Figuratively Speechless

When Sam and I first saw the advertisements for the New Testament Project, we knew it was perfect. Sam enjoys acting and has wanted to participate in something ever since we got married. He has no formal training and limited experience (all play-acting: some children's theater as a kid, cast three times as a young teen, and lead four times in high school, although it must be noted that he comes from a very small town and that was all over 11 years ago). But, being an extra doesn't require any experience at all, so he was good. And though I couldn't be in it because I don't look the part (unless they include a Viking attack in Jerusalem), I have always wanted to see Sam with long hair and a beard (oohlala!) Thus it was that Sam began growing out his hair and beard in October 2010.

Over 10,000 people applied to be extras for the New Testament project, and by December these were pared down to only a few thousand. Sam's olive skin and dark hair must have tipped the scale, because he was accepted as an extra. The approved extras were then invited to audition for speaking parts in January. Sam only ever planned on being an extra, and we laughed about him trying out because he pretty much stood an ice cube's chance in you-know-where. But hey, why not shoot for the moon? Sam signed up for an audition date almost as a joke.

In February we got an email saying that Sam had made the first cut, and we laughed out loud. That's so hilarious! Back pats and hearty laughs were given all around. Rather than do call-backs, they were having the director review film of the first try-outs, and he would decide who made the cut, so Sam didn't have anything else to do. We continued on with life, because the fun was surely going to stop there.

In April we got an email saying Sam made the second cut, and requesting he audition with the director. Okay, this was kind of getting serious. In a funny sort of way. Of the original 2,702 auditioning actors, only 62 were left. And basically everyone but Sam was a professional actor with an agent. When he finally auditioned with the director, Sam wasn't sure how he felt about it. Like any perfectionist, he felt like he could have done better. But it's not like he was going to get a part, so oh well! By this point we were thinking that Sam's man beard was doing all the talking, and we were expecting a glorified extra part. Like shop-keeper #6 or fish-seller #13.

We didn't hear back for a month, and when we did, it was a 7:33 pm email, requesting new beard-shots for a 7:00 am meeting the next morning. We sent in midnight pictures taken in our bedroom (the ones in this post). Two weeks later we got an email requesting info for ecclesiastical clearance. (Are you a convicted felon? Have you been disfellowshipped or excommunicated? List every calling you have had dating back to the flood.)

And then silence. We heard nothing for over six weeks. Our glorified extra hopes evaporated. But we were okay with that, because we only ever expected the back of Sam's head to be in the movie, anyway. Being an extra would still be really fun.

Then, on July 6th, we received this email:

RE: Official BOOKING for Samuel Ricks

Please REPLY with your ACCEPTANCE (or rejection) as soon as possible.

Dear Samuel,

Thank you for your patience with our casting process. You have been approved by our ecclesiastical authorities to participate in this production! We would like to offer you the role of “John, son of Zebedee (Apostle)” in our New Testament project for the LDS Church.

According to the current schedule, we will need you to work 27 days on this production. [Lots of information on dates, meals]

Thank you, again! We look forward to working with you on this production. Please feel free to call or e-mail with any questions or concerns.

Sincerely,

Alisa Anglesey

The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints

Media Services Department Casting

LDS Motion Picture Studio, Provo, Utah US

WHOA.

We don't know if he has any speaking parts, but he'll definitely be there for most of the major events. The Mount of Transfiguration, Gethsemane, the resurrection. He will film during August, September, and October.

I am speechless. (Figuratively, of course. Obviously not literally, as this post has 760 words.) This is nuts.

Excruciating and Fruitless

News flash to the blogging world: We moved.

Hence, for the first time since I began my blog back in January 2007, I only posted ONCE in a whole month. Once. My next lowest is four. Be grateful, though, because I had nothing witty to say, and had I posted it would have been excruciatingly boring. Notice how I emphasized the word excruciating by putting it in italics. Yes, the word alone wasn't good enough. It had to be italicized.

Well since I'm here, and since I'm posting about nothing in general, I'll tell you one reason I'm really grateful for this move. After two years of living with my parents, and searching fruitlessly through my boxes for things I wanted, I finally got to unpack. Want to know why my searches were fruitless? Because I thought I was funny when I labeled my boxes things like:

And my personal favorite:

Oh, real funny Janae.  Apparently the joke was on me.

Putting Him Up For Adoption

Once upon a time, I left the children playing happily in the basement while I ran upstairs for 15 minutes to scan some family history stuff.  When I returned to the basement, this is what I found:

 

"Oh, no!" I thought. "Enoch's gotten in to in the game closet!"  But the mess didn't look too bad, and I wasn't really worried .... until I rounded the corner and saw this:

Nearly every game we own opened, with the pieces dumped.

Over 1700 puzzle pieces, dumped and mixed.

Approximately 10,000 legos.  (You think I'm exaggerating.  I'm not.)

Amazing how a 15 minute mess can take 15+ man hours to clean up.  If Enoch ever touches that closet again, I'm putting him up for adoption.

The Stalker Song

I still remember the first time I heard the song Every Breath You Take by The Police. I was driving down 7800 South, just past the light at 10th East. At first the song was just catchy. But the more I listened, the more my stomach churned. "This guy is a total stalker!" I thought. The song completely freaked me out. And I've hated it ever since.

Well, a few weeks ago I was talking to my 22 year-old brother Tyler, and somehow The Stalker Song (as I've affectionately referred to it for the last decade plus) came up. And guess what? Tyler said he loved it! I was grossed out.

So today I was driving down the freeway and suddenly I heard it: ♫ Da da na na na na na na ♫ ... Oh yeah. The Stalker Song. Just as I was about to change the station, I remembered Tyler. I decided to give the song another chance. And guess what? It's even more creeper than I remember. It could curdle milk inside my stomach. Ew.

Alright, so here's the question: Are you with me or are you with Tyler?

The First Day of the Rest of Her Life

I didn't feel old on my last birthday. I turned 28 and I felt just fine. But 20 days later when Seara turned 5, it hit me.  I'm getting old. And my baby is growing up.

Five year old birthday girl!

 

I just dropped Seara off for her first day of Kindergarten.

I'm not so sure how I feel about this.

Seara slept like a rock last night.  I tossed and turned with all sorts of nightmares.

This morning Seara wasn't nervous at all.  While we were waiting in line outside I asked her how she felt. "Good.  Happy."  "Are you excited?"  "Yeah."  Not me, sweetheart.  I'm freaking out.  I'm super nervous.  I'm not ready for this.  I'm not ready to let someone else take my baby.  I'm not ready for mean kids and teach-new-words kids.  I'm not ready to give up my sleeping in until the kids wake.  I'm not ready for schedules that interfere with our freedom.

Seara didn't even turn around as she walked away.  But as we drove off I couldn't help but feel like turning around, scooping her up, and telling her teacher, "Thank you, but we pass.  I'm taking her back home."  Apparently I wasn't the only one worried about leaving her, either.  Enoch kept asking, "Where Seara go?  Seara get in her chair.  Go get Seara.  Seara go back to Liam's house."

But off she is.  And here I sit.  Missing her like crazy.  And worrying even more.

National Parks

Recently one of my cousins mentioned that she had a life goal to visit all the National Parks in the US. "I've visited a ton of National Parks," I thought, "That would be so awesome and I could do it easily!" Ha, ha, ha.

Ha.

Do you know how many National Parks there are? 58. I've been to eleven. But since Sam's only been to eight, I'll have to do those other three again, so we have 50 to go. Here's a map. Sam and I have been to the red ones.

View National Parks in a larger map

But that's not the daunting part. The problem is that EIGHT of them are in Alaska. ALASKA. You know, "I can see Russia from my house" Alaska. Cold, ice, snow Alaska. Freeze to death Alaska.

I told all this to my dad and he tells me, "You know, there's a saying, 'Never go to Alaska ... because you'll never leave.' It's really beautiful. And the summer weather is nice." So I looked up the summer weather. The average high in Anchorage during July (the warmest month) is 65 degrees. SIXTY FIVE DEGREES. I still wear a coat when it's 65 degrees! The record high is - prepare for this - 92 degrees. Barely warm enough to go swimming. And that was in 1931. Maybe I can do all eight in one fell swoop during July - and I'll pray for a record-setting heat wave.

All this thinking about ice is making me cold. I'm going to go put on a coat.

an 'Incredible' Halloween

This year was my first attempt at putting together Halloween costumes. Normally I either ...

1) pretend it's not Halloween,
2) admit that it's Halloween but do nothing about it, or
3) dress my kids in their cousins' old costumes because I feel guilty for being a lame mom.

Well, not this year. This year I went all out. First, we cracked my mom's costume box and dressed up in different outfits nearly every day. Well, except Enoch. We borrowed this Nemo costume from Sam's cousin and he wore it nearly every day, just because it was so cute!

guess who is mad at me ...

Then there were our Trick-or-Treating costumes. I spent hours and hours shopping. I bought half of every store, and then returned nearly all of it. I had numerous 'try this on' sessions with my kids. I sewed. (I hope you didn't faint at that revelation!) I went all out. And you know what I decided? I am NEVER doing that again!! From here on out, it's store bought monkey costumes for us!

Here is our inspiration:

my brother Liam as Syndrome --- Seara as Violet

Elijah as Dash --- Enoch as Jack-Jack

Me as Elastigirl --- Sam as Mr. Incredible

Incredible logo Jack-o-Lantern

the Incredible Family

Liam's friend Alicia as Mirage

Happy Halloween from the Incredible Crew!

Five Reasons I'll Die Before 50

1) Monday lunch: handful of chocolate chips, handful of almonds, chocolate milk
2) Tuesday lunch: 5 pieces of licorice, three pringles, chocolate milk
3) Wednesday lunch: handful of chocolate chips, ovaltine
4) Thursday lunch: pack of fruit snacks, eight pringles, strawberry milk
5) Friday lunch: half bag of popcorn, strawberry milk

Spending Sunday at the Smiths

You need to know:

1) Smith is my maiden name.
2) My skirt didn't allow me to bend like this, that's why I have pajama pants on. You don't actually need to know that, but it makes me feel better to tell you.
3) My family rocks.
4) To actually play the game, you rotate players and play like they do spelling bees. If you fall and the person after you gets it, you're out. If everyone after you falls, everyone is still in and you go another round.
5) Obviously this song wasn't really playing when we video taped, it just seemed appropriate for the video footage. :)

I'm a Stay-at-Home Mom

On my way to the doctor this afternoon I turned on talk radio. The station was broadcasting an interview with a recent author. As they talked, the author cited the following statistics:

• In the 1950's 17% of mothers worked outside the home.
• In the 1970's (at the height of the woman's lib movement) 33% of mothers worked outside the home.
• In 2007, just over 70% of mothers worked outside the home. That number dropped in 2008, thanks to the economic crash, but still it hovers around 66%. That means that 2/3 of US mothers work outside the home.

The interviewer asked if those numbers increased because women need to work to help provide for their families. This is where things got interesting. According to the research, in the 1950's the majority of mothers who worked outside the home were in the lower class and worked to put food on the table. In 2007, the majority of working mothers were in the middle or upper class and worked to put iPods and cell phones on the table.

As I listened I couldn't help but feel sorry for the children. Their mothers work to give them everything they could ever want ... except for time. Now I realize that there are mothers (many of whom I know and love) who really do have to work. And I admire those who try to work in such a way that they can spend as much time with their children as possible. My heart goes out to you. I'm sure you're doing the best you can with what you've got.

I guess my real qualm is when people minimize the sacrifices I've made by insinuating that I just happen to be really lucky to be able to stay home, and not everyone can be that lucky. I usually smile and say, "Yeah." But if I had the guts, this is what I'd say:

I know I'm blessed to stay home with my kids. I really am. But it's not like my husband has a six figure income. I don't stay home out of pure luck. We have made some serious sacrifices for me to be with the kids. We have three children in car seats and yet we have one mid-sized car. We don't own Blackberries or iPods. We don't have cable TV. We don't have fancy computers or lavish furniture. We don't go on exotic vacations. We don't eat out - even at McDonald's or Costco. In fact, in the last three years we have only once gone to a nice restaurant on our own tab. If we don't need it to survive, we generally don't buy it. I don't stay home just because I'm lucky (even though I really am). I stay home because it means the world to me to spend my days teaching and loving my children. And I'd sacrifice almost anything to do it.

ps. According to Reuters, I'm worth $138, 095 a year and put in a 92-hour work week. That sounds pretty accurate to me. :)

375: An Apartment Story

"The rent here may be low, but I believe we have it on very hard terms."
-Marianne Dashwood, Sense & Sensibility (the movie, not the book)

Most everyone has a period of their lives when, either out of frugality or necessity, they live in a sub-par apartment.

This is my story.

Soon after Seara was born we found out that everyone was being kicked out of our apartment complex. At that same time Sam decided to go free-lance with his art work and we no longer had a steady, reliable income. So, we began our search for the perfect dirt-cheap apartment. And we found it. A two-bedroom basement apartment for $375 a month. We moved in March 1st.

I should have known something was wrong when, before we moved in, I rented a carpet cleaner and after a dozen times cleaning the carpets the water was still coming up black as tar. I shrugged it off. The place was cheap.

Soon I started noticing that just about everything in the apartment was falling apart. The upper cupboards in the kitchen leaned forward precariously, ready to pulverize an unsuspecting passerby. The sprinklers outside hit the few windows we had and filled the window wells with water, so the apartment manager covered the window wells with sheets of metal, thereby taking away our only source of natural light. The air conditioning didn't work, so as summer came the coolest the apartment ever got was about 80 degrees ... and that was at five in the morning. The whole apartment smelled putrid no matter what I did. And in the upper corners of the room I could see mold inching in, threatening to take over the apartment.

And then there were the red, itchy spots that started appearing on my body when I'd wake up in the morning. They came to a head one night at about two in the morning when I, mostly asleep, reached back to itch my back and felt something crush and ooze between my fingers. I screamed and Sam woke to inspect. Spiders.

We fumigated the apartment. We couldn't even go inside for three days. We expected the problem to be gone when we got back. It wasn't. Apparently the windows weren't sealed well and all sorts of creepy crawlies were constantly getting into the apartment.

After a few weeks there we got the flu. We were sick. Really sick. For twenty days straight I never once left that dark, dank, windowless, mold-growing, spider infested apartment. Sam and Seara got better, but for weeks I did not. Sam figured it out before I did. Baby two was on its way. What morning sickness I already suffered from was amplified by the squalor.

Then one day, as I was getting Seara out of her crib, I noticed something just outside the window above her crib. Nestled into the corner of the window well was a large, black spider. And on her back were large, red dots. A black widow.

We needed to move. Fast.

Miracle of all miracles, while calling around I found an apartment complex that needed an apartment manager. I'd be in charge of showing people my apartment at the semester start, sweeping the walks each week, and doing cleaning checks in the 11 other apartments at the semester end. In return, we'd get the last apartment for $375 a month with free utilities, free internet, and free cable. It had two large bedrooms, tons of storage, huge windows, a new kitchen, and it was CLEAN. We moved in July 29th.

I couldn't have found a faster solution for depression. Everything in my world suddenly felt so happy and light. But those five months in our basement apartment weren't fruitless. They taught me a very important lesson:

Just because it's cheap doesn't mean it's worth it.

Laziness = Food Poisoning

Lazy -->
Procrastinate grocery shopping -->
Do shopping the morning guests are coming -->
Buy pre-cut fruit tray because you no longer have time to cut it yourself -->
Food poisoning ... not only for yourself, but for your husband, children, and all your guests.

I'll understand if no one ever wants to eat at my house again. Really, I will.

The Proper Loading & Organizing of Dishwashers

FACT: Men do not know how to load dishwashers properly.
FACT: Men think women are crazy for thinking there is a 'right' way to load a dishwasher.

Everything is helter skelter. Call me crazy, but I don't think the cups that are sideways
are gonna get very clean. And why are those big bowls up here, taking up all the space?

FACT: With as often as women load the dishwasher (at least once a day, every day, our entire married lives), it is only to be expected that women find the most efficient way to fit as many things as possible and still get everything clean. After all, what doesn't go in the dishwasher must be washed by hand. And what goes through the dishwasher but doesn't get clean must also be washed by hand.

See how much more fit in there? And how much less I had to do by hand??

I'm not crazy. I'm just efficient.

Family Home Flip-Out

Yesterday was a long day. I only got four hours of sleep the night before. My kids were getting over the croup so they were needy. By the end of the day I had a very short fuse. Still, we hadn't done Family Home Evening the night before because Sam was gone all day, and even though he wasn't home again, I figured it would be better to do it alone than not at all. So after dinner I gathered the kids.

Sease and Lije pulled up chairs so they could face Enoch and I on the couch. The first half of my lesson on Being Kind to Your Family went great, but soon Elijah started getting restless and began climbing all over. When I heard scratching sounds from Elijah's boots griding on my new leather couch I decided I had had enough. My patience was waning thin. So I picked him up by the waist and reached to put him in his chair. Except the chair was too far away, so I kinda propelled him forward so that he'd land in his chair. Bad idea. He hit it hard, his neck whiplashed, and his little head whacked the back of the chair. Thus started the pandemonium. He screamed. LOUD. This, of course, scared Enoch who also began screaming. The apartment doors here are thin and their screams echoed through the hallways. Which only made me stress out more. And while I sat there absolutely overwhelmed about what to do, I looked up at Seara, only to see her chewing on a chunk of her hair. I've told her thousands of time not to do that. My patience was gone. So I reached up to swat her hair out of her mouth. But I missed. And I accidentally whacked her instead. She promptly joined the screaming. The lesson needed to end. FAST. So I looked down at my lesson manual and read the last part I had left to do:

"Encourage the children to be loving and kind to their family."

Oh the irony.

Cold Cereal

Confession: I love cold cereal.

I mean *LOVE* cold cereal.

See, growing up our weekday breakfasts were usually oatmeal, cream of wheat, ricesugarandmilk, or cracked wheat. On Saturdays my mom made pancakes, waffles, etc. And on Sundays - those blessed Sundays - we got [this must be said in a wistful, longing voice] cold cereal. When I was really little it was something simple like Rice Crispies (okay, it was actually a vanilla flavored Equadorian version of that, but you get my drift). Boy did I cherished those bowls of cereal! And unfortunately it stuck with me for life.

Winter semester my sophomore year at BYU I made a goal: eat [wistful] cold cereal for breakfast, lunch, dinner, and snacks all semester. The only time I could eat non-cereal food was when I was taken out to eat on a date. And you know what? I didn't get sick of it. But I did gain 15 pounds. So after I completed my goal I reverted back to cereal-for-breakfast only.

Once we added kids to the mix, Sam and I had to make some budget cuts so that I could stay home with the kids. So we [gasp!] went off [wistful] cold cereal. :( Eating oatmeal and cream of wheat for breakfast saved us $100 a month! (It helps when you buy the 25 and 50 lb bags of oats, etc.) But you gotta make sacrifices to be a stay-at-home mom. It was hard. But it was worth it.

And then we moved out here. And I didn't have bulk amounts of oats. And I had a new baby. And for three weeks I had a 2 year-old, a 1 year-old, and a newborn. And I was tired. So we reverted back to cereal for breakfast. And we never went back. (Actually, the kids do those sugary oatmeal packets. I'm mean. Only Sam and I get [wistful] cold cereal.) I have been in heaven this past year. Even if Sam prefers "healthy" cereals to sugar cereals. Personally, I think he's crazy. But hey, who I am to judge? :)

Unfortunately, at the end of May we will be moving. I don't know where. It may be to my parent's basement. But we will be moving. And we just have to cut funds somewhere. So we are going off [wistful] cold cereal again. (I know. I want to cry.) I only have 99 more days to enjoy my beloved [wistful] cold cereal.


Tonight's dinner: Cocoa Pebbles (my personal favorite).
And if I'm not full after one bowl: Cinnamon Toast Crunch (a close second).

Please don't answer his prayer!

We're on the job hunt right now.

To be vague, we are looking at jobs in the East, in the West, one in the middle and one across an ocean.

I really want to get a job. I mean really. So I employed some methods of trickery to ensure that happens. This was my logic: Children are innocent. Children have perfect faith. Therefore, when children pray, their prayers are answered. So I taught my kids to pray that daddy would get a job. It worked perfectly. Until today.

I didn't write down everything Elijah said, but this is the gist of it. With the key part quoted word for word.

Dear Heavenly Father,
thank thee for today.
Thank thee that Sisi goes pee-pee in the toilet. (Yes, thank you for that one.)
Thank thee for Buzz Light-gear.
Please bless daddy to give up.
Please bless mommy to get a job.
Please bless Nephi.
Please bless Jesus. (Um, okay.)
In the name of Jesus Christ, amen."

Oh, please don't answer that prayer!!

The Power of Positive Thinking

Sister Peay & I. Notice how tan (in a red sort of way) I was by the line on my shoulder.

During my last few weeks in the the mission I was beat. I'd given so much for so long that I was physically a wreck. Each morning my alarm would go off. I'd open my eyes and stare a the ceiling. Then I'd tell my body to get up.

It wouldn't budge. So I'd tell it again.
Nothing.
I'd insist.
No movement.

Finally I would pray. "God, if you can just help me get on my knees to pray, I think I can make it through the rest of the day." And somehow, miraculously, I'd muster up enough energy to roll off the bed and on to my knees. And I'd make it through the day.

At this same time my companion, Sister Peay, had pinched a nerve in her neck. She was stalwart and would work anyway. Until I'd be contacting some woman at the bus stop, and turn around to introduce my companion, only to see Sister Peay compulsively vomiting all over the sidewalk. Then I'd insist we go home.

Sister Peay was throwing up every time she stood up this day. We sat on these steps for over an hour.

And so, in an attempt to lighten up how awful we felt, Sister Peay and I started playing a game. I would describe how terrible I felt in a sarcastic, humorous (and often icky) way, and she would attempt to one-up me with her retort. Then I'd try to beat that, and so on. It went something like this:
(By the way, these are exact quotes that Sister Peay wrote in my mission journal.)

me: I feel like someone tied anvils to my eyelids.
Peay: I feel like someone fried my brains and ate them for breakfast.
me: I feel like someone hooked me up to an IV and filled my veins with lead.
Peay: I feel like someone is frying my eyeballs on a shish-kabob stick.
me: I feel like someone ran over my legs with a dump truck.

Anvil Eyelids

Obviously Sister Peay would always win because she was way more creative (and graphic) than I was! Well, at first we would get ourselves laughing - really hard - and it seemed to help lighten the mood. But after a few weeks we started noticing something: any time that we weren't doing missionary work, we were focusing on how miserable we were. We were actually making ourselves feel worse.

So we reversed the game and tried to come up with positive and sappy descriptions about how we felt. ("I feel like I just spent an hour at a masseuse.") Well, that wasn't nearly as funny. It lasted a couple days and then we got sick of it and quit. But I learned something from that experience: when I thought happy thoughts, I actually felt better.

That is why I'm not going to write the post about how sick I am of...

potty training,
picking up toys,
doing laundry,
washing dishes,
standing up,
being hit, kicked, and scratched by my children,
taking 'the boy who cried potty' to the restroom ten times after bedtime because this time it might be real,
and getting headbutts in my jaw get that require me to go on all-liquid diets until I can actually chew again.

No, instead I'm going to tell you things I love. As soon as I can think of some ...

Bring it On

Let's establish a few things:

1) Seara will be four this summer.
2) Elijah is two and three months.
3) My only potty training attempt was nearly a year and a half ago (when Seara was as old as Lija is now).
4) I have done virtually no potty training since then.

The kid's bathroom. Notice the hand prints on the mirror.

Alright, so about a month ago Elijah asked to use the toilet. I put him up there and he went. Weird. But I didn't get my hopes up or attempt anything. I just left him in diapers and did life like normal. He would go every now and again, but I wasn't rushing things. So just over a week ago, Elijah suddenly decided that he wanted to be potty trained. (During the day, not nights.) He would call to me and run to the bathroom every time he needed to go. In eight days he had four accidents. (All in diapers because I still wasn't having expectations.) Blast. I think the kid just potty trained himself. Seara, of course, flipped any time the word 'toilet' or 'potty' was mentioned to her. Yeah, she wasn't even close. But then we had the following turns of events:

1) Two mornings ago when we got the kids we walked in to find the entire closet of clothes unloaded on the floor. And Elijah diaper-less. And pee all over the clothes. UGH. (In his defense, as soon as we walked in he began begging to use the toilet. In my defense, we never made a rule that they couldn't come out of the room. And the door is unlocked. They made that rule themselves. They just wait for us to come. We've never complained. :)

2) Last night I checked on the kids an hour after I put them down. The last time I had checked the boys were asleep and Seara was reading. This time I walked into a wall of stink. And the floor littered with dozens of poop pellets. Seara hates having a dirty diaper. I hate her method of dealing with the dirty diaper.

3) This morning we walked into another closet unload. And poop. On the doors, walls, beds, sheets, hangers, clothes, and carpet. It took an hour and a half to disinfect. And I'm going to have to wash nearly every item of clothing they own.

Enough is enough. I'm washing the carpet, washing sheets, washing clothes. I'm doing all the work. I want the benefit. I want potty trained kids. I have done three kids in diapers for eight months. I quit.

So I turned up the heat in the house and stripped the kids to naked. Then I pulled out all the undies we own. (Which happen to all be girl undies, but we're snow storming here and I'm not about to go out. Sorry Lija.) The kids took one look and got excited. I told them they could wear undies if they use the toilet. Otherwise, birthday suits. Suddenly Seara became very capable.

We're in undies. I refuse to go back. I may live and breath potty-training for the next month, but I'm done. No more diapers for me. (Okay, except Enoch. I think it's a bit ambitious to try to train an 8-month old.)

Wish me luck.
I'm gonna need it.

Seara Was Here