Fun at Mom and Dad's House

The following is an actual conversation that took place as I was getting ready for another day of extreme violining. I was standing in the bathroom, applying my industrial strength concealed in a futile attempt to make the bags under my eyes disappear, when Ashlynn ran gleefully down the hall.

"Mom!" she squealed. "Look at this picture I found of you and Holly!"

Aaah,yes. The goldmine of embarrassing pictures that can be found at your parents' house.

"Look at your hair! It's huge!" Ashlynn continued.

By this time Abby had joined the party. "Mom, your dress was really ugly," she contributed.

"And you had braces!" Ashlynn said, horrified.

They both took off down the hall with the offending picture, giggling happily, leaving me wishing for plastic surgery instead of concealer. Just as I was about to give up on getting ready and crawl under the covers for the rest of the day in embarassment, Ashlynn came running back in the bathroom.

"It's okay, Mom. We love you anyway."

I think I'll keep her.

And no, I'm not uploading a copy of the picture. Blogging with an iPhone, remember? And my poor sister is innocent in all of this. And if I remember right, she had a major fever the day that picture was taken, so I'll save it for when I need some blackmail material.

I'm not dead (It just feels like it)

If it's June, it means I have dropped off the face of the earth to schlep my family to Suzuki Violin camp, more specifically the Intermountain Suzuki String Institute.

To avoid massive drives everyday, and save a scrap of sanity, I packed up approximately 57 suitcases full of everything we own and moved into my parents' basement for the week.

I haven't even opened my computer in a week. All of the blogosphere could have imploded, and I'd never know, because me entire life this week has revolved around my eight year old and her violin. By the time I get back to my parents' house, practice with Abby, (yeah, six hours of class during the day and practice at night. Tons o' fun...) and get everyone fed, bathed and in bed, there's nothing I can do but fall into bed completely exhausted. I'm not sure I could form a complete sentence this week that doesn't include the words "violin," "perpetual motion" or "Bach Double."

In fact, I'm sitting in a fiddle class right now, typing this blog post on my iPhone, so you'll have to excuse me if my auto spell-correct changes a typo into something obscene.

And we're in the middle of yet another bizarre medical crisis, because it's been two whole weeks since someone has been in the hospital or urgent care. This time, it's me, with a knee swollen approximately to the size of a basketball, and the doc at the instacare casually tossing around words like "MRI" "orthopedic surgeon" and "knee surgery." Fun, right? More about this later, after I'm off the heavy-duty painkillers and feeling more like a person. Or at least have access to a real keyboard.

So there you have it. Violins, knee surgery, and narcotics. Aren't you glad you stopped by today?

School's Out for summer

(Insert loud Alice Cooper music here.)
(I thought it was Queen.  I really did.  Thanks to Alicia, who decided to de-lurk and correct me so that I don't look like an idiot!)

The Good News: As of 11:30 this morning, my kiddos will be out of school for the summer.
The Bad News: A of 11:30 this morning,k  my kiddos will be out of school for the summer.

The Good News: I will no longer be solely responsible for entertaining my 18-month old.
The Bad News: I will now be responsible for entertaining the 8 year old, the 6 year old, and the 18 month old.

The Good News: I don't have to pack lunches first thing in the morning before I've even had breakfast.
The Bad News: I now have to come up with lunches for everyone everyday, and can't cop out anymore by telling them, "Today is a school lunch day."

The Good News: No more waking up early to do the before school routine.
The Bad News: Now I have to wake up early to teach violin lessons.  (Who thought that was a good idea?)

The Good News: I am going to be the super organized, efficient, fun mom this summer.
The Bad News: I have no idea how to actually go about doing that...

The Good News: The girls will be home with us all summer.
The Bad News: I no longer have the option of sending them away to school.

The Good News: I now have helpers around the house.
The Bad News: I now have to come up with alternate times to do the errands, because I'd rather scratch out my eyeballs with a plastic fork than take all three of them grocery shopping.  ( Learned my lesson about that several times last summer.)

The Good News: Long summer nights, cookouts, camping trips, swimming pools, being outside, farmer's markets, corn on the cob, fresh tomatoes, bike riding, (but not down hills!) and lots of seemingly extra time.
The Bad News: School starts again August 23rd.

Mothering a toddler

Mothering a toddler sometimes feels like negotiating with a terrorist.  A terrorist who has very few words and very loud screams.  A small terrorist that makes you think that torture should be redefined to include listening to your son tantrum for a half hour straight for no discernable reason.

Mothering a toddler means reading "Brown Bear" fifteen times a day, then switching it up with "Baby Bear" just for variety.  But it also means smiling every time you finish the book and watch your toddler flip the book to the beginning, sign "more book" and then look at you expectantly.

Mothering a toddler means that you can feel very satisfied with yourself for cleaning a room top to bottom, only to discover that your toddler has simultaneously destroyed two other rooms.

Mothering a toddler means that you will constantly find bizarre things in even more bizarre places.  Just yesterday, I found a used Qtip in the van, (ew!) shoes in the bathtub, a credit card in my violin case, Townhouse crackers everywhere, and balls of every shape, size, variety, and sport in every room of my house.

Thus, Mothering a toddler means that you will never have a clean house.  I'm starting to understand and respect that sometimes the best I can expect is for everyone to be dressed and fed.  And not necessarily in clean clothes or healthy food either. 

Mothering a toddler means that some mornings, you just let him in the backyard.  Even if he doesn't have shoes on, or is still wearing pajamas, or hasn't had a diaper change.  Just to stop the blessed screaming and find a moment to yourself.

Mothering a toddler means security objects.  And when its a boy toddler, that means that you never again get to leave the house without his little toddler-sized basketball.  On the flipside, it also means that as long as he has his basketball, he will stay in nusery for a full two hours, practicing his baby jumpshot on their perfectly-sized hoop.

Mothering a toddler requires a degree in a foreign language, and feeling insanely proud of yourself when you realize you can understand that "Bah!" can mean bath, ball, or the "Peek a boo Barn" game on the iPhone, depending on how its shouted at you.  It also means, however, that you're going to need lots of practice to discern the difference between "all done," and "water."

Mothering a toddler means that within a span of five minutes, you both threaten to sell him on ebay, and then smother him with kisses because he's just so cute.

Mothering a toddler means that you no longer get a say in the music you listen to, because the "Music Together" CD must always be playing. Then you surprise youself by singing the songs to yourself when no one is listening.


Mothering a toddler means having a little person in your bed most nights.  And finding out that when they're not there, or when they decide to cuddle up with Daddy instead, that you actually miss them sharing your pillow, kicking your stomach, and cuddling up underneath your chin.

Mothering a toddler means cherishing kisses, even when they come from noses covered in goo and faces covered in chocolate chip cookie crumbs.


Mothering a toddler means that the best laughs you get in a day can come from chasing them all around the kitchen on your hands and knees making animal sounds.   And you don't get tired of it.

Mothering a toddler means counting down the minutes until naptime or bedtime, then spending another five minutes watching them after they fall asleep because they look so perfect, peaceful, sweet and innocent.

Mothering a toddler means holding tiny hands as you cross the street and the parking lot, and feeling tears well up in your eyes, because you know its only a matter of time before you're chasing him across the parking lot instead.

Mothering a toddler means thanking Heavenly Father everyday for this crazy busy little person who stretches you more than you ever thought possible, but in return, brings you more joy than your heart feels that it can handle.

Just the facts, ma'am...

There's a fine line between whining and telling exactly what happened on this "vacation" of ours. 

And though I really, really want to whine and stomp my feet and cry about how terrible it all was, I'll spare you all that and just tell you exactly what happened.

Yesterday morning, Max woke up crying with a screaming fever.  Abby was crying because everything hurt.  Ashylnn was crying because everyong else was crying.  I wanted to cry.

The vacation was over. 

By 10am, we had everything packed in the car, ("I don't care where you pack everything, Mom.  Just throw it in the van.  We'll sort it all out later.") and were on the road. 

We made it home in record time.  I figured as long as we were all going lay around feeling sorry for ourselves, we may as well do it at home, on our own couches.

And I learned a very important lesson.  Next time I get the wild idea to take all three children on "vacation" by myself,. a much wiser course would be to wrap all my children in bubble wrap and lock us all in our rooms for the duration.  It would be cheaper, and probably a lot more enjoyable.

When the husband's away...

A child is guaranteed to end up in the hospital.

Last time Tom went to Europe, Max visited three hospitals, two ER's, with a bonus ride in an ambulance.

I joked with Tom that he needed to have a stern talk with Max about staying out of the hospital while Dad is out of the country.

Turns out, it wasn't Max I needed to worry about.

Abby was riding her bike down a hill at Capitol Reef National Park today, got out of control, and took the nastiest spill I've ever seen.  I was behind her in the car, and my heart stopped.   Its one of those terrible images that will stay with me for the rest of my life.

She was covered in blood, screaming and going quickly into shock.  We piled her into the van and drove to the Visitor's Center, and they directed us to the clinic in Bicknell, about 20 miles away.

Five stitches in her chin,  a wicked case of road rash on her chest, a wrapped elbow, a wrapped knee, too many band-aids and bruises to count, and $330 dollars later, ("No, our policy is to have the patient pay up front and then we'll reimburse you when and if your insurance pays."  Like I said a few posts back, its a good thing that our money tree in the backyard is starting to bloom...) Abby is back at the cabin, limping around recovering.

It will probably take me much longer. 

And my husband is no longer allowed to go to Europe on business.

The one time utter chaos manages to pay off

A week ago, my husband got news that he was headed to Germany this week for work.  Unfortunately, it also meant that due to an acute lack of child care, that I wasn't going to be able to attend the Casual Blogger's Conference this weekend.  After a suitable period of mourning, I decided that rather than spend all week staring at the walls and going stir-crazy alone with my three wild children, that I would pack them all up in the van and head down to my parents' cabin in Torrey.  Better scenery, two extra adults to help corral the crazies, and a change of pace would be good ideas all the way around.

While I was nervous about the drive alone with them, everything went relatively well, until we hit the tiny town of Bicknell, UT, about 5 or so miles from Torrey.  Max, who had adamently refused to nap the whole trip, decided that he was done.  Done with the carseat, done with our feeble attempts to entertain him, done.  And then he commenced the shrieking. 

Then Ashlynn decided she was done listening to Max scream, and decided to start screaming at Max to stop screaming.  As you can imagine, this was incredibly effective.   Then Abby started yelling at them both.  More effectiveness.  I started chanting "Five more minutes, five more minutes," in my head.

Then I looked up to see red and blue flashing lights in my rearview mirror.

After uttering a minor four-letter word, calmly and cooly pulling over, the very nice Wayne County Sherriff approached my window.  I very honestly had no idea what I had done, but guessed that I probably hadn't been watching my speed. 

Sure enough, the very nice officer had clocked me going 11 over in the middle of Bicknell, and then trailed me for a few miles.  *gulp*  I was obviously paying very close attention to my driving!

Lucky for me, this is the one and only instance where the Armaggedon going on in my van actually worked to my benefit.  I explained to the officer that I was a little distracted by the screaming which Max was so generously still demonstrating.  Ashlynn, who has a terrible fear of police officers, had stopped yelling and was cowering in the backseat.

The officer chuckled when I told him about my two screamers, and then took a look and said, "And you have one on the way, you must be a glutton for punishment. You probably are just anxious to get there and get out of the car,"  I laughed at that, agreeing whole-heartedly, despite being slightly horrified that at 12 weeks pregnant, I'm showing enough for a perfect stranger to comment on it! 

He took a look at my driver's liscense for a second, then handed it back to me, and said "Just make sure you watch your speed from here on out."   I was a little surprised that he didn't even run my liscense, then realized he probably went home to tell his wife about the crazy lady in the red minivan with the screaming kids that he pulled over.  For once, I was glad to have someone feel sorry for me.

I'm proud to report that I didn't go a single mile over the speed limit all the way to Torrey. 

And now, for some gratuitous cute Torrey pictures.

This is the first trip we've had where Max hasn't been incredibly scared of the four-wheelers.

I even took him for a little 5 mph ride around the property.  Don't judge.  He loved it.  And this is Wayne county, where not teaching your child to ride a four-wheeler is considered child abuse.

Falling in the giant mud puddle was not so much fun, however.