Whiney Whinerson . . .

Excuse my while I whine for one moment.

My computer has decided it would no longer like to be friends with Blogger. Which is a shame because Blogger and I have been friends for like, forever {or three years}. So I'm mad at my computer. And I'm considering a new friend like WordPress or SquareSpace. And I'm blogging on my old computer, which is even more painfully slow than ever since being taken over by my almost-a-teenager.

Okay, enough whining. Except for one more thing about that almost-a-teenager. His hair is long. As in Justin Bieber long, but with little flippy wings on the side and in the back. I really like it. He thinks it is awesome. What is not awesome, however, is the conversation we had for the millionth time last night about why he does not need a cell phone. I heard, "Aww, Mom!" no less than twenty times.

I need readers to weigh in here - not that it will sway my decision - but I am curious. Do you let your young kids have cell phones? If so, why? Big C gave me five reasons why he needed one last night and I was easily able to shoot down each reason within seconds. Especially the "But ALL my friends have one!" reason. Really, the cell phone issue deserves its own post. So tell me what you think and then we'll talk about it. Or I'll talk about it and you can just shake your head in disbelief. You know.

ps. He's going to a 7th grade Pumpkin Patch Bonfire tonight. It's the same one he begged us NOT to chaparone. Why? Why do they have to grow up?

Frustration . . .

I have spent the day fighting my computer.

It will not let me post anything to my blog. It will not let me post anything on anyone else's blog. I'm beginning to loathe it.

To counteract my frustration, I have eaten my body weight in Halloween chocolate. I don't really feel any better. But now I know I really have a serious love of Milky Ways. And Almond Joys.

Please forgive me if my absence becomes prolonged. My IT guy {aka: The Hubby} is working on the problem and generously loaning me his computer for the night. He is good to me. Unlike chocolate and my computer.

AAAAAAGGGG!

The Hips Don't Lie . . .

For the first time in my life, I am the proud {?} owner of a bathroom scale.  When I was little, my parents had a scale like the doctor's office has - with the little notch that moves from pound to pound until the scale is balanced and you're staring at THE NUMBER.  I'm pretty sure we kids broke that scale.  And I haven't shared a home with a scale ever since.

It should be said that I could have used a scale during my freshman year of college, since I gained upwards of thirty pounds.  What?  I was dealing with a break-up and soft serve ice cream covered with orange soda seemed like a balanced breakfast!  Okay, it's not, but it sure tastes just like a creamcicle. 

I refused to have a scale in the house with each of my pregnancies.  It's enough to step on the scale in front of a nurse every month, then every two weeks, then every week, just watching the poundage add up, hoping that by removing my shoes I might have magically not gain five pounds.

But now, well now I have reached the point where I need to have a scale in my house. I am on the swift downward spiral to Forty.  I had a baby eight months ago and am rounding the corner to reclaiming my body from the nursing infant child. I am ready to be the controlling partner in my ever stormy relationship with food. And I am participating in a program developed by my sis-in-law that is going to help me be a healthier person in general.

These reasons are what brought me face to face with the shelf full of scales at my lovely local Target.  I stared and cowered. I almost turned and ran. The choices were overwhelming.  Do I buy the one that calculates body fat?  Heck no!  I'm just now ready to put a number on my weight - no body fat discussions allowed!  Do I buy the one with the robotic voice that says my weight out loud?  Heck no!  I don't want to HEAR it.  I just want to see it.  So I skip over all the scales priced $50 to $17.99 and go for none other than the scale pictured above at a mere $7.99.

My new scale and I came home together.  I followed the instructions, setting the scale on a level surface and aligning the tick mark with zero pounds when the scale was at rest.  Then I weighed myself - right there, fully clothed in the middle of the day. And I loved what that scale told me!  It said, "All your non-exercising has really paid off.  Way to go!"

When the Hubby came home I told him all about my new friend, the scale.  The Hubby went up to the bathroom, introduced himself, stepped on, and in one quick moment ruined my happy day.  "There is no way this scale is right," he said.  "Oh, yes, it is right," I replied a little too desperately.  But he assured me there was "no way he weighed less now than he did in high school".

The next day he weighed himself in the gym at his office on one of those doctor's scales.  He came home and broke it to me gently that our new scale was a mere ten pounds off.

And this, my friends, is why no one should ever own a scale.

Achoo! {scratch, scratch}

Winter is gone

and in its place a welcomed friend named Spring.

Here are the signs:

Birds building nests

A bud breaking through the ground

Children joyfully at play

And my itchy, red, swollen, watery eyes.

Welcomed friend named Spring?

ps.  Allergies are the worst.

Random Musings: Whiner Edition . . .

{Mr. Ollie pondering thoughtfully}

I think I've lost my Olympic flame. I've fallen asleep early the past three nights and have missed most of the ladies' figure skating.

*

We had brinner last night. I made this tasty dish and THE cinnamon rolls. We each ate two. And then my kids asked if there was dessert. It pretty much killed my night.

*

The wind was so crazy last night it sounded like the Arctic Tundra. I couldn't sleep. Apparently neither could Ollie.

*

I sort of dread this weekend. Because most of our time is already spoken for which means little to no time together.

*

The Legos have taken over my basement. How do I know this? One became embedded in my foot last night as I stumbled through the dark to reach the giftwrap.

*

I'm cheating on my new computer with my old computer because I have yet to decide what photo software to use. Should I Picasa? Or should I Photoshop? You know Jacob wants me all to himself.

*

I miss my mom. She's one of the only adults I see on a regular basis. She's a huge help with Ollie.  And she's one of my besties.

*

I don't want to get dressed.  My winter clothes are LAME-O.  Spring is not coming to Virginia. It will be winter. Forever.

*

There. I feel much better. Sometimes, a girl just needs to whine. Thanks for listening.

You Win . . . I Quit!

Edited to add:
This is a picture of Big C at the recital on Saturday.  I DO NOT OWN A BABY GRAND!!!

If you’ve read my blog for any length of time, you know that I proudly wear and flaunt the title of “Meanest Mom On The Planet.”  One of my ingenious ways of maintaining that title is to force my kids to do things they hate.  Like chores.  And homework. And being nice to each other. And actually kissing their mom on the cheek.
 
When the older kids got to that magical age where activities like scouts, sports and multiple play dates began to fill their schedules, the Hubby and I put together a little plan to help reign in the chaos and tame the calendar.  The plan was this:  They could choose one activity to participate in and we could choose one activity for them to participate in. With two {and now three} kids ‘of activity age’ this was our best solution for controlling insanity and limiting chauffeur time for me and maintaining some open time in our calendar where we could just be a normal family at home.

Big C has consistently chosen sports as his activity.  He plays basketball in the winter and baseball in spring and fall.  Hannie B has switched between softball, art classes and drama club.  RedDog has enjoyed teeball. 

The Hubby and I decided early on that as our choice of activity, we’d like the children to attempt learning to play an instrument – something neither of us did as children.  After scoring a deal on a piano, we enrolled Big C, Hannie B and in lessons. That was four years ago.

Here’s the part of this post where I’d like to tell you that it has been a smooth ride.  It has not.  There has been a lot of whining and some crying and some yelling and even some throwing of piano books.  And much of this has been on the part of my oldest child. The. Boy. Hates. The. Piano.

The plan was to have him continue with piano until he earned his Eagle Scout award, after which time he’d be free from the bonds of piano servitude forever, and would hopefully be able to plunk out a hymn or two if ever called upon.

But after careful consideration and considerable frustration, the Hubby and I decided that it was fruitless to continue throwing hundreds of dollars away month after month on something that caused so much contention in our home and made our kid miserable.  And now we are quitters. 

Big C played his last recital on Saturday.  He is done.  I am sad about it, but not because I lost and he won.  I’m sad because it was a joy to me to hear him play a tune on the piano.  In place of piano we have decided, with excited approval from C, that he will participate in our church choir.  It seemed like a better fit, considering how much he enjoys being in the school choir.

Meanwhile, my little princess Hannie B loves the piano, practicing the piano, showcasing her songs in music class at school, and will continue on with lessons until I die or the piano breaks.

It All Goes By In A Blur . . .

Today my oldest graduated from Elementary School. I thought this picture of him was appropriate because it's pretty much how I feel about the past six years of his life - speeding by at an immensely fast rate, blurring from one year to the next, me just trying to grab on and slow it all down so we can savor and enjoy it.

He is a fantastic and amazing kid. I sat in the auditorium of his school weeping as he and his classmates sang songs about caterpillars turning into butterflies and flying away, and about being little, which doesn't last forever. It was an emotionally manipulative trick to play on a pregnant woman. All the while he looked right at me and smiled his genuine smile. I wanted to run down and pull him onto my {very little remaining} lap and rock him like I used to when he was small. But that would be embarrassing and uncool, so instead I sat in the stands and let tears and snot run down my face, which is the exact opposite of embarrassing and uncool.

I will state for the record here and now that I AM IN NO WAY READY to send this boy off to Middle School in the fall. I know Middle School. I did Middle School. It is the place where niceness seems to end, cliques seem to begin and innocence slips away like sand through fingers. It's the place where homework gets tougher and girls get more aggressive. It's the place where suddenly parents become the enemy as hormones take over small bodies. It's the place where hard changes happen. Obviously I've got a lot of coping to do before September.

Anywhoo, Our boy received several awards today. In addition to his certificate of advancement, he was also awarded the 5th grade "Reader of the Year" award {that's my boy. . . the Hubby, not so much of a reader} and the President's Award For Educational Excellence signed by none other than Barrack Obama, which recognizes kids who've achieved certain academic standards throughout the year.

Now Big C and his group of really great buddies will spend the summer enjoying the waning of innocent childhood and get ready to move up to rotating class schedules and lockers. I love my boy and just want to tell him thanks for coming up to me and kissing me right on the lips in front of all the 5th graders after the program was over. I will remember that moment for as long as I live.

One Of These Things Is Not Like The Other . . .

Does this picture look familiar? Notice the bigger/rounder egg that doesn't seem to fit with the others in this nest . . . then take a gander at my picture from yesterday's post. Thanks to the helpful comments from fellow bloggers Mamela on the Mountain and Hil, I've discovered that the two "odd" eggs in our latest bird nest are eggs from a cowbird. And it's got me pretty darn mad.

Cow Birds are the abandoners of the bird world. They fly around looking for nests built by other birds, lay an egg or two in the other bird's nest during the predawn hours of the morning, and then leave their eggs for this other bird mom to raise and feed. They pick the nests of smaller birds so that when the cowbird young hatch, they'll be the biggest and crowd out the smaller birds. Sometimes, when the cowbird mom lays its eggs after the original bird's eggs are already laid, she'll pierce a few of the smaller eggs with her beak, insuring that they won't survive. Or she'll just remove or eat an egg or two. She'll lay up to 10 or 20 eggs in other nests during one cycle.

Most of the time, the cowbird young manage to hog most of the food causing the other baby birds to starve. The cowbird babies will eventually be bigger than the house finch mom who made the nest in the first place. There is no way five babies can fit in the tiny nest I took the picture of! I have definitely observed this spring that it is a cruel, cruel bird world! I am never for parents who abdicate their responsibility and sit by watching while others do their work. I am never for bullying of any kind - even when it's bird bullying. I'm never for disrupting the seemingly peaceful nature of family life. I am certainly never for making a parent choose between their child and someone else's.

The Hubby's suggestion was that we just remove the two cowbird eggs from the nest. I was on board with that until I read that the cowbird mom will come back and sabotage the rest of the nest if her eggs are disturbed. That means she's out there somewhere spying on me and she's got a big X on my hanging basket.

Put your heads together fellow bloggers and see if you can come up with a solution to our latest bird conundrum. I haven't told the kids about this cowbird situation yet. I'm hoping I don't have to because they find dead bird babies on our porch in the next week or two.

Wearing Exhaustion On My Sleeve . . .

Image courtesy of Jawra.com

Warning: Emotional pregnant lady rant in progress.
I ran into a next door neighbor at Target yesterday while we both perused the cold cereal aisle. The conversation went something like this:
She: Hey there!
Me: Well hello there neighbor. How funny that we're both shopping for cereal at the exact same time! (a glance into her cart, a glance into mine - no surprise - I'm the meaner mom.) How are you doing?
She: I'm good. Wow, you look really tired today. How are YOU doing?
Me: Mumble, mumble, I'm not wearing make up today, blah, blah, blah I didn't do my hair because it's raining, yadda, yadda and I'll see you later.

After thinking about this conversation during the rest of my grocery trip (and after the kids got home from school, then again as I was falling asleep) I have to ask for some reader input on this one:
Why on earth do we tell people they look tired?
Even if they do! I am guilty of this one. I have said it to family, friends, mere acquaintances who are parents of my kids classmates. And I am vowing here and now to never say it to someone again!
While I'm sure it was said to me in sincerity with relation to my crazy decision to have a fourth child and my growing midsection, the only thing it actually did was make me feel miserable about myself, my appearance and the fact that YES, indeed, I AM TIRED but I don't want to wear it on my sleeve or have it written in dark circles under my eyes!!!!
I imagine the conversation differently, with the neighbor leaving out the tired part and just asking me how I was doing. I could divulge as much or as little as I'd like concerning my lack of sleep. I could tell her that I feel great - which I do most of the time- and that things are going really well.
Or I could tell her that I am a bit tired and she could just think in her mind "Yep, you look it" but not tell me. Then she could go home and bake me brownies to help with my exhaustion and leave them on my doorstep with a note that says, "These will help you sleep."
I guess the point of my rant is this: I need to make a more conscious effort to say things to other people that are meant to build and lift them up. And when I have something to say that doesn't do that, I need to keep my thoughts to myself. I need to pay careful attention to those around me and try to meet there needs without making them feel bad about their situation. And finally, I need to wear make up and do my hair every day until this baby is born. Stink.

The Irony . . .

For the first time since we started taking a Sunday picture, it only took one try to get a decent shot of the crew! The irony of this picture is that despite how stinkin' cute RedDog and Big C look and the fact that we all look pretty darn happy, just seconds before we snapped the picture we were all arguing with one another in total anti-Sabbath fashion.

I expected to see at least one sad or pouty face when I checked out the picture, but decided that even though the Hubby and Hannie B were slightly out of focus and my chin was jutting out ala Jay Leno, we should just go with it because it could all go down hill really fast from this point.

Luckily, this photo marked the turning point for our day and the rest of it was spent happily and without drama or harmful event. Is it just me or does Sunday sometimes seem to be the catalyst for the worst behavior on every one's part in the family? I cannot for the life of me figure out why on this one day we have set aside to rest and worship, we fight like cats and dogs. Anyone?

A Nighttime Visitor . . .

One of those great pregnancy bonuses came to visit in the middle of the night - my good old friend, the Charlie Horse.

Who doesn't love that involuntary seizing up of the muscles in the lower calf that goes on for a never ending amount of time, interrupting what might have been an otherwise peaceful night with one or two bathroom breaks? Joy of joys!

Usually the Hubby will help me out of bed to walk it off while I whine and whimper like a true sissy. But he is currently enjoying his family in sunny Phoenix while it rains here. And I had a certain RedDog in my bed last night, so I couldn't scream out in pain for fear of waking him. I did try, but couldn't even move to get out of the bed, the pain was so paralyzing!

Instead, I sat in the dark, quietly but forcefully pounding on my leg, wondering if I would have bruises this morning. When I did wake up this morning, my calf felt like it had been trampled on - by a horse . . . finally, the name makes total sense.

Anyone else get Charlie Horses? Pregnant or not, let me know what you do to help. (I'm on my way to buy bananas today!)

What Does This Say About Me?

I love filling this up with the dirty dishes - seeing how I can solve the puzzle and fit just one more in, but I HATE putting the clean ones away. That's why this job now belongs to Big C, beloved dish breaker. I love emptying the dirty pockets of this, in search of spare change and forgotten dollars. I love carefully laundering stains and challenging them to try to remain. I love the smell of bleach and fabric softener and feel a little spike in happiness as I toss in a fragrant dryer sheet - weird, I know. I even love sitting with my back to the fireplace, folding it into tidy little piles. But I hate putting the darned stuff away! That is why my kids put their own away and you will find baskets of mine sitting in my room on the floor for way too long. (I'm ashamed to say sometimes up to two weeks, when I finally wonder, "Hey, where is that brown shirt I love to wear with these jeans?")

I'm sure my avoidance of the putting away part of these tasks says something about my personality. Any guesses from you pseudo-diagnosers out there?

It's A Bore, It's A Chore . . .

It's only taken a week to get up the gumption to sit down and write about my kids and chores. It has something to do with not wanting to sound preachy or over-passionate about such a mundane subject, but I've decided that is unavoidable, since this is something that really matters to me - quirky, I know, but oh well.

Here comes the disclaimer: I am merely sharing my OPINIONS here and what works for me and my little family when it comes to the chore realm. I welcome any suggestions or ideas that have worked well for others. Do not be offended by what I write if you read this and think I am being a Negative Nelly about things you've chosen to do in your home. Again, this is me, opining.

First, I thought I'd share a couple of reasons why we do chores the way we do. These are not in order of importance, just in order of how they randomly popped into my brain. And, sorry to disappoint, but this is going to have to be a two-parter post because I could go on and on.

• I grew up in a home where we had to do chores. Mine was the bathrooms. I hated it and thought that mowing the lawn (older brother chore) sounded dreamy and outdoorsy. Nevertheless, I did my chores. Looking back, I see the value in it all. I now know how to do them as an adult and was well equipped when I left home to be responsible in that way. I always seemed to be the one who cleaned the bathrooms in college when my roommates left hair and make up everywhere - some can attest as they read this blog! I think I might have even set up a little "chore rotation chart" in one apartment because I couldn't stand the mess any longer. I guess I think of the chores as one more way I'm preparing my kids to be responsible adults and spectacular spouses. Who doesn't love a man who can scour the ring right off the tub?


• Lots of homes (with kids) in my neighborhood have the drive up cleaning ladies who show up like a sweaty cleaning tornado and get the whole house done in a day. I had a cleaning lady like that for three months a few years ago, and while my bathrooms sparkled and shined like no body's business, my kids would still squeeze toothpaste on the counter top the very day the cleaning lady came. They had NO OWNERSHIP in what had been cleaned and didn't hesitate to mess it right back up. I need my kids to feel like they have contributed to the cleanliness of our home (even if begrudgingly) because that is part of being a member of our family. No one gets a free ride here.
  
• As I work with youth at church and see my own kids and their friends in differing environments, I am starting to notice an increasing trend with the younger(than me) generation. (ooh, listen to me sounding all wise and OLD.) Because kids today are bombarded with technology, infotainment, video games, music, TV shows, and just NOISE, NOISE, NOISE in general - they don't have to work real hard to "get" anything. One word seems to fit perfectly: ENTITLEMENT. Lots of kids today think it should come, it should come easy, it should come when they say, and by the way, that means now. We don't want our kids to think they are owed ease in this life. We want our kids to learn how to be hard workers - not just at a job outside our home- but at building our home environment which will earn them one of life's greatest rewards, a loving and happy family. For us, chores help accomplish this goal nicely.
  
• Studies have shown that kids who have regular chores at home get better grades, are more social and have higher confidence than those who don't. This reason alone is enough to win me over to having kids do chores.
  
• I've had friends tell me "Well, my son/daughter refuses to do chores." or "My three year-old will just sit and cry if I ask her/him to clean up the toys." To that I say - you're letting them get away with that? You are the adult. They are the kids. Make the expectation of inclusion as a "full fledged chore doing family member" clear from the start- which at our house is the ripe old age of two and half to three. It. Simply. Is. Not. Optional.
  
• Last reason for today - really. As a mom, it is really easy to get bogged down in the monotony and sheer magnitude of household chores and duties. I have found that having my kids help out with chores makes me feel more appreciative towards them and less bothered by the messes they make. As they do their part to help out, however small it may be, I feel my cleaning burden lifted. I feel love towards that 11 year old who hauls the trash out so I don't have to leave the house in my slippers. I feel giddy when my sweet 9 year old folds socks while we chat about her day at school. And I absolutely die for a little 5 year old who stacks the silverware so neatly in its tray each day while I reload the dishwasher. I can see that these moments seem to increase the bond we have, as well as provide teaching opportunities I never saw coming.

So, there you have it - some of the reasons we do chores the way we do here in our little home. There are many more reasons - but it's late, I've been without my man for three days, and I've got three munchkins to put to bed right now. Tomorrow I'll give the run down of who does what around here.

Just. Keep. Working.

When I signed up for this job titled Chief Operating Officer of Household and Parenting affairs, I didn't realize there were no days off. Today, I need a day off.

It is day two of a seriously paralyzing head cold. My noggin feels about as heavy as a bowling ball, and where the little holes are for the fingers, well, that would be my nostrils dripping full force all day. My nose is red and tender from the wiping due to the dripping. My throat is raspy and raw. My temples are achy. My eyes are watery. My ears are clogged and I feel like I'm hearing everything through a tunnel or under water. I sneeze frequently and it leaves my entire body ringing. I just want to go and sleep somewhere for a very, very long time.

But, in this job there are no days off. Instead I shuttle kids to and from to school and lessons, I fix food and do laundry. I check homework and listen patiently to kids reading. I wait for the moment the Hubby comes home to rescue me. Until then, all I have to do is just.keep.working.

Maam, You're Not Going To Like This . . .

After sitting at Costco for 2 1/2 hours this morning (yes, I wandered the aisles AND bought $150 worth of stuff I didn't need) this is what the nice man in the tire shop said as he handed me my car keys.

"Maam, you're not going to like this."

I don't think I need to mention this isn't a good way to start a conversation with someone who's been waiting 2 1/2 hours to have a little leak fixed in a tire! Turns out it wasn't a leak in the tire after all, but a cracked rim instead. The nice Costco tire man took off the bad tire for me and now I'm riding around on a dinky little spare tire, which gives the van a nice ghetto look.

And thus we have perfectly illustrated, once again, why in this marriage at least, the woman should be excluded from doing anything that involves the fixing of cars. The Hubby would have handled the entire ordeal brilliantly. I, on the other hand, went home frustrated and feeling as deflated as my poor tire.

Tire man was right - I didn't like it one bit.

Supagrumpy . . .

To my five loyal readers . . . I am sorry that I have not posted in almost a week. Do not feel sad, lonely and lost without me. I know you are not worried, because none of you have called me or left comments on the blog. (Big ahem there!)

I can only blame my lack of blogability on the fact that this is the week from H*** (quick nod to the dark and evil underworld). It is the week before school starts. It is the week that baseball and softball practice begin for the wee ones. It is the week of haircuts, new shirts, new shoes and new underwear! It is the week of waking small children at unnatural hours to prepare them for the arrival of the school bus come Tuesday, and therefore it is also the week of nazi-like enforcement of the 8:00 bedtime. It is the week of resumed piano lessons (read: resumed whining, weeping, wailing and gnashing of teeth). It is the week of the calendar filling up again with reckless abandon, causing a pit to form in my stomach as I realize that summer is really over and we are back to -- LIFE.

Therefore, I am having a hard time falling asleep at night, my mind racing, which results in one supagrumpy, yelling mom in the morning and kids with ultra bad attitudes. THAT BUS CANNOT GET HERE SOON ENOUGH.

This is the part of summer I hate - the part where my kids and I realize that despite all of the truly great fun we've had together over the past 2 1/2 months, it is time for us to have a separation so we can like eachother again. It is the end of summer funk. And it has resulted in a Dragonfly Blog funk.

So if you want me to buck up and become my usual self, here to amuse you with witty dialogue and inspiring prose . . . leave a comment and pray I can get some sleep.

Mundane Activities . . .

Okay, I've put it off long enough. I decided this morning that since it was rainy and overcast for the third day in a row, I wouldn't allow myself to stare at the pile of ironing, which now reaches up to my knee, any longer. No matter how hard I've tried, I cannot go the entire summer without ironing

I HATE IRONING. I'm completely envious of my friends who send all their husbands shirts to the cleaners and come home with them in slippery bags on cheap wire hangers. I want cheap wire hangers! Maybe what I really want is for the hubby to look horrible in button-down shirts - but he doesn't! In fact, he looks fabulous in them and they make up 98.8% of his shirt wardrobe.

The clean, but wrinkled shirts sit in a basket on my closet floor and taunt me every time I go in there. I obviously avoid the closet whenever possible - the exception being to go in a pile more shirts on top of other shirts. The problem is compounded by the fact that my two little men have shirts of their own that need ironing. Darn you cute boy clothes! Why do I buy you?

The guilt comes when the Hubby (who in all seriousness is THE hardest worker I know) wakes up 15 minutes earlier than 5:30 a.m. on Sunday morning to iron his own shirt for his way too early church meetings. I hate myself for putting the ironing off for so long and depriving him of 15 extra minutes of sleep.

Plagued by these thoughts and the ever growing pile, I faced it head on today, and even took a picture at the HALFWAY point. Most of the Hubby's shirts are last because they are the hardest. After all was said and done, I counted 32 pieces of ironing. And that was after I decided I wouldn't touch the six table cloths, 3 sets of napkins, and a few long sleeved shirts of mine that I know I won't need for at least a month longer.

When I was finished, a quote from the Ensign came to mind that I read recently on my friend Tracie's blog. I thought it was fitting:

"Mundane activities can have a higher purpose and must not be disregarded; they give us opportunities to develop and practice character virtues and ethical behavior. By doing these everyday activities, we can learn about moral truths and practice honesty, patience, and brotherly kindness. Everyday work and recreation in the home provide rich contexts for children and adults to make choices and learn from them."

As for what I can learn from the ironing - I think it is that I can do something I don't like and feel pretty good about it because I know it is benefitting my sweet Hubby. This mundane activity also gave me a chance to have my kids sit at my feet and watch High School Musical 2 for the third time! A little dose of that deliciously cute Zac Efron made the ironing fly by in a flash! :)

Slowly Recovering . . .

The trip must have seriously done us all in. We are already home a week and still struggling with getting up each morning (darn that two hour time difference), still wanting to stay up late, and still having absolutely zero energy to exist on. Therefore, the blogging is coming back very slowly. I decided I should probably finish folding all of the laundry from the trip before I sat my rear down and blogged a good lengthy one.

This will not be the lengthy one. What this blog will be is my first Top Ten List from the trip. Let me set it up for you. We had to fly into Las Vegas again this year so that we could drive up to Hurricane, Utah for the Hubby's grandma's 90th birthday celebration -- which was totally understandable seeing as how 90 is just an extremely huge birthday! But I have to put it out there, that if it were for any other reason, I would never, ever fly into Las Vegas. Never. Ever.

Now, I know there are plenty of people out there who simply love Las Vegas. I am not one of them. So, my first Top Ten List is :


Top Ten Reasons I Loathe Las Vegas
10. One hundred and eleven degrees . . . in the shade.
9. Woman with severe mullet yelling at her kids in the rental car place.
8. Chippendale dancers on the Jumbo Tron at the baggage claim in the airport. (and Hannah asking why they were dancing like that.)
7. Sharps needle containers in the airport bathrooms.
6. Slot machines everywhere you turn. (and Soren asking why he can't play that game.)
5. Leave it to Las Vegans to totally ruin the idea of "going with a theme".
4. Billboard encouraging people to skip work on Friday to come gamble on the strip.
3. Billboard with showgirl in G-string. (and Hannah asking why a woman's naked bottom is on that poster.)
2. Seedy, seedy people wasting millions of dollars on pointless gambling.
1. Gentlemen's clubs -- seriously, no gentleman would go in there.

Now, just so you don't think I am a horrible person, I do want you to know that there is one reason I love Las Vegas - it has an In N' Out Burger right on the way out of town from the airport. Bless you delicious hamburger for being my companion as I gladly left the city of Sin. :)