I'm Haute

Or at least I was for 24 hours last week.

I went in for a thyroid scan. That meant downing 3 capsules containing radioactive iodine and then returning 2 hours later and again 24 hours later to have a huge Geiger counter move up my thigh and over my neck.

Did you know that you can shoot up haute-ness? Yup, they did that to me too. Directly into one of my juicy veins. (Forget drugs--gimme some of that technetium.) I was too haute to touch for 24 hours. Seriously. My doc told me: no extended physical contact, no salivary contact (um, excuse me?), sleep alone, wash your sheets, towels, and the clothes you were wearing as soon as you finish with them, flush twice (because that's how your body rids itself of the radioactivity), and wash your hands frequently. All that haute-ness made for an interesting weekend with lots of jokes from my loving husband.

What were the results, you might ask? Well, not all of my haute-ness disappeared down the toilet. My friends, I, your own (I hope) beloved Sister Pottymouth, have a hot nodule. Not to worry, however. Previous biopsies show that the nodule is benign. I just have to wait for the doctor to look at the scan results before I decide the next step. I may hang on to that nodule for a while. It's not bothering me, and it is my one legitimate claim to "haute-ness."









My only disappointment was that my urine did not glow in the dark.

Where the Sun Don't Shine

In honor of Phil, who (at my request) went in willingly for a colonoscopy last week. He received a clean bill of health.

Quotes for the Week

These are a few of my favorite family quotes this week:



"Oh my soul and garters!" --my 74-year-old mother, commenting on S's Lego creation.


"I will never brake your heart!" --written by my 1st grader on the Valentine he brought home to me yesterday.


"I fart. No, you fart." --my 3-year-old son to S's violin teacher at violin lessons yesterday. [Sorry, ~j, I know you don't like that particular "f" word. I don't like it either, but the child gets "tutored" by his oldest brother.]




And finally, in honor of Valentine's Day:


"I do not want anything that's been printed on a 6-year-old's underwear." --my 10-year-old son, upon being questioned last night about why Superman Valentines were unacceptable.

Tag. I'm it.

My Life. My Card. Because Compulsive tagged me.

My name... almost went to my four older brothers, but they had the wrong equipment to be given a female moniker. And I'm the only child in the family whose name does not begin with "K."

Childhood ambition... (I'm ashamed to admit this one) to be a model. Not much later, thankfully, I decided I wanted to be an electrical engineer. I even took the prerequisite classes at BYU, but then I decided to switch to English.

Soundtrack... "Walkin' on Sunshine" (or whatever it's called)

Retreat... A really good book of fiction.

Wildest dream... which one? I have strange dreams a lot.

Proudest moment... becoming a mother.

Biggest challenge... being patient and keeping my cool with my oldest son.

Alarm clock... goes off at 5:35 am on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays so I can go exercise.

Perfect day... would include reading a good book and going to dinner with my husband.

First job... I did the computer backup for Provo School District for 6 years. It had to be done before 7 am every day.

Indulgence... homemade ice cream, chocolate

Last purchase... groceries.

Favorite movie(s)... Princess Bride, Shrek (1 & 2), Dead Poet's Society, The Emperor's New Groove, etc., etc.

Inspiration... really good music that lifts my heart and makes my spirit soar

My life... is busy.

My card(s)... get paid off every month and give me money back on each purchase. I refuse to be in debt, and I love the irony of my credit card companies paying me to use their cards.



Anyone else want to play? Consider yourself tagged.

As easy as...

In a recent comment on my friend's blog, I made reference to a particularly embarrassing experience I had not long after Phil and I were married. After much thought and consideration, I decided to post it. I'm sure it has nothing to do with the fact that I couldn't think of anything else to blog about. (ahem)

Our first apartment was quite small. We had a kitchen/living room area, a tiny bedroom, and an even smaller bathroom. There was enough room for our queen-size bed, but only just. We positioned the bed about 8 inches from the wall on my side so there was enough room (barely) to squeeze in to make the bed. There wasn't much space to move around in, but the arrangement worked.

Now, we all know that every married couple goes through a period of adjustment when it comes to sleep. After however many years of sleeping single in your own bed, you suddenly have to learn to sleep with another person. The first few weeks after the wedding are adventurous--even fun, I might say. But then reality hits. Ours hit during finals week.

After a grueling evening of studying for our finals, Phil and I headed for dreamland. I slept great that night. I assumed he had too. But he informed me the next morning that I was crowding him all night long, and he couldn't sleep. I felt horrible. (So much concern for one another when you are newlyweds....) I determined that I would make sure he slept really well the following night.

A long day of tests, work, and more studying left both of us tired. We headed off to bed and were soon asleep. My subconscious mind remembered my determination to not crowd Phil during the night. This meant that each time I would surface to consciousness, I would roll away from Phil. It worked well, until I rolled too far.

Remember how my side of the bed was 8 inches away from the wall? You can guess what happened. Not only did I roll off the bed, I was so twisted up in the sheets that only one foot was touching the floor. I was completely wedged and mummified.

Phil woke up to the WHUMP of me falling off the bed, but when he looked over to see what happened, I was gone. At that point, he turned on the lamp and saw one of my arms sticking up helplessly. Then he heard my pitiful cry of "Help me!" (Remember the part in "The Emperor's New Groove" when Kuzco sees the bug trapped in a spiderweb? That's how I sounded. "Help me! Heeeelp meeeeeeee!" But without the spider.)

With much effort on his part, Phil was able to pull me out of my predicament. He didn't even laugh at me. (Bless you, sweetie.) I explained what happened and why I was trying to move away from him as I slept. He felt so bad about it that he told me I could sleep as close to him as I wanted, just so I wouldn't fall off the bed again.

It didn't take long, however, for the cry "Help me!" with an accompanying feeble arm wave to become the family joke. Thanks, Phil.

Feeling Gloopy

Note to reader: Go get some cheese. You'll need some with the whine that follows. Or, perhaps, a raincoat would be helpful for the verbal vomit that will be spewing forth.


I just read CJane's latest post on Segullah. I love CJane, and I love reading her posts. Sadly, she is taking a one-month hiatus from her blog. And I completely understand.

You see, I, too, am feeling gloopy. I had a great weekend planned for the holiday, and then I had to cancel everything. This is what happened:

On Wednesday, while cleaning my sister's house in preparation for our book group on Thursday, I got a call from the school. My second son, S, whispered into the phone, "Mom, my teacher said that I'm coughing and that I have a high fever. Can you come get me?"

I hurried son number three into coat, socks, and shoes (which is a great feat, let me tell you) and headed over to rescue my sick child. I found S in the office looking very wilted. I was confused--he was perfectly fine when I sent him off to school that morning. But, at some point during the day, he experienced an immediate onset of violent chills and a high fever.

Sure enough, the thermometer confirmed that he had a fever. No coughing--just fever. We dosed him up on ibuprofen and catered to his needs. Later, during the middle of the night, S threw up. Lovely. At least he got all of it in the barf bowl that Phil sent to bed with him. Of course, I was the one who got up with him and cleaned everything up.

Thursday, Phil took S to the doctor. We worried about spinal meningitis because of his complaints of neck pain. Thankfully, it wasn't that. He was diagnosed with influenza. (sigh) So much for those flu shots we all got last fall. But then things got worse. He developed severe ear pain. You have to understand that all of my sons have a high tolerance for pain. So when S came into my room in the middle of the night sobbing uncontrollably because his ear hurt, I knew something was seriously wrong. Of course, I'm the one who got up to calm, comfort, and dose up.

Back to the doctor on Saturday. Sure enough--an ear infection. Likely a burst eardrum, given the nasty stuff oozing out of his ear. That started the weekend out nicely. (Have you ever tried to stay on top of ear pain with OTC pain meds? It doesn't work well.)

I went to bed Saturday night after staying up to prepare my Sunday lesson for the Young Women, still hoping that we might still make our plans to play with friends on Monday. Hah. I had to get up again with S to help him with his ear. He wanted to sleep in our bed. Normally, I'd say no, but it was easier to help him that way.

After a restless night, I woke up Sunday morning with a full-blown cold. So much for a fun weekend with friends. I made it through the day and slept soundly Sunday night. (Phil told S to come get him during the night if he needed something.) Lucky for Phil, there were no nighttime wakings.

I spent all day yesterday trying to keep peace between three bored boys, the oldest of which thinks making little brothers cry is an Olympic sport that he intends to qualify for. In between mediation attempts, I tried to nap and rest my weary body. (Have you ever tried to nap with a three-year-old child? They think poking their fingers up your nose every time your eyes close is great fun. He kept telling me, "You not tired, Mommy. I say no, you not tired!")

On top of all that, S went around all day with a tissue stuck in his ear to soak up all the drainage. Dis-gus-ting. Can't send him back to school like that, even if his fever is gone and he's racing around like a banshee.

Thankfully, my dear friend and neighbor, with whom we were supposed to play, called to tell me she was making me dinner. It was nourishing, both body and soul, and it lifted my spirits. Thanks, Katie! (You've never tasted caramel brownies like hers. They are to die for.) I felt loved and blessed.

However, after a mostly sleepless night last night, I am feeling gloopy today. Maybe I'll follow CJane's lead and take a month-long hiatus. Then again, maybe I just need a day or two off to recharge my batteries.

I think I'll start with a shower.

The Faith of a Child

My 7-year-old has set a goal to read the Book of Mormon this year before his 8th birthday.

I set up a simple reading schedule for him and started in on Monday night. On Tuesday night, as we were reading 1 Nephi 2:16-17, we got talking about how he can know if the Book of Mormon is true. I explained Moroni's promise and we discussed what it feels like when the Holy Ghost tells us that something is true. I told him that when the Spirit speaks to us, we feel warm and happy inside and we might even have "happy tears."

He got very concerned and asked, "But Mom, what if it's not true?"

I answered, "Well, then you'll feel confused and dark and cold inside. But I can tell you for myself that I know it's true."

I kissed him goodnight and tucked him in.

The following morning, he came into my room where I was reading my own scriptures. He snuggled up to me in bed with his Book of Mormon in hand and said, "Mom! Guess what?"

"What?"

"Guess what! I did just like you said last night, and guess what?"

"What?"

"Well, I prayed just like you said and I felt that warm touch inside!"








...and a little child shall lead them.

Tell Me A Story

We had a great Christmas this year. Phil and I requested unusual gifts from my dad. Here's what we got:



Yes, those are wooden canes. My dad makes them for people who need them. He loves it. We think they're awesome. So awesome, in fact, that we decided we needed some for us before Dad gets so old he can't make them any more. Who wouldn't love to have a cane their dad made for them?




We spent a lot of time with my family over the weekend. Family gatherings for us usually involve lots of food. At Christmas, we have lots and lots of eggnog, mixed with Sprite to thin it out a bit, and cookies. This year, Mom made gumdrop bread (not fruitcake), which is not my favorite, gingerbread cookies, which I love, and my great grandmother's Scottish shortbread cookies, which are my favorite. I ate far too much, but that's the norm around these parts. (I call your attention to the matronly pooch protruding in my picture. So much for sucking in my gut. It scares me that I look so much like my brothers.)

I noticed something this weekend about my family. We love to tell stories. My whole life has been filled with stories. I thought it was normal--that every family did this. My future sister-in-law, who hasn't posted in over a year (ahem), informs me that this is not so. Her family gets together and picks on each other. She tells me that our storytelling is one of the things she noticed right off.

Does this mean I am a spinner of tales? A weaver of subtle yet complicated plots? Do I come from a long line of verbal magicians? Hardly. Our stories are probably not worth publishing. But we love to tell them. And we love to laugh. Because the stories are always funny--to us at least.


There's the one about my Grandma A., who beat up a boy several years older than she when he was teasing the little boy who lived with her and her family at the time. Years later, he still remembered her, although she had forgotten the incident.



There's the one about my mom, who, at a tender age, caught an entire bucketful of mice and brought them proudly into a houseful of Relief Society sisters to show her mother. She tripped on something and the bucket spilled. Amid the screams and squeals as the women jumped onto the furniture, the frightened mice ran back into the only thing familiar to them: the bucket. Mom returned the mice to the great outdoors, and Grandma B. eventually forgave her.



Another time, my mom poked a stick through a hole on the back of the outhouse. Grandpa B. got a bit of a surprise when his danglies got prodded. He came roaring out of the building and chased my mom all over the ranch until he caught her. She got a right good spanking.



And then there was the time my dad and his friends put a huge pile of autumn leaves on a neighbor's porch. They rang the doorbell and ran to hide in the ditch. Unfortunately for them, another young man saw what happened. When the neighbor opened the door and the leaves blew into the house, the young man said, "You'll find the boys who did that hiding in the ditch over there." The neighbor came after them. For the first time in his life, Dad ran faster than any of the other boys. He never got caught.



Dad's love for practical jokes is legendary. He once trapped some students, who had been sneaking into the Dixon Junior High gym to play during lunch, in the piano box that was their hiding place. He and the gym teacher nailed the box to the stage floor after the knew the kids were inside. (Don't worry--they drilled breathing holes.) The boys were let out after lunch was over.



One junior high student kept sneaking up into the school attic. So Dad and Max Mitchell nailed the attic door shut. When a very worried mother called about an hour or two after school had ended, she was informed that her son was trespassing in the school attic and would be let out as soon as she arrived to collect him. Now that's creative discipline. Of course, Dad couldn't do that now, even though he never laid a hand on the students.



Dad and his fellow teachers had lots of fun sending students around to each other looking for an umbilical cord for the "broken" projector. Conversations went something like this:

Gullible student: "Mr. Mitchell, Mr. A says he needs an umbilical cord. Do you have one he could borrow?"

Mr. Mitchell: "Hmmm. Well, I used to have one, but I don't have it any more. Why don't you go ask Mr. Stanley?"

After getting similar responses from other teachers, the student would return unsuccessful. They were told, "That's okay. We'll try to make do with this one instead," and out came the electrical cord. (These same teachers used to send kids to the nearby grocery store looking for Traffic Jam.)



Of course my sister has tons of good stories from all her years working as a nurse. There are the weird names she writes down (Permalua is one of my favorites), the clever comebacks to rude patients, and the hilarious stories of patients, physicians, and coworkers. (Her friend once told a doctor, who had recently permed his hair, "Hey, Dr. So-and so! Nice pubic hair transplant!")



And then there are my brothers. All five of them know how to tell a good tale. There's Lessel Peeper, who tells of his days in Primary and the time Dad taught him about feminine hygiene products. Then there's Nihao, who tells of life with braces and things of mystery. These are the only two who are "online." The other three could tell tales all night long and still not be finished: tales of things they did as kids that Mom never knew about; jokes they've heard; things their own kids have done.



As for me? Y'all can make your own judgements about my abilities as a storyteller. But even if I'm not that great, I still love to tell a good tale.

I can't wait to be seventy just so I can tell people how my dad made my cane. I can just see it:

"Oh, really? Could he make me one too?"

"What are you willing to do to get one?"

"I'll do anything. That's a really awesome cane."

"Then I guess you'll have to die."






Dad will get a kick out of that one, I'm sure. He loves that kind of stuff.

Pug Bowling

I don't know why I found this so funny, but I did.

Start 'em young!

My 3-year-old was digging around in his brothers' room and found something to play with. Wanna see what he found?

































































Isn't he cute?

Only 13 Days Left until Christmas!

And wouldn't this be perfect for the Pottymouth?



Not that I'm hinting or anything.



(hint hint hint hint)

Date Night Fun

Wanna see what we did for date night? No, it's nothing R-rated. Get your mind out of the gutter and check out the movie clips at this website.




And remember, kids. Don't try these at home. Not even if you are a professional engineer.

My Chemosensory Expert

I think my second son is going to grow up to be a chemosensory expert. His nose rivals Lorien's. This is what he told me the other day:

"Mom, sometimes when T has a stinky diaper it smells like chicken nuggets."

Perhaps someone should tell the makers of chicken nuggets that their food smells like sh**.

Shoes Baffle Me

Yes, you read that right. Shoes baffle me. Don't get me wrong--I love shoes. The more comfy, the better. And if I don't have to tie or buckle or lace them? Perfect. But there is one thing I don't understand.



Why do I see stray shoes on the road?



And it's never a pair of them. I realize that shoes can come off a person's feet in tragic auto-pedestrian accidents, but I'm pretty sure the officers on the scene clean those up. I'm talking about the single shoes you see in the middle of or off to the side of the road. Where do those come from?

I've always assumed that those lonely shoes are the casualty of a move. You've seen the college students with their little hatchbacks stuffed to overflowing with all their belongings. They're bound to lose something on their way to independence, finals, and rent payments. Or maybe the shoe has been thrown out the window by a child having a tantrum. I could see that. It's even possible that someone intended to be the first to create one of these and had poor aim.

But don't people notice that something has fallen out of their car? What do they do when they unpack or arrive at their destination and realize they or their child no longer have a complete pair of shoes? Would it bother them enough that they'd retrace their route to find the errant shoe? I can see myself doing that.

Missing things bug the crap out of me. I can't stand it. The thought of losing a single shoe would be enough to put me in the funny farm. Losing a sock in the wash is cause for a near nervous breakdown. I will hunt feverishly to figure out where that sock has disappeared. I just like to have paired things in pairs. Call me compulsive or obsessive, but that's the way I am.

Enter my three sons. Fortunately for my sanity, I no longer count every Lego block as it goes back into its container to make sure all are accounted for. I gave that up when son #2 got past the Duplo stage. I still do it with the Duplo Primo container because hey--20 pieces of huge Legos aren't that hard to keep track of. I had to give up keeping track of all the Matchbox/Hotwheels cars, though. I swear those things multiply in the dark when left unattended.

When it comes to keeping track of stuff, my sons are horrible. This is annoying to me. I can tell them exactly where their stuff is. I can give them specific directions to find something that is in plain site on top of their dresser. They go to find it and come back in less than a minute, claiming that "it wasn't there." Drives me nuts. I walk them back in the exact location and, lo and behold, there it is. Exactly where I said it was. I would like to assume that it's a boy thing, since I have no experience yet with daughters. However, I'm forced to be realistic and admit that it's a personality thing.

I don't know why I am anal retentive in this way. I don't remember not being this way. I could find any one of my toys as a child because I knew exactly where they all were. And it wasn't because I was a particularly neat and organized child. My dad used to tease me about bringing in the garden tiller to clean my room because there were so many piles. But I knew what was in each pile and could find what I wanted when I wanted it. I'm weird that way.

So can anyone explain to me the mystery of roadside footwear? Has anyone actually lost a shoe this way? C'mon. Enlighten me. I really need to know.

In the meantime, if you'll excuse me, I need to find my husband's missing sock.

Which Sports Car Are You?

I'm a Mazda RX-8!

You're sporty, yet practical, and you have a style of your own. You like to have fun, and you like to bring friends along for the ride, but when it comes time for everyday chores, you're willing to do your part.

Take the Which Sports Car Are You? quiz.

Arrrgh!

This is stupid. I can pull up any blog except my own. I am so annoyed! And the only way I got to the dashboard to post this was through my husband's family blog. I can't tell if it's my computer or if it's Blogger, but it's driving me insane.


Hmmmmm....do you think maybe I have an addiction to blogging????? (gasp)

Things that made me smile

I've been sick with a cold this weekend. I hate being sick, but it was a good excuse to take lots of naps and stay in my pajamas for two days. In spite of the misery, I did find some things that made me smile yesterday.


1. My seven-year-old whispering forcefully in my ear, "You're the best mom in the whole world!"


2. A bonus nap yesterday, courtesy of Phil who took our food assignment and the kids over to my parents house while I had a quick snooze.


3. My ten-year-old volunteering to go to bed early because he felt like he was catching a cold. (This is a really big thing for him. He'll use any technique he can think of to postpone bedtime.)


4. My three-year-old snuggling into the crook of my arm to watch "The Restoration" video done by the church. It's his favorite thing to watch.


5. The belly rolling laughter of my sons, husband, and (gasp) 74-year-old mother that came as a result of my dad letting one rrrrrrip yesterday while standing at the desk. No one gets in touch with their "inner voice" quite like my dad.



Here's to a good week ahead.

Entitled: What I Want for Christmas

What I want for Christmas is a Red Ryder BB gun that has a thing that tells time ...






Just kidding.






This is what I want for Christmas. It would be perfect to wear to Girls' Camp.



This is what I would give Nihao for Christmas, if I could.



This is what I'd love to get Phil for Christmas, if he'd actually wear it.



Compulsive Writer needs this to go with her favorite book.



I think Lo Down needs this when she's having one of these moments. Or maybe this.



All mothers need this. Especially when children are teenagers.



Eating Paste definitely needs this. But, then, he also needs this after a meal at El Azteca. Or this.



This is a must-have for The Jolly Porter or Oh, Judy.



I could get this for certain members of my family.



My son needs this. The other day, my sister told him he had Dorothy Hamill hair.






Who'da thunk I'd like silly T-shirts with things written on them? I'm the poster child for "What Not to Wear."




At least I can't shoot my eye out with a shirt.

Wordsmithing

As requested by TMM, I will now attempt to write something insightful about the following words: incredible, printer, Mommy, and rose.

1. Incredible (adj.) Looking at the word parts, it should mean something not believable or credible. Most people choose to use it to mean something amazing or awe-inspiring. In my opinion, Bill Clinton fits the first definition. As for the second definition, well, I know lots of things/people/places that inspire awe and amazement. Music--really good music--can break through the darkness of depression and make me feel things that I haven't felt in months. That's incredible to me. My husband, who has to live with chronic pain, is an incredible person. My boys, who are way too smart for me, are incredible. The mountains, especially in the fall, are incredible. Catalina Island, specifically Avalon, is an incredible place for me.

2. Printer (n.) Mine sits to the right of my monitor. It is a black & white laser printer, which means I don't yet live in a modern world where I can print my own color photos. But it's a good little printer that has served me well. It's especially good for stacking papers that I mean to take care of eventually. It's so nice and warm up there that the papers stay for a long time. I would too, if I could.

3. Mommy (n.) That's what my kids call me until they are about 4 years old or so. Then I become "Mom." I work at home, but I don't get paid money for what I do. If I did get paid, I think I'd be rich. Anyone who has to expose themselves to raw sewage (albeit contained, hopefully) several times daily ought to be paid really well.

4. Rose (v., adj., n.) That's what the sun did this morning. When it sets, it turns the sky I can see outside my living room window that color. And it's one of my favorite flowers. I like the fire and ice variety. If you're into flowery names, I suppose you could go with Rose for a girl. I don't think a boy would appreciate it much. I'm fascinated by the meanings that people attach to the colors of the flower.


Okay, now it's your turn. Your words are creek (pronounced "crick" if you're from Utah), orange, nauseous (not nauseated--there is a difference), and server. And I tag compulsive, Lorien, Eating Paste, and anyone else who wants to play.

Slump Broken

As requested by Becks and the ladies at ~j's baby shower last Saturday, here is my embarrassing story. (Does it count if I wasn't actually present to witness the event?)




When I was younger, my older brothers used to say that my dad should make me a hope chest because I was still hoping for one. They also used to tease me about having mosquito bites and bee stings. My older sister K, on the other hand, is taller and heavier than I am, and, as such, is more "endowed" than I up top. This brings me to my story.




Several years ago, when my son A was probably 3 years old, he went on a sleepover to K's house. He walked in on her getting dressed. She covered herself up quickly, but not before A noticed her "giftedness." Conversation ensued:

A: "What are those?"

K: "Those are breasts."

A: "Oh."





. . . very long pause while the gears turn in A's head . . .










A: "My mom doesn't have any of those."