Laney turns 2

Sunday was Laney's 2nd birthday. This is our "family party year" so we celebrated together at home. I love "family party year". I get to enjoy splurging on my child without the added stress of trying to come up with acceptable goodie bags.

Laney woke up to a bed o' balloons. Some would view this as a strangulation hazard. We view it as a whole lotta fun.

She said "buhlOONS!" and got right to work whipping them around into a tangled mess. It was just what I was hoping for.

We went right into breakfast and by the time I got to the table I was reminded of my "impulse goggle purchase" of the night before.


They contributed mightily to excessively reverent scripture study.

After a plateful of blueberries and strawberries, we all dressed for Stake Conference and headed out. I think having Daylight Savings land on your birthday is like having the Universe slap you in the face. Tough luck, Laney.

Mark was sickety sicko, so stayed behind. This was a tragedy in that I was on my own with four kids, metal chairs, no cheerios, 25 colored pencils that I forgot to sharpen, and two hours of meetings. If it weren't for the lady behind me that took pity on my soul and provided several "lift the flap" books for Laney to peruse, we absolutely would have not made it. I promise you I had my diaper bag hastily packed, slung over my shoulder and whispered to the other kids "come on! follow me!" no less that three times. But somehow managed each time to plant my hiney back in the chair, breathe deeply and forge ahead. I'd like a certificate or cash prize, por favor.

But on the bright side, Mark had the spaghetti and garlic bread ready and waiting when we arrived home. It was a lovely sight to behold. And Mark doesn't skimp on the the butter and garlic. Wait, is it my birthday? mmm....butter.


After all the bellies were fed, we brought out the cake and sang to our sweet Laney. She was feelin the love (as seen in video below). But when it came time to blow out the candle, she couldn't quite get it and we watched in suspense as she tried and tried. When she finally did it, we all cheered so loud, she got scared and started to cry. Happy Birthday!

After the drama, she was ready to have a few quiet moments with her chocolate.


The presents were almost entirely Thomas the Tank engine gear and she couldn't have been more thrilled.


I can't get enough of the look on her face as she realizes this cake is for her and she soaks in the attention. Love it. Love her.



My little Miss Laney. I love you (and so does your Dad!) and I think you are the sassiest, smartest little sugar beet on the planet. Happy Birthday, fuzzbucket.

Adulthood

My children go to the dentist every 6 months like clockwork. Their little pearly whites have yet to come into contact with a drill. So they LOVE the dentist. Who wouldn't love an upbeat guy that has a frog puppet with teeth, video games in the waiting room, disney movies in the ceiling, stickers, prizes, namebrand toothbrushes and sunglasses to wear while they "count your teeth". For two weeks after each visit they ask when they get to go to the dentist again.

Weird.

I didn't fare so well with my childhood dental experience. I NEVER EVER entered that office without wanting to lose my cookies because of that nasty dentist smell. What is that? Makes me want to heave just thinking about it. And I certainly never left the office without a hefty dose of guilt for not flossing and an appointment to fill at least four cavities. Four! Every time!

It doesn't help that we were plagued with incompetent and even criminal dentists. I ask you, is it normal to ask your juvenile patients to give you their opinions on the merchandise you are planning to hawk at your "other job"? I have foggy recollections of a bright yellow shirt with a big smiley face on it. Even at that age, it seemed obvious to me that it would work to my advantage to give the hideous shirt a favorable review. He had a syringe and a drill. I wasn't stupid. I think that was the same guy that had a penchant for billing the insurance twice. Nothing a little time in the slammer didn't cure, I'm sure.

I hated the dentist.

So, once I had gotten the go ahead to go on my mission, I failed to darken the door of another dental office for many years.....7 years. The first time I called and made myself an appointment, I felt I had crossed over into responsible adulthood. I "sucked it up", went in and was pleasantly surprised to find that we were going to a capable and kind dentist. It also doesn't hurt that he has a lovely Arkansan drawl, calls me "darlin", and he doesn't HURT ME. He even started replacing my old silver fillings with white ones. I really love that. Unfortunately, he had only finished half my mouth when Megan was due to be born.

That was 2005.

It only took me 5 years to call back and make another appointment. Since then I have come to the conclusion that:

*if I can give birth without drugs, I can face a numb lip

*the cavities are not getting better over time

*I am wasting a thousand dollars of dental insurance per year. And you never know when dental insurance will be dropped by an employer. I don't want to pay for this myself.

*I hate having half a mouth of silver cavities....and even though they haven't said so, my kids get that "ewwww" expression when they see them.

*Even if I'm in the dental chair, somebody else is taking care of my kids.

So I skulked in there after 5 years and showed a proper amount of shame for my inconsistency. I was promptly forgiven and was pleasantly surprised to find out that in two more visits I will be cavity and silver filling free!

I love the dentist.

Watch this....

Several times.

Unlikely places

Last night I stayed up till 1:15 am playing Webkinz.

It's not my fault. Do you remember that story about the kid who saves and saves and saves his wittle pennies to buy a bike and just can't possibly earn enough, so his dad steps in and pays the rest? Of course you remember that story. We all remember it and it haunts our parental actions. I'm always torn between the beauty of assisting my hard working child "after all they could do" and encouraging them to bask in the satisfaction of achieving their goals. Confound those mormon folktales! They are contributing to my inner war.

So, my eldest three offspring were given Webkinz as a Christmas gift. Since then they have reveled in the virtual cuteness that IS Webkinz. Dressing, feeding, and playing fingernails-on-the-chalkboard animated music videos about a dog called Mustache Louie.

You can see why I've limited their daily computer time to 20 minutes a piece. Sanity must preserved. The time crunch severely limits their ability to earn "kinzcash" by playing games and answering trivia questions. This in turn makes the kinzcash they do earn highly precious and not to be spent willy nilly.

Mathew has been feverishly saving for a backyard for Hooves, his brown Arabian. It's got a pricetag of 1000 smackeroos, so in my effort to jump on the folktale bandwagon, I promised him I'd earn 500 if he'd earn 500 (half a bike is nothing compared to half a backyard).

That brings us to me playing on a child's virtual website in the wee hours of the morning. It didn't take me long to figure out that only a fool would waste time playing Cash Cow 2 or Candy Bash 2 Viva Poncho! when the real money is in Quizzy's Corner. Here you can pretend to be 5 years old and answer questions about shapes and colors and RAKE IT IN! suckahs!

Unfortunately I am the proud owner of an overactive conscience and selected the hardest setting (I think that makes me 13) and selected the "green thumb" category. How could I not?

Imagine my surprise when I received a bit of an early morning education in entomology and horticulture! Did you know that:

**When a spider takes down its web, it means there is a storm coming? Not me!

**Strawberries are a member of the rose family?

**Flies have no ears? Well then what's the point of "shoo, fly, don't bother me"? They can't hear a thing you are saying.

**Male mosquitoes are vegetarian? The ones drinking the blood are the girls. Women can be so mean....when are we going to learn to support one another?

And finally.

**Eggplants are poisonous if eaten raw. POISONOUS? They need to have a sign in the produce section with a little skull and cross bones. What if I had gotten a little creative and tossed a little fresh eggplant in my last pot luck salad? I could've wiped out the entire Relief Society!

I, for one, am highly impressed with the quality education to be had on the internet. Things are going to change around here. All I need to do is balance Webkinz time with a renewed commitment to serve Ramen Noodles and cold cereal on a regular basis.

Because when you know better you do better.

FHE Hall of Fame

Last night we were playing our weekly game of hide and seek (it's our default FHE activity). I ventured into the master bathroom looking for my children. I hear rustling coming from my closet and open it up really fast to provide maximum dramatic effect.

Me: ha HA! I found you!

Megan: I had to go to the bathroom and I couldn't wait.

Me: uh oh. Well, go in the potty and finish up.

Megan: That's okay! I already finished.

Hey Kaira, you remember those shoes I bought from you for 20 bucks after I got home from my mission?

They were murdered.

A night with a General Authority.

Last night we got a babysitter. And just so you know, he's really great. His name is Bowen and he's one of those kids that is equally comfortable talking to 2 year olds and adults. He is truly a delightful person and I feel like I hit the jackpot everytime he's available to watch the "Hufford Four".

So Mark and I set out to go to a dinner and attend a satellite broadcast of "A Night with a General Authority" geared specifically at those that serve in CES callings (or jobs). Mark teaches early morning seminary, so there we were. The dinner was sourdough breadbowls and four different kinds of soups. I chose a chicken chili and once I polished that off, I headed back and refilled my bread with a 12 bean sausage concoction. Looking back, I feel that perhaps that was simply too many beans for one person and that's not even taking into consideration what happens to my digestive system whenever I'm out in public and feel even a small amount of pressure to be on my best behavior. It 's an inner storm. Is this too much information?

So we are sitting at a table with three perfectly nice couples that introduce themselves to us and within 2 minutes I've already forgotten their names. I wouldn't have felt too bad, but one gentleman is a seasoned conversationalist and uses my name multiple times. It's so obvious that I don't know his and I feel like I'm 13 years old. The evening progresses and we're having a pleasant time and then suddenly I look down and realize that I have eaten almost my entire bread bowl. I scan the table and am horrified to see that no one else has considered this a viable option. I must have looked like a Tyrannosaurus Rex ripping into that thing like a dead carcass.
Just lovely.

Dinner's over and Mark is talking "computer talk" with the seasoned conversationalist. I, however, have become fixated on the little dishes of mints on the table. They're the good ones. The ones that look like little pastel hersey kisses with white nonpareils on the bottom. I LOVE those. I consider how many I can take at once without risking a repeat performance of my bread bowl faux pas and if I might be able to slip some into my sweater pocket so I'll have something to tide me over during the meeting (food in the chapel! gasp!).

Eventually we make our way into the meeting with a couple dozen mints in my pocket. Don't be shocked. I considered grabbing the whole dish, but thought that might be pushing it. I was happy to hear the speaker would be President Henry B. Eyring. Is it just me, or is he a really fantastic speaker? He has a way of getting my attention and keeping it the entire time. I love how sincere and earnest he is and he has a gift for speaking with urgency and compassion. I look forward to what he has to say every General Conference. By the time he says "amen" I feel like I possibly haven't blinked in 20 minutes. I'm riveted.

The topic was, understandably, focused around how to more effectively teach the youth in their Seminary classes. In particular, what is required for the Spirit to be the true teacher in the classroom. And a couple things he taught stayed with me.

1. He said that not just the teacher must meet the requirements for the Spirit to be present and teaching, the student must also meet those same requirements. This explains so much about why I may not have felt strongly about something that seemed so profound to those around me. I now see that the burden of preparation for my church meetings lies as firmly with me as it does with the teacher/speaker. Maybe more so. If I walk away from the chapel feeling unfulfilled or undernourished, perhaps I haven't met the requirements to have the Spirit help me. Besides, I imagine He is in a much better position than the speaker to know when I have been given a momentary reprieve from my cheerio duties.

It also made me consider what a solemn responsibility I have as a mother to teach my children the skill of identifying the whisperings of the Spirit. If I do this effectively, it will help their testimonies to mature and strengthen as they remain ready and open to the teaching and guidance of the Spirit.

No pressure.

2. Praying for an individual is much more effective that praying for a group of people. Specifics work better that generalities. hmmmm.... I need to change the way I pray about/for my children. "Please help them to be good." isn't cutting it.

3. He talked about those that he had taught as a young seminary teacher. Specifically a couple young men that turned their chairs around every morning so that he was essentially looking at their backs every day. Years later, one of those men approached him with his own teenage son and was obviously a happy and faithful priesthood holder. Elder Eyring realized then that his prayers for that young man were heard and answered over many many years and largely without his awareness. He said that we must pray and then wait with faith. Pray and wait.

In my own life I pray for one of my children and I would really like to see the answers to my prayers ready and waiting first thing the next morning. Meggy screaming? Pray.... Sleep.... No more screaming in the morning. Seems ridiculous when I write it out like that, but I can't deny that that's what I'd like.

So, today I feel like I'm ready to pray and wait. Ready to prepare myself for my meetings in the morning. Ready to get specific with my Father about what's going on with my children.

You really can't beat a good night with a General Authority.

Good thing we didn't play hookie and go get Andy's.

To a neighborly neighbor,

Dear Jennifer.

The other day when I texted you, "Can you come over and help me take apart a bunk bed?" and you texted back, "Sure! Give me a sec!" because you were actually in the middle of giving your son a haircut, but you came right over anyway to lend me a hand. You're that kind of neighbor.

So then we went back to the girls room and we took our places on opposite ends of the beds, counted "1, 2, 3....go" and we LIFTED! Oh, how we lifted. Nothing. Absolutely no indication that we had exerted any effort whatsoever. We tried again...really putting our backs into it. Nothing. This time I get serious and climb onto the bottom bunk so I can get leverage. "1, 2, 3....go!" I'm not ashamed to say there was grunting.

We looked at each other and admitted that we were not going to be able to do this without the men. Which admittedly is hard for me to admit, given our previous bunk bed successes. We admitted defeat and you returned home to resume the haircut. (How many times can you say 'admit' in one paragraph?)

Remember that?

Well, the part you don't know is that when Mark came home, I humbly asked him if he might use his manly muscles to separate the girl's bunk beds. I explained that you and I had done our best, but we simply weren't strong enough. He walked into the room, took one look and said, "Could this be the problem?"


Oh.

Heh heh.

I'm sorry.

Your neighbor,

Maren