Paint, Unicorns, and Drowned Ancestors

I own three cameras (not counting my phone) but I can't make any of them work.  One had its batteries fried inside it (they sorta 'sploded), one is brand spanking new but either its a lemon or the only AAA batteries I can find are dead as a doornail, and the other is the camcorder which also takes still pictures but it needs to be charged and I don't which one of our 3354839.34i87 cords and wires and plug in thingies will do the trick.


So, I can't put up photos of our cute house.  But that's okay because most certainly there'd be a two foot high gremlin with his fingers up his nostrils stealing the camera anyway.


I'm not much of a decorator.  Some women (you know who you are) are really amazing at knowing what to buy, what not to buy, where to put it, what colors to use, etc.  I'm not that woman.  And after our little stint as professional parents came to a close, we were forced to realize we don't own anything.  Here's what we had in June:


each other.


boxes of clothes.


boxes of books.


a Kitchen-aid mixer.


photos.


That's it.  Not a stick of furniture or a wooden spoon with which to stir the spaghetti sauce which is fine actually, because you can't make spaghetti without a pot.


So, little by little, we've managed to get the bare necessities: a sectional couch that looks like everyone else's brown sectional couch except ours is stuffed with spike balls, a free kitchen table with four chairs (count the people in our family and you may see the problem, but hey, the kids have small tushies and can share), a bunk bed, a mattress set, some Goodwill dishes, and an embarrassing number of pizza cutters and ice cream scoops.  Why?  I don't know.  Evidently every time I was in a thrift shop the past three months, I had a panic attack that we would someday have pizza and/or ice cream and have nothing with which to slice/scoop.  So, if the world indeed ends in 2012 like John Cusack said it would, I will at least have my pizza cutters and ice cream scoops.  Cuz there might be zombies or something.  I don't know if there will be, but it's only logical.  I can slice em up and then scoop out their brains.


Anyway, I was supposed to be walking you through our house.  So, back to the decorating.  The only successful thing I've done with decorating is my collection of black and white photos.  It's our Family Wall and it's come with us no matter where we've gone.  I think that sentence is grammatically WRONG, but you get my drift.  Everyone is our relative, some we knew personally, some are much too far gone for us to have known.  One is of Mike's aunt who is standing in front of the projects of NY city where she grew up: a pretty Italian girl with her black hair blowing in the breeze and wearing gloves and a scarf that look fashionable now but were probably all she owned to keep the cold out.  Another favorite is my great, great, great Grandma (totally guessing the number of greats there) Loretta, who rumor has it, died after being baptized in the Columbia River in 1877.  I'd love to know if this family legend has any truth to it and Cora and I plan on doing some genealogy this school year.  Also on the wall: my dad as a chubby toddler, both of my grandpas in their military uniforms, my grandpa as a baby in the arms of his mom who looked like a totally rockin' '20s flapper, my mom and my mom-in-law as curly haired little girls, and plenty of my own kids in black and white. 


We also bought: a hutch that doubles as a tv stand for our wee little tv, and several dressers.  You remember the craigslist dresser, right?  So, being me, I of course had to take as many shortcuts as possible with this thing, in terms of making it presentable.  It is beautiful wood with scalloped edges and just lovely, but some dingbat had painted it diarrhea brown.  No problem, says I, we'll buy the cheapest white paint on the market and that'll be that.  Well, I thought I bought the "paint and primer in one" deal, but I did not, and the diarrhea turned the weirdest shade of pepto bismol pink.  A second coat did not solve this predicament. I was in a pickle.  Also, I was out of paint.  Also, I was in trouble with my mother in law for getting paint on her patio.  That reminds me, if you're reading this, honey, will you go over to your Mom's and clean that up?  Thanks, love muffin!  Anyway, at this point I was really getting annoyed with myself and had to go buy primer.  Then I had to go buy more paint.  Then I was really high on fumes and started painting unicorns and sunbeams everywhere.  Eventually I got my dresser white.  Even though it was for Anna and she was mad that I covered up the pepto pink.  Ungrateful pixie! 


So when you're me, this is how you buy a used dresser:


1.  Risk your life and almost get chopped into pieces by craigslist sellers in remote locations.  Spend $30.


2.  Paint with cheapest paint possible. I bought a small can because I actually had two dressers to paint: $10.  The other one had to be painted because it was owned by smokers.  Smokers who evidently crawled inside their dresser to do their smoking.


3.  Go back to Lowes.


4.  Buy primer. $5.


5.  Whine a little.


6.  Enjoy the fumes.  Hum a little Doors.


7.  Go back to Lowes.  $5.


8.  Finish with spray paint.


Bask in the glory that is your $30 $50 dresser.  Easy as pie!  Except I may or may not have killed a couple brain cells.  Pretty sure I wasn't using them anyway, so no loss.


Also, when you're me you don't own a pie pan and your kids clamor for chicken pot pie and so you make it in a large skillet.  And it looks totally fabulous, like something on the cover of Martha Stewart magazine, and they snarf it all up before you can take a picture.  Which you can't do anyway because of all those cameras you can't figure out.  But it was pretty.  And it was good.  And so was my homemade pumpkin spice coffee creamer.  Also, no photo.


The end.

The Touch of Home

There is something about the first few nights in a new house...  


My favorite sound:


The dishwasher running.  Our new one is evidently made for elves, but no matter.  It purrs like a kitten and I love the sound it makes when the kids go to bed and it's humming in the background.  I really don't know why I love that sound the way I do, it's not even that I hate doing dishes by hand.  I even have a thing for Dawn soap.  I use it whenever I get the chance.  I would totally take a bubble bath in that blue, bubbly stuff.  What is it about a dishwasher though and that sound?  It sounds like security to me.  I know.  Weird.  


My favorite smell:


Popcorn mingling with hot cocoa and stinky kid feet as we all cuddle on the couch together and watch a movie.  I don't even like popcorn or hot cocoa but I do love my kid's stinky feet.


My favorite sight:


Anna's hair all bundled up on the top of her head, Cora's long legs stretched out over way more than her fair share of the couch, and Gianni passed out halfway through Mars Needs Moms, his sticky hands dangling over the side where Milo lays, licking the butter off his fingertips, my hands anchored on his little butt to keep him from falling off, his Buddha belly sticking out from his muscle shirt.


My favorite touch:


My feet on Hubby's lap.


Actually, my feet (one foot, I exaggerate) hurt.  I dropped a rather large picture frame and it stabbed me right on top of my Hobbit foot.  Now I have a crater on it and it hurts like the dickens.  I don't know how I will skip and frolic and chasse and leap and pirouette with dem ballerina babies tomorrow.  I'll have to distract them with fairy wands and flower crowns so they don't mutiny.


My favorite idea:


That we are all together again, all five of us, whole and happy, broke but fed, missing our five boys and Marie, tired but blessed; broken picture frames, sore feet and all.  

Houses and What Lies Therein

This coming week we move into our own home.  We are a little bit excited.  A little thrilled.  A little elated and a little frothing at the mouth.  It's just been too long (two years) since we've lived somewhere with just us five.  That's too long by anyone's standards.  We always have adventures in moving and we already know what one of our adventures will be:

We will find something in our new house after oh, say, six months of living there.  In our old house in Idaho we found a window after living in that house for two years.  A window, you say?  Like a window pane, stuck high in a closet somewhere?  No, I mean an actual window, in an actual wall, in our actual house, with an actual view into our actual backyard.

Not much gets by us.  We're kinda like Nancy Drew married to Frank Hardy.  A Bobbsey Twin who hooked up with 007.  Velma and Freddy's love child.  We are extremely observant human beings.  I don't blame you if you feel a little intimidated.

Hey!  I just noticed a cup holder in my van!  Whoa!  When'd that get there?

So anyway, this particular window was finally ferreted out by my detectively skilled #1 Husband who was out in the backyard one day.  He came back inside with a peculiar look on his face and told me to go to the bathroom and listen.  I did.  He leaves.  I hear knocking on the wall.  I follow the sound.  It appears to be coming from the sink.  Perhaps it's an Englishman banging two coconuts together?  Could it be Eric Idle living under my sink?  I look behind the mirror that is hung up behind the faucet.  Voila!  A view of my husband's baffled face.

We had always kind of wondered why that mirror had a window ledge below it  and more than one frame.

Not a lot gets by us.

What the??!  Have I always had a dog?

We're like Perry Mason meets Trixie Belden.  Shaggy meets Flavia de Luce.  Hercule Poirot meets Agatha Christie.  Which would be logical seeing as she made him up.  Sam Spade meets Cherry Ames.  Kate Beckett meets Father Brown.

Anyway, we fully expect to find a bedroom we didn't know was there...or a refrigerator...or something way spiffy, like a garage.  Possibly within the first year of living there!  I'm very excited.  There could be a full basement!  Or a second story!  Or a hot tub!  The possibilities are endless.

We're also looking forward to doing some home improvement and living up to our reputations in that area as well.  It may be difficult to live up to the ol' cribbage board holding up the window trick, or the infamous "I'll just plug this hole in the wall with my pants" idea, but we'll try.  Don't underestimate us.  Maybe we can plug a newly found window with our pants...

Wait, I have pants?!

What I learned in 2010

1.  I don't like moving.  I don't like Uhauls.  They wiggle.  It freaks me out.  They're really loud and bumpy.  They make my jowls shake when you are on a rocky road.  They eat my possessions. They're ridiculously expensive and that's before you do the math for their gas guzzling habit.

2.  I secretly enjoyed the government benefits of food stamps for a few months.  I should feel ashamed but we have never eaten so well in our lives.  I now miss medium rare steak more than I miss the size 4 I used to be.

3.  Going through difficult times in life, it's very helpful and recommended to have a life partner with a sense of humor.

4.  It's very helpful and recommended to have a sense of humor when going through difficult times in life.

5.  It is possible to live out of one half of a suitcase for 6 months.  Not screamingly thrilling, but possible.

6.  If you're low on furniture or things to do, nekked drumming is always an alternative to the humdrums.

7.  My dog is neurotic, but I learned to love the mutt more.

8.  It's 2,013 miles from Nampa, Idaho, to St Louis, MI.

9.  Approximately 1,013 miles of it is corn.

10.  Homeschooling is so the way to go if you're unemployed and traveling!

11.  I can drive a huge van like a bad mambajamba.  I don't know what a bad mambajamba is actually.  I think it might be a Star Wars term. 

12.   Gianni likes the ladies.  The ladies like Gianni.  And she didn't even get to witness the nekked drum show!

13.  You can sell my bed.  You can sell my couch.  You can give endless boxes of my very own stuff away to Goodwill.  But if you lay a hand on my book collection I will come at you like a spider monkey.

14.  Goodbyes stink.

This one stinks.

This one was rotten.

This one was tear ridden.

This one was-

well-

I don't miss this nut all too terribly.

It's his wife I miss.

But she won't sit still for pictures.

Like me.

So we've known each other for eleventy seven years and have like, no photos of each other because we each duck and yell and take cover when someone takes out their camera.  And if I do get a photo of her she complains about her hair, or her shirt and makes me delete it.  And if she does get a picture of me I complain about my jowls.  And she deletes it.  At least she tells me she deletes it.

I suspect she lies.

                                 I miss her.  I had a picture of the two of us, but I looked jowl-y. 

There are others I miss (Jen, Anna) who evidently hide from cameras as well.


15.  Gianni grew hair.

16.  Michigan is humid.  Speaking of hair reminded me of that, thank you very much.

17.  I'm not ashamed to say I heart texting, emails, Facebook, and phones, so I can keep in touch with all my fruitloops.

18.  The first three weeks of being a mom to teenagers I did not sleep at all.  We're talking full-on zombie, night of the living dead.  Can you say, anxious? 

19.    Baptists are just Christians.  Shhh.

20.  It is not advisable to do Pilates on the floor when your toddler is perched precariously above you on the tip of the recliner.

21.  Public schools make me nervous.  They're full of oversized toddlers.  I want to put my fingers in my ears and shout at the top of my lungs, 'I'm a homeschooler!'  But I don't think this would do much for the reputation of homeschoolers in general.  Especially if I'm wearing my Star Trek shirt tucked into my sweat pants tucked into my moon boots at the time.

22.  If nekked drumming isn't your thing, due to a lack of musical ability, there's always nekked biking.  A few scant seconds after I took this shot, he ate the geranium.

23.  This picture has nothing to do with anything and wasn't taken in 2010, but it somehow seemed appropriate for this blog.  I want him back.  I want to chew on his nose cuz back then he let me chew on his nose.

I'm ending there, partly because dinner is about to boil over, and partly because I like ending my list on #23 for all you OCD people who will not be able to sleep at night because I didn't end on an even number. 

Love,
me and my jowls. 

Ode to kitchen items

I'm still moving in.  Really.  I'm turning into Elasta Girl in The Incredibles who calls Mr Incredible at work to say they've officially moved in after three years because she just opened the last box.  It may take me that long, not because we have much - we sold practically everything before moving here - but because we don't own any bookshelves at the moment.  Which is a sin, I'm pretty sure.  Like, the 11th commandment or something, right?  Thou shalt not not own bookshelves.  Shalt not not?  Is that a triple negative?

In my unpacking frenzy, I of course have the kitchen just about the way I want it.  So here you go, an ode to kitchen items:


Cuisinart electric can opener...how do I love thee?  Let me count the ways:

1.  You don't open half the can, skip a centimeter, then start cutting again, only to stop at the end with another uncut centimeter, leaving the contents completely unaccessible.  Leaving me to shake, pound, mangle and smack the can in a hopeless attempt to salvage that part of dinner that is now, at that moment, desperately important and desired.  It could be garbanzo beans that expired in 1997, but now you really gotta have them.
2. You don't take up too much counter space.  How humble and unassuming of you!
3.  I bought you at a thrift store for a mere 2.99.
4.  You look shiny and expensive and purr like a kitten.
5.  I never have to fumble in a drawer for you only to be stabbed by knives and those little bamboo skewers that I've never bought but mysteriously find their way into every kitchen I've ever owned.


The microwave.
How else would I nuke my coffee 14 times in one morning?  Without you I'd be forced to bake potatoes in the oven.  Unthinkable.  They roll around in there and drop through the racks and when I go to rescue them, the ungrateful little spuds burn me everytime.  There's a reason why they're called hot potatoes.

My kitchenaid mixer.  It'd be darn difficult to make weekly homemade pizza crust without you.  Not impossible, but darn difficult.  Someday I promise to learn how to use the pasta attachment.

The dishwasher.  Not the one that's broken right now and for the past week.  I don't like you at all and I'm not talking to you.  Breaking within two weeks of me moving in.  Rude.  I'm speaking to the new one should it ever arrive.  I haven't even met you yet, but I love you more  as much as I love friends and family.

Programmable coffee maker.  But we've talked about that before.

Bounty paper towels.  Or Viva.  Or Brawny.  But mostly Bounty.  Absorbant, rinse out-able, and they perforate easily enough that if you're juggling a jelly stained toddler, a hot saucepan, a ringing phone, and smacking a hungry teenager who is reaching for the fridge all with one hand, you can still rip one off with the other.

Life and Gianni-isms

Just some favorites of late:


When in the bathtub he hollered,
'Hey you Mom!  Come in here!'

I come in like the obedient mother I am.

'You bring me hamburger?'

'Uhhh, no.'

'Oh ok.  You bring me chicken nuggets?'

'That would be a negative, ghostrider.'

Sighs deeply and sadly.

'Oh nebbermind,' he says.

                                                                    ----------------------------


He says to call him 'Gianni Big Boy.'

'Is Mommy a big boy, too?'  I ask him.

'No, dats silly!  You da Big Mamma.'

Delightful.


                                                                  -----------------------------


When I tuck him in at night, I got in the habit of 'tucking him in like a burrito.'  This has evolved into tucking in like a taco, an 'enchilalala,' a ham sandwich, and a lasagna.  


                                                                  -----------------------------


This is not an -ism, but yesterday I walked by the window only to see the little moose in nothing but his birthday suit, hands clasped behind his back, contentedly pee-ing into the firepit in the yard.  How long do we have before we are fired from working as professional parents/excommunicated from the Baptist Church?


                                                                 ------------------------------


Also, yesterday he microwaved a pencil.  When I smelled a strange smoky smell, my mind didn't automatically jump to the ol' Pencil in the Microwave conclusion.  It certainly will from now on however.


                                                                ------------------------------


He likes to randomly tell people,  'I killed a man with this thumb.'

Since he holds up his index finger when he says it, that only adds to the cuteness.


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In other news, we are in a home!  Why, that's crazy, you say?  Don't I know it.  We have been painting and moving and packing things and unpacking things and it's amazing how forgetful you can be about things like that.  Can't be that bad, I'll think.  But yes, yes it is.  Slooooooooooooow and painful.  I'd like to get rid of anything we can't wear, eat, or read.  But no one will let me.  If I ruled the world it would be a sparse, well organized place.  But I'm not complaining.  I'm looking outside my bedroom window as I type, watching butterflies flit across our ball field.  OUR ball field?  Yes.  No, I don't plan to take up sports any time soon, except in the stands, most likely cheering for the wrong team and being utterly confused as usual.  We have two footballers (football players, boys who play football, whatever) in the house right now, a J.V. and a varsity.  I think that has something to do with their ages...or grades...or skills...or something.  All I know is it's constant practices, "two-a-days," conditioning, uniform orderings, weight lifting, and we haven't even gotten to football season yet.  I like to ask how their "costume fittings," and "rehearsals" are going, but no one finds me as amusing as I find myself.  But really, come one, it's boys in colorful tights...how manly can it be?

Moose practicing his telemarketer skillz

Next week is the Bike-A-Thon and you may want to turn off your phones, or pay special attention to your caller I.D.  because, my little friends, if I have your personal phone number, you will be getting a call from one of my lil' darlings asking for sponsorship.  (Unless you are one of the sweetums who responded to my email, and in that case I will let you have your weekend).  I know the idea of my hubby riding 25 miles in August heat sends you into spasms of giggles, but let me assure you, when I am curled up in a ditch somewhere 9 miles in, gasping for breath and trying not to retch, it will not be a laughing matter.  This could very well be my last blog.  If I die you're going to feel really guilty for not pledging that few bucks. 

view of the sunset

Monday we get a new boy here at the house.  He's 14.  Because apparently when we specifically told God we'd really prefer to have lots of babies, toddlers, or girls He found our plans immensely amusing.  If you want to hear God laugh, tell Him your plans, isn't that how the expression goes?  Also a rockin' Van Zant song.  But in all seriousness, the boys are great.  And they come in handy when you need someone to carry groceries, cart out trash, and reach the bagel cutter in the tippy-top cupboard.  So even if no one will watch Anne of Green Gables or Steel Magnolias or Fried Green Tomatoes with me I guess I will survive.  I guess.  


In other other news, I am going to be an auntie again!  This simultaneously makes me happy and makes me sad.  Happy because I can go shopping and not feel guilty (it's for little baby Takashige who really, really, REALLY needs this loud, obnoxious, beeping, rolling, large toy!), sad because I am not there to watch my little sister finally get fatter than me.  It's only when she's preggers that I can get away with calling her little pet names of affection, like Fatty-Fat-Fat, and Chubbaroo, and Blimpikins.  I can do it on the phone, but it's not as satisfying.  Oh, stop judging me, if you feel the slightest twinge of sadness for her, let me remind you that this woman can eat the same amount of chow that a lumberjack can put away, never diet, never exercise, and still manage to stay a svelte size 2.  She's disgusting.  Where's my pitchfork and my angry mob?  So when she's got a bun in the oven, I enjoy myself.  The only good thing about being far away, is she is strangely cranky when gestating.  I don't know why, the chuberella.  Also a good thing: I can answer her phone calls with the shout,  'Are you in labor???  Do we need to boil the water yet???'   Ahh, it never gets old, not even in nine months from now.  She doesn't call much these days.


Oh, and speaking of phones, I'd give you all our new number, but I don't know it.  We're thinking of getting another cell phone though.  Thoughts?  It seems silly, redonkulous really, to have a home number and TWO cell phones.  I mean, really?  Ten years ago, hardly any of us had cell phones, now suddenly we have to have a phone with us at all times?  But then I think, what if Mike's in town and I'm not and I really really need some Cheezits?  Or some sharp cheddar?  Or some Hagen-Daazs Banana Foster ice cream?  What then?  I can't be expected to just do without, can I?  I didn't think so. 


And that's why they call me Big Mama.

Dirty piggies and such.

The reason why I have to wash the tub freakishly often.

But he's so very very handsome, he's worth the ridiculous amount of Comet it takes to clean up after him.

Recently discovered something even better than a snack cupboard.  The garden!  The peas!

She told me to take the picture.

Again, 'Take the picture, Mom!' she begged.

Awww.  Aren't they cute when they aren't plotting ways to harm each other?

We have moved.  Again.  I feel like Mr. Fredrickson, old and infirmed.  I have spent the last 72 hours painting rooms and moving STUFF.  I have decided I no longer like STUFF.  STUFF should be kept far, far away from me.  If you can't wear it, eat it, or read it, I don't want it. 

Sage advice from seasoned group home teens:  always opt for the lower bunk.  Why?  Because gas rises.  I'm not sure I ever needed to know that, but now I do.  And so do you.  You're welcome.  More teen guy redonkulousness wisdom to follow in later posts.

Home sweet home

So you feel as though you were with us on our Great Road Trip of 2010, here are the highlights from each state we lumbered through.

Idaho...

...Utah...

...Wyoming...

...Nebraska....





...Iowa...






...Illinois...

...Indiana...





...and finally, Michigan...



This is the old gymnasium on our property. Apparently these willows have to go as they are messing royally with the sewer system. I love willows. But I suppose, given the choice, I would love a working sewer system more. You may revoke my tree hugging card now.




This is downtown St Louis.




This is our humble abode for the next 6 weeks or so. It's a two bedroom little house, maybe 900 square feet. How do we all squeeze in, you may ask? Are you kidding me? We've been on your couches since Christmas! This feels like a palatial McMansion!




This house sits right across the driveway and is the one we'll be moving into right around the end of July.





All in all, we clocked 2,013 on the good old Penske and I don't plan on traveling further than say, 20 miles, for about a year. But if you'd all like to visit me, I've got a fab two bedroom guest cottage in mind! Truth be told, the trip was not too bad and I don't think we'll even get Post Traumatic Stress Disorder symptoms whenever anyone shows us an ear of corn.

I haven't had a job in a bit now, so it's kind of fun heading to staff meetings and the like. We are reading each and every sentence of the Houseparent Training Manuel as part of our, wait for it, houseparent training. There's lots to learn, from parenting to paperwork to budgeting to everything else. I went to my first baseball game as a house mom to cheer on our 14 year old, who did awesome I might say. Mike started cheering and calling him "Wheels" since he's a fast runner and the name might stick. I can't talk about the kids here at the home(s) and I can't mention their names, so we may have to come up with nicknames for each of them - one down, a few more to go!

The girls are loving having room to run, and I must say, so do I. Not that I'm running, it's just a figure of speech. I only run from big, hairy spiders. I have gone on some country road bike rides though, which has been quite lovely. Anna feels as though it's Christmas as she rips through boxes we packed 7 months ago and discovers toys and clothes she forgot she had. She changes outfits about three times a day now. Cora is excited as she can now ride a grown up size bike. Moose loves the bugs and the tractor and the teenage boys who swing him up to the basketball hoop to dunk. All of them love getting most of our groceries from the food provided by churches in a big storeroom. Subsequently they have all discovered Chef Boyardee to their Italian father's dismay and chagrin.

Mike loves his sock drawer. You never want to see a grown man cry, but these were tears of joy when he finally got to unpack that suitcase and put everything in an actual dresser. It was a beautiful moment - we embraced and wept and than held a ceremonial suitcase burning in the backyard.

I love everything. It's a beautiful place and we're having a great time. I miss all of you and if EVER you felt guilted into leaving comments for lonely, friendless, me, now's the time.

Pull up a floor and relax

I am writing this post today from our old house, free of pesky furniture and bare necessities. Sitting cross-legged on the floor with a bucket for a table. The bucket is our table. The floor is our chair collection. On the flip side, we have like, seating for 45 now. Sometimes I peer up at Mike and say, 'here, take the good chair. It reclines. ' Then I scoot over to the floor to the left and crack up. Sometimes he laughs. Sometimes he raises an eyebrow and looks concerned/nervous. Since we're only here for a bit, about two weeks, we didn't want to go to the trouble of actually moving in. Moving in stinks. There is nothing about it that we like. We do like it marginally better than moving out though, which is another reason why not to move in: the moving out that would inevitably follow. So we sit on the floor and mime using a remote control to change the channel to the telly that is really just the wall opposite us. Then we complain that there is nothing on, just like when we actually have a telly. Then we go to bed, which looks a lot like our fancy seating for 45, where we spend the wee hours realizing Gianni talks in his sleep and is going to need psycho therapy because he is convinced we are going to move in the middle of the night somehow and apparently leave him behind, so he spends the night smacking us in the faces to reassure himself that we are still indeed, present and accounted for. If one of us gets up at night to use the toilet, he runs crying after us shouting, 'I wanna come too!' but then he gets confused as to whose house we are at and usually runs into a wall or something trying to find the bathroom. But he's fine. I'm sure of it. Sometimes he offers me the good chair and scoots over to the right and cracks up. So? One night, in my concern for his mental well-being, I was cuddling him to sleep and since I was the Oreo cream filling to his and Milo's chocolate cookie, I had my arm over top him. Sometimes he sings himself to sleep, songs like "You're My Cheeseburger" or "The Water Buffalo Song," so while I heard him gently murmuring things, I was busy daydreaming about the large furnished house I'd someday own and not listening. Murmur, murmur, went my boy. Finally, I strain to catch the words and realized he was saying over and over, 'Get off me, Mom. Mommy, you're too heavy...get off me, Mom...' It reminded me of the time Cora was that age and getting over an illness. She was laying on the couch (a real one) and watching The Wizard of Oz. I sat down on the floor by her and stroked her head and smooched her and told her she was going to be alright, etc etc, you know, mothering and all. She finally said weakly, 'Mommy, are you almost done making me feel better cuz I can't see the movie.' Kids. They'll be the death of me, I know it. And yet every time I go to the grocery store, some well meaning elderly gentleman tells me not to blink, because if I do, they'll grow up on me. So I blink, and blink...but they're still there.

Thank goodness.

Also adding to the night time soap opera-etics, is Milo, the gassiest cocker spaniel in the world. He too seems to be overly obsessed with the state of our address and spends every waking and sleeping moment glued to a pair of feet. While updating him for rabies and distemper, the vet asked how he was doing mentally and if he was a happy, contented doggy. 'Of course!' I cheerfully replied as I used all my super woman strength to remove him bodily from my pants, 'He's always like this...real affectionate like...completely normal...can you give me a hand just getting him off my head?' I barely got away with out making an appointment to see the pet therapist.

The girls on the other hand, thrive on the weird, and have had no trouble adjusting and readjusting to their parents lack of employment/housing/sanity. They were seriously irritated to find that their favorite tree in the backyard had been pruned by a zealot, but other than that bit of sorrow, they get along famously. They are thrilled beyond words to go on their first airplane ride to Indiana on the 28th of this month. I have not blogged about our impending employment, not wanting to jinx it as it is not completely 100% final, but the short story for those of you who haven't heard is that we are going to be full time parents. We're really excited and since we homeschool we are already used to people deciding that we're crazy/unstable/and not normal, so if that is your reaction, we live quite comfortably there. It's not the job for everyone and I'm sure we'll find out just how naive we are when we start, but you never know, it could fit us like a glove. I've never been to the mid-west. I've heard a rumor that it's flat. And has tornadoes. Wyoming was flat and had occasional tornadoes. Mostly antelope and wind though. Idaho is flat, 'cept for all the mountains.

In the meantime, I'm just going to pull up a chair - snort - and enjoy my napping child (he's napping naked and if there's anything cuter I cannot think of what it could be) and try to come up with a new name for the blog. I only ever named it what I did because it had to have a name, but I'm sure someone of you creative people could come up with something better. Give it your best shot! Leave me lotsa comments, cause I got very little to do. I plan to lounge in my imaginary posh purple chaise all night and there's nothing on the telly but white paint and I've seen that show, like a trillion times.

Oh, and if you'd like to contribute to the Williams' Family Get Thee Some Therapy Quick Fund, our children's/pet's sanity would thank you.

Can you hear me now?!

G and his buddy, Rowan

Cora and a lizard she found. Sorry about the blurriness, Gianni smeared peppermint lip gloss all over the lens.

Mike's side of the fam: Brian, Mamma Alice, Grandpa "Nonno", Matt.

Anna at the petting zoo.

Goat meets Moose

Learning horseshoes

Cora was, as she puts it, unbeatable.

The perks of hotel livin'

We had us some Christmas in September this month. Knowing that if we still live here in Wyoming we will not be making that holiday trip home, we took a final road trip of 2009. Mike's dad, Keith, spent a couple weeks with us here at home before we left, and then we headed to Pocatello, Idaho together to meet up with two brothers and a mamma. After lots of visiting and swimming in the hotel pool and eating out and petting animals at the zoo, we moved on into Boise. We had a lovely Christmas type dinner at the High House (I say Christmas type, because there were no turkeys to be found but we made due with yummy roasted chickens). Time went by too quickly, especially as we don't know when we will see everyone again, but there was plenty of fun. I forgot to take many pictures but here are the ones I got.

No news on the job front yet, but we are anticipating moving. So begins the agonizing process of getting rid of all that junk you'd just as soon not pack. The girls are going through their precious belongings trying to locate things that they'd be willing to sell at the Kohler's yard sale this weekend. They are entirely motivated by greed (we live within walking distance of the dollar store). They cannot comprehend why no one would want to buy a chewed up dog collar, a stuffed animal with a missing ear, markers without the caps, and naked Barbies with homemade haircuts, so I think I may steer them towards the idea of a lemonade stand as a Plan B.

Here in Wyoming, Road Construction season is winding to an end, to be followed, oh yippee skip, by Almost Winter. Then, naturally, comes Winter, and finally, Still Winter.

On our long drive back, we heard Brad Paisley's song, Letter to Me, and Mike, being the philosophical guy that he is, asked me what I would say if I could go back in time and talk to myself at 17. So, here goes:

Lyss,

Stop worrying what other people are thinking and saying about you. They are more than likely talking and thinking of other things anyway. Don't be afraid to be the goofy person you are inside, outside. Laugh a whole lot more at yourself, and actually mean it. Stand up for yourself, and don't apologize for things that shouldn't be apologized for. Don't try to blend in with the crowd because you don't. And while it's nice that you have enough courage to 'just say no' to so-called friends, go ahead and go one step further and refuse to hold their cigarettes while they go to the bathroom. No need to be a doormat.

Don't be afraid to try new things, even if you know you'll be terrible at them and quite possibly fail. Don't just do the things that come easily. You hate the expression 'get out of your box' now, and you're going to hate it just as much later, but the idea still holds.

Keep your good friends close. Don't trust absolutely everyone. Those people that seem to have all the answers, don't. The ones that you swear now will rule the world later, won't. The girl that had all the boys will get a divorce. The confident boys weren't really all that confident especially now that they're losing hair and gaining beer bellies. There will be deaths and situations that will be far too sudden, leaving hard questions that will make you wrestle with God himself. There will be loss of friendships that will make you sad because you know they're gone for good.

You worry about finding the perfect man, but don't worry, you will. Together you'll have crazy adventures and won't try to change each other, and you'll have some sweet kids to boot. Ten years are going to by fast and he'll still call you his love and think you're perfect.

You think now that you'll be a flawless mom someday. Well, sorry to break it to you, kid, but you won't be. Your children are going to make you grow and change so much you could spend the next decade pondering it and not come up with all the right descriptions or realizations. They'll boggle your mind with how much you love them, and the very things that you love the most will be the ones that drive you nutty and test you the most. They're going to bend your spirit and the limits of your unselfishness way more than you think possible.

Appreciate your family and the things they've done for you. It looks so easy to you, you've never really given it much thought. Do. Remember they're there for life. And when you grow up, don't leave them behind, waving sadly. After all, you'll be moving back in their basement soon anyway.

Oh, and one more thing. You're not fat. Trust me. You'll never be that size and shape again, so for crying out loud, put on a bikini and enjoy it while it you can!

On that deep, wise note,

love,

yourself at 31.