Secret Vice

Okay, I have a confession: I read Seriously So Blessed, a hilarious blog that pokes fun at Utah Valley (or just young and foolish) life. The blog is irreverent, sanctimonious, perhaps sacrilegious, but never dull. The gleanings to be shared are rich: one thing Ryan and I have come away with is that if you wish to be wealthy, you should pay tithing not on your actual earnings, but what you wish your income to be. So I invite you to take a peek. Trust me, you will be seriously so blessed for partaking of this fanciful view of life.

$39.82!

What is significant about this amount? It's what I spent today on dog food. One 48-pound bag of Iams ProActive Health Weight Control. It's ridiculous, friends. Ryan and I were chuckling just last night over a headline I had seen that read something like "Consumers will now feel the pinch at retail stores." Skimming through the article, I read that now, I, the consumer, will notice that with the proliferating cost of gasoline (hence rising costs in production and delivery), the assessments of things like toothpaste, artichokes, light bulbs, etc. are rising correspondingly - at stores as varied as Walmart, Dillards or Home Depot. This is news? I don't know about you, but I already have been fully aware of the upsurging price of groceries, sundries, and now dog food!

Granted, we buy premium dog food for our premium Tessa, but here is why I am fussing: I usually buy dog food every 2 or 3 months (I buy two big bags, so it lasts awhile.) The last time I bought dog food, I bought two bags for around $60. The bags were smaller, 40 and 44 pounds, I think. Okay, so in reality, the swelling price of dog food is probably a measly 2 or 3 percent, if that. But it's the principle, people! To have such an increase in 2 or 3 months time! As Annie would say, "Unfair!" This whole troubled economy thing needs to right itself.....

Tessa, enjoy every morsel.

Happy Birthday, Trish!

Today is my friend Trisha's birthday. So I sent her a birthday salutation and since in that email I was being very honest regarding my thoughts on growing older, I decided I would share those sage words with all of you, my dear readers.

I remember when I turned 35, Ryan pointed out that I was now closer to my 40s than my 30s. (Good thing he has other lovable qualities!) Yesterday, I was looking in the mirror and freaked out because I think I am looking my age! Not that 36 is old, but it's older than, say 32. Or 29. But on the bright side, 36 is not as old as 90 (an age which I look forward to gracefully attaining, by the way)!

Funny thing is, I still feel like I'm 30 - or 31, considering I was pregnant and uncomfortable part of the time I was 30. Since getting 10 inches of hair lopped off a few weeks ago, I have moments when I feel like I have "mom hair." All of my friends (bless your hearts) have assured me it's not mom hair, but I'm not 100% convinced. So, occasionally, that makes me feel like I am looking like a 36-year-old. Plus the extra 5 pounds that has crept on since summer began and I quit my daily morning walk (it's just too hard to keep it up with my girls. I know, it's a lame excuse...). Plus my sporadically aching back. Plus feeling like I just can't keep up with everything anymore (although, did I really ever feel like I was on top of it all?) But here's the good thing: I think I am okay about 40, because that's the new 25!

Anyway, I hope each of you still feel young and vibrant!

"Playing" Temple?

Here's what Annie learned in primary yesterday: Our home can be a temple. And you can play temple at home!

Annie's Tragedy

Okay, I know I shouldn't get hysterical over my child's tears (in the sense that I'm laughing so hard, I'm crying) but today, I just couldn't help myself!

Earlier this afternoon, Annie started badgering me about finding her "polar bear." I had no idea what toy she could be referring to, but she insisted she knew what room it was in. It turned out to be in the laundry room, where I hide (not so well, apparently) toys that will be leaving our house. "Polar Bear," it turns out, is this ugly, cheaply-made, stained, stuffed bear that came to us in that lovely condition (which is why it went straight to the contraband pile). Anyway, I (grudgingly) let Annie play with this bear and of course, she immediately treated it like it was the most precious thing (alive or otherwise).

Shortly thereafter, it was time for our family scripture reading. Now, we have a rule that we actually do enforce: no toys in the living room while we are reading scriptures. Toys can be placed in the hall outside the room, but they have to be out. (I am talking a distance of maybe 10 feet here.) As I am sure you can imagine, this rule didn't go over so well today, not after Annie was reunited (and it feels so good...reunited and it's…oh, sorry - got side-tracked) with her beloved Polar Bear. "But he'll be reverent! Seriously! I promise he won't talk!" Annie insisted. Let me tell you, there was weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth. And time out in Annie's room. This, of course, is not the funny part.

Finally Annie decided she would be able to part with her beloved bear for the 20 minutes we actually spent reading together. She held her bear close to her heart and slowly placed her bear down in the hall. She situated Polar Bear so he ("he" wears a frilly blue floral cap and his outfit is trimmed with lace) would be facing us. Annie's tear-stained, swollen eyes gazed beseechingly at us, silently pleading to let Polar Bear read with us. Grim-faced, Ryan and I held our ground. We would not be deterred in our quest to wrench these soul mates apart. So Annie stooped down and sobbed to her toy, "I will see you soon, Polar Bear." Then her shoulders quavered and her voice broke as she cried out, "I love you, Polar bear!"

I think it was a good 5 minutes before she was able to glance at Polar Bear (that whole 10 feet away, mind you) without trembling with sadness and eyes welling up. And a good 5 minutes before I could look at Annie without succumbing to another fit of silent laughter!

We're Triplets?

Counting, numbers, those just aren't Annie's strengths (though she tries, bless her little cotton socks!) This morning, after I got dressed, she compared her daisies on orangish fabric sundress with my abstract floral-print red shirt and exclaimed, "Look Mummy- we're triplets!" Oh, and later this afternoon she pointed out that we have the same name. I, of course, am Allison. She is "Annie Allison."

Monster Mom!!

Monster Mom has raised her ugly head. My poor children! I can't open my mouth without something feral-sounding slipping out. Don't you just love those days when your evil twin jumps in and takes over your body? The thing is, I know how witchy I sound and I can't seem to control it. Granted, the house has been a mess and today is the first day after two days of non-stop running that I have had time to breathe in the clutter surrounding me. (Bad idea, opening my eyes this morning.) And then in the midst of my madness Annie comes up to me and says in the sweetest voice, "Mummy, I love you." Don't I feel about two inches tall right now.

But hey, at least I've taken my girls swimming the past two days, so they have that for a happy memory!

Wasting away in Barbieland

I overheard Emi playing with her barbies on Friday. Since I was sitting at the computer, it was easy to capture her dialog.

Imagine Emi with a weary, mournful voice:

"My shoes are gone." Sigh. "My hair's a mess." Sigh. "My clothes are dirty. I'm cold and hungry. Maybe I can rest here."

"If I only had a bottle. And paper and something to write with." Moment of distressed silence. "And I was supposed to be in a play!" Sigh. "Everyone's counting on me!"

Pitiful, soft voice now. "Lost. Cold. Hungry. If only I had a place to rest. A change of clothes."

"Life is hard." Sigh. "But..." Sudden cheerful voice. "...Now I think I might know what to do if I ever get sent to survival camp!"

Sleep?

Ryan says I should post more often (as if I don't already know how much you all want to know the daily details of my life; however, one of my friends has the funnest blog to read, and she writes about everyday stuff and I always get a kick out of her entries...) So I invited Ryan to be a guest poster. Hmm.... I haven't seen any postings by him around here....

Anyway, here's something that happened this week - 5 nights in a row! (Get your minds out of the gutter - Ryan was out of town.) I hardly got any sleep! Now that it's Friday morning and I've had a restorative nap, I shall tell you about why I had such poor sleep. Two words: Emi, Annie.

Normally, Annie is a pretty good sleeper. She just gets up obscenely early. Saturday night, about 12:30, I heard some crying from Annie's room. I laid really still in bed, hoping it would end, but instead the sound just got louder. "Mummy! Mummy! I scared! Mummy!" So, being the good mom that I am, I padded to her room, opened the door, and asked in my most soothing voice, "What's wrong honey? Mummy's here." Annie, of course, wanted me to lay with her, which goes against a cardinal rule in our household; No kids in bed with parents! (As you can imagine, that rule gets broken frequently.) I looked at Annie and realized she only had 4 or 5 toys in bed with her. "Oh, silly Annie, of course you are scared. You forgot to put all your friends in bed with you!" I gathered a few more floppy dolls and animals - and most importantly, Mr. Cuddlebear - helped Annie tuck them in, and asked if she would be okay now. I started closing her door and then I heard an angry voice, "I want a night light!" So I plugged in her night light and want back to bed.

About 2 hours later, more yelling. This time Annie wanted her night light unplugged. Check. An hour or so later, that same voice, in that same angry yell.

"Mr. Cuddlebear. I want Mr.Cuddlebear"

"Where is he?" I walked over to her bed and found him on the floor. "How did Mr. Cuddlebear end up on the floor?"

"I pushed him off the bed. I didn't want him any more."

Arghhh! And then an hour later, still more yelling. "Mummy! Mummy." My tone was not so soothing this time. More like seething. I poked my head in the door, "What do you need now, Annie."

"I want my night light plugged in."

And soon after, it was morning.

Sunday night. Emi's turn. A lot of "Mummy, can you be with me? I'm scared." A lot of me kneeling by her bed, stroking her cheek, murmuring comfort, and sneaking back to my bed, hoping I wouldn't be called back.

Monday night. Annie's turn again.

Tuesday night, not to be outdone by her sister, Emi again. Emi made lots of nice noises this time. I had just crawled into bed (much too late, of course, because I had been engrossed in a book) and turned out the light when I heard a terrified "Aah!" from Emi's room. I scampered in there. "What's the matter, honey?"

"I'm scared. Can I sleep in your bed with you tonight?"

An emphatic, "No, you cannot, but I'll stay in here with you for a few minutes. I'll make sure both of our bedroom doors are all the way opened and I 'll even leave a light on down the hall." This happened 3 or 4 times until about 2:30 a.m. until I said (very begrudgingly, of course,) "Fine. You can sleep in my room, but not in my bed. You make a bed on the floor and sleep there." Nice mom, huh.

And still, frequent calling out."Ahh!" "Mummy, are you still in here?" "Can I get in your bed with you?" At 4:30, I gave up. I broke the cardinal rule. "Yes, Emi, you may sleep in my bed. But if you make any noise, it's back to your room with both of our doors closed." Hey, I was feeling a bit sleep deprived. You try sounding cheerful after 4 nights of musical bedrooms.

Wednesday night. I fell asleep feeling anxious, afraid that the moment I hit that blissful stage of sleep - pleasant, comforting darkness - I would be dragged out of it by one (or both) of my precious angels. I almost made it, but Annie won. I heard a voice by my bed. "Come on, Mummy. Let's get up!" I peeked over at my clock: 3:56 a.m..

Does it ever end?

Update 7/16/08: Ryan suggested this link: http://www.mldb.org/song-6952-who-needs-sleep.html. It's as if my woes have been put to music.

"Hair" today and gone tomorrow

,(This picture is actually from October 2007, but it gives you an idea of before.)
I am sure some of you know how proud I am of my girls for donating their hair to Locks of Love when they were both just 4 years old. Well, Emi gave her hair again this past May, 4 and 1/2 years after her first time. When people have asked me why my girls have donated their hair to Locks of Love, I have responded with something like, "Why not? It's only hair. It grows back." Well dear readers, I bit the bullet on Monday and had 10 inches of my hair hacked off, too! My friend, Dana - hairdresser extraordinaire - who does my hair, applauded me for being so brave. She laughed as she said, "I know how hard this is for you, because you always tell me 'only 1 inch, not 2!'"

So why was it such a big deal for me? I guess because I am a creature of habit. It's habit to comb through tangles, habit to wait a couple for hours for my hair to dry, to fight with summer frizz and flatness and winter-time static, it's even habit to pull my hair up or back because I can't think of anything else to do with it.... Hey, maybe this wasn't such a bad idea after all! (Even if Annie -who watched Dana chop my tresses with a single, swift movement - had to peer into my face and ask, "Are you the same mom?")

And hair grows back.

A Run-in with the Police!

We've had a run-in with the Police. This actually happened around the middle of May and I have neglected to write about it. Not because I am ashamed, of course. Rather, because I am loathe to cause discontent or jealousy among my readers (all four of you).




The Police, people! And it was absolutely fantastic! Ryan and I felt very hip, I tell you. We joined in along with all the other 30-somethings and (40-somethings and 50- and 60-somethings, plus the well-musically-influenced tweens and teens who accompanied them) singin' and groovin' to the incredible music of that talented band. And yes, Sting can still jump, just not as high!