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...

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.

One of the Many Reasons I'm Glad I'm Not a Teenage Boy

Apparently nothing is the same for a teenage boy. Even going to Walmart.

As usual, my whole family exchanged names this December for the annual Christmas Angel thing we do. For the most part it's just an opportunity to be extra nice to someone/everyone. The most important goal is to be extra nice to whoever you drew. The over-achiever's goal is to be so nice to everyone that they all think you have their name. On Christmas morning when we tell who we had, the person who fooled the most people into thinking he/she was their angel gets to play Santa. C wins every year.

Anyhow, back to teenage boys and Walmart. This year, since all the kids are older and (most) have their own money, I decided we'd also purchase gifts for our special person. The logistics of taking four kids shopping with only one parent around to help while trying to maintain secrecy gets a little sticky, so I decided to take the kids on two separate trips. First I'd take my fourteen-year-old son and my sever-year-old daughter, then the two in the middle.

So last night L, M and I get to Walmart. I look at my mature teenage son and have no qualms at all about sending him off on his own. (Well, other than the fact that he has no watch or cell phone, and absolutely no sense of time. But at least I knew we'd meet up again eventually...) I told him to do his shopping, check out, and go to the benches at the front of the store. We'd either be there before him, or he could just sit there and wait for us.

Good plan, right? Did I mention that he's six feet tall and weighs 190 pounds? This is no helpless little adolescent here - I was not worried. (Which says a lot if you know me.)

I'd told him we'd plan on meeting back up in about forty minutes from when we separated, but my daughter and I got bogged down in electronics, and when I checked my phone for the time it was dead. But I wasn't worried. It wouldn't hurt him to wait for me. He'd be fine...

When I came out of the electronics section, I saw a wide-eyed L coming at me. Here's how our conversation went:

L: Mom! Where have you been!

Me: Shopping. Why?

L: I have been waiting and waiting for you!

Me: Why? Is something wrong?

L (Looking at me as if I am an errant child who has just asked a very stupid question as he lists off the following on his fingers): I have been sworn at, flipped off, threatened, and offered drugs. Get me out of here!

All of which happened while he was sitting on that bench, minding his own business and waiting for his mother.

Can I just say that nothing like this has ever happened to me anywhere? Let alone Walmart! I've sat on that bench and waited for people lots of times, and no one has ever done more than nod at me as they walked past. My poor little giant son. Sitting there with his crew cut hair and big dimpled smile, just minding his own business and bothering no one. I mean, maybe if he were decked out in chains with huge gauges in his ears (like the drug salesman's), or had missing teeth (like the girl who called him a naughty word and flipped him off - I guess she was rather threatening looking) I could understand, but L just has the look of a nice person!

Suffice it to say that when I took C and N (10 and 12, respectively) shopping tonight, we did not split up. The secret of the Christmas Angels was pretty much sacrificed, but better that than my children, right? So glad I am not a teenage boy!

I Have a Confession...

I've been writing a book.

I'd been working on a novel before I started blogging, but the sad truth is that all my friends in blogland were just way too interesting, and before long my book project was pretty much shelved. When I finally did get another computer I had a choice to make: give back in to my blogging addiction, or focus on my writing.

And so I wrote.

I have to admit that it was very difficult to stay away from blogland and all the fabulous friends I have here, but it was worth it because MY BOOK IS OUT!!! The title is Laryn Rising, the pitch is here, you can buy it here, and here's the amazing cover created by my good friend Olivia:

Can I just say that I am so excited?!? I also have a new 'author blog', but I have to admit that it isn't nearly as much fun to write over there, because I don't have very many friends in the writing world yet.

But enough of my book and on to a more entertaining subject - my children. Specifically, my oldest son, who is now a freshman in high school. For homecoming this year we made a deal that he could ask a girl to the dance as long as he went with a group of three or more couples. So, he picked a good friend of his (not the girl in the picture)and got all set to go.

Enter 'Shopping For Homecoming Clothes'.

We go to Ross. I select five pairs of slacks for him to try on. I send him into the dressing room with VERY clear instructions that he is to show me every single pair of pants he tries on. And then I wait.

And wait.

AND WAIT.

I am not exaggerating when I say that I waited for at least ten (TEN) minutes before he finally came staggering out of the dressing room in his first pair. The following conversation ensued:

Me: What took you so long! Did you try them all on without coming out to show me?

Liam: No. I fell asleep.

Me: You did not, you're joking.

Liam: I'm not joking, Mom. I sat down to take off my shoes, and I just kind of leaned back, and then...

I have never heard of this falling-asleep-in-the-dressing-room syndrome before, but if anyone has I'd love to know that my son is not the first to have this serious condition. The dance was a success, however, and he had a blast with his good friend Maddie. Here they are in all their homecoming finery!

Tomorrow, Tomorrow, I Love Ya, Tomorrow

If you've come to see the results of the naming contest, go here. If not, don't go anywhere. Until you come to the comment form. Once there, leave a word or two describing my awesomeness, and then you are free to go. And please keep your hands and arms inside at all times. Thank you.

And now we return to normal programing.

Can I just say how excited I am about tomorrow? I may even take the advice I always give my children when they're waiting for something exciting to happen, and go to bed super early so morning can come even sooner. (And after my holiday hours, it's going to seem awfully early, believe me).

And what is it I'm so excited about? What wonderful, glorious thing happens tomorrow? (As if every mother out there doesn't already know EXACTLY what I'm referring to) TOMORROW THEY GO BACK TO SCHOOL!!!!

And I don't mean the neighbors.

I mean them. The ones currently wrestling all over my house (because that's what boys do), teasing their sister (because they do that too), and being bored and hungry the rest of the time.

It was so much fun having them home that first unexpected week when we had the snow days. It was really quite pleasant having them around as Christmas drew closer. Christmas day, I even managed to enjoy them between Nerf gun blasts and nose blowing. The next few days were a blur of messes, and toys, and cold-recovery, but they weren't so bad. As we've drawn closer to tomorrow, however, things have begun to go south.

They're wrestling more. They're teasing more. And they are now the boredest, hungriest kids in the entire universe. (And yes, I know 'boredest' isn't an actual word. Whatever.) I guess you could say that their bored little minds are ready for a little stretching.

And while I'm on the subject of it, can I take a moment to say "God bless elementary teachers"? Seriously. Any woman willing to sacrifice every ounce of energy (both physical AND mental) to teach children and decorate bulletin boards is a saint. Do any of you know what that job is like?

Well, let me tell you. As you know, I am a substitute teacher. I've subbed in elementary school. The children are both adorable AND adoring, but it is constant interaction the entire day. Like every second of every minute. (Well, there was that time I sent the second graders out to recess and took a nice long break until some adult knocked on the door and informed me that my door was locked, and the children had been standing outside for at least ten minutes. I was wondering when their recess was supposed to be over...)

I love subbing in high school. I enjoy subbing in middle school. I will (when absolutely necessary) sub in the sixth grade. Anything below that - forget it. Just looking at those bulletinboards gives me a craft-headache. I can't imagine having to decorate them (and the entire room) for every changing season, and every single holiday. When I get off work from a nice cushy day telling high schoolers to be quiet and do their work, I go to my kids' school to pick them up. Just watching the adults wrangle the children waiting for their parents gives me a headache.

And then I think, "Those amazing women have been doing this ALL DAY LONG. And every day for who knows how long."

And what's even more amazing? They like it. I think some of them even like the decorating/bulletin board thing.

So God bless the teachers, every one. Thank you for all you do. For teaching and mediating, disciplining and tolerating, liking and even loving my children. Mothers every where would be a little more insane without you - not to mention what you're doing for my children and their little minds. I know that I personally, would be lost without you.

And YAY!!! for tomorrow! I may even miss them in my quiet house. Well, maybe not. I'll love them the whole time they're gone, however, and be thrilled to see them when they get home. But the hours in between going and coming are mine. I may even nap. It'll be beautiful.

And may all your tomorrow's be as quiet and peaceful as mine.

The Joys of the Christmas Cold (that would be the sniff, sniff variety, rather than the Brrr I'm freezing type)

I detest being sick. It was bad enough when I was young and my mom would take care of me. Getting sick when you are the mom is so. much. worse. It all started late Christmas Eve when I started sneezing. Just innocent, harmless little sneezes. By the time I had everyones stockings taken care of (including my own, because The Husband was busy sawing logs on the couch - and I'd bought most of the stuff for myself anyway, so what difference did it make?) and the house ready for Christmas morning, my nose was running. I took some medicine and went to bed.

The next morning when I woke up (at 4:30, 5:00, 5:30, 6:00 etc. because my nine year old "just couldn't sleep") I was miserable. I've spent two days on the couch, and apparently should have spent a third there, because today's activities have me right back where I started.

At least there's no throwing up. And no sore throat. Although, come to think of it, those are the two types of illness that lead to instant weight loss, which is EXACTLY what I need after that stupid cookie exchange. Instead I have major congestion merging nicely with perpetual-running-of-the-nose. Yesterday my lucky husband walked in to find me sweeping the floor with a tissue hanging out of my nose. Nice. Vic's Vapor Rub is my constant companion, as well as that head-stuffed-with-cotton feeling, and a sort of out-of-body experience every time I get up to walk around.

And can I just suggest that getting sick and/or becoming extremely-low-functioning on Christmas Day is a real pain? Not because anything special was going on - our family gets together Christmas Eve - and not because people are waiting for fancy food - I never cook on Christmas Day. (Who needs more food after the Christmas Eve binge?) No, the real problem is the mess that is Christmas morning. I swear I have picked the whole place up twenty times over the last two days. Well, my children the lucky little slaves did anyway. Every time I bend over to pick anything up my sinuses congeal into a solid mass of impenetrable mucus. Believe me, I've done as little as possible.

But still, all those stupid new toys have no homes yet, so my toy closet is a disaster waiting for me to rescue it. Unfortunately, the rescue is going to have to wait, because there's no way I'm tackling that project while I feel this rotten. Consequently, having to stare at all these toys for two days has made me re-think a few things.

a. What genius decided fully automatic Nerf guns were a good idea? (answer, Mr. Darling). Can I just say how sick I am of Nerf darts? Seeing them, stepping on them, looking for them, getting shot with a fully-automated-stream of them. Left to my own devices, these toys would never have entered my world.

b. Why do I always add army guys to the boys stockings? Aside from the fact that they apparently make great targets for the above mentioned Nerf guns, I hate them. They are constantly everywhere I look. In the Christmas tree, hanging from my kitchen cupboards, hiding in my fake plants - everywhere BUT the "army guy drawer".

c. What made me think that the cool, expandable, Dora house I picked up at a garage sale for Little Miss Two would remain unmolested by her brothers? Apparently, it is the house of a Colombian drug lord, and they have constant busts there. With fully automatic Nerf guns blasting away the army guys strategically placed in the little pink and yellow house. It's just so wrong. At least I made them stop shooting the family that goes with the house - that's something, right?

All in all, however, despite being sick it was a great Christmas. Hope yours was fantastic - and I certainly hope no one else feels as lousy as I do!

Sister For Sale

The other day I was talking to my father-in-law (who lives in another state, and who we rarely get to see), and finally mentioned to him that I have a blog. Funny that it's taken me so long to get around to giving him this info, since originally our far-away-family was one of the driving forces behind my intro to the blogging world three months ago. Because this blog is all about my kids, right? I mean, I do mention them at least every ten posts or so... Do you think that's enough to incite grandparent involvement? I'm not so sure.

I did, however, decide that I should probably take a moment to put up some fresh Baxter children info - just in case someone in the inlaw-fam actually decides to check out the old blog. So here goes:

Today I was in the living room with my kids. I think I was cleaning or something (because I never waste time doing anything else), when I saw Meara whack Conan over the head with a toy. The attack was provoked, but still.

I'm busy reprimanding my violent daughter, and I hear Conan say "Why'd we have to have Meara? We should sell her. *sob, sob*"

I was going to ignore this remark due to the head injury (and the fact that he learned it from his brothers, although in their version it's usually him up for sale), when he tacked on the next part:

"Maybe Grandma will buy her."

Well. This proactive approach got my attention. Besides that, it was way too funny to waste on just me, so I quickly say, "Why don't you call Grandma and ask her?" (I know. Great parenting Jen - you're kid wants to sell his sibling, and you jump on the bandwagon. Yes, there should have been some lecture, and maybe a chorus or two of "Families Can Be Together Forever," but I couldn't help myself).

So we call. I dial, hand him the phone, and listen in to the following conversation:

C: Gwaaamma, *sniff, sniff* (he's still recovering from the attack), ummm, will you buy Meara?

G: Buy Meara?

C: Yeah.

G: Well, I'd like to, but I don't think I have enough money.

C: Oh. Well, you can just have her then.


I'm not sure which is worse - his lack of devotion, or his bargaining skills. He didn't even bat an eyelash, or reconsider the price! He definitely needs that lecture. And the song.

In his defense, however, I would like to report that he and Meara do generally get along. They've been playing together a lot lately, and their favorite game is "Puppy". In this game Conan's the puppy, and she's the tyrannical/adoring puppy owner. It's one of my favorite kid-games to eves-drop on. I'll be in the kitchen, and I'll hear her in the other room:

"Pu-ppeeey, (in her most authoritative two-year-old-boss voice) COME HERE! Puppy, SIT DOWN! STAY!" (complete with hand gestures, and immediately followed by...)

"Awww, puppy (in her most adoring two-year-old-obsessed-with-cute-puppy voice, as she hugs and kisses the puppy), nice puppy."

It's all very cute to witness, I have to say.

And now I have one more story regarding Conan. I think Rusty's finally realizing just how much his little son actually worships him. First off, Conan obsesses over the fact that he looks just like his father. Which he does, minus the red hair. Seriously, he's like a little, blond, Rusty clone. But then the other day he took it to a new level of adoration.

Apparently (I wasn't here for this one), Rusty and Conan were talking, and somehow the subject of getting old and dying came up. Rusty's way more brave than me, because he jumped right into how someday "Mommy will get old and die, and Daddy will get old and die." Since the major source of my childhood anxiety was this exact issue, I'll do anything to get out of admitting these facts to my small children. But once the information was on the table, Conan took a moment to digest it and came up with the following:

"Whelp, Dad" (whelp being one of his staple sentence starters) "when I get old, I'm gonna put my arms around your neck like this," (picture cute-four-year-old arms around big-strong-Dad neck) "and we can die together."

So, I don't care if he wants to sell/give away his little sister. The kid is priceless.

The Girl-Child

I totally remember fighting with my sisters - especially Annie - and even occasionally getting into a snit with my best bosom buddy Kelly. There was sassing, there was tattling, and definitely bossing going on. I distinctly remember exchanging insults with Kelly when we were about nine. The very worst thing we could call each other? Miss Priss. For some reason, this was THE insult of the century.

Now I have three boys. They do not fight this way. After the initial incident, their fights go more like this:

Someone gets tackled.

Someone gets choked.

Something gets picked up and used as a weapon.

Something gets broken.

Mom joins the fray, and heads roll.

Can I just say a little bossing and tattling would be refreshing?

Well guess what? I now have a girl. Finally, someone is content to just be prissy (and bossy). I actually call her Miss Priss as a term of endearment - which strikes me as ironic every time. And can I say that this whole girl thing is so unlike any of the boy things I've been through?

Yes, she knows how to sword fight, and has some karate moves, and loves to play in the dirt with her brothers. However. She also likes babies. And kitties. She thinks she's in charge of every human even close to her two year old size, and goes around mothering everything that will let her. Today while I was cleaning the bathroom she brought her baby in, helped it use the toilet, wiped it, and moved to the kitchen where she placed it in the high chair so she could feed it.

SHE'S A GIRL, PEOPLE!!!

Don't get me wrong, I love my boys (and hear they will be WAY easier to raise after the first ten years). And, I even feel comfortable saying I have really nice boys, who get along fairly well with each other.

But it's just different. Like a whole half of me as a mother has been able to come out and play! I'm having so much fun, and enjoying her girliness sooo much, it's prompted me to list the top ten reason's why it's so much fun to have a girl after having three boys:

1. She doesn't pick up every long, stick-like object and wield it like a sword.

2. Or gun.

3. Or break everything that is precious and dear to my heart with said sword-gun-stick.

4. She says things in her sleep like "Pretty, pretty girl", and gets to wear long, silky nightgowns.

5. Potty training. Need I say more?????

6. At football games she already copies the cheerleaders - and I never even pointed them out to her. Like the estrogen sporting female she is, she honed right in on those cute girls waving pom poms around, and instantly got up and did her best to follow along.

7. She may play with her brother's "guys" (even throwing in an occasional sound effect), but if they hurt each other they get reprimanded - and the victim gets patted lovingly while she holds him over her shoulder. Honest. Is that not the cutest thing you've ever heard??

8. She actually wants to be like me, rather than that big redheaded guy all the little boys around here are so smitten with. Finally someone throws herself against the door when I walk out of it! (Not that I want her to hurt herself over me, but gee whiz - for nine years I've watched my husband being followed around by a bunch of little Baxter groupies. FINALLY it's my turn to have a fan!)

9. She already knows how to open and apply makeup. (Okay, okay, I know this isn't necessarily desirable in a two year old - especially when it's mascara, her personal fav, all over her face during sacrament meeting. However. As stated in #8, it's the fact that she's feminine that counts here. She wants to be like ME!)

10. At Christmas and birthdays when she's older, she'll actually be excited to get clothes. And all the other cheap little girly things that most every girl gets thrilled about. And we can do lunch. And decorate her first apartment. And pick out homecoming/prom/wedding dresses. And when she has babies I'll be the actual mother of the mother - rather than just the mother-in-law (translation: she'll want ME there holding the baby and taking care of her). And she'll call me on the phone when I'm old and lonely and we'll chat. And I could go on, and on, and on.

I know that everything on this list does not come guaranteed with a girl-child. There are no "for sure's" with your children because they will grow up and do their thing. I know of lots of women who do not have this kind of a relationship with their daughter(s), and I know there's a chance Meara and I won't actually be soul mates.

But if we're not, it won't be because I didn't pray constantly that we would be.

So for right now, I'm just going to plan on things turning out this way regardless, because any other option is completely unimaginable and unthinkable at the moment. So wish me luck, and enjoy your girls - they are SO MUCH FUN!!!!

Another Post In Which I Complain About My House - and come off sounding totally negative and bitter, which I'm really not. Well, not usually anyway.

Now days, almost every house is built with at least two and a half bathrooms. There's the powder room - for company. The hall bathroom - for the kids. And the giant, massive, so-big-it-needs-its-own-zip code master bathroom including both garden/jet tub AND stand-alone shower. As with every other luxury that has become standard, I believe most people in this country have ceased to appreciate the multi-bathroomed house. With this post I will attempt to bring back some small smidgen of respect and reverence for this incredible advancement of our society.

I was raised in a half-way house. By half-way, I'm referring to the fact that we were half-way to the whole standard bathroom thing. Rather than the two and a half business, we had the full downstairs/company bathroom, and a full upstairs bath (with both shower AND tub). To make up for the lack of an actual "master bath", the upstairs bathroom was attached to my parent's room. Hence, it was technically their bathroom.

But all three of us girls used it every single morning.

Who wanted to go ALL THE WAY downstairs (where it was usually a full twenty degrees colder, I swear) when there was a nice bathroom so conveniently placed? So I was raised with the whole crowded mirror business, and the peeing in front of everyone thing. (Dad was pretty good at hitting the bathroom either before or after we took it over. Poor, poor man. That will teach him to design a house with no master bath!)

Then there was college. Six girls, one tub/shower/toilet, and the standard forty foot vanity with three sinks and fifteen electrical outlets. Each of which must have had their own breaker box, considering the amount of juice they sucked on Sunday mornings. Was anyone else ever amazed that no fuses ever blew, or was it just me?

With marriage came a much more friendly person/bathroom ratio. Being indecent no longer mattered, and sharing was even a little bit nice. Truth to tell, sharing a bathroom with all girls really isn't that bad anyway.

But now I have boys. AND ONE LITTLE BATHROOM!

I'm really not sure why, but sharing with a husband and three small boys is so much worse than any of the other bathroom-sharing I've done. Maybe it's because my children always have to go number two while I'm in the tub. (Those of you familiar with my frequent and very long/hot baths are sure to understand how irritating this phenomena actually is). No one ever knocks on the bathroom door - which doesn't lock. Every Sunday morning, my husband manages to get in the shower precisely when I begin trying to either fix my hair or do my makeup. Ever try to use a mirror while someone's showering???

When you only have one bathroom, the clothes people shed, and the dirt that comes with them (three little boys and a husband who works construction) are a CONSTANT problem. And have I mentioned the pee? There's a reason why my children aren't allowed to pee standing up until they can prove their accuracy. With that much male-peeing traffic on one toilet, cleaning the commode can be an hourly job.

That is, if you want the ONLY company bathroom in the house to be presentable should someone stop by and need to use it - or walk by it, since it's DOWNSTAIRS, and right in the middle of the front room.

There is absolutely no hiding my bathroom from anyone. Please tell me that someone, somewhere, is beginning to fall for this pathetic (and overly obvious) plea for sympathy.

When I say that the bathroom is located downstairs, I want to make perfectly clear that the bedrooms (all TWO of them) are not. They (the bedrooms) are very much upstairs affairs. This is not fun when you're pregnant. Or when you have a child who constantly wakes up and has to pee in the middle of the night but doesn't want to have to go downstairs alone. Or when someone comes to you in the small hours of the morning to tell you they're about to throw-up. At times like this, the bathroom may as well be at the neighbor's.

And so I go on day after day, dreaming of that blessed, long looked for event, when we move from this house to one with multiple bathrooms. And please do not try to tell me that it will just be a big pain because there will be more bathroom cleaning to do. This will not work on me. I have suffered too long with bathroom sharing, and would be THRILLED to have the boys clean their toilet while I clean mine.

So go now, Dear Reader, and resume your happy, multi-bathroomed lives, in your happy, multi-bathroomed houses - with your guests using your lovely little powder rooms, and the ability to tell your children to take their BM's someplace else whilst you luxuriate in your master-jetted-garden-tub.

And maybe, just maybe, you will appreciate the sheer luxury of the master bath just a little bit more after reading this post. Occasionally thinking of me and offering a silent prayer that I will someday be released from the purgatory that is one-bathroom-and-six-people-four-of-them-males would also be a nice idea. You know, proving to the Universe at large just how much you care about people you don't really know.

I would really, REALLY appreciate this kind of thoughtfulness. Fasting is also an option. You know, for those Sunday's when you forget to eat breakfast, and then get to church and realize it's Fast Sunday but don't really have anything specific to fast for? Yeah, just think of me. You can call it the "Jen's bathroom fast". And all the while you'll know that I'm here, in my one-bathroomed house, just trying to take my shower and put my makeup on in peace and solitude.

And that it probably isn't happening.

Heartbreak and Horny Toads

Tragedy has struck our home. I'm actually feeling a little sick right now. And They don't know about it yet. They're all sleeping soundly in their beds, dreaming of motorcycles, football, and horny toads.

Speaking of horny toads, let's talk about animals for a minute. I am not what you'd consider an "animal lover". I don't hate animals, I just view them as animals. Not people. They have a place, and if they stay in it and are good little animals, we get along just fine. I've even been known to develop a fondness for good pets, like our dog Rosie, and Prissy our cat. I also feel that pets (of some type) are like a right of passage for children.

Then there are the pets I have no toleration for. For instance, if it stinks, requires live food, has a living space requiring cleaning, or provides no actual physical interaction with my children (why do people have fish??) I want nothing to do with it. Our late pac man frog (rest his stinky, worm/cricket eating, BORING, un-touchable soul) fit all these categories. Thankfully, we acquired him late in his life and he didn't last too long. When he left us for froggy Heaven, I vowed I was finished with amphibians and reptiles forever. Watching them eat is not thrilling enough to justify all the previously mentioned setbacks.

Then came the horny toad.

Last week my brother inherited a baby horny toad. We're talking infant here. Roughly the size of a quarter, he ran from any prey bigger than those tiny little sugar ants. Even I had to admit he was kind of cute in that baby-horny-toad-way of his. My brother instantly offered to give the little guy to my children. How noble of him. Couldn't he have asked the mother first? I of course, immediately stomped out all their dreams of horny-toad-ownership with some callous statement like, "Absolutely not, never ask again, we will not EVER own another frog." Within a day or two, my brother found a loophole.

"We're going camping," he innocently said. "Could you babysit the horny toad? We already showed the boys how to feed him."

What could I say? Being the nice sister I am, I could find no justifiable way out, and so I said yes. The parting words from my brother were "just keep him till the boys get bored..." Yeah. Right.

Then a surprising thing happened. I began to grow kind of fond of the itty bitty baby. He was cutish, and unlike stupid Fat Albert the pac man frog, the boys could actually handle the horny toad. And horny toads don't stink. Much to my children's delight, I decided maybe we could keep him after all.

Little Horny made his home in a small, tupper-ware type container with a little sand and a rock. To keep him away from the smallest members of our family, he was (shrewd readers will notice the use of PAST tense here) kept on top of the fridge. Just yesterday I walked by and noticed the container was too close to the edge, where it would fall if the freezer door was opened. I pushed it back and made a mental note to talk to the boys.

Today I had a baby sitter. For dinner she made my kids frozen pizza.

Later, while I was doing something REALLY important (like playing on my computer, i.e. blogging) my older boys asked where Little Horny was. A little red flag went off in my head (and was just as quickly ignored), and I sent the boys back to bed.

A little while later I went into the kitchen to hunt for a nighttime snack.

I opened the freezer.

I screamed. (Okay, I gasped. "Screamed" just sounded way more dramatic).

There, IN THE FREEZER!!! was Little Horny's House!!!

In an instant I realized what must have happened. Baby sitter opens freezer door to remove pizza. Tupper-ware type container falls to the floor. Being fifteen and just a little bit not-so-smart, baby sitter fails to realize the container IS NOT COLD and places it BACK?! in the freezer!!!

Poor, poor Little Horny. Do you think there's any chance the little guy will thaw out? It was only four and a half hours or so...

And poor, poor ME! You all must know what I'm in for tomorrow morning - a majorly loud, majorly long, majorly miserable session of much weeping, wailing, and gnashing of teeth. I guarantee you it will not be either pretty, or peaceful in the Baxter household tomorrow morning. The dread is currently sitting in my stomach like a rock. I feel terrible.

If something like this had to happen, why couldn't it have happened to Fat Albert? Then I could have secretly rejoiced, which would have given me extra strength and stamina for the bouts of teeth gnashing. As it is, I feel terrible. He was just a baby! I actually LIKED him! Now I'll be tempted to get another one - and it probably won't be free.

So anyways, that was my stinky evening. How was yours?

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 Baxter Factor

There must be something about our DNA. That is the only thing that can possibly explain my children's love affair with food. Admittedly, I love to eat. Ask anyone who knows me, if you have food, I'm there. I fall into the category of people who can't sleep if there is chocolate in the house. You think this is an exaggeration, but sadly it's only too true. Cheesecake, cookies, cake, pie, junk food of many varieties - if it's around it's breakfast, lunch, and dinner until it's gone.

My husband is also a pretty good eater. I discovered early in our marriage that trying to make leftovers doesn't work. If I make a pot of chili, he eats a pot of chili. And now we have four children - three of them male - who are every bit as bad as we are. What is going to happen to our financial security when Liam and Niall are teenagers? Laugh all you want, this is serious stuff. I've already decided they will probably have to contribute to the food budget just to keep us going. Let me give you some idea of what I'm talking about.

1. I had to make a rule when Liam turned seven that no child can eat more than I do at dinner. Seven??!!!

2. When Conan made a bird feeder out of peanut butter and birdseed Niall ate it.

3. Meara eats a large bowl of cereal for breakfast, and then routinely goes from stool to stool looking for leftovers in all of her brother's bowls. When finished, she asks for more. And more, and more.

4. Two boxes of mac-n-cheese is only enough for my kids if there's at least one side dish to go with it. Then they're hungry an hour later.

5. Niall loves smoked oysters, chicken hearts, zucchini, cabbage, salad, seafood, bird seed, crawdads (crayfish), and any food with an unusual name/smell/appearance. He doesn't like potatoes.

6. Tonight for dinner Meara ate seven slices of cantaloupe, a 4 inch sub (with cucumbers, meat, cheese, and tomatoes) and who knows how many fishy crackers, all proceeded by an appetizer of popcorn and whatever else her dad gave her before I got home.

7. All of my children will eat at least 6 plate sized, medium thick pancakes. Liam and Niall eat more like 10. We don't make pancakes.

8. All the lunch ladies at the school have commented on my children's ability to 'pack it away'. Apparently they are legendary school lunch consumers.

9. Conan likes to eat breakfast, brunch, lunch, lunch II, pre-dinner, dinner (unless it's chicken), and bedtime snack. No I don't let him, but he capitalizes at Grandma's house. She's sure I starve my children.

10. On Sunday Conan brought home another birdfeeder and we had to hide it from Niall. "Mom! He's eating my birdfeeder again!" Whose kids have to say things like this?

Can you see where I'm going here? If we had junk food at our house my children would have a serious problem. (Anyone who doesn't already know what we look like is probably feeling a little concerned as it is). What is going to happen to us? My children may literally put us out on the streets with their dietary demands - and then they'll really be hungry!

All I can say is that you mom's with kids who don't eat - you may not have it so bad. At least you'll have a retirement - our kids will probably consume ours. And your mothers probably don't accuse you of starving your children, because your children probably don't walk through their door hungry EVERY time you visit.

I could go on, and on, and on about my kids and food. There are benefits of course, like rarely making a dinner no one will eat - although Niall's problem with potatoes combined with Conan's dislike of chicken does cause some issues. And like I've already suggested, I suppose Rusty and I are to blame. That is, unless it's something in the water?