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!

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.

Stream of Consciousness

I'm breaking you back in slowly, my friends. It's been so long since I've posted anything on a regular basis that I've got to remind myself a little what this here blog thingy is all about. Without further ado, a list of random crap:

1. You should really be careful about how you pronounce the word "pianist." Do I need to explain why? Last Sunday, as our esteemed Stake President announced from the pulpit that a new person had been called as the stake Priesthood pianist, I had a premonition of what was about to happen as little ConMan turned to me and said, loudly, "Hey! That guy said (insert the word you're all hoping he didn't say)!" Well, at least now I know he was listening. Some of you early InkMom adopters will remember this is not the first time ConMan has spoken of verboten body parts during church. But really. pee-ann-ist. Three syllables. PLEASE!

2. I've been reveling in the soundtrack to Glee. I love it. My kids love it. I think I'm raising a bunch of musical theater nerds, and I'm totally okay with that. I turned it on this week and when the boys heard it for the first time, it's like their feet started dancing of their own accord. GDog's eyes got big, and ConMan made me play their version of Journey's "Don't Stop Believin'" over and over again. But guess which one GDog decided to sing in public the other day? "I'll bust the windows out your car." Yeah.

They may be monsters, but at least they're cute . . .

. . . and creative with their vast powers of destruction. (Dresser drawers as beds? No, my children have not been watching Seinfeld, thank you very much.)

3. One thing I'm thankful for right now: hot water. I think God gave us natural hot springs so that we would be inspired to want to bathe warmly. I say a little prayer of thanks every single time I step under the scalding stream of my shower, and another one each time I slip into the relaxing, eucalyptus and peppemint scented waters of my tub. (Origins Peace of Mind Vapor Bath, in case you're wondering. It's awesome.)

4. Chocolate is NOT all created equal. Please don't hate me for hating Hershey's Kisses. Chocolate should not be grainy like that. Chocolate should be smooth and intense and complex. It should make you swoon. My preferred delivery methods form a triad: liquid, semi-solid, and encased in pastry. Caotina (imported hot chocolate mix from Switzerland, bought every Christmas and rationed through the cold months. We finally found an importer in the US so now the shipping doesn't cost more than the product.). Chocolate lava cake (if you're lucky, I'll share the recipe one of these days). Williams-Sonoma chocolate croissants (also, our Christmas indulgence). And I have had the hedonistic gall to experience all three this weekend. And a bubble bath. Hold on, I think I'm about to have a reality check headache.

5. While we're talking about food, I think the food guide pyramid needs some revamping. My four basic food groups: Fruit. Bread. Cheese. Chocolate. With periodic supplements of a bacon.

6. While we're talking about bacon, I will share with you my greatest culinary discovery of 2009: bacon baked in the oven. Here's how you do it: Line a big rimmed baking sheet with parchment paper. Take care to make sure that the parchment paper goes up the sides a little bit of it's kind of pointless. Fill it with a single layer of bacon. It's okay if they overlap, because they shrink a lot when you cook 'em. Bake at 350 degrees for about 15 minutes, or until it's as crispy as you like it. It will all be uniformly cooked, and your cooktop will not have grease splatters and, voila! It will be done at the same time as your French toast. Which is what CPod made for breakfast yesterday. On our snow day. Which brings me to . . .

7. Generally, in this neck of the woods, you can hope for one good snow of 6 or 7 inches per winter. You can hope, but you probably won't get it. Our snowfall total so far this year? Nearly 2 feet. I'm serious. And I've discovered something about myself. When I'm an old woman, I will be A. living as a recluse back in the woods with no neighbors, or B. the one with a sign in the yard that says in very large letters, "DON'T PLAY IN MY SNOW." Because I have been totally bugged by the neighbor kids ruining the snow in our yard. I don't care if my kids mess it up, but for some reason, I don't want anyone else to do it. It's strange, because I don't care if the neighbor kids play on the grass. But the snow? It's all I can do to keep myself from yelling at them off the front porch. Luckily, CPod's been around all weekend to restrain me.

 

(This snow was so old and crusted over that when they were sledding, I was a little worried we might have an incident out of National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation.)

8. More on the snow. My lovely husband bought an old Jeep Cherokee early last year. He installed a lift kit and new shocks and some other stuff that caused him to put in long hours staring at the undercarriage. He loves that thing. I mean, there are more pictures of the Jeep on his phone than any of the people in his life. (Except for Miscellany. Because he is smitten.) But this fall, he had begun to question the utility of his project, and let me tell you, he is all about "utility". He's the one who told me that quilting was a great hobby because the finished product is so "useful". Well, we've got all kinds of utility going on now because in the snow, that Jeep is UNSTOPPABLE. And the crisis of finding a new project car has been averted. What a man I've got! Photographic evidence:

 

My baby-holding, vacuum-running, iPod-listening better half. No, that is not a new vacuum. Instead, we had to buy a new washer & dryer.

9. My baby is beautiful. And she sleeps -- get this -- 8 hours a night! At 3 months old! (Don't hate me. I already had twins who, for a very long while, did not sleep at the same time. Ever. I EARNED THIS ONE!) Do you need proof? Here you go:

 

Bliss.

  

(I just realized this looks like she's about to pick her cute little turned-up nose. It was bound to happen.)

Blessing day.

She laughs! She smiles! She's a person!

That's all I've got, folks. Bedtime calls, and so does the treadmill.

Miscellany

1. I've been a little stingy with photos of pregnant me. So in case you needed evidence, here I am 10 days before delivery:

2. I also neglected to blog about Halloween. The moment has passed, but still. My children were ADORABLE. And it's my blog. So here you go:

GDog as Luigi, ConMan as Mario, and MayDay as Toad, all characters from Super Mario Bros. In case you've been living under a rock since the early eighties. We stopped at a video game store on Halloween, and the boys were already dressed for trick or treating. The overgrown children who run the store gave my kids some serious props for their costumes, and the boys really thought they were something.

3. Also, my husband is adorable. He's the greatest daddy in the world. Here's a good shot of all my boys, after we carved our pumpkin for FHE:

Now that we're home from the hospital, he's been carrying the weight of the entire world on his shoulders, as he has taken up the slack when it comes to dishes and meal preparation and most major parenting duties for our three older children:

I swear to you this was spontaneous.

4. And now, introducing . . . Miscellany: 8 lb 1 oz, 20.5" long, born at 8:02PM on Thursday, November 5, 2009. She is our lovely girl child, all in her own category, the one item on the miscellaneous list. Here she is, in all her beauty, exactly 24 hours old:

In the delivery room:

And, oh, the hair! It's not red! No offense to my red-headed men, but honestly, it's about time some of my genes were expressed.

And another one, just because I can:

And another one, just because I love her:

I'll spare you the gory details of the delivery, except for these two choice tidbits: we were mere moments away from an emergency c-section when the crisis was averted (who needs wax? I heard the shaver and knew I was in trouble!); and when my doctor told me to push, it was merely a formality, because by the time the words were out of her mouth, Miscellany had pretty much arrived. My mom and MommyJ were there, and, of course, CPod, and we spent the better part of the day laughing. Good company and entertaining conversation will go a long way to ease the pains of labor, let me tell you.

Miraculously, Miscellany is still alive, in spite of her brothers' very heartfelt and loving attempts to "help" Mommy change her diaper, or nurse her, or clean her umbilical cord, or move the bassinet . . . you get the picture.

I just looked at my Google Reader and, heaven help me, it has 152 items. Maybe in my spare time . . . yeah. Love to you all, and know that even if my presence here in cyberland is scarce over the next couple of weeks, we're making it, we're healthy, and I'm probably lurking somewhere, unable to type one-handed, or too lazy to use the iPhone to comment. Later!

Highlights

You will NEVER guess who I saw this weekend.


That's right. The decidedly upscale hotel at which my husband and I stayed this weekend was infiltrated, nay, infested with NWA (National Wrestling Alliance, to the uninitiated) Legends Fans, all there to meet their idol, the greatest wrestler of all time, Ric Flair, the very Nature Boy himself.

Except he's a lot older now. And a bit fatter. As are most of his fans. Fatter, I mean. And balding, except for the mullet. And toothless. And rude. And -- do I even need to say this? -- single. I'm not kidding even a little bit. I sincerely hope that the conglomeration of people at the Hilton this weekend was not typical of the NWA audience. But I suspect it might have been.

We were childless, which goes a long way to improve the attitude, don't you think? Say what you will -- we did some really great people-watching this weekend.

But our hotel was not the only place we got to scan an interesting crowd.

No, friends, our wrestling experience was overwhelmingly eclipsed by the real reason for our trip -- these fellas:


Stumped? How about now?


Okay, I'll admit that my pictures are not clear or, even, recognizable. But trust me. Coldplay in concert was worth every penny we spent -- one of the best shows I have ever been to. (I speak with zero authority here, since my concert history, excluding big-name classical musicians, consists, in its entirety, of: New Kids on the Block, Tony Bennett, Chicago, Red Hot Chili Peppers, U2, and, now, Coldplay. But CPod's pedigree is more impressive: REM twice, Metallica twice, U2, Chili Peppers, Pearl Jam twice, Ned's Atomic Dustbin, Toad the Wet Sprocket, twice . . . I could go on. He's much cooler than me. And he thinks it was one of the best shows he's ever seen, too. So there.)

CPod and I went with MommyJ (my sister) and her husband, Josh:


We had a blast. We sang along. We danced. They were FANTASTIC. I have loved Chris Martin for a long time -- that dude can play him some piano.


There were huge yellow balloons bounced through the crowd (during "Yellow"). There were millions of pieces of butterfly confetti:


There were three stages, and acoustic music, including a fantastic cover of "Billie Jean". There were lasers. There were mellow drunk people (instead of the usual obnoxious drunks . . . a nice change). A good time was had by all. Even my little pregnant belly. She was dancing, too!


I took a few videos that will do nothing for any of you, because they're NOT good. And because I was having too much fun to stand there holding my camera in the air for longer than 30 seconds at a time. But if you want just a small taste of what we experienced on Friday night, this YouTube video will not even come close, but it'll have to do.

Peace out.

I've made my bed . . .

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

+

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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!

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.)