Soooo much has happened since I've been gone...

Does anyone else out there miss blogging? Remember how we would write all of these hilarious and inspiring stories about being moms, wives, women...? And we'd share them, and laugh over them, and sometimes even cry over them? I had a whole collection of friends out there who shared all the silly little events that made up my days, and I loved it. Facebook is nice and all (when I remember to make myself go there and look at it), but it's kind of soulless compared to blogging. Maybe that's why I've never really engaged in the whole "Facebook" thing.

But here I am, several years later, thinking all the time about what a tragedy it is that these last years weren't recorded. And oh, how much has changed! For one thing, I'M A MOTHER-IN-LAW!!! I know, crazy, right? My oldest son Liam left on his mission in July of 2017 (of the two-year, LDS variety), and wrote home in October of that same year to tell us that he'd proposed to his high school girlfriend Kaytee (over email, of course...so romantic...) and she'd said yes.

Needless to say, I did not take this seriously. Partly because there were two years to go, and partly because the lovely Kaytee had just started her first year at BYU Idaho, and, well--we all know what happens to beautiful young women at BYU.

Nevertheless, miracles do still happen, and when he arrived home in July of 2019 there was Kaytee Jo, ready and waiting. And never fear, she didn't have to wait for long. On September 7th (yes, that is less than 3 months later. Trust me, you do not have to do the math for me. I lived it. I am VERY WELL AWARE of the math...), they were married in a barn, and then sealed that night in the Seattle Temple. (Doesn't it sound lovely when I put it like that? But it actually was, and I think the whole day turned out as close to perfect for Kaytee as it probably could have.)

So now they're married, living in Rexburg, and NOT producing any grandchildren for at least a couple more years. Don't get me wrong--I want grandchildren. I am DYING to have a grandbaby!!! I actually spend way too much time watching other peoples babies and toddlers and coveting them because I'm secretly wishing I had a grandbaby of my own to cuddle and kiss. But, I do have self-control, and I can wait. Besides, they live 14 hours away, so clearly, I'd have to quit my job and go live in their spare bedroom with the child, and that wouldn't really be the best thing for my life or the two children I have left at home here, who I'm supposed to be raising.

Btw, did you catch that little phrase in there about how I "have a job?" Like, a real one. Those of you who followed me forever ago (wishful thinking, I know. None of you are left, and no one will ever read this) will remember that I was a substitute teacher and I loved it. Somewhere around the time Liam left on his mission, I decided it was time to grow up and get a real job, so I went back to school, completed a two-year masters program in a year (yes, it almost killed me), and got a job teaching highschool English at the school I'd subbed at for 18 years.

And then Niall, son-number-two, decided to join the Marine Corps. This was recent. Kind of. I guess it's been a year since he actually made that decision, but they didn't take him until December. That means I spent about 6 months living with a mini-adult (aka, an eighteen-year-old who still lives in your house, eats your food, and takes 5 hour showers, but who suddenly think they know everything and aren't nearly as pleasant to have around as they were when they were a mere non-adult teenager). It was rough. He was going through one of those phases, and sometimes I wasn't sure we'd make it out the other side intact. Then, despite all of my complaining and irritation, I cried when he decided to move out for what would be his final six weeks at home. I even bribed him home every Sunday with full-on Sunday dinners. What can I say? I love the kid :)

And then...well, where to start and where to stop? I suppose I should save the rest of the condensed catch-up story for another installment. This is already seriously such a rushed, not-very-entertaining retelling, but I have the bug to start blogging again--even if it's just for me--and I have to start somewhere! And I don't care if anyone ever reads it, because, as much as I'll miss my bloggy friends who laughed and cried with me, this is really for me. I'm so sad that I let those last years with my little kids pass by without keeping a record, and I don't want to miss anything else that they might enjoy looking back on. One way or another, I really want to do this, and so I will. And I'm committing myself publically (well, publically to myself, because I think we've already established that no one else is going to see this...), so now I have to do it. Right?

Oh, and btw, HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME!!! I just wish the number attached to it didn't make me feel so old...

Random Updates

Because I'm sure everyone is sitting around out there wondering what in the world is going on in the life of Jen Baxter, I thought I'd put you out of your misery and share some of the excitement with you. Well, at least one of the things I'm going to share is exciting. To me...

Fun Facts About My Life:

1. Finding Shemballah, the sequel to my first book, Laryn Rising, just went live on Amazon!!! (Abrupt end of excitement.) (But I personally am very, very, very excited :).

2. This is the second list of random facts I've written today. (To see the first, go here.)

3. My husband has a twenty-plus hour commute these days. To Wyoming. But...

4. ...his schedule is two weeks on, two weeks off, and I must say there's something to be said about having your husband home from work for two weeks at a time.

5. For instance, my husband loves to crockpot. And he does things like clean underneath the fridge, vacuum patterns into the carpet, and police the cleaning of the children's rooms when he's home for extended periods of time.

6. Number 5 is kind of awesome, and it definitely makes up for the two weeks of single-parenting craziness I go through when he's gone. Mostly. There was that week when my three boys (10, 13, 15) had eight basketball games between them... Definitely could have used some vacuuming and crockpotting that week!

7. Speaking of the number eight, my youngest child turns eight on Friday. Yikes. I kind of can't stand how old and big they're all getting.

8. About that. My oldest is 6'1 and weighs 195 lbs. He turned fifteen on tax day. My poor, poor, grocery bill. Well, actually it's getting money thrown at it all the time, and I'm the one who's poor around here. Let's all just pray that he won't have another growth spurt any time soon because I don't think my wallet can take it.

9. My thirteen-year-old son has 12 inch biceps. I do not know how this has happened. He's just a baby, for heaven's sake! Does he really need muscles already? And hairy legs???

10. And then there's my ten-year-old. The good news is that since I've already had two other ten-year-old boys, I am not worried that he is socially challenged. The obnoxiousness, the strange noises, and the sense of humor that only other ten-year-olds get are all out in full force, but this time I'm not panicking because I get it. And even if he does occasionally get a bit smelly as we venture into the world of manage-your-own-hygiene, I still love him to death. (What is it with ten-year-old boys and hygiene, anyway? I mean, shouldn't the use of soap in the shower be a given???)

And there you have it folks, my life all wrapped up in ten fun little facts. Hopefully, now that all those pressing questions you had about life in the Baxter household have been answered, you can relax and get back on track. And if you find yourself bored this week and in search of the perfect book (or books), I have the perfect suggestion...(see number 1 :).

True Love

I've been a mom for fifteen years as of yesterday. I have four kids. What does all this amount to? A lot of puke.

Vomit, throw-up, puke - whatever you want to call it, I have spent the best years of my life dealing with it. It's been everywhere. Beds, cars, new carpet, right next to the toilet (a personal fav), on my person, and on my children. And, like mothers everywhere, I have done my duty. I have choked down the gag reflex, pushed through the smell (oh, the smell!), and cleaned up mess after mess. (I'd throw in 'without complaint' here, but I do strive for honesty...)

Have you ever noticed that each kid has their own puking personality? My youngest, for instance, is of the silent-but-violent variety. One minute she's sitting there peacefully, and the next - well, you get the picture. And the worst part? Even when she's actually throwing up there's no sound. You know that pre-puke cough that can wake any mother from a dead sleep? The one that has you on the run before your conscious brain has even registered what's going on? Ya. No pre-puke cough for number four. After years of dealing with the no-warning aftermath, I've decided that God gave kids that cough for a reason, and any time I feel like he doesn't love mothers I immediately think of the pre-puke cough that has saved me from so many vomit-disasters, and know that I am loved.

I bring all of this up because my children are getting older. They no longer vomit on their way to tell me they might need to vomit, because they're now all smart enough to head straight for the toilet. I can't even remember the last time I had to deal in puke, and I am so, so, grateful.

And then last night happened.

It was C, my ten-year-old. He got sick. He had pains. He wasn't sure which end would be affected, so I gave him a bowl and sent him to the bathroom. He threw up, assured me it was just a little, and looked so much better that I was sure the crisis had passed and gave him the following instructions: dump the bowl into the toilet and then put it in the laundry room sink. I told him I'd take care of it when I was done doing whatever very-important thing I was doing.

Then he threw up again.

The good news? He was self-sufficient enough to go fetch his bowl from the sink in time to make it back to the toilet (he required coverage on both ends.) (Is that too much information? Sorry...). The other good news? He was so self-sufficient that he didn't even tell me he'd thrown up again until after he'd taken care of things.

Now for the bad news: He forgot the order of operations for puke clean-up.

In his defense, he knew there was a problem as soon as the contents of the bowl filled the bottom of the sink and failed to go down the drain... That's right, people, instead of dumping into the toilet and rinsing in the sink, he went straight for the sink. Which had other stuff in it. Stuff that was now floating around in the usual flotsam that happens when a ten-year-old loses the contents of his stomach. And you know what? I couldn't do it.

Maybe it's been too long, maybe there's just been too much vomit in my life, but for whatever reason, I looked in that sink and knew that I didn't have it in me to clean it up. I didn't even know this could happen to someone who had suffered through the pains of labor and child-raising, but apparently it's possible to hit a wall - the Puke Wall, we'll call it. The wall which stands as an impenetrable barrier between a mother and her ability to clean up puke.

This is where the true love comes in.

My husband was innocently sitting in the family room, watching a movie and minding his own business. I looked at him, felt a brief, fleeting moment of guilt, successfully suppressed it, and proclaimed the following:

me: Honey? I've been cleaning up puke for fifteen years. I can't do it anymore, so this one is on you.

him: (brief moment of silent staring as if he's not quite sure he understands the language I'm speaking, and then, miraculously,) Okay.

He said okay. Not only that, but unlike the 'Okay,' that really means, 'Sure I will...eventually...if you don't get to it first because you can't stand waiting for me to take care of it,' this was the real thing. In other words, it was accompanied by action, and he immediately got up from the couch and took care of the sink.

And when he was done he even shrugged off my thanks as if it hadn't been a big deal. As if. This was the singular most big-dealish thing any husband that I know of has done for his wife in a long, long, long time. I mean, technically, I found the puke, I was over-seeing the 'process', so I should have been on duty for clean up. Right?

But he did it. Immediately and without complaint. This is True Love at it's greatest, and to every woman who will someday hit the Puke Wall, may your husband also show such unconditional True Love, and save you from one puke too many.

The Three Year Old - Proving the Existence of God One Tantrum at a Time

I so don't have time to do this right now, but here I am blogging. My old computer that was briefly resurrected after the loss of my regular one crashed last week (hence the lack of posts), so I am once again computer-less, and at the mercy of using other people's computers.

In other news, this past weekend Little Miss Two officially became Little Miss Three. But between you and me, this actually started happening some time ago. You know the whole now-that-the-child-is-three-and-talks-in-complete-sentences-this-should-all-get-so-much-less-frustrating feelings you have as your child nears three? I hate those. They are COMPLETELY false, and in reality this is NOT what happens. At all.

Instead, it gets worse. You think they'll become more reasonable, when in all actuality they're the definition of "unreasonable". They have opinions. They have preferences. You get major meltdowns over what color cup they want, which stool they sit on, which one of you is going to get them dressed, etc. Oh what I'd give for the days before color-knowledge and independence.

Miss Three has a particularly bad case of independencitis - aka, an irritation caused from three year olds who think they can and should do everything themselves, when in fact, life would be much easier if they just let you be the parent. Seriously. Do you have any idea how long it takes her to put on her shoes/climb into the car AND her car seat/get her pj's off and her clothes on? I'll bet that in the last few months I've spent hours of my life watching her accomplish these tasks.

And then there's the other category: The things you wish they would do for themselves, but insist you do for them.

Doll dressing falls into this category. Miss Three has an insatiable urge to strip and re-dress her dolls over, and over, and over again. Only she can't get the clothes back on, so I have to do it. Over, and over, and over again.

Thankfully, three year olds are also living, walking, and whining proof that the Lord does, in fact, know exactly what he's doing. Why else would he make them the cutest things on the face of the earth? Seriously, they are so cute. And they say the most hilarious things. And they do the most hilarious things. And they can be so incredibly loving as they wrap their cute little arms around your neck and tell you how much they "wuv you".

Clearly the Lord was well aware of just how maddening and exasperating the human three year old would be. Knowing the feelings a single tantrum would cause, he blessed them with fat cheeks, dimpled elbows, and complete adorableness, just to ensure their survival. Somehow, even when they're at their absolute worst three year olds manage to be cute.

And it's a good thing, too.

Boys Will Be Boys

If a little boy and his baby sister (or brother) were being raised on an island by and old woman, how old would the little boy be before he began sitting on his smaller sibling to repeatedly jab his index finger into his/her chest?

Just wondering.

You can see here how I have factored in a care giver that would in no way pass on knowledge of such torture. In fact, since said island is also void of any other humans/television/contact-with-outside-world, I have removed any and all sources for sibling torture information.

And yet, you can see that I am still banking on the fact that it will happen. Eventually. Probably sooner rather than later. Why is this?

I distinctly remember the infamous chest-poking and other (MANY other) tortures inflicted on me by my older brother. Having my nose stuck in his smelly armpit, being exposed to extremely harmful bodily gases at point-blank range, and other worse (MUCH worse) tortures I will save for another post. (This particular brother was so creative in his sibling-torture methods, it will require a separate post to truly appreciate his mastery of this male art).

The inspiration for this post? I just watched my nice little five year old sit on Little Miss Two's stomach, and poke her repeatedly in the chest. This is obviously a genetically hardwired behavior, and it's not the only one either. Take sound effects for instance. Boys are practically born making sound affects. I remember being completely awed by the explosion noises my nephews (who are only a few years younger than me) could make when we were kids. When no one was around, I'd actually practice just to see if I could figure out how to make them myself, and I couldn't do it. Now I sit around and continue to be amazed by my own three boys.

Seriously. Five year old males are better than a sound stage when it comes to Marshall arts or laser gun wars. Little Miss Two makes her feeble attempts at gun sounds and things, but her chromosomes are clearly not designed for convincing noises. Sound affects are not part of female genetic make-up.

The female gift is bossing.

Am I the only one who's noticed this? By the time she was old enough to walk, my girl child could put her hand on her hip and sass with the best of them. She lives for telling people what to do. It's like I have an echo. As soon as someone's in trouble there she is relishing every last chastisement, and doing her best to repeat it all word for word, and gesture for gesture. And if you're smaller (or even just barely bigger) than Little Miss Two, watch out. She will be telling you where to go, and how to get there. And you will be blamed for everything not right in the universe. And if you're around during the prayer, she will have her eagle eyes peeled to catch the slightest break in proper-praying-posture. (Actually, no one - regardless of size - is exempt from this last one).

After watching the scores of children around me (and remembering being one myself) I have come to the conclusion that these things are universally so. And while there are always exceptions to every rule, for the most part I stand by my theory. Boys will be boys, and girls will be bossy.

How Santa Saved My Sanity

I will be very sad when Santa finally comes and goes this year, because (brace yourself) I have been shamelessly using his good name to keep my just-turned-five year old in line for at least three months. We all love and appreciate the parenting tools implied in the lyrics "You better watch out!" and I am no different than any other mother out there. When it comes to things that may coerce my kids into cooperation, I'll try about anything.

But I put a new spin on Santa threats this year. And can I just say that the success rate is through the roof? This has got to be the best mom-deceit scheme I've ever come up with for keeping little people in line. If only I would have thought of it way back when the first two were still susceptible to these kind of tactics - September (which is really just about as far out as you can go with the whole "Santa's watching" bit) to December would have been my favorite time of year for more reasons than just the Fall fashions.

It all started with C's fits. I know you're all about to be shocked (and I'm SURE none of your children would EVER act like this), but he is known for throwing fits when things don't go his way. One moment, he will be standing there talking to you like a civilized person, and then you say something horribly wrong and totally unacceptable (like "No"). His head falls back. His mouth opens. A hideous shrieking noise issues forth. Simultaneously, as if the effort of the sound actually renders his legs useless, he collapses to the ground - always landing on his face.

And there he remains - completely incapacitated in his continuing shriek (because he doesn't breath, but just carries on with enviable diaphramatic control) - completely deaf and blind to me, and any and all threats/suggestions/reprimands/physical-removals-to-the-naughty-corner.

And then September came. And in one desperately-trying-not-to-abuse-my-child moment, the heavens opened, divine inspiration struck, and the following words came out of my mouth:

"Santa's going to bring you baby toys for your stocking if keep acting like that. Don't you know that Santa decides what toys to bring little boys by how they act? If he sees you throwing a baby fit, you'll get baby toys for Christmas because he'll think you're only two. Do you want baby toys in your stocking?"

Bingo. It was like breaking through the tantrum-force field. The shrieking stopped, his face lifted from the floor wearing a VERY concerned expression.

C: He will?

Me: Yep. You don't want a dumb old rattle, do you?

C: (vigorous head shaking)

Me: Well then you'd better get up off the floor and start acting like a big boy, because Santa's watching.

C: (eyes furtively glancing up, down, and all around as he jumps to his feet) Now will I get big boy toys?

Me: As long as you stop throwing those baby fits, and keep acting like a big boy.

There are not words to express the victorious feelings overwhelming me at that moment. Take THAT! almost-five-year-old mentality! I am mother, HEAR ME ROAR!!!!

And can I just say how many times I've used the phrase "Do you want a rattle in your stocking?" since that blessed day? It's been saving my precious patience reserves for three months! AND, the tantrums have definitely slowed down. (Which is the only thing keeping me from panicking about January and the loss of my new best threat).

So although I know many feel Santa is a representation of all that's wrong with Christmas, I would like to disagree. He definitely serves a worthwhile purpose for a solid three months out of every year, and I think I'm giving him my vote for Most Helpful Citizen of the Year.

Thank You Santa!!!!

"Too Much Information" or "Another Mom Brain Fried in the Wal-Mart Checkout"

There seriously is nothing like the microscope of the Wal-Mart Checkout to fry a mother's brain. We've all seen it. We've probably all been victimized by it.

But some incidents are more painful to watch (and hear) than others. Such was the case tonight.

The scene: 9:30 in Wal-Mart's Garden Center Checkout.

The players: Me, a young mother with her two children, and about twenty other witnesses.

The situation: Very, very, very sad.

Here's how it went. After a long, meandering, child-free shopping trip, I purchased all my goods but one and loaded my car. I then drove over to the Garden Center to pick up a bike (for C's 5th birthday tomorrow) that I'd set aside at the checkout. As I came around the check station to get in line I see the following:

The said young mother and her kids. She was standing behind her cart, about five yards behind the last person in line, pleading with her 3-4 yr old boy to let her move forward.

His foot (and body weight) were blocking further progress.

Me: Oh, are you in line?

YM: Well, kind of. I'm trying to be. I've been standing here for twenty minutes.

Me: (thinking she meant she'd been waiting in line twenty minutes like I just had) Well then I'll just get behind you.

YM: (Look of panic and desperation set in as I move in behind her)

She then begins explaining how he wants this toy (which I'll call a "blah,blah" since that's what it sounded like when she said it), but there weren't any more - all the while desperately pushing against the kid to get him to move toward the line. He doesn't budge. Two more customers get behind me. She gets more desperate.

Apparently desperation makes her want to talk.

So as she moves to the front of the cart to battle more effectively with her child, she tells me (loudly - definitely loud enough for the man behind me to hear) that she "just needed to get tampons" (waves box in air to prove point). Then she turns to the child:

YM: They don't have a blah,blah. They're all gone. You need to move.

Child: I want blah,blah (whine, whine)

YM: They don't have a blah,blah! You need to move, there are people behind us.

Child: I want blah,blah (whine, whine)

YM: (sounding a little frantic, but still sane) We need to move! They don't have the toy! (physically tries moving child - child goes limp - she gains about three inches - woman two people back sighs loudly).

Child: I want blah,blah (whine, whine)

YM: (to me)(loudly)(getting VERY frustrated)(and probably starting to sweat) I was just sitting on my couch, and I started my period! So I just had to come and get some tampons (waves box again)(I feel man behind me cringe).

Me: (to make her feel better, and to get her off the tampon subject) It's okay, I have four of my own.

YM: How do you do it! I am done. I'm not having any more. (tugs on kid, gains a few more inches. There's still a few people in front of her, so she's okay).

Me: Really? Are you sure? (don't ask why I said it. I don't know. I was trying to make conversation).

YM: (again, speaking loudly) When I had HIM (points to angelic 15 month old in cart) the doctor asked me if I wanted a TUBAL LIGATION. I asked him, "a TUBAL LIGATION?" and he said, "Yeah, a TUBAL LIGATION." I said, "you mean get my TUBES TIED?" and he said "yes, a TUBAL LIGATION." I said "of course I want my TUBES TIED!!! I don't want ANY more!" and he said, "well we could have, since you had a c-section, but you have to give us twenty day's notice, so it's too late."

I swear she really did say TUBAL LIGATION at least that many times. And what's up with her doctor?

About this time the person in front of her moves up. This is when she really started to lose it, and started bargaining with the child. (And where I wished I could help her, but knew that every mother must do her time in the Wal-Mart checkout, and there was nothing to do but watch, and feel a LOT of pity).

YM: (to child, who has been incessantly saying "I want blah,blah" since we last mentioned him) You have to move. If you move, I'll come back in the morning and get you the toy.

Child: I want blah,blah (whine, whine)

YM: Fine. If you don't move, I'll take away the "blah,blah" you already have when we get home.

Child: I want blah,blah (whine, whine)

YM: (repeats this last exchange at least five times before moving on to...) Don't be such a cry baby! I'm taking away your toy. You're such a whiny brat, why can't you be good like your baby brother? You're the one acting like the baby. Don't be a whiny baby.

Child: I want blah,blah (whine, whine)

YM: You're being such a brat! Stop it! If you don't stop crying like a cry baby, I'll call you a baby - I'll call you Riley! (apparently they know a crybaby named Riley) Did you hear me? Do you want me to call you Riley?

Child: No.

YM: Well I will. I'll call you Riley if you keep being such a bratty cry baby.

Child: (miraculously stops crying, moves away from cart, and line proceeds forward).

She then admitted to me (loudly) that she really had always wanted three, but since her first two had different dads she was worried people would think she was a whore.

Another mom-brain fried, compliments of Wal-Mart.

So I think we should all have a few moments of silence for this poor young mother, and all the others like her, who have been recent casualties of the Wal-Mart checkout. If you're among the fallen, you're included. We salute you. (we've all BEEN you). There is no mother who is immune to this hazard (except for those that do all their shopping online), whether it is because of inexperience, over-confidence, crabby/sick/difficult children, or any other contributing factor to public meltdowns of offspring.

Please don't feel bad. This too shall pass.

(But whatever you do, try not to mention your period, tubal ligations, or suggest {under ANY circumstances} that you might be a whore. And if you must mention any of these things, I advise whispering).

(ouch).

Help Me! I'm Drowning In Indecision!

As most of you probably know, I have four children. And if you've read this post, or this post, you know that I hate my house, and have only two bedrooms. And a husband, let's not forget him! That makes six people, and two bedrooms. To be fair, they are very large bedrooms, but still. Only two.

Right at the top of the stairs we also have a fairly large room, but the stairs come right into it, and there's no window that would be in the room if we walled part of it off (and the fabulous 1925 construction of this house won't support a dormer), and you have to walk through it to get to both the other bedrooms. Currently we use it as a family/catch-all room. "Family" because it has a tv and a futon, "catch-all" because it's also crammed with everything normal people, with normal closet-filled houses would put out of site.

So you can see that this room is not a proper bedroom - just a space where someone could sleep.

One of the bedrooms houses all three boys. The other - the math is pretty simple here - belongs to my husband, myself, and my two year old.

Can you see the problem here? Can you see the difficult position I'm in? Can you see how I need an answer to this dilemma? (Moving would be an acceptable solution, if only it were an option). What do I do with all the children?? When do my husband and I get our room back??? I have a few possible scenarios, but none of them seem all that great.

First lets take the boys room. Do any of you know what it's like to have three kids in the same room? It isn't always terrible - especially if we stagger their bedtimes, but it definitely has its drawbacks. For instance, all it takes is for one kid to be feeling very awake, very obnoxious, or get the giggles, and bedtime becomes a joke. Especially if someone else is legitimately tired, and trying to go to sleep. The other night when the Missionaries stopped by just after we'd shut them all in there, it sounded like a war zone with all the boys yelling simultaneously at each other to shut-up.

This word is not even allowed in our house! I'm sure I would never say such a thing...

Anyhow, listening to all the yelling (and wondering why they couldn't understand that if someone actually WOULD shut-up they might get some peace), and trying to nod and smile at the Missionaries, brought my problem into the forefront again.

How do I get peace at bedtime? What to do with the girl-child? Can that room hold one more? Can that room stand ONE MORE VOICE??? I know this will come as a shock, but despite her very feminine and lady-like manner, the girl can hold her own when she's around her brothers. Besides that, she would be way too much of a novelty in there. They'd be so busy playing with her, and trying to make her laugh, no one would EVER get to sleep.

So much for option one.

On to option two. This would be moving someone out into the "family/catch-all" room, and then filling the void in the boys room with Miss Meara. Sound good? Maybe not. In the first place, we like to use the family room. And (even though this sounds totally paranoid) I worry that if there was a fire, anyone sleeping out there would die fast from smoke inhalation, since there's no door. PLUS, even with one kid out of the bedroom, putting Meara in there would cause all the same problems. She'd still be loud, and she'd still get everyone distracted from sleeping.

This makes me wonder if I should just stick with plan one after all.

Or, we could just leave things the way they are and hope that some miracle will occur, making moving an immediate possibility.

But I really want her out of my room. I am NOT a kid-in-the-bedroom kind of mom. I can't stand it that whenever she wakes up - night or morning - she knows I'm right there.

And so it goes. I run these exact options through my head, with these exact arguments, follow this exact pattern, and end up exactly where I am now.

Completely undecided.

So if anyone out there has an opinion - or can see an option I haven't thought of yet - please share your wisdom with me! There must be a best (or at least better-than-all-the-rest) option out there... If only I could see what it was.

I'll be waiting in suspense for all your sage advice.

Please don't disappoint me.

(But if you can't think of any advice, sympathy and commiseration are totally acceptable). (Thanks).

Another Reason Why I Shouldn't Be In Charge

I am responsible for giving all the children (and probably some of the adults in my ward) the world's worst sugar high. Last night was our ward's Potluck/Harvest Party, and as I've mentioned previously, the powers that be have decided I need to enhance my party planning skills, and I am now the ward Activities Person. As you can see, I am so out of the activity-planning loop, I'm not even sure what the actual title of my calling is.

I just know that several times a year I must plan, carry out, and clean up huge group activities.

And that it is not my forte, because my brain isn't organized, non-procrastinating, or detail oriented. Yes, we remembered the silverware and plates - but of course we (I) forgot the cups. And the napkins. Apparently, I just wouldn't be me if I didn't forget one of these important items. Oh well, right?

I'd almost rather go back to my previous job of being Primary President. If I hadn't determined that weekly headaches were worse than (pre-activity) headaches lasting a week, it would be a toss-up.

The Harvest Party was supposed to be all about food. Healthy food, to be exact. The kind people grew in their gardens, the wholesome stuff they canned, the good and nourishing things they brought to eat at the potluck, etc. The food theme shouldn't surprise anyone, because if you know anything about me at all, you know that my life practically revolves around food. I love food.

As great as it is, however, bringing food to display and eating food for dinner didn't seem like enough of an activity. What about the children? Surely they need some games, right? And prizes? Looking back, it's clear to see how my thought process totally revolved around food. Not just any food, but sweet, sugary food.

There was the "Candy Walk." Exactly what it sounds like - just walk around and get candy kids, we're giving it out for free. Not the cheap stuff either - I have "good" candy connections to put in charge of events like this. The candy in our Candy Walk was stuff like mini Almond Joy, KitKat, BabyRuth - the Costco goodie bag, if you're familiar with it.

Then there was the donut eating contest. Donuts on a string for all the little children who had just finished gorging themselves at the dessert table. That's right kiddies, just cram that donut in your mouth, and before you have a chance to swallow, we'll shove another piece of candy at you just for playing!

Pin the tie on the Bishop? The Bean Bag Toss? Candy as both victory AND consolation prize at each activity!!!

And as if that weren't enough, a sprinkling of the candy corn mix with the little candy corn pumpkins on all the tables.

Oh yes. And the good people bringing their produce and canning for display deserve a reward. How about chocolate? That's right, all those little children, with all those little sugar-bug infested teeth, got a pile of big old chocolate coins (the cool ones that actually look like fifty cent pieces) for bringing an entry.

Gee, I wonder why the dear primary children were running around screaming like Banshees on the world's biggest sugar high while we attempted to clean up around them? I really and truly believe that only Halloween itself can possibly compete with my Harvest Party when it comes to sweets and sugar. When I realized just how much sugar was flowing (some children - like mine - won candy in the Candy Walk like twenty times), even I was a little taken aback.

Will I be liable for dental bills? What about parents who lost their minds trying to put sugar-loaded children to bed when the activity finally ended at 8:30? Will they send me anonymous, threatening mail? (Even if they did, I'd still know who they were. I was passing out the candy, remember?)

I have to say, I'm feeling a little responsible here. Where was the message of Health? "Here children, look at these nice vegetables you grew in your garden. I'll bet you would all just love some zucchini, but unfortunately the actual focus of this activity happens to be sugar. And more sugar. Sister S. is cranking out powdered sugar covered elephant ears in the kitchen RIGHT NOW, so run along and help yourself."

Should I feel guilty here? Am I a horrible person who is subconsciously passing my love of sweet, fattening food at Harvesty-Fair-type events on to innocent children?

On second thought, maybe I should do it again next time. If those powers that be decide my sugary-food-one-track-mind is too harmful for the children of the ward, they might feel compelled to release me and put me in the library where I can't possibly pose a food-threat to anyone.

Hey, it could happen. I believe in miracles - it's part of my religion.

For now, however, I suppose I should just act like nothing happened. Sugar? What sugar? I have no recollection of sugar, sweets, or a Harvest Party, so don't try pinning your kids cavities on me! If I can just hold out for twenty-six more days, Halloween will come along and erase all memory of my Loads-of-Sugar-For-the-Children Harvest Party.

Any guesses on why I love Halloween?

Truth and Lies

I know that as a general rule, children in the age range of four to eight are not that great at telling the truth. More precisely, they tend to make up things and try to pass them off as truth. In our family, we call these "whoppers". My kids have told some pretty creative ones.

There was the time Niall (age 6) told the aid in his classroom about the bats. That would be the living, flying variety. Thanks to my husband, our boys are rather obsessed with hunting. They just wish there was something they could hunt - preferably something besides the cat. So Niall apparently invented his own hunting adventure and shared it with Mrs. P. She came up to me after school when I was picking the boys up and wanted to know about the bats.

Me: What bats?

MP: The ones Liam and Niall have been hunting.

Me: Hunting?

MP: Yes. Niall tells me they have these bat traps - that they made themselves - and that they hang them up to catch bats.

Me: Oh really. Then what happens?

MP: Well, the bats are very dangerous, but the boys shoot them with their bows and kill them. Niall says they do this all the time and have killed hundreds.

I could see that Mrs. P was fully enjoying this story. Women like her belong in elementary schools properly appreciating children. It turns out she had done everything she could to get Niall to admit that just maybe, the story wasn't exactly true. No go, he stuck to his guns.

Me, being the concerned parent, decided that something must be done. My child cannot get away with telling a whopper when an adult has called him on it. These principles must be taught, right? So I immediately descend on Niall (we're still at the school) and ask him what he was doing telling Mrs. P. that he hunted bats. Panic struck his adorable six yr old face at being caught in his lie, and momentarily my reserve shook. Our conversation went something like this:

Me: Well?

Niall: (tears falling, head hanging, sobs starting.) I don't knowwwww.

Me: (feeling really bad, but also thinking I must stick to my plan and teach him to tell the truth) Did you just think it sounded really cool?

Niall: Yeah. (more pathetic tears as his eyes dart around to make sure no one can tell he's crying)

Me: Well, you have to tell Mrs. P. the truth, and apologize for lying. It's okay to make up cool stories, but if they aren't true and people think they are, you have to tell them the truth. Especially if they ask you "is that true."

Poor little Niall suffered an all out anxiety attack at the thought of this confrontation. He was so stressed out about it, we finally decided he could write her a letter and give it to her the next day. He was very sweet about it, and very brave, and I was very proud of him when he got in the car the next day and announced he'd delivered it first thing.

Besides, it could have been worse. When Liam was that age he told his whole class his dad was in prison. Why prison? Couldn't he have just said jail? (Neither were true by the way, but prison just sounds so much worse!) I'll take bats over the smirching of our good names any day!

Anyway, today Niall had to make another confession. After blaming his poor little cousin Harrison for something - swearing he had seen the offense committed - it turned out he'd been *gasp* lying. He was distressed, it's true. Sheer heartbreak had caused the blunder. But alas, a lie is still a lie and a confession was in order.

I would just like to say that my little Niall is growing up. He panicked - but only a little. Tears welled, but they didn't fall. And best of all, no letter was needed. We called, and he humbly apologized with a very determined look on his still adorable face. Thank you Aunt Annie for being so forgiving. Thank you Niall for having the courage to confess. I can tell by his determination to make things right that he is learning - despite the occasional little slip-ups.

Bored Four Year Old Blues, And Other "Mom Issues"

The rest of you can refer to this as the first day of school. I prefer to call it "the first day home alone with my four year old." Yes, Meara is here too - technically - but in some ways that only complicates the issue. Since she has very poor fighting moves, no skill with numchucks, swords, or any other weapons, is not named Liam (frankly, even Niall would do at this point), and has the audacity to be a girl and play with dolls, Conan has absolutely no use for her. I dropped the boys off 55 minutes ago, and I'm already going crazy.

"There's nothing to doooo," "who can I plaaayyy with?" "Are we going somewhere? Whyyyy not?" "When does preschool start?" "[various crying, whining noises, while throwing himself around on the floor]". This is so not-peaceful. Preschool doesn't start for over a week. Insanity is definitely a possibility if things don't improve.

Hopefully, Conan will eventually relent and forgive Meara for being a girl. Meanwhile, I just want everyone out there who's even considering having only one child to rethink the issue. TWO IS SOO MUCH EASIER THAN ONE!! Once they're old enough to play together that is. And thankfully, now that Meara's two that does happen more frequently, so there is hope. And to any of my girlfriends out there who have four year old boys and are reading this - by Friday I WILL NEED A PLAYDATE!

On another note entirely, I have to say just one little thing about dropping the boys off at school this morning. Despite the fact that I am a hardened mother of a fourth grader and a second grader, well versed in "first days", I felt a little teary this morning.

I really didn't see this coming at all, and walked my children into their little three-room school feeling completely unemotional. Niall headed into his class, while I went in to have a word with Liam's teacher. On the way out, I decided to peek in at Niall and say goodbye.

I don't really know what got me - whether it was his anxious little face as he carefully unloaded his school supplies into his very first "desk", how big he looked now that he's out of the K-1st classroom, or how little he looked to be in with the 2nd-3rd graders. Who knows, but whatever it was, I suddenly felt very sad. Maybe it isn't so bad that Conan is a lonely, whining, four year old. Maybe I'll just spend some time cuddling with him - preparing against the day when he too, is a big 2nd grader with a real desk, and school supplies he doesn't share. It seems so far away, but experience tells me it will happen all too quickly.

Isn't that the way motherhood goes? You can't wait for the next thing, so anxious for them to move on (and stop being four), but when they do, you just want them to go back and be little. Yesterday when Liam and I were shopping, my sweet nine year old wanted to hold my hand. I couldn't help feeling scared that it would be for the last time, and I was sad. But really, I guess that's what it's all about. Loving them, teaching them, enjoying them, and sometimes not-enjoying them, until you've given them the tools to move on - whether that means second grade or out of the house. It is sad, but it's so incredibly worth it! Children are the greatest thing the Lord could give us, and I'm so grateful for mine. Love your kids today, everybody - they won't be little forever!

The Truth Hurts

I love it when little kids coin phrases that become family tradition. Take my sister Laura's son Kenyan, for instance. (He's going to love that I'm posting this story about him, by the way - now that he's thirteen and immune to all embarrassment). When he was being potty trained, he was having a hard time with the whole BM thing. Just couldn't really let it go on the potty, if you know what I mean. Finally, in his moment of triumph he excitedly yelled, "Hey, I dropped some!" A family phrase/code word was born. In our family we don't say a child has to "go", we say he has to "drop some."

My favorite of all time, however, is a phrase that originates with Liam. Liam has always been aware of other people's feelings. Even when he was really little, he never wanted to make anyone feel bad, or be mean in any way.

Yet, being a small child, the truth must be said.

One day when he was about four, Liam and my mother were outside together. I don't remember exactly what it was they were doing, but while they were doing whatever it was, my mom exhibited poor judgement on some level. A level low enough that my four year old son noticed.

Standing next to her, he critically examined the situation from his four year old perspective. Reaching his conclusion, he looked up at her with an apologetic expression on his little face, and gently said, "Grandma? I think maybe you're just a little bit not so smart."

It was clear that it pained him to be so brutally honest, but at four what other choice do you have?

Since this occurrence, my mother eventually recovered her self respect in the eyes of my child, and we have continued to use the phrase, "just a little bit not-so-smart" to lovingly point out judgement lapses, and various other, well, not-so-smart things committed by those we love.

Going, Going, Gone

Niall, my seven year old, is known to stress out about things. For instance, the other day the boys and I were talking about growing up and having kids. This led into the following conversation:

Niall: Oh, I'm never having kids.

Me: Why not? Don't you think it would be fun to have kids?

Niall: Sure.

Me: Then why don't you want to have any?

Niall: (In an 'isn't it obvious' tone) Because I don't know how to get to the hospital!

This is typical for him. He has also informed me that he doesn't ever plan on moving out no matter how old he gets. Why? Because he might not be able to get to the bank. ???? Who knew the bank would factor so high on the life necessity list of a seven year old?

So the other day we had another 'stressed out Niall' incidence. A newlywed couple has just moved in on the street behind us. They are very nice, and she is particularly sweet. We've got to know them a little, because our dog Rosie loves to go play at their house. Anytime the gate is left open and no one is around, off she goes.

Niall has become a fan of Nichole - probably because she keeps offering him food - and I've become suspicious that he occasionally lets Rosie out intentionally. This happened the other day, and he came home and excitedly told me Nicole had offered to let him borrow movies the next time he came to get Rosie.

The next day, Rosie mysteriously went AWOL, and Niall came rushing in to see if he and Liam could go get her. I rolled my eyes and sent them on their way. About ten minutes later he was back and I could see there was a problem.

Niall: Mom? (In his stressed out 'I'm trying not to cry' voice) Will you call Nicole and ask her if we can borrow some movies?

Me (heartless, as usual): No, if you wanted movies you should have asked for them while you were over there.

Niall (blinking very fast as tears welled): I couldn't. Rosie was in their backyard, and when we called her she came. (usually she runs the other way when the boys go to retrieve her)

Me: (sigh) Well, if you really want to borrow movies, why don't you just go back over and ask?

Niall (breaking down completely): I can't (sob). She said "when you come to get Rosie" and Rosie isn't over there (sob, sob).

At this point I was feeling sorry for the poor little guy, and managed to convince him that it would be okay to go back. He was a little concerned, but did it anyway and came happily home with his movies.

There was nothing remarkable about this incident, but for some reason I just keep thinking about it. Lately I've found myself getting emotional about the fact that my kids are getting older. My little Conan is going to be five in December, and everyone knows that babyhood is officially over by five. The fat creases on their arms and wrists are gone, their faces thin out, and they quickly get too big to sit on your lap and cuddle.

With my first I didn't realize this was happening, and his babyhood slipped by one night and was gone. I missed it's going completely, because I failed to see the end coming. Now I feel like I'm hanging on for dear life to Conan's sweet little ways, because too soon they will be gone as well.

Liam is a nine year old giant, Niall is big enough to worry about banking, and run around the neighborhood unsupervised (okay, it's really just a field between our houses, but I wouldn't let Conan go alone) and Conan is next. What will I do with out a little boy around to cuddle and kiss? I really can't imagine it. For all the things they've ruined, all the noise and wrestling and dare-devil stunts that end in disaster, there is nothing in the world as sweet as a little boy.

And so, I will enjoy Niall's little childhood stresses, and appreciate him even more for having them. I will cherish being the one to solve his problems and calm his fears, because I know the day will come when he won't need me this way anymore. And most of all, I will thank my Heavenly Father every day for giving me such wonderful children to watch, enjoy, and love. There couldn't be a greater gift.