Here's a challenge for my writery friends: Describe the kind of kid who would draw this picture



Just in case you can't tell, that is a bus screaming, "Aaaa." Why? Because of the wolf perched on top of it with blood dripping from its fangs. Got it? Good. Now go. Then come back when you're done because I'm going to describe the kid who actually did draw it.


She is my Girl 3 and six years ago this week, she looked like this:

But now she looks like this:

And this is the picture we sent out in her birth announcement:

But this is the one we should have sent out:



Because, lo these six years, her sisters have been pretty convinced she is the favorite child. And according to a recent Time magazine article, they may be right.

She certainly brought  a new level of joy to our family when she was born. And she still does--despite the occasional screaming and all too frequent whistling.

I'll admit it, some days she is my favorite. Especially when she skips and twirls. Oh, how I love the skipping and twirling.

Except when we're late (which is often). Then I don't love it as much.

But I still love her just the same.

And because she had a birthday and this post is about her, here are five more things I love about her:

1. She laughs so loud when she watches the Muppet Show or Donald Duck that you can't help but  laugh with her.
2. She asked for fizzy bath balls for her birthday.
3. She likes to wrap her arms around my neck when I lie down next to her at bedtime.
4. She likes to chase lizards, but never actually catches them.
5. She says "I'm happy that...(insert things like, Lola (the dog) got a haircut") at random times, sometimes long after the thing that made her happy happened.

Oh, and her artistry skills. Let's not forget those. It's not every little girl who, when given the assignment to draw a picture for her school calendar, will draw a bus being mauled by a wolf.

Or a turkey pooping--which is what we got last November. Can't wait to see what she comes up with this year.

Happy Birthday Birdie!

It's A Pondery Sort Of Tuesday

I keep trying to find the path I want this blog to take: is it a place for some funny stories, a record of what's going on in my life and my childrens' lives, a writery place, a Mormony place? What is it supposed to be?

And I think I've decided it's all of those things. At least for now.

It's the Costco of blogs. You can get yourself some food, but also a coffin. Because while you need the food every day, one day you'll need a coffin too. So maybe most days you need a laugh--and hopefully I can provide that--but maybe one day you'll need one of those other things this blog has to offer.

Today if you're shopping for a little spirituality/religion/Mormony stuff, I've got that. I don't know why. That's just what my brain is delivering this morning.

This past weekend the fam and I went to Las Vegas and while the kids watched movies for hours--which they'd never be allowed to do at home--in the backseat, husband and I listened to a podcast called Mormon Stories, which sometimes I like and sometimes I don't. But this time I really liked it because the interviewee was Terryl Givens.

You can find the podcast here, but I will warn you that it is long. Well worth a listen--particularly if you have to drive from California to Las Vegas and back again--but very long. And it will make your brain hurt because there is so much to think about.

Like this quote: "We are mired in banality, but within the gospel [of Jesus Christ] there are eruptions of the divine in our life that occur from moment to moment."

Which pretty much sums up how I feel about my religion and why I live it. I don't always enjoy going to church on Sunday for three hours or the meetings that go along with whatever job I'm currently performing within the church. And, more often than not, I don't hear anything I haven't heard before when I listen to the speakers or the teachers. That's the banality part.

But then there are moments when I can feel a divine presence in my life which makes all the banality worth...well, the banality of it all.

My friends and I were talking about this at our weekly breakfast get together this morning and when I said this, one of them said (or something like unto it):

"It's like this time about a year ago when I had all four of my kids at church by myself. I was trying to keep the baby quiet and my son from poking his younger sister and my oldest daughter kept squeezing my leg trying to get my attention. I felt so frustrated and mad that I even tried to take them all by myself and I kept ignoring her squeezes. Finally I turned and listened to what she was trying to tell me and I saw her eyes were welling up with tears. She said, 'did you hear what that man just said?' I hadn't heard a word of what anyone had said, but she obviously had so I asked her, 'did it make you sad?'  She answered, 'no, it made me really happy and I don't know why I'm crying.'"

My friend explained to her daughter-- who was only seven-- that she was feeling the spirit. Which is, essentially, the love of our Heavenly Father. And not only had her daughter felt it, but knowing her daughter felt that love helped my friend feel it too. And it was, as Givens calls it, "an eruption of the divine."

And it's moments like those-- even when they're not my own--that help me understand why I do what I do and live the way I live.

Even when I don't want to.

And isn't that what religion is supposed to do? Help us recognize the divine?

Am I The Only One Who Is Freaked Out By This?

I don't often pay attention to those ads that pop up in the sidebars of my Facebook and Hotmail pages, but occasionally they can't be ignored.

Like the one that advertised a program wherein I could become a social worker--or maybe it was a nurse-- in only a few months. Now, aside from the fact that I can't think of any personal information about me on the web that would lead an advertiser to believe I have any interest in working socially. And nursing? Puh-leez. I think I've made my feelings about band-aids pretty clear a number of times on the www, so why any advertiser would think me a suitable candidate for a job that requires bandaging people is mind-boggling.

But even more mind-boggling is the picture included with the ad:

Because not only does that person have some weird fingers, but she also HAS A BABY IN HER POCKET!

And who goes to school to learn how to put a freakishly small baby in her pocket? I'm no nurse or social worker, but I'm pretty sure that's something one would be told not to do if she did want to go into one of those professions. I mean, are there really courses that teach people how to carry babies in their pockets?

The only place I can think of where this would be a possibility is Australia. Perhaps they have some kind of Marsupial Model Of Nursing /Social Work program wherein the students are given some kangaroo training. I've heard those Aussies are having some problems with an over abundance of roos. Maybe this is their solution. Train the kangaroos to train people--who are supposed to be professionals-- how to pack a baby around.

But have they not heard of Baby Bjorns? Cuz those people have figured it out without any help from giant rodents.

And what kind of person sees this ad and thinks to herself, Hey, I've always wanted to be a carrier of babies in my pockets. How do I get in on this? and then clicks that button?

Not this gal.

Quiet Makes Loud Even Louder

You know what the biggest problem with having all of my kids in school for most of the day is?

The quiet.

Sure it's lovely while they are gone. But then they come home.

They always come home.

And I am grateful for this-- I really am. And I know I should be happy to hear all  of their little voices after so many hours of silence.

But I am not. Because there is suddenly all this talking at the same time--where before there was just my voice, in my head (mostly).  And the talking gets louder and louder so that one can be heard over the other. Until finally, there is much yelling. Accompanied by loud banging of cupboards and drawers being repeatedly open and shut in the frantic foraging for "something to eat." Which is always followed by a collective moan of, "there is nothing to eat in this house" as three underpriveleged girls stare at a pantry barren of the Hostess products they so wish I would buy.

Then there is the fighting. Oh, the fighting. Which magically disappears when they are gone. And is never missed. Which is followed by more yelling. Yelling of things like, "WILL YOU PLEASE JUST SIT DOWN AND DO YOUR HOMEWORK?" (That one is me).

The whole thing reminds me of the time my last baby was born and I brought her home after spending two days in the hospital where the only sounds I heard were the beeps of hospital thingermagigs and the soft voices of nurses as they woke me to push on my stomach in an attempt to get my uterus back to its old un-stretched-out-to-smithereens self. And I should have taken the opportunity to ask them, "but what of my bladder? Will it ever be the same?"

Now-- of course-- I know their answer. I knew it the first time I couldn't make it more than one hour in the car without needing a potty break.

But even then I knew what the answer would be if I asked if my boobs would ever be normal again: Only with a good doctor and a lot of money.

But I digress.

When I got home with that sweet baby who only cried occassionally-- and didn't talk or yell at all-- we were greeted by two excited little girls with excited little voices who wanted to climb on me and jump on the couch where I sat with the baby wondering how they had gotten so much louder in only two day's time. Every word they said bounced from one side of my head to the other, until my head was so full of words and noises bouncing and bumping into each other that I thought it would explode. And I begged my husband to take me back to the hospital and convince them I hadn't really checked out.

Turns out I had a spinal headache from the epidural, but at the time I thought it was from my kids. After a few days the pounding stopped.

But the loud?

That's only gotten worse.

And The Winner Is...

I'll give you a hint:


Also known as:


That's right readers, Wonder Woman is now the proud owner of an autographed copy of Melanie Jacobson's book, Not My Type.

I realize it isn't quite fair she now has an awesome book to add to her already awesome arsenal of accessories, but it is what it is. Her name was the one drawn--much to my comic-book loving husband's excitement--and if I were to lie about that, she could use her Lasso of Truth to get me to confess.

So, rather than take any chances, I will send you your prize,Wonder Woman. Just let me know if you would you like it sent to your Paradise Island address? Or one the post office can actually find?

But wait! Because I am so excited and grateful for all my new readers,--and because I'm having so much fun with this whole Wonder Woman angle--I think it only fair to give you all one more chance to win. So, whoever responds with the correct answer to the following question first, will also win a copy of Melanie's book:

 What is the metal from which Wonder Woman's bullet-deflecting bracelets are made ?

(Obviously, Wonder Woman, you are disqualified from answering since 1) you already won, and 2) you know the answer without having to google it).

Ready? Go...

Because Prizes Make A Nice Thank You

So here, as promised, is my post wherein I give things away.

But really it's only one thing, this:

What is that?, you ask. It looks awfully cute.

Well, it is the very fantastic book I read that got me thinking about the thank you note I blogged about on Friday.

Tell me more, you say.

I will gladly tell you more--but not too much. I don't want to ruin it for you. Plus, you can read the actual book blurb here. That's also a good place to order the book, (you know, just in case you don't win). But, in the interest of full disclosure, there are some things you should know before I rave about this book.

The author, Melanie Jacobson, is a friend of mine. We go to the same church, we're in the same book club, our husbands can talk for hours about music and Latin American literature, and sometimes we even jet ski together. So I have every reason in the world to say nice things about her writing.

Except for this fact.

Until six months ago I refused to read any fiction written for, by (I'm looking at you Stephanie Meyer), or about (Wallace Stegner being the exception) Mormons. Which would include Melanie, because her genre is what she calls "Mormon chick-lit".

Chick-lit? Also something I took great pains to avoid. Mostly. (What can I say? I read one of those Shopaholic books).

That is, until I read Melanie's first book, The List. She is such an engaging writer that I had to put aside all of my prejudices and admit I loved her book. Not only did it make me laugh, but I couldn't put it down. And I'm a pretty picky reader, so that's saying something.

Anyway, her new book Not My Type is even better. Which is why I want to give/recommend it to you. And one of the best things about it is, even if you're not Mormon, if you like clean romance, you'll enjoy this. Because, sure there's Mormon-y stuff in it, but not so much that you will feel like you've been accosted by two young men in white shirts with name tags brandishing a book they'd like you to read.

It's the story of twenty-three year old Pepper Spicer (I know-- I had to get past the name-- but in the end it totally works and I loved it) whose life has fallen apart and she's forced to move back home. Instead of living in an apartment swapping clothes with some fun girlfriends, she's sharing a room with her seven year old sister, has a job that sucks, and no dating prospects on the horizon.
Of course those things all change because, after all, this story is a romance. But it's all the layers that Melanie adds that give this book a lot more depth than the cover would lead you to believe.
Like the layer where her dad "encourages" her to write a thank you note to a different person every week. For a year! But, not only do the thank you notes help put an end to her pity party, they also made me laugh. Because they say things like this:
"Thanks for teaching me all those swear words back in second grade. Even though my mom grounded me for two weeks wehn she found the list under my pillow, they came in handy this past week. Wtihout your crash course in profanity, I never would have understood half the insults that were hurled at me the other day."

Funny, huh? There's more where that came from and here's how you can get it for free if you do one of the following by Friday:

1. Become a follower of my blog either by subscribing by email or clicking the "join this site button" then comment below to let me know you want to be entered in my contest.
2. Already a follower? Share this post on Facebook or Twitter (just click on the things on my side bar there), then comment below and tell me you did.
3. Want more than one chance to win? Grab Melanie's button from my side bar and put it in your own and I'll enter your name five more times!

Easy, right? It's just my way of saying thank you!

P.S. Just because I like you so much and I've got connections, your copy will be signed by the author herself!

More Gratitude, But In Fewer Words.

You know what my high school didn't have? Well... lots of things.

But one thing in particular:  the Cool Kids Lunch Table.  

You know why? Mostly because we weren't in a John Hughes movie, but also because we could leave campus for lunch.

And the cool kids had cars.

Actually, a lot of kids had cars whether they were cool or not. I, however,--even though I was at least moderately cool--did not. Thus, I occasionally found myself stuck at school during the lunch hour when I couldn't bum a ride off anybody else.

On those rare occasions when I couldn't ride along with somebody to the Taco Bandido or the Dairy Queen, I had the choice whether to go through the hot lunch line or eat out of the vending maching. And every once in a while I would give into my hunger and bypass my standard Dr. Pepper and Snickers bar for an actual lunch. But that meant going through the dreaded "lunch line." Which, in all my sixteen year old wisdom, I had deemed as very uncool.

Every time I walked through that line there was a classmate on the other side of the glass partition who served the food. And if it was uncool to be on my side of the glass, it was definitely uncool to be on her side.

I didn't know her well, but in a class of fewer than 200 students it's pretty hard not to know everyone. So I would say hi to her. No big deal. Why wouldn't I? It seemed kind of silly not to when I knew her name and she was standing right in front of me. I mean, clearly I could see through the glass between us.

I don't know when it was--I sort of think at the end of my junior year--but this girl gave me a thank you card.

For saying hi to her.

And, because this is a week of gratitude posts, I'd like to write a thank you to her now.

Dear D...,

Thank you for your card. To you it may have looked like I--walking around in that silly cheerleading skirt-- had all the confidence in the world. But I had all the same insecurities that every teen-ager has. Except I thought I was the only one who had them.

I didn't think I was very special when I didn't make cheerleader my senior year and when the boys I liked didn't like me back. And, I'm embarrassed to say now, it was pretty important to me to have people think I was special back then. I beat myself up over all the stupid things I did -- and there were a lot-- and every little mistake I made.

But your card made me feel like I had done one thing right. I made someone else happy--at least for a moment--without even really trying. All it took was a smile and a hello. And I wish I had realized then how much more important that was than the things I chose to focus on.

So thank you, D, for teaching me how important those two little words are. And for showing me how little it takes to make a difference.

Sincerely,

Brittany

P.S. It's been twenty years and I still have that card.


**Come back Monday when you will see how this post ties into a free giveaway I will be sponsoring to show a little gratitude for you, my readers.***