Sunday, December 30, 2007

Wish I'd found it before Christmas!

Check out this blog as well as it's link titled "Corporate Responsibility". So much fun!


It's not my favorite kind chocolate chips. I'm a milk chocolate girl, all the way.

It's also not my favorite kind of news but, what are you gonna do? So the news today is bittersweet.

I'll start with the sweet. Baby "A" has a heartbeat. That is wonderful, exciting news that is cause for gratitude. Baby "A" measured 6 weeks, 4 days on Friday (the 28th). Yay! That means probably healthy baby. Now for the bitter. Baby "B" did not have an audible heartbeat. Baby "B"'s placenta is tucked directly behind Baby "A" so it is nearly impossible to get a visual of it at this stage but they're telling me that they should have heard a heartbeat. It is very unusual (not totally impossible) for one baby to have a heartbeat and not the other. So, in all likelihood, Baby "B" is not going to make it. I have another ultrasound next Friday just to be sure. I have two placentas which means twice the hormones, which means DOUBLE THE MORNING SICKNESS AND ACID REFLUX- but most likely, I will only have one baby. That is very sad. I am so grateful that Baby "A" has a chance but I still feel like I'm losing a baby. It's a very confusing emotion. Also, I'm scared to get excited about Baby "A" yet because for some reason, every woman who has gotten pregnant in my ward in the last two months has miscarried. (The last count was up to 6 women I think.) I'm avoiding drinking the tap water in case it's environmental but who knows.

Anyway, I appreciate all your prayers. Keep sending them my way. I'll try to post a little sooner next time. What with all the puking and laying around, I haven't felt like sitting at the computer.

Thursday, December 20, 2007

What The Grinch Stole, The Robbers Gave Back

On Sunday after church, while Bubba(6) was still in his suit and Mr. Yuke(4) was in a white shirt and his underwear ("Call me 'Captain Underpants!"), they went down to the forbidden zone and rummaged through the toys that are out of rotation. (We rotate the toys in the playroom every couple of weeks so that everything gets played with and cleaned on a regular basis. The toys not in the playroom are on shelves in the basement.) Somewhere down there they found swimming goggles. I do not know why we have these. We have never purchased goggles. Ever. Anyway, the obvious course of action when you are in a suit and goggles is to be a bank robber. I didn't know this. I saw them tiptoe-ing up the stairs and inquired what they were sneaking off to do. They turned around, fixed their goggle stares on me, and whispered, "We're robbers." I had a hard time keeping a straight face, not expecting two sets of goggles to be looking at me. When they were upstairs, Husband said, "I don't know what's wrong with this generation. When I was a kid" (doesn't he sound old?) "we always wanted to be the HERO." I answered, "Well they usually do too. But today they couldn't, OBVIOUSLY." Him- "Why not?" Me- "Because 'hey- goggles.'"
You know that I've been under the weather. Extreme Cinnamon Rolls, PT, Husband out of town, exhaustion and morning sickness that lasts all day long (that's the worst misnomer in the English language), kids with flu, threatening miscarriage of twins, etc. We didn't have Thanksgiving really and I just barely did the shopping for Christmas, and we probably aren't going to eat much on Christmas either. If I'm not in the middle of a miscarriage, I will still be sick as a dog and cooking food is the enemy.

We have not put up our tree yet. It's sad and I've missed it but I can only do so much. Right now, "so much" consists of waking up at some point in the a.m., changing diapers, fixing bottles, feeding children, drinking water, catching up on laundry, besides making sure all the kids have clean pajamas to wear to school for "Polar Express Day" and gifts to exchange for their school and church classes. I've got my wife to murder and Gilder to frame for it. I'm swamped. Oh wait- no. I don't have a wife. But I have had all that other stuff going on in addition to the normal December madness. Really, all things considered, I've been pretty okay with not having the tree up. This week was the first chance we've really had to get it out and now- what with being COMPLETELY distracted with worrying about the babies, I just don't feel like it is worth the energy (that I do not have anyway) to drag all that stuff out for just one week. I've pondered the possibility that Christmas is about the Savior anyway so maybe those nice, pretty reminders are not completely necessary and it might be nice to have an old fashioned, spartan Christmas. Well, yesterday someone informed me that not having a Christmas tree is bordering on CHILD ABUSE. I am not making this up. I pointed out that maybe if she thought about all those children who are regularly beaten by their parents, she would realize that not having a Christmas tree is a FAR CRY from that. She asked, "Well how would you feel if you were a kid without a Christmas tree?" I answered, "It came without ribbons, boxes, or bags.... It came. Somehow... it came just the same." (How the Grinch Stole Christmas- Dr. Seuss) No. In spite of the reference to her favorite Christmas book, she would not concede. ("It's IMPORTANT to them!") I told her that I honestly don't think they'll care. I'm pretty sure that all they care about is GETTING STUFF and that isn't going to be a problem. She answered loftily that it is a decision you're just going to have to make. Just like that, with the italics and everything. And now- even though I was fine with not having a tree before (because as I said, I can only do so much), now I feel like garbage.

I was wondering tonight how I am going to focus on The Greatest Gift/the Savior this coming week when every corner of my mind is completely consumed with worrying- and trying not to think about the twins. Then Husband started singing lullaby-hymns to Muhloo(8m). I thought of that little baby in his mother's arms; the one who made it possible for me to hold all my wonderful children in mine. The baby who made it a reality that I will know these children someday, whether in this life or the next. And suddenly, I knew.

All my preoccupation with the possibilities would not matter in the least if it were not for the baby born in Bethlehem.
Merry Christmas.
"goggles" by Julie K in Taiwan; "Golden Christmas" by krisdecurtis

Wednesday, December 19, 2007

The Cats Are Out of the Bag

Well, I haven't posted for a while because I've been sick. I had the flu Monday and Tuesday- a natural reaction to the domino effect started by Mr. Yuke 2 weeks ago which is still finishing up with the last family members right now. Cleaning up the puke and diarrhea has kept me too busy to blog. (Sorry if that grosses you out.) I've been wondering WHY we spent the money and the time and the aggravation to go get those stupid flu shots. AND, I've had morning sickness for the last three weeks as well.

Yup. That's right. Husband looked at me and now I'm pregnant. Again. It's a good thing and I have been excited (between the bouts of nausea and exhaustion). Until yesterday.

Husband and I thought it would be a fun joke not to tell our families about the baby. We thought that it would be hilarious to just show up next time we see them either with me all huge and say that WW is not working for me, or with an extra kid in tow and say, "What are you talking about? We've always had this many." Besides the fact that it would be funny, it would spare me an extra 10 months of disparraging remarks from my grandparents, and the general strain-to-approve from the rest of the family. Don't get me wrong. A lot of them try really hard to be supportive. It's just that having a big family goes against everything the media has been telling them their whole lives. (For those of you who think having many children is irresponsible, I refer you to this article. We have never needed financial assistance from either our church or the government and our kids are all happy and well adjusted.)

So getting to yesterday. I went in for my ultrasound to find out my due date. Being a person not blessed with a regular cycle, I never know how far along I am. By normal indicators, I should have been 8 weeks, 4 days. The babies actually measured 6 weeks, 1 day. Yes. I said "Babies". Well, yay! That's so exciting in a terrifying roller coaster-ish sort of way. Except that the ultrasound did not have good news. There actually weren't any "babies" at all. I had two beautiful gestational sacs which appeared to be empty. This means that although they COULD be ok, there is a higher probability that I am going to lose them both. I have another ultrasound on the 28th to check for babies. We decided last night that our plan to keep the pregnancy under wraps was not going to work, given the circumstances. Even if the babies end up being fine next week, there are so many things that can go wrong with twin pregnancies that we felt our families needed to know. That way, we won't be calling them up when I am 6 months along and saying, "Baby B is dying from Twin to Twin Transfusion Syndrome." or some other horrid thing like that out of the blue.

My whole life I've wanted 8 children and I hate being pregnant so much that having these babies be healthy, normal twins would be the perfect ending to our family. I want them and I am hoping that they will be ok. I am afraid to be excited. I would appreciate any prayers on our behalf. Whatever happens, "His eye is on the sparrow[s] and I know He's watching over me".

"Sparrow Twins" by e3000

Wednesday, December 12, 2007

Bedtime Tourette's and Music to My Ears

Every night when it's time to get ready for bed, we go through the same routine. At 7:00, everyone gets their p.j.'s on, brushes their teeth, the girls put their hair up so it doesn't get all tangled in the night, and everyone comes downstairs. They all (even Monster Truck(2)) write in their journals while we read aloud for half an hour. Currently we are reading The Tale of Despereaux. At the end of reading time, we sing a song, say a prayer together as a family, and everyone gets to choose a book to take to bed. They read in bed quietly for another half an hour. Then they say their own prayers, get tucked in, and it's lights out. And then I check to make sure the carbon monoxide detector is still working because clearly I am hallucinating. This is the routine that we all agreed to as a family and is posted on the dining room wall. It's the routine that is a thing of beauty once every new moon. The one which is nearly always the same that I referred to up there at the beginning is:

At 7:00 I say, "Okay, guys. Go get ready for bed." They all run (shrieking at the top of their lungs) up the stairs like a pack of howler monkeys and proceed to do any- and every- thing. Except get ready for bed. They laugh and I yell, "Get ready for bed." They fight and I say, "Get your p.j.'s on!" Someone gets hurt and I yell, "It wouldn't have happened if you weren't screwing around. Get ready for bed." (Fill in the blank) comes downstairs and says, "I can't find my toothbrush." After about ten minutes of intermittent reminders from me to "GET READY FOR BED!", I call everyone downstairs for journals, etc. and send whichever two children who are still wearing their jeans and t-shirts back upstairs to get their jammies on. For real this time. ("GET READY FOR BED!") The kids who are in p.j.'s get sent back upstairs to really brush their teeth this time. ("GET READY FOR BED!") The child whose toothbrush is lost and (if by some miracle there IS a child who did what was expected) the child who is ready for bed get out their journals and write or draw about their day depending on the age of the child. ("GET READY FOR BED!") If Mr. Yuke(4) is one of these children, there is a predictable conversation about how our journals are not regular art paper and he needs to just use one page each day and if he wants to do some artwork while we read he needs to get some different paper. When everyone finally comes downstairs truly ready for bed, we are out of time for reading, writing, or singing. The children who didn't get to journal have a hissy fit to which I answer that they chose to use up their time acting like pygmies upstairs. We have a prayer and I send them to bed. And then one or the other of them inevitably asks me with an angel face and puppy dog eyes to "Tuck them in? Please?" (music to my ears) and once again my heart melts and I tuck everyone in (because of course one or the other of us is going to do that every night). And I sit down and sigh at my sweet little people and how much I love them. And then Little Mommy(9) comes out and says that (random body part) hurts. EVERY SINGLE NIGHT. And it's never the same one either. And it's never hurts until it's time to go to sleep. And Mr. Yuke(4) needs a drink. And then The Pinkiest(5) needs one too because it's NOT FAIR if Mr. Yuke(4) gets one and she doesn't. And then Monster Truck(2) doesn't WANT to be in bed and Little Mommy(9) has some other random pain. And she wants to know what exactly is going to be done about it?! And then I tell them that the next person out of bed is going to be dead meat and I better not hear one more peep out of anyone. And then it's quiet.
And then Monster Truck(2) gets out of bed again. For the 27th time.

Last night Husband called during this period of chaos and I really miss him so I kept him on the phone and conversed softly with him while all this was going on. The result was that after a few minutes he said, "It sounds like you have 'Go to bed!' Tourette's. Because of this, I started playing some Christmas music on the piano in an effort to drown them out while I talked to him as the kids were (NOT) getting ready for bed. One of the songbooks I have is a hand-me-down from my mom called "A Peanuts Christmas" (Snoopy). She went through a Peanuts phase in the 70's which she does not remember. Anyway, the book is just basically a bunch of easy Christmas carol arrangements with pictures of Peanuts characters on the tops of the pages. Being the token ready-for-bed-child, The Pinkiest(5) was sitting on the piano bench next to me, listening to the music. I stopped playing after a couple songs and Little Mommy(9) came bolting down the stairs and said, "Mommy, will you please play more Peanuts Christmas Songs?" The Pinkiest(5) got a funny look on her face, pulled her fingers out of her mouth and said, "Penis Christmas Songs?"

"Twinkle, twinkle little star, do you know how loved you are?"

Monday, December 10, 2007

Boys and Girls

I'm tellin' ya. The Chinese have got it right. Boys may be a thousand times easier to raise, but I will take a group of girls any day of the week... when I am cleaning the bathroom. I mean really, is it so hard to aim that equipment into a ten inch target from three inches away? Apparently. Right about now you're thinking that I am completely mixed up on my world affairs. China has boys, not girls. No. I am not confused. The Chinese have got it right, and this is why: they are headed to a point in their population growth where there will be 70 million unwed men cleaning up their own pee. And that is a beautiful thing.

(Before I get a bunch of comments from blog-surfers who don't know me, understand I am 100% against abortion/gender selection and I am not going to publish your politically "correct" comments either way, so don't bother.)

My Nephew, Slugger Jr.(3) wants an elephant for Christmas. A real one that goes, "(Insert sound effect here.)" When Cute Sister pointed out that an elephant might be too big and they would have no place to keep him, Little Slugger(3) generously conceded that, "it could be a baby." I thought that was pretty cute. I was telling Little Mommy(9) and Bubba(6) about this as we set the table the other night when The Pinkiest(5) overheard me. Her eyes got about as big as the dinner plates we were setting down and she exclaimed, "Well I want a GIRAFFE!!!"

This got me thinking about the kids' respective wish lists and I realized that no matter what Hillary Clinton and every other politically "correct" women's lib. advocate says, there are HUGE differences between boys and girls. Zoo animals seem to be the only common denominator (other than the elusive wii). My boys are all about cars and robots and things you can throw. My girls want barbies and ponies. You know. (The rhyme just started all by itself, I swear.) Anyway, none of my girls has ever asked for a fireman suit and none of my boys wants a "High School Musical" Sharpay doll. How there can be any confusion about this is beyond me.

Wii Triumph

Yes. We triumph- and then we weep. Tears of joy? No, although we ARE happy. No, tears for someone else. Husband got to That Store at 5:30 in the morning to wait in line in the snow for 4 hours until they opened. He was 5th in line. That Store gave out numbers and said they were going to let customers in one at a time. Only the first 48 people would be getting one. By 6:00am, there were already 50 people in line. They all froze in the blizzard until 9:25. Then the store employee came out and said, "Forget the numbers. Just run." Realizing Husband is such a big guy, the little old lady in line in front of him said, "You better make sure I get one." They opened the door and sprinted into the store. Husband blocked people and got one for the little old lady and also one for the little boy in line right behind him. Then he got one for himself. The scuffle was so intense that his store membership card broke into three pieces. So yay! He got one. As he was paying, he noticed one of those first three people in the line who got there at 5:00am standing there with a look of disbelief. SHE DIDN'T GET ONE. And someone who came at 9:28 DID. When Husband told me that, I cried. Poor woman. After all the hours I have spent living at That Store, I felt her pain and I cried. I called That Store and told them that even though I got one I was disappointed in how they handled it. So sad.

Friday, December 7, 2007

We hunt

Or should I say wii hunt? Yes. Wii hunt. Wii hunt and wii get up early and wii stand in line and wii wait in the cold. Wii make phone calls and wii come again tomorrow. Wii see the same people, day after day. Wii all hunt together- and against each other; trying to be cordial, to maintain the "may the best mom win" attitude, as all the while we are eyeing each other, wondering who will wii stop seeing next? Who will be the lucky one? Wii search and wii recruit. Wii plan and wii strategize. Wii even pray- (but wii know that wii all sort of cancel each other out anyway). Wii persevere.
Wii hope.

"Wii endcaps are up @ Target!" by Adam Melancon, found on

Was Jacob really THAT intriguing?

I'm wondering what happened.

It is one of four things:

  1. I've lost all my readers, proving that I don't have enough stuff to keep an audience entertained sufficiently for me to write a book.
  2. The "Blog Poll" has lost it's novelty but people are still coming here.
  3. The Edward vs. Jacob question is a far more powerful phenomenon than even I thought and neither the hair situation- (which I really needed some feedback on) nor the current question is inspiring enough to cause anyone to click an answer.
  4. It's December and everyone is far too busy to blog surf.

I'm hoping it's the last one. I would make it into a poll, but I don't think it would do much good.

Thursday, December 6, 2007

Sweet Potato Queens and Foofs

I love the Sweet Potato Queens. I do. I think Jill Connor Browne is very funny, even though at least half of what she writes is completely inappropriate and not worthy of my time. I am aware of this and I have not read any of her work for several years. Consider her my guilty pleasure- like Superbowl ads, and CNN2 or The Weather Channel are for some other people. In one of her books, Jill talks about how much she loves Deviled Eggs (I know! Eww gross, right?) Anyway, she says she loves to eat them but they are WAY too much of a pain to make "her own self". Her solution to this quandry, is to periodically make the rounds until she can find someone who already has some made up or else will make some for her. It is so lazy and yet, I see the merit of this slacker strategy when I have to, say, change a diaper for the four millionth time in a week or something needs to be ironed. Once upon a time, Little Mommy(9) found this slacker approach particularly satisfying when it came to "Foofs".

"Foof" is the term Little Mommy(9) used (when she was Little Mommy(18m)) for "bubbles". The reference is obvious if you had ever seen her trying to blow bubbles with the little plastic wand from the bottle. She would try over and over again but all she could manage was, "Ffffffff!"- hence, the name. Going "Fffffff!" directed the air from her mouth straight down her chin and almost never resulted in bubbles wafting away on the breeze. She became so frustrated with the whole process that I eventually got out the oscillating fan and showed her how to hold the bubble wand in front of it so that the fan did all the work. The result? A happy 18 month old who requested we play Foofs every single day for nearly three months, and a mom who was not passing out from hyperventilation due to blowing bubbles for 2 straight hours every time, while being pregnant with Bubba(6).

The reason I was reminiscing about Foofs today is that Muhloo(7m) discovered her own version of bubbles this afternoon. She is starting to switch over to baby food and she's pretty excited about it. The trouble is that she also gets bored with the repetitive motions of scoop, open mouth, swallow, repeat. In response to the tedium, today she came up with a way to mix things up a little. She figured out that if she waits to baby-babble right when the spoon is just about to go into her mouth, it blows bubbles in the sweet potatoes and effectively sprays them EVERYWHERE. She wouldn't talk to me when the spoon wasn't at her lips. It was like she was speaking into the microphone. I thought maybe she was not hungry and was therefore more interested in playing with her food than actually eating it. NOT SO. When I tried to gently remove the food items from in front of her, she had a huge fit because she was still hungry, apparently. She just happened to be hungry AND entertaining herself with her lunch at the same time. (Is that a problem?) By the time her interest in eating had dwindled, I had sweet potatoes all over my face, shirt, pants, and hands. Her clothing was remarkably clean, come to think of it. (Maybe I ought to do the rounds and see if someone else in the neighborhood has a hankering for feeding babies?) No, on second thought, I would much rather enjoy this experience "my own self". Getting to be in the stories of The Sweet Bubble Queens and the people who hang around them is so much better than anything Jill Connor Browne has to say. I love being a mom. What more is there?

Photos: "5/19/07 Baby Shower Food" by Nodame; "Untitled" (Bubble Wand) by TeraRoop11; "Deviled Eggs for Easter Dinner" by Tojosan. All photos found on Incidentally, I had a hard time finding a deviled egg picture that wasn't copyrighted. How weird is that? There were like ten zillion of them but they were all exclusively copyrighted. This is one bizarre cyberworld we live in.

I graduated!

That's pretty funny. I went back to the online blog readability test to get the code for my well-earned Jr. High badge so I could paste it into my last post and have it proudly displayed for all the 20 of you to see, and in that one entry I raised my score to "High School"! (Must have been the absence of run-on sentences that did it. Remember that.) I don't feel this "High School" rating is nearly such a travesty, seeing as how high school was the last place I graduated from and just barely preceded my matriculation into That College. (HA! Nerdspeak! Now let's see who writes like a middle schooler! In your face, cyberjudgementator!)

Hey, if anyone noticed, I changed the name of the blog. I'm tossing this one around with it's close cousin, "A Life Without Alice". Something about that seems a little doomsayer-ish so I'll probably just stick with the one that's up there now. Anyway, I just wanted you to know that the address won't change no matter what I call it.

Ah, the shame!

I discovered this link on Apostrophism for an online blog readability test, and I immediately went there. Essentially you tell it your web address and in about 3 seconds it tells you that you write like a 13-year-old. Now, I realize that I choose to write the way I would talk to my best girl friend, so that I am neither stretching the vocabulary nor avoiding the use of the word "like". (As in, "I'm like- so totally embarrassed! I got rated "Jr. High".") I know that I intentionally use run-on sentences because I am giving voice to the thoughts in my head and seriously, if I took enough time to stop for punctuation in my head, I think my clan might burn the house down. (Hopefully not when I'm in the shower.) Really, when you come right down to it, I am purposely writing below my level and this rating should not bother me in the least little bit. So how come I want to shoot suction cup darts at the monitor right now?

I don't think I handle rejection very well.

Wednesday, December 5, 2007


Last night My Beautiful came over with the seventh season of Gilmore Girls and takeout. It was great. (I moved to This Place before the show ended and in This Place there are no t.v. channels or cable companies so I missed a season and a half.) While I wrangled the kids, she filled me in on all the parts I had missed that she had already watched.

One of the parts she told me about was when Rory became friends with Art People. Art Girl is always talking about "Boyfriend"- this and "Boyfriend"- that and "Boyfriend" has such beautiful eyes, etc. As My Beautiful was telling me this the thought came to me that perhaps my blog habit of refering Husband as "Husband" might be taken by some as a Gilmore Girls reference (and while, if you're going to rip off a show you really can't do much better,) I honestly didn't know about Art Girl calling Marty "Boyfriend" and now that I think of it, the only person fictional or otherwise I know of that is more sarcastic than me is Lorelei Gilmore and people must think I am such a hack! And it's a good thing Rory's writing is so much more original and fresh than mine obviously is not, or she wouldn't have been able to be so successful all those years at Chilton and then Yale, and she would have wound up married to Dean doing demeaning jobs for Taylor alongside Kirk for the rest of her life. And somewhere right about here in the thought process I realized that I was being obsessive and totally overthinking the situation and I thought,

"That is SO Paris Geller."

Photos from

Also, did you know that you can buy the entire series of Gilmore Girls at Costco for around $175.00? Some say, "Ripoff." I say, "Birthday."

Monday, December 3, 2007

It can wait.

Best kid conversation I've read in a long time:

Click Here

Why rush things?

Steamin' joe

Little Mommy(9), when she was just barely 8- singing the SUV Song from VeggieTales:
"Oh, you and me- in our sport utility vehicles.
Cruisin' to Dunkin' Donuts- for a BAG of steamin' joe."
It's the best visual ever. I can just see it sloshing around in a plastic takeout bag.

Last Friday, I finally had a morning cup of coffee. It was so amazing I had to blog about it.

No. I guess that won't do. Of course I didn't have a cup of coffee. I don't drink coffee. It's bad for you, it makes your breath stink, and I have made a covenant not to drink it. I guess I should go back a ways and explain.

I have this friend- actually a friend of a friend, Ti- who refers to taking a shower when she wakes up as "her morning cup of coffee." Ti says she absolutely cannot function without her "morning cup of coffee". I can see her point really. I hate missing my morning shower. For the last couple of years though, I have remembered Ti adamantly telling me about how much her "morning cup of coffee " centers her. Without it she just can't face the day. And as I have remembered this conversation, I have thought that her morning shower must be a lot different from mine.

We have rules in our house. I have mentioned some of them before. The rule that applies here is:


The following constitute an energency:

  1. Someone is bleeding.
  2. Someone is choking or turning blue.
  3. Someone has swallowed something poisonous.
  4. The house is on fire.

(My kids realize that there are, of course, obvious exceptions to this rule. Things such as,

  • "Can I go play with Jace?"
  • "I got yogurt on my shirt."
  • "I need you to velcro the back of my Batman suit."
  • "Have you seen my shoe?" -Always the shoes...
  • "Here's your cell phone, mommy. Someone maked you a phone call."
  • "[Bubba(6)] PUT IN STAR WARS WHEN YOU SAID I COULD WATCH 12 Dancing Princesses WHEN MY CHORES WERE DONE!!!!!!!!!"
  • "______ hit me!!!")

Any time these exceptions come up, I refer the child to the rules. "Are you bleeding? Is anyone choking? Is the house on fire? Has [Monster Truck(2)] gotten out into the street?.... Then GET OUT OF THE BATHROOM while I am TAKING A SHOWER!!!!!"

So, although I do love my morning shower, I do not generally find it that Nirvana everyone in the Northwest claims to experience whilst chugging stewed, burned beans. I am usually far more tense, irritated, and stressed when I get out of the shower than when I rolled out of the nice warm covers that morning. That is, until last Friday.

I showered. It was hot. It was steamy. It was good to the last drop. NO ONE came in. I could scarcely believe it. I realized that I was done and I had not yet been interrupted- so I admit it. I stayed in there a little longer. I savored every second. And Ti was right. I was centered. I was warm. I was both relaxed and invigorated. I didn't have to get tanked up on caffeine and carcinogens, and I was ready to face my day.

And guess what? My breath didn't even stink.

Sunday, December 2, 2007


Mr. Yuke(4): And then, after 500 million, comes 16!!!

Here's another number that's a big deal in our house:

That's the number for poison control. We have it on speed dial on my cell phone but sometimes, (more often than not, actually) a dead battery requires the manual dialing of it on the home phone.

We call that number a lot these days. It seems that Monster Truck(2) loves detergents. Anything with any sort of cleanser in it. In the last week and a half, he has drunk Little Mommy's(9) facial toner and eaten ten of the little center soap pellets of the electrasol power tabs for the dishwasher. We are not careless about dangerous things, but he has learned to open the child safety locks on the cupboards, the baby gate, and the front door. Really, the minivan is the final frontier and when that happens- well.... Be afraid. Be very afraid. Anyway, you would think that after the say, third or fourth dish detergent ball he would think to himself, Ewww. This is not so delicious. I think I'll go ransack the cereal cupboard once again. Yes, that would be much more yummy. But no. He just keeps eating them, presumably thinking that they'll start tasting better real soon. Maybe it's an aquired taste, like strained peas. And swingset chains. So we've called Poison Control so many times for that boy that the last couple times I have started to worry that CPS must have started building a case against us. He has gotten into more poisonous things than all his other siblings combined. There are only so many up high places we have in the house and right now they are reserved for things like percocet and transmission fluid. Fortunately, he was fine. The detergents didn't make him sick. We did not have to take him to the hospital, and we still had enough of them left to do the dishes. I guess no harm, no foul. He has gotten off extremely lucky, come to think of it. He has never had to go to the hospital. Not with the toothpaste (yes, it is extremely poisonous- we were at the hospital for 15 hours with the The Pinkiest for that), not with the Balmex, and not with the rubbing alcohol. That's why he's Monster Truck. Indestructable. Thank goodness.

Jacob who?

So, if we take out the people who don't know what the question is regarding, the results are 66% for Edward, 33% for Jacob. Husband asked me what the difference is. After pondering that for a moment I said, "You know the movie Sweet Home Alabama? How she has to choose? Well, in the Twilight books Bella picks Patrick Dempsey." He looked at me like that was crazy and said, "But [Melanie] knew that guy since they were kids." Yes. And that is why the question is so intriguing.