First Day of (Home)School Pictures

This is a school year of firsts! First day of 4th grade! First day of 2nd Grade! First day of homeschool!

A Famous Painter in our future!

So, so tall!

 Hasn't he said Paleontologist before? :)

Not too far behind his sister! :)

Happy First Day of School! They're getting so big, I can hardly believe it.

By the way... this has been the least stressful first day of school EVER! Yay for Homeschool!

The Bandaid Thing - Parenting Mistakes at 3am

It's a common scenario: 3am. A child's bedroom door creaks open. The looming child-shaped silhouette. The soft voice calling, "Mom?" or "Dad?" The called-for parent startling awake or cringing and thinking "Ugh... why??" The unrequested parent smirking sleepily.

3 AM

Audrey came in this morning (3am is TECHNICALLY morning) asking for her Dad. "I have a mosquito bite. It's really itchy and I need a bandaid."
I was silent, feigning sleep and hoping Ben would wake up and get out of our comfortable, warm bed and deal with the issue.

First, let me say, in hindsight, this is the way it SHOULD have gone: Bandaid acquired, lovingly placed on itchy bump, child sent to the potty, child kissed, child sent to bed, parent goes to bed and everyone is happy.
This is not the way things went.

Let me tell you about The Bandaid Thing.

The Bandaid Thing has become the mountainish molehill involving an entire box of 100 bandaids being used by 2 children in less than a month. 
Cuts
Scrapes
Scratches (nature AND sibling/self inflicted)
Bug Bites
Sibling Bites
Bruises
The Mysterious "it's bothering me" Spot
Dry Spots
And the Super Annoying "I feel like it's going to bleed" Spots

So, I became a bandaid hoarder. Ben obligingly joined in the hoarding.

I suppose part of me is bitter because my children never took to my Mom's Magic Kisses administrations. (MY mom's kisses were ALWAYS magic..)

Oh, and the cost! Gasp!!

So, now, on to Ben's Suggestion.
After a brief pause, in which Ben might have been contemplating The Bandaid Thing (I know I was), Ben suggested a damp paper towel placed on the itchy bite.
Audrey trustingly and willingly went to gather the needed item and went back into her room.
The peace lasted about 15 seconds.
Audrey came back, insisting that the paper towel kept falling off her bite and that it wasn't working.

What SHOULD have happened: Bandaid acquired, lovingly placed on itchy bump, child sent to the potty, child kissed, child sent to bed, parent goes to bed and everyone is... mostly happy.
This is not the way things went.

Instead, we entered the Battlefield of Wills. Ben's curt answer was for Audrey to go to bed.
Whereupon, Audrey proceeded to do what made the most sense to her at 3am: a whiny, leg-flapping, foot-stomping tantrum. The one thing I will say about this performance is that it's really hard to take her seriously when one leg is jiggling around like a fish out of water while she simultaneously tiny-hops in place and her voice steadily raises in pitch to a dog whistle. We are usually so put-out by this time that we can't see the humor in the situation anymore.

Ben reiterated his order to go to bed, a little louder, and Audrey eventually obeyed in a loud, choking sobbing kind of way that threatened to awaken the sleeping brother.
Thus, Ben went to the kids' room and a series of fierce whispers, reprimands, sobbing, wailing and threats of punishments drifted out of the room to my ears.
It was then that I decided I needed to get up.

But, first, let's talk about The Principle of the Thing. Sometimes we call it Sticking to our Guns or Teaching a Lesson. I catch myself saying, "I'm the parent! I know better! Deal with it!" This is an interesting concept and I'm sure The Principle of the Thing has an appropriate application, BUT, a bandaid at 3am for a child just doesn't fit the bill.
The sibling of The Principle of the Thing is the unspoken, but sininster, I Have To Be Right.. All The Time. Usually with a mental, snobbish sneer.

At 3am, I had an odd epiphany. All of theses aforementioned sentiments are the ugly faces of Pride. Overwhelming self-importance in spite of being wrong.

So, I got up - not to save the day, but to repair my mistake of refusing to parent at 3am and leaving my hard-working, exhausted, allergy-inflicted husband going solo.

I found them both in the hall. Audrey weeping. Ben silently Bull-Snorting. The bandaid was finally bequeathed upon my child, but talk of grounding floated through the air.
I held my daughter close to me and whispered, "Is a tantrum going to make it better?" She shook her head through her tears.
I instructed her to get her bandaid on and went and sat with my husband on the edge of the bed. I rested my head on his shoulder so that he could see in spite of the darkness that what I said was only meant In The Most Loving Way Possible.

It's 3am, I said. She's tired. You're tired. She came to you with her own solution but still took your advice. When that didn't work, she came back hoping for relief.
What I didn't say but only realized later was that she did everything right. She may not be equipped or experienced to deal with frustration, disappointment and discomfort very well (who is at 3am?) but she asked for help, willingly took advice and then returned when faced with difficulty.
At 3am, is The Bandaid Thing worth it?

What is the value of a bandaid versus the worth of a child? If a bandaid cost $1... or $10... or $1,000, at what point would the pain or distress of a child be worth less than the cost?

Heavenly Father sent His Only Begotten Son - an unfathomable cost at the highest price. All because he believes we are worth it. If the most perfect being in existence believes we are worth the highest price, who are we to disagree?

So, Ben, without any prompting from me, went in to talk with Audrey. I don't know what he said, but he told me he apologized.
In that moment, I became a good wife and thanked him for being a good dad. Apologizing, for me, is one of the hardest things to do. My desire to be right makes apologizing painful. And Pride rears its ugly head.
Ben felt he didn't deserve to be called a good dad. He felt that everything he did that required an apology excluded him from the Good Dad List.
I said the first thing that came to my mind. "A good dad is willing to learn." Translation: A good dad (or mom) strips away pride, becomes humble and does what is right, even if it means admitting he (or she) was wrong.
Some people say that our children need to see their parents make mistakes so that they know it's okay and human to do so. No one is perfect. But, I say, much more importantly, that they need to see how the parent handles being wrong. And they need to see their parent apologize, humble themselves and repent for what they've done wrong. Love and hope comes from seeing that there is a chance and a choice to become better.

As Ben was settling back down to sleep, he said, "All this fuss for a twelve cent bandaid." By all parties, yes.

My last trial came as his words sunk in. I had a sudden need to find out if the bandaid really did cost twelve cents. My need to be right, factual, precise, correct. My own pride.
I wanted to get up, turn on my computer, look up the cost of the box of bandaids. A little simple math and I'd KNOW how much that dang bandaid cost. Was it a big or small bandaid? What is the abstract cost of missed sleep?
Would I feel worse if it turned out to be a five cent bandaid? More justified if it was a twenty cent bandaid?

Then I remembered. It doesn't matter.
So, I refuse to look it up. My daughter's worth, my husband's ability to be a good dad, my need to be right.

It doesn't hinge on a bandaid.

Last Days of School!

I've really enjoyed taking first and last day school pictures with the kids. It's amazing to see how they grow and change over just a few short months!

You can see the inches she's grown in the length of the dress! Amazing!

She LOOKS so much older!

Hank has gained a few inches, himself. Most obvious in the length of his shirt!

My handsome little man loved school so much! He was sad to have to leave.

Hot Oil

I was probably about 11 or 12 when one of my brothers taught me how to make pan deep fried french fries with fresh potatoes. Pan, oil, stove, potatoes. What could be simpler?

It was an awful lot of work for a few minutes of artery clogging awesomeness. It was worth it.

I haven't made french fries in this way in over twenty-two years.

I have scars that are reason enough for that.


Typically, about half-way through cooking the fries, the oil would need to be changed out. There's not much that will turn you off fresh french fries than bits of black burned stuff sticking to them.

We would pour the used, gross oil into a container, usually a juice concentrate can or something like it. It was a simple procedure, but one that needed to be carefully done.

I was in the middle of this when for some reason, perhaps my hastiness to cook more french fries or maybe a shaky arm, I poured hot oil on my hand.

I remember my thought process at the time. The kitchen had been recently upgraded and one of the rules was to not put hot pots or pans on the counters. It went something like this:

Ow. Hot.
Put the ow things down.
No pans on counter.
Put oil receptacle on the counter. No rules against that.
Pan. Stove.
Not on hot burner.
Now.
Down.
Turn.
Stare at Mom.

It seemed like I was looking at my mother for an eternity. I don't know why I didn't say anything to get her attention. I didn't even walk over to her. I didn't cry. I don't know what my face looked like, but it was probably something along the lines of calm shock.

On the inside, I was screaming.

When my mother finally looked at me, she assessed my expression (whatever it was) and asked me if I had burned myself.

I nodded.

She told me to wash my hand with soap and water.

I proceeded to do so with cold water.

Over the next half hour or so, I was impressed upon by my mother to alternate the application of cold and warm water baths to my burn. The cold to stop the burn, the warm to increase blood-flow to the area so it would heal faster. At least, that's what I recollect.

The cold water was wonderful.

The warm water felt like I was dunking my hand into molten lava.

I ended up with a blister the size of a mouse or a large cockroach on my left thumb. I couldn't bend my thumb or use it in any meaningful way. I was careful with it for several days, knowing that bursting it would result in more pain and possibly infection.

In spite of my best efforts, I did pop it while trying to open a car door. I'm most likely blocking the pain of that moment.

And so, I have a couple of small, hard-to-see scars on that thumb.



The internal scars seem to have lasted longer.

I still cringe when thinking about making deep-fried french fries.

The Dog Bite

I was lying in bed last night, and my brain wouldn't shut up.

The conversation went something like this:

Me: Ahhh... just find a comfortable position and sleeeeeeep...
Brain: Hey! Guess what?!
Me: No.
Brain: Guesssssssssssssssss....
Me: Ugh. Noooo..
Brain: I'm not tired! Yay!
Me: Well, the rest of me is. So, shut up and turn off.
Brain: We should totally get up and fill in those egregious holes in your novel!
Me: .....
Brain: You haven't played Diablo in, like, 2 days!
Me: It'll still be there in the morning.
Brain: I just came up with the best blog idea!!
Me: Sigh..
Brain: No, really! You're going to really like it.
Me: Fine. What is it?
Brain: SCARS! No, listen. It'll be epic!
Me: Actually, that's not half bad.


And that is the story of how my tired body gave into my insane brain. I'm going to write, installment-wise, about my scars. Again.

I don't remember how old I was when this experience occurred. The fogginess puts it somewhere in my 7 to 10 years.

I was the Animal Queen. Either my family named me that or I wished they had and I called myself that in my head.

I devoured everything I could read, watch, hear, experience, observe about animals. When I wasn't pretending to be various animals (funny and embarrassing story, that), I was informing everyone around me about the things I'd learned. I was the resident expert, at least in my residence.

I could identify which spiders were harmless and which were dangerous. I didn't mind picking them up in my hand (the harmless ones) and carrying them outside where they would escape the murderous intentions of my family.

So, if I wasn't afraid of a creepy spider, I certainly wasn't afraid of some old lady's cantankerous dog.

My mom was visiting a lady she knew. The reason escaped my self-involved pre-adolescent mind.

This lady had a dog, probably a terrier of some sort. One of those little dogs that my husband not-so-lovingly calls "yap dogs".

I wanted to go outside and play with it.

The lady said I could but not to pick up the dog because it hated that and would probably bite me.

I agreed, already laughing at the lady's warning. Somewhere in the mysterious depths of my mind I was thinking, "I will tame this beast and he will love me and let me carry him around because I am an expert in animals and he will sense that and everything will be magical rainbows and a chorus of animals will sing heavenly music!" Of course I felt I knew this dog better than his owner. She was a silly grown-up lady who saw her dog as a mere pet. I was the Animal Queen who saw him as the majestic diminutive little Lord of His Manor that he was.

So, I pet the dog a few times, until my anticipation of animal magicalness got the better of me and I picked him up.

I think the dog got about 4 inches off the ground before he realized that he hated me. I don't remember any kind of warning from the dog; a growl or attempt to escape. Though, I may have been hearing a chorus of heavenly animals and missed it.

The carnage may well have resulted in the dismemberment of my hand at the wrist. I think I actually saw red. Probably because I was bleeding profusely.

A trip to the emergency room left me with my hand intact and a bandage around my wrist.

I now have two scars on my right wrist, almost two inches apart, probably the exact space between that tiny canine's canines.

I'm pretty sure that event helped enforce my cat-person tendencies and my "yap-dog" aversion.

My identity as the Animal Queen, however, stayed intact.

Better than Sex and Honesty

Occasionally, honesty trumps my tact.

This happened more often when I was younger. It's entirely possible that my general lack of experience produced genuine surprise, and therefore truth, when something happened that I didn't expect. As I said, this happened more often when I was younger.

I sometimes wonder how my current experience would determine situations that I found myself in when I was younger, if they happened now.

For example:

I was invited to a baby shower when I was a teenager. I must have been about sixteen or seventeen. My first baby shower. Probably my first shower, period. (Har, har.)

We played the typical games and ate the typical treats. One of the treats was a perennial favorite, which goes by several similar names. Sex in a Pan, Chocolate Sin, Better than Sex...

I heard the ladies in the kitchen giggling over "Better than Sex" and I asked my friend what they were talking about. She explained about the dessert and told me it was called Better than Sex.

In my surprise, I recall going through several emotions in rapid succession. Shock, incredulity, disappointment and a little disgust.

Now, keep in mind that I had no experience with sex at that time of my life...

My mouth ran away with me, as it often did, and I said the first thing that came to my mind. After "WHAT?!?", that is.

"If they think that is better than sex, I feel sorry for them!"

My friend laughed and I was left with the sense that I had missed out on a joke. I think I also avoided the dessert on principle.

I got older. I got married. I was inducted into activity the dessert was purported to surpass.


And, now, I have to ask myself how I would respond if the situation happened today instead of back then.

Honestly...

I would say the same thing.

But, I would have some of the dessert, anyway.

First Day of Kindergarten

My baby is off to Kindergarten. I don't feel too weepy about it yet, but I guess we'll have to see what happens when I drop him off.

It's hard to see his written name, but you can click on the picture to see it bigger.

Some days he seems so OLD!

In the following series of pictures, I was trying to illicit an honest smile out of him, so I was listing off what he'll be able to do while he is in Kindergarten.

You're going to have so much fun...

You'll get to do so much...

Recess every day! Cutting and pasting!

Computers, music, art!

What a cutie! And so big! I love this guy!

First Day of Second Grade!

I'm amazed yet again at how fast summer vacation flew by!

We didn't have big plans but mostly spent time with each other and family.

Today marks the first day of second grade for Audrey!

So following our traditions of the school year, here is our first day picture.

(click on the picture for a closer look)

When she grows up she wants to be a Cowgirl! I think this is at least the second time she has said so when I've asked.

First dress for first day of school outfit. So big!

She is getting so big and the red hair is really starting to show a lot!

Poor Decisions at 10pm

Years ago, I realized that making any serious decisions in the late evening was always going to result in something completely devoid of intelligence and/or safety.

This is why my evenings usually consist of mimicking a potato or other inert object.

Apparently, I was feeling frisky recently, because I suddenly had an idea that I put very little thought into and, therefore, sounded like the most amazing idea in the history of ideas.

With a nearly silent throat-deep cackle, I eyed my domesticated and miniature huntress on her perch next to the window. She was faced away from me and I immediately crouched, which must have been instinctual because there was no foliage or other cover to hid behind.

As I crept toward her, I watched her ears, knowing that she would hear me long before she would turn around and look.

Her left ear twitched and curved back toward me.

My husband, who was sitting in a recliner looking at his computer, calmly stated, "Her eyes are closed."

I didn't speak, knowing that this would alert my quarry.

I slowly closed the gap between myself and the furry bundle of carnivorous instincts.

When she was within reach, I lunged forward and, in that moment, another insane idea occurred to me: I would start screaming ecstatically, like a hyperactive banshee whilst simultaneously grabbing her around her middle.

I'm sure you can imagine my little friend's reaction to this attack.

Her whole body spasmed and twisted between my grasping hands, whilst appearing to sprout additional limbs out of nowhere. She flailed and escaped my grip...

It was over in a split second and I was laughing.

Then I pulled in a hiss of breath as the pain registered in my brain.

Somehow, while that beast was flailing, one of its dozen limbs managed to slice into the skin of my palm. Even more impressive because her front limbs were declawed over five years ago...

My first addled thought after this late evening decision debacle?

That was totally worth it...

Immediately after the carnage.

She was relaxing less than ten minutes later.

This afternoon. The bleeding has stopped, but the pain still lingers on...

Chicken Fried Rice-a-Roni Fail

In my fatigued stupor this afternoon, I looked in my cabinet for anything that I could remotely call nutritious for my children and me. Or at least edible.

Okay, I'll be real. Eatable...

I was pleased to find that a box of Rice-a-Roni Fried Rice actually looked pretty good. Of course, I knew I'd have to beef it up a little, as it were, so I looked on the back for suggestions. Ooo! Chicken Fried Rice! And it didn't even look gross!

Bonus! The recipe called for two blended eggs to be added in the final moments and I just so happened to have two eggs from my last carton hogging the space set aside for my new carton. It was more than just dumb luck. It was serendipitous... It was divine! I forgot my weariness and set about cooking up this little miracle.

There was a tiny (I mean TINY) picture on the back of the box of the finished result. Oh, I thought to myself, you can even see the little bits of egg mixed in and it doesn't look horrifying! MA-GI-CAL!

So, I carefully followed all the directions. I was a little concerned that my chicken wasn't thawed completely when I put it in, but I reasoned that 15-20 minutes boiling away with the rice would fix that toot sweet!

When the 15-20 minutes were up, I opened the lid and looked at the beautiful miracle of foodness that was Chicken Fried Rice-a-Roni... All I had to do was put in the eggs. They were already mixed and ready to pour in. With all the confidence a recipe on a small cardboard box could give me, I carefully poured in the egg and proceeded to gently stir it around.

Much to my dismay, it didn't congeal into fluffy bits of scrambled egg...

It was sticking to the rice and noodles...

Sticking!

It was forming a slimy, yellow coating all over my beautiful fried rice...

I continued to stir, foolishly certain that at some point the egg would separate and magically become lovely bits of egg...

It was not to be.

The slimy eventually cooked away, but I was left with Chicken Fried Clump-a-Roni.

If I had poured a bottle of glue into my pan, it wouldn't have looked any less attractive... 

That little bit of white you can see almost in the center was the only bit I could verify was actually egg...

As far as taste goes, it wasn't bad at all. In fact, my son stated quite enthusiastically,

"We should have this EVERY day!"

Luckily, I could let him down easy. I had only bought one box.

If Humans Reproduced Like Animals (G Rated!)

Like the title says, this blog is completely G Rated.. though, slightly disturbing. I hope you're as amused as I was making it, though.

My sister and I were talking recently and laughing at the idea of human beings reproducing or participating in courting rituals like animals do. I found the idea so funny, that I had to draw out what was in my head.

This first one is if humans reproduced like Anglerfish. Anglerfish males are born with no digestive system and are significantly smaller than females. They will fuse their bodies onto the female and will shrivel further until they aren't much more than a lump. The female will have the male conveniently available whenever she needs to fertilize eggs.

Here is my version:

Apparently, it doesn't matter what part of the body the male will fuse to. Can you imagine your husband fusing to your back? Neck? No thanks... The head was the funniest to me.... Though there was some potential to some "kiss my butt" jokes...

Some types of animals, notably clown fish, will switch genders when there aren't enough breeding pairs.

But if humans did it?

The other guy became a mushroom because I didn't want to draw him anymore...

During courtship, the male frigate bird inflates a bright red sack under his beak. The more impressive it is, the more likely he will gain a mate...

I like how she's sort of backing away from him...

My version.. hahah:

I'd just be tempted to run up and pop it with a pin!

We all learned about Asexual Reproduction in school... I doubt I need to put up this picture, but in case you need a reminder:

And if humans did it....:

When camels are trying to attract a mate, they drool profusely, often creating a thick foam and they inflate a sac in their mouths called a dulla. It looks sort of like a swollen tongue when not completely inflated. When inflated, it looks like a slimy, lopsided balloon...

I don't get how this is sexy... honestly.

It doesn't get any better with humans.... 

The Blue Footed Booby does a lovely dance for an intended mate. The brighter the feet and the better the dance, the better the chances for love!

I realized while I was making the human version that it's not far off from reality, actually...

Some species of Cuckoo birds lay their eggs in other birds' nests. When the cuckoo baby hatches, it will push any eggs or babies out of the nest so that it will benefit from all the food the surrogate parents bring.

Creepy...

Drawing a picture of a large baby pushing a small baby out of a crib seemed too sad...

However... I don't think I could have drawn a human variation that WASN'T disturbing.

For my last set of pictures, I think every woman could appreciate the tiny seahorse. It's the males that get pregnant and give birth to the babies. 

It's like a seahorse kangaroo.. aww!

No human birth pictures here... I don't even know how that would work.

So.. there you have it.

Aren't you glad things work for us the way they do?

Childhood Misconceptions: Discovering my Mortality on my Knee (Updated)

No, that is not a typo in the title.

I was supposed to die before my twelfth birthday. I knew it as certainly as you know that you will one day break down and eat something completely unhealthy and bad for you.

I must have been about seven or eight when I noticed a scar on my left knee. I was sitting on the toilet (I know. You didn't need to know that.) when I saw this scar staring up at me. I had no recollection of acquiring the scar. This is only disturbing in the fact that to attain a scar, you need to do more than just a little damage to your skin. I suppose it could have been something truly traumatic and that's why I don't remember, but most likely it was an injury that I didn't get tended to properly and kept re-injuring it until it became a scar. That sounds much more like me.

I wanted to take a picture of it for you, but it's barely visible to the eye, making it a pointless attempt, so I made this for you:

Isn't it beautiful?

So, I gave myself shorts so that you wouldn't be scarred (haha) by a drawing of me on the toilet. And, I put myself outside on a beautiful green lawn to further enforce the idea that I'm definitely NOT on the toilet. This drawing is from my own perspective, looking down from, apparently, an incredible height. Don't pay attention to the weirdness of my cut-off foot. Yes, I really am that white.. and I apparently have a orangey-flesh outline to my skin.

So, anyway. You notice the scar on my knee? The one that looks like an 11?

I was convinced at this tender age that this scar was somehow a portent. The universe or God or my miraculous body was trying to tell me that my days were numbered. Perhaps this was when I started to understand mortality and that I wasn't somehow invincible and permanently youthful.

So, there on the toilet.. uh, lawn... I started to feel woeful for my life. I was going to die sometime on or around my 11th birthday. I felt really dramatic about it.

I would never have kids or even get married.. heck! I'd never even go on a date! Just think of all the things I wouldn't get to do...

I was secretly gleeful that I had something to be morbidly upset about.

I didn't tell anyone.

Boy, would they be sad when I was ripped from this life during my formative years. All those people (I think I knew about 20 people aside from my family) would just be traumatized for life that they had been deprived of my existence.

I remember feeling unique and wise for a while after that. I had been instantly aged by the knowledge of my own demise. Suddenly a Sage.

I don't recall if I envisioned the ways I would die. I probably figured that I would die of a broken heart.. yes.. broken heart, while plunging off the biggest cliff waterfall on Earth, on the back of the last Unicorn in existence battling the last Dragon in existence, my tears and long, beautiful hair streaming behind me like a banner of innocence and tragic love.

(Update) At my sister's request, I drew this part, too.. I call it: Epic Death

And then I forgot about it until sometime after my 11th birthday and I started thinking, "Okay, it'll be soon... No one knows what a tragic little life I have..."

Then I turned twelve and was briefly confused by my continued existence. Maybe I wasn't really twelve yet. My parents and all the medical professionals attending my birth had somehow got the year wrong.

But the years continued on, further mocking my tragic vision of myself.

In the end, I felt okay about it. I think as I was trudging through my teenage years, I realized that dying at 11 would have been rather terrible, even more terrible than High School.

Though, not by much.

If you liked this blog, I'll share another Childhood Misconception soon.