Everyone's Excited and Confused

Look who turned 200,000!

noreply@blogger.com (Amateur Steph) — Mon, 20 Feb 2012 05:10:00 +0000

On January 19, 2012 Mike called me from work.

"Steph, can you drop the girls off at your Mom's and come eat lunch with me? The car's going to turn 200,000!"

Mike wanted to eat a romantic picnic while we drove around the flight line of Hill Air Force Base watching as the odometer turned to 200,000 on our little Chevy Prizm. (We go for broke on our dates these days.) So I packed Hannah and Ellie up to my mom's and we celebrated our car's mileage birthday with a little reminiscing.

Our car is like our marriage. It just keeps going. Ummm, that doesn't sound right, does it? Well, how about this: It just won't quit! It may have a few breakdowns, but it always makes a comeback. Or, "200,000 miles later and surprisingly it's still going strong." Okay, I give up on the clever slogan comparison. But it is a good car. A great car. And it is a good marriage. A great one.

One day in October 2001, Mike and I bought a car together. It was $8,000 (the most I had ever spent at one time and Mike too). We bought it from my Uncle Norm. I remember going to his house with Mike to look at it. We weren't engaged yet, but I do think we had secretly set a wedding date for the next June. The white 2000 Chevy Prizm had about 30,000 (Mike says 20,000) miles on it and seemed to be a good, clean car.

The day we signed the loan papers we walked across the street from the America First in Ogden and went to a Kmart photo booth to take our picture together, and Mike taped one of them to the dashboard. We both look young and a little clueless (see above, bottom left). We were. 10 years later and we're still a little clueless, but we are older.

When we got our license plate I made up a funny acronym to help us remember it. We'll always be able to remember our license plate number. I would share it here, but it's not really appropriate for viewer consumption. :) Plus I'm sure psychos would somehow find this blog post, use our license plate number for bad and ruin our lives. So, sorry, no slightly off-color license plate acronym for you.

Until 2010 this was our only car, and we drove it everywhere. It's seen more trips to St. George than we can count; it's carried our bikes all over; we've taken it to Moab; it's been driven to California a few times; and we once drove it up the coast from Cali to Seattle (we were childless at the time). We also forded a small river in it and have driven on many four-wheel-drive-only tracks.

We've put one major repair into it. When we were living in California for Mike's UCLA internship we had to replace an oxygen sensor. That's it. Oh yeah, and we had to replace a back window and the faceplate on our stereo when some punk broke into it while it was parked in Salt Lake.

We've added a few upgrades, the radio that played Mp3s (so novel in the early 2000s), a clicker (that Mike wired in to unlock and lock it) and we've (Mike) replaced the door handle once many years ago. In October of this last year, for safety and emissions, we did have to tape the passenger door handle on. Isn't that how a car should work? The door handles break before the engine.

Here's to another 100,000 miles little Chevy Prizm!

Look at this cute guy. I'm so glad I bought a car with him.

If you look close, you can see our 200,000 milestone! (And a zit on my cheek. Thank you pregnancy.)

How a Pig Ruined My Day

noreply@blogger.com (Amateur Steph) — Thu, 16 Feb 2012 04:02:00 +0000

Today, success was based on whether or not I could find the number two pig from that stupid toy we borrowed from the library.
FAIL. Of course it's due tomorrow (and someone has it on hold) and I have scoured every inch of my house looking for the &*% pig. I have vague memories of the pig in various areas of my house (did I allow Ellie to take it in the van? Why, for the love, would I do that? Didn't I just yell at my children for putting it in their dirty laundry?); but none of these have panned out. And today, that makes me feel like a failure. Let's face it. There were a whole lot of other things that happened today that made me feel like a failure, but the pig--oh that stupid pig--- I think it sent me over the edge.

I'm 8 months pregnant and a pig is unbalancing me. I know I should be sitting here counting my blessings, but that pig, the one with green overalls that built a house of twigs, is ruining my otherwise cheerful recollections of the day. Like the recollection of Ellie sobbing hoarsely ALL MORNING, and wiping snot all over the only clothes I have that cover my belly. Or the fond recollection of having my mother-in-law bring Hannah home from tumbling early because she refused to go. Or the cheery memory of me accusing Kenzie of nefariously ripping the name off of Hannah's new box of crayons so she could steal them (I was wrong). Or the happy reminiscence of Hannah yelling at the top of her lungs that she was NOT GOING TO! as she kicked at Ellie and Ellie screeched loudly in response and I locked myself in my room. Or the exciting recollection of trying to decide whether moving from the couch caused such pain because either A. The baby has lodged it's adorable head in my pelvis, or B. I kicked a kickball with Hannah two days ago. (I'm going with B since I still have about 5 weeks to go.)

Yeah, that stupid pig. It totally ruined my day.

We've come a long, long way together

noreply@blogger.com (Amateur Steph) — Wed, 08 Feb 2012 05:11:00 +0000

Let's pretend our children are Chinese food. Kenzie is my Sweet and Sour. Just like in the dish, I'm not sure where the sour comes in, because she's been sweet. She's been easy (and I am seriously throwing salt over my shoulder and knocking on wood as I write this, because I know I am cursing myself.), most the time. This is lucky for her, since she's the experimental child. Being a experimental child myself (firstborn), I can pretend that things will turn out alright, even though I make lots of mistakes.

Hannah is Szechuan. I love Szechuan, but sometimes it's a little on the spicy side. It can give me heartburn. Today, it gave me heartburn. But, but, I'm making an effort right now to think about the good things. Because we've come a long, long way. I think. Sometimes. And then I think maybe we haven't come a long, long way. I think maybe it's not temporary heartburn. Maybe she's so spicy it's not heartburn, it's heartbreak, permanent style. Maybe it's a horrible underlying chronic condition and something is HORRIBLY, HORRIBLY wrong. And then I start hyperventilating and I become convinced that her entire future hinges on my giving in to her wanting one more minute before she does her chore. So I am firm. "No Hannah. No more minutes." And she throws a fit, and I tell myself not to give in because if I do she will end up staggering homeless through an alley, high on some illegal substance and cursing me and God. All because I gave her one more minute too many times.

Deep breath. Deep breath. I'm just going to have to make a list. Lists always tend to calm me down and give a little perspective to my heartburn induced nightmares.

Bad things: Hannah told me a blatant lie about using soap to wash down the counter. "I didn't," she said furiously wiping soap bubbles from the counter. "It's not soap." (This was the second lie she told me today. The lies, about stupid things, seem to be increasing lately). Hannah yelled, "I hate you. You're not a good mom," twice. She refused to have her hair done until I threatened her with toy loss. She refused to go to school until I took her there. She refused to do her chore until I threatened toy loss. She refused to practice her piano until I threatened toy loss. She kicked Ellie. She made Kenzie cry. She had five timeouts for various infractions of our home rules.

Good things: Hannah played nicely with Ellie until quiet time. Hannah had a great time at school and loved telling me all about it and showing me her papers on the letter P. When I came upstairs from putting Ellie down for a nap, Hannah was sitting quietly on the couch, ready to play reading games. While Hannah was in timeout she chose to make me birthday pictures, coloring and cutting out cakes and making them "chocolate," my favorite. Hannah made me a birthday crown. She practiced her piano. She did her chore. She ate her dinner and lots and lots of corn. She helped Kenzie find some of her jewels. When Mike took the girls to his parent's after dinner, she said sweetly, "Mommy, do you just need some alone time?"

See. It was a good day too. That Szechuan is wonderful stuff.

Ellie is Beef and Broccoli on Noodles. With chopsticks. She is slippery and everywhere and wonderful and messy and sometimes frustrating. She's still mostly mild, but has the potential to be spicy too. And sometimes the beef can be a little tough.

Mike gets to be the fortune cookies, and I'll just keep trying to be the ham fried rice. Actually I think we're both the ham fried rice--- the thing that pulls the meals together, the essence of the meal.

Fashion Philosophy

noreply@blogger.com (Amateur Steph) — Mon, 23 Jan 2012 04:36:00 +0000

So far I have three girls. I suppose that some of my motherly responsibility is to teach them things like "dressing yourself" and "personal hygiene." The problem is that for girls these categories have all sorts of nuances and subcategories. Categories that have always escaped me. Categories like "fashion" and "matching" and "style" and "coordinating jewelry" and "accessorizing."

It used to be that my whole fashion philosophy could be summed up in two words, "blend in." I suppose you could throw in the subcategory of "be comfortable," but mainly my goal has been to not be noticed. That means I try to strike a happy medium between over-done and under-done. Mostly I think I succeed, but sometimes I border on the noticeable spectrum, and not in a "I want to dress like her" manner-- more of in a "Did she look in a mirror before she left the house?" manner.

Occasionally I wish that I could be trendy and fashionable and wear jeggings with fashionable boots, and have my girls in perfectly coordinated outfits with awesomely coiffed hair, but then I remember that this involves shopping, possibly at the mall, and cold shakes envelop my body and I decide that I will just stick to my blend-in tactics.

But as my girls grow and are off to school, I've had to develop another prong to my fashion philosophy. In the interest of teaching them to "blend-in" I have banned some clothing to "play clothes" only status and I drop an occasional, "Go put a different shirt on. Blue stripes do not go well with a pink polka dotted skirt." And I do make them comb their hair every day too.

For a week or two Kenzie was doing her own hair in all sorts of new-fangled fancy styles, some of which went way outside the norm. Mike and I smiled and told her she looked fantastic, because she did. She was bursting with pride at her 5-bow, 3-ponytail creations. This definitely did not fit into my "blend-in" fashion philosophy, but I checked the urge to correct or stymie her style. "Confidence" I told myself. "She's developing her style and needs support and love. She'll build confidence." (Or be crushed by the mean comments of other children, I thought to myself hopelessly.)

So, I keep my critical comments mostly to myself and when I do offer some advice and Kenzie huffs madly at me, folds her arms and says, "No. I like this" when I tell her something doesn't match (one of those subcategories that I do have a nominal knowledge of), then I shrug my shoulders and let her wear it to school. I pray that despite a sometimes cold, cruel world of other people's opinions, my girls will develop confidence, enough to be able to have their own style and feel good about it--whether it's blending in or standing out.

So now my fashion philosophy is "Blend in. But if not, stand-out with confidence." I am trying to desperately to drum up some confidence since my "blend-in" style is not working out so well these days. With a seven-month pregnant tummy that sticks out and visibly moves, I'm getting a lot more stares. Plus, I'm running out of clothing options. Nothing fits over my protrusions. The only bras I have that fit are pink. And my shoes? I'm having trouble bending over so my brown slip-on boots are about all I wear these days--even with gray and black pants. So when you see me parading about in a flowing white shirt with a pink bra underneath and gray pants with brown boots, one leg tucked in and the other untucked, know that I am employing my second philosophy of fashion---Confidence.

After all, "Beauty is in the eye of the beholder and it may be necessary from time to time to give a stupid or misinformed beholder a black eye." (Miss Piggy)

I'm so Excited for the End of the World

noreply@blogger.com (Amateur Steph) — Mon, 02 Jan 2012 21:12:00 +0000

Since the world is ending on Dec 21, there's really no sense in making any real resolutions. But, I guess there's always the chance that the Mayan prediction will be as wrong as every other one, so I'm going to hedge my bets and keep trying to beat my laundry into submission.

#2 (see #1 above): Dominate the Lost Socks. I have a box for lost socks and it is constantly overflowing. I hearby resolve to match (or perhaps just throw away) every sock in that box.

#3: Have a baby. At the hospital. Stay at the hospital as long as possible.

#4: Finish writing my book. Currently my main character (and the plot) is stuck in a hotel in Idaho. It's kind of depressing.

#5: Don't sign up for any crazy races until next year. Next year. Seriously. I mean it. No, a half marathon in November does not sound good. No. A 5K might be okay. Really. A 5K. In October. Alright.

#6: Organize a closet (shoot for the moon, I say).

#7: Teach Hannah to read, Teach Ellie to pee (in the toilet) and teach Kenzie to run.

#8: Start a family book club.

#9: Study scriptures at least 5 times a week.

The end.

Emotionality

noreply@blogger.com (Amateur Steph) — Wed, 21 Dec 2011 05:09:00 +0000

I wanted to write a list of things that have made me cry while I've been pregnant, but I think a shorter list might be "Things That Don't Make Me Cry While Pregnant."

I realized that perhaps I have become slightly over-emotional when I walked into Kenzie's first grade class as a surprise guest and got all choked up seeing her happy, toothless grin of excitement. She was sitting on the floor, surrounded by her classmates, and she looked so grown-up. I didn't want to embarrass the poor girl, so I managed to keep it together, but seriously, who cries just because they see their kid at school?

The next hint that perhaps everything is not right in the hormone department came while I was driving home from shopping. "Home" by Dierks Bentley came on the radio and I cried real tears when he started singing the chorus. "From the Mountains high, to the wave-crashed coast, there's a way to find better days I know. . .This is still the place that we all call home."

"Oh," I sobbed aloud to my empty car. "America really is great."

Now that heartburn is settling in (Just in time for the holidays!), perhaps I will become a little more angry and less sensitive.

Baby Names

noreply@blogger.com (Amateur Steph) — Sun, 11 Dec 2011 21:40:00 +0000

We're not finding out whether this baby is a boy or girl. This has been met mostly with, "Oh, that'll be fun," reactions from people who are probably thinking, "You lunatics. That's like not taking penicillin or not having a computer." I have to admit that it was my idea. My sister Alisha did it this way and she thought it was marvelous, and being a curious soul, I wanted to see what it was like. Because hey, birthing without drugs does not provide me with enough excitement. Just call me an adrenaline junkie.

Mike is more in the "we're lunatics" camp about not finding out, but because I am swelling to giant portions and I am capable of squashing him like a bug just by sitting on his lap, he is willing to go along with my plan. Although he did try to see what it was at the big 20-week ultrasound, his ultra-sound reading skills were not as good as his engineering skills. He suspects that it is another little girl (Oh the Hair! uttered in the same tone of despair as Herbert Morrison's report on the Hindenburg disaster), because the ultrasound technician began saying, "Oh she's looking so good. Look how beautiful she is. I see her little leg." But later the technician did say, "I don't know why I'm calling it a she. I really don't know what sex it is."

I suspect that it is another baby. I have no intuition one way or another. I was a big believer in mother's intuition and all that pregnancy glow and feeling about just knowing what you're having until Hannah. I was sure Hannah was a boy. Positive. The pregnancy was so different from when I was pregnant with Kenzie. I was sick (with Kenzie I wasn't sick). I had heartburn. I was carrying differently. I had dreams that it was a boy. I just knew it was a boy. At the ultrasounds they would say, "Yep. A little girl." and I would shake my head and say, "You can never be sure, huh?" And secretly think that all this technology really didn't amount to much. I was positive it was a boy.

Then Hannah was born and my belief in mother's intuition was shot. (Don't worry Hannah, I'm glad you're a girl and it was probably best to rid me of my false beliefs early on in motherhood.)

Anywho, we're keeping our options open for names. We'd like to go for a name that ends in a -uh sound, as in "Hann-ah", since we've got Ellie and Kenzie. Here's what I've come up with for boys, "Noah." The end. I like Noah, although my friend just named her baby Noah, and one of Mike's cousins just name their baby Noah. So maybe there's just a flood of Noahs. (Haha.)
For girls, I like "Ava" but our neighbor's little baby is Ava.

Hannah suggests that, "If it's a girl, we'll call it Sunny. If it's a boy, we'll call it Moony." Then she pauses and adds seriously, "And we can call him Moonface." (I think she's hoping for another girl.)

Nanowrimo

noreply@blogger.com (Amateur Steph) — Sat, 19 Nov 2011 06:03:00 +0000

Besides developing varicose veins that a phelbotomist would kill for, I have been developing another something that I hope will prove less painful.

I'm writing a book. I'm doing this crazy Nanowrimo thing and besides feeling completely insecure about my writing and my characters in addition to all the other things I usually feel insecure about, it's been fun.

I have 25,000 words, which means I'm slightly behind in my word count, but I'm halfway to a goal of 50,000. I'm so goal-oriented that I'm halfway tempted to write "Blah, blah, blah" over and over for the words I'm missing, but I'm pretty sure that would not help me write the next Great American Novel. Because that is what this is. For sure. Except there's not enough Angst and Zombies. But I still have 25,000 words to go, so maybe some of that will work its way in.

Here's my favorite excerpt:

When God was handing out talents in heaven, I imagine the scenario went something like this:

“Ahh,” he smiled down at me, “What talent would you like little one?”

Eager and anxious and nervous because there was a huge line behind me I must have forgot to ask for a useful skill. I was probably thinking about cooking, or being a good friend, or raising children, or some other unselfish and noble skill. But then I balked. Being in the presence of God must have made me jittery because I blurted out “Swimming! I want to be a good swimmer.”

I imagine that God drew his bushy, yet benevolent eyebrows together and possibly slightly frowned.

“Swimming?” He must have gently asked.

“Yes, yes. Swimming. I heard the earth is three-fourths water,” I laughed nervously, then coughed, when no one else laughed, and then nodded very seriously. “Swimming.”

God probably looked down at the blueprint for my life and thought, “Well, swimming won’t really help her with a history degree, teaching, and then three children, but, swimming it is.”

Then he smiled, made a few changes on the plan and told me to do my best.

And I am. But I sure could use a few other talents right now. My stellar swimming skills notwithstanding I think I’m drowning in motherhood.

Motherhood

noreply@blogger.com (Amateur Steph) — Sun, 13 Nov 2011 02:59:00 +0000

I'm always making to-do lists, but this sums up how I feel somedays. When I think about #2 I think about dinosaurs chasing me, or children whining, or fireballs whizzing through the sky. Not that these things happen, but that's what survive says to me.

What do you survive?

A Brief Angry History of Daylight Saving Time

noreply@blogger.com (Amateur Steph) — Fri, 11 Nov 2011 04:24:00 +0000

George Vernon Hudson, a man too busy collecting insects to think about how Daylight Saving Time might possibly cause a four-year-old to scream in a high-pitched voice for fifteen minutes at 8:00 p.m. four days into the fall time change that she wants "TO BE HOME RIGHT NOW!" while driving in the car, when her mother has been working so very carefully with her and gained some solid ground on not throwing fits, proposed shifting an hour of daylight to the evening in the summer so he could COLLECT BUGS.

William Willet, a British man who had never dragged a sobbing, hysterical six-year-old out to the car in his bare feet on a cold winter morning to go to school, and had never bodily carried a four-year-old, kicking and screaming to her carpool and shoved her inside and said, "Watch out! The door's shutting," as she tried to cling to him, because they are sleeping an hour less than normal, also proposed DST in Britain so he could GOLF LONGER.

Foolishly, most of the U.S., under the delusion that they are saving energy, money or anything at all, agrees to this mass conspiracy against parents and their children and continues to change their clocks like lemmings falling off cliffs each spring and fall.
The End

Zion in Fall

noreply@blogger.com (Amateur Steph) — Mon, 07 Nov 2011 21:35:00 +0000

Pic #1

If you've never been to Zion National Park in the fall, you should go. I, (yes me), with my 6 megapixel Nikon D40, took these pictures, no touch up this past weekend.
In one of my undergrad writing classes I remember a quote that our teacher read to us that went something like, "Even the poorest astronomer, through diligence, is bound to see some shooting stars." Now, for the life of me, I can't find the exact quote. Seriously Google? You've answered all my other obscure questions, why can't you find my quote?
Anyway, that's how I feel about my photography. I have a decent camera and sometimes I get lucky with lighting and scenery. It's easy to take beautiful pictures in Zion, especially in the fall.
Which one should we make humongous to hang on our wall?

Pic #2

Pic #3

Pic #4

Pic #5

Pic #6

Pic #7

Pic #8

Lotoja

noreply@blogger.com (Amateur Steph) — Sun, 06 Nov 2011 20:33:00 +0000

The day before Mike left for Alabama he and his brother Dave did Lotoja.I got to be their support driver and had a good time driving them around and pretending to think that they weren't crazy.

They finished a little slower than they wanted, but did a great job.

I made a little scrapbook of the adventure:

| Learn About Mixbook Photo Books | Create your own Photo Book

A Surefire Wicked Witch Formula

noreply@blogger.com (Amateur Steph) — Sun, 16 Oct 2011 21:15:00 +0000

Mike is home now, but for the past five weeks he has been in Alabama. He was selected to attend Squadron Officer School in Montgomery, AL. We were excited for the opportunity that Mike would have to learn about leadership and Air Force philosophy as one of only 14 civilians in a class of over 400 of the Air Force's top officers.

We were not excited to be seperated for five weeks. But we also knew that many couples who are actually in the military go through much longer and frequent deployments (where they are involved in wars), so we tried to grin and bear it. We also shortened it with me flying out to Alabama last week with the girls to visit and stay with him the last week. (More about that fun time in another post)

I wrote the following while he was gone, and I've slightly edited it, since I feel a lot better about life now that he's home:

We're almost at the 2 week mark and I am pretty sure that by the end my children will hate me. I always imagine them growing up and writing books about how I scarred them for life. I imagine them writing sentences like, "My mother was a yeller. I still jump when I hear loud noises." Or "My drug problems all stem back to my mother's inability to follow through on promises."

When Mike calls, the girls and I are always in some pitched battle for supremacy. He gets to hear all about how if the kids don't go to bed right now and/or pick up their stupid toys, listen to me, do their homework, they'll spend eternity in their rooms. I bet it makes him miss me.

The worst part is that my patience is gone by about 2 p.m. Usually, when I know Mike will be home by 5, I can hold on to my sarcastic tongue and keep myself in patient mommy mode, but now I know he won't be home I just let loose: "Why yes Hannah, you're right. My whole goal in life is to make you miserable. I can see by how you are crying hysterically and yelling that you hate me that I am succeeding."

Today Kenzie called home with a sick stomach from school. Then she wanted to play and run and eat candy. So my patience was gone at noon. Her new favorite tone of voice is Defiant Whine. So when I told her she could not watch a movie or play, or eat anything but toast and applesauce, she said, "I'm never going to checkout again. Because of you. You are so mean. Mean, mean, mean!" I felt triumphant and only managed to not say anything by singing softly to myself, "I am the champion, my friend. And I'll keep on fighting to the end."

Actually my lack of patience is not the worst part. The worst part is knowing that I'm a whiny baby because I don't even have it that bad. People's husbands are deployed for months at a time and I can't even handle five (okay we're only at 2) weeks? Seriously. What is my problem?

Question and Answer

noreply@blogger.com (Amateur Steph) — Tue, 20 Sep 2011 03:26:00 +0000

1. What will Stephanie do when she does what she has always warned her children about and slams her finger in the sliding van door? She will curse out loud, jump around and then try to make up for her real swearing by fake swearing. "GOSH DANG IT ALL TO HECK!" After checking to make sure that her fingers are still attached to her hand she will whine continuously the whole ride home, at the same time thinking she is amazing for not crying. (My finger is okay now. It just hurt for a bit)
2. How long does it take for Stephanie to feel completely insane when Mike is gone on a business trip?
One week. Then she starts molting. And yelling. And maybe feeling sorry for herself.
3. Why is it that right when it is time to consume more calories because a baby is growing inside you, everything tastes like broccoli and makes you want to barf?
While Mormons believe that "men will be punished for their own sins and not for Adam's transgressions," it's possible that pregnancy and its accompanying "joys" are women being punished for Eve's transgressions. (Ummm, is this blasphemous? If so I take it back.)
4. How many months can Stephanie succesfully hide a pregnancy?
One. Then, although she tries to deny it for another two months, her belly gives her away.
5. What is Stephanie's fondest wish right now, besides Mike being home and blog stardom, fame and money?
Going to the doctor and having them say, "Oh, you're really 20 weeks along, not 13! Wow!"

Crazy is as Crazy Does

noreply@blogger.com (Amateur Steph) — Mon, 12 Sep 2011 03:32:00 +0000

Yes, that's an arrow on my belly. We're excited to welcome our fourth little one at the end of March. (Because I have too many brain cells and need to kill a few more off.)

Swim Lesson Fiasco

noreply@blogger.com (Amateur Steph) — Mon, 29 Aug 2011 02:55:00 +0000

This summer we signed the girls up for their second round of swim lessons. Kenzie has become pretty confident in the water so I signed her up for a Level 2 class where she could start to learn some strokes and get better at swimming.

All summer long the girls asked me when swim lessons would start. Finally at the end of July, we put on our swim suits, grabbed our towels and headed to the Roy Complex for our lessons. They were so excited. Hannah even headed off to class (even though the teacher was a boy!) without any trouble at all.

I was playing with Ellie in the bleachers, watching the action and thinking how wonderful swim lessons would be and the next thing I know, a sobbing, screeching Kenzie is next to me crying about how she doesn't like swim lessons. I am puzzled. Kenzie won't tell me what happened and I didn't see anything. I try giving her a hug (drenching my clothes) and sending her back. "You like swimming. Look you can do what your class is doing. You can do it. You've floated on your back before. Go on."

I try gently directing her back to her class. She refuses, crying and crying.

"Here I'll walk you back out there. Come on." I take her hand and we walk over to her class. Her teacher spends some valuable class time trying to convince Kenzie back to the water. She starts to get back in. I am walking away when the crying Kenzie comes back to my side again.

My patience, which I did not think would be tried by my children refusing to do things I paid for that are supposed to be fun, runs thin. I try the reward mode.

"Look Kenz. If you go back to swim lessons I have an ice cream cone with your name on it that you can have when we get home. But you have to go swim and stay in your class."

She sits next to me and cries harder.

"Come on don't you want an ice cream cone? Mmm. You love ice cream." (Just like she loves swimming, I thought)

The forty-five minutes of class are ticking away as her class members practice floating and swimming to the teacher, things that Kenzie can do. Things she needs to practice. I give her a five minute time limit to get back to her class, or no ice cream! The five minutes tick away. My patience ticks away.

"Fine. Kenz, these lessons cost $45. Do you understand how many chores that is? That's 180 chores. You're going to swim lessons or you're doing chores for the rest of your life to pay for them. Do you like chores? Because you're going to have to do four a day. Remember how you hate doing two a day? Well it's going to be worse. Four a day. It's going to take you all day. And they'll be chores I chose."

"I don't want to go to swim lessons," Kenzie sobs. "And I won't do chores! I won't!"

"Well how are you going to pay me?" I'm getting angrier by the minute. "Just go out there and swim! You like swimming! Don't be a quitter." (resorting to name calling always works with children)

At this point, my sister-in-law, steps in. "Hey Kenz, we're going to Uncle Josh's work to swim after lessons today. Do you want to go?"

A tear-streaked Kenzie nods.

"Well, you have to go and finish your lessons."

"Did you hear that Kenz? Go on. Go!" Kenzie finally (with ten minutes left in the class), goes back to class.

After class we had a great time swimming with Josh and Sherrie and their kids and Kenzie showed her prowess at swimming underwater and back floating. I know the class isn't too advanced for her.

"Next time I'll go to class," says Kenzie.

But it was the same pattern at the next lesson. What the heck? She even started acting the same way at tumbling lessons, coming out of class crying at me. Finally, when she refused to put her swimsuit on for the third lesson, I gave up. Luckily I was still able to get a refund, or she really would have been doing 180 chores.

I never thought I would have to teach my children everything. When they are babies it's things like teaching a child not to throw themselves off of surfaces taller than they are, how to get food to their mouth instead of their ear, and how to go to sleep and stay asleep, that surprise me. I thought survival skills were somewhat innate.

Now that my kids are getting a little older it's lessons like "don't give up at the first sign of hard work," or "throwing fits makes people want to run away from you," and "if you're not nice no one will want to be around you," that surprise me. And the fact that we have to learn these lessons OVER AND OVER AND OVER.

It's hard to teach them how to be happy.

The RULES

noreply@blogger.com (Amateur Steph) — Fri, 26 Aug 2011 01:20:00 +0000

1. Don't wake up the baby.
2. Don't make extra work for Mom.

We could have some peace around here if these darn kids would just cooperate.

Rage, Rage Against Trifles

noreply@blogger.com (Amateur Steph) — Wed, 10 Aug 2011 17:25:00 +0000

When I was little from inside our house we could hear our neighbor yelling from inside her house at her boys. She had quite a set of pipes and I remember thinking, "She must be a pretty angry person. I won't ever yell like that."

Since parenthood is all about dining sumptuously on the words you previously said, of course I have yelled like that.

Yesterday in fact. And it was stupid.
Here, let me set the scene:
Hannah and Kenzie had their cousins over to play. I had gone in to use the bathroom and when I came out, Ellie, who had just been put down for her nap 30 minutes ago, was crying. ARGHHHHH. Hannah and Koy were downstairs playing loudly by Ellie's bedroom. "Out!" I said in a furious whisper, pointing up the stairs with fire in my eyes. I wasn't at yelling level because that would only exacerbate the situation.

Right now the largest goal in my life is Naps and Bedtime. I suppose I'm OCD about it.

I hoped Ellie would go back to sleep if I took the kids outside and let it be quiet for a bit. She really should have been sleeping. Really. She missed her morning nap and needed a good couple hours to make up for it.

We headed outside and I put some sunscreen on Kenzie and squirted some into my hands to get ready for Hannah. "Hannah come and get some sunscreen." She looked at me and stayed where she was.

"Hannah come and get some sunscreen right now, or you have to go inside."

"No!"

My blood pressure was already high. I was already super ticked that she had woken up Ellie, and now I had sunscreen all over my hands and she was going to make me get out of my chair in the shade and act on my threat in front of her friends.

Hannah ran around the yard, hiding behind the trampoline. I think if I was a bull I would have snorted and pawed the ground. I probably did snort. And I wiped the sunscreen on my hands on the grass so I could grab the little sucker.

"Hannah! If you don't get over here right now, you will be very sorry!!!!!" I was yelling. The cousins cowered in terror. Hannah giggled and in a last ditch effort to avoid my charge jumped into the swim pool.

I waded into the pool, grabbed her by the arm and yelled some more. I managed to keep it a PG sort of yell. "DANG IT ALL TO HECK! YOU ARE STAYING IN YOUR ROOM UNTIL YOUR FATHER COMES HOME! OR UNTIL YOU STOP DISOBEYING!"

I dragged her unceremoniously up to her room and heard Ellie screaming her guts out. Fantastic. I went back outside and calmed myself down before going back in to get Ellie. I checked on Hannah but she was pretending to sleep (soaking wet in her bed), so I ignored her and went back outside with Ellie.

Later, after my heart rate was restored to normal, I went back in to talk to Hannah. I felt pretty bad for yelling. And for getting so angry. We made a deal with each other. I would practice not yelling if she would practice obeying.

So I'm going to try a little harder to be a little better. It was sunscreen. I could have handled that situation a lot better.

Sanity Questionable

noreply@blogger.com (Amateur Steph) — Mon, 25 Jul 2011 14:48:00 +0000

This dirty doorknob picture was taken last week. It's the outside of the girls' door. Yes, the lock is on the outside. It's so we can play Cinderella more realistically. Of course I get to play the wicked stepmother.

I made good on my word (finally) to put a lock on their door. In my defense it was to save their lives. I've tried reasoning with them, saying in a calm voice, "Well, kicking your sister in the chest is unacceptable in our house. Would you like your time out on the stairs or in your room?" This calm is met with hatred and kicking and scuzzing by the offender. So I continue in a calm voice, "Well, it looks like you choose your room." Then I gently grab them by both hands and walk their non-compliant self to the room. By this time I have usually suffered some sort of flesh wound and my temper is raising just slightly. So I say something like, "If you don't stay in your room, you're going to be very sorry. I mean it! Don't open that door." Then the door bangs open and shut as I try to hold the door closed and the offender tries to come out so they can hit/kick/scream/suck my brain. My temper does not improve and neither does theirs.

Usually I have to flee to my room, which I can lock myself into. But if I'm fleeing from the banshee, that leaves the other children unprotected. And I don't think I should have to lock myself in the room while the offender roams the house terrorizing the natives. Simple solution: a knob with a lock on it put on backwards. It has saved me from a few bruises, it has saved my children from a few yellings/spankings, and it has saved me from the madhouse.

Until this week. This week we had a little summer camp with some friends at our house. We had a great time learning about the water cycle, pretending cotton balls were clouds and playing rain drop tag. Then we went into the bedroom for some play time. I came in and sat down to monitor a little sharing problem.
Hannah said, "I'm going to shut the door!"
"No Hannah," I said. "Don't shut the door. Ellie's coming and she can come in."
"No! She can't!" and Hannah slammed the door before Ellie could come in.
I stood up and went to let Ellie in. The door was locked. Oh.
"Hannah! We're locked in here," I say trying to not fly into a rage that will terrify the six children shut into the room with me.
Hannah laughs. And laughs some more. I pull a bobby pin out of my hair and try picking the lock. I've never picked this type of lock before, so I become increasingly frustrated as the minutes tick by.
Someone wails, "We're going to die in here!"
"No, we're not going to die," I say, calmly thinking that Hannah might die later today. I look out the window and see the mail lady dropping off our mail. I open the window and I'm going to call out to her, but she is on the phone. I pause and the mail lady drives off. Surely Catherine will be coming out to get her mail soon. Won't she?
Ellie starts knocking on the door, getting a little whine in her voice.
"Watch out the window kids," I say. "If you see someone tell me right away." I go back to picking the lock.
"We don't have any water," someone moans.
"Hey Ellie, just a minute. Stay there sweetie." I envision her crawling into the bathroom and falling in the toilet and drowning. I keep working the hairpin to no avail. I search the room for some other small object to pick the lock. Nothing. Hannah is still laughing. I give her a mean mommy glare.
"Look Mom! Tayson! I see Tayson," says Kenzie.
Hooray! I yell out the window to Tayson's father. "Hey Bryce, the kids have locked us in this room. Can you come and let me out?"
Bryce seems puzzled. "Really?"
"Ummm. Yes. I think the front door is unlocked."
"Are you all in there?" asks Bryce.
"Yes, well no. Ellie is outside the door."
Bryce and Tayson come and unlock the door.
"I wasn't sure if you were serious," said Bryce as he opened the door to let Ellie in and us out. "This'll make a good story."
Yes. A great story that illustrates why I can never own a daycare. I'd have to say that this falls higher on the embarrassment scale than the time I accidentally wore my pants backwards in sixth grade.
To top it off it happened again the next day. Just call me competent and collected.
And yes, I now know how to pick the lock (thanks Kristen).

I Accomplished Something, No really. I swear.

noreply@blogger.com (Amateur Steph) — Wed, 20 Jul 2011 03:36:00 +0000

Things that make me feel successful:
1. Taking a shower
2. Not yelling.
3. Putting all the breakfast and lunch dishes in the dishwasher by 4:57 p.m.
4. Washing off Ellie's high chair tray while the oatmeal/yogurt/goo is still fresh.
5. Walking out the door with shoes on everyone's feet.
6. Getting my girls' hair done without someone falling to the floor and yelling that they hate me.
7. Planning out dinners for a week, writing a grocery list and buying everything on the list
8. Working out.
9. Getting 20 minutes of reading from Kenzie
10. Not flipping my children off when they are whining at me
11. Swearing only in my head
12. Walking on the floor without getting crumby feet.
13. Changing Ellie's diaper right when she wakes up
14. Getting swimsuits on, making sure everyone is sunscreened, blowing up the pool, filling up the pool, and sitting in the shade while the girls play in it.
15. Finishing a story
16. Clean sheets
17. Going to bed before 10:00
18. Having all the laundry done by Tuesday
19. Not having laundry on the end of my bed, waiting to be hung up
20. Having our morning routine (dressed, comb hair, make bed, breakfast, regular chore, screen chore*) completed by 10:00.
21. Returning borrowed/left items
22. Sewing anything
23. Making dinner
24. Planning things
25. Being up to date on the blog
26. Writing on the whiteboard calendar our weekly schedule.
27. When the girls say "thank-you" unprompted
28. When Mike says I look nice
29. A skinny compliment
30. Lists, checked off
31. Any sort of home decor
32. If a pepper would grow on my plants
33. Having the girls asleep by 9:00.
34. A smile from Kenzie, Hannah or Ellie
35. Reading a good book
36. Getting my Visiting Teaching done

And that's it for now. I'm sure I'll think of some more. What are the little things that make you feel successful?
*A screen chore is an extra chore that the girls have to do every day since they stuck a screwdriver through their window screen in multiple places and they have to earn the money to replace it.

The Blogger-Formerly-Known-As-Quitting

noreply@blogger.com (Amateur Steph) — Fri, 15 Jul 2011 04:25:00 +0000

Sometimes the weight of motherhood pushes my shoulders down and instead of looking up, I'm counting the cracks in the sidewalk and watching ants, thinking, "Man, it would suck to be an ant. What if we are ants in a giant world and our personal tragedies are merely the cause of giants walking around to important meetings and trying to keep us out of their houses?"

And then my head explodes.

I miss you blog. I think I'm going to have to come back. My sugary all-happy all-the-time blog is not doing it for me. It's a fantastic family journal and I still plan to use it as a tool to convince my children that they had happy childhoods ("fake it till you feel it" all the way baby!), but I like this outlet. I also have running as an outlet, but writing with feedback from friends? That's a nice outlet too. And it's a great coping mechanism. I just have to be careful that I don't have so many outlets that I check out of my family. Right?

Consider me as the Blogger-Formerly-Known-As-Quitting, but you can call me Steph or &. That would be a funny name for a child. Ampersand. Hahaha. I kill me. Okay sorry.

So what I'm trying to say here, (why does this feel like an awkward DTR with a boy that I like more than he likes me?) is that I think I'm going to try blogging once a week again. (Did I ever do that? Kind of. I was mostly consistent.) And I hope you'll read and once in awhile, just because you like good deeds, you can leave me a comment. (Please.)

Warning Signs

noreply@blogger.com (Amateur Steph) — Fri, 01 Jul 2011 04:47:00 +0000

Ahhh! How I've missed you little blog and readers. I'm still not sure what to do with this blog, but in the meantime, we've inherited a riding lawn mower. And what could be more interesting than a riding lawn mower? Who doesn't blog about their riding lawn mower? Aren't you glad you stopped by, just to read about it? Wait, don't go! This will be funny I promise.
It needs a new fuel pump, but Mike's pretty excited to try it out. I was excited too, until Mike pointed out these Warning! drawings in the operating manual:

Warning! Your friends will be crushed if they attempt cartwheels near your lawnmower. Also, don't push your friend off the lawnmower while driving it.

Warning! Do not do cartwheels off your lawnmower onto rocks.

Warning! Don't stand on one leg while filling a milk can with gasoline in the back of an old truck.

Warning! Don't magically suspend your lawn mower above your head by conjuring from a book of spells.

Warning! Don't make gasoline ice cream cones while smoking. They will explode.

Warning! The Golden Plates will blind you.

Warning! Uncut grass will prick you and you will die on the eve of your sixteenth birthday.

Warning! The UFOs will get you in the back of the head (or in the butt) while driving your lawnmower.

Warning! If provoked, your lawnmower will fire upon you at will.

Warning! Your left arm will disappear if you slip in a puddle while wearing unfashionable boots. (And then your lawnmower will laugh at you.)

Warning! Your body will disappear while riding forward and crushing small children, but reappear while going backward and crushing small children.

Warning! Your lawnmower will try to consume you from the legs up.

Warning! Your lawnmower will cut off your appendages.

Warning! Your tires are filled with poisonous arrows that will poke you in the chin if you attach a hose to them.

All the fun is spoiled now. How are we supposed to mow our lawn if we can't do cartwheels off our lawnmower? What are we supposed to tell the children?

Friends, Romans, Countrymen

noreply@blogger.com (Amateur Steph) — Thu, 19 May 2011 03:37:00 +0000

Today it rained and rained and I wish I could show you a picture titled, "Flustered Mother Entering Car with Umbrella" for your laughter and enjoyment. Unfortunately, I was the flustered mother and was unable to capture the wet moment in all its door-rebounding, umbrella mashing, soaked glory.
You know the funny thing about having three children? (Besides pretending that you've gone deaf when they whine?) Time disappears. Like I said before, this motherhood thing is really sinking its teeth into me and I'm finding less and less time to spend on the computer.

One of the ways that I excuse all the time I spend on the blog/computer is that I tell myself, "This is my family journal." This half-lie is nice and all but here's me reading this blog to Kenzie:
"And we [edit out sarcasm] to the park. [Scan next four paragraphs, edit them out] Boy it was fun."
If I'm going to continue to cultivate my saintly image of Mother of the Year with my girls, I'm going to have to develop a family blog more along the lines of "Everything is Fabulous and We Always Wear Matching Clothes and Have a Loaf of Bread baking in the Oven." Because I'm pretty sure a lovely write-up of our lives will trump our actual memories. So if I pretend that we are perfect, we will be. :) Right? Right.

So, blah, blah, the point of all this is, that the family portion of this blog has gone private. I'm maintaining this particular blog as my personal journey to Sainthood, so go ahead and keep me on your blog roll, or in google reader, or follow me, or whatever it is that you do, but I'm not sure what I'm going to write about, or how often I'm going to write. (It's been pretty sporadic since Ellie was born. Sorry.)

I should come up with a new name for this blog like, "Mother of the Year" or "The Saintly Mother" or "How to Raise Children Without Slashing Your Wrists" all wonderful titles, but I bet they're all taken.

I wish I could make some sort of commitment to you my readers (she says bowing to the imaginary crowd), but I'm not at the point where I can do that right now.

If you like my writing you can always catch me on the Sports page in the Standard-Examiner or in a bi-monthly column in the utahrunning.com magazine.

And if you really want to read sappy (not snappy, sappy) write-ups about our perfect family trips and wonderful life you're going to have to be my Grandma. Okay, okay, if you really care about Ellie's height and weight and want to hear all about Kenzie's brilliance and how Hannah has the best sense of humor ever, then you can email me for an invite. But it's going to be sappy and oozing with cheesy family love. I promise.

P.S. Dear Reader who asked me what size PVC pipe is in the bunkbed tent- I'm sorry I can't find your comment to reply, so I hope you are reading this. It's 1/2" pipe with 1/2" T-joints. Does that make sense?

Mother's Day

noreply@blogger.com (Amateur Steph) — Mon, 09 May 2011 03:20:00 +0000

For years I drove the route past the tree. Its bone-branches scratched the sky--a solitary giant in a barren field. For years I drove by and never stopped, always thinking, "How beautiful. How lovely. I should take a picture." Sometimes I even had a camera in the car as I drove by, but I was always in a hurry, or afraid I would look stupid standing on a busy street pointing my camera at a lone tree in a farmer's field.

One day I drove past the tree and it was gone. A long, burned branch snaked across the ground in its place. I felt as empty as the sky, regretful of missed opportunities.

Today, I vow to miss less opportunities to love my girls. I vow to make good the sacrifices and service that my mother gave to me. I vow to continue to link the love of my mom, my grandma, my great-grandma, to the mothers of tomorrow that I am raising. I vow to appreciate the people in my life now, not when they are gone. I vow be who I want to be today, not tomorrow.

Mom, I love you! Thank you.

My sister-in-law, Sherrie, took this picture before the tree burned down and she shared it with me when I told her how sad I was that it burned down. Isn't it beautiful?

Hannah's Farm Day

noreply@blogger.com (Amateur Steph) — Mon, 02 May 2011 03:36:00 +0000

We weren't sure if Farm Day would be rained out, but lucky for us the rain held off and it was just cold. Melissa's dad owns the dairy farm and they bring in a whole bunch of animals for Farm day, and we were lucky enough to get to take our little Joyschool group to see them. Hannah kept asking me if there would be three little pigs. (Yes dear and they will each build a house.)

Kate, Mialee and Hannah on the road to the farm. I must have grabbed my camera by the lens (doesn't everyone do that?) because there is a smudgy look to each picture that exactly correlates with my thumb print. I was thinking that my camera was fritzing, but really it was just me. Typical.

Cows! Hannah said, "It smells worse than stinky socks." We gave her the lowdown on manure.

In front of the baby cows.

Oh, little bunnies. Hannah wanted very badly to hold a bunny, but everytime one got near her, she freaked out if they moved at all. This one was calm enough that she finally got it in her arms. She loved it, but was still fairly terrified if it moved at all. There were bunnies, hamsters, a lamb, horses (a colt too), and the much-anticipated pigs.

After Hannah worked up her courage she held another bunny and showed it to Ellie. Ellie wanted to grab handfuls of fur and eat the bunny, but don't worry we didn't let her.

This is how Ellie feels about real cow noises. On the other hand, we have a song by Sandra Boyton, called "Cows," that without fail stops Ellie's crying. I swear it works 100% of the time. I know this song so well by now, that if I were tortured and lost my mind, I'm sure that I would walk around quoting the To Be Or Not To Be speech from Hamlet, interspersed with lyrics from this song. I might occasionally break into a mad tap dance routine as well. I guess that wouldn't be much different from now.

Thanks Melissa's family and Melissa for the tour.