How I won the Worst Mother of the Year award.

This picture is unrelated, but appropriate.

When Sam and I slept in on that fateful Friday morning, we thought we deserved it. We had a late meeting the night before, and after a hectic week, we needed the catch-up time. Thus it was that I dragged myself out of bed ten minutes before we had to leave to take Seara to school. The boys threw on slippers and climbed in the car, while I got Seara pretty, threw together a lunch, and made her peanut butter toast for breakfast in the car. Carbs and protein, right? The perfect on-the-go breakfast, right? Sigh.

Well we were late, I was stressed, and Seara was grumpy. So I pretty much verbally forced her to eat the toast, completely against her will. But she needed the energy for school, right?! I dropped her off, and decided that before I went home to shower, I'd stop by my mom's and get everything ready for the Baker Cousins Party I was throwing at her house that night. For the next two hours I was in the hot sun cleaning off chairs and tables, moving a thousand-ton trampoline halfway across the enormous yard, and generally getting things ready. I was hot, sweaty, and I could smell myself.  And it wasn't soap or perfume, I promise you that.

In the midst of all this, I received a phone call.

me: Hello?
secretary: Is this Janae?
me: Yes.
phone: This is the elementary school. We've got Seara here in the office, and it appears she is sick.
me: Real sick or pretend sick?
secretary: Well, we're not very good at determining that. Could you come by the school?
me: Um...sure. I'll be there in couple minutes.

Now, you need to know that Seara's school is only a few minutes away from my mom's house.  But it is 30 minutes away from my own (long story, I'll explain another day). So for me to get home and get ready would take well over an hour. I didn't have time. This is bad because I happened to look awful. My hair was completely unkempt, and I didn't even have a pony to pull the mane out of the way. My face was splotchy because I had looked too closely for too long in the mirror the night before (you know what I did). I was wearing pjs, and lacked a certain item that all women should wear outside the home. And, worst of all, as I had left the house that morning, I accidentally put on two different shoes. I realized it as I ran to the car, but I didn't expect anyone to actually see my feet.  Pretty much, I looked awesome.

I drove up to Seara's school, parked right in front of the big glass doors that lead straight to the office, and hesitated. I looked back at my boys and assessed the situation. Elijah was in really old hand-me-down pjs and slippers that looked awful three years ago. Enoch was wearing a ghetto t-shirt and undies, with slippers that had several holes. Their hair looked equally bedhead-esque. I looked awful enough, I couldn't bear to bring them in with me. This was only going to take a second right? I could see the car from the hallway outside the office. I'd run in, grab Seara, and be back in a minute. "Okay, boys, I'll be right back. You stay here." And off I walked quickly. (I was going to run, but there were a couple people outside and I at this point my pride was in serious question. I wanted to maintain as much as I possibly could.)

As luck would have it, all three secretaries and the principal happened to be right there in the office to greet me as I walked in. Mismatched shoes and all. Yay. Seara was putting on a pretty good sick show, and after chatting with her for a minute, I decided I'd just take her home. Where's your backpack? Oh, back in your classroom halfway across the school?  Double yay.  So off we went across the school. Seara skipping the whole way.  Obviously she is really, really sick. Well, it happened to be my extra lucky day, because there in the hallway outside her classroom stood her teacher and her entire class. Hello, kids. Yes, it is amazing that such a cute little girl came from this unkempt homeless lady with two different shoes on!

teacher: Are you Seara's mom?
me: [desperately wanting to lie] Yes.
teacher: Well, let me tell you what happened.

Off she goes, telling me her story. Seara flopped around her chair all morning, refused to work, and spent most the time panting with her tongue stuck out, occasionally making herself gag. The teacher finally asked her if she was okay. "I'm allergic to peanuts," Seara told her, "and I ate them this morning. I can't breathe." Of course, the teacher panics! She ran to her phone and called the office, explaining that she may need an epipen shot or ambulance, and could they please check Seara's record? Well, the office comes back and says that Seara is, in fact, not allergic to peanuts. So then Seara really turns on the gagging, and the poor panicked teacher is sure she's not going to make it to the bathroom, so she whisked Seara up, and ran into the hallway to the nearest trash can. While the teacher holds Seara over the garbage, Seara sticks her finger down her throat and makes herself throw up.  The teacher presumes that this whole thing is a show, but she can't take any more, so she sends Seara to the office.

There I stand, hearing this whole story, not sure if I should be more humiliated by the way I look (and my mismatched shoes), or by my daughter's behavior. Just as the teacher wraps up her story by telling me that she thinks I should leave Seara at school, I turn to see one of the secretaries running in a panic down the hallway.

secretary: Do you have two boys in your car?
me: [AHHHHHH!!] Um, yes. I was just about to go check on them. Like right now. This instant.
secretary: Oh, I'm so glad they are yours! We had a woman come in worried, and I assured her they were yours.
me: Yeah, they are. Mine. [Oh, hi, Seara's teacher. I'm a complete idiot of a mother. Glad you're here to witness this.]
teacher: Well, I'm going to go take care of my class.
me: Okay, yeah, I'll just go check on my boys. I'm going to take Seara with me for a second.

As I get to the car, I see Elijah's door wide open. "A lady told me to keep the door open so we don't get too hot," he tells me. Oh goodie.

So there I proceed to tell Seara about the boy who cried wolf. But apparently I'm too good of a story teller, because all my kids were really into it, and they thought this boy was a comedic genius. Due to that unfortunate fact, I decided to end the story in the Brother's Grimm way, rather than the nice way. Then my kids were horrified. Yay. Again. I made Seara promise to do her work even if she felt poorly, and not to pretend to be sick ever again. Then I checked her back into school, and went home.

And that, my dear readers, is how I won this year's Worst Mother of the Year award.



Epilogue: It turned out Seara had heard the word allergic, but did not know what it meant, that she had peanut butter stuck in her dry throat and was having a hard time breathing, and that all she needed was a drink. She also got the flu within 12 hours, and was probably feeling the edge of sickness at school. Oops.

Face Painting: the Childhood Trauma

I don't like to stand in long lines. And I especially don't like to stand in long lines with kids. Hence I avoid free-days, family-days, and any other crowded place like the plague. (The plague is really dangerous, you know. Don't believe all that jazz about rats and fleas. Really, you should just avoid people all together. Be a hermit.) But when my friend Bekah told me that all the Days of '47 parade floats would all be on display for free at the Sandy Expo, we gave in and went with her.

So there we were, standing in line for free face painting.  We get to the front and Seara tells her painter, "I want pink glasses with a heart in the middle."  Simple enough.  Enoch wants an owl.  Not too bad.  And then Elijah steps up. And he says something completely unexpected. Bizarre.  Outlandish.

"I want a dung beetle."

The girl looks at him.  Then at me. Then at him. Then at me. I was completely bewildered. Finally she says, "Um, I don't know what one looks like, why don't you wait for [pointing] that lady. She'll probably know what to do." So we waited for the lady.  She smiled big and knew exactly what to do.  ("Well, dung beetles are black, but that will be hard to show any details, can I do it green?")

When Elijah saw his face, he was THRILLED.  He walked around showing his beetle to everyone. He loved it. That is, until an hour later when Seara asked him, "Elijah, is that poop on your face?" It was like he just in that instant realized what a dung beetle was.  His face contorted into confusion, disgust, and then embarrassment. And I, being a feeling mama, quickly jumped in to save my poor boy. "No, it's not poop! It's dung.  You know, cuz it's a dung beetle." Relief wiped over Elijah's face, and he turned to Seara with a great big smile.  "It's dung.

And she took that as an answer.  Bless her heart.

On a December Day

Random picture, not quite in focus, but still cute.

My day started off fairly normal.  So when I realized that I had some free time, I decided that it was finally the day to head down to BYU (not quite an hour away) to do a couple errands.  For the last five months I had kept an extra pair of undies and pants in my purse for Enoch, but he had never once had an accident outside the home, so I finally decided it was time to take them out. Off we went!

To make the trip fun for the kids, I called my friend Caroline, and she and her son Alex joined us for lunch at JDawgs (heaven!) and bowling at the Games Center before my errands. The kids were having fun and I was super pleased with myself for being such an awesome mom. [Insert back pat and smug smile.] And then--just as we were ending our bowling game--Enoch did the unthinkable.  Something none of my kids have ever done outside the home.  The perfect Murphy's law twist to my pride.  He messed. his. pants.  AHHH!  Right after I took the change of clothes out of my purse!  Talk about dramatic irony. So I did the only thing I could think of doing: I removed his pants and undies, wrapped them in a plastic bag, and borrowed a too-small diaper from my friend just as she was leaving.

Now I had a decision to make:  Do I call it a day and take the kids home?  Or do I insist on doing my errands?  I took a long look at Enoch: his poofy down winter coat, tiny diaper, bare legs, socks, and shoes. He looked really goofy. "Well, I don't care." I thought. "I came a long way, and blast it all, I'm doing what I came for." So off we went, walking at least half a mile through the busiest parts of campus, doing my errands.

You know, when you have three children with you on a university campus, people watch you curiously. But when you have three children on campus in the middle of winter, and one is wearing a huge coat, a tiny diaper, and no pants, people downright STARE.

But hey, the old adage says "No Shirt, No Shoes, No Service."  It says nothing about pants. :)

Who needs help!?

The kids recognized where we were the minute we drove up.  FLU SHOTS. [sigh] I'm not sure who hates them worse, me or the kids.

After a twenty minute wait, the nurse brought the four of us into the exam room. Enoch was nervous, so we decided to start with him and get it over with. He got the shot, whimpered, but handled it like a champ.  Seara was next.  She got the nasal stuff, winced, and was fine.  Then me.  They were out of adult nasal stuff, so I had to have a shot. I plastered on an amazingly fake "this is easy and fun!" face.  Totally believable. This was turning out great!  I knew I could do it by myself.  Who needs help!?  Not me!

I turned to grab Elijah. Hmmm, I swear he was just standing there.  I looked under the desk, behind the table, and in the corner. Nothing. Then the nurse noticed that the door was just slightly ajar.  Aw, blast. I quickly ran out and checked the nearby exam rooms.  Nothing.  I checked all the way down the hallway.  Nothing.  Bathrooms?  Nothing. I ran into the waiting room.  Nothing.  Toy area?  Nothing. Receptionists?  Saw nothing. Okay, either someone has kidnapped my child, or... I ran to the last place I thought possible: outside. Nothing in huge double door entry.  Nothing just outside the doors.

And then I saw him.  50 feet away from me, booking it to the busy parking lot.  "Elijah!!!"  That was when the screaming began.  I ran like the wind, scooped up the wailing, flailing child, and dragged him inside.  We (loudly) battled our way back to the exam room, while the other parents stared and their children's eyes got huge with panic.  I tried to convince Elijah to do the nasal stuff, but rather than inhale, he shot it out of his nose all over the nurse.  So I wrestled the now hysterical child, pinned him down, and they stuck him.

Then, as if some miracle had just occurred, he went dead silent. As if nothing had happened.  He got his sticker and we walked out of there with complete composure.




Sometimes, knowing I can blog about something is the only thing that makes it worth it.

Liar, Liar, Pants on Fire

A completely random picture of Duck Duck Goose. This has nothing to do with my post.

Apparently grocery stores are dangerous for me.  I don't lie to my husband.  I don't lie to my children.  I don't lie to my friends or family.  But I lie to perfect strangers at the grocery store.

Back in Maryland someone asked me how many kids I had.  I had two then.  But I blurted out, "Four."  Frankly, even I was shocked when that came out.  How on earth did that just come out of my mouth?!  Then she asked their ages.  What was I supposed to do?  Confess my complete idiocy and tell her I actually had only two?  No, instead I told her their ages. Seven, five, three, and one.  Haha.  Then I walked away.

Or how about the time someone asked me Seara's name and I said, "Sierra."  And they got all excited because they had a granddaughter (or something like that) named Sierra and blah blah blah.  How could I admit that I'm a total moron and that my daughter really wasn't named Sierra?  I couldn't.  So I just went along with it.


I guess that's a decent preface for the story I'm about to tell you.


Wednesday, October 20, 2010.  I took the boys shopping at the grocery store.  My intent was, as always, to avoid speaking with ANYBODY.  My problems started right when we got there.  Elijah and Enoch insisted we take the monster-sized car cart so they could "drive" it.  I hate those carts.  They are hard to maneuver empty, and practically impossible full.  But, of course, we took it anyway.  I always lose.

So there we were, making our way down the second to last aisle, our cart stuffed to overflowing.  I was so large that the woman in front of me was struggling to squeeze past us, and I quickly apologized, "I'm so sorry!  This cart is huge!"  She brushed it off, explaining that she'd been there and I had no need to apologize.  Then I became her best friend.  She chatted at me for bit, then asked,

"How many gallons of milk do you have in there?"
"Um, nine."
"Wow!  That's a lot of milk for one week!"
"Well, we have [I pause and visibly count on my fingers] eight people in the house, so it's basically a gallon a week per person.  It's not too bad."
"Oh, you have six kids!"

And then, before I had much of a chance to interject, she started telling me about her eight kids, and how they used to live in Michigan, and the older ones had early morning seminary, and the ward had a carpool to take all the seminary kids to their three different schools, so she only had to drive for one week a month, but her husband traveled to Europe once or twice a month, so she had to wake up her babies at 6:30 am during her carpool week, etc, etc, etc.  And all the while I'm trying to wrestle my boys back into the cart, and smile appreciatively at her story.  [Ahhh!  Get me out of here!]

She talked for a good ten minutes.  And by that point it had been so long after her "six kids" comment that I couldn't really correct her any more.  [I don't know this lady, she doesn't know me, I'm never gonna see her again.  Yeah.  I'm letting her believe that.]

But then suddenly, completely out of no where, she said, "Blah blah blah blah blah. How many boys and how many girls?"

[Oh great. I've got about .25 seconds to decide what to say.  Do I correct her?  I mean, do I look old enough to have six kids??  And she saw me count on my fingers!  Does she honestly think I have to count to figure out how many kids I have?!  Ahhh!!]

So I did the only polite thing I could think of doing. I lied. "Three boys and three girls."

I half smiled.


And then I escaped as quickly as possible.

Bridals: The Unknown Story

When I got engaged to Samuel my parents were still in Chile on their mission.  In fact, I got married just three weeks after they got home.  Since they hadn't had an income for three years, I was a bit concerned about spending too much money on the wedding, and I decided to opt out of getting bridals to save some dough.

For the next few years I dreamed of someday taking pictures in my wedding dress, but I could never do it because I was always pregnant and couldn't fit.  Well, after Elijah was born I trained for and ran a half marathon.  And I got skinny.  It was now or never.  So on a Saturday morning, Sam and I skipped off to a park and snapped some shots.  Just a few days later I found out that I was expecting Enoch.  Apparently I was pregnant with my third for my bridals! :)

My Most Embarrassing Moment

The girl in the picture on the left is not me. This is me. Remember?

The Date: Fall 1997

The Place: Our high school play, Pirates of Penzance

The Scene: Heart-throb guy is sitting on the ledge of a fountain, all sad like. Four dancers emerge, and make their way gracefully around the fountain, while staring longingly at heart-throb guy.

The Situation: I am not a dancer. Why they chose me to be the second emerging dancer is completely beyond me. But they did. And I think it went to my head. After so many practices, I started thinking I was good. So when opening night had a sold-out audience of over 2000 people, I put on my A-game. My moment of glory arrived and I glided gracefully on stage and began my circle of the fountain. I quickly got lost in the beauty of the moment. I was on the coast of Cornwall. I was one of the Major-General's daughters. And I was fascinated by this young, handsome man. I stared at him adoringly as I finished my loop of the fountain, then I glanced forward ...

... and ran face first into a tree.

Yearbooks

The day I got my 1998 Yearbook, I came home from school excited. As I walked in the door, I could see my mom and Cara sitting at the counter looking through her copy (she was a senior, I was a sophomore). They were commenting on a picture. The conversation went something like this:

Cara: Look how awful I look in that picture!
Mom: [laughing] Wow, that is pretty bad.
Cara: I know! I mean, what kind of face is that? And what is up with my hair??

I walked up to them, glanced down at the picture ...

...and said the only thing I could say:

"That's me."

Bet Ya Didn't Know This

Add to Your Faith Virtue; and to Virtue Knowledge by Walter Rane

In my neighborhood growing up I was easily the youngest person my age. Everyone else had birthdays in November, December, and January. Mine didn't come around for another six months, not until July. It wasn't really a big deal. Well, it wasn't until we were 11. See, when you turn 12 you graduate from our church's organization for children, the Primary, to the youth organizations, Young Men and Young Women.

By the time January rolled around everyone else my age had turned 12 and left the Primary. There I was, the lone 6th grader left with all the young 'uns. I felt huge. Nothing rubbed it in more than the Easter Primary Program. While all my friends stayed in the audience to watch the "children" sing, I dragged my feet up to the stage and stood there like an column, a head taller than anyone else, wishing I could disappear.

Nothing describes the emotions I felt on my 12th birthday better than the word relief. Finally I could be with my friends! But then Sunday rolled around. In traditional style, the bishop called me to the front of the congregation. I turned beet red. My stomach decided it wanted to be an esophagus and my heart figured it better be a stomach. I thought standing with the whole primary was embarrassing. But standing there all alone? That was downright torture! I worked my way to the front and tried not to die as he announced that I had turned 12 years old, graduated from the Primary, and they wanted to welcome me into Young Women. Well, at least I'm pretty sure that's what he said. Because this is what I heard:

"This is Janae. Everyone please stare at her. She's been a little kid in Primary for a long time, but now she's all grown up! You might have noticed her floundering walk as she came up to the stage. That's because her arms and legs have grown, but her torso hasn't caught up yet. I bet she won't be gangly much longer! (I was. Am.) Please notice how big and buck her teeth are. I think braces are probably on the way! Also notice her enormous glasses. Parents, she'll probably want contacts soon! Yes, Janae just turned 12 and is in the most awkward stage of her life. So we just thought we'd invite her up on stage so everyone can gawk at her. Congratulations on finally becoming a woman, Janae."

To this day I consider that the most humiliating moment of my life.

not the girl of his dreams

we like to race. especially to grocery stores. we are planning to stop before our kids are old enough to be embarrassed. maybe.

The other day Sam went to bed early. When I finally crawled in bed, I laid down on my back so I could stare at the ceiling as I wound down. Sam stirred at the movement, and rolled on to his side so he was right next to me. Then he propped himself up on his elbow so his face hovered over mine. I assumed he was wanting to kiss me good night, so I leaned in to kiss him, but he didn't respond. I dropped my head back down on the pillow. He just sat there, staring at me. After about 20 seconds of this, I finally asked him,

"Sam, what are you doing?"

He paused and then responded, "Trying to figure out who you are."

I hesitated, confused, and finally asked, "Who else would I be?!"

Somewhere in his eyes I saw a small spark of waking up and realizing what was going on. He said nothing, just flopped down and rolled away.

Apparently I'm not the girl of his dreams if he doesn't recognize me in his sleep.

Faux Pas

image by sam, from here

When Sam and I were newlyweds we lived on BYU campus in a complex called Wyview. Almost every Sunday we'd invite a different couple over for dinner, and from those dinners we met some of our dearest friends. Amidst the social success, however, we also had one huge faux pas.

We had invited over a couple who was new in the neighborhood. Things went smoothly during dinner, and once the meal was done, we sat back and chatted over empty dishes. But soon Sam began to worry that the couple was ready to go home and they were only staying because we kept perpetuating the conversation. He wanted to assure them that we were very much enjoying their company, but they could excuse themselves at any time if they needed to go home. So he waited for a lull in conversation, and blurted out,

"Don't you hate when people overstay their welcome?"

[Awkward silence.] Her eyes widened and jaw dropped. His face contorted somewhere between confusion and offense. Sam and I quickly tried to backpedal. But there was no recovery. They went home. And we vacillated between feeling terrible and laughing ourselves silly.

Dreams of a Fifteen Year-Old

I was about 15, so my sister Cara must have been 17. She was my chauffeur and best friend. We drove everywhere together, and every time we went down State Street to the Mall, I'd look for it. We'd only ever see it from the street, but every time we drove by I'd stare in awe at the beauty that lay before my eyes. Rolling hills of perfect green grass, small ponds with ducks floating lazily by, hundreds of gorgeously weeping trees, all framed by majestic mountains rising above the idyllic scene. It was perfect.

"I'm having my wedding reception there," I'd tell Cara each time we drove by. "I'm having an outdoor wedding reception in that park."

"It is beautiful," she'd agree, and I'd smile.

Then one day everything changed. We were driving by and, as usual, I was pasted to the window in a dreamy adoration. Suddenly I saw a sign in front of the reception center located on those gorgeous grounds.


"Lake Hills (what a perfect name!) ... Cemetery/Mortuary."

My eyes widened in shock. I sat there in utter disbelief and silence. And then I laughed until I cried.

The day the General Authority laughed at me.

He had noticed me before. How could he not? The member of the First Quorum of the 70 had recently moved in kitty-corner to us and had quickly became a permanent fixture on the sacrament meeting stand. Looking down on the congregation it would be impossible to miss the constant wrestling that happens on our bench. He had even flashed me a few understanding smiles. And then last Sunday it all came to a head.

We were asked to stand, and remain standing, as we and many others received callings to serve. If there weren't so many people being called it might not have been a problem, but there were a good dozen of us and it was taking a long time. There we stood, Samuel holding Elijah, and I holding Enoch. I'm not sure how it happened, but the next thing I knew Enoch had a fist knotted and tangled in the hair of the woman sitting in front of me. I tried to look as poised and normal as possible as I struggled to untangle the hair with my left hand, raise my arm for sustainings with my right hand, and whisper urgent apologies to the woman who was having her beautiful Sunday 'do quickly destroyed. In the midst of my predicament I looked up to the stand. There he sat, looking down on my situation, stomach bouncing and face beaming, in a quiet chuckle.

Well, at least someone benefited from my plight.

the Expert Bowler

I love bowling.

I love putting on my bowling shoes and parading around like we're having a goofy shoe fashion show. I love picking my ball, preferably a bright colored one with crazy swirls. I love choosing a screen name - things like Amazon Woman, Nunchuk Queen, and Storm Crusher. I love twirling around in those fun, rounded chairs while I wait for my turn. And I love finding new and unique ways to bowl, like between the legs, left-handed, backwards, upside down, and soccer style.

Why, you ask, do I make bowling such clown sport? Well, because I'm ROTTEN at it.

The first time I bowled after my mission I was with a boy who didn't find my antics amusing, so I toned it down and played seriously. I tried hard. I really did. But I still bowled a 56.

The next time I went was on a date with my older sister's high school crush. I was on a quest to impress. Not because I liked the kid, but because my sister was an angel and I didn't want to give her a bad name. So, in mature adult style, I warned the boy and all his friends that I really enjoyed bowling but I wasn't good, so they shouldn't feel bad about my rotten score because I'd still have fun. Once they were adequately warned, we started the game. When my turn came I decided to try bowling over-handed (instead of the traditional underhanded throw). I picked up the ball, took up a professional stance, walked, swung, and threw the ball. Then I turned around and walked back, refusing to watch my ball hit the gutter five feet in. Suddenly everyone screamed and cheered. I twirled around to look back at the ball, but it was gone. Oddly enough, so were the pins. Holy cow, I just got a strike! Well, that was odd. Beginner's luck, I assured everyone. Five turns and one turkey later, I was in shock. When I ended the game with eight strikes and a score of 185, I was certain that I had struck gold. I had found the key to successful bowling! I was on my way to having my name written on one of those 'Top Score' boards!

The next time I went bowling I was ready to rock the world. No apologies for amusing antics, no preparing people for my pitiful score. I marched in, ready to impress, excited to show off my stuff.

And I bowled a 56.

Rose Buehner Memorial Park

We had only been in Maryland a few weeks when Sam decided to take the family on a spontaneous Sunday morning drive. Destination: the local cemetery. It was beautiful. The rolling green hills were covered with mature trees and bright flowers. The road wound up and down, over bridges and under trees. Small ponds filled with geese and ducks dotted the landscape. It was the kind of place I'd like be buried. We enjoyed a peaceful drive and were just pulling out to head home when I saw another cemetery across the street. This one was small and decrepit. The stone wall reading 'Rose Buehner Memorial Park' looked like it was about to fall over. Very intriguing! I begged Sam to pull in.

We drove the small loop in the old graveyard, passing a father and daughter enjoying a brunch on a small bench. "Oh look!" I exclaimed, "That must be the mother's grave. How sweet!" I didn't want to bother them, so I waited until we were a good distance away and then insisted we pull off to the side so we could get out and look around. The overgrown weeds and wildflowers nearly reached my knees, and I had to brush them away to be able to read the gravestones. I stooped down to the nearest one.

Across the top of the stone was the family name. Below that, in large letters, was the deceased's first name. I read the date. "How strange, Sam! This grave has a death date, but no birth date!" I went on to the next gravestone as he wandered away through the graveyard. "Hey Sam, this one only has the birth year!" ... "And this one too!" ... "Hey, check this out, Sam. This person's name is Spike! Cool, huh?!" ... "Ooooh, bizarre. This one doesn't even have a last name! Just a first name." ... "Sam, a lot of these don't have birth dates, just death dates. Something is strange here." ... "Look! Half of them only have first names!" ...

It was then that we started putting two and two together:


Pet. Cemetery.


We laughed the whole way home.

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.

Sacrament Meeting

I should have realized that the elements had conspired against me when I walked into sacrament meeting and someone was sitting on my bench. Did they not see my name written on it?? Did they not notice that we sit in that same spot every single week?!

Instead we sat on the back, side bench. The one with the legroom and the easy escape.

Just minutes into the sacrament Elijah began his it's-nap-time-and-I'm-tired fit. I was trying to quiet him when Enoch spit up a good amount of green goop on the carpet in the middle of the walking path. The deacon manning the door laughed at us as we tried to deal with the situation (eventually putting a tipi shaped piece of paper to cover it until we could get out for paper towels). Just as we solved that and got Elijah somewhat distracted, the lights started blinking on and off in the room. I looked around, trying to figure whose kid was playing with the light switches, but I couldn't find them ... until I looked to my left and realized the culprit was my own three year-old. AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!

One down, 898 to go until all three kids are out of the house.

ps. For those who did not realize, our names are not really written on the benches. It just feels like they are. :)

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.

For Sale: 1 Year-Old ... AGAIN

So yesterday night I was doing the dishes, right? And I was just about done, I just needed to wash out the sink. I rinsed it out, checked to make sure there weren't any spoons or what not in the garbage disposal, and flipped the switch. Hmmmm ... that high pitched clinking sound is not normal ... so I check the disposal again. Nothing. Alright. I turn it back on. The clinking isn't going away. Something must be caught inside. But I swear I checked. I swear ... I swear ...


See that little beauty? Yeah, it may never look like that again. Right now it sports various gashes, is missing gold chunks, and is nicely bent out of shape. I think I will sell Elijah after all.