Baby Hasselhoff

That's right, my Hammy rocks the open shirt look. Watch out, David Hasselhoff. There's a new lifeguard on duty.

Grateful for home teachers

The older I get, the more I appreciate the organization of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

One aspect of that organization is home teaching. Each family or individual within the church is assigned a pair of home teachers -- two priesthood holders (ranging from age 14 all the way up to older than the hills) who come visit the family at least once a month. They get to know the family better, they share a message, and they see if the family has any needs that they can help with.

We were just assigned home teachers in our new ward, and we haven't had a chance to sit down with them just yet. But today they dropped by a plate of Christmas cookies and a sweet little present for Tonnelle. (One of our home teachers is her teacher in nursery, so he already knows and adores our little sweetie.) They just came in for a moment and then were on their way. But when they left, we noticed that they didn't go far -- instead they stood on our porch for a bit talking. Then there was a knock on the door.

The other home teacher (the one who isn't Nelly's teacher) has only been a member of the church for a few months, and this is his first experience as a home teacher. He noticed that we didn't have any ornaments on our tree -- well, besides the gingerbread man Nelly colored at story time at the local library a few weeks back. He told us his family has boxes of extra ornaments, more than they could possibly put on their tree, and he offered them to us so we could have a more festive Christmas.


We are OK -- times are tight for us just like they are for everyone else, but in more ways than one I think we're blessed with easier circumstances to weather out these tough times than so many others are. But the sincere manner in which our home teacher saw a way he could help us out and the love with which he offered it were so touching -- they left almost an hour ago and I'm still crying about it. If that isn't what home teaching is all about, I don't know what is.

We are so blessed.

One down, three to go

I have a terrible confession to make. I always thought nursing school was for people who didn't want to go to real college. Seriously. I thought it was an easy degree, a quick way for people to get some form of diploma and work for a few months before getting married and making babies and becoming stay-at-home moms. (And yes, this is back when I thought being a stay-at-home mom was also an easy job. Holy crap, was I an idiot.)

I am embarrassed that I thought that, and I can't say exactly why that was lodged in my brain as fact. But that's how I thought it was.

I don't know if I'm grateful to know the truth now or if I prefer my biased and belittling ignorance.

The nursing program is hard. Like really, really hard. Ben has had some tough semesters before. He has worked extremely hard every semester since we've been married (we don't talk about his schooling before we were married). But of all the tough semesters, nothing holds a candle to this last one.

Granted, we didn't help ourselves (or Ben's self) much with our timing. We moved the second week of school -- our first move as a family, and let me tell you, one of the most stressful experiences of my life. Hammy was only two weeks old when the semester began, and he's still waking up every three hours during the night. And guess who gets up with him? Absolutely not me -- I figure when Ben's within 30 yards of our apartment, I'm off the clock. So thanks to my selfishness, a non-sleeping baby and a mountain of stress, Ben has had a hard time getting through what was already (without our help) a very challenging curriculum of 19 freakin' hard credits.

But impossibly, Ben survived. Nay, he thrived. Well, he passed. And we're thrilled.

Next semester will be another tough one, but not nearly as harrowing (we're told) as this one. He won't have to deal with a move during the semester. And he definitely won't have a new baby ... though the old one probably still won't be sleeping. Still, things can only get better. And no matter what, with only three semesters left, we can definitely see that infamous light at the end of the tunnel.

Things I do and do not want to blog about

What I do want to blog about:

The Christmas party at the church which was not only a great time, but also the first time we saw our little girl's eyes light up as she caught on to the magic of Christmas.



How much my family members love and enjoy one another.


How much I adore my little boy and how big he's getting.



What I don't want to blog about:

Yesterday's discovery that everything we'd stored in the kids' closet (including our two-year supply of diapers) was consumed and destroyed by mold.




Does anyone know if renters' insurance covers mold damage? We of course don't have renters' insurance, but it would be nice to know if this is the reason I kept feeling as though we needed to get some. It's always great to find out why you had the inspiration you ignored.

For good, not evil

I have an amazing gift.

That's how I'm choosing to look at my ridiculously competitive nature.

Currently (and for the whole of my life) I have used this gift for evil. More specifically, for self-destruction. Last night's (non-alcoholic) drinking contest was a good reminder of that. I always like to get my money's worth on anything that's free refills or all you can eat. But as a sane person, I probably would have stopped at three, maybe four flavored lemonades at Applebees last night. And I certainly would have spaced them out. But once Hailey was game for a friendly competition, there was no stopping it. Six lemonades, I think almost all of them before our entrees were brought out -- the three fries I managed to choke down after that literally swam in my gullet all night. I think they're just now descending to my stomach.

It was fun. As miserable as we both felt by about drink five (these are large glasses, people, with WAY too much sugary syrup in them -- especially when we started letting Joe Server Man select our flavors), I enjoyed being in competition. It reminded me of my mission. Back in Jersey, I spent a huge portion of my mission serving in close proximity to Elder Fai Fai. Great guy, hilarious and sincere. And just as big as you would imagine a guy with the last name of Fai Fai to be. He and I would almost weekly undergo a friendly eating contest, as we would get together with a group of missionaries at the all-you-can-eat Pizza Hut buffet. I hurt each and every week. But I won more often than not. And if I recall properly, I also beat him at our one (very expensive) inch-for-inch eating contest at Subway. Without consulting my journal, I believe my grand total was 48 inches. I also believe I cried myself to bed in pain that evening. But I brought my expanded stomach to the table the next week when we hit it again.

Now that two pregnancies and my age have long since caught up with me and I can no longer eat whatever I want and get away with it (and now that I have a husband who suffers beside me when I'm up writhing in pain from the stupid things I do to myself all in the name of competition) I feel it's time to use my powers (aka complete lack of restraint when it comes to competition) for good instead of evil.

And so, I propose a friendly competition. There are several areas in my life that need facelifts. Thus far I've been unable to motivate myself. In my defense, this time of year is absolutely the hardest time to make changes. The holidays make things busy, more temptation lies in wait in terms of foods to eat and ways to spend time and money. And worst of all, New Year's lurks right around the corner, offering the best excuse for procrastination ever. (Oh, I'll start doing that as my resolution in a few weeks ...)

I need your help. Who out there wants to be my competitive partner in crime in the following challenges?

Exercise -- I'm specifically looking for someone who has the Wii Fit to go minute-for-minute with me on a daily basis. I'm too chicken to workout outside this time of year, and I'm also pretty sure it's illegal for me to lock my kids in the house alone while I go for a jog. So indoor Wii Fit exercise is my best bet at measurable daily exercise. Who wants to take me on there? We'll hold each other accountable daily.

Scripture study -- As a mom, I feel this practice is more important than ever, and yet it's one of the first I've let slip this time around due to perceived time restraints. I know reading scriptures for competitive purposes doesn't qualify as the most righteous motivation, but it is what it is, and if it will help me get stronger in something I have let myself get lackluster at, I think it will all work out for the best in the end. I'm up for any suggestions here -- page for page competition? First to finish a specific block of scriptures (like all of the New Testament, or say the book of Isaiah in the Old Testament)? Or just keeping pace day-by-day, not wanting to be the first to skip?

Craftiness -- I hate crafts. I don't like having lots of little trinkets around the house, and I particularly hate all the supplies required to create those trinkets. I so admire my friends who are crafty, and I think the things they create are beautiful, useful and desirable; anything I've ever created is low-performing in quality and high-performing in space consumption. But I do have a desire to cultivate new talents and become capable in basic skills of creation. I would be extremely grateful to anyone who would be willing to help motivate me to seek out useful crafts that would be at my level and would help me demonstrate the virtues of industrious living to my children. I'm not sure what the competitive angle would be, but I'd be grateful for any suggestions or challenges.

Clearly I have more weaknesses. If anyone has been dying to point one out to me, here's your chance -- but only if it comes with an accompanying challenge set in competitive terms. It's time I start drowning in self-improvement, rather than in what had to have been at least 60 ounces of keeping-me-up-all-night sugary goodness.

If you're already pro at something, I beg of you not to take me on -- I am pretty sure I would have busted a gut open before giving in tonight, and I'd rather this quest for self-improvement not end tragically with me imploding in an effort that's too challenging. But feel free to send me the "no way you can do this" boot camp-esque motivation. Or at least send me a double dog dare. Because we all know that no one can back down from a double dog dare.

Say cheese

She's pretty and she knows it, people. And thanks to "Napoleon Dynamite" she knows how to flaunt it.

Have MERCY

I hope I don't owe a nickel in royalties to John Stamos for the title of this post.

We don't have television reception. I take that back. We don't know how to find out if we have television reception. When I lived at home, I just turned on the television and BLAMO, the four basic network channels (CBS, ABC, NBC and PBS) popped on. When I moved to Rexburg, I just turned on the television and BLAMO, "90210" popped on. When I moved to Moscow, I just turned on the television and ... nothing. I scratched my head for a second, turned it off and back on again to find the same result, and then gave up and never tried again. We very well may get the basic stations here ... but considering I didn't stand in the American equivalent of a Russian bread line (i.e. the line to get a coupon for a digital TV converter box voucher) I somewhat doubt it.

We do, however, remain faithful to our favorite shows thanks to the greatest invention since the printing press: Hulu.com. We love watching our free shows on our own timetable.

Among the shows we follow is a newer medical drama called "Mercy." I'm going to tell you up front, the show isn't great. But it is, quite literally, the perfect show for Ben and me. This show satiates Ben's hunger for medical terminology and pathology scenarios. And as a bonus, it does it with nurses at the forefront, rather than most medical shows that would have you believing there are 10 doctors to every nurse running around in American hospitals. Absolutely false.

As for my needs -- I cringe at all things biological, so the medical aspect is lost on me. However, the show takes place at a small corner of heaven on earth known as Jersey City. I love Jersey City. And I enjoy the show's sometimes realistic depiction of people and attitudes in Jersey City. It has yet to capture the huge diversity in that corner of heaven, but it does make me homesick for the old 201. (By the way, Jersey City happens to be the home of Tonnelle Avenue, our daughter's namesake. When that makes an appearance on the show, it will officially be the greatest thing ever.)

If you're into medical dramas, you might like "Mercy." If you happened to serve with me in the New Jersey Morriston Mission, you definitely have to at least check it out. And if you're a member of the "Mercy" marketing team, feel free to send me a sweatshirt or something for this great endorsement.

*The show airs Wednesdays at 8/7 Central on NBC.

I wanna watch

Think this kid likes television?



Sigh.

Thanksgiving tradition lives on

As you may remember, each year on the night before Thanksgiving we have a family camp out in the living room. We set up our tent (which in all these years has actually never been set up outdoors) and our sleeping bags and have a big old slumber party. We always make sure the tent is opened up to the television so we can watch a movie as a family, and then when it's time we turn in for a night together under the stars ... which of course are blocked by our ceiling.


Don't believe her scowl in this picture-- Nelly loves it, too.


This was our first year cramming four people into our tent. There was plenty of space, but due to a certain toddler who was wildly bouncing off the walls (literally) we allowed Hammy to set up his own "tent" beside ours. He didn't seem to mind.


This is my favorite, favorite tradition and even though my aching body is hating me the next day, I absolutely look forward to it every year.

The second time around

It's weird how so many things are so different with our second child and so many things are exactly the same.

DIFFERENT:

Here's Nelly in her Invader Zim onesie back in January 2008. She continued to wear this onesie well past St. Patrick's Day -- so until she was at least 8 months old.


Here's Hammy in the same onesie ... today. He's not quite 4 months old and he's busting it at the seams. He's not a huge boy by any means, but he's much bigger than Nelly was.


This side profile highlights another difference -- Nelly's hair thinned a bit but she never went bald. Hammy lost all the hair on the top and side of his head (the bright red mullet in the back is holding on strong) all during one fateful bath. Truth be told, that was three weeks ago and I haven't bathed him since for fear of more hair falling out. So yeah, that smell? It's him.



SAME:

I have to preface this by saying due to Ben's heavy school schedule, he now plays video games about four times a year. This just so happened to be one of those times.


And it just so happened to remind me of this time, two years ago.


The exercise ball for a chair, the mouth hanging open. Yes, it is nice to know that some things never change.

Today my best friend moved

I was sad when my best friend got married. Sure, I got married first. But I still worried that when she got married I’d lose her. Instead, I think it actually strengthened our friendship.

I was sad when my best friend had a baby. Sure, I had a baby first. Two, actually. But I still worried that when she had a baby I’d lose her. Instead, I think it actually strengthened our friendship.

Now I’m sad that my best friend has moved. Sure, I moved first. But she moved further – she moved to Oregon. And that’s far.

But why do I get the feeling that this too, somehow, will actually strengthen our friendship?

Miss you already, Cam.

Two weeks free

Remember my rant about subscribing to your local newspaper? Well, to my local friends (that includes Lewiston AND Moscow), the Lewiston Morning Tribune is offering two weeks free subscription. All you need to do is call (800) 745-8742 and ask for the Publisher's Special and you'll get two weeks of the daily paper for free.

That fits in anyone's budget, right? And it will give you the chance to see exactly how daily access to your local paper can enrich your life.

Give it a try, and let me know what you think. If after two weeks you still don't think it's worth the $13 a month, at least it will be an informed decision.

Sneaky little cheat

My daughter is too much like me. Not only is she onto my tricks, she’s started using them against me.

We recently (FINALLY) weaned Nelly from the binky. Since then, the blessed 12 hours of sleep each night have been compromised. And the two-hour naps that I have long cherished have been put on the endangered species list. Desperate to get them off the list, I decided to enlist some heavenly help.

In addition to my own heartfelt/desperate petitions for divine intervention, I figured I should get Nelly in on the action. Each day as she blessed her lunch, I would have her also ask Heavenly Father to help her get some rest after she ate.

That lasted two prayers (both of which, by the way, were followed by a nice, long nap). Then she started kind of muttering during that part of the prayer. It took several episodes for me to confirm what I was hearing, but sure enough …

I would dictate, “Help me to rest after lunch,” and she would pray, “Help Hammy to rest after lunch.”

Sure enough, Hammy has been getting great afternoon naps. Nelly? Not so much.

We tried it again last night to similar results. During family prayers I prompted, “Please help me (Nelly) to fall asleep soon.” She followed with, “Please help Daddy to fall asleep soon.” Twenty minutes later she was jumping on the bed and Ben was passed out on the couch.

If only there were a way to corrupt my child so her innocent prayers wouldn’t be so readily answered. Sigh.

Scapegoat

Right now my little girl is still napping from when we got home from church. My husband and son are snoozing on the couch together. I'm also on the couch, snuggled under the same blanket as them. I'd love to get up and get a snack. I'd REALLY love to get up and use the bathroom. But I worry that if I get up I'll ruin the tranquility of this moment. So I think I'll stay put. I don't really need the snack, after all. And I can always blame the baby for wetting the couch.

I love peaceful Sunday afternoons.

Passing the puke test

If I could have a Super Mommy power, it would be the power to predict when a child is going to vomit. That way I could (a) lay down lots of towels around her bed, (b) not feed her corn that night, and (c) develop a sudden interest in Twilight so I would have an excuse to not be home when it happened.

Tonight I had my first vomit encounter. Yes, that's right, my first. I do realize that, when it comes to the trials of motherhood, I am absolutely spoiled rotten. Of all the mommy maladies, I have never had to deal with frustrations as basic as ear infections or diaper rashes. (Did you have to go back and read that again? Yes, it's true, my kids have never had diaper rash. So for all of you who kindly bought me diaper rash cream as a baby gift? I'm gonna be honest; I re-gifted.) I've never had to cope with scary things such as child hospitalizations or trips to the ER. I have had it easy -- easy kids, easy circumstances, minimal hiccups.

But tonight, for the first time in my 2 1/3 years as a mother, I experienced vomit. Lots and lots of vomit. I have dealt with spit-up plenty. (Though incidentally Nelly was my only spit-upper -- Hammy doesn't spit up. I know, I know, enough of my silver spoon already.) But I do believe tonight was my first major vomit episode.

Nelly was just fine at dinner. She ate more of her corn than I realized at the time -- a pro and a con. She handled her evening routine just fine, and she went to bed the same way she always does. But a few hours later when I went to check on her, I sensed something wasn't quite right. Let me put that more accurately -- my nose sensed something wasn't right. The stench was awful. And then I saw it, the puddles and piles of putrid puke. Yep, I just about added to the load.

I had a defining moment -- see, I had a choice. I could step up to the task at hand and fish my beautiful daughter out of the pool of vomit she was nearly drowning in. Or ... and I'm not proud to admit I even considered this ... I could pretend I didn't notice and send Ben in to check on her in a few minutes. (In retrospect, that doesn't sound so bad ... I'll have to remember that option for next time.)

I did it. I passed my first ever puke test. Granted, Ben quickly joined me and helped out. And granted, he's much more efficient at cleaning up bodily fluid messes (he's a CNA, for crying out loud -- CNAs have the pleasure of cleaning up bodily fluids for a living). But I participated. Actively. I cleaned up my daughter. I rinsed off the sheets. I sopped the mess off the floor. I wiped it off the furniture. I attempted to salvage Elmo ... OK, that one's a lie. Poor Elmo who normally sits beside Nelly's bed got the brunt of the spray, and rather than dealing with it we threw him away. Waste not want not, sure, but want not throw away. Problem solved.

I gotta say, I feel pretty darned good. Sure, it's three hours later and I'm STILL cleaning up the mess. (Third carpet treatment's a charm, right?) But as disgusting as certain aspects of parenthood can be, it's always nice to discover you're up for the task after all.

P.S. Nelly's doing just fine. It appears it was just a one-time thing. Thanks for the gentle reminder that not everything is about me.

Slumber party

There wasn't much sleeping involved. But there was a whole lot of party during our weekend with the Rippys. It was great to see the girls together again. Nelly hasn't stopped talking about "Ev-a-yee" since we've been home, meaning that another visit is in order, and soon.



They've always been so cute, but when did these girls get so big?

My favorite charity: your local paper

No one has any money right now; I get that. But for the life of me I cannot understand why people don’t subscribe to their local newspaper.

Obviously I’m a little biased, having been a newspaper gal myself. Right now I’m not working, and truth be told I may never work in the newspaper industry again. But it will forever be my passion.

Biases aside, I promise you that if we let our local newspapers die, our communities will suffer.

Despite providing such a valuable product to its community, newspapers get hit the hardest during economic lows. In hard times, people drop the newspaper like Britney Spears drops babies or Kanye West drops F-bombs. Even harder on the bottom line than lost subscribers, companies cut their advertising budget first when tightening their belts, meaning that the newspaper’s main source of revenue all but dries up.

Are you interested in preserving local jobs? The newspaper employs more of your neighbors than you might realize. There are reporters, photographers, editors, designers, circulation managers, the production crew and the sales staff. Then there are all of the individuals who run paper routes. A paper route may not be the world’s best paying gig, but for many people in your community the extra income that comes from a daily route is the only way they can provide Christmas for their family.

Maybe you could care less about your neighbors and just care about what’s in it for you. No problem – the paper provides plenty. Are you super frugal? The ads and coupons are all about saving you money. In yesterday’s paper alone I clipped coupons that will save me $23 – and my monthly subscription to the paper is $13. (Keep in mind, I only clip coupons for items that were already on my shopping list. I refuse to let “the man” decide my shopping habits, which my conspiracy-theory self believes is the aim of coupons. But if I was already planning on buying it, you bet I’ll accept 50 cents off. Take that, “man.”)

Of course, the single greatest reason to subscribe to your local newspaper is for the information it brings to your doorstep every single day. Sure, you can go online and find out the headlines from around the world. But how else do you find a reliable source of what’s going on in your own community?

I hear it all the time: “My local newspaper is awful.” It very well may be. As passionate as I am about print journalism, I’ll be the first to admit that some reporters are terrible, a great deal of copy is sloppy and plenty of editors are indeed biased. But I also promise you that the majority of the journalists out there are sincerely doing their very best to bring you objective news covering a wide range of sources and informing you of the things that matter (or at least should matter) in your community.

Still not interested in subscribing to your local paper? That’s fine. I understand that it’s hard to add one more expense to your fancy ring tones, vanity license plates, cable with DVR, and that subscription to the gym you haven’t used in 6 months.

But if you do think that maybe it is time to subscribe (or possibly re-subscribe) to your local newspaper, be sure to tell them I sent you. I get 35 cents for every sucker I get to sign up this week, and Christmas dinner isn’t going to put itself on the table.

Let me spell it out for you

This is the sweet message my husband left me this morning.


This is how I showed my appreciation.


And somehow he still loves me.

Prophesy

Lara predicted the day would come. Who knew it was the next day.

I sent Nelly to the table for her afternoon snack. She eats in her little booster chair for breakfast and dinner, but when Ben's away she normally sits in his chair or mine. So as she headed to the table, I asked her where she was planning to sit.

Nelly, are you going to sit in Mommy's chair or Daddy's chair?

She looked at me as though confused, pointed to my chair and asked, "That my mommy's chair?"

Yes, I said, that's your mommy's chair.

Her instant grin told me I had fallen for some sort of trap. Sure enough ...

"No, not my mommy's chair. YOUR MOMMY's chair."

She's in the other room still laughing about it ... her first Your Mom joke. Where's the space for that entry in the baby book?

Talk the talk

I promise you, we don't have television reception. It's hard to believe, considering the conversation Nelly and I had 20 minutes ago while Hammy was napping.

"Where's Hammy?"

Hammy's sleeping in his crib.

"This Nelly's crib."

No, it used to be your crib, but it's Hammy's now.

"No, this Nelly's crib."

What's your crib? Your big girl bed?

"Big girl bed in Nelly's crib. And toys in Nelly's crib. And whole house. House is Nelly's crib."

I guess that means she feels at home in the new apartment ... er, in the new crib. Now, if she starts telling me we need to start "pimping it out" then it's time to be concerned.

The little things

You don’t have to tell me I’m a nerd. Growing up the only nickname I could acquire was Dork … and that was from my father (true story). While my rampant nerdiness (nerdyness? nerdicity?) is pretty obvious, it’s still fun to call attention to the evidences once in a while.

For example …

On my laptop, I chose not to have Microsoft Word on my dock (it’s the Macintosh-users’ superior version of having icons on your desktop). So anytime I want to type something up, I have to go to my spotlight (Mac’s much cooler version of find) and type “word.” Microsoft Word instantly pops up as my top option and I easily launch the program.

I’m not a nerd because I use a Mac – no, that’s just proof of my superiority over all you PC people. The evidence of my nerdery (nerdness? nerdation?) is that every time I type “word” I have to, HAVE TO, say it like the ‘80s catch phrase that it is with an expressionless face and a mini head bob. And then I break into uncontrollable giggles every single time.

I could save a lot of time by just adding Word to my dock. But then I wouldn’t have my daily dose of geekiness.

Aren’t you glad I shared?

Two kinds of potty training

Looks like she's up to no good, right? But actually ...


Yep, she's scrubbing the toilet for me. With bleach and everything. She did a mighty fine job, too. I guess she figured that since she now uses the potty, she should take her turn cleaning the potty.

And did you notice what was happening there on the right?


Yep, she's potty training her dolly. And with zero accidents so far, I'd say she's doing a mighty fine job of that as well.

Halloween

Who doesn't want to show off their children on Halloween? Many thanks to Uncle Adam, who found and purchased Nelly's lion costume, and Aunt Kimber, who sent us Hammy's cop costume.

Doing something right

This morning as we were blessing our breakfast of doughnuts and cranberry juice (preparing nutritious meals is clearly not the thing I'm doing right), Nelly unfolded her arms in protest and shouted out, "No more!"

No more what, sweetie?

"No more prayer. Pray aaaaaaalllll day. No more. Only in church."

If my daughter is sick of praying by the time she's 2, we must be doing something right.

Perks of being the mom

Admit it, you also have constant competitions with yourself. When you're driving to a familiar destination, especially a long-distance one, you always try to beat your best time. You try to beat your best score at Tetris, and you try to save even more at the grocery store this time than you did last time.

I always want to one-up myself. Maybe it's because I'm so much better than everyone else that I'm my only remaining competition. More likely it's that I don't dare try to compare myself to others because my self-esteem will plummet and the only event I'll be competitive in is the worst competitor category.

There is one area, though, where as a mom I've given up on trying to win at. And that's the power bill game.

Before I had children, I was all about keeping the power bill low. There was always the game of chicken -- how late into the cold season could I last before finally caving and turning the heat on. Then there was the amount of usage -- only turning it on for 10 minutes just before I went to sleep. And there was the overall indicator of how I'd done -- what, did I leave the curling iron on for an extra 35 seconds? Why is this bill so high? Back then I could put any conservationalist to shame with my extreme "just put a sweater or five on" antics.

Not any more.

Now that I have kids, I'm more concerned with their comfort than with the wattage. I figure if I'm chilly, my poor naked children and probably freezing. (Why don't I just put some clothes on my children, you ask? Because I am interested in keeping the loads of laundry to a minimum. Don't have to wash clothes if no one is wearing any.)

I try not to run the heater all the time. Our fabulous central heating via natural gas helps warm things up in a hurry, and once we're comfortable again I usually shut 'er right down. But then once I'm feeling a bit cool again I'm quick to pump the heat back on.

**WARNING: SUPER CHEESY ENDING LINE APPROACHING**

Sure, I hate seeing those big numbers when the power bill comes crashing through the mail box. But you know what, it's kind of nice to be warm. And it's even nicer to shrug the bill off and say, "Hey, it's for the kids." That keeps me warm inside and out.

The amazing friends we just don’t deserve

I am the happiest person in the world right now.

Part of it is materialistic. See, I just got my Dust Buster. Remember my pathetic plea for a Proton Pack for spiders? Well, this baby couldn’t be better equipped for snatching up spiders if it had been designed for that purpose. I got the Dust Buster Scorpion, which has a flip-down nozzle meant for cleaning crevices but perfect for spider sucking. Since we got it we’ve hunted down and dust busted more than a dozen arachnids. Finding spiders is no longer a terror but a joy.

Sure, right after I suck them up I usually drop the hand vac in terror and jump on whatever furniture is close by. And I can’t use it for its intended purpose because I’m afraid if I suck up crumbs I’ll just feed the hordes of spiders living in the vacuum and they’ll multiply and replenish the apartment. After I buy and vacuum up some insect poison I’ll feel a bit better.

The success of the Dust Buster is part of my joy. But the greatest part comes from where the Dust Buster came from.

After my aforementioned (and linked to) pathetic plea, we learned yet again how blessed we are with friends we don’t deserve. Ben and I think we’re pretty decent people. But time and again we’re shown just how disproportionately awesome all our friends our to our average decency.

Out of nowhere, our dear friend Adrienne S. sent us a housewarming gift – a gift card to Home Depot for the exact amount as the desired vacuum.

Adrienne is an amazing friend. I’ve known her for years and years – most of the time I lived in Moscow. Ben had a class with her so they got to know each other well, too. She is our favorite person to bump into at the grocery store, and we’ve always regretted not being able to spend more time with her while we lived nearby.

Adrienne’s note mentioned her own hatred of spiders. So Adrienne, baby, every time we suck up a spider, we do it in your honor. Thanks from the bottom of our hearts for giving us the power to rid our apartment (and the world) of every spider we see.

My name is ...

We have ourselves an awkward situation.

We go to church for three hours each Sunday. The first block (75 minutes) we're together as a family, but after that Nelly goes to Nursery with the other youngen's and we go to our adult classes. The adults who serve in the Nursery are fantastic, and Nelly looks forward to her time there every week.

Today, however, we discovered the awkwardness. It seems that the Nursery workers think that Nelly's name is Mattie. At first I just thought that they had sent her home with someone else's coloring project, even though we weren't aware of a Mattie in the ward. But Ben confirmed that when he dropped her off and again when he picked her up they called her Mattie.

Weird, right? Well, I had my suspicion. Lately Nelly has been playing an awful lot of pretend. For example, we watched "Stuart Little 2" this last week. The plot involves a little sparrow named Margalo stealing Mrs. Little's diamond ring, then later making amends. Yeah, you know where this is going -- she's been stealing my engagement ring any time she sees it, then coming up to me sorrowfully and saying, "Mommy, I sorry. I took this. Here you go." She even turns on the water works. I'm terrified we have a little actress on our hands.

So at the dinner table tonight I quickly got to the bottom of the Mattie thing.

Nelly, what's your name?

"Mattie."

Mattie? Who's Mattie?

"Camille's baby. I Mattie. Waaaaa."

Yep. Because we've been talking about my friend Camille and her new baby Madi, she told the Nursery workers that her name was Mattie.

Nelly's imagination is fantastic. But how, after all these weeks, do we tell the Nursery workers Nelly's real name?

Seems too uncomfortable to me. I think we'll just change her name.

She has a type

When I was a little girl, I had a mad crush on Michael Jackson. Other girls my age kissed posters hanging on their walls of the various New Kids on the Block or whomever their crushes were. I didn't have any posters, so instead I kissed the television screen whenever Michael Jackson was on. Weird, I know, but you work with what you've got.

I think I know who Nelly's first true crush is on. I just saw her kissing the television ... while he was on ...


There are no words to express the pride I feel ...

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Multiple personalities

I have created a monster. Technically I guess I’ve created two. But somehow I created a monster within my oldest little monster.

Tonnelle has created a little game – I call it “Guess my name FOREVER until you’re so sick of playing that you send me to my room in aggravation.” For short I call it “Not that game again.” The game begins when, for one reason or another, I call her by name. It could be, “Tonnelle come HERE,” or the more popular, “Tonnelle, don’t touch that.” Whatever the reason, using her name is what sets it off.

Tonnelle follows up with her impish, I’m-up-to-something smile and says, “Noooooo, not Tonne-ye” (Ls are still tricky for this 2-year-old). And then she waits.

OK, don’t touch that NELLY.

“Not Ne-ye.”

Goose?

“Nooooo.”

Honey?

“Nooooo.”

Sweetheart?

“Yeah! I your sweetheart.”

And then we can move on with our day. That is, until 10 minutes later when it starts all over again.

Nelly, stop writing on your brother’s head.

"Not Ne-ye …"

Oh, for the love, just go to your room.

Because I always wanted a nickname, I intentionally gave my children names with good nickname opportunities. Now I’m wishing I could take it all back and just call them all Kid. Girl Kid and Boy Kid, Kid 1 and Kid 2 – or just plain Kid for all of them. Hey, if it’s good enough for George Foreman …

Waning enthusiasm

We survive off a lot of hand-me-downs around here. With both of our children, friends, co-workers and family members have been extremely generous, and we’ve found ourselves the fortunate recipients of many a boxes of gently used clothing.

So why in the heck are my children running around half naked all the time?

I remember when Tonnelle was born, I couldn’t change her outfits often enough. She had SO many adorable outfits. There was the onesie with the bunny on it, then the one with stripes. There were the shorts and the skorts and the tights with the frilly bum. For the most part, when I wasn’t feeding or burping or diapering, I was accessorizing and posing and photographing.

We didn’t run out of clothes. I just ran out of steam.

Yesterday around 3 p.m. I finally pulled Nelly out of her pajamas. What can I say, it was a special day. Normally she stays in her pjs until after dinner … at which point I change her into a new pair of pajamas.

(Case in point -- Here Nelly took matters into her own hands and dressed herself. Cute shorts you say? ...


Look again. Yep, those are Hammy's pants she's wearing.)


And Hammy – poor, poor Hammy. Yesterday I did laundry. I do laundry every Monday and Thursday. Given that my son is 2-months-old, I should have had a decent pile of his clothes, right? Well as I was folding and putting the laundry away I was alarmed to find I had no clothes for Hammy. I must have forgotten to grab his dirty clothes. So I looked around. And looked. And looked. Sure enough, Hammy was still wearing the very same onesie I dressed him in Monday morning. To share the blame, Hammy never spits up and he never blows out. How am I supposed to remember to change my baby’s clothes if they’re not visibly soiled? You’d think the big yellow ball in the sky that sets and then rises would be a reminder enough for me. Nope. I need stains.

I could say I'm just trying to save the environment with fewer loads of laundry -- not true, but I could say it. I could say that my kids could make a burlap sack look good -- true, but not the real reason I don't dress them up. Nope, I've simply gotten lazy as all get out.

And I'm OK with that.

I need a Dust Buster

OK, that’s probably not what they’re called any more. But you remember those little handheld (what else would you hold it with?) cordless vacuums that kind of look like the Proton Packs from “Ghostbusters”? Yeah, I need one of those.


Ghosts aren’t the problem. Neither, to an extent, are crumbs and crackers. True enough, we have plenty of spills and messes (especially in the car) that make a Dust Buster the top item on my wish list. But today it officially made it to the top of the I NEED IT NOW OR I’LL DIE list. Why? Because I had to kill a spider. With my hands.

The spider issue will be the death of me. I would give away all my Lands’ End shoes if in return I could never see another spider again. (That includes, by the way, Spider-Man AND the lousy actor who plays him in those beyond awful movies.)

But instead I still have all my wonderful shoes and I can't put any of them on unless Ben is around to thoroughly search for arachnids inside them. Sad.

Killing a spider on our couch today using just a big (huge) wad of paper towels was a painful experience for me (and granted, not exactly the spider's favorite thing, either). A Proton Pack … er, handheld vacuum would have REALLY improved things for both of us. But while the purchase is now of nuclear-level priority, it’s just not in the budget.

What’s that you say? Isn’t that why God created credit cards – so we can all have things we can’t afford? Good point, my friend. And might I just add that it’s forward thinking like yours that makes America great.

So that option aside, I’m soliciting ideas for how to get my hands on a much needed and even greater desired Dust Buster. I’ll accept any ideas, including insider information on when the Wal-Mart supply truck will be unlocked and unguarded. (Note: I would NEVER steal. But I just might know a guy who would …)

This is how much I love my son

Lewiston has clean water, I’ll give it that. But I still can’t bring myself to use the water straight from the tap. For the last eight years I’ve been filtering my water before making juice, cooking noodles and especially mixing bottles.

Well, today I had a problem. Normally I have several bottles made up and in the fridge so I never have to mix one up in a rush. Somehow today I got behind and found myself with a major dilemma. See, not only had I run out of bottles, but somehow (cough, Ben, cough) the filtered water pitcher wound up in the fridge empty. So I had a screaming, starving, sick 2-month-old on my hands, no bottle and no filtered water with which to make one.

I did, however, have a bottle of Fiji water on hand. Perhaps you’re familiar with the stuff. You can find it in nearly any grocery store in the Ridiculously Overpriced Bottled Water aisle. It stands out among the ridiculously overpriced bottled waters, however, as it’s the brand that comes in a square bottle.


I love Fiji water. Yes, it’s pricey for water. But it’s cheap for pure happiness. Money can’t buy love, but it can certainly buy a good pick-me-up. For some women that’s in the form of a manicure or day at the spa. For me it’s a square bottle of water. Ever since I first met Fiji on the gritty streets of Jersey City I’ve been smitten. I don’t share Fiji water. And I certainly don’t choke Fiji water with grainy yellow powder that creates a product that smells and tastes like spit-up before it’s even spit up.

But my boy was in need, and the Fiji water was all I had. I took one look into his deep blue hungry eyes and I knew. I knew that as his mother, I needed to make certain concessions. I needed to do whatever it took to provide for my kin.

Who knew I would get over my fear of tap water so easily?

Babywearing

I am not a granola. I say that because my previous (and I’ll admit, sometimes still persistent) opinion of babywearers is that they’re all a bunch of granolas. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

Lately, however, I have found I’m wearing my baby more often than not.


There’s all sorts of studies that indicate wearing your baby is good for the kid – it helps the child feel loved and protected or something like that. That’s all well and good, but I’m the selfish type of mother who wears my baby for me. First off, it hides the spare tire still (and forever) hanging around my waist. True story – when I go out with the car seat, no one comments on how I look. When I’m wearing my babe, I ALWAYS get several, “Wow, you look GREAT.” Who doesn’t love that?

Second, with a toddler running free, I need my hands free. When Nelly was a baby, the babywearing was more of a hassle. Sure, it made it easier to haul the laundry across the parking lot to the laundry room. But it wasn’t as easy as just sitting around holding her and then making Ben do the laundry when he got home. But with Nelly’s wild imagination (and evil deeds that accompany it) I need to be ready to respond with both hands all the time. Wearing my baby allows me to do that.

Third (and possibly the truest reason), my older sister (pictured here -- yes, I'm the giant in my family)


is ridiculously into the babywearing thing. And I do mean ridiculously. Along with some friends, she is in charge of the 2010 International Babywearing Convention. It was in Chicago last time and, oddly enough, is going to be held in Rigby, Idaho, next summer. And much more beneficial to me, she owns (and is in the processes of selling, if you’re interested) Ball Baby Carriers, which sells mei tais and pouches. Therefore I get my carriers for free. If someone gave you a free car, you’d drive it, right? Well, these carriers are as close to a free car as I’ve ever gotten.

Babywearing tends to be contagious. When someone sees someone else doing it, they get the bug. That’s added to babywearings popularity, perhaps even making it trendy. And it’s certainly been the case in our home.



Yep, looks like the future of babywearing is safe.

If you’ve ever been curious about babywearing and want a realistic, non-fanatical (no offense, Kimber) opinion about it, let me know. And if you’re already a nut-job like my sis (again, no offense) and are interested in the conference, the business or anything else, I can hook you up.

Our favorite favorites

Yeah, we all knew I'd post more. Of the 65 amazing images we got from Ruthie, these were our very favorite. (There were also some great black and white ones, including some traditional newborn shots of Hammy, but I'm so in love with the color ones.)











Think we made the right call?