Kick the bells of holly folly!

Fa-la-la-la-la la-la-la-la!

That song of Uno's has been stuck in my head for the last week or so. Crazy.

We had a good Christmas. Despite having stayed awake until the wee hours of the morning as an elf (constructing the much-loved Dora Talking Kitchen, mostly, with a pinch of "oh crap, where did I put the stocking stuffers?" thrown in for good measure), I still woke up before the girls did. When they finally did get up, though, they were thrilled to see their Santa gifts and unwrap all the rest. I had a blast watching them. Christmas is way more fun as a grownup, I think.

There's more I meant to write about our Christmas extravaganza, but my brain is not working right now. :-P Sorry. I'm very tired, so this will have to do.

Christmas was fun. Can't wait to kick those bells of holly folly again next year.


~RCH~

A new rule

Uno is going crazy. Every day she asks me, "Is it Christmas Day yet?" And I have to tell her, "No, but it's Christmas Season so we can still enjoy all the lights and excitement!"

"STOP TALKING ABOUT CHRISTMAS SEASON!" she exploded at me recently. "I WANT CHRISTMAS DAY!"

Well last night as we were putting her to bed, she let me know that she'd been talking to the Man in Charge: "Jesus told me that we can open one present in Christmas Season and we don't have to wait for the day."

"Oh really?" I said.

"Yes. Really. One present in Christmas Season. It's the new rule."

We haven't opened one yet, but the very sweetest thing about this new rule of Uno's is that she has no interest in opening any of her own gifts (well, let me rephrase -- she has plenty of interest in her own, but none of this urgency). The One Present she wants opened is the one she picked out for her dad. She's desperate to see the excitement on his face when he opens what she just KNOWS he's going to love and treasure forever.

Even she knows that it's more fun to give than to receive. :-)


~RCH~

A wonderful surprise

I had the best visit yesterday with my seester and her new husband, who drove up to Christmastown on a whim to see us!

I was in the midst of brooding over our recent rough time -- kids with rotavirus, a Thanksgiving day near-amputation of DH's thumb (maybe not quite as dramatic as that, lol, but still) and then, of course, the loss -- when I thought I heard the doorbell. I went upstairs to find the two of them on my front porch, bearing gifts of Dr. Pepper and chocolate.

It was so good to see them. I had the most wonderful time. It was exactly what I needed. :-)


~RCH~

Nevermind

Turns out the rumors of a July baby were unfounded. Well, founded originally but not so much anymore.... It came as a bit of a shock. I thought I was imperviously fertile. Guess not.

At least now we won't have to buy a minivan or some other behemoth vehichle to accommodate three carseats. I won't have to figure out how to hold more children than I have hands. I can worry about my waistline again -- figure out some exercise that I'll actually do -- rather than watch helplessly as it grows without my consent. We can take a summer vacation.

I had my blood drawn today to compare to hormone levels from a blood draw on Saturday; the hCG is supposed to decrease on its own, but if it doesn't, I'll have to go in for what sounds like a fairly unpleasant procedure. The nurse poked and wiggled the needle around in my arms and hand four times before she gave up and let DH try; he got it right in one go.

"I hope your blood will feel better," Uno told me as we drove home. I've tried to explain to her what's going on because, as a precocious almost-four-year-old, she knows that babies come in tummies. She would remember that we told her I had one in mine that would come out in the summer, and she'd be concerned if it never did. I'm sure Dos has long forgotten the "you're going to be a big sister!" conversation, but Uno keeps track of these things. So I told her that Daddy was going to check my blood at his office, and if it was bad then that meant the baby wasn't in my tummy anymore. That made enough sense to her that she offered condolence instead of more questions.

I'm not entirely sure how I'm supposed to feel about all this. I am disappointed, absolutely. And I can't let go of the need to blame myself: If I'd cut out the Diet Dr. Pepper habit; if I'd tried to eat more nutritiously; if I hadn't forgotten to take my prenatals so often; if I'd been a little more enthusiastic about the possibility of Numero Tres before the big pee stick reveal, could this have been avoided? But I don't feel like I'm mourning. Should I? Am I heartless if I don't? Will it come later?

I feel like I've lost something I never had. Which is its own kind of sadness, I guess.


~RCH~

The official wish list(s)

I so appreciate having other people's wish lists to work from when I'm trying to come up with a decent gift. For those of you who have Amazon wish lists, thank you! For those of you who have Amazon wish lists that haven't been updated in three years, add some kind of comment to your list to let people know you still want that stuff (or delete it if you don't and add new stuff). For those of you who have online wish lists somewhere else, make sure you let people know where!

The family person whose name we have has already given me a hand-written list (which I accidentally left at mom's, but I still remember the gist). Thank you. Still. It never hurts to have one online for future occasions.

In that spirit, you can find my wish lists either on Amazon.com or on ListIdeas.com using my email address. (If you don't know me well enough to have my email address, you shouldn't buy me any presents, lol.)

The lists are merely a guideline, of course; they're not a registry of Christmas Needs. The girls will be thrilled with anything that comes in a box with wrapping paper on it (or hey, even without!) and DH and I don't need anything at all. But if you wanted to be generous and wondered what sorts of toys or tchotchkes the girls are into these days, without having the benefit of listening to them sing the Dora the Explorer song all day every day, then this might point you in the right direction.

Thank you, and Ho-Ho-Ho! :-)


~RCH~

This one's good because it's bad for you

But it's oh-so tasty! Here's one of the recipes that we had for Thanksgiving dinner, courtesy of DH's uncle the gourmet (gourmand?).

Sweet Potato Soufflé

Ingredients:

• four sweet potatoes, peeled


• 3/4 cup white sugar


• 2 eggs


• 1/2 cup butter, room temperature


• 1 tsp vanilla


• 1/2 cup milk

Topping

• 1 cup brown sugar


• 1/3 cup flour


• 1/4 cup cold butter


• 1 cup chopped pecans

Directions:

1. Preheat oven to 350F. Boil peeled sweet potatoes until soft.


2. Beat together the sweet potatoes, white sugar, eggs, 1/2 cup butter, vanilla, and milk; pour into a buttered casserole dish (or spray it with non-stick spray if you're not loving all this butter -- but let's be serious, lol, that's what makes it good).


3. Mix topping ingredients -- brown sugar, flour, 1/4 cup cold butter, and pecans -- together and sprinkle on top of the sweet potato mixture.


4. Bake at 350F for 45 minutes.

Aaaaaaah! Delicious! :-)


~RCH~

The perks

Apparently one of the perks of being Christmastown celebrities is that our children get the star treatment by the local press. (Either that or the townspeople are tired of seeing them out and about with unkempt hair, and hoped to give me a reason to comb it.) We got a phone call from the town's only newspaper yesterday, asking if they could come over to our house and photograph the girls coloring pictures to announce the annual Christmas coloring contest sponsored by the Chamber of Commerce. I said sure; we are, after all, at the mercy of our adoring fans.

I won't see the newspaper photos until next week, but here are a couple shots I took: The first one shows Numero Uno coloring a page of mencrackers (she knows they're nutcrackers, but we both prefer Dos's version). The second one is of Numero Dos bursting into tears after I told her sharply to stop coloring on the window. Please note the nicely coiffed hair on both.





This is not, of course, the first perk we've had as The New Doctor's Family. (At the library: "Oh no, you don't need proof of address and a reference to get a library card! That's for the little people!" Writing a check at the grocery store: "Oh heavens, I don't need to see your I.D. -- I know exactly who you are!") It's not even the first time we've been in the paper. DH warned me that I wouldn't be able to remain anonymous in such a small town, and he's been right.

Still. Antisocial though I may be, I'm also a bit of an attention whore. So it all works out in the end. ;-)

~RCH~

Attention newlyweds!

My most recently married sisters, both of whom looooooove pink, need to scootch on down to Michael's craft store for one of these. Your holiday decor will simply not be complete without a lovely pink feather tree.




~RCH~

My daughter, the budding artist

Numero Uno, who will be 4 in January, has only begun drawing representational art in the last couple months. But she's brilliant at it, if I do say so my completely unbiased self! Here are a couple of her recent pieces for your viewing pleasure. The first one is entitled "My Friend Daddy." The second one (which you can tell is of me because of the long hair) is simply called "Mom." (Should I be hurt by that, lol?)

~RCH~

Expletives deleted

My girls have potty mouths. Lucky for me, though, they've made up their own curse words that aren't likely to offend the random, non-family eavesdropper.

"Nah Gobbit!" the baby yells when she's upset. And then she stomps her foot.

"Quit off," the toddler says, in a voice dripping with contempt and worthy of the most sullen teenage drama queen. (Boy, it'll be fun when we hit that age for real!)

On the one hand, I should probably discourage all this salty talk: Even if the words are nonsense, the intent shines through in their tone; they ought to learn to speak civilly. On the other hand, I like that they don't hold things in. I always did.

Still. There must be a happy medium around here somewhere that doesn't involve swearing, lol.


~RCH~

Home On the Range

I dragged the girls with me to Cache Valley today for a little fake bridesmaid dress shopping, and we listened to their CD of old timey cowboy music all the way there. I got all misty eyed, thinking of my former home, at the following verse:

Where the air is so pure
and the Zephyrs so free
and the breezes so bonny and light
that I would not exchange
my home on the range
for all of your cities so bright!

Which is kind of funny, considering that we lived in a city of 200k before and we're in a rural county of 6k now. Still, my home on the range was there -- on the beautiful prairies, the high plains of West Texas -- however suburban it may have been. Not here.

Maybe someday songs about living in the Shadow of the Everlasting Hills will make me well with nostalgic tears for our current home. I do love it here. But right now I kind of miss Texas.


~RCH~

Lookin' for love in all the wrong places

I've found new art sites to pour over in my endless quest for the perfect living room adornment. Problem is, I'm looking at all the wrong stuff: DH (who wants mass produced religious prints handsomely framed) and I (who want original, unique abstract or non-literal paintings) have allegedly compromised; I'm supposed to be hunting up original, unique art that is at the same time religious or at least spiritual in nature.

But I keep getting sidetracked by the Natasha Wescoats and the Pamela Brookes and the adorable Wendy Ryans of the world.

D'oh.

And even that is me being restrained. There are plenty of non-figurative abstracts I'm drawn to -- huge canvases of color -- that I don't even stop to drool over because I know they won't find a place in my house. These, while they probably won't end up in my living room (hey wait, nuns are religious!) might someday find a niche here. Maybe.

*Sigh!*


~RCH~

I heart Natasha Wescoat

A few samples of Natasha Wescoat's work, from her website:









Purty! I want some!


~RCH~

The paper bag princesses

Please forgive the bad scan, but despite the three crisp dollar bills we fed the booth at the mall, the original wasn't that good either.

Still. There's no denying our collective cuteness. ;-)

The three of us went shopping a few days ago. The stated purpose of our trip to the lovely Cache Valley was to follow up with my eye doctor -- apparently my "contact fatigue" is easing, and the crater in my left cornea is filling back in -- but I had birthday money from the in-laws burning a hole in my pocket so after the check up and a quick lunch, we hit the stores.

I want to look nice again; I want new clothes. I want pants that fit me well (ha, ha) and shirts without stains and I want to expand my Sunday wardrobe beyond the single black skirt that I currently own.

I'm so desperate for these things, in fact, that I was willing to take a 2- and 3-year-old shopping all by myself during what is generally their naptime (made more sense than driving an hour home and then coming back -- a bird in hand is worth two if by sea, as they say). About the experience, let me just say: Wheeeeee! It's one thing to take tired toddlers grocery shopping, because at least you can stick them in the fancy firetruck cart and let them pretend to drive. It's another thing entirely to take them with you as you browse through closely spaced racks looking for your size ("Don't pull that off the hanger! Stop touching that! Don't hide in the clothes!") or into the dressing room with you ("Don't you dare open that door, I'm half naked!").

Two discount stores and one mall later, I came away with only one purchase: A pair of $5 yoga pants on clearance. Hmmph. I had found an adorable wrap dress at the mall and would gladly have spent my entire wad on it -- but I took it from what I thought was a return rack, when really it was on hold for another customer. They made me give it back. It was the last of its kind. :-(

I kept thinking how nice it would be to have my sisters there with me -- both to help me shop and to corral the crazies -- but although we're much closer to them than we used to be, it's still too much to ask any of them with their very busy lives.

Oh well. We've got some family parties coming up in the next little while, so I'll be heading down to the Metropolis soon and we can try this shopping thing again. Until then, I guess I'll just keep wearing this paper bag....


~RCH~

A few random thoughts

First of all, the baby is adorable and we eat out entirely too much lately. She's standing in front of me right now, wearing only a onesie, with a small piece of paper and pen poised in her hand waiting on my reply.

"You want some pancakes?" she asks me. I tell her sure, and she marks a scribble in the corner of her paper.

"You want some sausage with that?" (The way she says sausage -- shashaj -- just melts my heart.) I tell her yes and she writes that down, too.

"Okay. I'll bring you a Diet Coat," she says, and saunters off.

In other news, I've been thinking some more about how I'd like to decorate this house. I browsed Art.com last night until 1AM and built these galleries (which are in no way comprehensive; there was a LOT to wade through and I would have kept going if we didn't have 9AM church). This tree is probably my favorite so far -- it's nice and oversized (42.25 x 38.25 inches) and I love the vibrant colors and simple subject -- but I don't know if it would really go in my living room and I wouldn't know where else to put it.

Today I've been looking at Wonderful Graffiti for word art. Here are a few quotes I've considered for the playroom:

• Let me play in the sunshine; let me sing for joy; let me grow in the light; let me splash in the rain and remember the days of childhood forever.


• Bless This Mess


• A child is a curly, dimpled lunatic. (Ralph Waldo Emerson)
  [My own children are neither curly haired nor dimpled, sadly, but I still like the sentiment!]


• ...And they all lived happily ever after....

For those of you with more decorating imagination than I have and who know me well, does this give you any idea of my taste and where I ought to be headed? Please help me brainstorm some more!


~RCH~

Decorating dilemmas

Apparently the bare walls in this house are driving DH crazy. I had no idea he had such an aversion to blank space, but there you have it.... He brought me down to the clinic yesterday to see the newly painted Winnie the Pooh mural in the children's exam room -- which is completely adorable -- and then immediately began the hard sell (with the muralist still right there) on how we should get our family room walls done, and we should decide RIGHT NOW and get it painted ASAP. Ack!

I haven't let him hang any pictures downstairs yet because I feel like I need some space and time to breathe and figure things out. Now that we're settled in a house for the long haul, I want to make well thought out decorating decisions. I want this to be a space I'll love, rather than one that's been quickly cobbled together just for the sake of having it sort of together. I feel like everything has happened so quickly already and without much input from me -- the purchase of the house, the selection of living room furniture, the organization of certain storage rooms and closets that I would have done much differently -- that I just want to pull the reins back and regain some small amount of control. I want to have my say.

Isn't it supposed to be my job to provide "the woman's touch" to our home? Who knew I had such an opinionated husband when it came to decorating?

Pleh.

Anyway. So now I'm thinking about murals and interior design and about my vision for this house. I don't really have one. I do think a mural would work better for the girls' room or the play room than the family room -- but maybe that's just because I lack imagination, and the only mural I've seen so far is the kids' room at the clinic. Who knows.

I Googled "playroom design" just now and haven't come across anything that really strikes me (though I did learn this helpful tidbit from About.com: "Murals are a great way to bring life into the playroom. The mural should be fun and not depict war or death"). One dim, undeveloped thought I've had is that it would be fun to paint one wall with chalkboard paint so the girls would have a nice big space to express themselves. (But would that simply invite messy disaster, with chalk forever on their clothes and hands and all over the place?) I've thought of maybe removing the closet doors and using it as a little cozy nook instead of a closet.... Though then I'm stuck without storage space. I don't really know what I want. I can't picture the fabulous end result yet.

I don't mind taking the time to figure it out, but apparently DH does. (Insert eye roll here, lol.)

Anybody want to help me brainstorm?


~RCH~

A rare compliment

The toddler is all about compliments lately:

"Mom," she'll say, "I like your shirt."

"Mom, that's a really nice watch."

"You have a pretty favorite color of eyes."

"I like your purse, Mom."

And on and on. She's very sweet. Problem is, she hasn't quite developed a sense of propriety yet (but hey, she's only 3). This morning as we walked into church, she tugged on my sleeve and said, "Mom, I really like your boobs."

I laughed and told her thank you, but that maybe it would be more polite to focus on other things, especially at church....


~RCH~

Where I stand is where I fall

I prefer to self-identify as a Libertarian, as US political party affiliation goes; it sounds both exotic and sensible all at the same time, and keeps me out of the same ol' same ol' fights of Republicans vs. Democrats. But apparently my self-identification, like many people's, has little to do with the actual positions taken by parties on the actual issues. Turns out, according to this quiz, anyway, that I'm actually a Democrat in Libertarian's clothing. (Though to be fair, the last time I took the quiz -- a year or so ago -- I straddled the line between the two parties. So I didn't just make it up out of thin air.)

Huh. A Democrat. Who knew?

You are a Social Liberal (68% permissive) and an... Economic Moderate (50% permissive) You are best described as a: Centrist Link: The Politics Test on Ok Cupid Also: The OkCupid Dating Persona Test

Where do you stand?

~RCH~

He's got sharps on his clues!

I am not a cat person. There have been a couple cats I've tolerated for the sake of my friends -- perhaps even had a wry-yet-irritated affection for -- but I have no intention of ever owning a cat, myself.

Unfortunately, my new house seems to be made of catnip: A tiny black stray welcomed us the day we moved in, and refused to leave despite the total lack of encouragement from any of us. The day after we got rid of him (the previous owners, who came by for a friendly visit, decided they'd take the kitty to their new house), an adult Siamese showed up. He won't go away, either. I'm not feeding him. I'm not petting him. The girls wave from a reasonably safe distance (the toddler has a love/flee in terror relationship with cats), but in general we do our best to convey the message that we are not cat people.

Why won't he leave? (And if he does, are there others of his feline friends just waiting in the wings?) I thought Siameses were a valued breed; a cat that pretty ought to have an owner somewhere. An owner, incidentally, who is not me.

Sigh.

Plus I want all the cats gone so my sister in law can come visit me. She's horribly allergic.

On the bright side, though, we've got a new catch phrase out of the deal. The toddler, in explaining her fear to me, pointed to the cat's little paws as he stretched and scratched the wood of our deck. "Mommy," she said, "he's got sharps [claws] on his clues [paw prints ala Blues Clues]!"

And then she screamed and scrambled up onto a chair as fast as she could.


~RCH~

Remembering

Maybe it felt just as important to her at the time, or maybe it's the natural knack girls have of remembering small moments in crisp detail. Whatever the case, when the toddler said to me last night, apropos of absolutely nothing ...

"Mom, do you remember when Daddy came to church? And you said, 'It's you.' And I was getting a drink of water?"

... I knew exactly what she meant.

"I remember," I told her. "That was nice."


~RCH~

It has come to my attention that I don't blog much lately.

This is mostly because I'm homeless (or, well, really I'm on vacation now since I signed two big fat stacks of paper twice on Monday to purchase our new house in Christmastown). I have had occasional access to computers in this limbo land between the old house and the new, but not my own computer. I don't have my own familiar keyboard or my collection of internet bookmarks or my cluttered, dilapidated desk and blue folding chair at which to sit while I compose lines of infinite genius.

Plus I've been a bit distracted by a toddler run amok. Trooper though she is, she has not been handling this transition as gracefully as I would have hoped. I'd give you the details, but mostly they make me cry. I'd rather not think about them more than is absolutely necessary.

I want to run away from home. Except that I don't have one yet. (Yeah, I signed the papers, but I don't get the keys until Saturday.) And except that I'd have to take both kids if I did decide to make a run for it, and that would totally defeat the purpose.

Oh well. Maybe in a week or two -- assuming we can find the computer amidst all the boxes and assuming it is unscathed and assuming we get around to getting phone service so we can connect to the internet and assuming we get a new desk to put the computer on (we left the dilapidated one in Lubbock) -- I'll blog about something totally fascinating.

Yeah. That's the plan, anyway.


~RCH~

Mindless fun in lieu of preparing to move

There are things I probably ought to be doing, but I'm doing this instead. And you should, too.

Go to Google.com and, with quotey marks around it so as to get an exact phrase, type in your name and the word needs -- for instance, "RCH needs" -- and see what you come up with.

• RCH needs some cash.


• Yes, RCH needs help. Not psychiatric help, but help getting his point across.


• RCH needs help when she enters Manhattan's meat-packing district to help three transvestite hookers find out who murdered one of their friends.


• RCH needs to throw more bacon parties.

LOL.


~RCH~

Moving On - Part 2a

In which I offer evidence that Idaho = Christmastown

DH: Toddler, would you please say the prayer for dinner?

Toddler: Sure.

{Looooooong pause.}

DH: Please say it, then.

Toddler: Daddy, I'm thinking.

DH: Okay.

{Looooooong pause.}

DH: Any time now.

Toddler: I'm thinking.

Me: That's fine; it's good to think about what you're going to say to Heavenly Father before you pray! Great job. Thumbs up.

{Looooooong, looooooong pause.}

DH: Seriously, Toddler, any time!

Toddler, getting angry now: Daddy, leave me alone! I'm trying to think about what Jesus is going to bring me in Idaho!


~RCH~

Keep a prayer in your heart

I'm sure she'll blog about it in further detail at some point (she's got time like warts on her hands, to borrow a phrase from Lorrie Moore), but I wanted to let my far-flung friends know right now so they can spare a prayer or two for her:

My sister's water broke this morning; she's not quite 27 weeks along yet, so that's not good, but on the plus side she's not having contractions and the baby doesn't appear stressed. No maternal complications like last time, either -- in fact (though it may be too early to say, and I certainly don't have any qualifications to say so!) it doesn't look like the FVL clotting disorder has anything to do with the problem. I guess her oven just doesn't like to cook those buns past the 6-month mark. :-(

Anyway. She'll be on in-hospital bedrest until the baby comes, which hopefully won't be before 34 weeks. Please keep her and the (as yet unnamed) baby boy in your prayers.


~RCH~

Moving On - Part 2

In which I discuss the impact on the girls.

"Mom," she tells me (and anyone else who will listen) several times daily, "when we go to Idaho, I can get my guys back!" ...Often followed by, "Can we go there now?"

The toddler lost all priveleges to her "guys" a few months ago when she trashed her room during a tantrum over a nap. I came in to discover the entire contents of her dresser dumped on the floor, a hardcover book she'd received as a Christmas gift torn up beyond repair, and the Fisher Price Little People she'd been allowed to take to her room as a peace offering strewn everywhere. I found the one she'd named Diego (though I think Fisher Price calls him Michael) under a big pile of little socks and underpants -- his left arm gone. Amputated. I had no idea you could break a Little People (person?), but somehow my child managed to.

I don't know if I overreacted or not: I sent her out of the room, threw away what remained of the book, gathered up all the toys she had in there (including poor disabled Diego), put them in a box sealed with duct tape, and shoved it all on the highest shelf in her closet. I told her she could open the box when we got to our new house in Idaho this summer.

The punishment didn't immediately sink in. Her first words to me the next morning were a pitiful, "Oh, Mom! My guys! My beautiful guys! Can you please get them down for me?" I explained again that she'd made a bad choice, destroyed a book, hurt her guys, and that they had to stay in a box until we moved. She continued to ask for a few days, and then resigned herself to the loss.

That was several months ago. We still talk about her guys every day, though I think by now the lesson has been swallowed up in simple anticipation. Moving to Idaho might as well be code for Christmastown; Idaho is where all good things will come to her: Ice cream cones, pony rides, Chuck E. Cheese, and her guys -- her beautiful guys.

She's got the baby in on the act, too. They rile each other up with tales of all the wonderful things that will happen when they get to "Ha-Ho," as the little one calls it. With such a build up, I hope it doesn't disappoint.


~RCH~

Moving On - Part 1

In which I discuss the getting there.

Each of the visits has ended the same way: Driving away in the late afternoon light; gold and green fields stretching out across the small valley to the hills, dappled with shadow and just far enough away to look soft rather than craggy, on the other side; the whole scene lit with a Thomas Kincaide glow.

In a little more than a month, I won't be there to visit; I'll be there to stay.

It's strange that I'm about to settle in a small town. I grew up in the suburbs of a decent sized metropolis feeling undisguised contempt for rural life. I went to college 2,200 miles from home, taking a family road trip to get there. We drove the back roads as often as interstates -- all the better to see the country with, my dear, and still my preference for travel :-) -- and while I appreciated the scenery along the way, I couldn't believe that people could actually live like that: In dead-end and dying towns, miles from anywhere, with no industry, no arts, no diversity, no shopping. Yuck.

I aspired to be a sophisticated urbanite, myself. I wanted tall buildings, all-night laundromats with neon signs on the fritz, strange accents, a sea of uncaring strangers jostling each other as they passed, telephone poles littered with posters for underground bands and slips announcing rooms for rent. I wanted to feel the efficient click of my high heels on pavement. I wanted to hear a street musician's lonely saxophone wafting up from the subway.

And yet.... I'm just full of complexities and contradictions, lol.

At the same time I dreamed of blissful urban anonymity -- and actually for as long as I can remember -- I nursed a fantasy of openness, of emptiness, of room to breathe and fresh air to do it in, of a road that stretched out straight and gray for miles and miles, its inertia uninterrupted by towns or people. My adolescent poetry was full of trains and highways all headed away from the hurry and bustle toward ... freedom, I guess. The unreachable far horizon.

I guess it speaks to my naturally melodramatic personality that I simultaneously longed for all and nothing -- the biggest city ever and no city at all.

I've become better at integrating these disparate parts of myself as I've gotten older, and I'm to the point now that I think I could be happy living just about anywhere -- even in one of those small towns I felt such disdain for at 17. What it lacks in commotion, my new town makes up in serenity. It's undeniably beautiful. The place and the people are open; the air is sweet with carefully tended farms and gardens. It does not, as far as I know, have an all-night laundromat, but that's all right: I can turn on my dryer at midnight, then step out alone on the back deck and enjoy a swath of stars brighter than any city lights.

I used to believe the journey was the destination -- that the going, the never settling, was the point -- and maybe that was true for me at the time. But now I wonder if this, finally arriving at a destination, is only the beginning of my journey.


~RCH~

SOLD!

I still wish the yard looked better, but hey. It's done. I'm a happy girl. :-D


~RCH~

Overheard

DH, teasing: Toddler, you're crazy!

Toddler, genuinely flattered: Why, thank you, Daddy!


~RCH~

Hypochondria

I'm convinced I have some rare neurological disease. DH disagrees.

For about a year I've had occasional random, painful twitches in my hand -- often when I'm trying to grip something (or unbuckle carseats, ugh), but sometimes with no provocation at all.

A week or two ago, I had intermittent pain in my heel that was so bad I gasped loudly any time it struck (freaking out the girls; the toddler had to remind me not to huff and puff her). I walked on the side of my foot for a few days to compensate until -- *poof!* -- the pain was gone as mysteriously as it had come.

Tonight I've got the hand twinges and the same thing going on in my neck.

With all of these things, it's always on my left side.

DH thinks it can all be explained by ordinary ailments: The beginnings of carpal tunnel syndrome, since I'm on the computer so much (and have been much of my adult life for school and jobs and hobbies); plantar fasciitis, from wearing cheapo Walmart shoes with poor arch support; I probably slept on my neck funny. Hmmph.

He's probably right. He is, after all, the one with the extensive medical education from accredited universities, whereas I'm the one who gets her information on rare diseases from House (mmmmm, rowr!). Still, we do seem to have some weirdo diseases in my family, so I feel a teensy bit justified in my paranoia.


~RCH~

Mormon Cliché

All right, all right. I wanted to wait until I had a really good MoTabs graphic I could slap on a tee, but it doesn't look like that's going to happen soon. I can't get the design to come out just right, and I don't have much time these days to try anyway. So, for those of you who care, I now announce the public opening of my Mormon Cliché shirt shop at http://mocliche.spreadshirt.com.

Unlike my other shop, I offer both men's and women's tees at Mormon Cliché. Here are a few product samplings (click the image to see other variations on each design):









Critiques? Questions? Suggestions? I welcome all feedback! :-)


~RCH~

The little things mean so much

I had a great day yesterday. DH had been on call the night before, and didn't think he'd be able to check out in time to make it to church. No big whoop; what with being out of town the last two weeks of March and being on call every weekend since he's been back, he actually hasn't been to church with us in a month or more. I've gotten into a comfortable single mom routine: A routine which often involves pushing our diaper bag along the floor with my foot while dragging one screaming and/or flailing kid under each arm out of the chapel, so that others in the congregation can actually hear the service -- but hey, a routine is a routine.

I got myself and the girls all gussied up, made sure the diaper bag was well stocked with tasty cold water, fruit snacks, quiet toys and things to color, and off we went to church. They did well(ish) for the first half of the meeting, but then the girls started fighting over the fruit snacks and tossing a ball (how did that get in the bag?) against the wall, so I gathered up our stuff and hauled them out to the foyer for a talking-to on reverence and a drink of water from the short fountain (which my toddler can reach all on her very own, as she likes to remind me). And who should we run into in the hallway?

:-)

DH appeared as if out of nowhere -- exhausted, working on about 90 minutes of sleep, but there, dressed up in slacks and a button down shirt I'd ironed for him "just in case." He took the baby from me, I took the toddler's hand, and the four of us ventured back into the chapel to finish out the rest of the meeting quietly.

We sat together in Sunday School, too, after dropping the girls off at Nursery. We haven't done that in years, as his calling usually requires him to attend (or teach) the more basic class for new members. He put his arm across the back of my chair and angled his scriptures so that we could follow along in Exodous together (I never bring my own; I've already got too much of the girls' crap to carry, lol). Despite his sleep deprivation (or maybe because of it -- maybe to keep himself awake), he kept raising his hand to comment on the whiny, wandering Israelites and the ways in which human nature is still fundamentally the same. All the while, I just beamed: This is my husband, I thought, with a contentment I haven't felt in a long time.

The rest of the day passed more or less uneventfully. Everybody enjoyed a nice long nap after church; we had a cozy meal of Mac & Cheese for dinner; the toddler left a trail of pee from the far end of the living room to the bathroom in her mad dash to make it there on time. You know, the usual. DH went to bed not long after the girls did; I stayed up a while longer talking to my mom on the phone.

When I finally came to bed, DH was out cold. I lay down next to him and watched the slow rise and fall of his breaths, the little eyelid twitches of REM sleep, noted the curve of his arm wrapped around a pillow....

I'm weak. It's far too easy for me to get caught up in the stress of selling a house, the stress of quasi-single parenthood, the stress of money and the lack of it, the stress of not knowing quite what's in store for us just a few steps down the road. It's easy for me to resent the time demands of his chosen profession or his running hobby. I'm often frustrated by the way we only half hear each other, and the pointless little squabbles that result.

But yesterday felt so different. It felt like a rare moment of clarity: This is my husband. This is the man I married. When we first got together, I couldn't believe my good fortune -- I couldn't believe he'd waited 30 years only to end up with me! Luckeee! But five years of quotidian banality and two adorably energetic children later, I don't pause often enough to appreciate how good I have it with him.

I do have it pretty good. He's amazing. My life is amazing.


~RCH~

First haircut

The toddler's hair has been shaggy for far too long, so we took her to get it cut today; it's still past her shoulders, but the ends aren't quite so raggedy anymore. She was a natural in the salon chair -- holding still when necessary, chatting up the stylist like they were old friends, completely unphased that pieces of herself were being lopped off with sharp scissors (I understand some kids find that upsetting).

She made me proud.

Before:


During:


After:


Super Cuts is super!


And one pic for the road....



~RCH~

SUCCESS!

Well, like most other things she's learned, it looks like the toddler has figured out the potty training thing without any help from me. I still haven't been emphasizing it much (though I've given her plenty of free bum time lately, just in case) -- but today, without even letting me know what she was up to, she went into the bathroom, sat down on the toilet, and....

Well, this is all a little indelicate, isn't it? LOL.

Let's just say, she made a "substantial" deposit. First time ever, totally without prompting. That girl rocks.

Next question: How do you teach a kid to wipe??


~RCH~

I taught the girls a song today.

Wanna' hear it? Here it goes:

I'm so glad when Daddy comes home,
Glad as I can be!
I clap my hands and shout for joy
And climb upon his knee!
I put my arms around his neck,
Hug him tight like this.
Pat his cheeks and give him what?
A GREAT BIG KISS! (*Smooch!*)


~RCH~

RIP: Flannery O'Car

Tonight at 7:15pm CST, holding a baby on my hip and peeking through cheap miniblinds, I watched my 1994 Geo Prizm, Flannery, slip away from me.

She was a good car. My best.

She'd been around the block a few times by the time we met. I'd just finished up a fabulous American Lit class focusing on the short stories of Flannery O'Connor, so when I found a few scraps of paper in the glove box indicating that my new used car originally hailed from Georgia, I knew that we were meant for each other and I knew what her name must be.

I couldn't have imagined that day in 1997, as I signed the papers to purchase her, the bumps and bruises she'd endure for my sake or the roads she'd take me on. I couldn't have imagined I'd one day be hauling a baby -- my baby! -- around in her back seat.

Her clutch gave out for the last time a couple months ago, and she's been sitting on the street in front of our house ever since. I meant to donate her to the National Kidney Foundation, but that involved a lot of paperwork; I don't have a printer at home, and DH had too many other things on his mind to remember it at work so it never got done. I didn't really mind. Functional or not, she remained a reassuringly familiar presence. Every morning as my youngest daughter sat in her high chair tearing up and occasionally eating waffles, she would point out the front window and exclaim, "Car!" (To which I would reply, "Yup! That's a car!") It became part of our routine.

Still, with the house up for sale and our curb appeal already completely lacking, I'd begun to worry that a bruised up, broken down car stuck in front of the house didn't really help the impression any, however loved she may be. I decided to do what I should have done weeks ago -- haul my rowdy brood down to Kinko's some afternoon and print out the forms required to get the NKF ball rolling. And then--

And then Alfredo came.

He knocked on our door last night just as I pulled the kids out of the bath. He asked if I'd be willing to sell the Prizm for $200. I got a phone number from him, told him I'd have to talk it over with my husband, and that I'd call him today.

I feel terrible that I couldn't donate her organs that other cars might live -- that I couldn't offer her up to a cause that helps with the donation of real organs so that people like my best friend can live. But time is running out, stress is running high, our budget is down to mere fumes. $200 and her quick removal won out over my nobler impulses this time.

So Alfredo took her away this evening. He says he's going to work on her, rather than scrap her for parts, which makes me feel good. The old girl may just have some life in her yet for someone who knows what he's doing and can afford the time and attention she needs. Time and attention that we can't afford to give her anymore.

I'm a big old emotional sap -- I'm not making this up to punch up the story -- but I cried just a little bit as he chained her to the hitch of a pickup truck, pulled slowly away from the curb, and rounded the corner out of sight. And I'm crying now.

"Car gone," the baby said.

"Yup," I replied. "The car is gone."


~RCH~

"I'm not a horsie, I'm a true princess!" I screamed.

Because that's an important distinction to make when you're a tired mom lying down on the floor next to your youngest child as she colors.

If you're a horsie, you get pounced on by the toddler and kicked in the side as she bounces and yells, "Giddyup! Yeeeeeee-haaaaaaw! Ride a cowboy!"

If you're a true princess, you get soft kisses to wake you from deep slumber.

Everybody repeat after me: I'm a princess I'm a princess I'm a princess I'm a princess.


~RCH~

Buy this house

We've got the sign in the yard and two listings online. I made a flyer for DH to put up at work, in case any of the incoming class of residents needs a place:



For your viewing pleasure, here are bigger views of the pics on the flyer:








And the accompanying captions:

1. The master bedroom flows into the vanity, bath, and walk-in closet.


2. Bedroom 2 features a cheerful accent wall and display shelf.


3. Both bathrooms have newly tiled floors (March 2006).


4. Counter and cupboard space abound in the eat-in kitchen.


5. The living room has a brick fireplace and full-length hearth.

This is where I live! It's the cleanest and prettiest it's ever been, lol. I really, really hope it doesn't have to stay on its best behavior for long. Somebody please come buy this house so my toddlers can relax! :-P


~RCH~

This is how I know we watch too much tv

The toddler and I were making pretend pizzas yesterday. We put on pepperonis and butter and frosting -- you know, the usual ingredients -- and then she added the pièce de résistance: Oxy Power Elephant Sugar.

The elephant sugar is all her, of course, but the Oxy Power...? Yeah, I think we need to cut down on the tv time.


~RCH~

What my life boils down to some days

It's 12:41 AM.

I have a splitting sinus headache that makes my eyes and teeth hurt.

I haven't done laundry in days because the last load through the dryer contained an orange crayon -- now melted all over the drum, just waiting for its chance to strike again -- and I've been in denial about my need to fix it. Nobody will have any underwear to wear to church tomorrow if I don't get it cleaned up tonight, though. Eeeew. And waaaah.

DH asked me to iron his clothes and I said yes (it's sometimes strangely relaxing), but they're still sitting in a wrinkled pile. Tick-tock-tick-tock.

DH and I were up until 3:30 AM last night, ripping up carpet and prepping both bathrooms for the vinyl tile we were supposed to lay today. But it didn't get done, for a variety of reasons.

Our house is a mess. It'll never be ready to show.

My head really, really hurts. And did I mention my head hurts? I need stronger drugs than the drugs I have.


~RCH~

Home, Sweet Home

Click on the image to see the plan details.

I love that it has built-in bookshelves surrounding the fireplace. I love that the living room is separate from the family room (and I'd put French doors from the foyer to the family room to hide any mess that got made in there). I love the Jack-and-Jill bath for the secondary bedrooms. I love that it's got two closets in the master bedroom, so DH can't hog up all the space (though I guess I wouldn't put it past him even still, lol). I love the rec room upstairs. I love that the garage doesn't look like a garage from the front of the house.

I think the only things I'd change would be to add a basement (I won't need to hide from tornadoes in the Potato State, I'm sure, but I'm still a big believer in basements) and to lower the ceiling on the family room so that it doesn't go up two whole stories (I really hate double-story rooms -- such wasted space!) and maybe gain an extra room up top in the process.

Comments from the peanut gallery...?


~RCH~

The sweetest thing

First off: Though they're both now toddlers (and have been for quite some time), I think I'll still refer to #2 as the baby. It's just easier that way.

And now the story:

So the baby has been sick since Friday -- fevers, congestion, difficulty breathing that seemed to get worse each day. It scared me to put her to bed at night in case her breathing got worse or (heaven forbid) just flat out stopped. (Morbid, I know, but it happens and there's no reason our family should be exempt from random tragedy. Ugh. I need to stop there. Too upsetting.) Anyway! This is extraneous information. Before you all get too concerned, she's turned the corner; she went all day today without a fever, and while her cough sounds nastier, her breathing overall sounds better. So no worries. She's fine.

DH brought home a humidifier for her room today. The girls ran to the door, chanting, "Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!" when they heard his car pull into the garage after work (seriously, he's like a rock star to those kids). The toddler saw that he had a big box tucked under his arm and got even more excited.

"Daddy, is that a present?" she asked.

"Not really," he said. "It's a humidifier for the baby."

The toddler gasped. With a mixture of panic and that bossiness that comes so naturally to her, she said, "Do not touch my sister with that fire! It's dangerous; she'll get burned!"

DH began a simple explanation of humidifiers, but I didn't pay much attention after that. I was too busy basking in the warm and fuzzy glow of my toddler protecting her little sister. I don't know about you, but her misguided indignation is the sweetest thing I've heard in a long time.


~RCH~

Getting the show on the road

Welp, we met with the realtor today. I spent all day frantically cleaning, folding laundry, organizing and throwing things out.... I didn't accomplish everything I wanted to (hard to do with two energetic monkeys around), but hopefully the house looked presentable enough when he came over this evening. I hope the house looks sellable.

He gave us a folder of information and forms, and talked to us for a good two hours or so (though I missed much of the conversation while trying to keep said monkeys occupied).

I hate this whole process. It stresses me out. Our yard still looks like crap; half the back fence has fallen down; the living room carpet has all number of nameless stains; I don't know how I'll ever keep the place presentable enough to show with these two crazy toddlers running around. DH wants to tear up the bathroom carpets and put down tile, but (no offense to him, of course) he's really not the most handy guy around. And when will he have time? He's been saying he'd do it for the last 3 years and we've still got carpet.

Waaaaaaah.

Please keep us in your prayers and send some good house selling dust our way. (Well, maybe not dust. We get enough of that in West Texas -- which reminds me, I also need to take down all the blinds and soak them....)


~RCH~

Another birthday non-surprise

DH's gift from me -- which he knows about, since he chose the style and color -- is a shirt from my newest Spreadshirt shop, Mormon Cliché (which, btw, isn't open to the public just yet; I want to add a killer MoTabs graphic before I go live, but you'll be the first to know).

I placed the order at the beginning of the week and received it yesterday -- wow, that's fast! I like it. I hope DH will like it as much in real life as he did on the screen:



The back has a quote from J. Golden Kimball, himself: "I may not stay on the straight and narrow, but I sure as hell try to cross it as often as I can!"

LOL. Pardon the bad pun, but that's DH to a tee.


~RCH~

*Psssssst!* A secret surprise

It took the toddler all of a minute and a half to spill the beans.

We went birthday shopping for daddy yesterday; the toddler and the baby (who toddles now, herself, and has for a while, so maybe I ought to just start calling her #2) helped me pick out three lovely neckties for DH, who has mentioned that he needs some more. I stressed to the toddler the importance of keeping the ties a secret because they're his present, and he can't know what they are until he opens them on Friday.

Honestly, I didn't think she'd have a problem. She knows all the rules of birthdays: Presents are a secret, and you get lots of them; you have to go to Chuck E. Cheese's; when the cake comes, you must light the candles on fire and blow them out; you get to have as many balloons as you are old (so by her rules, we'll have 35 balloons in the house on Friday!).

As I got the girls out of the car, the toddler reminded me: "Shhhhh, Mommy! Daddy's ties are a secret!" Exactly, I said, confident that my verbal little child could keep it to herself.

She ran over to Daddy, sitting on the couch, and gave him a hug. "Daddy," she said, "your present is a secret for your birthday!"

I went back to the garage to bring in some of the groceries we'd bought as well, so I missed the conversation in the middle, but as I came back in with bags on my arm I heard her say with excitement and pride in her voice:

"Daddy, we got you ties!"


~RCH~

The Price Is Right?

I caught the last day of a sale at the grocery store yesterday: Milk for $1.97 (I usually pay $3 a gallon); 10-lb bags of chicken legs for $3.90. I don't really know from chicken legs -- I usually buy the boneless, skinless breasts -- but my guess is that 39 cents per pound of anything is a good deal in this day and age! So I bought two bags. (If anybody's got any chicken leg recipes, feel free to post them for me in the comments section as I've now got 20 lbs of chicken to dispose of.)

It's a good thing I saved a few bucks on milk and meat, because I opened the cell phone bill this morning (the cell phone bill that generally runs between $60 and $65, and has once gone as high as $140, I think) to see the numbers -- brace yourself, kids -- $234.55.

I really, really, really hope that number is a mistake. I haven't looked into it yet -- I feel so daunted! -- but I hope we didn't talk a couple hundred dollars' worth during peak hours. Yikes.

That'll teach us to keep in touch, I guess.


~RCH~

Smarty-pants me!

So who wants to hear the highlight of my Friday night?

I made a pasta salad for dinner tonight -- wide egg noodles, some left over pork steak chopped up into squares tiny enough so as not to choke small children, 1/4 cup of Italian dressing and 1/2 cup mayonnaise. Mix well. (I added tomatoes and olives to my portion once it got to the table; DH is allergic to uncooked tomatoes, but if anyone else out there wants to make it, I highly recommend that addition.) It was an easy, fast, no-brainer meal, perfect for a weekend night.

Apparently I took the "no-brainer" part a little too seriously, though. As I brought the pot from the stove to the sink to drain the noodles in a colander, I somehow managed to slosh a fair amount of boiling water all down the front of me.

I've got a mild burn now at the top of my chest, where the collar of my button-down shirt was open, and another couple burned splotches on my stomach. It's no big deal -- 1st degree only, and I put ice on the areas immediately. I probably won't even be able to feel it tomorrow!

But boy do I feel like a smarty-pants. :-P


~RCH~

I know I've been slacking off lately

...but sometimes I really feel like this. It's a problem.

I actually have a lot to say about family size and the end of my streak (should have worn my lucky socks, dangit!) and my fear come true and a couple new projects I'm working on, but I have neither the time nor the energy lately. Blah!

Maybe you'll hear from me for real this weekend. I'll try, anyway. Sorry.


~RCH~

Day in the life

"Arrrrrgh! Ahoy, me mommy!"

"Ahoy, me toddler."

"I'm Pirate Toddler. We have to go save the baby!"

"I can't right now; I'm cooking the dinner. Can you save her by yourself?"

"Sure!"

[Toddler goes in the other room where the baby had been playing very happily by herself]

Suddenly, from the baby: "Aaaaaaaaaiiiiiieeeeeee!"


~RCH~

Neener-neener, I'm the winner

I'm trying to be a good sport, but I just can't wipe this big fat grin off my face.

DH and I have a standing date to play Trivial Pursuit on Sunday nights after the girls have gone to bed. We have, since beginning this tradition, played four games. And I am the four-time Trivial Pursuit CHAMPION.

Oh, yes. I'm on a streak. Roll that lucky die and pass me another pie piece, baby!

It surprises me every time. Even back in the day when I was smart, it wasn't the sort of detailed minutiae smart required to win a game like this. And DH, well, he's amazing! A doctor, a pharmacologist, a freaking PhD who knows stats and scores for 30+ years of sports (including sports he never played and doesn't actually enjoy) and the words to every song ever written.

And yet, who's the winner? That's right, kids. Say it with me: RCH is the winner. Every dang time.

This despite answering the question, "What does the letter R stand for when imprinted on automobile tires?" like so: "Uh.... Round? No, wait-- Rubber!" (For future reference, the correct response is radial.) And guessing that the Italian team was allowed to bring wine to the 1932 Olympics in Los Angeles, despite Prohibition, instead of (pay attention, here's the correct answer) the French. (I figured if it had been the French, they'd have brought champagne.)

Apparently it pays to know your trashy celebrity news (I knew that Kate Moss was the poster child for the waif look of the early '90s) and your UN Secretary Generals (thank you, Boutros Boutros-Ghali, first African-Arab to have the job!). Sports & Leisure tripped me up, as it always does, but I correctly guessed water polo (don't remember the question) to earn my green pie piece and I knew -- no guessing required! -- that the Charlotte Hornets were the first NBA team to be named after an insect, an answer which won me the game.

The fabulous thing about my streak is that DH has not let me win. He is fiercely competitive. No, no, children, these wins are all mine. I am the QUEEN. (There I go with that big fat grin again!)

As we put the board away tonight, he suggested that maybe we should play Cranium next week. To which I replied, "Bring it on, baby."


~RCH~

I'm going to miss it here

Today's weather reports for various places of interest:

My hometown: High of 45F.
The town I lived in before this one: High of 36F.
The town I will live in next: High of 40F.
The town I almost lived in: High of 22F.

The town I live in now: High of 66F. Sunny with a light breeze.

*Sigh!* I'll really miss the "winters" here.


~RCH~

Eeeeek.

Okay, so remember once upon a time two months ago when I smashed my finger in the car door? The finger itself is fine now; I have even regained complete sensation in the nerves along the side. And yet....

All is not well in the Land of Fingers.

Ever since that happened, one side of the fingernail has been growing in the wrong direction -- away from the nail bed and the finger itself, like it wants to come off despite the other half of the nail still being firmly attached. It's odd and very creepy. But yesterday it got worse: Somehow it snagged on something, and now it really is threatening to come off. I've had it wrapped in a bandage ever since, but I'm still freaked out.

First of all, what if it does come off? That sounds like a bad thing to me! What is the evolutionary purpose of fingernails, anyway? My guess is to protect, um, the delicate and sensitive tops of my fingers. (DH isn't here or I'd ask him.) If the tops of my fingers are so delicate and sensitive, I don't want them exposed! I need my fingernail ON!

And secondly, what if this is a permanent condition? What if the nail -- or half of it, anyway -- has now been thoroughly trained to grow the wrong way? What if it falls off, and then grows back all convex and prone to repeated snagging and falling off? Am I destined to repeat this freakish cycle indefinitely?

Eeeew. And eeeek.

I wish DH were home.


~RCH~

Oooh, and this one!

LOL, somebody make me stop!

Check out the laundry chute and the study on this one! How fun is that?



That's all for today, I promise. ;-)


~RCH~

A couple for comment

For your viewing pleasure, here are a couple of the house plans I added to my favorites today (click the images to see the full plan details):






I don't like the double-story foyer in the second plan -- that seems like a waste of space to me -- but otherwise I think they're both lovely.

Any comments from the peanut gallery?


~RCH~

A good resource

I still occasionally troll around for building plans, dreaming of the day I can build a home that's exactly how I want it. The trouble is, most internet sites only let you search by the most basic criteria: Square footage, number of bedrooms, baths, and garage. Look for an advanced search feature and all you're likely to find is another option for width and depth and available foundation type. Not helpful.

But last night I hit the jackpot! A building plans site that lets you search by all sorts of detailed criteria, like whether you'd like a family room or a screened-in porch or a Jack-and-Jill bath or a kitchen island. So many choices! Now I don't have to wade through tons of plans, find one that looks great from the outside, only to discover it doesn't meet my criteria for both a family room and a living room on the inside!

Hooray for Houseplans.com! I'll post some of my favorites for comment (that means you, Becca -- and anyone else, of course) in a while when I've got some time. :-)


~RCH~

Career day

If I had to guess the baby's eventual profession based only on what I know of her now, I would be fairly confident in saying podiatrist. She walks around all day with a broken stethoscope hanging from her neck, and the kid is COMPLETELY obsessed with shoes. Doctor + shoe fetish = easy call. Podiatrist.

The toddler, on the other hand.... She's a little tougher, but after her performance at DH's work party tonight, I think I might guess politician. She sure can work a room! She finished her meal earlier than everyone else (easy to do when you have a 5 bites per meal limit), so she turned around in her chair and struck up a conversation with the man sitting at the table behind her.

"Excuse me, everypeople," she began. (I think she would have said, "Excuse me, ma'am," her standard line, except that she knows boys aren't ma'ams. She must not know about sirs yet.)

"Excuse me, everypeople, my name is Toddler." She put her hand out for him to shake it. "I'm going to be flea." DH, a very amused look on his face, reminded her that she already turned three. "Yes, I'm flea," she said, awkwardly holding up three fingers.

The man was a good sport about her intrusion, and kept up the conversation with her for quite a while until she decided she needed to check the place out and mingle some more.

It'll be fun to see how the girls' interests grow and evolve and expand over the years. I have to say, I really enjoy this career of mine, this motherhood business.


~RCH~

And speaking of violently ill

DH got it first, but the rest of us have been hit as well. Yesterday the toddler and I had it simultaneously, throwing up within 30 minutes of each other. Sweet DH who, business trips aside, has a relatively easy schedule this month, called in sick so he could take care of us.

The toddler and I spent all morning in my bed, big bowls handy to catch anything projectile, watching cartoons (her), sleeping (me), coloring (her), and reading (me) to pass the time. She bounced back by lunch time, but I felt awful pretty much all day and all night. I even had a fever of 101F last night when I went to bed. ("I never ever ever get sick, never ever..." I kept muttering in my feverish haze.)

I feel one thousand percent better today. I'm still weak and I ache a little bit, but I can eat more than dry toast and drink more than Gatorade (which is nasty, by the way, no matter how many electrolytes you put in it!) and stand up without feeling dizzy or nauseated. DH went back to work today and I've had enough energy to deal with the girls, although I did put them down for naps a half hour earlier than usual.

I guess the days of my magical immune system are over. Oh well. It was good while it lasted.


~RCH~

Avoiding the appearance of evil

DH was supposed to have gone on a recruiting trip to Phoenix earlier this week, but a few hours before he had to leave he became suddenly and violently ill. He called the department and arranged for one of his colleagues, Julie, to go in his place.

He felt awful about making such a last minute change and leaving everyone in the lurch, but so relieved that Julie was willing and able to make the one day overnight trip.

Then a new problem arose: The other person who was supposed to go, Clay, announced that he couldn't possibly travel with a woman not his wife. (Please note that "travel" in this context does not mean have a steamy illicit affair; it means sit next to on the plane and stay in separate rooms at the same hotel.)

UGH.

It all worked out all right in the end -- they were able to rearrange some schedules and make yet another (even more last minute) change so that a male colleague could go instead of Julie -- but the whole thing irritated me. Still does.

I understand Clay's position on principle; it's good to avoid the appearance of evil. I understand why some couples would have a "no coed business trips" rule for their marriage, whether there are trust issues in the relationship or not. But in a case like this, his lack of flexibility seems more like following the letter of the law than the spirit because there was (IMHO) no appearance of evil. It's a pretty big stretch for anyone to assume that DH got sick on purpose just so that Julie and Clay could have their illicit tryst in Phoenix, Arizona, City of Lahv. His obstinate refusal to adapt made an already (but unavoidably) inconvenient, stressful situation even more inconvenient and stressful.

Frankly, I wouldn't mind if DH had to go on the occasional business trip with a female colleague (whether planned or a last minute emergency trip like this one). I don't care what other people think because I know what I know: That he is faithful beyond reproach in every aspect of his life. That's kind of why I married him.

I agree that it's good to avoid the appearance of evil, but do you know what I think is even better? To avoid the commission of evil. If DH were going to cheat, he wouldn't have to go out of town to do it (especially with the erratic and long hours he works; I wouldn't know the difference). And even on a trip with a male colleague, he could still pick someone up in the hotel bar or dial up an escort service! So what's important to me is not that it doesn't look like DH would do that sort of thing, but that he flat out wouldn't do that sort of thing.

Am I being too hard on Clay? Are you annoyed with his behavior or do you agree that one ought to stick to one's principles, however inconvenient to everyone else? Please discuss.


~RCH~

And now we are 3

Today is the toddler's birthday. Three years ago this precise moment, I was knocked out asleep. That kid wore me out. Still does, lol.

She made her grand entrance at 3:09 in the morning, 25 hours after my water broke at home. DH says that doesn't count as the beginning of my labor, as it wasn't until ~4:00 in the afternoon -- and with the help of pitocin -- that I began to feel any contractions, but I think that for future guilt-inducing purposes, we'll say I had a 25-hour labor. It sounds better. More dramatic.

Even if her impending arrival didn't cause me a lot of pain right off, it did leave me exhausted! I'd been awake all day Saturday (complaining that she'd never get here, that I felt about as likely to deliver within the next few days as I did at the very beginning of my pregnancy). I went to bed at midnight, and woke up at 2am when my water broke. I then stayed up all day Sunday -- wondering when those elusive contractions would start up -- and into the morning on Monday, by that time swooning both from the pain and from the occasional burst of Nubain through my IV. By the time she finally showed up, I'd been awake for nearly two days straight and gone through the most physically and emotionally exhausting experience of my life. When I finally got to sleep, I slept like the dead.

We're having a celebration tonight at Chuck E. Cheese's. Her best friends, our home teacher's family (including their five kids, ranging in age from 4 to 14), will join us for pizza and cake and tokens and games. The toddler is absolutely beside herself with excitement. We went to the grocery store this morning to pick out her cake (sadly, I'm not the good kind of mom who bakes cakes from scratch) and three balloons. She chose all mylars: A smiley face balloon; a heart that says "Happy Birthday!" on it; and a football balloon. LOL. I didn't know she was such a fan.

We got her two gifts: some bath visors -- hopefully that will alleviate some of her fears about washing her hair -- and a big stand up "Scarecrow" doll (which isn't really a scarecrow at all, but rather a red raider, the university's mascot that she's loved ever since she saw him at a basketball game). I think the scarecrow is going to be a big hit.

Ah, I love this child. It's still unreal to me much of the time that I am somebody's mother (let alone two somebodies'), but the most amazing thing to me is that I got such good ones. My toddler is bright and curious and articulate and energetic and funny and kind.

And awake from her nap now, so off I go....

~RCH~

Today's toddlerisms

Story #1:

The toddler, who used to be my most enthusiastic little fish, has decided she doesn't like baths anymore. She's terrified of getting the water in her eyes or mouth; I've suggested she close them both when we rinse her hair, but apparently it's too hard to scream at the appropriate decible level with your mouth closed.

(::Insert big eye roll here::)

She desperately needed a bath this morning; I'd let her go long enough without and a big cloud of dust had begun following her around. She whined and cried and stomped her foot.

"I don't want a bath!" she said. And then, her eyes darting furtively around for a solution, she licked her fingers, smeared saliva on her face and announced, "See? All clean. Don't need a bath!"

Story #2:

This second bit isn't a story so much as it's just a record of the cute way she talks. She was pretty worn out as we drove home from church this afternoon. "Mom," she said, "I'm tired. Everypeople is soooo tired. Everypeople needs a nap." I told her I'd be happy to let her and the baby have one when we got home.

We passed the drive in silence for a few more minutes and then she spoke up again: "Mommy, I very love you so much."

"I very love you too," I said, and we continued on our way home.


~RCH~

Again, not quite the right take-home message

On the drive to church this morning, I was -- momentarily -- so proud of my toddler and the obviously good job we've done of teaching her the gospel.

"Jesus loves me," she said (which is something she says frequently, often when I get frustrated for some toddler infraction and start to raise my voice). "He's going to come again--"

This, of course, is where I felt the swelling in my bosom. Wow! All our talk of Christ and His mission have sunk in to her little toddler heart! But alas, she continued:

"--and Santa Claus is going to come again. And he's going to bring me more presents."

Oh.

And wait. Santa Claus is going to bring her presents additional to the ones she got on Christmas day? Or he'll bring her more presents than Jesus will bring when He comes again?

I'm not sure. I figured it was best not to ask her to clarify.


~RCH~