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.

Vacuuming Karma

When I was a kid we had chores. We actually had a lot of chores - which were solidified into permanence with the chore charts my mother hung on the wall. There were inside chores and outside chores, and as far as the inside chores went, we each had certain things that were "our" chore. I suppose you could say Mom had us specialize. For instance, Laura (age ten) mopped the kitchen floor and cleaned the upstairs bathroom, and I (age eight) vacuumed the living room and dusted. (I don't have any recollection of what Annie did, but I'm assuming she must have had to do something).

Anyhow, when it came to vacuuming I definitely specialized. As in, I vacuumed in a very special way. And might I just add that it had nothing to do with how well or quickly I did the job. My specialty was in style.

Every Thursday (i.e., vacuuming day) I would come home from school (Mom was usually still at work) and get ready to vacuum. Eagerly, I would hurry into the living room, sort through the records and make my selection - "Million Dollar Sellers Vol. (1,2, or 3, I can't remember)" side Two. Straight out of the 1950's, these were some rockin' songs. Songs like "The Wheel of Fortune" "Mule Train" and "Three Coins in the Fountain". As noted, we had three volumes - which translates into six sides - and I always vacuumed to the same record, side two.

It usually took me at least three renditions of "Wheel of Fortune" (using the vacuum as a microphone, of course), and a couple rousing trips through "Wild Goose" (or whatever the official title of that one is), and at least a few repeats of "The People of Paris".

These were all performance numbers, by the way. I had routines. I danced, lip synced, and/or sang my way through the entire record - sometimes twice - before I considered the job done. It took me a really, really, really long time to vacuum the living room.

And I relished every second of it.

And I have no doubt that had my mother been home to witness this recital, she would have gone mad watching me and wondered (and possibly yelled about) how long it took me to finish vacuuming.

Today I told N (my eight year old) to vacuum. I want you to know that every single time I came in the room and found him standing in front of the mirror vacuuming up his lower lip whilst making strange noises (which got even stranger as they echoed out of the vacuum), I tried to have patience. I pictured myself waltzing around the living room with the vacuum extension (which wasn't even hooked to the hose half the time), and I took a few deep breaths.

And then - in my most patient mother-voice - I would say, "Um, do you think you could do a little vacuuming?"

I love that kid.

The Rummage Sale Blues

This week was my kids' school's annual rummage sale. In case I've failed to mention it, my boys attend a little three room school house, and there are only about seventy kids in their K-6th school. It's a close little family, to say the least.

As usual, my boys (L ten, and N eight) have been drooling over the treasures to be "rummaged" since the sale opened on Tuesday, and by Thursday night they were dying to make their purchases. This year, I decided that rather than go with them, I'd let them take five dollars of their own money to spend however they wanted.

Friday morning as we're getting ready to walk out the door, we have the following conversation:

Me: N, how much money do you have in your wallet?

N (without hesitation): Five dollars.

M: L, how much do you have?

L: Uh, fifteen.

(Keep in mind N is sitting right there, listening to all of this)

Me: I don't think so, I said you could take five.

I then sent him to put ten back in his cash box, and (again, with Niall right there watching) counted what was left in his wallet to make sure he'd put enough back. All the way to school they talked about the things they had their eye on, and how they hoped no one else would get there first.

At this little school of ours, most kids get picked up by parents rather than riding the bus. So every day after school, I pull through the drive and sit there while the teachers or aides find, collect, and deliver my children to my car. I've had children in this school for five years now, and we all know each other very well.

Imagine my surprise on Friday, when as I pull around the drive I see all the aides start snickering, and trying not to smile as they see me pull in. Confused, I quickly review: Am I at the wrong School? No. Is today one of the days I'm not supposed to pick them up till 4:00? No. Do I have food on my face? No. So I park, and wait as Mrs. W approaches my window while Mrs. P gathers my kids. Mrs. W and I have the following conversation:

Mrs. W: Well you might as well pull back around to the front door, because you've got some loading to do. (quickly hides laughter by coughing into her hand)

Me: Loading?

Mrs. W: Oh yes, your kids made quite a haul at the rummage sale today. Most of it's still inside.

She added this last as I looked over to see L carrying a small end table to the car.

Me (Looking rather confused, and slightly concerned): How much did they spend?

Mrs. W: I have no idea, but N sure got a lot of stuff. Unfortunately none of us were out there while he was, uh, shopping, and the parents running the sale just let him keep buying.

At this point I, got out of my car and headed for the school as I informed her that the boys each had a limit of five dollars.

Mrs. W: Oh I'd say N spent quite a bit more than five.

I walked into the second grade class to see N - who's satisfied smile froze on his face as he saw me - standing amidst the following items: An exercise bike, an old manual typewriter, a standing lamp, a coat tree, a talking fish, a desk lamp, a world atlas, and various other small items.

It turns out he brought $32.00 - i.e., every bill in his possession. He'd spent $24.00 on his treasures, and (as tears filled his adorable and pathetic eyes) he tried to tell me he didn't know he was only supposed to bring $5.00.

Unfortunately (as illustrated by the above conversation from earlier that morning) we all know this to be a falsehood. A lie. A complete, and unquestionable untruth. I hate being a mother in these situations.

With a sigh and a grimace, and feelings of great regret, I informed him that because he had lied about how much money he had, he wasn't going to be able to keep any of it. Every last item - including the beloved typewriter AND the antiquated exercise bike - had to go back out to the sale.

And we hauled it all back.

And I felt horrible.

And he was very good about it, and even went back in and collected his funds all by himself.

This was seriously one of the hardest things I've ever had to do to to one of my kids. Did I mention how excited they were about this sale? Or how much my son wanted that typewriter? (His best friend quickly offered to buy it off him when he found out it was going back. Apparently it was a pretty hot item as none of them had ever seen one before). But I honestly couldn't think of anything else to do. Even letting him keep five dollars worth of goods didn't seem right. (Which is a blessing in disguise, since the price of the typewriter was exactly five dollars).

And now today, I have to reflect on this whole thing as it pertains to Mother's Day. Being a mom is not easy. Most of what we do (laundry, dishes, potty training, etc.) is not fun. Possibly the most unpleasant task of all however, is discipline and the stress of having the lives of these dear little people we love in our hands. I've often told my children (as I send them to their room, or take away their treasured possessions/privileges) that my most important task as their mother is to teach them right from wrong, and make sure they know that when they make bad choices, bad things happen.

What a rotten job. But when you think about it, it's a concept that will literally shape the rest of their lives. Integrity, accountability, and a love of the Savior and knowledge of his love for them are some of the most valuable gifts I could ever give my children. And if we all have to suffer a little heartbreak so they can learn these lessons, I have no doubt that it will be more than worth the pain. So, I'm sorry kids, for occasionally ruining your lives (I'm sure it will be an ongoing occurrence), but in the end if it means you're better, stronger, kinder, or more like your Savior, I have no doubt it will have been worth it to all of us.

And don't worry N, someday you'll get over the typewriter. I promise.

The First Frightening Signs of What's to Come...

So I had this conversation with my ten year old today:

Me: (looking admiringly at his handsome-cuteness) L, you're a good looking kid.

L: ("Awww shucks" expression)

Me: No, you really are. Do you know you're nice looking?

L: Not really.

(about twenty seconds of silence)

L: Mom, there's something I have to tell you. But I don't know how to say it.

Me: What?

L: Well, it happened a couple of weeks ago.

Me: And...

L: (getting close to my ear and whispering, even though no one was around) This girl asked me out.

Me: What! Who? What's her name? (the hussy, I silently think to myself)

L: Uh, (thinks for a second) I don't know.

Me: Well what did you say?

L: (with an appropriately shocked and horrified look on his face) NO! I said "Sorry, I can't have a girlfriend till I'm sixteen," what do you think I'd say?!

Isn't he a good son? Just look at him -






Any girl would want him.

My Epiphany

Last night I had cause for reflection. Don't ask me how, because there was so much going on in the chaos around me that I shouldn't have been able to string two cohesive thoughts together, but somehow I managed. It went kind of like this:

My kids came home from school. I had approximately forty-five minutes until my first piano student arrived. By some miracle (no doubt related to two consecutive days off of my other job) my house was actually clean. (And no, I'm not counting the upstairs. So there). I immediately sat one child at the piano to practice, ushered the other one in for Homework War I, and started making dinner.

I'm frying hamburger, yelling at N. that he needs to play and F sharp, redirecting L. (again, and again, and AGAIN!!!) to the maps of Washington he's trying not to color, sending C. to the corner for tormenting his sister (at least four times before finally exiling him to the upper floor purgatory also known as his bedroom), and trying to explain to M. that no, Mommy could not pick her up right now, and would she PLEASE stop crying.

I believe I was rinsing the noodles when the reflection began. All of the sudden I was in Brazil, with that Girl who lives there, and I was spending my morning eating blackberries, floating in the pool, and loving the easy, carefree moments of life. It was kind of maddening.

Because I remember when my life was like that.

So I thought (as I dumped the sauce over my noodles, and yelled at C. that NO! he could not come downstairs yet), what's happened? Why the chaos? Have I lost it completely as a wife/mother? WILL IT EVER BE EASY AGAIN??!!!

And then the epiphany happened. It's not how many kids you have, it's how many age groups of kids you have. Those easy days? There were three of them, but everyone was five or younger. Everyone had the same needs, the same toys, the same troubles (for the most part), and their laundry was WAY smaller. As in, a toddler's entire wardrobe fits in one load, vs. a giant ten year old's getting-bigger-all-the-time jumbo wear. You can't tell me this doesn't make a major difference.

Now, I have a ten, eight, five, and two year old, and must simultaneously juggle everyone's VASTLY different needs, toys, troubles, activities (because eight and ten year olds definitely have these), and laundry. Instead of two precious preschoolers playing with dinosaurs, I have the G.I. Joe combat zone in one corner, Dora's doll house in the middle, and a rousing semi-automatic dart gun war going on all at the same time.

While I teach a calm, cool, and collected piano lesson. My poor students.

So I have come to a conclusion. If it was easier the last time everyone was in the same basic age/needs/interests category, it (philosophically) should get easier when they meld together once more as "school age kids". Plus they'll be able to do their own laundry - and don't think I won't make them.

This is something to look forward to - while I treasure these crazy, hectic, chaotic, never-quite-finish-doing-anything years of having adorable young children,of course. Because they are adorable, and I really don't want them to grow up too fast. (Well, there are moments...)

So for now, I figure I can do anything (as long as no one expects me to do everything and do it well), and while I'm doing it I'll try to remind myself that I used to have things under control too, so surely I can't be a total disaster...I mean, I actually remember mopping my floor because I had nothing better to do. That can happen again someday, right?

And by the way Girl in Brazil, I will be forever grateful to you for that reminder. It was seriously just what I needed to find that light at the end of the tunnel.

Pregancy: The Secret To Eternal Youth?

Just for the record, I am done having children. I always wanted four (unless you count seventh grade, when I was insane/ignorant, and thought SEVEN was the perfect number), I convinced my dearly beloved (who didn't really want any) to have four (by refusing to marry him until he swore a blood oath that I could have my way), and I had/have four - INCLUDING a girl child.

I am completely content.

Not only am I completely content with my four lovely children, but there is also zero chance I would actually want to do the whole pregnancy/newborn/car seat/potty-training business again. I've done my time - four is enough. Besides, my husband would probably leave me, never to be seen again, if I said I wanted another child.

But lately I've been thinking. I'm all done having kids, so what does that really mean? Having kids was something I did when I was first married - aka when I was young. So, does that mean that if I'm done having kids I'm not young anymore? And if so, does that mean if I'd just keep having them I'd still feel young?

The answer to this last is obviously a resounding NO!!! but I can't help it. It still makes me feel old to be past that phase of my life. Even though every mother knows that having more than four children is actually bound to age you - both mentally AND physically - part of me insists that it isn't so.

Then today, I was watching home movies from when I only had two adorable babies, and I noticed several things. First, my house was so clean! And life was so much easier! And they were so cute! And I was so YOUNG! (Okay, I really don't look much different - yet...)

And I realized it's not that I want to have more children - I just want to go back and have my own kids all over again. Minus all sickness, fighting, crying at night, potty-training, car seats, and everything about pregnancy except delivery (which was my favorite part - I know, I'm crazy).

So getting back to the pregnancy = youth idea. Do you think this could explain why some women have tons of children? I know women who have five-plus because they just love having babies, and I know some who feel inspired to add to their family, and I know some who weren't necessarily "planning", but could there be women out there who are actually chasing eternal youth? Through childbearing??? Like, "I must be young if I can still reproduce?"

Or am I alone on this one? Has anyone else ever thought of having babies as meaning you're young, or is my mind just strangely twisted? (Because seriously - there's nothing like actually being pregnant for demonstrating the aches, pains, and forgetfulness of old age. In theory, this theory should never work). (But still - ya think?)

The Body Snatcher...

Jen isn't here today. Unbeknownst to her family and friends, she has been secretly replaced by a raging hormonal maniac we'll call Nej.

Innocently, Jen's poor children accepted a ride home from school with this monstrous creature, thinking it was their loving mother. At first things seemed fine, but then they got out their homework - and then they didn't "get it." Convinced that the homework struggle was a ploy meant to drive her over the edge, Nej jumped down the poor children's throats and wasn't very helpful. Used to a kind, non-hormonal mother who is generally unaffected by the hateful cycle of the moon, the children stared, and cowered at this obvious impostor.

She was completely unmoved.

Then came piano practice. Although their own mother is known to speak rather loudly and repeat words like "COUNT!" and "FINGERING!" the cowering children were ill-prepared for the likes of Nej. Once again Nej was convinced the children were feigning memory loss, and quickly the Jen-impostor took Frustration and Impatience to a whole new level. As the children nervously stumbled through their lessons, the growling beast of pull-your-hair-out-and-try-not-to-beat-them swelled and threatened inside of Nej, begging and pleading to be set free.

Enter husband. JEN'S husband. Used to a loving, caring wife of limitless patience, he thought nothing of waltzing past the creature Nej as she labored at the piano with one of the conspiring children, and set right to fixing himself a bite to eat.

At 4:30.

Right before Nej would have started fixing dinner. I use the term "would have" because Nej didn't actually have ANY plans for dinner, and should have been glad the husband was fending for himself. But that is not Nej's way.

Instead Nej swooped into the kitchen, and descended on poor husband, accusing him of thoughtlessly stuffing his face within moments of dinner time. Statements like "But I've been working all day," and "I'm really hungry" only fanned the flames of Nej's irritation, until she had launched into a ten minute tirade on why eating at 4:30 was the most low-down, disrespectful, irritating thing a husband could do to his poor, abused, over-worked wife.

Husband slinked away (sandwich in hand) and escaped to the gym before another lecture could begin. Unfortunately, this left Nej with the children. Alone. With an hour and a half to kill before they were to depart to a Cub Scout meeting. Nej spent the time sitting on the couch eyeing the children suspiciously - waiting for them to make a wrong move so she could pounce. At one time, all three of the poor, poor, boys were standing in corners simultaneously.

There's no telling how this story might have ended if it hadn't been for the highly developed olfactory senses of Nej-like creatures. Knowing a CS meeting just might push her over the edge, Nej was explaining to the Den Leader that she'd prefer to "watch the children" when she caught a whiff of something on the Den Leader's breath. Chocolate. Practically attacking Jen's poor unsuspecting friend, she secured the necessary information - the visiting speaker had brought Peanut M&M's. And Reese's Pieces.

Within a few minutes, a handful of the chocolate remedy was shamelessly secured. Three handfuls later, the beast Nej was soothed, and becoming almost Jen-like. By the time the meeting was over Nej was feeling almost relaxed. Another handful of M&M's, plus the remains of the Reese's Pieces, and the husband and children began to breath easier, with hopes of living until their patient mother's safe return.

When this blessed, and much looked for event will take place, no one knows, but for the sake of the children (and husband) I hope it's sooner rather than later. And in the meantime - let's keep the chocolate coming.

Back When I Was a Flasher

*WARNING ALL MALE READERS - This post is going to deal with (gasp) breast-feeding. Just letting you know in case you want to make your escape now before you get sucked into the estrogen vortex that unfailingly surrounds such womanish topics.*

Breastfeeding. Remember the joys? The pains? The ridiculous increase in size (that some women get so excited about)?

And the flashing.

Seriously. How many people have seen your naked breasts? Friends, family - complete strangers at Denny's - I don't think I could count the number of my own personal victims. I got to thinking about this after reading Alison Wonderland's post about being comfortable with nudity. She is a nurse, and says bodies don't bother her at all. I couldn't really understand what she meant if I hadn't breastfed four children, but I think I get it.

Remember when you had your first baby, and it was so freaky/uncomfortable when the La Leche League lady manhandled your breasts for the first time? A week later, they are no longer breasts at all. They are just suppliers of milk for that little bundle of hunger who wants to be attached to them every waking (and sleeping) moment. And half of that thirty minute break you get between feedings is spent letting them "air dry". They hurt, they bleed, the BOH won't latch on correctly - and so your mother, your neighbor, your grandma, and her friend all come over and inspect them so they can commiserate (with their own breastfeeding horror stories) and advise.

Everyone sees your breasts. You cease to care after awhile.

Right at this moment, the thought of flashing a naked boob to, well, pretty much anyone I'm not married to, makes me feel a little uncomfortable. So isn't it amazing that while breastfeeding - other than feeling sorry for the flashee - I really didn't care when strangers got the full meal deal? Back then they were just "things". Not much different than arms or legs, they were simply appendages that served a purpose.

And when I was breastfeeding, it was a show, let me tell you. When I had my first child I ballooned to a (dare I say it?) 36 I. As in A,B,C,D,E,F,G,H,I. Regular stores don't even carry that size. I was a freak of nature. How could I not care about flashing those to the world??!!! Yet, strange as it may seem, I was more uncomfortable walking around with clothes on, than I was with flashing a naked boob while nursing.

Example: That poor, poor man in Denny's. He has probably never recovered. You know how some of the Denney's Restaurants have curved, rather than straight walls? So if you're sitting in a booth looking down the aisle there are people on the other side of the curve looking straight back at you? Well, I was attempting to nurse my first baby in a discreet fashion there in the booth, because it was cold outside, and there was no place in the bathroom to sit other than a toilet.

I'm nursing. The blanket is camouflaging any and all inappropriate views. Everything is totally respectable. Then the child decided he was done, threw back his head and his arm - and with it took the blanket. I look down, see the boob - and look up to see this man, paralyzed by the sight, just staring back at me.

Oops. This was seriously my only thought. I think I even chuckled about it. How is this possible? If I flashed my breast in Denney's tomorrow I might never recover!

Yet, due to the constant over-exposure and clinical aspect of them at the time, all sense of modesty completely vanished. What a concept. I'm so glad I returned to normal when the breastfeeding was over. Do you suppose there are women who don't? So Alison, I get what you're saying. For myself, however, I'm happy to remain sensitized to human nakedness for the rest of my life. Somehow, it just makes things more exciting. And dangerous. Ya know?

(And can you imagine how many hits I'm going to get from typing "naked breast" so many times in this post? Too bad I don't have a really good stat counter - this may even beat out working Donny Osmond in! Ya think?)

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).

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!!!!

Just Me Dreaming of a Hologram Machine Again...

I want a hologram machine. Or room, or however it is they work. I'm not really into Star Trek, but nine years ago when my oldest was a baby, I would occasionally watch some Star Trek show my sister was into while I was at her house. About the only thing I took away from it was the hologram thing.

For those of you who don't know how it works, holograms are the coolest thing ever. The people on the ship would go to a hologram room, and program it to be whatever they wanted. They could practice fighting, go to some weird planet, basically create any environment they wanted. Including people, places, and events from the past. Nothing was real of course, it was all just some kind of crazy, completely tangible and real illusion.

I think all the time about how cool it would be to have my own hologram thingy.

Not because I want to simulate fights, or visit weird places - I want to be able to visit the past. Just think of how fabulous it would be:

I could relive the night my husband and I kissed for the first time. Heck, I could relive any moment I wanted from that amazing summer!

I could relive late night moments snuggling with my babies. Without the tiredness, because it wouldn't really be in the middle of the night.

At the drop of a hat (well, manipulation of some crazy-wild-amazing-computer-thing) I could relive Conan's first day of preschool.

Just think of being able to go back and talk to your toddlers with their cute little voices and ways of talking. Things the mind lets go of, regardless of how desperately you try to hold on.

I could just hug. My children, my grandparents - anyone I wanted to see, hear and feel again.

I could go back and spend an afternoon feeding the cows with my sisters in our hideous '70's style ski pants purchased for the chore at thrift stores. Maybe we'd even get the truck stuck - just for fun.

The list is endless, really. And it would be the most perfect thing. You wouldn't really be IN the past, so you wouldn't have to worry about messing things up. But yet, so many untouchable memories could be brought back to life. My kids aren't even out of elementary school, and already I miss kissing their chubby little cheeks, and pulling their little snuggly baby bodies onto my lap for a cuddle.

Ever try to cuddle with a nine year old? Mine's willing, and we do our best, but he has so many bones! And his arms and legs are way to long if you ask me.

Holograms are also better than stopping time. I mean really, I miss loving and kissing my babies, but I don't think it's worth committing myself to a lifetime of diaper changing just to keep them little. Besides, watching them grow is one of the greatest parts.

I just get kind of desperate when I realize they're all getting so big. What if I can't remember everything? Like how they smelled as babies? Or how it felt to pick their warm little bodies up out of the crib?

So now you all know. I'm just a big, sentimental weirdo, who dreams about the possibilities of holograms in the real world every time I kiss my babies goodnight. But you have to admit - it's a pretty cool idea.

Complete Mom Checkout

I think I've checked out for the summer. In a good way. Well, good for me - my family may not agree. This new state of mine is not the same as the Summer Blahs, which I've already mentioned getting. This transcends the Blahs, and has taken me to an entirely different sphere.

The Blahs just means having a general frustration, lack of energy, boredom, and a longing for some itsy, bitsy bit of motivation. I am blissfully past all that. Heck, who needs to be motivated when there are only days left of summer vacation? I'm feeling so relaxed I actually read a book this week. And it's only Tuesday. And...I didn't even feel guilty about it when I realized my husband was on his way home and I hadn't made dinner.

Dinner. What is that anyway? Can't we just repeat lunch and have sandwiches? Sure we can! See how blissful Complete Mom Checkout (CMC) can be? You send your kiddies out to play in the morning, see them briefly around lunchtime, and again at secondlunch/dinner. Then you send them back out for their last nights of summery evening play, and get them so tired they fall right into bed and sleep.

Now, as wonderful as it sounds, CMC isn't possible in long term situations. It requires dropping all but the most necessary household chores, i.e. dishes, laundry (only the minimal amount), and basic straightening. (Anything more obnoxious that MUST be done is assigned to the children to ensure a state of complete relaxation for the checked out mother.). This has been going on in my house for about three days. I feel wonderful.

For all of you who think I am the worst wife/mother ever for proudly embracing the CMC state, I would like to present my defense. In one week from tomorrow I reenter the world of getting up at 5:30 to get four children out the door by 7:15, working, teaching piano lessons, homework, reading, chores (theirs and mine), and all the other things moms are responsible for when they aren't checked out. So for the next seven days, I will continue to feel no pressure about all the things I could be doing, I will have very casual dinners, I will let my children run wild with the neighbors (within reason, of course), and I will remain completely immune to any feelings of guilt. After all, moms deserve a break every now and then, right? This is mine, and I am determined to enjoy it. So there. (My mother would never approve).

Cabin Fever

I have cabin fever. Summer does that to me, strange as it may sound. As the long days of doing nothing but the same things (dishes, laundry, vacuum, orchestrate the child slaves, dishes, dinner, laundry, etc.) drag on and on, the joys of being home with my children 24/7 begin to fade. Is that bad? Am I a horrible person?

As someone working in the school system (I'm a high school sub) I have the benefit of taking the summers off with my children. This is something I look forward to every year - especially since this last year or two my schedule has been almost full time. Definitely too much for a woman with four children. As summer approaches I get almost desperate for the madness of trying to work and keep it all together to end.

Finally, summer arrives. Oh blessed mornings of not forcing people out of bed and into their clothes. The first month or so speeds by rapidly as we get immersed in our summer schedule of chores (I swear that's all we do around here). Eventually - sometime around the middle of July - the sun comes out and we start going to the lake. Other than that, things pretty much revolve around our house and Grandma's. The perfect, lazy summer with nothing to do. (But clean).

It's wearing me down.

By August, I begin to feel tired. "Why get dressed?" my brain says in the morning. Don't worry Mother, I do...eventually. I swear I wear the same three t-shirts over and over again. But then again, no one sees me so who cares - right? I still put make-up on - if and when I leave the house. I still talk to people - my mother and sisters. I still shower - but my goal to shave my legs at least every three days has not been met lately.

Am I pathetic? Is this normal? Shouldn't a person be able to feel energized even if they have nowhere to go, nothing to do (but clean), no one to see, nothing to look forward to but the next round of mess-it-up-clean-it-up?

I have never been good at the 'not having a job' thing. Whether it's something small, like teaching piano lessons or selling pampered chef, I have always done something. I suppose it's really a blessing, since financially my income is kind of important. It's not like I want to work very much either. Give me one or two days a week out of the house and I'm good.

On the bright side (because this is getting a little too depressing) it has been a blast to be home with my kids. I'm definitely glad that come September I'll be able to cut down on my 3-4 day work schedule and spend more time just being a mom. There's no doubt that it's the most important thing I could be doing, and I'm thankful I get to be with them as much as I do.

Still, I suppose I just need to face the fact that I am someone who needs a little outside stimulation. Kudos to all you moms out there that blissfully go about your days getting all you need just from taking care of your families and doing their laundry. I know people like this, and I often wish I could be more like them. But I suppose we all have things we'd like to change about ourselves, and I should just count my blessings and push on through. Summer can't last forever right? And it could be worse - I could live in Alaska.

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.

My Stupid Moment

I just had a stupid moment. A stupid Mom moment to be exact. I hate those. You know how we moms (I'm including you all in this group to make myself feel better, please don't disillusion me) all strive to be that mom that has it all together? The one who's always on time, always prepared, looks great, keeps her kitchen spotless at ALL times, baths her children daily, and never yells but speaks soothingly no matter who's beating whom or breaking what? These things do not come easily to me, but I sure do my best. And then I have a stupid Mom moment and reveal the real me to myself and the rest of the world.

When Liam was five years old his dentist showed me his x-rays and prepped me for some serious orthodontia. That was four years ago, and since that moment I have been planning for the appointment he had today.

I watched carefully as his big teeth started growing in, one by one, waiting for the time to be right - that time would be signified by enough permanent teeth and sufficient insurance coverage. This summer I determined that the stars were finally aligned, and made the appointment with the orthodontist I have carefully selected after years of analyzing the teeth of every post-orthodontal patient I could find. I have standards, his grown-up smile is a big deal to me.

Back in June, the appointment was finally secured for July 30th, and like that "has it all together mom" that I try to be, I dutifully wrote it on my calendar. About a week later I got a big blue envelope in the mail with all the pertinent information, and a coupon for one free consultation. Should you miss that appointment without prior notification, you can still get your consultation, but it will cost you $250. Obviously I am not the first to suffer a stupid Mom moment in this situation. This makes me feel marginally better.

I have been talking about, and planning for this appointment since. The problem? In my mind, July 30th was on a Friday. Apparently I am delusional, because on my calendar it clearly shows it to be a Wednesday, and yet I still managed to make this monstrous miscalculation. Why couldn't I have realized this yesterday when I still had time to scramble for a babysitter and get there? Instead I figure it out at 10:30 PM tonight. July 30th. A WEDNESDAY STUPID! (That last remark was directed at myself, so please don't be offended).

Here's the most irritating part. There are several things on that list mentioned above that I'm really not that great at. The 'daily bathing' of my children, for instance. I also do things like set out the vacuum if things don't look great so if someone comes I can say "Oh, I was just about to vacuum," and keep up appearances. Appointments, however, is something I am usually good at. How frustrating is that! Now, when I call in the morning to plead my case and beg for forgiveness and one more shot at a FREE consultation, I will be one more of those mom's who just can't get it together, and DOESN'T EVEN KNOW WHAT DAY OF THE WEEK IT IS!! This is so irritating.

Do these things ever happen to the women who seem to really be that "has it together mom" or do they really have it all together? If there is anyone out there who is, or knows a perfect mother who actually manages to avoid all stupid Mom moments, I would like to meet her and ask her what it's like in her world. Unfortunately, my next remark will be to inform her that we can't be friends. It would be too hard on my self esteem. Sorry. (Kelly, you are absolved - we can still be friends).

So now I'm going to go to bed and spend at least 30 minutes dialoguing out all the possible approaches I can use in the morning when I call the receptionist to beg forgiveness. My phone alarm is set for 9:20 am, so I can remember to make the call (lest my delusional brain tricks me into thinking I'm supposed to call at 9:20 PM), so if anyone happens to read this before then, (9:20 AM on THURSDAY July 31st) please wish me luck - I need that $250.