Civilize-ation

This past weekend, Craig and I attended the funeral of his much-loved grandmother. We reconnected with members of his family we haven't seen in ages, and spent a particularly touching evening with all of the extended family, reminiscing about Grandma: her many idiosyncrasies, her intelligence and ingenuity, but most off all, her powerful influence -- an influence that, no doubt, will send ripples through the generations in both directions.

She raised five sons. Those five boys are all, I'm happy to report, extremely civilized and happy in their adulthood. This surprises me not because I know them now, but because I have inherited Grandma's life's work: raising sons.

I don't always love this job. In fact, there are times that I downright detest it. Don't get me started about dirty bathrooms and the tendency to turn everything into a weapon. They've even taught their little sister so much about defending herself that they call her our "Tackle Baby" -- a weapon, indeed. I could go on and on about potty mouth, fascination with gross noises, and the hearing aids I'm pretty sure I already need as a result of the perpetual escalation of indiscriminate noise-making.

Over Christmas break, I was talking to my sister on the phone one day while doing the dishes. my childrens' noise level became so unbearably loud that I could no longer hear what she was saying. It sounded like howler monkeys had invaded my living room, and were entertaining themselves by swinging back and forth between the Christmas tree and the ceiling fan.

"Jenny!" I moaned. "I think I live in Lord of the Flies! And I'm a little afraid that I am Piggy!"

And then, of course, I immediately got off the phone and turned my attention to the thing that should have, actually, had my attention in the first place: my unruly clutch of male-children, waiting, desperately, to be civilized by the touch of a woman.

I noticed something interesting about my children very early on: they have always been calmed by the presence of an older female. Their cousin, Lucy, has an especially settling effect on them. She's a born boss (it's one of the many reasons I love her!) and even though she's but 15 months older than my twins, when she starts barking out orders, they listen.

Last summer, I would go spend the day at Jenny's house and let the kids (all boys, except for Lucy) play: sandbox, Wii, swimming at the community pool, usually followed by a couple of Little Caesar's pizzas thrown onto the back deck with a box of Capri Suns and instructions to stay outside until their swimsuits were dry. Lucy would make sure everyone was done eating, then line them up in Mother-May-I fashion for the orderly distribution of popsicles while Jenny and I sipped our Cokes and watched from the kitchen table on the other side of the french doors. I was fascinated -- awed, even -- by how different boys behave when there's a little estrogen in the room.

As I've struggled through the past six weeks of schoollessness (yes, it's a word -- I just coined it) brought on by three weeks of Christmas break, a week of DisneyWorld, and a bunch of snow days, I have often lamented to those who are required to listen (husband, sister, mother, friend) that my house right now is not at all the way my house was when I was growing up. I am the oldest of four, and my two brothers are seven years apart. They did not rough-house. They did not horse around. They did not wrestle, tackle, bite, kick, fight, body-slam, or fart on each other. Our house was loud and happy, but it was not a testosterone-laden den of boy smells and car noises.

I said this to Craig the other day, and he sort of snorted. "Oh, this is exactly what it was like at my house."

God bless his mother. She had exactly what I have now, in reverse order: girl, boy (Craig), then three years later, identical twins. She had the intelligence to quit after the twins, as many more-sane people do, and you should hear the laundry list of antics those three got up to. Someone once gave them boxing gloves for Christmas. I kid you not. And I think it actually worked. Nothing stops fighting like good, old-fashioned permission.

While listening to all of those stories about Craig's grandmother, I realized exactly what we're here for: to civilize. She raised five sons who have all made lasting contributions to the world they live in. They have raised families of their own, started businesses, served others, and lived the Gospel. And the reason they had the skills to do what they have is because their mother recognized the potential underneath the wild-man exterior that, I'm convinced, every boy exhibits to some degree. She molded them, shaped them, prepared them to be husbands, fathers, and leaders, helped them become so much better than they could have ever been without the calming influence of the great civilizer of society: the mother.

Weekend Report

Well. I'm a little late posting, since I told you I'd be back Sunday night, but these pictures are worth waiting for, I promise.

We had a fabulous weekend of shopping and laughing and talking and eating. Gramma bought cute matching dresses for all of her granddaughters, so, of course, we had to take pictures. We like to call them The Blonde, The Brunette, and The Redhead:

Those are MommyJ's daughters Lucy and baby Ivy with a side of grinning Miscellany, my little gem. Aren't they cute?

CPod got Miscellany dressed for church. When we arrived (early, for once), I went to nurse her before the meeting started. I noticed she didn't have any little bloomers covering her bum. CPod claimed there were none with the dress. I knew this wasn't right, but just figured they got lost somewhere between the closet and the baby and I'd find them when we got home. And then I looked under the back of her dress. Which is exactly where I found the bloomers, still attached by little white plastic tags to the inside of her dress. CPod just looked at me. "I don't know how that stuff works!" he said. Which is exactly what I say to him when I remind him that our boys need some further aiming remediation when it comes to peeing in the toilet.

Here are all the women alive with whom I share a great deal of my genes -- Mom, daughters, granddaughters:

We had a little moment in the dressing room at one of the stores we visited on Friday -- we were all there, and I'm pretty certain my grandmother popped in for a minute or so, too. When I was growing up, I had no concept of the closeness and satisfaction possible in sister-and-mother relationships. If I'd known then how great it could be, I would have tried a lot harder to be likable!

I found THE jeans that were made for my posterior. As in, Calvin Klein snuck into my room in the middle of the night and measured my butt, then made me some jeans. They're fantastic. And they cost half as much as the jeans that do great things for MommyJ's bottom end. Neener, neener.

Some evidence that I'm Miscellany's mother (get a load of her legs -- the rolls abound):

All these pictures were taken in my house -- and that awful mess of stuff in the background? That is our Gallery Wall. My kids use the French doors off the dining room to display any and all art projects for posterity, and while it's not exactly going to sell my house to the first buyer who sees it (not that we're selling), they are so proud of the things they put up there that I'm not about to mess with it. Also, the chair I'm sitting in has started to remind me of a Vegas casino carpet.

And the dress:

And because you are a captive audience, and she is irresistible:

And because Little Miss Personality stole the show (and also has enormous feet!):

I am so getting my haircut on Thursday. Usually, I love my curly hair, but sometimes . . . sometimes, it's just a big unruly mess and I feel the need to tame it. And tame it I shall. Perhaps while I'm at it I should figure out how to de-shine my face. So, hair? Meh. Skin? Needs some work. Eyebrows? Definitely in need of some grooming. But that jacket? Love it. You should see the back.

That's all for now, dear readers. This is the closest thing to a scrapbook I will EVER have and sometimes it needs to have pictures -- so thanks for indulging me. I promise, no more baby pictures for at least two posts!

Miracles, Large and Small

In the spirit of the season, I've been counting my blessings. Admittedly, I have special reason to be thankful this year since we have welcomed little Miscellany, a particularly delightful addition to our family. (A note to some of you out there: Miscellany is not her real name, in case you were wondering. We use aliases around here, remember?) We are blessed to have her at all, and that, my friends, is a story of miracles.

I'm grateful that I wasn't born 100 years ago. 100 years ago, I would have never had children at all because in vitro fertilization was not even a germ of an idea in the mind of the most brilliant scientist. I would have been childless and sad.

One hundred years ago, if, by some miracle, I had conceived, I would probably have miscarried. Have any of you had a Rhogam shot? If you have, you've been blessed by a modern medical miracle, too, as you were prevented from having an immunological rejection of your fetus.

One hundred years ago, little Miscellany would not have survived her delivery. When my water was broken, the amniotic fluid rushed out of the sac and suddenly we all heard the scary sounds of a fetal heart deceleration. As her heart rate plummeted to the 50s, suddenly my hospital room filled with nurses. They all knew their jobs, and did what had to be done as my doctor attached a monitor to the baby's head, reinfused amniotic fluid into my uterus and then manipulated my numb body into multiple positions in an attempt to find a place that didn't stress the little one any further. My mom and my sister stood in the corner and sent up prayers on our behalf, and watched my doctor do the same as she donned her surgical scrubs. My husband held my hands and my eyes as he helped me grasp the oxygen mask covering my face. The anesthesiologist stood behind me ready to dose my epidural as another nurse shaved my abdomen in preparation for an emergency caesarean section.

And then . . . and then, I experienced a tender mercy: an overwhelming sense of calm, and a certain knowledge that all would be well. I knew the baby would be fine, regardless of her doorway. I breathed deeply, and I felt the baby settle. And then the fetal heart tones began to regulate, and steadily increased to a normal level. It was the scariest 15 minutes of my life. We delivered her, with great joy, the old fashioned way, and without further complication even though the umbilical cord was wrapped around her neck.

I am grateful for the miracles discovered and applied and perfected in hospitals and laboratories all over the world every day. I am thankful to the practitioners, doctors and nurses alike, who know their stuff, and risk their lives, names and reputations every single time they engage in patient care.

I am grateful for the miracle of a kind, caring, and devoted husband. I'm not exactly sure where I'd be (probably institutionalized) if it weren't for the efforts of my dearest one. He is the greatest. What's that scripture? I cannot say the least part of what I feel. And I love him.

I am grateful for the miracle of the Magic Grandma. Every time my mom walks through my front door, she saves my life. Miscellany is three weeks old now, and for her first two weeks of life, my mom came over every day.. She walked into piles and piles of laundry, dishes gathered and untouched since she had last done them, an emotionally fragile and sleep-deprived mommy, and three very stir-crazy, energetic and rambunctious boys. She built forts, channeled energy, straightened messes, and soothed frayed nerves. And she did it with style, managing to juggle all of that plus running a business and a stake Relief Society program without missing a beat.

I am grateful for my dad. His quiet, selfless service and sensitivity to the Spirit are miracles unto themselves. Since the baby was born, he has several times just shown up to take my boys with him somewhere – anywhere. And the hour of quiet that entered the house as they left was golden and peaceful. He is also the one who, while my mom mitigates and tries to make my husband feel better by saying some little feature on Miscellany's face looks like Daddy, instead says, “Nah, this baby looks just like InkMom.” And I know he means it because when he looks at her, he looks like he is remembering.

I am grateful for the miracle of sisters who are best friends, and best friends who may as well be sisters. I have experienced an outpouring of love and support from friends whose lives are at least as busy as mine. They have cooked and cleaned for me. They have made me laugh. They have taken care of my children and increased their own burdens as they have lightened mine. One has taken beautiful pictures of my baby. (You must go see them. Here and here.) My dear Heather left her own five children with family and came to visit from Idaho with her husband. While he went to continuing education classes at a professional conference, she scrubbed my hardwood floor and played games with my crazy boys. She mopped pee off of the tile in the little boys' bathroom and changed poopy diapers. She sword-fought with them and let them creep down the stairs early in the morning to wake her up in the basement That is friendship!

I am grateful for the miracle of my three boys, who love their sister so much. I am surprised by this. MayDay has been the baby for three years, and I worried he would regard his sister with hostility. Instead, the first thing he did when we brought her home was get his beloved blanket and spread it lovingly over her little body. I expected G-Dog to maul her to death, but I did not expect him to say, every morning, “I think she's a little bit bigger today, Mommy.” He gives her so many hugs and kisses that I'm certain she'll grow tired of them before she's a few months old. When MayDay was born, ConMan just ignored him – as in, if I don't look at him, maybe he's not really here. He is not as effusive as his twin, but he is still enamored of his baby sister. He approaches shyly, and looks up at me with big blue eyes. “Mommy, she's so pretty!” And she is.

My life is blessed by miracles. Isn't yours?

Atrophy of Roots

On our first anniversary, CPod and I graduated from BYU. We spent that week taking finals and packing up all of our earthly belongings, and the morning after graduation, we headed out to Memphis, TN where CPod would embark of the next stage of his education.

We rented a little apartment in Midtown close to the school. We only had one car, and once I had a job, I would drop CPod off for class, drive out to the other end of town for work, then pick him back up after I finished working, or at 11PM if he was closing the library.

Here's what they don't tell you about Memphis: it's patchy, in a strange way. You can go from well-maintained 100-year-old estates a city block in size to housing projects to slums to buildings with signs that announce "Drug dealers evicted here" by just crossing over to the other side of the street. Once you know the safest route through to your destination, you don't look for shortcuts because you're never sure what kind of area you will encounter on the way.

Our apartment complex was safe enough. After all, it was surrounded by a chain link fence topped with three feet of razor wire, and an armed guard manned the entrance at all times. It felt like a prison compound, and the cockroaches didn't do much to dispel my gloom whenever I thought about our living situation. You just never get used to pouring bleach down the drain before you take a shower. You can try. You can pretend. But you will never like it.

I had a good job -- a great job, really. And CPod had his work study job at the library (which I still hold single-handedly responsible for any honors he received at graduation) as well as another job that accommodated his limited student schedule. Housing is cheap in Memphis, and after crunching some numbers, we decided to look for a house to buy. If we played our cards right, we could end up spending less on a house note than we were on rent. For cockroaches.

We searched, and found a great little house. And it had a tree in the front yard. I was sold. It was one of the only trees on the street, and it was lovely: tall, and broad, and it provided shade to the little flower garden by the front porch. I had been longing to get my hands in some soil, and it looked like I would have the opportunity.

I loved that tree. I fertilized it, and pruned it, and took great care to keep it healthy. In return, it ensured lush grass and blooming flowers in my little planter. It's H.O.T. in Memphis -- the kind of sticky, humid heat where you just become complacent in your discomfort, when your clothes always make you feel like you are encased in hot dog skins, when your sunglasses fog up between the front door and your car even if it is only 7:30 in the morning.

The tree was a Bradford pear. Do you have one? You should get rid of it. They're useless.

One early Sunday morning, we were experiencing one of those Memphis storms, with a lot of wind. (It's the only place I've ever lived with tornado warning sirens. Scary.) We heard an awful crack, and when we checked the front yard, our beloved tree had split down the middle and half had fallen on our neighbor's new truck. Nice.

Turns out, Bradford pear trees are the antithesis of delayed gratification. You plant one, and just a few short years later, voila! You have a big, beautiful shade tree. But all of that growth you can see comes at an extreme sacrifice: very little growth under ground. The Bradford pear expends all of its energy branching out above the ground without building the necessary support system underneath, and when a little wind comes along, it doesn't have the strength it needs to stand strong through the storm.

It only took a few days for my flowers to die. You see, they relied on the shade of the pear tree to protect them from the brutal Memphis sun. And when the tree was no longer there to shelter their delicate blossoms, they did not have the resources they needed to survive in their environment.

Lately, I've been feeling pretty drained. I've had a few strong contractions that have worried me a bit, but I've taken it as a cue that I need to slow down. (Don't worry, my doctor is in the loop. I'm talking, like, 5 contractions. Total. Over the course of a week.) I mean, I'm supposed to have 14 more weeks of this! I've figured out (duh) that I don't eat enough, I don't drink enough water, I don't sleep enough, and I don't rest enough. And I don't take care of my spiritual roots enough, either.

I'm determined not to be that Bradford pear tree, because my responsibility to shelter my family is one I take very seriously. But taking it seriously means, first, strengthening my roots: caring for myself physically, and paying attention when my body tells me I need to take it easy; partaking of the spiritual sustenance that comes only through the activities of personal discipleship and maintaining a relationship with my Savior; saying "no" to outside activities and additional stressers when it's time to slow down.

How many of us look great to the outside world, but are really withering inside because we have neglected our roots? I would wager there's more of us out there with atrophied roots trying to maintain the facade of well-being than we would imagine . . . like, maybe, all of us, to a degree.

We are responsible for so many things -- as my mom used to say, semi-jokingly, when I was growing up, "If there's a war in the middle east, somehow I'm responsible." But the thing we are responsible for first and foremost is our own well-being. My ability to provide shelter, to bless others with my talents, to care for those both in my own family and out of it is directly related to how much care I have been taking to ensure my own physical, emotional and spiritual well-being. And yet. It's those very actions that demonstrate care for others that I choose to do instead of first working in my own vineyard.

I will not be that Bradford pear tree. The winds come every day, and I pray that my roots will be strong enough to support me, to withstand the buffeting that, certainly, will not lessen before my job is through.

Some fireworks a day late . . .

How was your holiday weekend?

Mine was great. I'm serious.

My entire family went camping. And by entire family, I mean all of the people I lived with growing up and all of our respective spouses and children. 21 people in all.

Wanna know how crazy it was? 11 of those people are 8 or younger. Baby brother has no children yet, but the shakedown works like this (my kids in purple; MommyJ's kids in green; Jared & Mel's kids in blue): 8, 6, 5, 5, 4, 4, 4, 2, 2, 2, 4 months. All boys except for little Lucy. Oh, the energy!

We ate. We swam. We reveled in the cool weather -- no warmer than 80 degrees. Heaven. We watched fireworks. We laughed. We ate some more. We slept on the ground. Well, I slept on the ground. My parents slept on a double-stacked air mattress. Their tent looked like an actual bedroom, complete with handmade quilts and throw pillows.

And now we're home. And clean. The campsite had flush toilets, but no showers, so for two days, no one bathed. I smelled like a Mexican restaurant dumpster. When I finally showered this afternoon, as I bent over to scrub the "dirty burt", as my mom calls it, from under my toenails, my already washed hair swung into my face and it still smelled like campfire smoke.

My kids are all sleeping. Which means it's time for me to turn in, too. Yes, I know it's only 9:15. I promise to be a real person, with some real posts about some interesting things I've been thinking about lately, very soon.

Love you all!

Bubble-icious

My dad has been trying for years now to perfect his recipe for bubbles. We think he's finally got it down:


If you look closely, you can see reflections of people and trees in the bubbles. It's a little tough to see, but it's there, I promise. We're considering using a hula hoop dipped in a kiddie pool full of bubble solution to encase our children in individual bubbles. Wow, do the kids ever love it. My mom calls herself the "PopPop indicator" because as soon as the grandchildren (except for Lucy, who LOVES Grandma) see her, they get excited because they know PopPop won't be far. The bubbles are one of the many reasons why.

My Mom and I serve together in the Stake Relief Society presidency here in our corner of the world. We are in the midst of planning a huge 12-stake women's conference that we will host here in our area. We're talking 1200 sisters (I know, Utah people -- that doesn't seem like much, but many of those 1200 will have to drive 4 or 5 hours to get here!), plus a cadre of men who have also been invited to a training session for Relief Society leadership and stewardship. We've been mulling over what to do with the men after the training session is over. It is, after all, a women's conference, and we don't have enough room to accomodate the extra bodies.

"Don't worry," my dad said, just passing through on his way to the refrigerator. "I'll just take them all out to the parking lot and do bubbles."

Lines

First things first: I have been a neglectful blog steward. Sorry. Lots going on, including some traveling. But I'm back now.

I finished a book last night about a 19th-century Mohawk medicine woman working amongst the American prisoners of war across the British-Canadian border during the War of 1812. She is summoned to the quarters of the commanding officer, and does not know what to expect of the meeting. She knows the British do not see value in her work, and cannot imagine that his motives or intentions are either in her favor, or that of the prisoners she tends.

As she walks through the garrison on her way to the lion's den, she recites her lineage, which, amongst the Mohawk, is matrilineal. She lists the women who were her progenitors, her mother, stepmother, grandmother, and so on. She tells herself that they can take away everything, but they cannot take who she is: the product of generations of women who lived their lives in a way that brought honor even to those offspring they would never meet.

Her connections define her identity -- and her connections comprise her most prized possessions.

I have an ancestor named Mary Keaton. I didn't know her -- I have never even met anyone who met her, because she lived many generations ago. She is my father's 4th great-grandmother.

My dad grew up on a tobacco farm in central North Carolina. It was very rural, and they were very poor. His parents were both God-fearing, Christian people. His mother, my grandmother, attended a primitive Baptist congregation where she was known for her benevolent spirit, charitable nature, and beautiful singing voice. My grandfather did not attend services, but he read his Bible every day. They raised 13 intelligent, hardworking children who all survived to adulthood, a miracle unto itself.

Before my baby brother left on his mission, my entire family (mom, dad, four children and the three so-far spouses) attended the temple. After Little Bro's endowment session, we gathered together in a sealing room to do some family file work. My husband and I had the privilege to proxy for my grandparents so my dad and could be sealed to them. It was truly a choice experience.

My parents proxied for the sealing of Mary Keaton to her husband. I can scarcely describe the spirit that existed in that tiny room as we participated in uniting another generation of our family for eternity. Even the sealer was affected.

"I don't know who she was," he said, "but she was really special."

We all felt it, and I had the clear impression that the reason my dad was prepared to accept the Gospel when he heard it generations later was because of the habits that Mary Keaton instilled in her children so many years ago . . . who passed on the same values to their children, and their grandchildren, on down to my dad's generation. The same values he has tried to instill in us, and that I am responsible for teaching to my own children. No matter the gender of this child I carry, Mary Keaton will be honored somehow.

I am InkMom. I am the daughter of a great woman, who saw the Gospel for the truth that it is before I was born, and taught it to me and my siblings, and who taught us how to live the same way her mother taught her. I am the granddaughter of Clare, who loved and lived better than anyone else I know, and who I think held onto my babies in heaven until I was ready to receive them; and I am the granddaughter of Stella Catherine, who worked so hard in her life that she even died at her quilt frame, and whose fervent example of hard work I will never cease to emulate, and always fail to attain.

I am a privileged daughter of God, brought to this earth during a time fraught with spiritual danger, but rife with opportunities to grow and share the Gospel with others. I was shaped by the choices of the generations that came before me, and my unique spirit brings new and different dimensions to the family that will be mine for eternity, and that I enlarge as I bring my own children into this world and raise them.

Intelligence? Yes, we will take it with us. But what is it worth without our connections?

Who needs words?

Easter Sunday afternoon, at my parents' house, all the little ones (except baby Liam, who is, after all, only 7 weeks old) hunted for eggs. Here's the line up, L-R: Adley, G-Dog, ConMan, Sam, Lucy, MayDay, Jordan, Aidan, Eli, Henry. (Adley, Aidan and Eli go with this blog, written by my sister-in-law; Sam, Lucy, Jordan and Henry belong to this blog, written by my sister, MommyJ; the remainders, G-Dog, ConMan and MayDay, belong to me.)

P.S. You should read MommyJ's post from today. It's INFLAMMATORY!

Watch out, Boy Bands! InkMama's Boys are in the house!

Happily, mother nature decided to wrap herself up in a big, beautiful, billowy, blanket of blowing whiteness. I love snow. I live for snow days. I love that we own our own business, so CPod could take a snow day with us. I love having an excuse to throw the agenda out the window and just play for a day. I love my conductor for canceling our rehearsal this evening. (Not that I would have gone, but at least now I don't feel guilty . . . and since we're making it up with a shorter one, I'll still get paid.) I love hot chocolate. I love having another adult around to witness the insanity that is our house every single waking moment of every single day. I also love having another adult around to help clean up the mess that happens when all we do is play.

The snow started for us while we were still at church. Our crazy, must-have-lived-up-north-at-some-point bishop did not send all of us alarmist, weather-novice southerners home right away (even those of use who have lived out west still get excited when the snow begins to fall). (Maybe he should have . . . we have mountains here! One retired couple in our ward took 5 hours to get home, including a foray into a snowy ditch at the bottom of their non-flat neighborhood.)

We lost power twice on Sunday. This precipitated many happy circumstances, the least of which was not bedtime as soon as it got dark -- which equals early at our house. In fact, the power came back on about 5 minutes after we tucked all three boys into their sleeping bags (like camping, right?) but CPod and I still sat on the couch reading with flashlights so they would go to sleep without knowing, yes, they actually could watch a show before bedtime if they so desired.

So, before I explain the other best parts, guess what this is:


Guesses, anyone? Here's the same picture with two minor lighting changes:


All three boys got headlamps for Christmas, so we all donned them and wandered around our house in the half-light of a closing, cloudy day. CPod got out his JetBoil and cooked us up some Mountain House grub. I have never seen my kids eat like they did when we fed them camping food. They very nearly licked their plates. Even I, food snob extraordinaire, enjoyed it enough to actually consider eating it under circumstances other than, A. actual camping, B. power outage with no access to the grill since it's covered by a snow drift, or C. the apocalypse. A good time was definitely had by all.

Which brings me to the title and purpose of this post. I've decided to market my children as a boy band. There's another trio out there of cute-ish brothers, and I am 100% certain my boys have more talent than that Disney-ified, can't do it without a back-up band even though they pretend to play their own instruments, family of hotties. So, without further ado, I present for your viewing and listening pleasure, InkMama's Boys in their worldwide internet debut. Please don't call them Milli Vanilli. At least not until they're old enough to read. Then, I'll begin insisting they do their own stuff. For now, it's The Killers.

Please forward all press kit requests or gig inquiries to my e-mail. It's on my sidebar. I know they'd be perfect for whatever event you have in mind. I mean, where else have you seen moves like these?

Am I famous?

Business first: a brief explanation for my radio silence of the past week. My husband's profession requires him to re-educate himself each year in order to renew his license. This gives us the opportunity to travel a little and write it off as a business expense. Yay!

My wonderful baby brother and his terrifically loving and patient new wife kept our kids for the weekend. (My mom says I may have singlehandedly convinced them to wait many, many years to have children of their own. Really? I hope not!)

We met our best friends from graduate school, who live in Idaho, in Austin, Texas. What a fabulous weekend! I slept. And slept some more. And ate really great food. Without having to feed it to anyone else, or keep anyone else from throwing it at a tablemate, or clean up what spilled on the floor. CPod went to class, and found a six pack of Henry Weinhard's Root Beer at a grocery store. Seriously, that's all he needed.

(I am willing to trade Cheerwine for Henry Weinhards, all of you who live out west. We can't get it out here, and you've probably never had Cheerwine, but it's the drink of the gods. For Christmas about 5 years ago, I actually ordered CPod some Weinhard's root beer from California. The shipping cost more than the root beer. But it's sooooooo good!)

My friend and I shopped and laughed and tried really hard to find our very own sisterhood of the travelling pants, with no luck. She had her youngest child with her, an adorable little 4-month-old angel who looks so much like his oldest brother that I experienced serious deja vu several times while we were together. His big brother, who is now 10, was the first baby I ever loved, and he will forever have a special place in my heart, so it was fun to relive that a little and bond with the smaller version. All in all, it was a wonderfully rejuvenating weekend.

And now . . . on to what this post was supposed to be about in the first place.

Last year, our digital camera died. Or, rather, it became unreliable. It still worked on occasion, but never on the occasions when I needed it. We invested in a newer, smaller, cooler camera and set the old one aside.

Last week, on the twins' birthday, I ran across the old camera. Since I hadn't thought about it in months, I gave it to G-Dog and ConMan. It was their favorite birthday present. (Of course it was. Because I didn't have to pay for it.)

Little did I know what I was getting myself into. Suddenly, I have a great deal of sympathy for Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt, because everywhere I go, I am followed by a gaggle of loud, intrusive, demanding photographers. The only things they haven't captured are those that I generally (try to) do by myself in the bathroom. Or any nudity (mine or theirs). But give them time. I'm sure the thought will occur to them eventually.

My little personal papparazzi have documented me making dinner, dusting the living room, sitting on the couch with my kids, doing laundry, playing games, and bludging. They have taken pictures of our carpet and close-up views of our couch and chair upholstery; they have zoomed in on our chef at the Japanese steakhouse we went to on their birthday; they have blinded each other with the flash and gotten up close and personal with nose hair; and they have taken many, many, many pictures of the television. Because those shows NEED to be documented for posterity.

The following is a very select sampling of the photographic prowess of my progeny. Consider yourselves the VIPs invited to the exhibition preview, because I'm certain that high-end galleries and snooty art critics are in our future. A warning: there are some very unattractive pictures of me in this lot. VERY. But I am that willing to sacrifice my dignity so you, dear readers, can have a laugh. Enjoy.

We'll start with a series I like to call Polyptych of Mommy Booty:

Whatever

Finger Toes
(I know these toes belong to G-Dog. Unlike CPod and G-Dog, MayDay, ConMan and I all have toes like hobbits, not fingers.)

Restaurant of Blinding Lights

WikiSticks on Blankie

Piggy Shine

Brother Behind Glass

She Moves Too Fast

Transformer Family Portrait
(L-R: Optimus Prime, Jazz, BumbleBee)

Wheelbarrow in Mulch
(The genius of this photo is that somehow, the perspective is way off. I mean, that wheelbarrow is only 8 feet away, but it looks like it's two stories down. I'm still not sure how they did it.)

Ten Things I Learned at Walt Disney World

Long post alert. We've got lots of ground to cover here, people!

You can't beat flowers like this in January.

Me and cutie ConMan after day two at the Magic Kingdom.

The Mickey Family Portrait.

1. Next time, I'll prepare for the trip by learning how to say "excuse me" in 17 languages. I'm serious. I would bet that English-speaking Americans were in the extreme minority while we were there. If I learn how to say "excuse me" in 17 languages, I won't feel so bad about running over people's toes with my large, conspicuous, where-did-you-think-I-was going-with-this-thing double stroller.

2. You don't have to be American to look like a redneck. Just when I thought I had someone pegged as a good old boy, out they'd come with a "Cheerio, old chap" and I would scratch my head. That's what I get for stereotyping.

3. You should only wear clothing printed with phrases in languages you know. You wouldn't believe the number of t-shirts I saw printed with nonsensical English. For example, "It Maximum Authoritized". I thought about this for a long time trying to make sense of it. But it doesn't make sense. And the cool looping script over a really awesome graphic will never make it make sense. I don't even think "authoritized" is a word. So . . . all of you out there with the Chinese character for "harmony" tattooed on your (fill in the blank with some embarassing body part) . . . exactly how sure are you that it doesn't mean "dog-faced" or "idiot"?

4. If vanity is a reason to not live somewhere, Florida has just been stricken from my list. Because if we lived in Florida, I would be faced with the prospect of never ever again having a good hair day, and I'm just not sure I could live with that.

5. Something nefarious has happened to Daisy Duck. She is absolutely absent from the Magic Kingdom. She is not in either parade, she is not on the merchandise, and she is not mentioned elsewhere in the park. For a sassy, speak-your-mind kind of girl like me, this absence is disturbingly conspicuous! Are they trying to put down the one who says it like it is? The one who tells her boyfriend what to do? Was there some Disney patron focus group that reflected unfavorably on the notorious duckette? I will get to the bottom of this!

6. The Haunted Mansion ride is not appropriate for toddlers. The last time I rode The Haunted Mansion, I was 9. And it was great fun -- harmless ghosts, gimmicky special effects that were easy to see through, and a lot of laughs. I expected it to be exactly the same. Turns out, Disney actually updates their rides every once in a while, and The Haunted Mansion is waaaaaaaay scarier than it was (ahem) 23 years ago. Don't worry, though -- CPod told the boys we were in a Scooby Doo movie and they were cool with it.

7. I could live on French toast loaf (from the Main Street Bakery) and Dole pineapple whip (from the little ice cream stand in AdventureLand). Except that only covers two of my four major food groups (fruit, bread, cheese, chocolate). Guess I'll have to supplement with turtle cheesecake.

8. DisneyWorld is like the Vatican. They own every part of their compound. They maintain their own roads, they have their own police (I actually saw a car with lights on top and a siren blaring down the road), and Mickey is the pope. Disney OWNS the southwest part of Orlando. You can't fly a plane over it, you have to show ID all over the place, they recruit employees from all over the world, and they have more money than . . . well, probably the Vatican. I rest my case.

9. My kids will eat anything shaped like Mickey Mouse, or remotely related to any Disney character. They'll eat food from a Mickey-shaped plate, drink water from a Mickey-emblazoned cup, and eat carrots from a Mickey Mouse bowl. They will eat Mickey-shaped chicken nuggets and mouse head noodles in mac & cheese. I tell you, they're geniuses of catering to children down there. I should have taken notes.

10. Any place where even the bad guys are willing to dress up and walk in the parade at the end of the day has to be the happiest place on earth. And that attitude seems to be pervasive while you're in the Magic Kingdom. People are happy to be there. Kids are wide-eyed and enthralled by all they experience. And in general, people are helpful and pleasant.G-Dog actually said, "Mommy, I want to stay here forever." And no one steals your stuff. We hucked our stroller all over that park, and it was always exactly where we left it, with all of our gear still inside, after every ride. Where else does that happen?!?

And also, FastPasses rock. ROCK!

We lost ConMan for about 5 minutes. CPod took the boys one direction while I went the other to pick up our stroller. ConMan saw someone he thought was me and ran after her, and before CPod realized what was happening, he was gone. I found him standing in front of Mickey's house, holding hands with the Disney employee in charge there. He was not crying, but I could tell he had been . . . and some strange lady who looked like me had consoled him and taken him to a safe place. We are lucky, I know . . .what a relief! The happiest place on earth, indeed.

You can stop reading now if you don't want to see more pictures.

Yes, I know, my child is the same color as the cement. CPod prefers to describe his and our kids' paleness as "fair and delightsome". I think maybe MayDay is the color of fine marble, and Michelangelo would have coveted such lovely skin. MommyJ's Sam calls MayDay "Mayonnaise". Yeah. Nice.

(I must interject a side note here, because this is the only pool picture in the bunch. Since we stayed in a house with a pool, and I didn't want to shave my bikini line every day, I waxed right before we left on the trip. Next time, I'll get an epidural first. I mean, my Brazilian sister-in-law said it wouldn't hurt a bit! Maybe she'll be able to deliver her babies naturally should she have the opportunity to in the future, but I'm a pain wus. Who loves epidurals.)

There are lots of free or cheap things to do at the Disney resorts. The boys rode ponies at Fort Wilderness. (G-Dog is with CPod's dad.)


G-Dog spent a lot of time entertaining his cousin, SpecialK. We were worried he would love her a little too hard, but it turns out, he's one of her favorite people.


Dinner at Chef Mickey's. I thought it was way overpriced, but the kids LOVED it.


G-Dog unofficially adopted UncleC, who was such a good sport that this is how he saw the Magic Kingdom: with a parasitic organism attached to his shoulders.


ConMan volunteered to drive the boat on the Jungle Cruise. Our cute little guide let him drive for most of the trip, and then gave him a little Mickey Boat Pilot's license after we finished. I think I'm going to have to get it laminated.


3-D glasses for Mickey's Philharmagic. Too cute. My kids love glasses of all kinds, and wear sunglasses regularly. Wonder where they got that?!?

Where they really belong.

At the end of the day, everyone fell asleep, even in all the noise of the great exodus that occurs after the fireworks. Can you tell CPod and I both wish we were the ones sleeping?

Reason.

Have you ever heard anyone say, in explanation for some plight that had befallen them, "Everything happens for a reason"? I have. They are always right, because everything does happen for a reason . . . sometimes the reason is that you're stupid. And sometimes the reason is beyond control and comprehension and, well, reason.

I once knew someone who slept through class and flunked out of school. He shook his head, dumbfounded at his terrible "luck", and said, "Everything happens for a reason." The implication was clear: he was not responsible for the failure and he expected God to show him the right path to success since studying and paying attention in very expensive graduate school were obviously not part of the plan.

It goes both ways. It took us seven years to have children, and even then, at the very moment of conception, there were six other people in the room. In vitro fertilization is like that. I remember well-meaning individuals who, learning of our "plight", would pat me on the arm and spout the same empty platitude: Everything happens for a reason. The implication here is less clear. Please explain. Does that mean I have brought this on myself, and the reason my body has failed to be fertile is because I haven't been righteous enough? Or does it mean that I am simply not in on the joke, and in time, I will learn what I should have done in the first place to avoid the problem altogether?

The story of our infertility had a happy ending: after three cancelled cycles of IVF and a lovely surgery called ovarian drilling, we (in a true group effort) conceived the twins. They were born healthy, strong and huge at 37 weeks -- 6lb 7oz and 7lb 1oz. (Yes, I was huge -- although not as big as someone I know and love who also had twins but shall remain nameless.)

I was warned about the possibility of heightened fertility after the twins were born, but I felt wrong about preventing something that we had wanted for so long -- especially if there was any possibility that it might happen the old-fashioned way, and thus, cost a whole lot less than the expensive procedures we endured the first time around.

Imagine my shock/surprise/outright horror (let's be honest) when shortly after the twins' first birthday, I found out I was pregnant. I was in such denial at the possibility that I was nearly 10 weeks along before I finally took a test (at MommyJ's urging) that would have come up positive even if all I did was breathe on it.

I know I'm long-winded here, so I'll get to the point.

Everything does happen for a reason. Sometimes the reason already happened: illness, genetic disorders with no remedy, bad choices. Sometimes the reason is beyond our understanding and only becomes clear in retrospect: had things happened when we wanted them to in the first place, we would be in a very different place right now. And sometimes it's a combination of both: biology and destiny team up to create a sense of timing that seems like a bad joke.

Now, when I look back on the course of our lives, I wouldn't change the timing of our family by even a day. In the midst of it, I wouldn't have wished it on my worst enemy. I still wouldn't. It is a particular and exquisitely unique pain to want something with every fiber of your being, to yearn for something on every level: spiritual, physical, biological, emotional, social. And to feel betrayed by yourself, the very essence and expression of you in the physical world: your body.

Long before we had children, I came to terms with the likelihood that we would never have any. I didn't like it, but it was reality, just as it's reality that we probably won't have any more kids. I stopped being angry at God, and hating my body for failing to function as it was intended. I decided that what's most important is that no matter what, I maintain my relationship with my Savior and continue in the things that bring me closer to God. I learned that the baby game is not based on merit. I developed a relationship with my Heavenly Father that is not based on the barometer of happy events in my life. And I learned applications of Gospel principles that I have since found essential in coping with other trials. I would not trade these lessons for all the money in the world.

There are many whose stories have not resolved as mine did. They are still experiencing the disappointment and desertion that are such a difficult part of dealing with infertility, or miscarriage, or loss or whatever they are going through that feels bigger than they can handle. I pray that their hurt may be healed through the Savior as mine was, regardless of the outcome, and that they may find hope in the possibilities of what may come.

P.S. Talk about stream of consciousness. I started this post writing about my happy discovery in the shower this morning: should I ever lose the use of my left hand, I will still be able to shave under my right arm. Yes, I am that flexible.

You're So Vain . . . and other tales of the highlands

This past weekend, my sister and I and our spouses took a long-anticipated, greatly-appreciated, totally relaxing backpacking trip to the top of Mt. LeConte in the Smokies. Relaxing, you say? Hiking in the rain and cold, round-trip 13.3 miles, up steep inclines and across scary-because-there's-nothing-underneath-you cliff faces was absolutely, completely and totally rejuvenating on so many levels -- yes, relaxing. Because, see, at the top of Mt. LeConte are a lodge, some cabins, and even a few flush toilets (wo-hoo!) -- yes, primitive, without electricity and somewhat Little-House-on-the-Prairie-ish, but they cook delicious meals for you and they keep you warm, and there is no noise -- no exaggeration here -- at all. It's like the mountain just absorbs any noise the other guests make and you are insulated from the world (no airplanes, cars or trucks, televisions or radios, no phones, unless you are as tall as my husband and you align yourself like an antennae while standing in the one spot on the mountain that gets any signal). God bless our family -- Mom kept MommyJ's kids, and our little brother and his new wife kept my little ones. (The news is good -- Gramma doesn't want to have anymore children, which is good because, well, she's 56; and The Newlyweds still want to have children even after spending two days with mine!) A good time was had by all.

MommyJ and I are the vain ones. Both of us got up early Friday morning and fixed both hair and makeup before we began our trek up the mountain. Josh totally made fun of MommyJ for "smelling too good" and making an effort to be attractive on the mountain. Who you trying to impress, right? I mean, this is the man who didn't even bring a clean pair of socks with him. Strangely enough CPod refrained from haranguing me. If you know him, you know this is odd. No comment on my perfectly coiffed curls? No poking fun at me as I applied makeup in the car, driving in darkness through the curvy roads of the Smokies? Nay, not even a look askance, nary a word was spoken. I am convinced it's because he's seen how ugly I looked in the pictures taken when we were at Mt. LeConte earlier this summer, and if he is to be allowed to post them on his Facebook page, I have to look good (my requirement, not his), and until he changes his password, I will keep removing photos! I think maybe I'll let him use this one:

We hoped for some great views of fall colors, but with our rainy weather and serious fog, it just was not to be. Instead we ended up with fantastic sunset and sunrise, and some pretty cool shots of people next to Nothing. (You'll see what I mean.) All in all, a great trip -- and we plan to repeat it ever year that we possibly can, and when our kids are big enough that we trust them to not fall off a cliff, we'll bring them with us.

Side note: many of you who have known me for a very long time (cousins, college roommates, high school friends, and such) may notice my wild woman curly hair. I know, you're thinking, "Her hair isn't curly! She must have a perm." I assure, I don't. MommyJ will vouch for me -- she is insanely jealous of the curls and would be the first one to give me up if they weren't natural!

And now for the slide show . . . and a brief explanation for each image.

See, I told you . . . totally Little House. I mean, when you check in, they give you a key to the flush toilets (they have latrines for the non-paying riff-raff who just do a day hike or stay in the AT shelter up above the lodge) and a pail with directions to the hot water tap!

Me and MommyJ in front of our totally awesome sunset . . . the lodge was completely socked in by the clouds, so the hike to Cliff Tops was a bit of a gamble, but we were rewarded for our efforts.

People next to Nothing. This is why Mom can't ever do this hike. She might be hyperventilating right now just looking at the vast expanse of space beyond the edge of the rocks.

Sunrise wasn't bad, either. The best part about it? It didn't happen until 7:45AM, which is just perfect when you took a loooooong nap the day before, and then stayed up until the unbelievable hour of 10PM playing Yahtzee and Trivial Pursuit by lamplight the night before.

On the way home, we started out above the clouds, then hiked through them, and then finally emerged from the mists and finished below the clouds. We also sort of hiked through the seasons -- we had snow flurries on top of the mountain (high of 48, low of 28 when we were there), beautiful fall leaves through the mid-elevations, and a lot of green at the trailhead. Beautiful! We saw at least 4 distinctly different ecosystems, varying by elevation, proximity to water, and exposure. Just amazing. Now you go do it!

For more images of this trip, and a different perspective, visit MommyJ's blog. Or don't. I may have bored you to death!