Welcome back!

Just got back from an amazing trip to Utah.
Yonder and Teeny graduated from BYU in December, but Dub and I flew back to watch them officially walk in their caps and gowns. We're so proud of them! It was all so great.
There were commencement activities, convocations, dining with fun people, also meeting friends, meeting some returned missionary companions of Sweet Mesquite, hiking in the breath-takingly majestic mountains and enjoying some really great time away relaxing.
But let's be honest. Amazing trips are not real life.
.....
At the risk of sounding whiny, I'll just say that re-entry was, well, in a word: ROUGH.
We climbed into bed just before 2:00 am on Tuesday morning, and three days later I feel like I haven't stopped running. Good thing I'm in such amazing shape. I vow not to be sarcastic if I can possibly help it.
The kids' truck (the truck the kids drive to school, activities and work) died, was towed to the shop and repaired. Twice. In two days.
Sharing a vehicle is tricky when the merger of schedules is not easy or friendly.
I promise I'm not complaining.
The cats pee'd on a sleeping bag that someone left on the floor. I'm guessing it had been there a few days. (Peeing cats usually means that someone is falling down on their job of cleaning the litter box.) When I picked up the sleeping bag, I didn't realize that it had been contaminated. I flipped it up on the couch to find the zipper so that I could fold it up and put it away. That was when the liquid splashed on my clothes and puddled onto the couch. I'm not going to pretend that I wasn't SUPER ANNOYED. Cleaning cat urine off clothing and a wood floor isn't my favorite, but it's not terrible. Washing a sleeping bag and leather couch cushions, however, is TERRIBLE.
Then, to add insult to injury, the cats pee'd somewhere in my VERY messy bedroom closet. Which I discovered as I woke up to teach early morning seminary. (I had a hard time opening my eyes, but wished my sense of smell wasn't so keen) The very unpleasant aroma of cat urine came wafting across the room to me as if to say
"See? You should have just stayed in bed." 
My suitcase is still not unpacked. In fact, it isn't even open. Because I don't want it to become another option for a cat toilet.
I think I'm the only person who knows how to clean bathrooms, do laundry and wash dishes, because I'm doing all of those things, but it's like playing wack-a-mole in a life-sized carnival game, where, instead of plastic heads popping out of holes, it's dirty underwear, sweaty workout clothes and pans with stuck on food. And I just can't keep up.
Real life is not gentle, people.
After day one of reality immersion, Dub and I were laying in bed feeling very tired and he whispered "let's just run away."
I should have taken him up on it.

Springing forward by the second day is rough.

another big game

 We're having a losing streak of late.

It doesn't feel good.

But helping to coach a bench full of amazing young ladies in fantastically pink shirts feels tremendous.

meanwhile

the fever climbed on board the next child host.

He missed three days of school.

the family that...

I'm a big fan of the saying

"The family that plays together stays together."

How do you wrap that concept around 

hauling and stacking wood?

Whatever the trick,

it's not exactly PLAY.

But we do it...

often enough that everyone knows it's a much faster, much less painful chore when ALL hands are on deck.

We loaded the garage with wood to burn (again), and with cold temps on the way, we might be at it once more before February.

We don't love stacking wood, but we DO love the wood stove.

the memo on shoes

One of our men at the wedding missed the note about BROWN.

I may be married to him, but I'm NOT taking credit.

Everything happens for a reason, right?

(right?!?)

Even if the reason is to laugh a little.

feng shui

I drove to the High School this morning to take care of some business in the office.  I just about cried when I saw the front lawn.

 All those beautiful mature trees!

Cut down.

As much as I like progress, (demolition for a new school) this made me SAD.

 However, finding this sunflower made me HAPPY.

See how it leaned right over and said

"Don't worry.Everything will be alright."

The Kitchen Fairies didn't come last night

packing for camp

It was almost time for me to leave.

(Mesquite and I went to camp a day early, with the leaders)

I wanted to make sure the other two were packed and ready to go the next morning.

When I checked on them, this is what I found:

 Oi.  

Somehow they made it.

They showed up the next morning WITH all their belongings.

AND some of mine.

In the end, it was ME who forgot stuff.

studying for finals: FINAL -ly done.

what NOT to add to your soup

I made some dee-licious soup last night.
Chicken soup.
Homemade.
Except here's the story about when I should have listened to that little voice in my head:

I save things.
I'm not as bad as I used to be.  I have some clutter, but saving food just makes sense to me.  Freezing stock after you boil meat seems like a simple way to have a tasty starter on hand when you want to make soup.  I made this baked ham at Easter time.  THREE days it took me to make ham for a crowd.  It was a pretty tedious process, but the ham was tasty.  I strained the stock after boiling the meat, and put it in the freezer to use for later.  Later came yesterday.
In my head I thought You're making chicken soup.  You might not want to use ham stock for chicken soup.  
I tend to be a bit of a bully in the kitchen.  Plus I was in a hurry.  I ignored that little voice; went right on and used the frozen ham stock.  It worried me a tiny bit that there was the use of MUCH vinegar in the boiling process for that Easter ham.  But I forged ahead.  I carefully chopped veggies, minced garlic and added shredded chicken.  "Mmmmm... this smells good!" One of the kids said when they came home from school.
I relaxed about the vinegar.
It was a crazy night (they usually are at our house) so I dished four bowls of soup, put hot biscuits on napkins and ran out the door to soccer practice.  The other four were headed out the door to youth activities at the church.  When soccer practice was over, the youngest hopped in the shower while I fixed his dinner.  He came hungry to the table, and gobbled up the soup.
Again, I relaxed another notch and thought Phew. The vinegar must have boiled off enough that it tastes pretty good.
In case you're wondering why I didn't sample the soup, I'll disclose that I'm having a tooth problem.  Standard protocol apparently.  I was afraid to put anything in my mouth, so I abstained.
Morning boy never said a word.  I hesitantly asked "Sooo... how was the soup?"
"It tasted sort of spicy. Did you put barbecue sauce in it?" came the reply.
Then I started to worry.
We cleaned up, and I hurried to tuck myself into bed with a book before the rest of the crew came home.  I was happily reading when I heard them come in.  I waited for the feet to come tromping up the stairs, but instead I heard cupboards open, and then the sound of cereal being poured into bowls.  Eventually they made their way up, the girls piled on the bed and Mr. Dub slipped into the closet to change.
"Boy, that was some soup!" he said from the closet.
I looked at Rooney. "Was there a hint of sarcasm in his voice?" I asked softly.
She tipped her head. "Mom." she countered. "We just had cereal for supper.  WHAT was in that soup?"
Then Dub emerged.  "Yea... what'd you put in there... Mop n Glo?"
There was talk about dumping bowls of soup out the window while they were driving on the highway.  They wondered if passersby might have thought there was some intestinal rebellion happening in our vehicle.  I laughed so hard I counted it for my weekly abs workout.

Here's what I learned:
When you boil ham in water and vinegar, the stock should NOT be used for a chicken soup base.  It MIGHT, however, do a bang-up job on your floors.  Leftovers anyone?

Who is Murphy? I think we're cousins.

The post about how I seem to be that rare exception to the statistical probability of having someone show up at the house on the ONE.DAY  I choose to:

(pick one or a combination of the following)
-not shower
-stay in my pajamas
-neglect my hair and make-up
-not clean up dinner and dishes from the night before
-not see the nasty piece of dark-colored food wedged in my front teeth when I greet them with my widest smile

Doesn't matter.  As soon as I decide to defy the hygiene routine, THAT's the day I will meet new people and help them form fantastic first opinions about how well-groomed I am.  Take this morning for example.

I hurried right over to my parents' house to help my mom with some Spring cleaning.  (Do YOU wash your walls twice a year?... I sure don't.  But after today I will probably at least THINK about how I don't wash my walls maybe twice in the year.)  She asked me when I was coming.
6:30 am 
Mom: Jenny, are you still coming today?
Me: Yes...
Mom: Well what time do you think you'll get here?
Me: I'll come whenever you want me to.
Mom: Umm..., the earlier the better.
Me: Okay. As soon as I get the last child on the bus, I'll drive over.
8:30 am
Me: I'm on my way!
Mom: Great!
Me: I noticed when I was talking to you earlier, that you were running the bath.  That means you're all spruced up, smelling nice and looking beautiful, right?
Mom: Yes... (she does love her baths)
Me: Well--refrain from judging when I arrive, because you're getting me as I am.  I took my shower last night and slept on wet hair.  I put on my best work clothes (read: ratty and paint-splattered).  I have banana breath.
Mom: (giggling) Don't worry!  Just come. (and) Banana breath?!? You don't even LIKE bananas.
8:45 am
Me: Oh... I just passed the Agway Store.  Do you need chicken feed?
Mom:  YES! Please.  We're all out.  (Dad in the background: forget the feed. let them die.)
Me: I'm turning around.
Only then did I realize that I was offering to enter a retail establishment in my current state of un-groom-ed-ness.  I kept my eyes low and purchased the pellets.  There were two men in the store.  I did happen to sense that I got the sideways glance from the employee who was not busy at the computer taking my order.  Call it paranoia, but if it were ME behind the counter, I'd probably have given someone with such fantastic bed-head a glance or two as well.  The rest of the drive included some finger-wetting in my bottle of water, so that I could dampen my bangs that were standing at attention in about six different directions.  Not even kidding.  It was some good hair.  I wasn't TOO worried about it, though, because I was about to get to work with the soapy bucket and some rags, and who cares what you look like when you're wielding a vacuum and moving furniture?
When I arrived at the old Homestead, I saw a vehicle in the driveway that I did not recognize.  Yep--Cousin Murphy.  Inside I found my mom's perfectly primped Visiting Teacher, sitting across from her on the couch, getting in a quick message before the cleaning lady showed up.  They motioned for me to join them.  Oi vey. So I sat there awkwardly trying not to pat my bangs and smooth my sweats while they finished up.  Honestly.  Why does showering the night before EVER seem like a good idea to me?
It was then on to cleaning and lunching (which was pure comfort and joy. really.) and it quickly became time to go.  Except.  Right then I got a reminder phone call from Mister Dub.  Bless him.
MD: Hey--did you remember that you were going to pick up that stuff for me in Marlboro?
Me: Oh right.  I'm going to do that on the way home.
Then he proceeds to give me directions. The stuff is going to be in a Corporate Office in a nearby Business Park.  I need to go to the front desk and ask for so-and-so.
In my head, right then, I debated the scenario where I go to the plush building, ask for so-and-so and introduce myself as Martha Frump--Jenny's painter, and I'm so sorry she couldn't be here herself, but she got tied up.  In an important meeting (with her shower).
But I didn't.  Because Cousin Murphy (and my conscience) wouldn't let me.
I hope Ms. so-and-so's stellar impression of Dub hasn't slipped a notch.
But I wore comfortable clothes ALL day.
I taught a piano lesson.
I taxied kids around.
I made rolls.
I went to book club.
And I smiled a lot.
And life is good (especially when you're comfortable) and because really, if you can't let-go once in a while and just go about the business of life in paint-speckled sweat pants and a messy pony tail, where's the adventure?  I might just keep them on and call them pajamas.

Just call me Lily. Lily-of-the-Valley-of-Dental-Death-and-Despair

Oy.
It's taken more than five long months to cycle the family through their allotted turns at our new dentist office.  Introductions, exams, cleanings and the extras multiplied by eight people is a lot of scheduling and taxiing.  My job is to take care of most of the leg work, and yesterday it was finally my turn.
I purposely waited to be the last in line for dental services because:

-I wanted to observe the ins and outs of the new practice
-I wanted to be familiar with the charges and billing practices
-It's my job to make sure my family gets on a regular dental cleaning schedule
-I wanted to be good and sure that I was confident of how to get there
-I was using my family members as the guinea pigs
-For every cavity he found in a family member, I was confident that he'd find five more in my mouth because that's just my dental karma
-I have issues with going to the dentist

So.
About that last one... I know I've mentioned my aversion to going to the dentist here before.  It's a thing I have.  Honestly, I can't trace it back to any one traumatic incident.  I grew up with a mother who took us to the dentist religiously twice every year for cleanings.  Dozens of times she has said to me "I want to have my own teeth in my mouth when I die."  Teeth are important to her, and despite whether money, insurance or convenience was ever an issue, the importance of taking care of your teeth has been ingrained into my soul.  I can't recall ever having an experience in the chair that scarred me from that point going forward.  Maybe there was one, and I'm also blessed with my dad's inability to remember the details.  Whatever the case, there I was in the office of my new dentist, looking at a large computer display of my personal information and health history.  As he asked me questions, I felt my face flushing and the corners of my eyes started to leak.  The harder I tried to fight it, the faster the drops fell, and the more embarrassed I felt, which just exacerbated an already super-awkward moment.  Seriously?!?  Crying in the OFFICE of the dentist?!? In my head, I was kicking myself in the shins.  "You're not even in the dentist chair!! Pull it together!"  I wanted to whip out my happy face and shout "April Fools!" except I was not exactly in control of my emotions.  It would probably have come out like a heinous witchy-shriek intermingled with throaty gurgles and snotty nose-sniffing sounding something like "You're all FOOLS!" followed up by a quick call to some men in white lab coats escorting me quietly out the back door.
The kindly dentist fetched me a glass of water and gave me a few minutes to compose myself before we walked to the actual chair where the nice hygienist sat.  I couldn't look her in the eyes.  I knew mine were all red and puffy.  Sheesh.  I muscled through the exam and every time I felt complete composure he would ask me if I was doing alright, which was apparently code for "open the floodgates" and I would feel a few more drops slide sideways down my cheeks and into my ears.  (As if lying prostrate in a chair with two sets of hands over face weren't already bad enough... have you ever had salt water pooling in your ears?)
Dinah.
I drove home completely drained and thought to myself  "ARE YOU KIDDING ME?"
On the bright side, I'm pretty sure my new dentist thinks I'm a delicate flower and will treat me with the utmost care and concern every time I visit his office.

laundry. and teens.

     Yesterday we had a snow day.  Really, it ended up being a rain day.  Rained and rained and rained from the moment the sun came up until we all put ourselves to bed.  COLD and cheerless.  No school: yes, and sleeping in: yes.  However; there aren't really a lot of fun outdoor options on a day this raw and bleak.  So... when you have a FUN indoor mom like me, you get to clean out closets and drawers.  This is an announcement that, shockingly, gets mostly moans, groans and inaudible mumbling when announced at breakfast.  With three daughters each about two years apart in age who should carry printed hash tags like #don'tWEARmyBRA! and #TAKEoffMYsocks! and #ISthatMYshirt?!? a group activity dealing with clothing can be either highly amusing or unbearably miserable.  We also have the random eight-year-old boy to throw in the mix, who can instantly ignite either extreme.  We had a little of both yesterday until, like manna from heaven, a neighbor boy called asking if the little flame thrower could come over and play.  Then there was peace. (Mostly.)
     A portion of the day went something like this:
Me: Girls, I want you to empty your drawers of ALL clothing you no longer want or wear.  Bring me the things you are getting rid of.
     A short time later I found all three of them sitting in the oldest's room, giggling at her shirt collection.
Me: Hey, you three get to work and clean out your drawers!
     This was met with some resistance.  They decided it was much more entertaining to take turns and mock each other for either keeping or discarding their clothing.  I figured their approach was something akin to "getting along" and decided to leave them to their mocking and giggling.  Meanwhile, I went to work pushing through a few loads of laundry.
     In the laundry room (Let me preface this with: We have a pretty good, pretty simple approach to laundry.  Above the washer and dryer there are two wire shelves that hold eight labeled laundry baskets; one for each member of our family.  Instead of spending hours folding laundry, we empty the dryer directly into each person's laundry basket, and they are responsible to get their own clean laundry folded and put away.  It's not perfect, but it works)  I looked up at Mr. Dub's laundry basket and discovered his work shirt and pants hanging out.  I frequently get scolded for not taking his shirts and pants right out of the dryer and getting them hung up, so he doesn't have to spend so much time ironing.  Even though he knows I am not the only laundry queen in the house;  it's usually only the two of us lovebirds around when he finds his wrinkly clothes in a ball instead of on a hanger.  (note: That's not one of my most favorite husband-wife-together moments.)  I called in the last lovely daughter to do laundry, and pointed to the offending attire.
Me: What are you doing, putting Dad's clean work clothes in his laundry basket?!?
Her: Um, sorting them and putting them away...
Me: Haven't we talked about HANGING them up so they don't get wrinkly?
Her: Umm... Yes, but the tag said wrinkle-free!
Me: [jaw dropping slowly towards the floor] [then rendered speechless]
-then-
Me: You mean you took the time to read the tag, but you couldn't take the time to put them on hangers?!?...
Her: MOM... the TAG said WRINKLE FREE.
     This is where I started thinking calm, reassuring developmental-stage phrases like "this is why you have to EXPLAIN things to kids" and "you can't assume they understand what you think they already understand" to myself.  Then I went over the proper procedure for hanging Dad's work clothes in a tone of voice that probably did not match the tone of voice of the calm phrases I was hearing in my head.
     Later in the morning I was sitting at the dining room table sorting socks.  This is an activity that must take place about once every week.  When socks come out of the dryer, they frequently do not have a mate.  To cut down on the frustration of not having matches for socks, years ago I borrowed a technique from a friend:  I have a small basket or sturdy bag waiting by the dryer for single socks.  All socks that don't come out attached to their mate get put in the sock receptacle.  Over the years, we've amassed quite a collection of single socks that, no matter how much laundry gets washed, remain single.  They stay in a growing collection at the bottom of the pile.  Much to my dismay, they seem to remain the sock version of the singles bar; milling around together, but rarely finding a mate.  Yesterday I made a shocking discovery.  One of my daughters (who's identity I will protect, but believe me she's OUT and been given a tongue-lashing at home) thinks that putting dirty, balled up socks back in her drawers is much easier than tossing them next door to the laundry room.  I'm embarrassed to tell you how many socks she turned over to her mom-turned-laundry-cop.  I'm still washing this morning, and the single socks no longer fit in the bag.  She was made painfully aware that she was the reprehensible sock-hoarder keeping those poor socks single all this time.  AND, I'm sure she will be delighted to discover that this afternoon's pre-homework activity will be making matches of all the dirty socks I've washed since yesterday.  I'm going to make sure she's aware of how HAPPY she will be making some very lonely socks.
Teenagers and Laundry are not always a match made in heaven.

the runaway (and a reluctant rescue)

The sun came out!

It was a glorious winter day.

I hung a blanket on the line...

when I came back to take it in, it had disappeared.

 Of course it flew into the snow on the day I picked
my sunny yellow flats.
My soul says Spring! when the sun comes out.
My toes said: Get sensible.

Still Cleaning Up

On New Year's Eve our theme was cops and robbers.  The kids and I had fun decorating the house for the party.  If I had known about the post party body count (due to party-induced germ-sharing) ahead of time, I would have just asked all 40 attendees to find a spot on the floor to lie down so that we could make a physical note of the suffering that was to come.  From the intel I've been able to gather, almost half of the party-goers came down with a grueling case of the stomach bug.  Five long days later, we're still picking each other up.  The only thoughts I've had about entertaining are along the lines of NEVER hosting a large party gathering again.  I have Holiday Party PTSD.  For reals.  Just the mental image of the buffet brings on the gag reflex.  I've become the hand-washing militant, and snack-eating police. 

 ("Get your germy hands out of that pretzel bag and pour yourself a bowl!") 

I swear my stomach is still gurgling.

What a party MESS.

12-12-12

In less than 12 seconds I obliterated my rear view mirror while backing out of the garage.

 A note from my child

(yesterday I was so proud there were no spelling errors!... today I want to pin it on my shirt)

felt somehow square on the mark after driving to the mailbox.

I retreated to the kitchen and made myself 12 pancakes in honor of a great start to a memorable day.

At bedtime last night one of my children was disappointed that I giggled at a holiday wish list suggestion, knowing that my chuckle meant "no chance, Lance" and said

"Mom, you ruin my dreams!"

-the dream ruin-er.

it's love-hate

GOOD morning Thursday!

I convinced myself that it was indeed good

as I padded down the stairs this morning WAY before the birds were up.

The kids ate their breakfast

lunches got packed

everyone tromped off to seminary, work and school.

Then it was quiet.

Just ME,

some light reading over

breakfast for one

and

THE KITCHEN SINK:

 I'm going to leave that obnoxious pile up alone for awhile.

Maybe the kitchen fairies will come while I'm taking my shower.