Just a Flesh Wound

As requested, here are some "after" pictures:


That steri strip is driving me bonkers!

But not as much as the rash from the dressing adhesive. This is the biggest patch of it (about as long as my hand and three fingers wide):


I told them I had a tape allergy. (And no, that is not boobage showing. It's my left shoulder, thankyouverymuch.)


On a tangent, here is what Sweet Boy and Too (Mr. Wiggle Brows) were doing tonight with a blanket.


Upon emerging from the cocoon, I asked Too (Mr. Wiggle Brows) if he was now a butterfly.

"No. I'm a biskeeto!"

Falling among Cutthroats

Notice my lovely, scar-free neck:


(Yes, I know--there are wrinkles and a double chin.) Sadly, today is the last day that my neck will ever look this way again. Tomorrow I fall among cutthroats to have part (or possibly all) of my thyroid removed. (See what a haute nodule will get you?)


I'm not sure how I feel about the whole thing. The only other surgery I've ever had was a C-section, which really wasn't that bad. I wonder how many jokes I can make about the surgery and the resulting scar?

On a lighter note, Phil has requested that I use nicknames for the kids instead of just initials. You might have noticed them on the sidebar. I'm still toying with a couple of them, but Atticus is definitely a keeper. Sweet Boy could also be Lego Lover. Too might be too confusing, but I haven't come up with an alternative. And I may shorten J Boo to just Boo. Who knows?

I'm sure the anesthesia tomorrow and the subsequent pain meds should enhance my creativity.

I Believe in Autonomy

This is what T-- chose to wear today.





I know I'm fashion challenged, but I had hoped my children would have slightly better fashion sense. Then again, I'm not this bad.

Giving Pause

A couple of Sundays ago, T-- decided to bring Tootie Fruities (or "Fruitie Tooties," as he calls them) to church for his "snack." In the middle of sacrament meeting, T-- started rubbing one of the cereal pieces all over his face and then tried to rub one on my face as well. I couldn't figure out what he was trying to do. Then he leaned up to my ear and whispered, "Smew my face, Mom!" Um, what? He repeated it. Ohhhh...SMELL my face. Ah. Got it. "Okay," I said, still a bit confused, and sniffed his cheek. "Does it smew wike Fruitie Tooties?" And, lo and behold, it did! Do they make Tootie Fruitie cologne for 5-year-old boys? Because T-- would be all over it.


Last night, about half an hour after A-- was supposed to be in bed, he comes running out of his room, all excited. "MOM! MOM! LOOK!!!! I solved it!" He had a Rubik's cube, completely solved. He'd been reading a book that Phil gave him on how to solve the cube (without taking it apart, which is how I always solved them) and he got it! I was so impressed! I never could figure those things out. Even more proof that A-- is waaaaay too smart for his own good (or, rather, for my own sanity). What a great kid.


During one of his violin lessons a few years ago, S-- came across a fermata. He got all excited and said, "Oh! I know what that is!! It's a one-eyed penguin!" To that point, I'd never really seen his teacher laugh much (she's very shy), but she was nearly weeping with mirth that day. It made my whole week. And every time I see a fermata, I will think of S-- and his sense of humor.


All these things remind me that I need to pause occasionally and just enjoy my children for who they are, to really live in the moment and love what is happening now, rather than hope for better times to come. Even if these things aren't "funny" to someone else, they made me laugh. I need to do that more often.

On that note, what better person to remind us to embrace the moment than Nie Nie? Go bid on some sweet stuff in preparation for the benefit concert for her family.

Must Be Genetic Part 2

I had to look back in my archives to make sure I hadn't already told these stories in this post. Fortunately, they weren't there, so we're clear.


Several years back, my mother's side of the family had a reunion in Star Valley, Wyoming, where my grandparents raised all of their children. My Uncle Lloyd was, at the time, still running the ranch. My mom decided she wanted to take some of her grandchildren out for a tour of the ranch. While walking along, pointing out the sites, Mom said, "See those animals over there? Those are boy cows. You call them bulls. Now, see these things on the ground? These are called little bullsh!ts."




When my sister was about 3 years old, Dad overheard her expressing her frustrations over a broken doll thus: "Hells bells, Matilda! Can't you fix this?"

Dad asked, "Now where in the world did she learn that kind of language, Leah?"

Mom was curiously silent as she washed up the dishes....



And one of my own, that I know I've told many of you already:

When A-- was about 2 or so, Phil was called to be a Ward Clerk in our church. He needed to be set apart, which they wanted to do in a very tiny office in the building. After our church meetings ended, we went to the designated room. Phil and the two men who were assigned to set him apart took their places. I sat on a chair, holding A-- in my lap. During the middle of the process, right when things were quiet, A-- dropped his sippy cup. Imagine my horror when he said, "THHHit! Thit, thit, thit!" (He had a lisp.)

I quickly revised my at-home vocabulary. But A-- had (still does) a long memory for things we don't want him to recall, and the next time I dropped something at home and said "shoot," A-- piped up and said, "Mommy, you uthed to thay thit! But now you thay thoot!" Yes, thank you, son, for remembering my faults and shortcomings. Lovely.



And now you know the rest of the story...or at least parts of it.

Must Be Genetic

I took my mom shopping for a couple of hours today. While in the car, she asked if she had ever told me the milking story about her grandparents. It wasn't one I could recall, so I asked her to repeat it.

Not long after her grandparents were married, they were out in the barn. Feisty little Grandma had just finished milking the cow when the cow kicked the bucket over and spilled all the milk. She was pretty upset and said, "Why, you dirty bit@#!"

Grandpa, who was very mild-mannered and kind, replied, "Now there, Hattie, I thought you knew the difference between a cow and a dog!"

Putting the Drag in Dragon

T-- got a Christmas gift from his friend. It was one of those fizzy egg things that dissolved to reveal a little toy dragon. T-- was so excited! We got the warm water ready in a bowl and dropped the egg in. The fizzing brought excitement (on T--'s part) but also added the smell of cheap soap to the air. Ugh.

Eventually, the dragon was revealed. I rinsed off the nasty soap stuff and started putting the wings and tail on. As I looked at the dragon legs, I said, "Wait a minute. They put a back leg on as a front leg. This can't possibly be right!"


Then I took another look. And another. And I suddenly realized that I was holding Puff the effeminate dragon. Yes, our dragon was a drag queen.



Awesome.

Fashion Fil

About a week and a half ago, Phil (or Fil, as he refers to himself) came home from work all excited about something. He told me that one of the IT guys at work had announced that the next day was going to be Dress Like Fil Day, complete with contest, and would I be willing to come down and be the judge?


Of course, I said "yes."


How could I resist? You see, Phil would make a great candidate for TLC's What Not to Wear. Stacy and Clinton would have a heyday if they saw his side of the closet. His clothes take up more space than mine do. But his daily wardrobe consists of three main staples: cargo pants, rugby/polo shirts, or long sleeved sweaters with a single horizontal stripe across the chest. A button-up shirt? Only under duress or on Sundays with a tie. (Thankfully, he doesn't wear the cargo pants to church.) Argyle sweater? Not on your life. Scary (sorry honey) sweaters from the 80s? Definitely, but only to company parties or to a really "nice" function.

Ten years ago, one of our neighbors said Phil reminded her of Steve from Blues Clues. I had no idea who she was talking about. We didn't have cable, and A-- was too small to know about Blue, so I bought a video tape of Blues Clues just so I would know who "Steve" was and what he dressed like. Our neighbor was spot on: Phil dressed just like Steve. Ten years later, he still does.




Wanna see the pictures? Of course you do.



Notice the ziplock baggie duct taped to the middle guy's pants because he doesn't own a pair of cargo pants. That's creativity, friends.




Can you tell they're all a bunch of enginerds/computer geeks? Uh-huh.


Phil is the one in the front, kneeling. The other three were the winners for the three categories: Best Dressed (clothes matched most closely with what Fil would wear), Most Articulate (best Fil impression), and Next GQ Model (best Fil pose).


It was awesome. And Phil was a great sport. Actually, he was more like a very enthusiastic sport about making fun of himself...one of the things I love best about him. What a guy!

One of the BEST Santa letters...

This is S's letter to Santa for this year (written at school), errors and all:


Dear Santa,

Thank you for last years Skippyjon Jones book, How to draw dragons and other fantasie creatures, and the lego dumpster. I really liked the dumpster I could turn a knobs on it to make it dump, raise, and turn the machine. For this years presents I want a vulcan ebf-25 dart gun, a star wars plug'n play game, and a hypersonic operations aircraft legoset.

First, I want the vulcan eBF-25 because it can shoot very far and has a stand so you do'n't have to hold the heavy dart gun. It can shoot 3 darts per second! I can also hold it against my chest and shoot it It comes with like 60 darts.

Also, I want the star wars video game because I can bring it around to my friend's house and other houses like my relatives. The plun'n play video game would improve my eyesight and my relfexes.

In addition, I want the Mt61-hypersonic aircraft becauswe It has a quick-deployment platform, Flying ailien reserch center and twin-Attack cruisers. It would improve my building skill, imagination and my love of fiction.

I deserve all these things because they would improve my skill, eye-focus, imagination, building skill, reflexes, and self-defence. I also deserve these things because I would share these things with my family and friends.

To conclude, I would really like to have the vulcan ebf-25 The star wars the clone wars game and the Mt-61 hiper-sonic aircraft this year for christ-mas. can I have these three presents this year? Have a merry christmas!

Sincerely,
S

My Point Exactly!

Overheard tonight at my parents' house:

S to A: You contradict everything I say!

A to S (in a very snotty voice): No I don't!

Hubby Tag

Because I aim to please...

What is your husband’s name? Phil

How long did you date? 5 months dating, 4 and 1/2 months engaged. But my dad knew him longer than I did (Dad picked him out for me when I was in 8th grade. We didn't meet until I was 20. Long story.)

How old is he? 40

Who eats sweets? Both of us.

Who said I love you first? Um...I think I might have, but I can't remember. I do remember almost introducing him to my former seminary teacher as "my fiance" on our first date. Luckily, it came out as "my ffffriend." I knew before I met him that something was different about him and that it would be significant.

Who is taller? Definitely him.

Who can sing better? I do. But, thankfully, he can at least carry a tune. One of the best times I ever had was telling him that I had told the music person in our ward that we would sing a duet. He nearly keeled over until I told him I was joking. But I had him going for a while.

Who is smarter? We are both smart, but he remembers more of the fun math than I do, since he actually uses it every day. We were both Engineering majors, but then I switched to English, which is what I got my degree in. However, I was one class shy of a Math minor. Go figure. He's a damn good tech writer, though.

Who does the laundry? Me. All of it. If he ever decides to "help," he'll wash, dry, and put the whole mess in a mountain on the bed for me to fold later. He will not fold. So I'd rather do it all myself and fold as the clothes come out of the dryer.

Who pays the bills? Me

Who sleeps on the right side of the bed? He does. But I used to.

Who mows the lawn? He used to, but I took over so he could spend more time on the basement. (And in case you are wondering, no, it didn't mean more basement time for him. It meant more yardwork for me.)

Who cooks dinner? Me. In the old days, he would cook on Sunday to give me a break. Those days are long since gone. Kinda sad, now that I think about it.

Who drives? When we are in the same vehicle, usually he does, but not always.

Who is the first to admit they are wrong? I am...because I detest confrontation. He's more that willing to admit fault, however, when he's wrong. I just do it first because I want to get it over with.

Who kissed who first? He kissed me first. But he took his own sweet time about it.

Who asked who out first? Well, neither one, actually. My parents arranged our first date. (We doubled with them. Really. And it was fun.) After that, he asked me out.

Who wears the pants? We both do. I hate wearing dresses and skirts. Very butch of me, I know. Maybe that's why I also have super short hair? Dunno. I've never explored that part of my personality.

Friends who should do this: Anyone who wants to. No pressure.

Snort-Worthy Words

I went to parent-student-teacher conferences today with A--. He's an excellent student with a few predictable concerns. His math teacher said that although he's very smart, her only concern is that he never stops talking. And while A-- can talk and learn at the same time (how?), others around him cannot. In contrast, A--'s choir teacher praised his lack of conversation with a boy who constantly talks to A-- during class. I was, frankly, shocked to hear this. A-- is the child who never stops talking at home. Never. Taking him shopping is a mind-numbing experience because the questions come, literally, about twenty a minute. He can't even stop long enough to hear my answers.


On our way home, I quizzed A-- about his behavior. He assured me that he doesn't talk when his math teacher is talking, which is good because, as he said, "Even I have to listen to figure out how to do that stuff." When I asked him why he doesn't talk during choir, his response nearly caused me to bite my tongue off trying not to laugh out loud....


"Well, I have to use my mouth for other things during choir. It's too busy to talk."

Getting her land legs

"Hmmm....I wonder what's in here?"


"Maybe if I move my knees a bit closer..."


"And closer...."


"Whoah, now! That's different..."


And...she's UP!


And getting better every day.


I'm so not ready for this. (sniff)

Conversations at My House

Seriously folks, this just happened. I typed it as I witnessed it, so my apologies if it feels disjointed. I know I missed a couple of things because, hey, I can't type that fast anymore.



S: {sigh}........{siiiiigh}

Me: What's wrong?

S: A-- won't let me play with J--. {sigh}

Me: Why?

S: Because he says my jobs aren't done. That I can't play with her until my jobs are done.

T: Yeah, he's trying to be in charge, and he's not in charge. Mooooom, A-- is eating crackers on the chair!

[We don't allow food in the living room.]

Me: A--, no food in the living room. And you are not in charge. [He hears this phrase hundreds of times every day, literally.]

T: Mooooom, come and see. He's still doing it.

A: But look how I'm doing it. I'm not making a mess!

Me: [Seeing that he's holding the bowl of crackers clear up to his chin] Food stays in the kitchen. You get greasy fingers on the chairs when you do that.

[no response from A--]

T: I want to watch Curious George!

A: No. I picked this show.

T: But I want to watch Curious Geoooooooorge! [bursts into tears]

then....

T: I want to turn the TV this way.

A: No. I'm the one that chose the channel, I'm the one who's watching it, so I get to decide. I'm the only one who gets to watch because I chose the show.

Me: No, you don't. As long as you're eating, you have to stay in the kitchen, so the TV gets turned towards the kitchen. And everyone gets to watch.

S: [from the bathroom] So when it's movie night and you don't pick the show then you don't get to watch, A--.

A [yelling]: Guess what, S--? You're not in charge! So shush!!!

Me: [thinking, not saying] Now that's the kettle calling the pot black.

S-- comes back and he and A-- then engage in a viewing battle wherein both of them sway back and forth like pendulums, A-- in front of S-- and telling S-- that he can't watch because his jobs aren't done. Now who's trying to be in charge and play police?

A to S: I'm going to tell your friends that you watch Curious George.

S: [yelling] A--!!!! Please stop! Please don't tell them that I watch Curious George. It wouldn't be nice.

A: [in that snotty voice] So? I'm going to tell them anyway. Go get your jobs done.


Any wonder why I lose my patience by the end of the day?

The Cutest Spooks

Want to see some cute spooks?




Here's my virus-free E Male, A--. See those awesome braces? (No comments from the peanut section, please, about the condition of his shirt. I swear it was clean when he left the house this morning.)



And our resident Death Eater, S--, striking his most fearsome poses, complete with shop-made wand and staff:



We can't forget our traditional ghost, T--, who made sure everyone knew he was "a stary dhost" (scary ghost) as opposed to a nice one.



Little J-- charmed everyone, of course. (Who wouldn't be charmed by such a cute cat with that cheesy grin?)





And, last but not least....Where's Waldo?




See him? No? Hmmm. Look harder....







Why, he's hiding right there behind that cat. See the one whose ears are being forced straight out by her headband thingy? (Um...not my favorite look for her.)


Hope your Halloween was safe and happy!

One of these things is not like the other...

One of these things just isn't the same:



This van was in the parking lot at the fiddle contest.






Yeah, I thought so too.

Getting all misty over...

My twelve-year-old son reciting (from memory) this Robert Frost poem:

The Road Not Taken

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.


I spent the rest of the drive back home (he recited it for me while I drove him to school) thinking about the roads he will have to choose between in the future, praying that his choice will make all the difference, and feeling blessed that I have such a great son.

Potty Training and Poetic Justice

Last night I was at my parents' house, hanging out with the girls and the kids. My sister came out of the bathroom, complaining about the mess that one of our nephews had left in there. The offender's mother rolled her eyes and apologized. "He has the job of cleaning the toilets at home for that very reason. His dad calls him 'The Rainbird.'"

So my sister mentioned that I had taught my sons to sit down from the moment they began potty-training. Yes, it's true. My sons belong to the Secret Sitter's Club, as does their father. And he was taught that very valuable skill by his mother, who would listen outside the bathroom door and tell her husband and sons to please sit down because she could hear that they were standing up. (She would also notice when someone had spent extra time in the bathroom and then serve peaches for dinner. I tell you, it was a long time after Phil told me about this before I could comfortably use the bathroom at my in-law's house.)

After explaining that background to my SIL, I told about the time my MIL, Gert, was watching A-- for me at her house. He was about 3 and 1/2 or so and was potty trained. I went to pick him up and had to wait longer than usual for Gert to open the door. When she finally did, she was wearing her yellow rubber gloves. She apologized profusely for making me wait.

"I'm sorry it took me so long. I was in the bathroom, cleaning."

Then she said something that shocked me, because she is such a prim and proper lady.



"I am so glad you have taught your son to go to the bathroom properly! I am sick and tired of cleaning pee off the walls and floor around the toilets!"



Apparently, Phil's brother, who was visiting with his children (four of whom are boys), didn't pass along the Secret Sitter's Secret. He had brought along a fleet of his own "Rainbirds."




I have laughed long and hard at that story for many years, feeling pleased that my sons haven't created really horrendous messes in the bathroom for me to clean up.


Enter: Poetic Justice.




As I was finishing my story, I heard T-- calling from the bathroom: "MOOOoooooom, I needa WIIIiiiiipe!" My sister offered to help him, but he adamantly refused. I guess I was the only one he would allow into the inner sanctum.

I went into the bathroom, took one look at him, and thought (thought, not said, I'm careful around my kids), "Oh sh*#!" Literally. It was all over the seat, down into his underbunders, and all over one of his hands. He took one look at my face and started to cry. I reassured him that it was okay, just an accident, and we'd get it all cleaned up.



By the end of it, I'd thrown away said pair of underwear, put said child into the tub, disinfected said toilet, and run home and back for clean clothes and kid-friendly shampoo.






I feel humbled.

But if I cannot

A few weeks ago, I took my oldest two sons, A-- and S--, to watch my dear friend's daughter compete in the Special Olympics. It was an amazing experience for me. I spent most of the time we were there wiping away tears. Who knew you could feel the Spirit at a sporting event?

As we watched these incredible souls compete, S-- started to ask questions. "Why is that person so excited even though they didn't win? Why did that man keep swimming, even though everyone else was done a long time ago?" So I told him (or tried to, through my tears) about the Special Olympics Athlete Oath: Let me win. But if I cannot win, let me be brave in the attempt.

Fast forward to this past weekend. S-- and A-- both competed in the Utah State Fiddle Contest. S-- was one of maybe 15 children in the Small Fry division playing fiddle; A-- was one of three in the Junior Guitar division playing, well, guitar of course. I was proud of both of them for even getting up there--neither one has ever played in a contest, and only S-- has played in public before (once). In spite of a few relatively minor mistakes, they both played quite well. Nothing spectacular, but nothing horrible either.




When it came time to announce the winners for the Small Fry division, they had all the children come up on stage. They handed out Certificates of Participation to every child until they got to the last four. S-- was one of the last four. They handed out the 3rd place trophy (not to S--). the 2nd place trophy (again, not to S--), and finally the 1st place trophy (still, not to S--), and told the kids that was it. S-- stood there completely bewildered. I could read his thoughts (and his quickly crumpling face): "Do I stay up here because they didn't give me anything? Do I get something special? I don't know what to do." I watched him fight so hard not to cry and I felt helpless. Thankfully, someone in the audience yelled out, "HEY! You forgot one! The boy in the red shirt!" So the officiators checked their hands and, sure enough, there was S--'s certificate. All they said was, "Oh. Oops, I guess we forgot one."

I was livid.

S-- came back to his seat next to me and spent the next hour and a half (at least) sobbing quietly into my shoulder. This is the boy who came home crying from his very first Pack Meeting because not one person acknowledged him as being a brand new Cub Scout. Other boys were brought to the front and introduced as new Cubs, but not S--. He didn't want to ever go back. I couldn't blame him. It took a lot of gentle persuasion to get him to agree to even attend another Pack Meeting, let alone participate. Given that background, and after all he's been through in the last year or so, I just knew that S-- would never, ever want to compete in another contest again, no matter how good he gets.

We had to fill out a survey about our contest experience. The first question was, "What did you like about this experience?" S--'s answer was, "Nothing." Then, at the bottom of the survey, was the question, "Will you participate again next year?" I expected he'd say, "No, never again." But he didn't. My brave little boy bounced back. His answer? "Maybe." I was never so proud of him as I was in that moment. (Well, except for when he was standing alone on that stage, trying not to cry.)

I thought back to our experience just a few short weeks ago and remembered telling S-- about the Special Olympics Oath. I didn't think he got it. Or maybe he always had it in him. Because even though he didn't win, he was definitely brave in his attempt.

He'll be back.

Fun in Richfield?

And behold I do labor exceedingly today in preparation for our return to the land of my father. And I do take my husband and my children to the lands in the south for, behold, two of my children doth wish to participate in this:


And I do wonder at my juxtaposition of scriptural language and old time folk music....