Traditions

"Papa, what's a tradition?"

"Something you do. Just because. No matter what."

Like potato cheese soup. Feeding the reindeer. Rice Crispy treats for Santa. New jammies. French toast bake for breakfast. Movie marathons. Red-white red-white reds (candy canes). And saving the dishes, laundry, vacuuming for another day.

Only 363 days till Christmas!

P.S. Red and green marshmellows make poop colored Rice Crispy treats. But they still taste the same. So Santa tells me.

Christmas Eve

This is a picture post.

You're welcome.

And Merry Christmas!

Cali. Another of this week's theories. Two parts.

First...

No one I know from California actually calls it Cali. And every time I hear it, it reminds me of Tyler- the 17 year old boost to my 13 year old ego. He was the dude that stopped me on my walk to church to ask me for my number. I refused, but somehow he called me later that evening anyway. I'm not sure what possessed him to call someone he knew that he thought might be in my Ward. Creative little punk-ass. Persistent too. I was so flattered. Looking back, I should have been totally creeped out. Let that be a lesson you. 14 year old girls, even smart, mature for their age ones, are dumb when it comes to boys. Hear that Scrunch?!?!?! Mama's got your number. You can't kid a kidder.

Second...

You move TO California, not away from. And no your serenely looking scenes of a white Winterland do not entice me to change my mind. Snow. Yuck! Can't stand the stuff. It's hazardous to you health, you know. I think I was twelve when my mom drove us up to my Uncle's cabin so we could go skiing for the first time. We flew up in her little red Honda after work. It got dark and the weather was bad. At one point we could hardly see and we momentarily lost control. I prayed, and prayed, and prayed, and the car stopped. The next morning we could see where the car tracks ended and they were way, way, way too close to the edge. I spent the rest of the day on my butt in the cold. I love Bear Lake! Add snow and I don't care if I ever see the clear blue lake again, thank you very much.

Now, I recognize that not all of you do not see the world through my often skewed, but can't help but be right eyes. Some of you will have the gumption to move away and take my girl's besties with you. And I guess I'll forgive you. I'll even do my best to sew you a custom poof hat so you'll keep your ears if you decide to go out in that stuff.

We're going to miss you Kikara! Don't forget your California Gurls!

I also realize that linking to Snoop Dog and Katy Perry might be a tad inappropriate because, well...just because it is. But I think we could all use a break from the Christmas music about now and it's a great song for cleaning the bathroom, or cleaning just about anything really. I've spent too many minutes on YouTube watching these guys, please don't let me be the only one.

Squish

Porkchop turned seven months old three days ago. And the few weeks leading up to it have been sort of depressing.

I have a theory...

Hear me out. I've got one for everything, but I think there is something to this one...

Between four to eight months babies are delicious. Yummy, yummy, squishy. Lovey. Dovey. Soooo gosh. dang. cute. And the closer they get to eight months you start to panic.

"My baby is growing up."
 "My baby is getting so big."
"I. love. babies."
"I might want another one."
"I need another one."
"GIVE ME BABY!"

You begin to lose your senses and become baby crazy. One little whoops and bingo! You've got kiddos 15-18 mos apart. BUT. If you hold out, this same angel baby starts crawling and is on the move. And then... THEN there is no way you'd even consider getting near another little gremlin until they can wipe their own tush. This is my theory.

Being aware of my theory and the fact that I'm completely ruled by the whims of my hormonally deranged emotions, I felt it happen. The last few weeks I've watched my little Chopper begin eating, sitting up, try to crawl and I've been sad. Really, really sad. For the first time since his birth, I really felt angry. Almost depressed even that he was born with a cleft lip/palate. Not much to do with the cleft, just the extra that came with it. The doctors appointments, the pumping, the work. A toddler and a newborn is a lot to adjust to, but you add even just a little extra, and it's an un-needed, unappreciated amount of extra. So, it hit me like a ton of bricks that my baby is growing up. And he's getting so big. And I love my baby. And I feel like I missed half of it. I didn't get to really enjoy lots of it because of all this extra. All the bull crap everyone wishes happened to someone else, but you wouldn't wish it on someone else. There will be no whoops. History has shown that it takes us much more than a bingo. I'm no fertile myrtle, and when it comes to pregnancy, he may be our one hit wonder. Add this, my theory, and the tinge of guilt that another one would throw me over the edge and you have a recipe for a muddled, hormonal, mom mess.

Then the second ton of bricks dropped.

I sat at the table mingling with one of the wives and a girlfriend of some of the guys my husband works with. One is pregnant with twins through in vitro and another has been with her boyfriend only a few months, but they are talking kids. Not knowing either of the two of our histories, the girlfriend continued, "Yeah, we really need to get on this kid bandwagon if we're going to do it. I'm going to be 36. Maybe we should have twins. Then we could just do it once and be done with it. I'm  not getting any younger and the older I get the higher my changes of a birth defect get..."

Thwomp! And they landed. Leaving me so much more humble. So much more grateful.

Her "worst case scenario" was just about one of the greatest blessings that's happened to us.

I will take the extra. I will have to learn to love the extra. Because the alternative is that he might not have been here at all.

Happy Seven Meses Turkey-lurkey!

I Win! I Win! I Win!

Normally, I would not recommend arguing with a two almost-three-year old. But there is an exception to every rule.

She's my Mick!

No!! She's MY Mick!

NO!! SHE'S MY MICK!!!

With my sister Mick here we got the tree down and then (mostly) up, the faux gingerbread houses constructed, an FSA party, and then even got in a date. We tried to take a family pic without having to use a timer, but even Mick is no miracle worker.

Try #1.



Try #2.



Try #3.



Good enough. I'm hungry.

 

We were very excited to be going on an adults only date. It hasn't happened since I think the last Holiday party.

My kids don't like her much. Obviously.

Gob bless Miqui, everyone!

Mama's Backstreet Boys

Not bad, eh?

The Canadian Tenors. They're coming in March. I'm so there.

Remember that one time...

..when the zipper on your favorite purse snagged on its pocket lining, and then your phone rang while awaiting a very important call, and you broke the whole outside of the zipper because you manhandled it a little too roughly so you had no option but to cut the zipper out forever destroying your Target $6.97 purse that was once mistaken for a Coach bag? And you cried.

And that time that you threw the kid in the shower with Dad to save a few minutes only to hear cursing a few minutes later and to find out that his appliance fell out, got stepped on, and snapped in half?

Well I do. And it was not as awesome or as funny as it sounds.

I Believe in Santa

It started out as a less than stellar day. 3:34a.m. comes awfully quick when you fall asleep in the recliner at 12:23a.m.

Husband had to leave early for a meeting so he wasn't able to get breakfast going like he usually does. Not three minutes out the door and I realize that my wallet was in the car he was driving. Not a problem except that I knew I only had enough gas to make it to the only gas station within 17 miles and no further. Dammit all. I needed my wallet.

It didn't take much and I was completely overwhelmed. The day's activities were going to require more energy than I had. I needed an extra pair of hands. I rescheduled Joy School and tried to get a hold of my Husband.

I called. He answered. And he said he'd call me back. He never did. Instead, he showed up with my wallet and a movie he rented for me on his way back. God love him! I couldn't ask for much more than that.

But then, somehow, I got behind again and was running late. Scrunch was only answering to "Charlie" (as in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory) and was belting out songs about heaven only knows what as she got in and out and in and out of the tub. Porkchop, totally wasted from his nocturnal awakenings slept like a bear and then woke up a starving beast. It all seemed to happen at once, and good glory I was tired, and still in need of an extra pair of hands.

Then, as we're trying to leave the house, I lost my car keys-the kids already buckled in. Ten minutes of frantic searching and Scrunch starts with her notorious "Mom, what-you doing?" Exasperation in my tone I snapped at her that I was looking for my keys.

"Oh. Mom?"

What?

"You forgot something."

Okay. I'll bite. "What did I forget?"

"You left your keys right here."

Sure enough. Sitting in the handle of her door are my keys. Awesome. I'm about to lose it, but really can't worry about it because I'm willing the vehicle on gas fumes into the station. It was then that I remembered that the adapter for my pump (necessary) and my hooter hider (nice to have unless you're oncoming traffic in which case it is necessary) are in Husband's car. Oh for the love!! All I'm trying to do is to take my kids to sit on Santa's lap. Is that so much for a mom to ask? I'm asking him for an extra pair of hands, so help me!

And then a bit of Christmas magic.

For of all the exotic places my Dad has traveled recently, he somehow ended up within thirty minutes of here with a free afternoon, carrying two Candied Ginger Pumpkin Spice Yummy Pies, and quickly got me a Dr. Pepper. If I wasn't a believer before, I am now. I got myself an extra pair of hands for the afternoon. My only problem then was that I couldn't think of anything else to ask from Santa.

Scrunch wants the gum I promised, and Porkchop would like one of these fuzzy red coats.

The Christmas Card That Wasn't

With commentary courtesy of Aunt Goose via Facebook.

"Yannette- "I have gas." John- "I wish I could see what is going on...where are my glasses?" Scrunch- "This darn hat is itchy" Porkchop- "Sis! You have something growing out of your head." This may be my favorite family picture ever."

Backtrack

I openly admitted it tonight, so now I can talk about it. I think I'm about as hormonally deranged as I've ever been. For reals this time. My reaction to everything including getting the mail involves either tears or wanting to jump out of my skin. What gives? Maybe I'm PMSing. I hope I'm PMSing. In fact, I came in the door last night and announced to my husband "I HOPE I'M PMS-ING!!" He started laughing and asked, "Why?"

"BECAUSE THEN I'M NOT CRAZY! JUST HORMONAL!"

And he laughed some more.

You'd think that after seven and a half years of marriage, three sisters of his own, and three sisters-in-law, the dude would have figured out when to stifle a laugh. Or at least hide it with a fake cough.

So, now you know. Gotta keep things short and sweet till I get a grip or completely surrender to the madness. Anyway, I neglected to mention two of the best events of November. The FSA Fireside and Fairytale town. Both start with Fs and involve some of our very favorite people.

Nobody rocks the bows I've made like this little girl. And her mom totally rocked her presentation at the Fireside!