You?

Sometimes I wholeheartedly agree with one exasperated ancestor's sentiment: "This is the stupidest world I've ever lived on.". I've been in a sort of tornado of emotion and thought lately. Between the passing of my cousin (and not being able to attend her funeral due to ongoing passport issues), a bad patch of seizures for my boy, and some waves of controversy affecting people I care about, sadness, contention, worry, and frustration have all been wildly swirling around. I could very easily lock myself away and just hope for the clouds to pass.

But that's not me.

For those who don't share my faith, we believe that we were spirits who lived with God before we came here to earth. We believe that those spirits joined with bodies when we were born, and though we don't remember that time, while here on earth, we carry with us many of the traits and relationships that we had there. It is in most cases not until we pass on to the next life that we get to really "see" everybody again. Who they are, who they are to us, each person in their spirit form, no more weighted down by illness, age, hardship, deformity, or any other earthly care.

There were kids from 80+ countries in my high school, and most of my friends had either a different skin colour from me, or an accent of some sort. It wasn't until I left there and moved to a much more, um, homogenous area that I was even struck by that fact. I saw beautiful friends, not shades of skin. I heard laughter, comfort, and lively discussion, not accents. You can spot kindness or goodness just by looking at someone's face, and not even see what they look like. You know what I'm talking about. Or think of people that have grown more beautiful to you as you've gotten to know them, when really their physical form hasn't changed a bit. I think, in part, that's recognizing that heavenly spirit that's in there.

Oftentimes I am tempted to (and do) just react to hard situations, usually poorly, loudly, or sarcastically. But I have found that if I am still, if I wait... God will speak to me, and show me a little something that will change me, and my reaction. Frequently this happens in a split second. A flash of somebody's true intent, their innate goodness, the love that others have, or even God has, for them. In other words, the truth about who they are. Not how they're acting, not what they're saying, not what they look like, but who that spirit is that was put on this earth, disguised by flesh and bones, life, and gravity.

And then things change.

I want to respond with love. I want to understand more than be understood. I want to teach or exchange thoughts, not lecture. Compassion and generosity flow.

You never know who you're really dealing with. From your children to a crabby customer service person, anyone could be the grandest, most amazing spirit you'll meet. They should be treated that way. I pray I will be blessed to see people as they really are, much more clearly and frequently, especially when things get tough.

As it said on a little poster I had as kid, "God don't make no junk".

Amen.

In Case You Were Wondering...

Some songs make me cry.

I spend time missing people who probably don't miss me.

I leave my house in my pajamas way more often than I should.

I like rainy days more than sunny days.

Wicker freaks me out.

Once you're my friend, once I love you, it is nearly impossible to change my mind about you.

I'm a bit of a stickler about spelling, and words like their/there/they're. Somebody once told me that "stickler" is just another word for "pain in the butt." I'm okay with that.

I studied theatrical make-up in college because I was too chicken to audition (as an actor) for shows until my last year of school.

I used to be completely fluent in French.

I hate cowboy boots.

I don't always volunteer my opinions, but just ask me. I have them. Lots of them.

I wish I was 5' 7".

I struggle with post-partum depression.

I'm not a snob. Except about chocolate.

I thought at some point I'd get on Oprah. No idea what for.

If I could pick a talent to be brilliant at, it would be singing.

I've given three people bloody noses in my life. If I had had my way, there would have been one more.

My favourite way to pray is alone, out loud, in my car.

I have only been in a police car once. It was not at all what I expected.

I typically like British humour way better than North American humour.

I will avoid being embarrassed at almost any cost.

Seafood makes me gag.

If you have seen Dead Poet's Society, you have pretty much seen my high school.

I come from one of the most normal families I've ever seen. And we're not that normal.

I have never drunk cola or alcohol on purpose.

My siblings are all people I would be friends with even if we weren't related.

I have been bored enough to search for and trim my own split ends. Though I can't believe I ever had time for that.

I can't stand Titanic.

I've had all my babies at home, and not because I was trying to prove anything.

I've been vegetarian for over 14 years.

Shopping makes me cranky.

My cat allergy once landed me in the hospital.

Fall is my absolute favourite season.

I don't get the whole ketchup on eggs thing.

I think gratitude is one of the most important attributes anyone can have.

There are people in my life I can probably never fully repay, but I will try.

Christmas music will likely start playing in October at my house.

What are some things that make you weird? I mean, you?

When Boy Genius Just Wants To Go To Recess

Gabriel came home today with some of his school work from the past week, which I like to look through to see what he's learning, how he's doing, and where we might need to spend some extra time (which rarely happens since he's a really good student). He has been learning about writing lead-ins to stories, articles, etc. They are learning what to include so that people know right off what you're writing about and want to keep reading. So they were asked to pick a couple of topics and for each, write an interesting lead-in, and then a boring lead-in. Gabriel chose Lions for one topic, and Mandarin Oranges for his second. He wrote really good lead-ins for both, including some interesting facts and details. I turned the page to read his boring lead-in.

He wrote 18 lines.

He wrote the word "Blah" 72 times.

Catalog Living

This is my new favourite website. Even if you don't think the first few are funny, just keep reading. If you don't end up shedding a few tears from laughter, there's something wrong with you.

Little Dude #3

Duncan has his first soccer game ever, tonight. He has been wanting to play since last year when Gabriel played for his first time (we got going a little late with G).

We went to his first practice last week, and there was a lot of excitement. He got his own brand new ball, and his jersey and socks. We didn't know what colour the team would be, but of course, they're Duncan's most favourite colour, green. Things just seem to work out for that kid. And just FYI, don't ever let a team of 4 and 5 year olds decide on the team name. "And the Leprechauns sweep the play-offs!!" is not something you'll be hearing anytime soon.

Back to the practice. Duncan is the youngest one on the team, so rather than have anyone notice that he was the smallest, he did a lot of really dramatic wipe-outs, and threw out great advice to no one in particular about keeping your eye on the ball. He already thinks his coach is the bomb, and had to Skype the grandparents as soon as he got home to show them his new duds.

"The Dunk" has always been unbelievably coordinated and physical, so I'm not worried about him catching on and doing just fine, but tonight I expect to see a lot of 'mob ball', and kids picking grass and waving to their parents on the sidelines. I coached this age group one summer while I was home from college, and it was a riot. I have to admit, I signed Duncan up as much for my own entertainment as his desire to play. I'm predicting he'll be dressed in his uniform by lunch time, asking me for the 85th time what I think the post-game snacks will be...

A Little More Time. Please.

I read something recently where a guy was talking about prioritizing and getting things accomplished. He said he couldn't stand it when people say there aren't enough hours in the day. He said that's a cop-out because if something matters enough to you, you'll get it done. I'm here to say, either he doesn't have kids, or he has never been the one to stay home with them.

Sleep matters to me. I have yet to get two consecutive nights of even 7 hours since the birth of my Marley 18 months ago. There have been days where I have vowed to not sit down (other than driving) and tackle my to-do list, not wasting a single minute of the day, and yet somehow the next day, the list is the same length, or even longer. I have been "working on" at least two books since last fall, yet not a word has been typed. I have not had time to get the words beyond my own head, as much as I want and need to get them going.

I do that thing where I think, "Oh, when school's out, I'll have more flexible time...", "Once school's back in, things will calm down...", "As soon as Marley is always sleeping through the night, then I'll have the time and energy to...". Yeah. No. There's always something unexpected, unplanned or unpredictable that throws things off. Those things are almost always kid-related and skew whatever plans of brilliance I had for any given day.

So, dude quoted in that article, you're wrong. There are not enough hours in the day. Not for me. And not for most moms who want to do anything beyond keeping their children alive and fairly clean.

When Big Brothers Get Bored...

They tried adding just a few more...
The Princess was not amused.

(More pictures to come soon. Have to keep the far away family and friends up to date...)

Wonderfully Wrong

Whether we want to or not, we generally get an impression of somebody within a moment of seeing or meeting them. Some first impressions might be more riddled with harsh judgements than others, but to whatever degree, some sort of opinion is formed. This is one area of life where sometimes, I love being wrong.

On one of my many trips home from school while attending college, I was seated, on a quickly-filling airplane. It was Christmas time and everyone seemed to be in a big hurry to get where they were going. I had no one next to me, and was silently hoping it would stay that way. There was one of those airplane bottlenecks forming, a cramped line-up of people all trying to peer down the aisle to spot their seats. In this line, I spotted a guy that I prayed would not be sitting next to me. I was probably 19, traveling alone, and I wasn't big on talking to strangers. This particular stranger was probably late 20's, large, and covered in tattoos. Cov-ered. He had some facial hardware, longish scruffy hair, and apparently wherever he was from, they only sold clothing fashioned from denim and leather. And he looked, well, he didn't look happy to be there. And when he found his seat, next to a 5'1" college student just full of first impressions, neither did she.

I had a magazine that suddenly became much more fascinating as he climbed over me and plunked himself down in his seat (I normally would have gotten up to let him in, but there was no room to move by then). We sat, from Salt Lake to approaching Chicago, in complete silence. We had left Salt Lake a bit late, and had hit some weather along the way, and now it was snowing in Chicago. It became evident as we got close to beginning our descent that there was no way I was going to make my next flight. I took out the map of the airport as they announced all the gate numbers of connecting flights over the loudspeaker, and saw my gate, on the opposite end of the airport from where we'd be arriving. I had 2 rather heavy carry-ons, and knowing how crowded the airport would be, I must have started to look a bit concerned. I knew the flight to Buffalo I was trying to make was the last one of the night, and I would be stranded alone in Chicago.

Tattooed guy said "Are you going to make your flight?". I told him I didn't think so. He said "Me neither."

"Where's your gate?" he asked. Great, I thought, now I'm going to be stuck here with a stalker. I told him, and he showed me his gate on the airport map, almost as far from where we were landing as mine was, but in the exact opposite direction.

We didn't say another word. We landed, wrestled our way into the overhead compartments to retrieve our bags, and eventually exited the plane, tired and cranky. We got just inside the airport, and I heard tattooed guy behind me say "Here, give me your bags." and honestly I had a moment of panic. Until I turned and saw him smiling. He said simply, "If one of is is going to be stuck here overnight, I'd rather it was me than you. How fast can you run?"

And with that, he took my heavier bag along with his own, and we ran. We tore through the Chicago airport, and may well have taken some people out as we passed by. I'm sure I would have been laughing at many points along the way at how comical we must have looked, but I was carrying a very heavy backpack, wearing a winter coat and sprinting, totally out of breath. He was quite a bit taller than me, and pretty fast too, I was thanking my lucky stars for all my years of soccer by then.

We got to my gate, breathless, sweaty, and the two of us together must have been a sight. The lone flight attendant was picking up her coat to get on the plane, the waiting area completely empty. I must have managed to say something about getting on this flight, because she smiled, and checked my ticket. I made it. Barely. I think I must have thanked tattooed guy about 10 times in the meantime, as he stood there, waiting to make sure they let me on. We said good-bye as I walked toward the gangway and then I saw him pick his bags up and just saunter away, looking as tattooed and intimidating as the first moment I saw him, yet looking totally different to me. I have never forgotten him.

The other thing I've never forgotten is that people look how they look and act how they act because that's the story of how they got here, wherever 'here' is. Everyone has flaws. Everyone has beauty in them. Some of our life's lessons and challenges and triumphs show on the outside. Some bits of wonderful are hidden, but that never means they're not there. Don't be so quick to see the things about somebody that you don't like, that you'd never do, that you immediately shun, because if you had walked through each step of their life, exactly, who's to say that you would be doing anything differently or better than they are?

I've learned not to instantly believe my first impressions of people, and definitely not anybody else's take on anyone. That way, every person is kind of a gift that I can look at and piece together, and find all the best parts. I love finding a true friend where I first thought there was nothing in common. I love finding a guardian angel in a wrapper that would suggest something else entirely. I love finding a soft heart trying to find its way, out of a crass or obnoxious veneer. I love friends who though on paper it would appear we should argue and be enemies, are able to see all the good in me and I in them.

And I continue to love being wrong.

A Rose By Any Other Name...

would... be... something else.

Names matter. I've made a hobby of learning about names- origins, meanings, you name it, I know it (or can at least look it up in one of my, ahem, six name books). I've used naming my own children as an excuse to continue looking up and pairing up names that I don't need and won't ever use. You don't have to tell me it's weird, I know.

There's one baby name site, where people post polls for names they're trying to choose between, or to request help finding a good middle name to go with what they've chosen for a first. I frequently post suggestions, and I cannot tell you the joy it brings me when the next poll someone posts is to choose between two names I've suggested. I'm naming babies of total strangers, folks. Again, weird, I know.

It always fascinates me what people name their kids. There are so many great names to choose from. I love originality, but sentimentality is wonderful too. And then, sometimes I'm horrified when it's obvious someone didn't think through what the initials would spell, or the vile nicknames that are inevitable (hello, middle school), or even the meaning of their child's name. Wouldn't you want to know if you were naming your kid "muddy ditch" or "crooked nose" or something far worse?

I think the name thing started for me as a kid. My siblings are Craig, Kelly and Chris, and then there's me. The lone W sound. I never thought I was a Wendy. I went through a stage of telling my mom I would be changing my name once I turned 18. But I never could settle on a name that I thought was me. Then in grade six I attended a little private school, where there were names I had never encountered. Kaede (kai-day), Tinka, Khione, Haven and Zinnat were just a few, and then in high school, Marika, Ganga (gung-guh), Pia and Zoran... I had to know where they came from, what they meant, and the obsession grew.

Some name choices, I admit, I don't get. Naming your kid after a brand, like Lexus or Chanel, for instance. Or after a soap opera character, which may be the lowest form of baby naming. A quick perusing of an online list brings us little gems like Cricket, Babe, Boobsie (you think I'm kidding) and Seabone. That, friends, is all kinds of wrong.

It's always entertaining to me to see which names suddenly jump up or on to the "most popular" lists after celebrities use them. Vivienne, which is really a beautiful name (properly pronounced in French, it's 2 syllables, viv-yen, with the emphasis on the second syllable), was nowhere to be seen in the top 1000 names for years, then miraculously after Brangelina chose it for one of their brood, it debuted at #532 in 2009. I'm willing to bet we'll see a lot more Harlow's and Honor's in the next few years too. And Twilight-ers, do you think it's a coincidence that Isabella has held the number one or two spot for the last 3 years?

Names can be ruined or improved by association. If you've known someone really awful or weird, chances are you'd never use their name for one of your own kids, no matter how great a name it might be on its own. If you've only ever known beautiful Laurens and heavy Melissas, it will probably influence how you feel about those names. Names of spouses' exes are off-limits. Even pushy family members may feel the need to weigh in when they have strong feelings about someone they knew once with the name you're considering.

The bottom line is, kids are stuck with what we choose. They have no input in the choice of their name. And what seemed like a brilliant name for a baby may not sound so hot on a 55 year old.

Everyone will not love your name or your kids' names, and ultimately that doesn't matter. You'll be the one saying them thousands of times throughout your life. But a little research into the matter can't hurt. Seriously. Please.

http://babynamegenie.com
http://www.ssa.gov/OACT/babynames/

http://nameberry.com

Melancholy Much?

Pensive reflection or contemplation, sadness, gloom.

Places I've been, things I've done, people I've loved, people I've lost, hard things I've overcome, oppourtunities I've missed, joyful times I don't get to do over... I really don't have time to reflect or be pensive about any of these things, but I must say I'm guilty, I've rounded the bases of the melancholic many a day.

Not a big wallower, I spend a good deal of time going back over fun, hilarious things from my life too. But you must admit, there's something about hearing a certain song, while it's raining outside and there's no one around to interrupt your thoughts... or seeing old pictures and feeling that little bit of sadness welling up underneath the smile those same pictures put on your face. As I've experienced some of those things lately, I've wondered, what's the point? What is the use of this seemingly useless state of mind?

I tend to be a big thinker anyway. I don't usually say a lot of what comes to mind, even when I probably should ( which is improvement from my younger days, when more often the opposite was true). So maybe feeling a bit melancholy is a bi-product of thinking too much...? Sometimes, for me, I think it's a way of taking stock of mistakes, successes, and those things or people I hope to revisit one day, whether in this life or the next, and sorting through it all, searching for the memories worth keeping.

This contemplation, whether pensive or sad, is something I'm sure we all have in common. We have all lived, after all, so I think there's no avoiding it. And why would we want to? I know I've got some great moments and a fabulous soundtrack so far, and I'm nowhere near done yet.

I Don't Get It: Why Some Bad Words Are Bad

Don't be afraid, I'm not going to go on a cursing tirade here. I am a person who loves words. And names. But we'll get into my name obsession some other time. I love it when I hear new-to-me words, I love words that have tons of different meanings, I love words that just sound cool, language fascinates me.

What I don't get, is how some words become bad words, or even offensive. One of those words is "douche". This one's at the forefront of my mind after last night's episode of the Bachelorette. Even if you take the word douche at its worst meaning, it is just a feminine cleansing product. How is that bad? It cleans. Would it not be more pointedly rude to call someone, say, itch cream? "Douche" is also the French word for "shower". I like showers. "Hey, that guy just called me a shower-bag!". Wow, you told him.

And who decided, for instance, that another word starting with "p" is somehow much worse than being "ticked' off at someone?
They mean the same thing, don't they?

I wonder, are you closer to heaven because you called someone a frickin' anything? Everyone knows what you meant.

English word for cigarette and innocent little pansy flower, when did you become derogatory names for a gay man?

I love the word "jackass". I love saying it, I love hearing other people say it, and yet I hesitate to say it (depending on who is around), which is ridiculous since I have never once hesitated to use the word "donkey" around anyone, ever.

Who decides which words become off-limits? When is that pivotal moment that it goes from a noun or adjective minding its own business to something so taboo you can't even say it out loud to your kids to teach them what not to say? Now that the chicken and egg question has been answered for once and for all, I'd like somebody to get back to me on this whole thing.

Little Dude #2

I've been pondering Noah lately. He had a rough day today. Nothing huge, a few little seizures, but it was obvious with all the screaming, shrieking, throwing things, and swings he took at a few of us that he was feeling a little off. It's hard to know what causes days like this, whether it's pain, frustration or something else completely, because he can't tell us. Sometimes he gets like this when seizures are brewing, but not always. And sometimes he has big seizures with no warning or fanfare at all. That's what happened a few weeks ago.

Noah had 9 seizures in about 26 hours. More, actually, if I were to count the small-by-comparison tremors he had in between, but 9 full blown, everything else stops seizures. The shortest was a minute, the longest just over 3 minutes. Do you know how long 3 minutes is, when someone you love is suffering, and there's not a lot you can do? It's an absolute eternity. All of these were really pretty violent. His little body is just limp, totally spent afterwards. Often he throws up during the seizures or after. There are a lot of details that have become just a part of our lives that I won't go into here. But one thing I hate, that I absolutely hate, are the thoughts I am forced to think as this little boy's mom.

At times, I feel like there must be something wrong with me, that I am crazy at best, and morbid at worst. When I watch him in that state, I wonder sometimes, do you even want to be here, little boy? He just looks at me with this look that says, you have no idea, mom, no idea at all. When he sleeps too long sometimes, I have the fleeting thought, is this it? Is this the day he had a seizure I didn't hear, and he has choked, and... I shake it off and go check on him to be sure. But the pit in my stomach tends to stay around. We almost lost him once already, and a couple of other times, it was some persistent angels keeping one of us awake when we otherwise would have been asleep, and lo and behold, some giant seizure where he's choking, or gets wedged between the bed and the wall and seems to be struggling to breathe... It is no joke, this regularly having my child's mortality thrown in my face. I cannot describe the way it feels, and doubt I would want to even if I could.

Noah isn't here for himself. He's here for the rest of us morons that haven't figured things out yet. At times, part of me wants to learn the lessons of Noah so that he can be freed of this body that galls him so. Part of me wants to claim ignorance or stupidity for life because I can't bear the thought of life without this little, inadequately wrapped bit of perfection that is my son.

And then I see him soaring through the air on a swing, or jumping gleefully on the trampoline, or cracking himself up with whatever random thing he finds funny that day, and I am grateful. Maybe he'll be convinced to stay a while.

Shave This.

I'd like to find, yell at, and then slap around the first woman who shaved her legs. Why, lady? Why would you do a thing like that?

Men need to shave their faces (just FYI, I always dated/liked smooth-faced guys, even before BYU where it was mandated, unless you were in the theatre department and sporting a beard card with your facial scruff). Guys need to keep the facial area clear for eating, breathing, maintaining honesty about how big their double chin really is... plus facial hair could actually grow long and wild enough to house birds or other woodland creatures. Men also like to kiss women, and most women appreciate not having scraped up, rashy lips or faces. As for me, I can't remember the last time anyone made out with my calf or knee, or the last time I found a stray bit of food caught in my leg hair.

No one ever would have been the wiser if no woman had ever shaved her legs. We're already much less hairy than men, and I'm confident that would have been enough to keep both sides happy. Leave well enough alone, I say!

But now it's too late. The expectation is total smoothness. If anyone should shave their legs, it's men. If anyone should be disgusted by hairiness on the opposite sex, it's women. But no, we women, along with the time-stealing hair and make-up routines, have to shave our legs, that, when most of us first started this pointless little exercise, probably had nothing more than fine, light, barely visible hair on them.

And then, why legs? Why stop there? Wax your toes, shave your arms, heck, get rid of those disgusting hairy things above your eyes.

It only has to seem like a good idea to one woman and maybe a handful of men, ladies, and it's total hairlessness for all of us.

Love Smart Humour...

I hope this is still as funny today, it made me cry last night.

I Don't Get It: The Bachelor/Bachelorette

...but I still watch. Cheesy? Yes. Predictable? For sure. Pure brainless fluff? Big fat yes. That doesn't, however, explain how this show has survived for the many years it has. For all their efforts to be new and fresh every cycle, how many "most dramatic rose ceremony yet" 's can we possibly be forced to anticipate and then be let down by when they fall woefully short? I'm all for happy endings, but it's not like the show has a great success rate for forming lasting relationships, let alone marriages. I have predicted the final 2 or 3 guys/girls standing with nearly 100% accuracy every time, and have been nearly as successful at predicting who would be broken up within 6 months or before the show even airs (sorry Melissa). I have managed, on an intimate yet completely shallow level to form strong opinions on people I really have no investment in. But then that's the show. Intimate yet shallow. Why do I and so many others waste the time?

This season, there's Ali. She's fine. She wasn't my first choice to be the Bachelorette (shout out to Gia), but there have been far more blondes on this show than brunettes, so I'm not surprised.

So 25 guys, blah, blah, blah... I don't care about seeing all of them in their shirtless glory. I'm looking for the weirdest of the weird, maybe a Canadian to route for, and the most normal 1 or 2 guys there. The cocky or meat head guys that are there for the exposure or drama, (ie, the ones acting like catty girls) walking around with their chests puffed out, tail feathers a-swaying, they're basically white noise to me.

So this time around, here's my take:
Justin, Canadian boy, I think genuine but clueless and (to some, not me) cute, will be gone shortly.
(I sort of wanted cartoon-villain-hair Canadian Craig to stick around and have a most dramatic hot tub fight scene ever, but no luck there).
Jonathan, aka weatherman, gay, or at least undecided. You heard it here first.
Frank, a little too attached too soon, destined for the friend zone.
Ty... Guitar serenade? Seriously?
Jesse, the lights are on, but alas, I fear no one is home.
Kasey, sounds like a frog with porridge caught in his throat, and Ali would be begging him to never speak again, inside of 3 months.
It's going to boil down to Roberto and Chris L. in the end. Roberto has the best smile there, and seems real and cool. Cape Cod Chris was my first pick right out of the limo, normal, understated, tall and subtly smart-funny. I may or may not have a teeny crush on him. VO Chris Harrison: "It's a Bachelorette first!". No, really, it is.

Think what you will, I'll be watching, right to the sappy, tearful, contrived end. Still not a clue why.
Meh.

A Banner Week

Sometimes I wonder what exactly I am doing here. The last three days, I have heard my eldest son, a very innocent 9 year-old, say the F-word twice (to be fair, one of them was after I said "WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY???"), my 4 year-old inform me "Mom, I have been telling you to get your butt down here.", and my 7 year-old repeatedly tell himself to "SIT down, Noah." only he decided for the morning, all of his s's would be pronounced "sh".

I vacuumed the house exactly 6 times yesterday, and this morning, it looks like I haven't touched it for a week. Good thing I couldn't be bothered to put the vacuum away last night.

We did have a really fun water day yesterday, playing in the neighbour's irrigation water that flows through his yard once a week and over to the orchard that divides our houses, using the slip 'n slide, jumping on the trampoline with the sprinkler going underneath, water fights with some make-shift squirt guns, it was a good day. Except that we all got torched to a crisp... SPF 15 apparently works more like deep fry oil on me, and SPF 30, waterproof, doesn't have a placebo effect or any other effect on the kids. Except for the baby. Though I suspect her mid-day nap saved her.

By 10 am today, baby was in her 3rd outfit, Noah was banished to his room for the second time, Duncan had had his trains taken away, and Gabriel was hiding out in his room, smart boy that he is.

At times, I think, someone else could step in here and the kids would hardly notice as long as they were fed. I am almost certain there are times I am actually invisible. But, I'm not going anywhere, heaven help us all. I love these kids, bless their hearts. Their cursing, messy, sunburnt hearts.

Utterly Shameless Promotion

"Rise Up" from "The Tea Party Movie" - Jeremy Hoop

You don't have to love it or him or even me, but just watch it. :)

All Present and Accounted For..?

So, if your family is complete, how did you know you were done?

I am up to my eyeballs in crazy. I am so tired, I'm working on a new word for what I am. I have vowed right after delivering each baby that we are done. I am pretty much terrified at the thought of another pregnancy, delivery, and post-partum stretch.

But I don't really feel like everybody is here.

I am hoping maybe that means there's a fortuitous adoption in our future.

But it might not.

I'd love to have a few years to think about it, but time ain't exactly on my side, if you know what I'm sayin'.

The problem, that is not really a problem considering my current career path, is that I adore my kids. I love babies, I feel like I can start them off in life knowing they are loved, secure and so very wanted. I know whenever I am on the other side of this growing-the-family phase, I will be sad. So am I just not wanting that part of life to end, or to have ended already? Am I always going to feel like there's someone missing because of our baby girl we lost when I was 18 weeks along? Or am I sensing that there really is somebody else, waiting to join in on the bedlam?

Part of me thinks, life is so insane, what's one more?

Well for one thing, it's one more.

I know better than to over-romanticize the whole baby thing. I've been knocked on my fanny by them more times than I care to remember. I also know better than to think I can be blase about looking back on my life, and potentially, realizing that we missed somebody, because we were too busy, or too scared, or too tired...

And Gabriel thinks Marley needs a sister.

And Duncan told me we need 2 more babies. But then, his imaginary friends Ellie and Loss may have planted that idea.

And did I mention how being over-tired can make you delusional? Maybe a few months of actual all-night sleep and an occasional B-12 shot will clear this whole thing up.

Or a whole lot of prayer.

Chicken Beans, That's What

Duncan and I spend a lot of time together in the kitchen. He, rummaging through the pantry for something to eat. Me, cooking, sweeping, loading the dishwasher. Sometimes he "helps" me make meals. He's a cooking commentator, really. He tells me what I'm doing, what I'm going to do next, and announces what a great job I'm doing mixing or chopping or whatever the case may be. If there's chocolate involved, he's also chief pourer and taster. Sometimes, he spots an ingredient he's not familiar with, which always surprises me from a kid who has asked for avocados, mangos and agave since he was barely old enough to talk. Such was the case with Garbanzo beans. I tried to explain that they have two names, Garbanzo beans or Chickpeas. He could never remember either name, and so decided they would henceforth be called Chicken Beans. It has completely caught on. At our house, at least.

Super high in protein and fiber, and really versatile, I'll try pretty much any recipe that includes the lauded bean. Here is one we've made for years, great for those who like chicken beans but maybe don't love the strong taste of hummus. Mmm, hummus. Anyway, use this concoction like you would egg or tuna salad, or even as a dip.

1 1-lb can garbanzo beans, drained
1/3 c. chopped celery
1 TB minced green onion
2 TB relish (dill tastes better than sweet in this)
3 TB mayonnaise, Miracle Whip or Vegenaise
1 tsp mustard (I like dijon, but any kind works)
dash of garlic powder or minced garlic, to taste

Combine all of it in a food processor, and blend to desired consistency, chunkier for a sandwich, smoother for a dip. Keep it in the fridge. YUM.

Proof

...that I've lost my mind. I have never wanted a dog, or any indoor pet bigger than a goldfish. I'm an animal lover from a distance (I do love horses, but then they don't live in your house). Dogs are fine, but they're stinky, hairy, loud and just in the way a lot of the time. Watching my parents trying to live with an insane Wheaton Terrier in their early empty nest days was enough to solidify my "no inside pets" policy for good. The dog would regularly do his business outside only to come back indoors with a few nearly-camouflaged poop ornaments still adorning his behind. And then he'd sit on the carpet. The same carpet my kids were crawling around on. {{Shiver}} Plus, as I mentioned, the dog had some screws loose, something my parents could not have known when they brought home an impossibly cute little puppy.

My life is nuts. Four kids. One baby. One son with special needs who requires a lot of energy. I am cross-eyed-dizzy loony-bin-ready pretty much all day every day. But here's where the dog thing starts to make some sense. I say, several times a week how much it stresses me that I can't be by Noah's side every minute. You never know when a seizure is coming. You never know how bad it's going to be. You never know when he'll figure out a knob or lock or handle or latch for the first time that lets him cut himself loose and run. And run. When he gets free, he has no sense of danger or direction and he doesn't answer to his name when you call him. He has only escaped a few times, but it was terrifying each time. Enter Service Doggy.

A lab or retriever, trained in search and rescue and in reading other cues or issues in a boy like Noah may actually allow me to breathe. No more guessing which way Noah went. No more wondering if, out of sight a few minutes too long, he's seizing and choking on something life threatening.

Questions remain. Can I deal with even more poop in my life? Can I handle more appointments for a 4-legged family member? Can my gag reflex be desensitized to, among other things, hot steamy dog-food-laced breath in my face? I don't know. Maybe. There may be a dog out there, getting ready to stand by Noah when nobody else can. But maybe a well-placed micro chip and several surveillance cameras are much less hairy solutions.

I Am Woman, Hear Me Snore...

I'm tired. So very, very tired. I have this baby who, although she just turned one, still has no interest in sleeping through the night. I'm coming up on 400 straight nights of getting up anywhere between 1 and 4 times. I find myself at my wit's end too early in the day most days, my patience and energy running out way before the daylight does. I start to complain sometimes, but I'm stopped in my tracks.

You see, I am a woman. In many ways I admit I've seen us as having gotten the short end of the stick. Between PMS, childbirth, post-partum blues, maintenance of the outward appearance, and many other things that come with being a woman, there's a lot to complain about. But there are blessings that no man can fully understand. Of six pregnancies, I've managed to grow and give birth to four amazing children. I've been able to give birth to all of them within the walls of my own home, and to experience the work that made their arrivals the sweetest bliss of my life. Something out of this world happens when you've felt the whole thing, every pang, stretch, burn and pain. There's a floating-above-the-earth euphoria that engulfs you the moment that baby arrives. For me, that is the closest to God and the closest to God-like that I've ever felt.

I am a woman, and so my friends are my sisters (and brothers) whom I love and to whom I am loyal right down to the last helpful thing I can say or give to them, even when distance or time may separate us.

I am a woman, and so although I face challenges imperfectly, I will, even crawling, keep moving forward.

I am a woman, and so when you suffer, I feel it with you.

I am a woman, and I am the glue of my family, past, present and future.

I am woman, and I believe I have not only a Father, but also a Mother in Heaven, who like most mothers, quietly and lovingly guides me, especially in those areas where women have stewardship.

I am a woman and I am tired. I'm busy and I'm a mess. But on the inside, I feel like this...

...and I wouldn't have it any other way.