Christmas 2009

Christmas this year will always be remembered (for me, anyway) as the one best forgotten. In the midst of wrapping presents, reading the Christmas story in Luke 2, making cookies for Santa, and decorating the gingerbread house, there was puking. And more puking. It was both sad and pathetic. And I hope it never happens again. By Dec. 23, everyone (including me, although I mostly got away with awful stomach pain for several hours) had been through it, so we breathed a sigh of relief and thought we could relax and enjoy the holiday. But the virus had something else in mind. For reasons unknown (immature immune systems? delicate stomachs?), the babies decided to do extra rounds of the virus. A2 did three rounds total and N went through two. The last bout for A2 was on Christmas day, which prompted me to send my husband and three older kids on up to his aunt's house anyway for dinner, even though it meant I would be left with two sad babies and leftovers by myself. But since we had all been cooped up in the house for much too long, I knew that getting the bulk of the family out was the best thing for us. I enacted a BRAT diet (bananas, rice, applesauce, and toast) for the babies for the next few days, and the cycle finally broke.

On top of all this fun was a carbon monoxide poisoning scare on Christmas Eve (really a malfunction with our smoke/CO detectors) with a fire truck pulled up to our house and everything. But all was well and a few hours later (plus much vacuuming and changing of batteries), we finally got the detectors to stop beeping every 60 seconds.

It was far too much drama for one week. And now I hope for much calmer days ahead.

Merry Christmas

Merry Christmas from all of us!

Early Christmas present

We got an early Christmas present over the weekend, but this is one I wish we could have sent back unopened. T woke up in the middle of the night on Friday night and threw up. Actually, I woke up to him whisper yelling from his bathroom because he had puked in the toilet and now needed to pee. Poor boy. He spent the rest of the night lying on my bathroom floor (I know, it's cruel, but I don't care), while he ran back and forth to the toilet.

As with every stomach virus, we hoped and hoped that it was just a fluke thing and that it wouldn't travel to anyone else. Does it ever go that way? No. This morning, A2 puked—all over the lovely basement carpet, no less. Since he and his sister share everything, including their pacifiers, I'm sure that N will follow sooner rather than later.

We were already feeling kind of sorry for ourselves (well, mainly me) because most of A's family is gone and so we were going to have a really quiet Christmas. But, we had planned a few activities to make it special, including a fun day-after-Christmas breakfast with some of my extended family. But now I'm so sad at the thought of being quarantined in our house for the next week.

Oh well. Santa will still come, the sickness will pass, and we'll all survive.

While waiting for me to let him sip some more water, T laid down on the floor and slept for two hours.

Is this not the most pathetic face you've ever seen?

Santa's Getaway

Said by S after the Christmas party (at a rather feverish pace):

"Mom, we saw Santa leave in a car after the party. Maybe he was driving to where he had parked his sled because he didn't want us to see it. Or, maybe he just couldn't bring his sled to the party. I don't care—I still believe in him. I don't care what the kids at school say. I still believe!"

Oh, boy. I don't think this little girl will believe in the big guy in red for much longer...

Weekend, Part II

Since so much family was in town, we opted to have our annual Christmas party the day after Boppa's funeral, complete with a visit from Santa. Santa has visited every year since A was a kid. We also did the Nativity pageant, which was great, as usual.

We spent the rest of the weekend hanging out with family. and even got to do a temple session together, thanks in part to A's sister who watched the kids. It was such a wonderful experience to be there together.

N was less than excited to see Santa.

Santa T-man

I bet you couldn't tell these dudes were the Wise Men.

Three semi-frightening-looking shepherds

Mary, Joseph, and baby Jesus

The kids and A's parents

Weekend, Part I

We're coming off a sad, but also really wonderful weekend with family. Thursday marked the funeral for A's grandpa. His parents were able to fly back from their mission, for which we all were very grateful. It was such a blessing to have them with us.

On Thursday morning, A left early to go to the viewing. I had planned to bring the two older kids later with me, after first dropping off the babies and T at a friend's house. The day before, both babies had woken up with goopy eyes. I hoped whatever it was would quickly find its way out of the house, but when N woke up Thursday morning with both eyes glued shut, I knew I couldn't subject my friend to double eye infections. (I wasn't about to miss the funeral, though, so I just warned everyone in A's family before they went anywhere near the babies. "Hold them at your own risk!")

So, this meant I had to take all five kids to the funeral. Knowing that the twins would be fantastic distractions in the actual funeral, I opted to sit in the Relief Society room the whole time with them. The three older kids went into the funeral with their dad and other family members and did mostly ok by all reports. I felt rather pathetic, all alone in the room with two babies, but all things considered, it was the best scenario possible. I was able to listen to the meeting (including a truly phenomenal talk by my husband and a solo by S), while letting the babies run around, sift things out of the trash, and play the piano.

Two hours earlier, before I ever left for the funeral, I had a really sweet spiritual teaching moment from S. It was a particularly horrendous morning, made worse by the fact that I was so upset about having to take all of them with me (and I'm sure my general emotional state about the events of the day couldn't have helped much.) If you think that getting five children ready by yourself sounds like an exhausting task, it's probably worse than you think. And I didn't handle it well that day. At all.

When I finally got in the car, we were 30 minutes behind schedule (although still in plenty of time for the actual funeral). I heard S saying something under her breath and I caught the word, "frustrated." "Are you upset because I was frustrated?" "No." I paused. "Are you worried about singing your solo?" "Yes. " (Tears ensued.)

I took a deep breath and announced that I would say a prayer to help us all. It did. I think that small moment of clarity on my part helped both of us calm down. I know it helped me realize that although taking five children to a funeral (including two goopy-eyed babies) was not ideal, it would be ok. And it turned out to be a wonderfully spiritual day.

More on the weekend later...

Dear Disney,

Oh, how you continue to cause problems for this English graduate. If your grammar snafus weren't enough, now your movies are causing my children to get all mixed up.

The Santa Clause series of movies, albeit delightful, have confused my children into thinking that the name of the man in red is actually "Santa Clause." H drew a lovely picture the other day and entitled it, "Santa Clause is coming to town." S began her Christmas wish list with,"Dear Santa Clause." And while I know the words sound the same, and that I should just let this one go, I have a need to correct the mistake. But then I pictured myself trying to explain to my children the meaning of the word, "clause."

"Well, kids, a clause is a type of legal document, treaty, or provision. In the case of the movies, there were special clauses written into the Santa contract that became the premise for the movies. The folks over at Disney did a fun little word play, changing Santa Claus to Santa Clause. Does that make sense, guys?"

Please, Disney, no more. I don't think I can take it.

Tooth fairy

It's sad that the tooth fairy was so exhausted last night that she forgot to exchange H's first lost tooth for money (especially when you consider that we have a special tooth fairy pillow that my mom made and that I put this pillow on the window sill in H's room so that the tooth fairy wouldn't forget.) Even sadder was H's face when he came into my bathroom this morning to tell me that his tooth was still there. I told him that maybe the tooth fairy was still out looking for our new house. He seemed to think this was a plausible explanation. Luckily, the tooth fairy found our house while H was getting ready for school, and did her job. He was pleased with the two gold dollars he got. (I think the tooth fairy felt guilty.)

I hate it when fairy tale creatures forget things.

The tooth he lost was on the bottom front row. It's tough to tell because the big tooth has already come in behind it.

Rest in peace, Boppa

Yesterday afternoon, a very special, very loved, very wonderful man passed away. A's grandpa. Boppa. He was diagnosed with terminal lung cancer barely a month ago. He was told he had about six months to a year to live. But that was not meant to be. The time we had left with him went by so very quickly, but it was so precious. Boppa wasn't my grandpa by birth, but I felt like I adopted him when I married my husband. He was so full of kindness and love.

One of Boppa's favorite things to do was read with my kids. He used to pretend that he didn't know the letters and make the kids tell him what they were. He loved reading Shel Silverstein with them. He gave S a beautiful pop-up edition of Alice in Wonderland.

In recent weeks, we've spent many wonderful evenings at Boppa and Nana's house, laughing together as a family, bearing our testimonies of the gospel, and making precious memories that will bear us up in the days and weeks ahead. Probably the most precious memories will be of my kids reading to him. Almost every time we visited him in those last weeks, both H and S read to Boppa. We told them over and over again how much Boppa loved it—and how much he loved them. And they gladly read to him, over and over again. Books they had loved together and new books that my kids wanted to share with him.

The sweetest thing to me as a mother was to watch H with Boppa. H is a shy person by nature. There are times when he is painfully shy. But something really special happened to H over the past month. He began asking to read to Boppa, and later talking about how much he enjoyed it. I'm not sure what changed in H's little heart. I like to think that the Spirit whispered to him that Boppa wouldn't be around for much longer. And it even extended to other relatives. On Thanksgiving day, he read to both my grandmas, and an aunt and uncle. Volunteering to do so.

Only a few days before Boppa died, we had made plans to go and visit, but Nana said he wasn't doing well and that we could come the next night. A's sister called to tell me that all Boppa had wanted that night was for H to read to him. So, the kids picked out special books to read to Boppa and we all went down together the next night and had a really wonderful time.

I'm so very thankful that we all have these sweet memories. I'm grateful for the growth my kids have experienced over the past few months, and the way A's family has surrounded each other and cared for one another. In the face of so much sadness and grief, there is still much to celebrate.

Rest in peace, Boppa.

Ding dong, the gopher's dead!

It's kind of sad how excited I am about this, but I don't care. The gopher that has been a plague on our lives (yes, a plague) is DEAD.

About a week after we moved in, we saw a hole in the grass and a mound of dirt next to it. Well, my neighbor noticed it first and pointed it out to me as evidence that we had a gopher. This was about three days after the plumbing incident so I did not feel particularly kindly toward the house or the grass around it. And I certainly didn't think it was very nice that some gopher picked our lawn to mess with.

My husband began dutifully trying to get rid of the gopher. He tried poison, smoke bombs, a piece of chewing gum (apparently, it's supposed to choke them), and even shoving the water hose down the tunnel to try and flood him out.

Nothing—and I mean nothing—worked. I saw the gopher poke his little head out at one point during the poison phase. I ran inside, grabbed the poison, and tossed some down the tunnel. If I had only known how long this unwelcome creature would be with us, I think I would have bashed him over the head with a shovel right then and there. And I am not kidding about that. I'm generally not against animals at all. I'm not a lover of animals, but I don't really harbor any ill will toward them. But an animal that will dig up our brand-new sod and make holes all over our backyard for THREE MONTHS deserves no good will from me.

A few weeks ago, my husband bought a trap. We started to think even that wasn't working when one or two new holes appeared. But then, this morning, my husband knocked excitedly on my office window, motioning for me to come out.

Ding dong, the gopher's dead!

And now, we hope and pray that his girlfriend isn't still out there somewhere...

Hosting Thanksgiving

For the first time ever, we hosted Thanksgiving dinner. If you know me well, you know this was a big deal. Hosting gatherings at my home tends to stress me out, but I'm doing a lot better with it. We enjoyed a really delightful afternoon of eating, resting, playing, and chatting. It was lovely!

The grandmas relax before eating.

Aunt Debbie helped the kids make gumdrop turkeys.

The babies were ready for their nap even before we started eating.

H spent half the afternoon reading to relatives. (He volunteered!)

The little things

I've been thinking a lot lately about the little things for which I'm grateful. Our immediate family is well and fine, but precious extended family members are in pain and not feeling well. And that's hard. Even as I've cried because things aren't the way I'd like them to be—especially at this time of year—I've been profoundly grateful for the tender mercies that have found their way into our lives as a direct result of these challenges.

Having an increased love for family and a desire to be with them more often.
Sharing simple gospel truths and playing silly games together.
Laughing over past fun we've had.
Watching sisters and brothers in law sweetly care for ailing family members.
Watching my sometimes shy kids open up as they've read with, hugged, and sung to family members.

I love my family so much. I am more grateful than ever for the plan of salvation and the opportunity to be with them forever.

Spectacle

More than a year after having twins, I think we're mostly used to the spectacle our family has become. The looks from strangers as we stroll through Costco, one baby on each side of the cart and three children trotting alongside. People asking if the babies are indeed twins. (I know that one is bigger than the other, but come on, there's no way A2 is nine months older than N.) However, a few months ago, we moved from a ward that had eight or nine sets of twins to a ward with maybe two. Lately, we've been getting a lot of this from our neighbors: "Boy, you really do have your hands full." Yeah, thanks for the tip. I only realize that myself maybe ten times a day or so.

I was laughing on Sunday as I watched my husband struggle to walk in the church hallway while holding A2 in his arms, and holding the hand of a walking N. A2 was trying to leap out of my husband's arms, and N was struggling to get away to inspect some poor woman's diaper bag. And our row in church on any given Sunday is not exactly a pretty sight. There is a lot of whining, a lot of crying, and a lot of hissing. And that's just from me.

Last Sunday evening, as we did tithing settlement, the bishop said that callings for both of us "are in the works." He said this as the babies tried to dump the jelly beans off his desk, pull themselves onto his chair, and rip various papers, all while crying and whining because they were tired. Um, Bishop? I'm not so sure we're ready for that...

Grammar

Is there no one left who cares about grammar? About comma splices, colons, and who vs. whom? And the all-important apostrophes (so very rarely used correctly, even on billboards and signs)? And while we're at it, it's "I could NOT care less" not "I could care less"—I can't tell you how many times I've heard that and inwardly cringed. I've even heard it on TV shows and movies!

I know the group of people who honestly care about using correct grammar is rather small, but sometimes, I seriously feel like I'm the only one in the bunch. On Saturday, I went to see "Disney on Ice: Princess Classics" with S and my two sisters-in-law. The play itself was somewhat long, but we had a really fun day overall, especially since we wore princess crowns the whole time. Watching S's face light up at every new thing in the production was well worth it. When asked which part was her favorite, she said, "All of it!"

But back to grammar: During the Snow White segment, the evil queen was doing her bit in front of the magic mirror. At one point, the magic mirror said, "Snow White is more fairer than you."

I immediately looked around to see if anyone else had noticed the grammar snafu. Anyone? Anyone? Just me, then?

*Sigh.* I can't even count on Disney to use correct grammar.


Oh well. At least we looked awesome in our crowns.

Night-time Snuggles

When you have twins, chances are that on occasion, one of them will wake up in the middle of the night. Even though you've sleep trained both of them, it doesn't work for every night, all night long. Especially when one of those babies is a light sleeper. And the other baby is a loud sleeper. It happens.

The other night, I had N in bed next to me. She woke up crying and I (against my better judgment but who has good judgment in the middle of the night) got her out of bed. It's a bad decision with N because once she's out of bed, she doesn't go back to sleep for hours. She'll lay in bed next to you, stare into space, babble, and poke you, but never sleep. And don't you dare try to put her back in her own bed or she will commence sobbing, which will most certainly wake her brother up. As she lay in bed next to me, staring wide awake into the darkness, I snuggled up to her and tried to doze myself. I felt her little hand reach out and touch my shoulder. Most likely, she was making sure I didn't try and leave her, but my heart swelled up so huge just then. These are the moments, I thought to myself, however exhausting they may be right now, that you will miss when they're gone. When these two precious babies are even just a little bit bigger, and they start talking and jumping and going to preschool and everything else.

These are the moments you'll miss.

Halloween

I've been thinking about writing this for a while now. I told my husband that I was going to do it, then I chickened out, and then I decided to go ahead with it.

I don't like Halloween.

Before you Halloween lovers rise up in alarm, please let me clarify.

Growing up, I thought Halloween was fun. As a lover of all things candy, the thought of going door-to-door and getting it for free was pure heaven. But that was where my fondness for Halloween ended. I am not a hugely creative person, unless you count writing. I don't come up with elaborate Halloween costumes for myself. We will probably never be the family that dresses up together in a theme. As one of five daughters in my family, we had several costumes we just rotated between us every year. A cat. A rabbit. A baby. (I can't remember the rest.) We picked what we were going to be, pulled out an old pillowcase to hold all our loot, and off we went.

To add to this, I hate being scared. I hate watching scary movies. I hate haunted houses. I even hate mildly frightening music that might hint of something scary to come. So a holiday that delights in all things scary was probably never going to fly with me. (Now, lest you think I hate all holidays, I adore Christmas and Thanksgiving. Favorite time of year, hands down.)

Of course, I married into a family of Halloween lovers. Every year, my poor husband will want to think up a cool costume for Halloween, and maybe even something we can be together. We always head off to the local Halloween store, and while he peruses the aisles in search of the perfect costume, I walk behind him, aghast at how much costumes cost. This year, he saw a Bigfoot costume for $100. For one night?!! Thankfully, he didn't get it. I even talked my kids into mostly recycling costumes from years before. We only had to purchase a Hannah Montana wig for S and a Captain America costume for H. I wore my Japanese kimono from six years ago.

This past Halloween, I generally grumbled under my breath about the annoyance of this so-called holiday. Then, that evening, I went trick-or-treating with the kids while A stayed at home to hand out candy with the babies. As I watched the kids sprint from house to house, exclaiming over all the loot they got (including a can of Root Beer!), I got a little of the love back that I used to have for Halloween. I may never wear the awesome costumes or even have Halloween decorations up at my house (I prefer a Harvest wreath and a few pumpkins), but it's still a holiday with free candy involved. And anything with candy can't be all bad.

My husband, getting ready for his night bike ride on October 30. (No, I'm not sure what gorillas have to do with mumus. And there are also glow sticks all over the mumu that you can't see.) The next day, he dressed up again as a gorilla, went to a cyclocross race and handed out bananas.

A ladybug, a SWAT team guy, a cow, Captain America, and Hannah Montana. Sorry about the bottles, but there was no way these babies would hold still otherwise. Also, notice A2's new shoes.

We're good parents... really

As parents, I feel like we're pretty attentive to what's going on with our kids. We try and notice the little things they need, their changes in mood, the small quirks that make up their personalities. So, it's all the more depressing when something like the following happens...

Last Sunday, we headed up to a birthday party for my grandma. I didn't have time to put the babies' shoes on beforehand, so as we were getting out of the car, I hurriedly tried to shove shoes on A2's feet. He was curling up his toes and arching his feet (I hate it when kids do that) so it was a little difficult, but I got them on.

He seemed fine for most of the time we were there, content to putter around with his sister and eat the homemade pumpkin bread that my aunt made. As we were getting ready to go, A2 suddenly lost it. He started whining and crying and nothing seemed to help. "Well, that's our cue to leave," we said. We both figured he was tired or hot or something like that. Figured that as soon as we got him in the car, he'd calm down and take a nap.

Not so. He kept crying most of the 30-minute drive home, frequently elevating his crying to screaming. I even gave him a bottle of milk, the sure-fire way to get A2 to be happy. He wouldn't drink it. That's when we knew something was wrong. "He's probably sick." "Maybe it's an ear infection."

We got home. My husband immediately got A2 out of the car and sat down with him on the couch. He happened to look down at A2's shoes and thought, "I wonder if his shoes are too tight." He pulled off the shoes and socks to find two cramped and scraped-up feet. Almost instantly, A2 stopped crying and was perfectly happy from then on.

Oops. Perhaps I should have noticed something when I had to jam his feet into his shoes. Poor kid couldn't take his feet being squished like that anymore.

Nine

I can't believe my little girl is nine. She's growing up too fast. Pretty soon, I'll have a preteen. But for now, she's still content to play dress-up, Barbies, and fairies, read about Ramona Quimby and Harry Potter, and giggle to her heart's content. And, she wants to be a writer when she grows up. (Yeah!)

We started the celebration on Friday with a special dinner with her best friend and her friend's mom (who just happens to be my best friend--how handy!). Then, I brought both girls to our house for a sleepover, complete with a movie in S's bedroom and sticky buns for breakfast in the morning.

Happy birthday, S! We love you!

Who's afraid?

I'm a hotbed of phobias and fears. Illnesses. Semi-scary TV shows and movies. Accidents of any kind. Natural disasters. Roller coasters.

One of the things that I've had to work on as a parent is not letting my own phobias become my children's problems as well. During our trip to Disney World in May, I found myself sitting on a roller coaster with S, telling her that it was fun and not scary at all, when really, I wanted to throw up. I even had to fight the urge to scream during the Haunted Mansion ride with T, since he was very nervous and certainly didn't need to see his mother scared, too.

Our new city is apparently known for being windy, which does not thrill me at all. I hate wind, or actually, I hate windy nights. I worry about our new trees and bushes, my wreath flying off the front door, and debris flying through the air and breaking windows. A few weeks ago, I woke up in the middle of the night to a horrible windstorm. I couldn't go back to sleep, so I ended up working from 4 am to 6:30 am. Figured I might as well do something productive. :)

The other night, we had another pretty bad windstorm. Driving home in the car, leaves and twigs were flying all over the place and the kids started freaking out. The wind didn't let up as we were getting the kids in bed, and H became rather upset. He couldn't sleep and wanted to be with Mom and Dad.

We told him all sorts of comforting things. "It's just the wind—it can't hurt you." "I know it's loud, but just try and relax and fall asleep." As I was saying them, my own mind was filling with all kinds of awful scenarios, not the least of which was the wind somehow making our double-pane windows break, and glass flying everywhere.

Even though I suffer from a plethora of phobias, I'm grateful that I have children who need me to be strong and give them comfort (however weak I may feel at the time). As I say the things that I don't necessarily feel, it does end up calming me down a little. I haven't figured out how to make the phobias go away completely, but maybe someday...

Photo essay by T

T likes to take photos with the digital camera. Usually, I'll tell him he can take one picture, but somehow, I always end up with 25 pictures of his foot. Sometimes, though, they're really great. Behold, T's photo essay of his younger brother, A2.

A few thoughts

Here are some thoughts that have been in my head that don't go with anything else...

I've started working on Christmas lists. I'm presently trying to figure out how to convince my children that what they really, really want for Christmas is shirts, pants, and socks. I'm just not sure I can handle any more toys—plus the toys they want get more pricey as they get older. Thank goodness the babies will be perfectly happy with wrapping paper.

Sometimes I wish there was a way to have my family exist in the nude for a few days so I wouldn't have to do laundry. I love the feeling of being caught up, but then somehow, two days later, I've got another mountain of it to do.

A few recent comments from my hypochondriac daughter: "Mom, I'm worried about the swine flu. What if I get it? Kailee's sister said that if you get it, you could die. " (Kailee's sister is in 1st grade, so definitely a good source of info.) "Mom, what if I get alopecia and my hair falls out like that girl on the pageant show?" (We watched Toddlers and Tiaras on TLC for 10 minutes.) I almost told her that I know someone with alopecia, but then I decided against it. She's also been worried about radon for months now. And no, we don't have it in our house.

A2 has chipped a tooth. I have no idea how or when it happened. I know it will eventually fall out, but in the meantime, it looks a little weird. Do they fix something like that on toddlers?

I miss my old neighborhood. I miss having friends that I can call when I need help, or even just a cup of sugar on a Sunday morning.

And lastly, does anyone want to buy our old house? It's super cute and comes complete with aforementioned great neighborhood and friends.

My weekend

This past weekend was one of the most relaxing I've had in a long time.

It was the yearly 24 Hours of Moab bike race that my husband always attends. Usually that means I'm home alone with all of the kids, but two wonderful women changed that. First, my friend Gail offered to take S down to Moab with her family. Sure, why not? Then, my sister-in-law decided to go to the race and volunteered to take the boys with her. Seriously? Just me and the babies for the whole weekend? Yippee!

The babies helped me do errands—we got the car washed and vacuumed (neither baby enjoyed the loud sounds of the car wash), went to the grocery store, picked up a few hardware items for the house, went to the bank, and bought a bookcase for the family room. I cleaned the bathrooms, swept and mopped the tile on the main level, hung some artwork, and vacuumed the house.

My biggest accomplishment of the weekend was that I put this bookcase together all by myself. If you know me, you know that I am not a handy person. At all. The fact that I put it together by myself (after dragging the heavy box out of the van and getting it into the house) is a big accomplishment.
We also rested, played, and just generally relaxed. It was heaven.

No, A2 isn't that much taller than his sister. He's up on his knees—in a constant state of escape while in his highchair.

The only time when the quiet unnerved me was at night, when my overactive imagination tends to make me nervous.

It would be nice to say that after such a relaxing weekend, the children came home from their trip, happy and in a great mood. Well, S and H did, but the T-man came home cranky and in an awful mood. When he's tired, it's so hard to get him to listen to reason. And really, his moods have become increasingly cranky lately. I've decided it's like night terrors but he's awake. You can't get him to listen to you and he just keeps yelling and freaking out about really important things like not wanting to take his dirty shoes off. I'm trying to hug him more and if that doesn't help him snap out of it, I just walk away.

So, we're back to the grind around here, but I'm glad that everyone had a great weekend, these crazy kids included.

Sporting temp. tatoos from one of Dad's favorite bike gear online stores—Twin Six.

What's in a name?

I love nicknames. I love fun ones, ones that shorten your name, and ones that don't mean anything at all. Perhaps it's because I grew up with a father who was called "Rat" as a teenager. Or, perhaps, because my own nickname has always been Neelie.

We've given our kids fairly normal nicknames until now, just shortened versions of their real names. But for some reason right after the twins were born, my husband began calling A2 "Potato." At first I was horrified and told him to stop, but then one day, I started doing it, too. Potato Man. Potato Head. Mr. Potato. And if I'm referring to both of the babies—Little Potatoes.

Sometimes, you can go too far with nicknames, like the other day when I was getting the babies out of their cribs after naptime and I called A2 "Potato Peeling." Yeah, that's no good.

But quite possibly, the best nickname in the history of the universe...

Bedabuff. Shortened to Beda. Shortened to Bead.

When it was made known that my friend Elizabeth grew up with a nickname of Bedabuff (because she couldn't say her own name or her brother couldn't—something like that), that sealed the deal and our group of college friends have called her that ever since. When people would call our apartment looking for "Liz," I always had to stop and remember who they were talking about. Years later, I called her Elizabeth just for fun and she asked me to stop. It was "creepy," she said.

I know that at some point, we'll have to stop calling A2 Potato, because we don't want him introducing himself in kindergarten that way (although, it would be very amusing...). But for now, he is the Potato.

It's gone

For all of my life, I've prided myself on my memory. I even wrote a blog post about it.

All the stress of moving, plumbing woes, and redoing the basement after plumbing woes seem to have affected my brain. Hopefully, it will come back.

A week or so after we moved in, I got a notice in the mail that I hadn't paid a credit card bill. I don't think that has ever happened to me. Especially this one, since it's through our bank so I can just transfer funds straight from checking.

A week later, I began to panic about our Amex bill. I hadn't received the bill in the mail yet, and I was worried it wouldn't come before the due date. I know forwarding mail can sometimes delay things, so I finally just called Amex.

"Someone already paid the bill."
"Who?"
"I'm sorry; I can't tell you that."

Flabbergasted, I asked A if he had paid it. No. Then I happened to look at my check registry. Yeah, I had paid it, right before we moved.

The memory's not gone for good, is it? Is it?

A rant

Forgive me, dear readers, while I rant for a bit.

When we moved to our new house, we realized we would have to get window blinds. And knowing that we had several rather large windows (and that neither of us are particularly skilled when it comes to tasks that involve screwdrivers) we decided to suck it up and order custom ones and have them professionally installed. I looked around a bit and settled on The Blindman. They were cheaper than other companies and I liked their products.

A rep came out to the house before we moved in (so, 25th of August) and did his bid. It was much less than I thought it would be, so I was thrilled. And he said they would do the install in 10 to 12 business days. At the time I thought, "Crap, two weeks is a long time to be here without blinds, but hey, it's a big order."

Around 8 business days later, I called the company to check on our order. I was told we were scheduled for installation the following Thursday, which would be exactly 12 business days. Ok, fine. Didn't hear anything from the company as to when they were coming, so I called again the next Wednesday. I was informed that they were waiting on materials, so it would actually be a bit longer. I called again a few days later and was told the same thing. This scenario happened every few days for the next few weeks. The company never called me to let me know what was happening with my order. No progress reports. No, "we're so sorry this is taking so long." At one point, someone told me that blind orders actually take four to six weeks. Then why did their rep say 10 to 12 business days?!

One day last week, after being told the blinds wouldn't be installed until sometime this week, I finally asked to speak to a manager about getting a discount. That started another run-around. Tuesday, a mere two hours before the install (and when I was supposed to pay the balance on the bill), I got through to a manager—or actually the receptionist did and called me back with the manager's answer. I was informed they would give me $100 off. One hundred freakin' dollars off a $4,000 order. That's right.

I was actually quite proud of myself as I went off on the receptionist (and yes, I know it's not her fault, but I wasn't able to speak with anyone else!). I experienced such a lack of customer service throughout this entire process. I recognize that mistakes happen and sometimes delays are out of the company's control, but at some point, I think you need to fork out a discount in the name of good customer service. I even told the receptionist that I would never, ever recommend their company to anyone else, and that several of my friends had told me they had bad experiences (after I started the process, of course). She felt bad, but $100 off was all she could do.

The blinds are in and they look fine. But I'm planning to write a nasty letter to their corporate offices. Such a horrible way to do business! It doesn't matter if you have nice products if your customer service is crap.

Forgotten lunch

H is a sensitive kid. Sometimes I think of it as just being tenderhearted, but every now and then he goes in waves where he seems overly so—crying about not being able to play with toys because it's bedtime, sobbing if a small toy dog comes near him, and crying if we suggest the kids race to see who gets their pjs on first. It appears we're in the midst of a wave.

Last Friday, about two minutes after H and S took off for school on their bikes, I happened to look on the kitchen counter and realized that H had forgotten his lunch. I ran to see if I could catch them, but they were already past the playground. "Well, he can get school lunch today. No biggie." The kids have money in an account at school so they can get school lunch twice a week, so I figured H would just do that. Then I remembered which kid I was dealing with. I knew he would not realize that he could just do school lunch, and most likely would get very upset. So, I planned to take his lunch to school right after I dropped T off at preschool in 30 minutes.

Fifteen minutes later, I got a call on my cell phone. Whoever it was didn't say anything, but I could tell they were trying to. I was about to hang up when I realized it was my son, probably crying so much that he couldn't speak. I said his name over and over but he still wouldn't/couldn't talk. His teacher came on the phone and said he was very concerned about not having a lunch and I assured her I was bringing it over soon.

When H got home from school, we talked it over and I told him if that were to ever happen again, he should just get school lunch. My mom suggested we talk as a family about different potentially troubling situations that could come up to try and head off H's emotional meltdowns. I think it's a good idea, but honestly, so many different things seem to be setting him off these days, that I'm not sure my husband and I can think of all the potential scenarios. I'd also like to help him "toughen up" for all the years of sports, possible bullies, and just life stuff that is sure to come his way.

*Sigh.*

Anyone have any advice?

Are we there yet?

I would like to announce (tentatively, and I'm hoping that by announcing this, it doesn't somehow mess with the order of the universe and bring us more woes) that the basement is back to its original state. Well, with the entire system of pipes moved up four inches and new concrete poured over the pipes. And new carpet in the theater room, because the carpet in there was used to replace carpet in the halls and bedrooms that got affected.

So... it looks the same as before, but let's hope the changes that were made mean that this never, ever happens again. Now comes the fun(?) part of putting everything back in the right place, wiping off things that got dusty (although everything was covered in plastic) and organizing our lives again. I can't believe it's been less than three weeks since the incident. It feels like we've been dealing with this for months. I'm excited to really relax in our house, and hopefully not have to worry every time we flush the toilet, do a load of wash, or take a shower.

And we've run into a dead end on the "get someone else to pay for this" project. After talking with a few trusted people, we decided that the best person to pursue would probably be the builder himself, or at least his liability insurance. Unfortunately, because the house was empty for three years, it's very unlikely that insurance would pay on the claim. We'll keep looking into it, but we're not betting on anything.

Melinda,

When I think of my childhood, high school, college, and even beyond, so many memories are made better because you were there. I remember years of Primary classes together. I remember making a pact in high school that we wouldn't go to drinking parties. I remember when you would shove Frisky in my face and tell me to "just love her!" And too many memories from college to count.

Even though you've forgotten a lot of this, don't worry. I'll always be here to remember for you. And if you call one day and ask me the name of "that girl with blond hair who we didn't like but who knows why we didn't like her" and I can't remember, I'll just call Brooke. She'll remember.

Happy birthday, friend. I love you.

Tennille

P.S. Sorry for the plethora of pictures. Just be glad I didn't pick any from high school.

At Bead's parents' house for Easter, after the Dark Crystal incident. Apparently, you really liked your juice.

Beauty pageant-ready. Except for Beda, that is.

I have no idea what's going on in this picture.

A touch of OCD

Recently, I read a book for book club: Kissing Doorknobs by Terry Spencer Hesser. It's about a young girl who suffers with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. It's a really touching story that makes you realize how very hard it would be to deal with something like that and overcome it.

While I definitely do not have OCD, reading this book reminded me of the slightly obsessive tendencies that I do have... Checking to make sure doors are locked every night, to the point that I have to look at the door lock straight on and "visualize" the door locked. Checking several times to make sure the garage door is down when I leave. Going back to make sure I've locked the front doors. Making sure my children are breathing every night, to the point that I have to stand there, with my hand on their chests and feel the rise and fall of their breathing. Perhaps I'm guilty of nudging them to make them move so I don't have to wonder. Perhaps.

Some of this is probably typical Mom stuff, but I also remember checking doors and things when I was a kid (especially if my mom was gone for the night cause I worried my dad wouldn't do it). I also remember that when I said my nightly prayers, if one of my family members was still not home, I had to pray that they would get home safely. If I forgot, I'd get out of bed and say another prayer. I was convinced that if I didn't pray, they wouldn't get home ok. Nice burden for a kid, don't you think?

These tendencies haven't been helped by the trenches in my basement (and no, I'm not posting another picture. It's just too depressing.) Every few hours, I have to go down and check the basement bathroom and the furnace room to make sure we haven't had another back-up. The vision of what I found in there last Saturday is still too present in my mind. This isn't made easier by plumbers telling us we can use our system until everything's fixed, but "take short showers. Don't flush unless you go #2, and don't use your disposal." I'm constantly worried that one of the kids will flush too much toilet paper down. Or, flush in the middle of the night and we won't know there's a problem until we wake up in the morning. And I wonder why I don't sleep well these days.

In good news (comparatively speaking), they've almost uncovered the whole pipe system in the basement and hope to have everything fixed and back to normal in the next week. We'll see. :)

Sanctuary

Your home should be a sanctuary, somewhere where you feel safe, comfortable.

Sanctuary is not the way I would describe our house right now. I told my husband that I feel like our house is working against us, which has made both of us feel stressed, sad, and angry. Adding to that was the news yesterday that we'll have to rip up every spot in the basement floor that's above pipes so that we can raise the whole system up a few inches, to give it a better angle when it connects with the pipes outside of the house. Adding to that was the bill I got yesterday for the disaster clean-up crew that was double what they quoted on Sunday. I guess that's why they call it a quote, eh?

I'm not feeling a lot of love toward my house right now. Which is unfortunate, because it really is a beautiful home. So, I took a few photos to remind me of the things I do love about it.

I love my front porch.

I love our new couches.

I love my bathroom.

I love our winding staircase.

I love my kitchen.


I look forward to the time when this home will really be our sanctuary.