I think most people agree that most people in the world are generally nice.  Most people will be kind in most situations.

But if you were the woman (who was most likely nice and kind) waiting in line for the bathroom at Burger King in Sparks, Nevada ten days ago and happened to encounter ME, well then — you might change your mind about the whole ‘most people being kind in most situations’ business.

When you were jiggling the handle to the bathroom door every 60 seconds, dear Burger King Bathroom User, you didn’t know the reason for the delay was an almost 4 year old taking her sweet time.  You didn’t know that her mother had begged her to hurry, which predictably produced the complete opposite action.

You didn’t know that minutes before, that sweet almost 4 year old had emptied her bladder in her baby sister’s car seat while her exhausted mother nursed said baby up front.  You didn’t know the exhausted mother was too exhausted to dig through the luggage in the trunk for replacement clothing, so the almost 4 year old was forced to sit in her wet clothing.

Burger King Bathroom User, you didn’t even know why the exhausted mother was exhausted.  You didn’t know she had already been driving for nine to ten-ish hours through a wasteland (Nevada) with the previously mentioned almost 4 year old and baby.  You didn’t know she was doing that all by her lonesome, and that she had already had to make one emergency potty break for the almost 4 year old, foolishly thinking that was going to be the most stressful part of the drive.

You didn’t know that not two hours into the trip, the almost 4 year old had spilled an entire water bottle — just turned it upside down, and let it empty in the space between the center console and the driver’s seat.  You didn’t know that the almost 4 year old had also spilled apple juice all over her blanket hours before, and then snuggled with said blanket.

You didn’t know that the exhausted mother still had four to five-ish hours on the road ahead of her.

So when you jiggled that handle one too many times and the exhausted mother yelled at you, you didn’t know she was immediately sorry.

Because she then silently marched her sorry self and children to the counter, ordered two milkshakes without a glance your way and ran out of there as fast as she could, never looking you in the eye.

And what you didn’t know, dear handle jiggling lady, is that the exhausted mother was paid back for her bad Burger King behavior, when as she entered the long stretch into California through Donner Pass, her almost 4 year old mumbled, “Uh oh.  It’s ok.  Milkshakes dry.”

While talking about how grown up Lydia is getting, we did some calculations this weekend and realized it was her half birthday!  We typically remember to celebrate half birthdays but Lydia’s slipped through the cracks until the middle of her actual half birthday.

Oh boy, that little girl was excited.

“YAY YAY, IT’S MY HALF BIRTHDAY!  WE NEED TO EAT A DONUT!”

This is true.  Half birthdays are celebrated with half donuts.

“AND WE NEED TO MAKE A HAT!”

We felt that was a reasonable request and told her we  could accommodate that.

“YEAH!  WE’LL MAKE IT OUT OF PAPER!”

Ok.

“AND WE’LL WEAR IT!”

Even better.

“AND WE CAN PAINT IT!”

Now we’re talkin’.

“AND WHEN I WAKE UP FROM MY NAP, YOU CAN SING, ‘HAPPY HALF BIRTHDAY’ TO ME!”

Done and done.

Happy half birthday to my little 3 1/2 year old.

We’ve been tired around here.

Really, really tired.

You see, we spent over a week in the motherland (California) celebrating my little brother’s wedding.

Some of us had a hard time letting beloved Uncle Darren go.

Freshly married, he’s off to see the wizard now.  If the wizard is the Army, because that’s where he’s going.  To join the Army.  THE ARMY.  Somebody tell me he’ll be ok.

While in California, we also got plenty of face time with grandmas and grandpas…

reading stories,

finding the perfect walking sticks for hikes,

and visiting lovely little coastal towns in perfect California spring weather.

We truly hated to leave, especially since we heard it snowed in Utah at least 3 out of the 9 days we were gone.  (Did I mention it was during the month of April?  Because if I neglected to mention that, which I did, I will mention it now.  It was the month of APRIL.  And it snowed.)

I also dreaded my return to normal life, which consisted of a week full of deadlines for The Sugar House Journal and preparing 15 students (and myself) for a piano recital 6 days after our tiring 12 hour drive through the desert.  Somebody is not a good planner and that somebody is me.

Now, with my articles and recital behind me, I have been lazing around, relishing the ease of ordinary life, which consists only of mothering, running a household, preparing for a baby and teaching piano.

Deep breath.  That felt good.

I’m back to blogging.  Hope to see you around soon!

We spent last night in the emergency room of Primary Children’s Hospital for our sweet little 3 year old.

She has had a temperature for 6 days and has been complaining of hurt legs.  After many calls to the doctor, we finally were told to come in last night.  The doctor could not figure out what was wrong with her and worried that a virus may have gotten into her bones.  She sent us to the ER where tests could be performed and results could be had immediately.

We were terrified.  After hours spent in the ER, with nurse practitioners man-handling our sweet little girl, asking us seemingly random and vague questions and staring at each other and at our daughter in puzzlement, we started thinking of the worst possibilities.

Finally, a doctor entered the room, examined her for about 3 minutes and made a pronouncement.  ”It’s the flu!  Make sure she gets enough rest and fluids.  Come back if anything changes.”

almost back to normal today!

Even though I was annoyed I had to spend $100 for a co-pay (plus whatever bill is coming in the mail), I would pay that much again and again to hear that my daughter does not have some life threatening or debilitating illness.

Earlier that day, I had received an email from a friend about a family who is undergoing serious health problems with their two little boys: one has heart problems and the other recently had a brain tumor removed.  The email was sent by a friend of the family asking for people to send a few dollars in order to help the family pay for rising medical bills.  I asked if I could share the story here on my blog and found out that the family actually doesn’t want help at this point.

I had already decided it would be a “good idea” to donate a few dollars to this family but after having our experience last night, and getting a tiny glimpse of the fear that a parent goes through when things are unknown, I really wanted to follow through on the “good idea.”

I know I have absolutely no right to claim that I even come close to understanding what this family is going through.  Even saying I “sort of” get it is false.  I don’t get it.  But I do love my daughter.  And I do know what it feels like to be grateful my daughter is “in the clear.”  I only hope this family will get to feel that about their little boy as well.

Since this family doesn’t want help, I am looking into other charities that help families in those situations.  If you know of one, please leave a comment telling me!

Six years ago today, I married the best man in the world.

Today, when my husband woke me up to wish me a happy anniversary, I smacked him.  No wait!  Listen!  I’m pregnant and in a stage where if I get woken up, it is nearly impossible to go back to sleep.  I had already spent over an hour falling back to sleep at 3:00 am.  The smack was mama instinct- I was protecting my body’s extreme need for sleep.  (I later said sorry and he kindly forgave me.)

Six years ago, when I woke up to get married, it was a very different story.  I eagerly jumped out of bed and quickly got ready.  I spent a very organized morning at home, getting my hair done by my awesome friend Jill, doing my makeup and even eating a good breakfast.  It was a completely tranquil, stress free morning full of anticipation and excitement.

My husband and his family experienced a different kind of morning, however.  They awoke to find that the septic tank had overflowed, leaving the bathroom inoperable.  Each member of the family spent the morning shuttling back and forth to my husband’s sister’s house down the road to use her toilet and shower.

If that wasn’t enough stress for one wedding morning (and I quite think it should have been), my new sister in law decided to get lost.  She and her husband went for a run, but unfamiliar with the area, she lost her way after her husband ran ahead of her.  When the family realized she was missing, they scattered in a frantic search.  As the minutes ticked by and family members returned to the home sans sister-in-law, panic rose and tears were shed as the worst thoughts of what may have befallen her started to creep into heads.

The family almost called the police when the groom finally found her on a corner, waiting patiently and completely calm, unaware of the heavy emotions being dealt with back at home.

All together again, the family headed out for the long drive to the Mormon Oakland Temple, where we were to be married.

But that was not the end of the craziness.  My husband, who is easily distracted while driving, missed the exit to the temple and the family had to backtrack.

Somehow, they still made it right on time, just as I was walking up to the temple myself.  Seeing my handsome soon to be husband that crazy morning made my little heart go pitter patter.  I have never been more excited or more sure of anything in my entire life than I was at that moment.

Tonight we will spend the evening nursing our sick little girl (who has a nasty cold) back to health.  It’s not the most romantical of ways to spend our sixth anniversary, but this is part of what we signed up for.  Just like our wedding day was full of bumps and twists, our life throws curve balls that throw off our plans for fun and excitement.  But as long as we go through it together, it really doesn’t matter.

Cheesy, cheesy, I know.  I’m allowed.  It’s my anniversary.

Leaving the temple after the ceremony.  It’s not the best picture, but I like our goofy, happy smiles.  This really was the happiest day!



I have five brothers.  Four are older and one is six years younger.  When we got pregnant this time and started wondering what this little creature would be, I hoped so bad I wouldn’t have a boy.

Don’t get me wrong.  I love my brothers.  I love my nephews.  I love my husband, who is a boy.  I love my dad, my grandpa, my uncles and all the boys in my life.

I just don’t want one yet.

You see, I still want another child after this one.  That means that if I have a boy as my second child, that boy would ultimately be a big brother.

And big brothers are bullies.

But if my third child is a boy, it will be a little brother.

And little brothers are sweeties.

Big brothers push you down the stairs.  They hit, punch, kick and scare you.  They use their large statures and deep voices to terrify your little friends.  They break your brand new headbands and your jump ropes.  They tease you for liking dolls and other “girlie” things.  They don’t let you try “boy” things since you are a girl.  They fart.  A lot.

But little brothers, oh, little brothers.  With little brothers, you can mold them.  You can carry them around and treat them like your very own baby.  And then they love you for it.  They look up to you and let you teach them how to read and how to play your favorite games.  They can get annoying every now and then, but for the most part, a little brother is the perfect little pet to keep by your side.

There is a silver lining in the big brother issue.  Big brothers grow up and leave the house.  They date women and then they start to realize that their little sister is a young woman too.  Then they get sweet.  They take their sister to baseball games and teach her how to bowl.  They get protective and they stand in awe as they watch their baby sister grow up.  Every now and then they tell her nice things.  Sometimes they don’t know quite how to describe how amazed they are by her growing up so they stumble on the words and say “You’re getting so big” over and over until Dad takes them aside and tells them it’s not nice to tell a teenage girl she is “big.”  And then they correct themselves and tell her she is turning into a lovely young woman.

They cry at their little sister’s wedding and they hold her baby with love.  They tell their wives they are so happy to see their little sister so happy as a mother.  They call to check up on her and see if she needs any help.

And then it is all worth it.  Then, the little sister gets over being teased and beat up because she sees that her big, strong brothers are softies and that they love her.

But it would have been better to not go through the being teased and being beat up right?

That is why I am happy I am having a girl as my second child.  (Bet that after all that boy talk, you thought I was having a boy, right?)  If a boy ever does come along in our family, he will be the younger brother, the pet, instead of the older brother, the resident bully until he moves out of the house.

And my little girl gets a sister, something I never had!

Disclaimer: This is all based on my own experiences.  I did not consult scientific data that would support such a claim of older brothers being bullies and little brothers being sweeties.

My husband and daughter have a ritual.  After the dinner dishes are cleaned up, they head upstairs and wrestle the night away while I practice piano, finish some computer work or just sit down and read.  The ritual is so enjoyable for all parties involved (myself and my own rituals included) that sometimes this goes on past bedtime.  It often eats into the time of our favorite TV shows and nearly always takes time away from nightly chores.

If I enter the room, my daughter stands to face me and with hands on hips says, “Mommy, can you leave now so Daddy and I can play?”  She then literally pushes me out the door and immediately shuts it.  (Who is raising this child?  Really!) While we definitely need to teach her a more polite way to speak and act, we will do everything we can to foster this feeling of excitement to be with Daddy.

I never get hurt by this sentence because I know her meaning.  She is telling me in (albeit rude) 3 year old words that this is a special time for her and Daddy.  This is a time of somersaults, Daddy-aided flips, jumping off the bed into a pile of pillows that Daddy hastily arranged, flying through the air like Superman and whatever else Daddy and daughter come up with when their collective creativity collides.

And there just really isn’t room for Mommy.  And that is not a bad thing.  Having something that belongs to just her and Daddy makes her feel loved, special and like the most important little girl in the world to her doting daddy.  How could I take that away from her?

And being in possession of something that causes such laughter and happiness from his little girl brightens my husband’s world more than I think even he knows.  How could I take that away from him?

So I gladly retreat downstairs and play a few more songs on the piano or read a few more chapters.  Eventually, one of the adults puts an end to the wildness and our little family snuggles together while we sing  a song and say a prayer, ending the day with our final ritual that brings peace, safety and security to all three of us.

The fact that this calm ritual for three is always preceded by crazy fun for two, crazy fun that excludes me, makes me happier and more in love with that red headed man I married than almost anything else.

We had another half birthday!  Caroline, our German daughter for the year, turned 16 1/2.  She does not like that she is only 6 months away from 17.  17 is very old, you know.

We celebrated the usual way- with a half donut and a candle.

She thinks we’re nuts.  I think she’s right.

Lydia thinks it’s great fun to eat half donuts all the time and also appreciates that when she’s recovering from strep throat her mother lets her do whatever she wants- like lay on the dinner table.

Many funny sentences escape the mouths of the members of my household, especially since one  child often peppers her speech with German and the other is learning to speak for the first time ever.  Some of my favorite sentences spoken by my toddler lately are:

You look soooooo pretty today, little one!

I’ll be grown up in two five minutes.

But my favorite sentence of the week is this:

I think I liked that experience better than getting stabbed in the back of the head.

My husband uttered those words the other day when speaking about his childhood.  Before you think he was abused, let me tell you the story.  Well, the two stories.

When my husband was little, his brother Dave received a pocket knife for a present.  One day, Ryan was sitting in a big cardboard box.  Dave thought it would be fun to use the box to test the stabbing powers of his new knife.  He proceeded to stab the box over and over until…well, until Ryan’s head was accidentally stabbed.  Gross, right?  He’s ok now.  No worries.

And here is the story Ryan says was better than being stabbed in the head.

When he was a teenager, Ryan’s youth group was having a party with a pinata.  My husband’s brother was up to bat (with a METAL bat) and knocked the pinata down on his first try.  My husband, ever eager, dove for the candy while his blindfolded brother thought it wise to beat the downed pinata as hard as he could.  Since he couldn’t see (or maybe he could?), he beat the head of my husband instead.  My husband received a concussion and a mushy head for days.

Such choices for a “Would You Rather…” game, right?

Somehow Ryan made it through his childhood alive, for which I am very, very thankful.  I laugh hysterically when he tells these stories (he’s a very good storyteller.  I’m not a psychopath.), but I find it both funny and very, very sad that he ever uttered those words:

I think I liked that experience better than getting stabbed in the back of the head.

It also terrifies me that I am raising his offspring.

Kristina left a comment telling me that Germans eat french fries with little forks.  Of course, I had to investigate.  So I asked my resident German, “Do you eat french fries with a fork?”  (See what a good investigator I am!)

Her reply: “YES!  IT’S SO MUCH CLEANER THAT WAY!”

I suppose…but it’s not really finger lickin’ good if you’re using a fork.

Turns out Germans eat nearly nothing with their hands.  They’re very clean.  Pizza, french fries, bratwurst, even grilled cheese sandwiches are eaten with forks AND knives!  They also use a knife to scoop their peas onto their fork.  PEAS.  And KNIVES.

A week after Caroline got to the good ol’ US of A, she was subjected to ribs at a family function.  That was a hard one for her to handle, but she did a good job.

Last night, we fed her nachos.  We’ve been teasing her relentlessly about her knife and fork tendencies and she insisted she would show us and eat the nachos with her hands.  She’s here to experience sloppy Americans, after all.  She did amazing.  We promised her we wouldn’t tease her anymore.  So this is my last teasing.  Since it’s the last time, I decided to do it in a very public fashion.

But good job, Caroline.  Good job.