What your history books missed.

When The Great Bedroom Cleaning of 2010 occurred last week, Schmoopsie located two free movie passes.  The expiration date was 6/30/10.

A hurried date was in order.  Hip hip!

I got all dressed up in a summery type skirt.  Then I got a paper cut in the office.  (The Great Office Cleaning of 2010 is on the horizon.) I bled on my summery type skirt.

Then I cleaned it with hydrogen peroxide and a Q-tip and wore it anyway.  It's a summery skirt miracle!

Bug's Nana and PopPop were kind enough to keep an eye on her despite the fact that she's right in the middle of growing like a million (or perhaps 4) teeth all at once.  We're about to have a jack-o-lantern for a child. 

Anyway, since we weren't allowed to use our gift certificate passes on newer movies, we ended up being one of exactly two couples there for Robin Hood. 

My official review:

Not as good as the animated version.

I did glean one important historical truth, however:

If there is some sort of disagreement between two parties, and Russell Crowe is on one side of the disagreement looking severe and with a bit of facial scruffiness, and perhaps galloping on a horse and carrying a tattered flag, then that is the side that you want to be on.

Trust me, it'll end up being the winner's side.  You always want to be on the winner's side, or you risk an arrow straight through the jugular. 

Other historical note:  If you see two soldiers in chain mail making out in the midst of battle, refrain from judging, ok?

Why you keep sayin' bones when I am so hungry?

At just shy of 8 months old, patience is not Bug's greatest virtue.

For example, if the time between when Bug spots a meal and when the parent in question begins shoveling mush into her mouth exceeds, say, 2.5 seconds, she immediately begins shouting her displeasure at the top of her lungs.  This is accompanied by violent flapping of the arms (which is not to be confused with the excited flapping of both arms, or the flapping of both arms that accompanies a laugh attack, or bath time arm flapping.)  It's like she's desperate to be certain the food is actually for her.

It must be all those times I've blended up green beans and luke warm rice cereal in a brightly colored dish and then eaten it right in front of her while she withered away in hunger.  Or all those times I made a delicious bottle of tasty formula and then gave it away to one of those other babies that are hanging around here all the time. 

Starving.  Clearly.

The part where I get all mushy

Last night I sent Schmoopsie the following text message, even though we were in the same house:

Things I secretly love:

having to toss

stuffed animals and

 tiny pairs of pants

 out of the covers

 before bed. 

 Thank you for my good life.

And here's the thing:  it's true.

And:

A few days ago, I finally found the word to explain why I've been a little bit of a crazy person for a while.  Unsettled.  I feel unsettled.

It's just this one part of my life. One part of many, but it leaves the whole of me confused.  When I consider it, my stomach curls and twists into a knot.  Things are not as they should be, but I don't know how they should be.

I can say with confidence that I am working very hard to find out.  I talk about it, thinking out loud, to Paddy until I'm certain his brain wants to explode, and yet he is patient.  I study and search and fast and pray very, very hard.  My desperate words can't seem to find their way out past the rooftops.  In this area, the heavens are silent.

And then:

Last night I was sitting with Bug in the rocking chair.  For a moment or two, my normally independent, curious child buried her head into my neck.  Her fevered skin was hot against my cheek, her sick body squirmy in the darkness.  I drank in the smell of her.  And in that moment, I was content, peaceful, calm-- settled.  And that is one prayer that flew out easily into the sky.

Thank you for my good life.

Three Truths Tuesday: Phrase edition

Because you're not a good mommy blogger until you have a recurring weekly theme complete with alliteration in the title.

In the last 24 hours, 3 of the following 4 statements have been uttered around our house:

a.  "I thought they were family treats." "They are family treats!  But they are not for the person who didn't put them in the cart to eat ALL of them!"
b.  "She doesn't need a bath.  Just find an outfit that matches the bow that's already glued in."
c.  "I'm going to mention the pooping thing again because it was THAT. BAD."
d.  "Honey, I love you.  And that's why I found us all this free money."


Answer d is the lie.  No free money around here.  And apparently, the Husband part of this family will not be the part assigned to teach Bug how to share her cupcakes.

Three Truths Tuesday

Today, while I was swiffering (new verb) my kitchen floor, I got to thinking about my 4 years as an undergrad in Logan.  More specifically, I got to thinking about the time I spent as a member of a single student ward over 4 years in Logan.  There are lots of unpleasant things about single student wards, including the picture-filled ward directory, (a.k.a. The Menu), and the tear-splattered final testimony meeting of the semester (squeaking: "I just want my *hiccup* roommates to know *sniffle* howverymuchIlovethemand *sniffle* howtheyarelikemysistersnow! *SQUEAL!*). 

And then there's the first ward activity of the year, where every girl puts on an extra layer of mascara and the powers that be insist that everyone memorize everyone else's name through some sort of rhyming game.

One of those get-to-know-you games is the ever famous Three Truths and a Lie, wherein, as the name suggests, you come up with three truths and a lie about yourself and people have to guess which one is not true. 

It's been an interesting day, and now we're going to play.  Identify the lie.

In the last 24 hours, I have:

A.  Stepped directly into a mug of hot chocolate.
B.  Accidentally let Bug grab her own open, pee-filled diaper and wave it cheerfully above her head.
C.  Showered
D.  Gotten toothpaste in my hair.

I wish I could put the answer upside down like they do on a cereal box.



Answer C is a lie.  Brushing my teeth was supposed to be my victory for the day, right up until the sticky hair thing.

You can't say 'bomb' on an airplane.

Recently, my dad had to visit the office of our local cable provider.  (Note:  My family has rather complicated dynamics.  This the my Dad, River-Rafter-and-Recent-Triathlete, not my Dad, Wii-Bowler-and-He-Who-Names-Networks-After-Ethnic-Groups.  Keep it straight.)

So anyway, cable provider office.  Dealing with a cable provider isn't quite root canal bad, but it's certainly not pleasant.  It's a little like getting a grisly chunk in a bite of grilled chicken-  you sort of cringe and immediately search for a napkin.  A little like that.

So ANYWAY, he got to the office, and found himself completely alone with the exception of several customer service employees waiting at their customer service windows.  He stood a little uncertainly in the middle of the empty room, waiting for one of the aforementioned customer service employees to acknowledge him.  You know, because he is a customer.  Waiting for service.  The only customer, in fact. 

After a bit of awkward silence, a customer service employee looked up from his engrossing game of spider solitaire (perhaps I'm taking a bit of artistic license, but you get the idea), pushed his glasses up his nose, and announced in his most official voice, " Sir, I'll need to you to take a number, please."

My dad stared back at him, and raised his eyebrows a bit as if to ask if he was kidding.  You know, because he was the only customer. 

That's when the cricket sounds chirped, but Mr. Customer Service Employee missed it.  He was busy with spider solitaire.

Anyway, my dad shuffled his 6' 4" frame over to the number generating machine, and obediently grabbed a ticket.  Number 90.   And then he stood there, in the middle of the deserted room, with those crickets still chirping away.  (Artistic license, you know.)

 Mr. Customer Service Employee played out another hand or two of solitaire, then pushed his glasses up his nose again.  Chin elevated, eyes scanning the room, he cleared his throat and loudly called out to the emptiness, "Number 90?  I can help number 90 at window number 1."


Epilogue
Several days later, my dad had to return to the office.  This time, the room was buzzing with customers waiting for service.  Having received such clear instructions the first time, he knew just what to do.  He marched immediately to the number generator to grab his ticket. 

And guess what?

Number 90.

...3- ah ah ah, 4- ah ah ah...

4 whole years, my sweet. 

Four years ago, I woke up early and headed to the temple to marry you.  Four years ago, I nearly choked to death on that sip of water the nice temple worker lady gave me, even though I wasn't thirsty.  Four years ago, we took pictures in the blazing sun-  my legs sweating in the heavy dress, and my mom hobbling on a broken toe. 

Four years and one day ago, we got a phone call that all the goldfish for the table centerpieces were dying.  Four years ago today, Kimmi splurged on the 35 cent goldfish, and they all lived through the reception.  Remember that one that lived for a whole year?  Four years ago, that Cordon kid ran out onto the pool cover at the reception and nearly gave me a heart attack. 

I loved you four years ago, Mo.  I really, truly did. 

I could not have imagined how much I would love you today.

Here's to four years, and one million more.

And that's when I just shrugged and stopped playing

The truth shall set you free.

That's what I was thinking to myself with reference to my coworkers, with maybe just a hint of spite, as we drove away from the memorial service at which I was required to (envision me using finger quotes here:) "play" the "piano".  Now, lots of people over-use the finger quotes, but not me.  I only use them when the word they surround should be interpretted as absolutely dripping with irony.  And, unfortunately, that's true here, too.

Now, use your vivid imagination skills to envision the following, and I'll try to be descriptive:

I was at the office, merely hours before the aforementioned event, when my boss wandered in with a toy keyboard slung haphazardly under her arm. 

"It's pouring out there," she said.  "Too wet for my electric piano.  I bought this for my granddaugher for fifty bucks.  You couldn't ruin it if you tried."

And that's when I knew this "performance" was going to be "awesome". 

"Don't worry," she added.  "I brought a coupla double D batteries, so we're all set."

I took it home to practice.  When I switched it on, it made a sort of hissing static sound, like someone breathing hard into the other end of a cell phone.  What it lost in quality it made up for with the fact that I could choose to imitate nearly any instrument in the orchestra with a simple touch of a button.  I briefly considered using the oboe setting with a background cymbal rhythm, but ultimately abandoned that idea in favor of the simple piano option, which sounded curiously like the music on an icecream truck.

My sister double dared me to turn it onto 'harpsichord' and play on only the black keys for an Asian-inspired vibe, calling it "Cherry Blossoms over Nagano". 

Hind sight is 20/20; I should have done it.

Fast forward a couple of hours, and there I was, shivering in a park in front of a bunch of strangers.  My hair was drenched, and my dress slacks were wet nearly to my knees. I put the plastic keyboard on the peeling picnic table, and dropped my bottom onto the wooden bench.  When I put my fingers on the keys, they were nearly level with my chin.  Puurrrrrfect.

 My coworker was kind enough to stand in front of the table holding my three ring binder with sheet music in it so I could see.  By nodding furiously, I was able to cue her to turn the page about 4 measures late. 

I can't blame her, though.  Anyone who reads music would have been completely lost by that point anyway. 

It was absolutely unrecognizable. 

I am telling you what-- I kept pushing keys down, but I don't know which ones or why.  It sounded exactly like someone let an entire bag of cats loose in a piano show room and hid chunks of tuna around the keys.  It was mind-blowingly, amazingly, shockingly bad.  I'm not being modest here, and you can ask my husband.  He was the one three tables over, burying his face into Bug's neck to muffle his giggling.

I vaguely remember saying "sorry, guys" at some point in the middle.  And then, when I couldn't take it another minute, I just landed on a couple of Cs, let them twang out for as long as the electronic keyboard would allow, exhaled, and lifted both hands with a finished flare. 

The upside is that I'm reasonably sure I won't be asked to participate next year.