An Embarrassment of Riches. And An Embarrassment.

Late at night, when I check on my sleeping children, I always experience a little heart-squeeze. Do you know what I mean? I look at their sweet slumbering faces, completely relaxed, safe in the cocoon of home. I love those moments. And I must admit that, sadly, they don't happen too often when the yahoos are awake. Somehow, I think quiet is required for those tender moments and that is a true rarity in this house full of loud, raucous, rowdy boys.

Because these moments are so rare, I take note when they happen, and lately, I've been taking note more often than usual. I'll share some of them . . . but first, something to ground even the highest of fliers.

Ahem. I have a mouse in my car. Or, I did. Which, I guess, is better than the petrified dog poop found by a certain old friend of mine in the back of her car. But still. Last Saturday, we piled into the van to go out for breakfast. As I put on my makeup (which lives in the car, and no, I never put it on while driving, but the light in my driveway is great, and my kids, so far, patiently stay strapped in while I apply the little bit of cosmetics it takes to get me from "she's a man" to "she's not half-bad" . . . but I digress), I found myself in need of a tissue. Those are stored in the glove box. Oh, how I wish I had taken a picture of what I found when I opened it. All 50 million of those shop-lifted fast food restaurant napkins had been chewed and torn to bits, creating the happiest little rodent nest I have ever had the pleasure to encounter.

Last Saturday was CPod's first day off in weeks. He had plans. In that moment, they all changed. He cleaned that van so well you'd think he's trying to hide something from CSI. The good news is CPod saw Little Mousie in the garage, so at lease he's moved out of our vehicle. I'm not all that okay with vermin in my garage, but somehow, it's better than my van.

So, in the midst of all that car-cleaning, intermingled with General Conference sessions and other general Saturday tasks, CPod managed to take each of our big boys on an individual date: errand plus ice cream equals confidence boost and behavior upgrade. GDog's date involved the purchase of mouse traps at the Big Blue Home Improvement Store. During the course of his conversations with CPod, GDog realized that mouse traps do a bit more than just snap off little mousie tails -- and he was distraught.

So his solution was to warn off Mr. Mouse. "Mommy, I told him that he has two days to vacate the premises. After that, we'll have to put out the traps." He was serious. And somehow, it worked. Oh, I love that boy. Heart squeeze number one -- my tender-hearted, big-mouthed, bossy-just-like-me GDog.

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We took the boys to see How to Train Your Dragon (highly recommended by our entire family). The movie started at 4:20, so CPod met us there after his last patient. He was a few minutes late, and those first few minutes contain key plot elements and some serious excitement. He joined us in the dark theater, and the boys just jumped on him. They could not get the words out fast enough. Their sentences tumbled over one another as they raced to convey with abject adoration and uninhibited enthusiasm their total excitement about what they were seeing. They love their daddy. Heart squeeze number two.

 ConMan, GDog, MayDay -- and I can't even remember how he got that black eye!

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Last week, I spent a day at MommyJ's house. We cooked and boned four whole chickens! We filled her freezer with enough food for her husband to be able to take care of dinner for several weeks after her baby is born. Our kids played so well together, and if you know how much I love my sister, you know how happy this makes me.

We ate lunch outside on MommyJ's front porch. MayDay and Henry, who are just 6 months apart in age, shared a chair and some cantaloupe. My little MayDay looked over at his cousin and said, "Henwy, you're my favorite one to pway wiff." Heart squeeze number three -- my train-playing, thumb-sucking, baby boy MayDay.

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The other day, the boys clustered around the Lego bin. "Mommy", GDog said, "I need a human for my car. Will you help me find one?"

I'm a singer. And he said "Human". So I dug through the Legos and began to sing, "Are we human? Or are we dancer?" And ConMan totally picked it up. "My sign is vital, my hands are cold . . ." He kept going, so I turned on the CD: The Killers -- Live from Royal Albert Hall (also highly recommended), and ConMan sang his little heart out. Heart squeeze number four -- my Lego-building, Killers-singing, ladies-favorite, ConMan.

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And let's not forget Miscellany. She's growing so quickly . . . too quickly. She's beautiful. She recognizes her name. She reaches for me. She's so, so happy, and she smiles like a Muppet -- as though some puppet master opens her mouth as wide as it will go every time she grins at her brothers. GDog plays a little rough, and I spend a lot of time warning him off of the baby, but her reaction to him does not exactly reinforce my position. I have a little heart squeeze just about every time I pick her up and smell her lovely auburn head.

Oh, it's fun, isn't it? Even though it's peppered with moments like this one (look away if you're squeamish):

 The ones like this never fail to make up for the unpleasant patches:

I love watching my children . . . become.

Tongues, Interpreted

Okay, friends. Sorry I'm late!

Here are the answers . . . followed by our winner. Who, I swear, either hacked my wireless network to steal the answers or is a really stealthy stalker. Really, I was pretty sure no one would get any of the correct answers, and I would have to do a random drawing. Not so!

Four-leaf clover:

Alligator:

Lemonade:

Elevator:

Leprechaun:

And our winner is . . . Laree! She got three answers correct, and she is the ONLY ONE who got three answers correct. Which means she wins. Yay! Laree, send me an e-mail with your logistical info and I will mail you the fabulous cilia forceps. I expect you to rave about them on your blog after you've discovered their wonders. My mom says they pluck hairs that aren't there. I tell her she needs new glasses.

Thanks for playing, everyone. It's nice to be indulged occasionally!

The Interpretation of Tongues

I'm back! Wow, that was a long four days. Long, and eventful, and full of blog fodder, but that stuff will have to wait for another post. Because do you know what I was thinking yesterday? How sad it was that my 100th post was posted by someone else because I didn't have internet access. (Thanks to MommyJ, though, for keeping everyone in the loop.)

And then we got our internet up and running again. And I made the happy discovery that MommyJ's post on my behalf yesterday was, actually, only my 99th post. Which means . . . I can still do my fabulous give-away for post number 100!

Okay, so it's not that fabulous. And you have to work for it. And then, still, I'm only giving away one thing.

Here's the set-up: when MayDay was just beginning to talk, he talked a lot, but most of it was indecipherable. Oh, he talked a blue streak -- he was so earnest in his attempts to make us understand what he was saying, but CPod and I just plain didn't get about 95% of what he was saying. He was usually very patient with us, but sometimes this communication barrier elicited some serious weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth. Poor little guy -- he had a lot to say, but lacking a MayDay-English dictionary, we were in the dark. One day, we were sitting at the kitchen table eating dinner. MayDay was rambling on as usual, and, as usual, CPod and I were clueless as to what he was saying, when, all of a sudden, G-Dog piped up and said, "He says, 'I'm all fulled up.'"

MayDay's little face lit up -- he had a translator. So, with G-Dog's help, we figured out how to decipher MayDay's little language until his skills developed enough for his words to sound like English.

He still says some things that sound a lot like gibberish to the uninitiated -- but once you figure it out, you can understand his every word. He's nothing if not consistent, and his mispronunciations were strangely similar in their syntax. But. I did capture some of these moments. And so here is your task: you, dear readers, are charged with translating. I have posted here several short clips of a few utterances that might not be easily discerned by those not fluent in MayDay speak. Submit your translation for each clip in the comments section by Friday at noon (my time -- that's east coast, if you're wondering). I will select a random winner from those who get the most correct answers.

And what will you win? Do you remember this post about my tweezers? Well, friends, I have a brand new pair of cilia forceps just longing to help you shape your eyebrows into something worthy of Vogue. You need them. You know you do. You want them just badly enough to listen to my son butcher the English language for 15 seconds of your life.

A few hints: like I said before, he's very consistent in his mispronunciations. And I have not coersed him into saying any words that he does not use in ordinary, 2-year-old conversation. Granted, his vocabulary is a bit on the extraordinary side.

Let's review.

1. Watch the videos.
2. Make a note of what you think he's saying.
3. Write your answers in a comment to this post.
4. Check back on Friday, because you just might win a pair of brand new, still in the package, unused, medical-grade cilia forceps.

And, please, only one entry per person.

So, go forth! Listen! Translate! And do not be alarmed when your comment doesn't show up. I've taken a page from The Pioneer Woman and turned on comment moderation. We don't want any cheating! After the contest is over, I'll reveal all the comments as well as the correct answers so you can see how you measure up.

There is a good possibility that no one will get any answers correct. That's okay. In the event this is a total bust, I will randomly choose a winner from all of the comments regardless of the number of correct answers. So give it a try. It will be fun!

One last thing -- if you've heard these words in real life (MommyJ, Mom, Melanie, Jessie, etc.) you're disqualified. You're probably getting cilia forceps for Christmas anyway, so don't ruin it for everyone else.

Good luck!

Name That Tune

My little ConMan seems to be the one of my children most likely to have inherited my musical genius. (She says sarcastically.) He loves to sing, loves, loves, loves to play his "rockin' guitar" and loves to listen to music. As long as it's when he wants to listen to it.

Anyway. He's been singing a song lately that neither CPod nor I recognized. It's something about his "dreamgirl" and when I asked where he'd heard it, he just shrugged his shoulders and kept humming. I just let the mystery go until yesterday.

I turned on a TiVoed episode of Scooby Doo for the boys to watch while I was making dinner. They needed some time to wind down, and I needed some time to get stuff done. While soup simmered on the stove, I traipsed back and forth between my room and the laundry room, doing laundry things. And then I heard this:



Yeah. My sweet, innocent little ConMan has been singing the freecreditreport.com commercial.

Now. In my defense, the wunderkind can listen to something once, and sing it back to me three days later. But still. Looks like a DVD purchase of non-commercially infiltrated vintage Scooby Doo is in my near future.

And also, what's up with this, Cartoon Network? Grown up commercials during kids' shows? I think we'll be finding a new source for our Tom&Jerry fix, thank you very much.

(Did you notice what I just did there? I totally removed all the blame for this little incident off of myself by diverting it -- skillfully, if I may say so -- to the evil television executives. So there!)

I've made my bed . . .

. . . and now I must lie in it. Will I never learn?

+

=

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.)

Tuesday Afternoon Matinee

We really enjoy movies in our family. Before G-Dog and ConMan were born, CPod worked extra Saturdays and saved the cash so that we could afford to install a projector and 108" screen in our basement. We figured once the twins arrived, we might not ever leave the house again, so why not splurge on what could be our only source of entertainment in the future?

Now, we only rarely go out to the movies. When we have a babysitter, we'd rather go someplace we can have an actual conversation. We love to eat good food, and movie theater popcorn, while good, does not quite meet my ridiculously high food-snob standards. (I am absolutely not being sarcastic here. Seriously.)

There's also something to be said for a film operator who is willing to pause the movie for you if you have to use the bathroom. Let's be honest. I leave the bathroom door open and keep watching the movie while I pee. Can you do that at your neighborhood stadium seating multiplex? I think not.

I won't even go into other things you're allowed to do in our theater.

As our children have grown, they have come to enjoy the wonders of the projector as well. Except for the time we rented Charlotte's Web. The first time that 18 inch spider appeared on the screen, my little boys couldn't climb over their daddy and up the stairs fast enough. We only made it 10 minutes in before they'd had enough.

They were much younger then, so today, I decided to try again. We put MayDay down for a nap, and then, upstairs on the normal sized television set we have in our living room, I turned on Charlotte's Web.

First of all, it was my intention to turn on the movie and then go be productive doing other things, like folding laundry or cleaning the bathrooms or cooking dinner for the missionaries. But I was totally sucked in. You see, Charlotte's Web is one of the first books I remember reading. I remember finishing my work quickly in Ms. O'Neill's first grade class so I could get out my book and read. I remember figuring out ways to stay up late so I could read into the night. (I devised all kinds of methods later in life . . . that's a post all its own.) I remember crying when Charlotte died. (Sorry if you haven't read it. But what rock have you been hiding under?) And mostly I remember loving every word.

I sat on the couch snuggled up with my twins for the entire 100 minutes, surreptitiously wiping away my tears, and I loved every minute of it. I loved Julia Roberts' intelligent voice for Charlotte. I loved Oprah Winfrey's mama goose voice. I even loved gross and slimey Steve Buscemi as Templeton the rat. And my boys loved it, too.

But we didn't love it until about 10 minutes in. And it's all G-Dog's fault. Here's how it went:

(Opening credits roll, narrator begins to tell story of the young girl who did something extraordinary . . .)

G-Dog: Mommy, who is that girl?
Mommy: She's Fern.
G: Is that her room?
M: Yes.
G: Why is it raining?
M: Sometimes it does that.
G: Why is she getting up in the middle of the night?
M: I don't know.
G: Where is she going?
M: I don't know.
G: Why is the light on in the barn?
M: I don't know.
G: Who is that man?
M: I don't know.
G: How many baby piggies are there?
M: I don't know.
G: Is that her dad?
M: Yes.
G: What is he going to do to that pig?
M: I don't know. (I really did know, but I didn't have the heart to tell him he was going to kill the runt. Turns out I needn't have been so discreet.)
G: Is he going to kill that baby piggie?
M: Just watch!
G: Why does that girl want the piggie?
M: She didn't want him to get hurt.
G: Why does her daddy need the piggies?
M: He sells them for money.

(30 seconds later)

G: Why is she taking the piggie to school?
M: She wants to make sure he gets taken care of.
G: Why did she get in trouble?
M: Because she shouldn't have taken the pig to school.
G: How many animals are in the barn?
M: I don't know.
G: Is the piggie going to scare that rat?
M: I don't know.
G: Is the rat the bad guy?
M: No. His name is Templeton.
G: Is the mommy pig turned into money?
M: No, she's in another barn and she'll have more babies later.
G: Did the other baby piggies get turned into money?
M: They were sold.
G: Did the mommy piggy get turned into food?
M: No.
G: Is Wilbur the good guy?
M: Yes. Just watch the movie, G-Dog! If you would stop talking long enough to listen to the dialogue, you would learn the answers to most of your questions!

He never stops. Well, almost never. He did finally become absorbed enough in the story to stop his mental bleed-out.

Exhausted, I tell you. I am exhausted!

Baby Geniuses

Or at least super-smart cookies. Here's the set-up. As we were eating dinner tonight, G-Dog informed us all that he had invented something.

And then, this:

Yes, yes, I know -- we've been compromised. Now you know my kids' first names. Bonus points if you caught all three of them.

In other news, this is what I woke up to on our snow day:



And this is how ConMan (old habits die hard -- I'll still be using the aliases) looked the entire 15 minutes he spent outside in the "snow":



And I love my boys. And I love their Daddy. You can't really see it in this picture, so let me explain: little boys are following the big one around the yard. He's just moved the Christmas tree into the burn pile, and they are connected to him as if tied to an invisible tether. I love it.



And this is from a quiet moment we had a few nights ago when the big boys fell asleep on the way home, but since MayDay had had a 3 hour nap earlier in the day, he did not. So he got to be the only kid for about 45 minutes and he chose to snuggle with Daddy for all of it.



A picture is worth a thousand words, right? HA! Try five: The Bane of My Existence! This is what I've been doing instead of blogging for the past four days:

The other day, ConMan said a blessing on our lunch. In it, he made sure to be thankful for flying carpets.

My couch smells like peanut butter. I'm a little concerned.

Thats all.

PS It has been a thoroughly unpleasant experience waiting for that second stupid video to upload to Blogger. MommyJ told me to use PhotoBucket because Blogger would take so long . . . I thought she meant, like, 45 minutes. But no. Try FOUR HOURS! On the bright side, I've folded almost all of the laundry. And did you know The Golden Girls comes on at 1AM? Who watches The Golden Girls at 1AM? I mean, most old people have been in bed for 6 hours or so, and won't wake up for another 3, and what other audience is there? Besides myself, of course. Those ladies were SASSY!

Man, I hope someone thinks that video is funny other than those people required to by a blood relationship. At least now I've figured out how to do it the fast(er) and easy way.

Mickey Talk

For your reading pleasure, here are just a few of the random conversations we've had with our kids this week.

I. Where are you from again, son?

Mickey's Philharmagic is a 3D show in FantasyLand. My kids loved it, especially ConMan. He has this strange accent that sometimes sounds like he's from Long Island and at others, like he's waaaaay more southern that either of his parents. We'll just call him the dialectic chameleon.

So, we're sitting in the theater watching this little 3D movie, which is chock-a-block with Disney characters from Disney movies of every Disney decade. Suddenly, Peter Pan appears on screen and my little linguistic wonder says, "Look, Mommy! It's Pee-tuh!" in perfect mimicry of the uber-British dialect prevalent in the original film. So funny.

II. Hey Mickey

We resort-hopped today, utilizing everything free we could find, and one of the best free things at Disney is the African savanna that extends from the guest rooms at the Animal Kingdom Resort. To get in, you have to show a photo ID to a guard who wears a Disney uniform.

G-Dog: Mommy, is that guy a Mickey policeman?

Me: Yep. He's a Mickey policeman.

G-Dog: Does he take Mickey bad guys to Mickey jail?

Oh, yes, son. In a world where everything from ice cream sandwiches to road signs are shaped like that ubiquitous mouse head, it only makes sense that the jail has mouse ears, too.

(Port-a-)Potty Conversations

Last night, we spent a delightful evening with my in-laws. They live in South Carolina near an animal park that must have an astronomically high electric bill at Christmas time, because they have lights numbering in the millions. Every tree, building, fence, animal enclosure, and gate is draped with swags of multicolored little starlights.

I thought MayDay might have a little baby heart attack. Each time he said, "More (breath) Ti-tas (breath) wights!", his voice increased in pitch, timbre and intensity. "More. Mooore! MOOOORE! Ti-tas! Wights! MOOOOOOOORRRRRE!!!!!!!!!" I have never seen him so excited about anything.

Towards the middle of the Christmas light driving tour, you enter a fenced enclosure filled with some small European breed of deer (I'm not sure exactly which breed -- it was hard to see the sign in the dark). You can buy a bag of grain for a dollar, and the deer will come right up to your car and eat out of your hand. Oh, the fun of it all.

The deer were a little skittish -- who wouldn't be? Something just felt wrong about a disorganized group of cars, headlights blazing, slowly stalking these relatively defenseless creatures haphazardly through a big field from which they can't possibly escape, even if we were just trying to feed them. Eventually we coaxed a few up to the car and each child had some creature eat something out of his hand.

But the funniest part was how each kid best thought to call the deer over to our vehicle. Since we were driving so slowly, we let them get out of their car seats. We wound down the windows and they half hung out, one each with Nana & Papa in the back seats, and one with me in the front. As soon as we saw the deer, G-Dog started doing the little clicking noise my dad makes to call his dog. ConMan just started randomly throwing grain to catch their attention -- I must say, this seemed to be the most effective method. And Lil' MayDay -- well, he just started yelling, "Dude!" Because we all know that in secret deer language, dude is exactly how they refer to themselves.

The highlight of my evening came after the driving tour. At the end, there is a petting zoo. You can buy a bottle for $1 and feed it to one of the many baby goats. They have camels and bison and reindeer and oxen and lots of sheep and goats and donkeys. And a big bouncy slide. And Santa Claus. Loads of fun all around.

The boys had a great time. Daddy took them all on the bouncy slide, and, of course, while he was up there with no shoes on, G-Dog had to use the potty. The Port-a-Potty.

I have found that one of the singular pleasures of being a mother of boys is that I never have potty duty when we're out in public. But Porta-Johns are gender-neutral. I swallowed all my indignant protestations and herded my little man over to the nice row of disgusting toilets behind the bison house.

I say disgusting, but I can only assume, because it was so dark we couldn't really see anything. (Thank heaven for small favors, right?) This is how the conversation went:

ME (very firmly, as we enter said potty): G-Dog, don't touch anything.

G-Dog: Don't touch anything. Don't touch anything. Don't touch anything. Don't touch anything.

ME: Okay, G-Dog, I'm gonna stand you up on the side here and you just pee into that big hole. Do you know what's down there?

G-Dog: Don't touch anything. Don't touch anything. Don't touch anything.

ME: It's a big disgusting pit full of all the things that come out into the potty and you can't flush it, it just all stays down there being gross and stinky.

G-Dog: Don't touch anything. Don't touch anything. Don't touch anything.

ME: Good job, G-Dog. Let's zip you up and then we're done!

G-Dog: Mommy, I was gonna touch something and then I didn't.

ME: G-Dog, you are awesome. Almost done here. Don't touch anything!

G-Dog: Mommy, can I touch you?

ME: G-Dog, you rock, and you can touch me any time you want. Done!

Can I emphasize here how much I DON'T do Port-a-Pottys? I know, what a mom, right? I was really tempted to just take him out in the trees and let him pee out there . . . but I didn't.

And the bonus for G-Dog? He didn't touch anything. He spends his potty-time trying to devise new reasons he shouldn't have to wash his hands. This kid doesn't flush. He doesn't put the toilet seat down. He doesn't even turn off the light in the bathroom. He only touches the sides of his pants. And he has developed this method of standing just right so he literally doesn't have to touch anything.

This isn't so good for the cleanliness of the boys' bathroom, but G-Dog is thrilled when he keeps himself from being contaminated, and thus, avoids the decontamination process. Or so he thinks.

For now, hand sanitizer tops my list of most useful, miraculous and indispensable modern inventions.

The Worst Kind of Irreverence

Our kids don't really have quiet voices. They are the proverbial office pariahs, the Will Ferrell-esque loud talkers who suffer from voice immodulation syndrome. Just ask anyone (everyone) that attends church with us. These boys have absolutely no comprehension of words like "whisper" or "inside voice" or even "hush". They think that reverence means folding your arms and not running, and while that's definitely a start, we would love it if they suddenly developed an ability to keep it down, especially during church.

This has been a problem since they started talking. In fact, my blog title came from one particularly loud outburst by G-Dog. (See this post for an explanation.) And I expect they come by it naturally. After all, CPod and I are both a bit on the loud and obnoxious side, and although we are capable of whispering, sometimes we still get a little out of control.

So keep all that in the back of your mind, and add this little tidbit.

CPod and I decided early on that we would use the correct anatomical names for all body parts when teaching them to our children. All body parts.

And we have three little boys in our family who, obviously, have all of the same body parts, most especially that one particular, most important, gender-defining organ. Ah, yes. The word that need not be posted on a blog for fear of its google-ability, but becomes immediately apparent to the discerning reader. The word with, I would guess, more euphemisms than any other word in the English language. (You should hear the ones we used when I was a kid.) The word which should most definitely not be spoken in church.

Except it was. Today. While the Deacons were passing the Sacrament. During the most quiet, reverent Sunday our ward has had in recent memory. ConMan was apparently in need of some, shall we say, realignment and felt the need to announce it to anyone within earshot. He couldn't have been that loud, you're thinking. Tell that to the six rows of people who stifled their giggles but still had shoulders a-shaking while the bread was passed.

Oh, my. So much for reverence.

Three little pigs . . . or at least hams

My twins are becoming veritable stand-up comedians. Of course, they don't realize this. They just say what they're thinking, and usually, it's funny. Take last Sunday.

As CPod walked them down the hall after nursery last week, they spied the display of pass along cards in the foyer, and asked for "a picture of Jesus." He let them each choose one card, then ushered them along to the car.

I taught in Relief Society, so it took me a little longer to make it outside. By the time I got to the van, everyone was strapped in. I buckled my seat belt and made all the necessary adjustments, and then I noticed ConMan brandishing the pass along card from the back seat. "Look, Mommy! We're invited to Jesus!"

Cut to this week. In our nursery, they keep the top half of the dutch door open. As my dad walked past the door, he stuck his head in to check on the boys and say hello. G-Dog caught sight of him and said, "Hey, PopPop! We're getting ready to have snack time!" And then, with a conspiratorial, I-can-totally-hook-you-up grin, "Come back in a few minutes and I'll give you a pretzel!"

Oh, yes. Because nursery contraband is, I'm sure, on the top of PopPop's list of favorite snacks.

And we can't forget Lil' Maa-Maa, who has recently discovered the knock-knock joke. His repertoire consists of exactly one:

Lil'Maa-Maa: Not-Not

Mommy: Who's there? (Sometimes, Maa says this part himself: Hoo dere?)

Lil'Maa-Maa: JOOOOOKE!

I rest my case.