Even in America...

A while ago I noticed I didn't have access to my friend's blog. I didn't think much of it at first, that it must be some kind of mistake, and since I considered her one of my good friends, it should shortly be remedied. I was gonna say something, but then I got busy and then I noticed it had been awhile and I still didn't have access. It was at this point I started to get paranoid, I have a bad habit of putting my foot in my mouth without even realizing it from time to time. Maybe I said something that totally offended her and I didn't even know it.

I wasn't sure how to approach the whole situation at this point, I wasn't a fan of confronting the situation head on without any idea of what I had done, I knew I had to make it better, whatever it was, and so I did a little digging to see if anyone had heard that she was mad at me, but what I found out was that other people who formerly had access also were cut off at this point. So I felt pretty relieved that our friendship was still intact, and so with the knowledge that whatever it was, it "wasn't personal" I finally asked her about it today- this was the story she told me-

Sometime around the end of the Olympics she wrote a blog post and mentioned the name of the host country several times. Nothing rude or offensive, the whole thing was very light and cute and funny in her opinion (I can't comment on that, but as most of her other blog posts are...I have no reason not to believe her) but the fact that she did name the country a grand total of five times was apparently enough to cause enough red flags to go up. She got some notice saying that there was "offensive material" on her blog. Her whole blog went haywire, and she doesn't even have access to her own blog. She has to start another one from scratch and had lost everything she had written up until this point. I totally feel for her, this is the friend that encouraged me to start blogging in the first place and I have derived much more enjoyment from the whole thing than I would have thought possible.

So what to learn from this whole situation-

If I learn nothing else, I learned that I should have just picked up the phone or shot her an e-mail in the first place and I would have saved myself a couple of weeks of worrying that I had lost or upset a good friend.

Other things-

From now on when referring to that country in general they shall henceforth be referred to on this blog as "You-Know-Who" or "They who shall not be named." (I'm really glad that when I did a post on the same subject I only mentioned You-Know-Who twice. )

If it's important, back it up. I was looking into publishing this whole blog into a hardbound book about once a year, but now I'm wondering if that's enough.

And lastly, apparently when you are working in a worldwide media forum who is in the back pocket of You-Know-Who, the first amendment doesn't hold as much weight as we think it does. I can't really remember, but I'm sure I clicked some box when starting this up that said that I agree to their terms and conditions and I agreed without really thinking about it because I generally have no trouble with all of that, and so I am subject to those things, and that's okay because generally those things are reasonable. But it's an odd thing to ponder that someone I know was affected in such a way. That some powers-that-be reached out half way across the world and were able to put a limit on one of her freedoms.

Multi-cultural cuisine

Zach- "I know what they eat in Japan."

Me- "What?"

Zach- "Chinese food."

Me- (laughing) "yup."

Zach- "I know what a Chinese food is."

Me- "Okay, what?"

Zach- "Spaghetti."

Tragedy!

It's monsoon season around here. Mostly that means slightly cooler, muggier weather, and lots of rain. Sometimes we get some really heavy winds or some pretty cool lightning with that rain. Last night we had a fantastic lightning storm. I thought it was pretty cool. John said one of the Southwest flight attendants said that 3 of the Southwest planes were hit with lightning last night. (they were parked at the terminal, not in flight) She had no idea how the other airlines fared. The other day the wind was blowing hard. You can still see the collateral damage lining some of the streets from the trees that were ripped apart by the wind.

All our trees survived, but our backyard play set didn't fare so well. Well, I guess it was more the combination of severe winds and four years of all that sunshine. The green canopy didn't stand a chance.

The kids are looking on the bright side of things, getting rid of that canopy means getting rid of all the spiders and spiderwebs that had taken up residence inside it.

I would have posted this earlier today, but I was dealing with a tragedy of another kind. It seems Stephenie is really upset about someone illegally posting a draft of Midnight Sun on the internet, so she has "indefinitely postponed" finishing that book. So she posted the couple hundred pages she had written on her website, and I spent the day reading that, and mourning the loss of the rest of the book I may never get. I realize that I already know how the book is gonna end, but still...I hope some day she changes her mind.

Glamour Shots

So I did it. I finally made the appointment and got my hair done. It had been soooo long. Like it was in bad shape before I was pregnant with Christopher, and then once I'm pregnant, all feelings of caring about my appearance generally fly out the window. Too busy feeling like garbage all the time to worry about my roots.

For awhile there when my hair would get too long I would just walk into a great clips and have them whack several inches off, but that's it. Now I have highlights. I was so happy to have it done, to find someone (cause by this point it had been so long, I didn't even know where to go) to do my hair that had been recommended to me several times over, that when I got there my only instructions were that I wanted it long enough to put into a pony tail. I really don't think I could function without a pony tail. I need to be able to just pull it back and forget about it. So I plopped into her chair, and gave her free reign. I mean really, at this point I could have walked out of there with pink and blue striped hair, but as long as it would go into a pony tail I would have been fine.

Before I had kids, I had straight hair-(me- circa 1995- what you are not seeing in this picture are the go-with-everything Dr. Marten boots I lived in.)

Unless I was in jr. high and I permed it- but even then my hair never really held a perm. (this next picture is me- circa 1991- we don't even need to discuss the outfit I picked out for picture day. My fashion sense-or lack thereof- could be a whole other topic -and after 17 years, this is pretty much the first time this picture has been seen publicly, I hate it that much, but I needed proof of how bad my hair looks with a perm- can we say "yikes" though? Even John visibly flinched when he saw this picture)
With each consecutive kid, my hair got curlier and curlier. The other day, someone actually asked me if I got my hair permed. (Now that all that weight is gone, it looks curlier.)

So the day that I got my hair chopped off, ( I think 8 inches or so, I didn't keep track) she also straightened it, to make sure she got it all even. I always love it the day that you get your hair done, that's the one day that it looks the best cause your hair was in the hands of a professional. It looked pretty good. I even got a compliment from a teenager that I know but have never even spoken to before.

So add that to the fact that there are very few pictures out there of me that I like, or at least that have been taken in the last decade or so, and because of blogging and/or facebook, I've been in need of one from time to time, and so I swallowed my pride and took like a million self portraits, hoping for one that I wouldn't hate. I had to open the blinds to let in some natural light so I wouldn't have to use the flash, and I felt pretty stinking ridiculous standing there in front of those windows, taking pictures of myself. Believe me, there is a reason why I'm the photographer in this house I'm much more comfortable on the other side of the camera. So I took a bunch, hoping for a good shot, and deleted most of them. I had to cut myself off, because I'm fairly self-critical, and then I would have had no pictures left as proof that I had good hair for a day.

I'm considering investing in a straightening thingy for my hair (flat iron? I can't remember what they are called.) Of course that's just another example of how the grass is always greener, when I had straight hair, I permed it, now that it's fairly curly, I want to straighten it. A girl's gotta have options though. Of course the other day, I was wearing it in two pony tails, and Madison told me I looked like a cheerleader. I'd bet good money nobody's ever said that about me before.

And don't even get me started on styling products these days. Back in the day, there were three- hairspray, mousse, and gel. For the most part, I got the concept there. The results might have left a little to be desired, but I didn't feel so lost. Nowadays, I get a little overwhelmed in that section of the store these days. Cream, wax, pomade, amongst so many others. I even have hair taffy. (I haven't figured out what that goo has to do with candy yet.) My poor daughter. I hope she has friends that can help her.

The Olympics

Like so many others, I have stayed up way past my bedtime watching the Olympics these past couple weeks. There have been points when I have been on the edge of my seat, holding my breath for the outcome. Gymnastics and swimming have always been favorites of mine. Gymnastics because I'm a girl and most girls like that kind of stuff, and it's absolutely fascinating at what those bodies can do. Swimming because growing up swimming was a major part of our family. My little brother Rich was an awesome swimmer and at one time was even an Olympic hopeful. I think he still holds some school records more than a decade later.

Despite my angst towards the location of the Olympics (China never should have got them) and I think many judging portions of the Olympics were ridiculously biased (I think some of the judges have been bribed). I think that the Olympics are a fabulous event to showcase what the human body and spirit are capable of. The beauty, the strength, the speed, the grace, the endurance, the willpower. W-O-W

Admittedly most of the time I sit there a little envious that these athletes are achieving something I could never dream of. I have known from a very young age that athletics in any shape or form have never been my strong suits.

Even though my brother and I were both on the same swim team, (for a very short while) and I was the older one, we were on opposite ends of the spectrum. The only races I could ever hope to win were against my self. I could make it from one end of the pool to the other, but speed and good form eluded me.

I totally can't run. I can go like 2 minutes before I am doubled over, gasping for air, clutching the stitch in my side. I know that is something I could work on, but I hear it's bad for your knees, so why bother?

Any team sports are totally out of the question. I should just wear a sign around my neck "Don't throw the ball to me, I'll drop it (if I manage to catch it)" Total Liability. That's me.

And gymnastics? That's the most impossibly ridiculous one of them all. I can do a somersault. Just don't expect any grace or style from me. In fact, I might even sprain something in the attempt. But I can probably most definitely do one. But those girls are like 16 (or 14 if they're Chinese) I am so past my prime on that one.

There's also the winter Olympics. I love those too. Before we had moved here, John and I had signed up to volunteer when Salt Lake hosted back in 2002. (We moved here in 2000) That would have been fun. I think I mentioned before that I can ski. Or at least I could 14 years ago, but in all honestly, I really stunk. I loved it, but I stunk. I am totally not exaggerating when I say that my mom told me she half expected a phone call from the hospital everytime I went skiing.

(totally off the subject here, but these spacing issues with blogger are driving me nuts! why won't it let me separate the paragraphs?!? Some of them are separted, but it won't let me separte the middle section!)

But then one event caught my eye the other night. Women's Race WALKING. Walking! I do that all the time. And most of the time I don't even hurt myself! If I were to set my sights on an event, that would be it. Of course we aren't talking about regular walking, but still. And don't worry, I have no delusions that should I take up this particular sport that I would be ever be in the same league with these women, but still a sport I could do. Several thoughts/questions have been running through my head however-

-Those women had really nice bodies. Nice flat stomachs. Toned legs. Could I look like that if I took it up?

- Many of them were my age! The youngest girl I took note of was like 22 or something. She won. But she weighed like 95 pounds. Must be all that walking.

- Why do they all look like they just got off the sand volleyball courts? Is there some kind of dress code where you wear as little as possible, and your does it bother them when the camera is following behind them as they walk that their bums are hanging out of their shorts for millions of worldwide viewers?

-What's the difference between race walking and running or jogging? I'm confused as to the exact specifications as to what makes a really really fast walk and not running? Is it the hip wiggle? When you are barely right behind another racer, and can't seem to get ahead, do they think about cheating and breaking into a slight run just for an edge?

-John and I decided this must be a "women's only" sport. Then the next night I saw the men. At least their shorts weren't as short. That's a camera shot I don't need to see.

-If I were to actually consider taking up this particular sport, I think I'd need a treadmill so I could train in the privacy of my own home. I don't think I'd be able to keep a straight face in public while I practiced my hip wiggle, and it's probably hard to train when you have to keep switching from speed-walking form, to casual saunter when I think someone is looking.

Zach's Birthday

Zach has never been one for parties or attention. He's the first kid that I have known who doesn't like people paying attention to him. Well at least that's true with my other kids anyway. Some days they seem to live for the spotlight. The first time I threw him a party, we were in Utah about the time of his second birthday, so I thought it would be fun to invite the cousins over and have a little party, I decorated a Blues Clues cake just for him, and my poor baby could not have been more miserable.

In this picture we are singing happy birthday to him, and he spent the whole time hiding his face under his little arm. I'm sure if he could talk he would have been saying. "Just go away. Please. Just go away."

This picture pretty much sums up the rest of the pictures from that day. He had the saddest little face in all the pictures. It's as if he is asking "Why are you doing this to me, mom?" It was pretty much the whole cliche- "It's my party and I'll cry if I want to."So we didn't make that mistake again. The next year when he turned three we had some cake and he opened presents. Only with the whole present thing, he took like a full 24 hours to open his presents. And it's not cause there was a million of them. It was cause he took his sweet time, and would open one present, play with it for awhile (or several hours) and then when the other kids bugged him enough to open the next, then he'd get around to it. Every picture book was thoroughly studied before the next present could be opened. Puzzles had to be mastered, trains thoroughly played with, you get the idea. It about drove my other kids insane. Who ever heard of someone not ripping through the presents all at once to see what they got? Never once wondering "What's next?!?"

We finally did the friend thing when he was four, and he was somewhat wary, but a good sport. I think his least favorite part was when we sang "happy birthday", but he suffered through that with grace.

This year at six years old, he announced he didn't want a friend party. He just wanted to go to Chuck-E-Cheese's with the family. No Problem there. Entertaining little kids for a couple hours is not one of my many talents. Because of this simple request, I felt pretty good about giving him pretty much anything else he wanted in the way of special treatment on his day. Besides going to Chuck-E-Cheese's the Saturday before his birthday, we ended up at IHOP for dinner that day too. Then on his birthday, he wanted me to bring him a Happy Meal from McDonald's for lunch. More than happy to oblige. Cupcakes for the class. Wouldn't hear of doing anything less. Drive to school to pick them up so he didn't have to walk home. Not a problem. His favorite casserole for dinner. Would love to. Picking out some of his own birthday presents at Toys R Us. Whatever makes you happy. About the only thing I had a problem with was getting up at five so he could unwrap the couple little things we had picked out to surprise him with. Despite the fact he wanted to pick out his own presents, every 6 year old needs something to unwrap. I had stayed up waaaaaaayyyy past my bedtime working on that last post and five in the morning was just something I couldn't do. So he dragged me out of bed at six. After Toys R Us, we had cake and ice-cream, and he didn't even mind us singing to him. He was pretty excited about his NASCAR cake. He thought his birthday was the best birthday ever. And that's what really counts.

My Miracle Baby

Tomorrow is Zach's birthday. He'll be six. He's my miracle baby. I've cried more tears over him, and had more prayers said in his behalf than all my other babies put together. At one point I even had doctors telling me I should just abort him and start all over again. There was a lot of risk involved, but oh how we feel so blessed and thankful to be celebrating six years with him.The trouble started in the beginning. I think I was only six weeks along or something. I don't think I had even told anyone besides John that I was pregnant before we found ourselves in the emergency room because I was bleeding. I had lost a baby before, and I had to get to the hospital to find out if everything was still okay. That night was awful, for so many reasons that I don't need to go into here, and it is probably on my top ten list of most terrible nights in my life, but it was probably a blessing in disguise. The real drama started the next week at a follow-up appointment at another ultrasound office across town. They were much nicer than the cranky technician at the hospital, I didn't even have to fill my bladder for them to get a good picture, and I'm sure if I had they would have let me fill it up the traditional way, other than the hospital's way. I even got to see the screen as they were doing it. The good news was there was still a heartbeat, but the bad news was is that it was twins, and only one baby was still alive. It's hard to describe what went through my head in those few seconds it took for the ultrasound lady to tell me that. For half a second I was having twins. Two babies. For half a second I had visions of double strollers and matching outfits, and twice the chaos. But just for half a second. How was (am?) I supposed to feel about losing something I never knew I had in the first place? "Congratulations! You've won the lottery! Oh wait, sorry. My Bad. That's a 6, not a 9. Sorry about that." In my journal that night I wrote- I'm sad. I want a miracle and the other one to be all right.6 years later, and I'll be honest, I still wonder what life would be like with two Zachs. I'm still a little sad when I think about it every once in awhile. But then I think of twice the mess, and twice the sleepless nights, and then I read my friend's blog and she talks about her twins, and even last week, as I was reading it and what her two year olds are up to and then just one word popped into my head- "Conspirators". Not just twice the mess. This could be one of those situations where the total is greater than the sum of it's parts. But I am sure my friends, the parents of these adorable little girls would tell you that the joys more than outweigh any of the troubles."So what next?" I ask. "What happens to the other baby?" They just say that the dead baby will just dissolve (ew) and my body will absorb it. (Ew-ew.) And they wanted to do more follow-ups, so I was to come back the next week.

At the next appointment I remember laying there on the table watching the monitor, looking for that reassuring little heartbeat to know that I still had the one baby, and relieved to see that he had grown, and then I noticed something. (Which I am sure caught the ultrasound lady's attention right off) I wrote this in my journal that night- The other one is still there. I'm confused, but I don't say anything. (maybe it's a miracle!)

By the next week I noticed it still getting bigger, and this time I voiced my thoughts- "Um, isn't that other baby supposed to dissolve and go away?" I asked. "Why does it look like it's been growing?" It didn't look like the other one, it wasn't growing like the other one. And then my emotions took a weird turn here. I was barely trying to figure out how to mourn a baby I never really had, wishing against odds that it would turn out alright and now I wanted it gone! I wanted it to dissolve and go away and leave my other baby alone!

(This is the part where my memory gets a little hazy- shock does that to you) Another doctor came in, and they looked and they looked, and they measured, and they double checked, and they followed the blood flow in the umbilical cord, and it took quite awhile. And their super-friendly, outgoing attitudes were replaced with very nice, but very serious expressions. And then, we had to go sit and talk to the doctor, the guy who's name is on the door, the expert in this area. We had to sit in his office. The last room you want to sit in when you visit with a doctor. With him behind his desk, and John and I on the other side, and then he explained my "condition".I had or the babies had, what is called TRAP Sequence. Twin Reversed Arterial Perfusion Sequence. 6 years later, and I still remember those words. I even spelled them right without spellcheck. Basically the umbilical cords were messed up, and the dead twin was stealing blood (and therefore nutrients) from the healthy baby. I guess this happens in like less than 1% of identical twins. Then (and this is where it gets really hazy) he proceeded to outline the list of problems that can occur from this. Everything from missing a finger to heart failure before he was even born. There was even a really good possibility of terrible chromosomal abnormalities, that if the baby survived til birth he would have no quality of life, probably be in a lot of pain, and then die within a few days anyway. I don't want to bore you with numbers and percentages, but they were bleak. The odds truly were against us. This is the part where I started having doctors offer to "take care" of this pregnancy, and then I could start over fresh in a month or two. Several times I had that offer laid at my feet. This was a baby I wanted, and loved, and could provide a happy home for, and I never imagined or thought in my wildest dreams that abortion would be offered to me as a viable solution. How crazy is that? John and I each dealt with this news in the only way that we could. I went home and crawled into bed and pulled the covers over my head and cried and cried and cried. John went straight to the computer to learn all he could. And what he learned was terrible. He wouldn't even show it to me. Grotesque images of deformed babies who had sucked so much life out of the healthy twin, that the dead one was twice the size of the living one. The one image that will stay with me forever is an ultrasound a had a couple weeks later. The other baby was moving. The really creepy part was that because the blood supply he was stealing was inadequate, only the bottom half of the body was developed. It had no heart, no head, no arms or brain, but it did have a smaller torso, and legs, and those legs were kicking. Because it did have a nervous system. Like the creepy science experiment I saw in college where they cut a frog in half and hooked the spine up to electricity to watch the legs kick.We did learn that there was a surgery that was another option. There was a doctor in Philadelphia who could do a surgery when I was twenty weeks along that would separate the twins, and fix it, but it would cost somewhere around $75,000 or more, and insurance wasn't gonna pay for it. "Experimental" they called it. And it was only successful like 50% of the time anyway. I think by this point I wasn't on bed rest any more, but I still spent a lot of time in bed crying and praying. Wishing that pulling the covers over my head would make it all go away. Friends and family were never far away, doing what they could, and praying for us as well. And all those prayers were heard. The chromosomal analysis we had done at 13 weeks came back normal. While both babies continued to grow, Zach's growth remained healthy and normal (if slightly on the smallish side) and the other baby seemed to get smaller and smaller on the monitor, but only because Zach was getting bigger and bigger. The special surgery wouldn't be needed, and Zach was healthy and strong. My mom came out to stay with us when I was about 28 weeks along. She slept on my couch for two months and took care of my other kids, and cooked and cleaned, and I was put back on bed rest (because by then I had already had two babies with no drama in the pregnancy born 8 weeks early). She stayed as long as she could, and when I was 36 weeks along, she had to go back to work.

My water broke the day after she left to go back home to Utah. 36 weeks. That's seriously a record for me. My water broke in the middle of the night and a good friend and neighbor came to stay with our kids and sleep on the couch until someone could relieve her. My water broke, but the contractions didn't start so the hospital put me on pitocin to get things moving along. What a horrid, exhausting, painful, day. My water broke at midnight, but Zach wasn't born until after ten pm the next night. I got an epidural this time, and the pain was so bad I was crying and begging for it first. (I've heard that pitocin makes the contractions downright unbearable- I believe those rumors)

So Zachary Ian Berrett was born at 10:47 pm on August 20th, 2002. He was my biggest baby at 4 lbs 13 ounces. And he was perfect. Ten fingers, ten toes. The moment they put that bloody, slimy, disgusting, little thing on my stomach, I fell in love. They always whisked the others away first to make sure they were okay and clean them up. He was so perfect he got to come home with me. All of my other babies had to spend 2-3 weeks in the hospital before they were strong enough to come home. I saw the other baby when it came out of me, it looked like a little gray mushroom. I think we had to sign papers so they could take it back to some lab for study. We didn't name it or anything.
So I got my miracle. When all this started before I even knew how bad it was gonna get, I was praying for a miracle. While I didn't get that particular one, I know our prayers were answered, and I will forever feel blessed to have my healthy, blue eyed little boy Zachary in my life.

Happy Birthday, Zach.

You know what would be bad?

Zach- "Dad, you know what would be bad?"

John- "What?"

Zach- "If you fell asleep in a movie theater and we leaved."

"Terrific Two's...Not Terrible Two's"

Some days I really believe this. Really. No kidding. Other days you'll find me curled up in the corner in a fetal position, rocking back and forth, eyes tightly shut, rubbing my temples with my fingers, repeating this mantra over and over again, desperately willing it to be true. Mostly though I live in a state of denial. Right now I am sitting at my computer blissfully blocking out the fact that the room I am sitting in looks like a hurricane struck, and this particular Blue's Clues video has probably been played 4,987 times. I know that this too shall pass.

I am getting pretty good at picking my battles. Some things are just so not worth it. Yesterday morning for instance I was getting Christopher dressed for church and while he willingly put on the pants and shirt we had picked out, he had issues with the socks. We picked out nice matching brown ones, and he threw a fit. Just laid down and cried. He had picked out ONE red sock to put on, and I hadn't realized that he really, really wanted that one red sock. I put on the two brown ones, because they a) matched, b) were handy, and c) there were two of them. So, the brown socks came off, and the red one went on, and I had John go get a second red sock. Second red sock goes on, and Christopher runs off, only to come back moments later with the second red sock ripped off and a green sock in his hand and a smile on his face. The mis-matched colors didn't bother me as much as the big fat hole large enough for his whole big toe to stick out. Don't ask me why that one hasn't been thrown out yet. So I happily complied with his sock issues hoping and praying we wouldn't have shoe issues. Remember these shoes?

These are his very favorites in the whole world. They are almost getting too small, and I am thinking I had better find a replacement pair quickly before we have a crisis on our hands. At any rate, these are his very favorite shoes. He can be regularly found wearing these shoes, and almost nothing else. So hoping that the "pick your battles" mentality held true, I let him have full creative license with the socks, but put on his nice, (brown) church shoes.

Two minutes later we had the same sort of situation with the sippy cup. He wanted the green one with the curdled milk that he found somewhere (probably hid it for safe-keeping), I put that one in the dishwasher and offered him a blue one with fresh milk. After many tears (him not me) I offered him his choice of colors from the cabinet and we settled on a yellow one with fresh milk. I wasn't even aware color was important to him until now. I thought it was about what was inside. (Don't even think about offering him water or something)

What I really do enjoy though are his new found attempts to communicate. He's a bit older than my first two were when they started talking, and that's okay, really. I'm just happy he says "mom." Actually it's more of a "mom mom mom mom mom." But oh how that little word repeated over and over again just sets my heart soaring. I think I mentioned once how Zach wouldn't even say that at 2 1/2 and I would dream he would, and then I would wake up and just cry because my baby couldn't even say "mama". Christopher's got a couple new words in his arsenal these days. "Boo" (Blue) and "coo" (Clue) not ever used together, we're not stringing different words together or anything, but he can be frequently heard saying "coo! coo! coo!" while watching his favorite show. He also walks around talking on his cellphone all day -an old one of mine not in use anymore, "huh-wo?" "huh-wo?". Or if anyone comes to the door, or leaves, like the kids when they go to school, he'll just stand there and stare at them despite their best attempts to get him to wave "bye-bye" until the door is shut, and then (and only then) he will frantically wave at the closed door saying "hi! hi!".

Ironically though I think my favorite form of communication from him so far is the sign language he's picked up. Just a couple words. "Please" and "More". When Zach wouldn't talk, I found a website for baby sign language (mybabycantalk.com) and it has little videos showing you the actions. Zach learned a bunch, I think he was just relieved no one was expecting him to talk anymore. Christopher only knows the two words so far, and he has his own little interpretation of the actions. For "please" instead of rubbing his chest, he rubs his belly, and if he's really excited about it (like he's asking for chocolate) he rubs his belly with both hands. "More" is a little more difficult to explain, you hold all your fingertips together on each hand, and then touch your fingers back and forth. He makes fists, and then knocks his knuckles together. I love it. It's like the non-verbal version of a kid who can't say something right. Madison will forever be my very favorite 'beanerina' ever, even though she's long since learned to say 'ballerina'.

Well I guess this is enough responsibility avoidance for a little while. I might be able to block out the toys on the floor and the brain-cell killing monotony of Christopher's favorite TV shows, but the dishes will not be ignored forever. Good thing I have a helper.

total flashback

So after my last post, I totally walked away from the computer, and proceeded with some other activity, but in the back of my mind still pondering Zach's odd request to take tightrope walking lessons, and I had a total flashback. Of this-

That's me in the 5th grade. My best friend Michelle and I spent the summer trying out various "dare devil-ish" activities in her backyard. That was my brief career as a tightrope walker. I'm holding on to a rake for balance, but obviously that didn't stop me from nearly falling on her niece.

Then there was our attempt to make our own roller coaster.

I think I only succeeded at getting a serious case of rope burn before those flimsy handles broke off the sled.

My personal favorite however was Michelle's attempt to string me up to a large tree branch and make me fly.

That was pretty painful to tell you the truth. All I really remember is being really irritated she wouldn't cut me down until she stopped laughing long enough to take a picture.

Maybe Zach just wants to be as cool as his mom. Yeah, that's gotta be it. I mean, come on, look at those shorts.

PS- is it sad that I still have the EXACT SAME HAIRSTYLE 20 years later?

circus act

Out of the blue Zach says to me

"Mom, I wish I could take tightrope lessons."

Me- "You mean you wish you could take tightrope walking lessons?"

Zach-"Yeah. That's what I want."

Me- "Ummm, I'm not sure there's anyplace like that around here. Sorry kiddo."

Zach- "That's too bad. I wish there was a place."

Besides being just plain old weird and out-of-the-blue as it was, it was weirder cause it was Zach. This is the kid who is afraid of everything. Serious anxiety issues. Roller coasters, water slides, people paying attention to him, (he doesn't even like me to watch him practice the piano, and we argue every night as to whether he has to read out loud to me, or just in his head, and just the other week he was supposed to read a scripture in church, and although he was totally prepared, it was a disaster-he tried to bury his face in my side, and I spent a full five minutes trying to get him to spit out the words he knew) or trying new things-like cold cereal, macaroni and cheese, soup, and let's not even think about something crazy weird like Mexican, Italian, or Chinese food.

We are making progress- he now eats hamburgers. And elevators have long since been conquered, as well as tube slides- we like those now, and he's been in school for a whole week and loving it even though he was kinda stressed about being in a different class with different kids than we thought we were gonna get.

But still, tightrope walking? Maybe I'm being overly critical but I just don't see it. (did I mention he wants to quit gymnastics after two months cause it's too hard? ) So I didn't tell him I know a place a half a mile away where he can learn to do the trapeze. Maybe after he conquers some of his other issues first.

Spoke too soon

There are times when someone asks me where John is traveling to this week, I can honestly say "I'm not sure". Sometimes I get a funny look that says "You don't KNOW what city your husband is in?!?" So sometimes when they ask that question, and I'm not quite sure, I'll just fudge the answer and guess. "Uh, Boston I think."

I know that sounds terrible that there are times when I don't actually know what city or state or even time zone my husband is in. But in my defense it fluctuates pretty regularly. For instance since my last post just a couple days ago, John's plans have changed a couple times. The class in Australia got canceled, but there was one in Germany two weeks after the one in England. So instead of going to Australia, for one class, then straight to England for another, then home, for the past two days the plan was to fly to England for a class, have a week off but stay in Europe because a hotel for a week is cheaper than a plane ticket, then spend another week in Germany. It was going to amount to him being gone for something like 24 days straight or something. Today he's not even sure if he is going to Europe or not. Despite the fact that he is their "Golden Boy" for test taking, this particular course is not something he is that familiar with, doesn't deal with, and is not interested in dealing with, and they were putting a good deal of pressure on him to get these certifications in an extremely short period of time so they are thinking that maybe somebody else who actually deals with this stuff for a living might be a better candidate for taking some of the tests. (wow that's a run-on)

So I spoke too soon. Australia is definitely out of the question, and probably Europe as well. I think he's disappointed. During his "week of study" between classes he had planned on visiting St. Andrews in Scotland. You know, The Birthplace of Golf.

Speaking of traveling...

John gets to go to Australia later this month. I am beyond green with envy. Totally jealous. We've used up our allotment of 'taking advantage of the free babysitting service' offered by our mothers this year, so I get to stay home with the kiddos. He's going for work. More classes, more tests, more certifications. He's there for work, but he'll still get a couple days to play and evenings too. I think when the subject comes around I just give him a dirty look and stick my tongue out at him.

At one point he tried to assure me that it won't be as much fun without me, but how is that supposed to make me feel better? I don't want him to have less fun without me, it's not as though I am vindictive enough to wish him a terrible time, and hope it rains on him every day, I want him to have fun and enjoy himself, I just want to go too. Does that make sense?

He also gets to go to England again. Same reasons for going and same reasons for leaving me behind. But I'm not so upset about it this time. Don't get me wrong, I LOVED England. I only spent one day there and it was so not enough. I can't wait to get back there in fact. But since we are totally planning on trying to move to Europe by this time next year, I can deal with it. I'll get that opportunity again, in the foreseeable future.

Maybe John will love Australia so much we could talk about the same type of situation and someday move there while John takes some sort of computer contractor's job for 6 months or more. I could do that. After Europe of course.

Cuckoo

Well it finally came. It took like six weeks, but John finally got his cuckoo clock that he bought in Germany. We had it shipped cause, well, who wants to carry one of those on an airplane? John's thrilled, the kids are beyond thrilled, they think it's the coolest thing ever, and I'm, um, well, truthfully I can't get too jazzed about it.It has all the fun little moving parts. The little bird comes out the door at the top and cuckoo's, and the dancers dance around, and the waterwheel moves around, and the little guys saw their log, and it plays music, and it's pretty swell and all, but I have never said to myself "Gotta get me one of those!"

But John has. I guess if I'd had strong opinions about it, like they gave me nightmares or something, but I don't so John got one while he was over there. He's wanted one for ages, but mostly he got it cause the guy never asks for anything, like he rarely ever picks up anything for himself, and so when he says "I need one of those" he generally gets it.

It used to make me feel bad that he never bought himself anything on vacation. We'd go to Disneyland and the rest of us would get our t-shirts and junk, and unless he forgot his jacket and was getting really cold and needed a sweatshirt or something, he'd walk away with nothing. The paranoid side of me would say that he was not getting himself what he really wanted because the rest of us were spending all his money. So I would try to shove souvenirs down his throat, "Look, golf balls with Mickey Mouse! you know you want one!" so that I would feel less guilty about my t-shirt and whatever else I "needed".

Mostly my idea of a good souvenir these days is a book. Sure I take my own pictures, and put them in my own album, and think those memories are priceless, but I think a nice book is good too because the pictures are a heck of a lot more professional looking, plus you can read in detail about what you are looking at.

I also tend to just pick up little things that make me happy at the moment. "Ooooh, pretty!" Jewelry and other stuff and what-not, but I really like the books.

After the cuckoo clock though, I think I'm gonna stop feeling bad. I should have learned my lesson when he needed the Scottish broad sword at the renaissance festival in Ohio back in like 1997.

Not ready for this

This is my baby girl. She's only eight. She's growing up way too fast that's for sure.

Just today she was telling me about the love notes she gets from a boy at school, how he asked her if he could kiss her, (she said not until she was at least 17) and then later this afternoon he called our house to ask her out to dinner. ( I said NO!, but agreed with his mom to let her play with him at the park later on in the year when the weather was nicer. )

Sigh. SO not ready for this.

Back-to-school

It's that time of year again. My kids have gone back to school. Zach is in the first grade. He was supposed to be in a class with several of his friends, but got moved at the last minute when they hired a new teacher last week. He doesn't know anyone. The teacher seems really nice and cute, but I think Zach is feeling pretty anxious about the whole thing (which makes me anxious cause he's still my baby) Madison is all sorts of excited about school. New clothes, friends, what else is there? She's in third grade this year. It might be a little hot, but we both agreed the knee-high socks were a must with this outfit.I can't believe I have a 6th grader. I know I am going to be saying something along those lines for the rest of my life as a parent to school age children, next year it will be "I can't believe I have a kid in jr. high" but still, it's pretty surreal to me. "It seems like only yesterday..." (sniff, sniff)

But don't worry about me... it's not like I am home all alone with nothing to do but read and scrapbook, oh no, I have a HELPER.

He keeps my day busy so that I never have to miss the other kids.And he knows how much I love to do laundry and pick up toys, and he anticipates this by making sure I have enough to do. Even if that means he has to clean out the kid's drawers and throw all the clean clothes down so that I can wash them (again) and put them away (again). What a sweetheart. Thanks Christopher!