Call the concierge...

Last night as I asked the boys to pick up the toys that they had so kindly left out, I received a series of moans and groans.  I rolled my eyes and told them that this was not a vacation.  To which Skater informed me, "But this is our vacation house! This is the only place we can come to get a break."  Well, if this is their vacation house, I guess I must be their concierge, chef, maid, and chauffeur.  What I would really like to know is, where is my vacation house? I want a house where I can go, sit, relax, watch TV, play video games, ride my bike, and have someone cook for me, clean up after me, and buy me stuff.  That does sound like a good deal, but then who would do it for my family if I weren't here.  As I turned off the TV and left the room that I had just helped the boys clean up, I kept repeating Skater's words in my mind, "This is the only place we can come to get a break..."  And I wondered, "Where do I get to go to get a break?"  If I suddenly showed up at my mom's house, I do not think that she would wait on me hand and foot, and then allow me to complain if I didn't like what she made me for dinner.  She wouldn't let me roll my eyes at her, or stomp and pout all the way downstairs if she asked me to pick up the crap that I left out.  She wouldn't buy me new toys and then let me leave them out for a baby to play with and break.  She wouldn't let me spend all day in front of the TV watching episode after episode of Ben 10 and Naruto (not that I would want to).  What have I done to create an atmosphere in my home where after 3 years of the same ridiculous arguments, the boys still think that this is their hotel?  Where did I go wrong?  

When we first moved into our house, D and I decided that we would have consistent rules for all of our children whether the boys were here or not.  We did not want to have one set of rules for Fuss and any possible future siblings and another set for the older boys.  We also didn't want Fuss to think that he could get away with whatever he wanted just because his brothers were here.  I am not one who makes the boys slave away washing walls whenever they are here.  I only did that once, and it was because Olie volunteered to wash the walls because he thought it was fun to use the "Magic Eraser" on them.  I don't make them do dishes, laundry, vacuum, or dust.  I have only asked them to clean their own bathroom not mine and D's, and that is only because I had it cleaned before they arrived, and they were the ones that let the tornado in to destroy it.  I ask them to keep their own rooms clean, and I don't even uphold my standard of what clean is in their rooms because they are downstairs and no one ever sees them.  I ask them to pick up the family room, because it is their messes that need to be cleaned.  And really I don't ever ask them to clean, I ask them to straighten.  Yet, they need a break?

At this point, I can see their point.  Just thinking about trying to get them to help out is making me exhausted.  I think I am going to take a hot shower or a bath.  If only there was someone that could get that started for me, and bring me some fresh towels.  I would really like it if there was a mint on my pillow when I went to bed tonight also...too bad I don't have a vacation home.

Will you be my friend...

I am addicted to the online social network of Facebook. I kid you not...I am addicted, and at the same time intimidated by it. I feel like I am in the midst of a popularity contest, and sometimes I get a little anxious about it. I worry how people will perceive my life, and if they will be comparing that perception to their own lives. I have to admit that I feel like I am in high school all over again. I joined facebook over a year ago when a friend of mine told me I should check out his Facebook page. I had no idea what he was even talking about, but I logged on anyway. He didn't tell me I would have to create a profile in order to see his, but I did. I was a member of Facebook for 8 months and had only 3 friends. I didn't know that I was supposed to look for friends, family, aquaintances, people I wanted to compare my life too, etc, etc...so, I just let it be. I never logged on, and I never really cared. Then one day, I received an email from Facebook letting me know that one of D's cousins wanted to be my friend! Oh, the joy of acceptance! I love D's family, so of course I accepted. This is what began my addiction.

There was the first cousin, then there were all the other cousins the first one was friends with too. Then there was their spouses. Then I thought that perhaps I should see if my cousins were members of the addicting society...some were. I requested to be friends, and they accepted. I found some old friends from high school, college, and various other aspects of my life. I had friends that I hadn't thought about it years. It was all very nostalgic for me. I was feeling very popular as I had gone from 3 to 39 friends in just a few short weeks. Since I had never been popular in my whole life, I was thinking that maybe I hadn't given myself credit. Then my siblings started to join... My sister, Gillette, joined first. She was followed by KM, then Fluff. They all 3 started connecting with friends immediately, and their friend counts were quickly catching mine even though I also continued to add. It was when my older brother, RJ, and his wife, Jonsie, joined that I realized I will never be as popular as I had hoped. They had both been very popular in our high school. They were the kind of people that you would want your kids to be friends with and look up to. They treated (and still do) everyone with respect and kindness. So, it should be no surprise that after 3 days of joining Facebook they each had nearly 50 friends. Granted, I did all the leg work for finding our cousins, which of course they are friends with. Since everyone else in my family was on, I called Agee and made her join immediately. She in turn called my mom and made her join. Yes, my mom is my Facebook friend, and I couldn't be prouder than to call her my friend. One of my cousins gave me credit for recruiting the fam, but I didn't recruit anyone except Agee and D.

D is not addicted to Facebook. He couldn't care less if he was on Facebook. This whole thing has caused me to realize that at 32 years old, I still feel the need for constant reassurance. D is my security blanket. He is the one man that chose to love me, not because he had to, just because he did...and does. I made him join Facebook so that I could have his name listed under mine as my spouse. I know it seems ridiculous, but I think that I am not the only one out there that feels this way. I just maybe one of the few who are willing to admit it. Still, I have a lot of friends...and I am very grateful for each one of them. Even if my brother has more.

Flip Flops Forever...

I do not love feet.  I do not in any way, shape, or form think that they are attractive. There is nothing sexy about them.  There is no reason to show them off.  Yet, I do not like to wear shoes. I think that pedicures were invented to try to convince people like me that feet can be attractive.  While I am a BIG fan of the pedicure, feet will never be attractive.  I am okay with baby feet, but that is because babies rarely have shoes on, and they don't really sweat. So, baby feet are still touchable, but they are the only ones.  I knew that I loved D the day I let him give me a foot rub, and then I gave him one in return.  I remember thinking, ""Oh, crap...he gives a good foot rub, that means that I will have to touch his feet if I want another one.  And if I am willing to touch his feet, that means we are in it for the long haul."  That is the real reason we got married.  

While I love to shop for shoes, wearing them is a different story.  Closed shoes are so restricting, and that is just the beginning of their problems.  They make your feet sweaty, sticky, and not so pleasant smelling, which wouldn't be bad if the smell remained only on the feet and people could only smell it if they were on the floor next to your feet.  That, however, would be creepy. So, feet smells just drift up to offend anyone who may be in the vicinity like an announcement "ANNIE JUST TOOK HER SHOES OFF AFTER 9 HOURS OF WEAR! STAY AWAY!!!"  To try to minimize the smell, sweat, and stickiness, socks are worn.  Socks, however, only add to the sweat and stickiness.  They also add the element of toe fuzz.  There is nothing more disgusting than trying to generously give your husband a foot rub (while trying to pretend it doesn't bother you) and having sock fuzz between his toes.  D knows that I don't love feet.  Because of this he kindly washes his feet when they are really bad, like after a full day of shoe wearing rather than just a couple of hours.  

As a woman there are several varieties of foot wear available; however, the majority either cause the above listed problems or pain.  I do not know how women wear high-heeled shoes all day long.  While working outside of our home, I tried to wear heels to work once...after that I gave up and swore it would never happen again.  I promised my feet that if they would continue to walk, I would not make them face more than 3 consecutive hours in high-heels ever again.  And I haven't!  If it were up to me I would wear flip flops all day, every day, all the time...either that or I would go barefoot.  And no, I don't know why it isn't up to me, but people think your weird if you wear flip flops in the snow.  Therefore, I guess it isn't up to me because I am afraid of society's opinions...oh, society...

My feet, above all others, are disgusting.  My heels are cracking under the pressure of the extra weight and stress that I can't seem to ever rid myself of.  My toes and the balls of my feet are callused due to me walking with my heels off of the ground to protect myself from the pain of the canyons in the heels.  I do not currently have a pedicure, so the nail beds of my toes are not even trying to pretend they are attractive.  And structurally...let's just say there hasn't been hope for my feet since the beginning of time.  I have an extra bone in my foot, which wasn't discovered until I broke one of them at 18.  I have another bone that is longer than it needs to be.  The tendons are too long and ball up below my ankle, making it look as if I have 2 ankles in each foot.  The combination of these items means that I have flat, wide feet....so not attractve.  Someone once told me that he could tell what any girl was going to be like just from looking at her feet.  I replied, "I could see that...flat and wide...that pretty much sums me up!"  

In an effort to rid myself of the hideousness that has become the bottom of my feet, I bought a "Ped-Egg."  I saw one on TV, and I wanted it.  I saw one at Walgreens, and I bought it.  D asked me if I realized that it is basically just a little "cheese grater" for my feet.  I don't care if it is a blender for my feet, if it gets rid of the dry, cracked calluses that used to be skin, which it does! It is amazing!  I never thought that I would be able to touch my heels again without having to get a band-aid for my bleeding finger, but I can.  I can even play footsie with my husband again.  I haven't, but I could.  Feet will never be attractive, but at least now I have the tool to let me wear my flip flops with confidence.  Just because I don't like them doesn't mean I am going to cover them up...at least during the warm months.

I've lost it...

I just spent the last 20 minutes looking for my cell phone. Usually, if I can't find my cell phone, I have D call it from his and I just follow the ring. D is at work, and we don't have a home phone, so there was no way for me to have someone call it for me to listen for. Unless, of course, I went next door and had Angel call it after I went back home, but then I would have to haul Fuss over there, and then haul him back crying because he would want to stay and play at Angel's, and my phone really isn't worth all that hassle. D loses everything. Just yesterday he had to come home on his lunch hour to find a tool that he needed for work. He was sure he had left it on his dresser, and that I must have put it somewhere. I assured him that I had no idea what he was talking about, and explained that if he had put it away he would know where it was now. His excuse, "I didn't have time to put it away." Really, because "away" is so far away? I don't understand that train of thought. The funny twist is, that when his tool was finally found it was in the case it came in. Turns out he actually didn't have time to leave it out.

We had been married only 11 months, 2 weeks, and 4 days when D lost his wedding ring. He has lost his keys more times than I can count, and the last time we never found them. I lost my wallet the other day, but found it a short time later. I had tucked it into a cubby on the desk in the office. So while looking for my phone, I looked in all the places I had been this morning since I last used it to call KM. I went to the kitchen...not there. It wasn't in the sink, the pantry, the fridge, on top of the stove, the counters, in the cup cupboard, the bowl cupboard, or the silverware drawer. It wasn't on the table, the desk, or on the floor. It wasn't it in the living room, not on the coffee table, not in the couch cushions. It wasn't in the laundry room, not in the washer, the dryer, or the cabinets. It wasn't in the office, not on D's desk, my desk, or the filing cabinet. It wasn't in Fuss' room, not on his dresser or in his toy box, which is where I feared it may be. It wasn't on the bathroom counter. I knew it wasn't in the toilet because I have had the bathroom doors shut or blocked all morning to keep Fuss out, and I wouldn't put my phone in the toilet. It wasn't under my bed, on D's dresser, on my dresser, on the night stand, on the end table by my chair, in my chair, in the elliptical machine, or in the laundry basket. Before I finally found the phone, I found my contact solution, which made me wonder when the last time I actually took my contacts out was. I found my electronic sudoku game. I found an old sippy cup with a little bit of milk still in it....yuck! I found toys in the elliptical machine, and a ball under my dresser. I found cookie crisp in the laundry basket, crackers under my chair, Doritos under my bed, and I have decided Fuss can no longer eat any snacks in my room.

I couldn't imagine where Fuss could have taken my phone to, and was about to give up when...I saw it on top of the TV, in my bedroom, the place where my search had started and had been given up. And since Fuss can't reach the top of the TV, I am pretty sure that I must have put it there since we are the only two people here. I am still looking for my mind...

To have or not to have a baby....

When you have the desire to have another (or a first) baby, and mother nature isn't cooperating, it is one of the hardest and most emotional things to go through.  Some people only have to look at their significant other, and bam...a baby is on the way.  Then there are those of us who struggle and suffer the disappointment month after month, sometimes for years.  After months of trying to have another baby with no success, I went to see my doctor, who did some tests and come to find out we are lucky to have the one we do.  It makes sense that I had unknown issues, after 3 years of marriage with no methods of prevention, we have only 1 child.  

Today I am supposed to go have another test to see if there is even a possibility that this month we could have success.  And here I sit, trying to decide if I should make the call to the doctor's office to have the test ordered...then I have to go and take it.  Once I get the results I will wait again...Will the test results be good or bad? Even if the results are good, will this be the month I cry happy tears, or will I again be feeling sorry for myself?  I have a baby, and I know that there are others out there who are hoping for even 1, some of them my dear friends, but that doesn't change the fact that I feel like something is missing.  It doesn't change the fact that, although it may be selfish, I want another.  I want Fuss to have a full sibling, that lives with him all the time.  I need him to have someone else to distract him and play with him and help me regain some sanity.  

The clincher came this morning when I logged onto the local news stations' website only to see an article about some European country doing additional testing on fertility treatments, including clomid, which is the treatment we are using, and how they are being found to be ineffective.  It is like someone is trying to shoot an arrow through my heart.  And I must say that if you are ever feeling baby hungry or baby disappointments, do not watch women's television, WE, Oxygen, Lifetime, etc...there are way too many baby commercials.  Oh, the tears that are to be cried...over a commercial, and I am not even pregnant!    

All I know is that D is a trooper.  I am an emotional person anyway, and then put me on additional hormones, and you might as well call the psychotherapist and lock me in the looney bin.  Seriously, I have a hard time living with myself.  I don't know how D does it.  Another hard part is that I know deep down D would be okay if we never had any more children.  He has 4, and he is satisfied.  I love all 4 of our boys, but I only got to hold one as a baby.  I only got to cuddle and snuggle and feel that instant bond with one.  The others were older, and a relationship had to be built between us.  Besides, I still have the hope of having a girl, and the fear that if we do have another one it will be another boy.  And maybe "fear" is the wrong word, because I know that if we have another boy I will love him as I do the others.  Still, I girl would be fun.  The more I think about it, the more I know I need to call the doctor and order the test, even if I am disappointed in one way or another.  At least we get to enjoy the trying....

It's a slippery slide...

Oh, to be a kid again. There are many things from my childhood that I miss.  Things change and the fun of old yesteryear is not the same as today. There is a country song that says something to the effect of, "we didn't wear helmets, and we still survived."  This is true, I never wore a helmet when I rode a bike, but as my older brother once said that the ones that didn't "survive" so much aren't really here to tell their side of the story.  So, our kids wear helmets, and elbow pads, and knee pads, and wrist guards, and.....I can't really think of anything else.  Oh yeah, they ride in car seats and booster seats until they are 4'9" or 8 years old.  I remember holding my little sister on my lap from California to Utah...oh yeah, it happened. I am not complaining about the new laws or requirements, or safety measures.  In fact, I agree with them quite heavily.  

It is the playgrounds that I miss the most.  I miss the thrill of spinning so fast on a merry-go-round that you never knew if you were actually going to fly off, throw up, or survive long enough to want to spin again.  I loved it when my dad would spin the ole merry-go-round, because he could spin it faster than anyone.  When no adult was around, or willing to spin, we would run and run until we could no longer run, and then jump as best we could to get on to the spinning puke machine.  Playgrounds when I was a kid were all about the danger, which as a child equaled fun.  And I was by no means what one would consider a brave child.  The swings, the teeter-totter, the moon walk, the tire walls, the monkey bars...most of these exciting equipment features are missing from today's playground.  

My sister was more easily pleased; she loved the slippery slides.  Wherever we went if someone saw a slide from the road, my dad would stop and KM would jump out of the car and run to the slide.  There was one in particular that she loved.  It was the tallest slide that I have ever seen in my life.  I can't even imagine how tall it was, but it was probably a 10-minute hike up the ladder to the top. Ok, that might be an exaggeration, but when your 10 it sure feels that long.  I remember being a bit afraid of it because I am so terrified of heights.  Now, my own child follows in the love for playgrounds, and especially slides...maybe he was supposed to be KM's.

While at a park on Saturday, I was disappointed to see that the entire playground consisted of 3 slides conjoined by the same set of stairs, that was it. I was even further disappointed by the warning sign that stated that the playground was meant for children between the ages of 5 and 12 only.  I knew that Fuss was going to be able to stay away for the entire duration of our family reunion, which was the reason that we were at this particular park.  (I know...another family reunion!) So, I climbed the stairs to the top of the highest slide with him, and then very trustingly placed my little Fuss in the arms of my 6-year-old nephew. I didn't know what to expect because we had tried this before, but he didn't like it so much.  This time Fuss loved the slide. It was only a matter of minutes before he decided it was something he wanted to do again and again and again and again and again....and you would think that I would get tired of taking pictures of all of these slide rides, but I didn't.  I would have taken more had we had more time.  The realization came to me that my son really is growing up faster than I want him to when he started to climb the stairs on his own, position himself on the slide on his own, go down the slide on his own, and then turn around and get himself off the slide...on his own.  Good thing I had my camera to keep me busy.  I kept thinking, "He is too little for this. He isn't 5! He is 15 months...that is a big difference! And according to the manufactures instructions, I have 4 more years before he should even be allowed to do this." Try explaining that to a 1-year-old...Every time he went to climb the stairs, I had a mini heart attack.  Every time he was trying to balance himself into the tube slide, which became his favorite, I had a mini heart attack.  The stairs had a railing on only 1 side.  The slides were too high for a 1-year-old to encounter on his own.  It didn't matter...he was on his own as far as he was concerned, and he was not about to accept help once he had it figured out.  I found myself wishing that harnesses for the measly playground equipment of today were required. And I wonder, how did we survive?  Even more importantly, how did our parents survive? 

As we watched the kids go down the slide time after time, my sister, Gillette, thought that it looked like they were having fun, so she decided to join them.  There is nothing like watching a woman who is 6 feet tall slide through a 7 foot tube slide on her stomach. When we could see her feet at the beginning and her head at the end, it reminded me of some sort of circus trick. Especially when she emerged with her 3-year-old daughter on her back.  Oh, to pretend to be a kid again... So, my point...we do all we can to protect our children, but it will never be enough. Eventually they will have to go on their own, and climb to the top of the big slide, take the ride, and hope that we are at the bottom to catch them.

Say it like it is...

Children say whatever is on their minds.  Good or bad, it doesn't matter.  As a parent, I find it both entertaining, and embarrassing at times.  One evening while we were sitting on the front porch of our friends', Angel and Mike, house visiting with them, their son was in their backyard with his own friends building a fire in their fire pit.  At one point Mike went to the edge of the porch where he could oversee the teenagers building fire, which can be scary.  As he was yelling some instructions, or discipline, to them, Fuss ran up beside him and pushed his face into the railing and yelled right along side of Mike.  When Mike was done, Fuss was done too.  I wish I knew what was on Fuss' mind at that point.  With the older boys I get to know...

Every night before bed the boys take a shower.  One night as Moo was exiting the bathroom I noticed that his hair was still dry.  Wondering how this could be since he was instructed to wash his hair, I asked him if he had in fact washed his hair.  He rolled his eyes at me in response before saying, "yes."  "Really," I started in (remember he is a bad liar), "did you use shampoo?"  He rolled his eyes again before muttering my name in annoyance.  So, I continued, "Did you even use soap on your body, or did you just get in the tub and play?"  He looked up at me and said, "You ask too many questions!"  Yep, I've heard that before.

When D gets excited about a subject he is discussing, he has a tendency to raise his voice a bit, which can sometimes sound like he is yelling.  When he is angry he does yell (who doesn't).  One day, while we were sitting in the kitchen, we started discussing something (I don't remember what) that D seemed extremely passionate about, and that I didn't catch on to (it could have been a number of things).  In his frustration of trying to explain things to me, his voice got a bit louder than normal.  Finally I looked at him and said, "You don't have to yell it.  I am right here."  To which Skater quickly interjected, "Oh, he isn't yelling at you, but he yells so much it just sounds like it because that is what his voice is used to."  Oh, how happy I was with this proclamation of truth, and D...not so much!

A week or so ago we were at a barbecue at D's cousin's home.  As the boys were playing, Olie became very frustrated with his brothers and decided that they were not being very nice, and were picking on him.  He announced to D and I that he didn't want to play with them anymore and that he was considering skipping the sleepover they were planning to have that night at Nana's (D's mom).  We told him, of course, that it was his decision, and we would deal with his brothers according to their actions.  Later on, as we were preparing to leave, Moo begged us to let him ride home with Nana and Papa.  Since we live less than a mile from them, and the boys were spending the night at their house, we agreed.  Olie and Skater were already in our car by the time this request was made and granted.  So, as D and I got in the car and started to pull away, a concerned Olie asked us where Moo was.  I told him, "Moo got too whiney so, we decided to get rid of him."  To which Olie replied, "YES! One down, one to go!"  At least he didn't hold back... 

Losing the race...

Today was a very good day on my roller coaster of weight loss and gain. I lost 2.8 pounds today! I was very excited, but not as excited as I would have been if I had lost 5 or more pounds. I know, slow and steady wins the race, but does the race have to take such a long time? Seriously! My race has been going on for several months now. I have been distracted by a couple of vacations, a few bad days (weeks), and a lot of ice cream, but still...this race is getting ridiculous. My sisters run, and because of it they lose weight when they need to. I used to jog/speed walk and I have to say, I looked good when I did. Now, I have let time and calories get away from me, and to run would be an embarrassment to the human race. Yes, even animals would be laughing at me. I have tried to use the elliptical machine that so tauntingly resides in my bedroom, but when the little leg poles come out of the machine Fuss thinks it is a game where he has to try to catch them. I work when he is sleeping, so that option is out. And while his playpen is set up in my room also, it is to block him from getting into the master bathroom and he cries when I put him in it. His crying while I exercise is not a good combination, because then I can't hear the TV and time drags on and I realize how long 60 minutes really is. If I am watching TV while elliptically then time goes by much faster, especially if I turn the alarm clock around so I can watch the minutes slowly change.

I may actually lose more weight today, because during my race to lose I weigh myself several times throughout my weigh in day in an attempt to find my lowest weight, and then that is the one I go with. It is amazing to me how I can fluctuate within a 5 pound range throughout the day. I weigh myself first thing in the morning because I have been told that this when I should weigh the least. So, right after I potty, I weigh. However, so far I have found I weigh the least at 11:07 a.m. after I have eaten breakfast and used the restroom at least 3 times by this point (I drink a lot of water), and I am getting ready to shower (yes, it is this late in the day before I shower...sometimes later), I strip down and weigh myself, and I have found I can lose up to 2 pounds in this 5 hours alone, which makes me wonder what has happened throughout the past 7 days that I had to wait until the last 5 hours of it to get any results.

I actually blame the bathtub for the main reason that I can never be happy with my body. When relaxing in the bathtub, I like to lay back and rest my head on the wall behind me. This is not a flatter point of view to observe my large body. Being in the water makes a person look wider and whiter no matter who you are. When you are already wide and white, you don't need the extra emphasis. Not to mention that it takes a LOT of bubbles to try to hide what I don't want to see. I used to take baths to feel better when I was feeling blue, but then when I realized no matter how blue I was, I was whiter than I thought (and wider) and I felt even bluer. Therefore, I avoid baths. I do still enjoy a swimming pool, because then I can crouch if I have to to get the water up to my neck, and my body is below me and is out of my view. I enjoy a good murky lake even more for the same reasons.

The best time of all...

My very favorite time of the day is my children's least favorite time of the day...bedtime. I love bedtime! I love the quite of the night. I love the warmth of my bed. I love snuggling up to my husband with his arms around me, at least until I am ready to fall asleep, then it is back to his own side of the bed. I love the break from fighting, whiney, and changing dirty diapers without having to feel guilt of knowing about any of those things happening, and choosing to ignore them. Every night for 6 hours or longer (and I hope each night it will be longer), I get to have time to myself without having to worry about anything but sweet, sweet sleep. However, no matter how much I love bedtime, I am the only one in my house that does.

When bedtime is announced in our house it is followed by the protests, such as:

"My show is almost over."

"I don't have school tomorrow."

"I need to go to the bathroom."
"Uh, my friends are still outside."
"I wanted to sleep at Nana's."
"I need a drink."
"I don't want to."
"No, no, no, no, no." (from Fuss)

I don't know why my boys dislike going to bed so much, because once they are there and have fallen asleep, they always want more time when I tell them to get up. It really doesn't matter if it is going to bed or getting out of it, I think the boys just like to disagree with what I would like them to do. Regardless, they really dislike going to bed...all of them! I know that D doesn't like going to bed because he doesn't like our mattress. He tosses and turns night after night. He blames me because I bought the mattress without him, and he thinks it is too soft. It isn't my fault I chose a mattress that I loved without considering him, because I didn't know D when I bought it. I love my mattress. I love the way it feels underneath me. It is soft and cuddly like a giant pillow...perfect for me. D would like to have a firm, rock hard mattress. One that, no doubtly, would keep me awake, and I feel that it is very important for me to get good sleep. Knowing that my husband is not getting good sleep is not reason enough for me to lose any myself.

Once we finally get all the kids to bed, and then get there ourselves, D loves to cuddle with me (I know "awww", but it is not so "awww" once I tell you why he likes to cuddle with me). Every night as I am preparing for bed I have to place my pillow right in the center of the bed, and that is where my night begins. It is not because I am selfish, and it is not because I am so large that I take up that much room on the bed. It is because my husband does toss and turn throughout the night, and with each toss he moves further and further towards my side of the bed, which by the time morning comes is usually occupied by Fuss also. This can get very crowded. The reason that I start in the middle is because both D and Fuss like to lie near me, and no matter where in the bed I start I will be moved closer and closer to the edge. If I were to start in the middle of my side, I would end up on the floor in the middle of the night. D knows that I cannot sleep when I am feeling claustrophobic, and yet he moves in on my space every night. He starts by cuddling me really close to him, sometimes with his extremities over me to keep me from moving away. He laughs when I tell him, "You know I can't sleep when you are claustrophobitizing me!" And he continues to do it anyway. At least until it is time for his first toss, and he turns away from me. Then begins the night of us both moving to the right, which is my side of the bed.

When it is time for Fuss to go to bed, which is before we do even though the scenarios are out of order (I do not let my 1 year old wander the house while I sleep...even when I want to--like when I need a nap), anyway...when it is time for Fuss to go to bed, we have a ritual to let him know that he will be going to bed shortly. First we go to his room and choose a story. Fuss loves books, so this is his by far his favorite part. After I read him the story, he flips through the pages and tells one to me (I wish I knew what he was saying). After we have read the book twice (once each), we put it down and then we say our evening prayers. This is my favorite part. I love seeing my 15 month old son fold his arms and mumble a "prayer" while listening to me pray also. He does close his prayers with "Men." By the time the prayer is finished, he jumps down from my chair and runs to the hallway. When I tell him to go to his room, he turns to tell me "No, no, no, no" while frantically shaking his head. He starts walking slower, and usually stops in front of his open bedroom door. Then with pleading eyes he looks up at me and whimpers, and then again repeats, "No, no, no, no." When I lift him into his crib, he puts his binki in his mouth, grabs his blanket, and rolls so his back is towards me. I tell him goodnight and that I love him, and I leave the room pulling the door until it is opened only a crack. He used to cry when I left. Now, he only cries when he hears me walk past his bedroom door, not when D does. He only cries for me (oh, the guilt). Somewhere around 4:30 to 5:00 every morning, Fuss awakes and starts to cry. I go get him and put him in bed with D and I, and he falls asleep again. He loves our bed. I love our bed. D does not love our bed. Fuss does not love his bed. Maybe, I should have D sleep in the crib with the firmer mattress while Fuss sleeps with me, and he takes up way less space on my side of the bed.

No one will ever know...

Having a conversation with members of my family can be quite an entertaining fete.  Whether the conversation is in person, over the phone, or through email doesn't matter.  When planning upcoming events or activities, my family (meaning my brothers, sisters, and parents) send emails back and forth replying to all, and teasing and making fun of each other.  During one such email chain my younger brother, Fluff, decided to joke that he was offended at a comment that I had made about how he never really participates in getting things done.  So, KM decided that if we were going to start airing out when we were offended then she was offended that people always tell her that she never answers her cell phone.  She concluded with the fact that when left a message, she always returns it in a timely manner.  The message was then followed with: "P.S. Do not try to call me today.  I forgot my phone." Conversations like these are the norm with my family.  I once had a cousin ask if she could come to our family dinner one Sunday.  She promised not to eat, but she just wanted to watch and listen as we interacted with each other.  Watching and listening to my family converse is somewhat like watching an episode of "Seinfeld."  

We had one such conversation while caravanning to our family reunion.  As we were driving through a very small Southern Utah town in the dark of night, we came upon a skunk in the road that was, of course, run over and dead.  Now I have passed many a dead skunk in my life, and I know that the smell is one of the most unpleasant, but I would gladly repeat passing any other skunk that I have ever passed in order to have avoided this most wretched smell.  We had no sooner passed this animal of putrescence than my dad called from the car in front of us.  While D was rolling down the windows (or rather pressing down--no one rolls the windows down anymore) to allow the smell that had entered through the air conditioning vents to escape, I answered my cell phone.  I did not answer with "hello" however.  I answered with "Can you taste it too?"  My dad proceeded to tell me that the smell was so bad that he was sure he had to have run over a stink gland and popped it into his car.  I replied that it was so bad in our car that I had resorted to drinking warm milk from Fuss' sippy cup just to get the taste out of my mouth.  Yes, it was so bad that I could taste the skunk, and having now tasted a skunk I can assure you that I will never eat one, even if my life depends on it!  Our conversation ended there after losing cell phone reception, and we all continued on our way.  

About 90 minutes later we arrived at our cabins, and the skunk conversation continued, as if no time had passed at all.  It started with my mom asking those that had been in the cars front of us (D and I had been the back of the caravan with my parents directly in front of us) if they too had smelled the skunk.  KM and her husband, who had been the first in line, had not smelled it.  Right after mentioning that it had not been smelled by them, Fluff walked through the door (almost as if on cue) and announced that as he bent down to pick up a bag he found that he could still smell the wretched skunk on his tires.  This began the great debate of 2008...Who ran over the skunk and how long had it been there?  My mom was certain that the skunk had to have been there for a least a few hours if not days.  The rest of us were certain that KM and Whitey had run over it, otherwise they would have smelled (and tasted) it as the rest of us had.  My mom's response was that since they were in a truck that was much higher than the other vehicles it was possible for them to pass right over it without notice.  D responded that the size of the vehicle wouldn't matter because they still had the air conditioner on, and the vents would have pulled the smell into their truck.  The thought was proposed that maybe the poor skunk was hit by the trailer hauling all the 4-wheelers, which would have allowed KM and Whitey's truck to have passed before the skunk was killed.  While the majority of us thought that this was the most likely scenario, no one would volunteer to go smell any of the tires to prove it,  even though we knew that the smell would still be remaining there thanks to Fluff's experience.  My dad was still certain that no matter who initially hit it,  he had to have hit a stink gland.  Fluff was certain that he must have too.  All D and I knew was that whenever the poor skunk was taken from life, we were the recipients of his ultimately and smelly deceasedness.  The debate continued for several minutes before Whitey announced that truly we would never know.  However, the next morning I did ask my grandparents, who had arrived from the same path we had taken only several hours earlier, if at any time during their trek they had smelled or even seen a skunk in the road.  My grandpa assured us that they had not.  Therefore, I stick by the thought that Whitey ran over it with the 4-wheeler trailer in an attempt to torture the rest of us with the smell.