If you live to be 100, I'll throw you a brithday party too.

My dear friend, neighbor and distant cousin turned 100 last week. Her name is Iris Parrish Stout, and she is the coolest 100 year old person you have ever met, plus we are related which makes me cool by default. (We share a polygamist grandfather, Charles C. Rich. However we both come from the same wife, Eliza Ann Graves, and she only had two children. Iris’ line comes from one child and I come from the other. Yes, I do know a thing or two about genealogy, other than it is something you do when you’re old.)

Iris turned 100 on May 24, 2008. Last Saturday her children threw a birthday party for her at the country club. This week it was the ladies of our neighborhood that decided to honor her. A tea party, minus the tea of course, after all this is Provo and strong drink is forbidden, was in order for a lady of Iris’ stature. A hat and gloves were recommended, but not required. Karen Martin agreed to have the event at her house, and decorate. Cynthia Gaufin was in charge of invitations, and I was in charge of the food, with Cynthia’s help. Our menu was :

Roasted Chicken Salad Sandwich
Cucumber Tea Sandwich
Fresh Fruit
Grand Parisian Salad with White Balsamic Vinaigrette
Tri-color Pasta Salad
High Tea Lemon Cookies
English Pecan Cookies
Pound Cake
Chocolate Dipped Strawberries

Merdith the harpist, also an "adopted" granddaughter.

The decorated tables.

Iris, in the dress she made for the occasion.

The place setting, including a menu.

The food table.

Iris has had an amazing life, and been quite the socialite, while living in Washington DC, Palm Springs CA, and Provo UT. She has met the Queen of England, and was close friends with Gene Autry and his wife. In addition to being a socialite, Iris is very well educated. In the late 30’s she earned her master’s degree and met her husband at her college graduation. She was a married, working mother in the 30’s and 40’s, and instrumental in writing a report on the Colorado River Project that impacted reclamation projects for years. Every night Iris reads for three hours, and I am not talking fluffy romance novels, I am talking hard core reading material, along the lines of biographies, political books, and history books. As you can see the women in my family are genetically programmed to be well educated, strong, and independent. I cannot be blamed for my disposition, it’s in my DNA.

Iris is a true lady. She is always dressed to the “nines” and never leaves home without jewelry and a matching purse. On Friday she went to Lowe’s with her pearls on, how can you not respect that? She exhibits elegance in every sense of the word. She very much reminds me of my Grandma Hales, who is also of Iris’s generation and it is through her family line I am related to Iris. Iris has impeccable manners, and even sent me a “thank you” gift before her party. She is considerate of others, and always wants to know how you are and does not want to burden you discussing her problems.

Now you know why I think Iris Parrish Stout is one of the coolest people I know, and when I grow up I want to be just like her, and I think I have a good chance, after all we share the same DNA.

The Dark Side.

Generally I oppose any article of clothing that has any sort of licensing on it, i.e. Disney, Strawberry Shortcake, Bratz, Barbie, etc. I think they look cheap and tacky. My apology to those of you who don’t share my view, you are free to dress your children in any article of clothing you see fit, and I will not judge you in any way shape or form, this is just my personal opinion. Many a time I have been in a store and had my daughter reduced to tears because I refuse to purchase some article of clothing with a licensed character on it. (Lauren’s opportunity to get even with me will be in 20 years when her children are only dressed in clothing with a licensed character.)

Well I have broken my own rule. You may or may not know but Mark has inherited Rick’s feet. For those of you not familiar with the feet of my husband they are wide at the top, narrow at the bottom and have a high instep. Mark’s feet are a mini version of Rick’s. Finding shoes to fit either of them is an impossible task. Many a shoe I have purchased and returned after bringing it home and trying it on. The only summer shoe I have found to fit Mark’s feet is the Croc. We are well on our way to having owned Crocs in every color. The good news about Crocs, aside from their fit, is that they are durable, easy to get on and off, in fact this year Mark can put them on and take them off himself, and they are easily washable. A simple rinse in the sink or run though the dishwasher and they are good as new. (I am serious about the dishwasher. Now I have not tried it myself, but a very famous chef, who only wears Crocs in his kitchen, washes them in his dishwasher. I am assuming without the dishes.)

A very good friend of mine who has a daughter with similar foot issues, found these Crocs and sent me the link. I could not refuse. I justified breaking my rule by telling myself that the train logo is small, unobtrusive, tastefully done, not tacky like other licensed products. Whatever, let’s just face it, I’ve gone to the dark side.

It's Official

It's official, Mark is a first year preschool graduate. I am amazed that preschool survived Mark. This clearly speaks to the quality of his teacher and that she has an incredible amount of patience.

This is Mark's self portrait. He had a little help from Miss Mangum.

Mark and his classmates singing songs at graduation.

Mark just kind of stood there while everyone else sang and did the song actions. Every once and a while he would tune into the song and sing a word or two. He was not much for song actions.

He even has a diploma to prove how smart he is.

Mr. Rock

I live amongst celebrities in case you did not know, or rather houses in my neighborhood were formally owned by Mormon royalty. The house across the street from me was built and occupied at one time by Donnie Osmond. The house next door to me was built and occupied by Jimmy Osmond. And a mere two streets down from me is Osmond Lane, and while there are currently no Osmonds living on Osmond Lane, the name implies that clearly they once did. Well located on Osmond Lane is Mr. Rock, and as far as my children are concerned he is the biggest celebrities around.

All winter long Lauren and Mark look forward to good weather so we can go on a walk down Osmond Lane to see the big rock. On a nice evening, as soon as dinner is over, they beg to go on a walk. I usually give in because it gets us out of the house and Mark burns some energy off and is much easier to put to bed. Katie gets loaded into the jogger stroller and off we go.

Lauren rides her scooter, Mark runs, and mommy and daddy struggle to keep up. It is especially fun if the center median on Osmond Lane has recently seen or is currently seeing sprinkler action, because then there are puddles of water for Mark to jump in, and sprinklers for Lauren to run through. Near the end of the lane is Mr. Rock. He stands about 20 feet tall, and is anchored in by concrete. I am not sure why Mr. Rock is there, because he is randomly placed, seemingly has no purpose, but my children love him. They greet Mr. Rock with a friendly “hello” and have to touch him. On occasion they leave smaller rock friends they have collected so Mr. Rock will not be lonely. I am sure he appreciates this and if he could communicate or we could understand rock talk he would profusely thank us. His winter nights are cold and lonely waiting for the spring, summer and fall to enjoy the screams of delight and love coming from my children. The people who live on Osmond Lane probably think we should be committed or locked up for having a love affair with their rock. It’s their own fault for placing such a lovable rock in the middle of the street, what did they expect.

After saying “good bye” to Mr. Rock we head home. No walk is complete without one of my children being injured. Many a piece of skin has been left on Osmond Lane, and many a piece of asphalt has been inbeded and come home as a reminder of Osmond Lane and our nightly chats with Mr. Rock.

An unexpected meeting.

Thomas meets Play-Doh, winner, Play-Doh.

Please release me let me go....

Its official I have been released from the Relief Society Presidency. I was not singled out for bad behavior, but rather our entire presidency was released. I guess it was about time, the president and first counselor had been in for three and a half years, me only a year and a half. While I could have lasted longer, clearly the president and first counselor have done their time. I have very mixed emotions. I really love the sisters I worked with in the presidency, and also the sisters we served. It is incredible to me how I have been able to develop a personal relationship with nearly every sister in the ward, and learn amazing things about these sisters. There is something special about serving that allows you to develop that relationship with the sisters you serve, and now I am released I still have the friendship, but it’s different.

The sisters I worked with in the presidency are outstanding women. Linda assures me that not all presidencies functions as well and as fluidly as we have. These women will be close friends for life and there is nothing that I would not do for them or them for me. This has been the best blessing of all, and a quite unexpected blessing I might add.

Now for what I will not miss, the time commitment. It has been huge. I am excited to have more time to devote to other worthwhile endeavors, such as organizing my house. It is an endless, thankless job, but I feel so good when it is done! I have to admit the thing that scares me the most is what new calling they have in store for me. I would really like a nice cush calling for a little while. Teaching Primary or Sunday School does not fall into my definition of a cush calling.

Do I feel like there were things we could have done better, yes. Do I feel like we tried to do our best, yes. Our goal was to have a united sisterhood in our ward, and to create activities where sisters could come and feel a bonding with other sisters, without judgment or clicks. We strove to have lessons on Sunday that invited the spirit, and very rarely did I walk out of Relief Society on Sunday without feeling the spirit. We struggled with visiting teaching in making companionships that would invite sisterhood. I feel like our presidency left a very special stamp on Relief Society. I am thankful for the opportunity.

Compare and Contrast

Lauren has finally lost tooth #4. About three weeks ago she noticed it was becoming loose and started a daily ritual of wiggling it in order to speed its departure. A few days ago when it became evident that its departure was eminent she informed me that the Tooth Fairy was underpaying and needed to produce more cash. Now mind you for the last three teeth Lauren has lost the Tooth Fairy has paid $2 for each tooth, which in my mind is a handsome some for a small piece of calcium, considering in my day 25 cents was the going rate.

Well apparently Lauren and her first grade buddies have recently been comparing their take from the Tooth Fairy and Lauren discovered the Tooth Fairy is surprisingly inconsistent in her payout. She proceeded to inform me that Isabelle got $15 , Darren got $20 and Allison got $14. Upon cross-examination by mommy she revealed that Isabelle and Darren were probably exaggerating, but Allison really did get $14 because she brought it for show and tell. Then she wanted to know why the Tooth Fairy only left her $2?

Oooo the dilemma? What to say, how to explain……. I told her that because we live so high up the hill our air is very thin, and by the time the Toothy Fairy flies up here she is suffering from oxygen deprivation and lacks the mental capacity to make a reasoned decision about how much cash to pay out. I’m not sure she bought it.

WARNING: This post contains graphic content, reader discretion is advised.

“Worse, how could it get any worse? We are at the threshold of hell!” Clark W. Griswold, Christmas Vacation . Repeated by Tiffany Vincent May 23 2008.

In my post last Thursday I eluded to a stomach virus that was partying at my house. I did not go into graphic detail in the earlier post, but the events of the week have left me no alternative but to vent the assault on my senses that has been the production of bodily fluid from members of my family. If you are weak of heart or stomach you had better skip this post and maintain your distance from my house.

It all began on Sunday May 3, 2008. I was sitting in Relief Society listening to a lovely lesson on Gifts of the Spirit, when I was abruptly called out into the hall, and informed that Katie had thrown up all over Rick. I located Rick outside and he was covered head to toe in curdled milk, from a bottle recently consumed by Katie. I took both home, stripped off their clothes, cleaned them up, and started a load of laundry. Shortly thereafter Katie protruded forth vomit again. I saw no other signs of trouble until Monday night when the diarrhea began. Several outfits and diaper changes later, I believed that she was under control, until I returned home from work on Tuesday to discover that Linda had three outfit changes during the day. More laundry.

Tuesday night I began to feel queasy. Actually I had not felt well all day, and did not know why. Around 8:00 p.m. it became evident that I would spend a long night producing my own bodily fluids, from both ends I might add. (I warned you this was graphic)

Wednesday at noon, I was feeling slightly better, only to discover Mark had regurgitated on the steps leading down to the basement. Changed his clothes, put him on the couch, gave him a big dose of Pepto. Within the hour the Pepto was revisited on my carpet. Out came the Hoover Steam Cleaner, and another change of clothes for Mark. Mid-afternoon found me still revisiting the ghosts of things previously eaten, and Linda beginning to do the same. By evening, Mark upchucked all over Rick, resulting in a change of clothes for both, and another round with the steam cleaner. Katie topped it off with a blow out in her diaper. More laundry. Rick decided to sleep on the couch and leave Mark and I to our sick infested selves in my bedroom. Rick was abruptly woken up in the middle of the night to the sound of Courtney in her bathroom, worshiping the porcelain god. Courtney then went down to the basement and did not surface for a day and an half.

Thursday was a slow day in the production of bodily fluids from my children, but a harsh day for Linda and Courtney. More laundry, all my bedding needed to be washed, and several blankets from the couch. Mark had a couple of trips to the bathroom and Katie of course had an evening blow out. Thursday night found Jeff worshiping the porcelain god.

Friday was Lauren’s day. She puked in my car, and later in a bowl at home, and of course she too suffered from “runs.” I told her if she felt it coming to hold her butt cheeks together and make haste for the bathroom. Lauren’s adventure cost me two loads of laundry.

My entire house, and my car, SMELLS, and I mean the worst kind of smell. The smell of bad gas combined with rotten food. I have seen partially digested hamburgers, french fries, fruit snacks, curdled milk, hot dogs, pizza, Ritz crackers, and enough regurgitated Sprite to last a life time. I really am at the threshold of hell, or on the verge of discovering a new diet plan.

The Upchucking Poem

In honor of the week spent hurling at my house, I thought I would share with you a poem that my best friend from grade school wrote in the fifth grade. It has always been a favorite of mine.

The Upchucking Poem
By Keena Pack

Throw up, barf or vomit, its names are quite a few,
but I will call it upchuck if is all the same to you.

It happens when your stomach is feeling out of whack,
the stuff you ate for dinner is slowing coming back.

You only had some pizza, one slice or maybe two,
three or four, five or six,
as much as you could chew….

It really does not matter how many that you ate,
you’ll count them as you upchuck,
now wouldn’t that be great!

You cough a bit and suddenly the upchuck has begun,
you got to reach the bathroom,
you’re going to have to run.

Now that it’s all over you say,
“Boy that was kind of fun.”

A Day out with Thomas

A cloud of suspicion hangs over our family’s attempt to enjoy a day out with Thomas. Last year we felt that Mark was old enough to enjoy the Thomas adventure, however the week-end that Thomas scheduled his visit to Utah I was scheduled to have a baby. Clearly, two worlds colliding. So we decided to postpone Thomas for a year. This year we entered the contest to be the honorary conductor of Thomas with the anticipation that we would win, because if you read my poem and saw Mark’s picture is it clear that we deserved the honor and that in the judging process we were robbed.

On the heels of our failure to win the coveted prize of honorary conductor we purchased tickets and scheduled our Thomas adventure for Friday May 23, 2008 at 4:30 p.m. Rick, me, Lauren, Mark and Katie all loaded up at 3:00 p.m. in my black German made car and headed up Provo Canyon, destination, Heber Valley Railroad and Thomas the Tank Engine. Just as we entered the bubbling metropolis known as Heber City, I hear an all so familiar gag coming from the back seat, followed by an all so familiar substance, with a putrid odor, coming forth from Lauren’s mouth. Not only was the substance all over Lauren, it was all over my black German made car. (There is a reason if you have childen why you should buy a mini van as opposed to a black German made car, mini vans are expected to smell like puke and bad diapers, black German made cars are not.) Following Lauren’s extraction of lunch it was decided that she could not participate in our Thomas adventure, which resulted in tears flowing forth. I dropped Rick and Mark off at the train and headed for home to clean up Lauren and my black, German made car. Now keep in mind I paid for four tickets and only used two. The tickets were non-refundable, not exchangable, hence a most expensive Thomas adventure.

Mark in the Thomas store picking out new "shiz"

Riding in the Coach

Daddy who made this all possible

The James tattoo

The Conductor

While I was engaged in the cleaning process, Rick and Mark participated in all sorts of fun Thomas activities. First Mark got to go to the Thomas store and choose a Thomas train. Next it was on to the tattoo booth and he got a tattoo of James on his face. Then they boarded the train. Thomas was off, with his faithful coaches Annie and Claribel carrying his passengers, including one special passenger and his loving father. While traveling down the branch line, a young man in his early twenties, for some unknown reason attempted to jump on the Thomas train. Now mind you the train was not traveling at a fast speed, but fast enough to be dangerous. He kept making unsuccessful attempts to illegally ride the train.

The Thomas conductor repeatedly warned him that hopping on a moving train was dangerous and to cease and desist, but he failed to listen. On his final attempt he fell from the train, landing on the tracks with his head on the rails. The emergency break was pulled and the train stopped two feet from his head. No serious harm, however the gentleman is probably making new friends in the Wasatch County Jail. Mark thought the excitement was part of his package of fun, and declared that Thomas was delightful.

Thomas and his coaches

Mark's souvenir

I returned to pick up my boys and Rick and I pondered if tickets should be purchased for next year?

The Quiz

Live, give, active, creative, positive, negative, relative, selective, and imaginative.
The proceeding is a list of:


a. Words Lauren can read
b. Words some of which Tiffany can’t spell
c. Words Lauren can spell
d. All of the above.

If you picked “d” all of the above you are correct. This was Lauren’s spelling list from last week. We are talking first grade here. It’s quite scary to me that by next year Lauren’s spelling will be better than mine. I have never been known for my spelling ability in fact it was a heated topic of debate between myself and my mother growing up. My mother was one of those individuals who had the natural ability to spell, and could not understand my struggle. She thought I was lazy, and ill educated. It was not until I was in college that I was able to throw a study in her face that determined that individuals either have a natural ability to spell or they don’t, so lay off those who don’t. I am still not sure she believed the study.

Just to ensure her curse of my spelling ability continued, I married an individual who has a natural ability to spell and does not understand how I can be well educated, have a great vocabulary, but the absolute inability to spell simple words. Although he is much more forgiving than my mother and does not make me feel stupid. For now my best friend is the spell check on the computer, along with my spelling dictionary, because let’s face it, some of my spelling is so off that even the computer can’t figure out what I am trying to write!

The moral of the story is if you have the natural ability to spell, be kind to those in your life who don’t. They are not as stupid as you think.

Help, I am being held hostage.

A small microscopic virus has taken control of my stomach, holding me hostage to its will. After ravaging my stomach it decided to make merry in my intestines. The result has been bodily fluids being produced from every orifice possible. I have been worshiping the porcelain god.

Just to show that it did not single me out, it also attacked Katie, Mark, Linda and Courtney. The verdict is still out on Rick, Jeff, Lauren and Matt. About every 12 hours a new person succumbs to its powerful enticement. I will spare you the rest of the gory details.

Off the Rails

Off the Rails:

My name is Percy, Mark wanted to give me a little bath,

I ended up in the garbage disposal, feeling its wrath.

Broken, mangled and torn am I,

Don't tell Mark it will make him cry.

Percy will be going to the Thomas Hospital for repair. Mark has decided that giving his trains "a wash down" is not a good idea, at least in the sink where the garbage disposal is located.

546 Days

Five hundred and forty six days is precisely how long it takes to fix a Thermador gas cook-top. In November 2006 shortly before Thanksgiving one of the burners on my gas cook top quit functioning, and since that time I have been struggling to get it repaired. The story is way too long and complicated to bore you with the details, let’s just say the emotions involved included, frustration, anger, joy, apathy, and determination. Based upon this experience I have some words of wisdom to pass along:

Do not under any circumstances buy or build a house with the top of the line, state of the art anything. It quickly becomes obsolete, and no one will repair it, or if they do, you will have to put up your first born as collateral. BUY Kenmore. Everyone will service a Kenmore. Only two people in Utah will service a Thermador gas cook-top, and I might add, one says he will service it, but never follows through, and the second one will eventually service it, but you will age a year or two and frown lines will appear.

Go Tell it to the Judge.

I am MAD. Stark raving, completely enraged MAD. As you know I received a ticket for expired registration, 38 days to be exact, which means I am a troublesome criminal that should be publicly flogged. Well in an effort to remove the stigma associated with my criminal conduct, the day after I received the ticket I got my safety and emissions test, and passed with flying colors I might add, then I completed my registration through the slick on-line process offered by the Department of Motor Vehicles. One last stop, the courthouse to get my ticket dismissed.

After a few minutes of searching for the courthouse, it was not where I thought it would be, never mind the address was printed right on my citation, I entered the courthouse with my ticket, and my hot off the press proof of my updated registration. In fact just to prove that I take renewing my vehicle seriously and in order to clear my good name of the criminal offenses for which I have been accused, I showed up on day seven to resolve this matter, and I actually had until day fourteen. I breeze through security, stopping only to remove my necklace, and thinking myself quite smart for leaving my purse in the car. I proceed to stand in line for my turn to demonstrate how truly sorry I am for operating a motor vehicle in violation of the law. When it is my turn I approach with glee knowing that my ticket will soon be dismissed and my sins as scarlet will be turned white as snow. I hand the clerk my ticket and updated registration. She notes Officer 3178 has dated my ticket 5/87/08, but she is still able assist me, and makes a copy of my new registration for “the record.” I am getting giddy, it’s almost over. My feet begin to tap, my smile is a mile wide, I will sleep well at night knowing I am a free woman. Then she says “That will be thirty dollars please.” WHAT??!!!!! I kindly explain to her that she must be mistaken, because Officer 3178 told me that if I renewed my registration and brought proof in within 14 days the ticket will be dismissed. She replies, “Sorry this is not a ticket that can be fixed you will need to pay the thirty dollars.” At this point all giddiness has left, and anger is beginning to swell within. I consided my options:

1. I could pay the thirty dollars, however I did not bring my purse inside the courthouse, which means I would have to leave, go to my car, get my purse, enter the building again, strip for security, and stand in line again.

2. I could go tell it to the judge.

I select #2. I just could not bring myself to go through security again and suffer the humiliation of removing my jewelry. I demand to speak with the judge, after all I am an American citizen and fully know and understand my rights, besides I need to express to a higher authority how out of line this officer was in first, giving me a ticket for a registration that is only 38 days expired and second, in misleading me to believe that this ticket could be dismissed. I am told to walk down the hall to the second door on the left. Wow talk about a speedy trial, now this is justice. As I enter the second door on the left, speedy justice comes to a grinding halt. I am greeted by court scheduler who tells me in a snippy voice to wait on the bench outside until she is finished with the person she is currently helping. How was I to know she had someone in her office, I was just following instructions to proceed to the second door on the left. I sit on the bench and patiently wait. While I am waiting I being to contemplate the brilliant legal arguments I am going to make and the biting cross examination of Officer 3178 I am going to engage in. My mouth begins to foam at the thought, until my thoughts are interrupted by a rather loud “NEXT.” The court scheduler is all business and does not want to hear the details of how I have been unjustly treated by the Provo Police Department. I am given a date of June 16, 2008 at 4:00 p.m., and must sign a piece of paper indicating I promise to appear otherwise a warrant will be issued for my arrest. See I really am a troublesome criminal who should be publicly flogged.

Not sure we are ready for this.

Sunday, April 13, 2008 is a day that will live in infamy. I was sitting in the Relief Society room waiting during the break between Sunday School and Relief Society as sisters were filing in. As I was sitting there minding my own business, the secretary for Primary came up to me and handed me a bright, as in neon, piece of paper that had the date of May 18, 2008 and listed Lauren as saying the scripture during primary and Mark was on deck for the prayer. Now as I looked at this piece of paper I thought to myself “Is she crazy? Has she not seen Mark in Primary? He can’t control himself when he does not have a public forum in Primary, do you know what he will do if he gets to go up to the microphone and speak? More importantly do you know what kind of family secrets he might spill during a prayer? Can the Ward handle knowing we don’t’ read our scriptures like we should, family home evening is sporadic, and mommy can yell really loud. What if he repeats something he has heard Grandpa or Daddy say? Could we be excommunicated based upon what he says in his prayer?” I looked at the secretary and said “Are you serious about Mark praying?” She responded “Yes they have to start sometime.” Well I agree they have to start sometime, but could we wait until he can self edit?

I decided that I had better prepare Mark in advance for this blessed event. I told Mark that he was going to get to say the prayer in Primary. He asked “Into the microphone?” I said “Yes in the microphone.” He squealed with delight, and asked if he could pray for Thomas the Tank Engine. I said that perhaps in Primary we could pray to be reverent. He asked if we could pray to be picked up after primary was over and taken home. I said that would be ok.

As Sunday came Mark was excited and I was terrified. He agreed to let me help him say the prayer, so at least I could mitigate the damage. He sat upfront with Lauren looking quite beyond his four years of age. When it was his turn he stepped up to the microphone and utter his prayer, very clearly and distinctly, following my direction. Nothing inappropriate came out of his mouth, our family secrets were all safe, and he acted like he was mature enough to be in Primary. He was giddy when he was done that he had participated in Primary, and I was a proud mother.

Bed Head

Oh the hair dilemma...... Not long enough to cut or style, not short enough to be manageable. What to do?????

It looks good in the morning after her bath, but then as soon as she takes her first snooze its all over, and if that snooze happens to come in her car seat then we really have quite the doo.

On Saturday part of it stood straight up, while another part was mashed flat. We were seriously scary!

Happy Birthday Katie!

Katie turned One today! Its hard to believe its been a year, its also hard to believe how much she has grown and changed in a year. Here are a few of her thoughts on the day.

"It's bright, its pretty"

"Wow look at my haul, Lauren and Mark will be jealous."

"And they didn't think I knew how to unwrap a present!"

"Its good to have an older sister to teach you how to play with your toys."

"I really liked all the books I received."

"I got this really cool quiet book from Arianne. Can't wait until church, finally something to do."

"Daddy, he is a useful guy."

"Look at my cool cupcakes."

"I'm not sure I understand, but I am getting lots of attention, and they are singing some weird song"
"Frosting and sprinkles are great!"

"The most efficient way to eat is to jam it all in at once."

"That was delicious."

The Dance

I firmly believe that the true test of parental love is shown by attending a dance recital, a piano recital, any sports activity, or school function. It is two hours of sheer agony for 10 minutes of joy. Couple that with taking siblings to said function and it is the ultimate test of parental commitment.

Thursday night Lauren had a dance recital. There were 12 numbers and she preformed in two. Hence the excruciating pain of having to watch 10 dance numbers that did not involve my child. Although I do have to say the dance recitals are far more tolerable for me than piano recitals. Rick has the opposite problem.

I arrived early in order to get a good seat that was stroller accessible because I had Katie and Mark with me. Rick was joining us later. Apparently other parents had the same idea about arriving early, but not so much for stroller placement as for video camera, complete with tri-pod, placement. (Note: I do have a video camera, its never been out of the box, and even if I did get it out of the box then I would have to learn to use the dang thing. There’s a special place in heaven for mother like me.)

Upon arrival Mark and Katie began to observe. The dancing girls were practicing on the stage, which captured Katie’s attention, and two boys around the age of six were running around chasing each other which captured Mark’s attention. He told me they were being “naughty.” I agreed. Then Mark proceeded to try to stop the two boys from running and chasing by saying “Hey boys your being naughty don’t do that.” He was given the stink eye by the boys and ignored, which only egged him on more, and made him yell at them louder. Meanwhile Katie demanded to be let out of her stroller, and promptly grabbed the program, violently whipping it out of my right hand, into her waiting paws, and in the process the paper made contact with my lips resulting in a paper cut. FYI a paper cut on the lips HURTS.

Rick arrived and the recital started. We tagged teamed for the next hour between the two kids, while trying to watch Lauren for the brief period she was on stage. The struggle was worth every minute of enjoyment I received from watching Lauren. She was outstanding. In the past Lauren has not been real confident in her dance. During this recital she danced like a seasoned veteran. She smiled, followed the music, and had fun. We are thinking about ballroom dance next year!

The Third Child

It must be tough to be a third child. I will never know, I was the oldest and received all the attention, praise and glory. By the time my parents got to my sisters Arianne and Ciarran, who are children number three and four respectively, there was nothing left, I had sucked it all out. They are still bitter about this. Well as Katie’s first birthday approached I set out to find her a present. Now keep in mind Katie has divorced all her current toys, and is seeking only to play with Mark’s toys, Lauren’s toys, or anything she can pull out of a cupboard, drawer, or the refrigerator. As I cruised the isles at Toys R Us in search of the perfect birthday present, nothing was jumping out at me saying “I’m perfect” for your one year old daughter. They were either toys with noise, which I oppose on moral grounds, toys that were completely boring, toys that had no purpose, or toys we already owned or owned a version quiet similar.

I begin to ponder, would it really be that bad to not purchase a birthday present for Katie? She is only one, she will never know. I began to fantasize that I could place baby toys in front of her, stage it with a little wrapping paper, take a picture and she will grow up believing she was showered with gifts. It would save me money, save me having to wrap anything, and save me a useless toy that she would never play with. Could I really get away with it, would Lauren nark me off when Katie was older? (The answer to that question is obvious, Lauren is a first born, it is her job to right injustice.)

Then I rounded the corner of the isle and saw it, a plastic shopping cart. I was perfect. Just last Sunday I saw Katie pushing a box on the floor walking behind it. Oh the fun she would have with a cart, and she could put stuff in it to boot. I purchased my cart, and set off to home to wrap and enjoy the bewilderment on my child face as she tried to figure out what to do with a wrapped present on her first birthday. Lucky for her she has two older siblings who are well versed in birthday presents to guide her along, which is why it is good to be a third child.

Officer 3178

Last Thursday was a crazy morning. Lauren had to be to school by 8:50 a.m., Mark had to be to pre-school by 8:55 a.m. and I had to be at the church by 9:00 a.m. for our tour of the Humanitarian Center, which Katie was accompanying me on. We marched out the door at 8:45 a.m. and I was feeling quite proud of myself for getting all three kids bathed, dressed and fed, plus myself looking socially acceptable, and the kids buckled securely in the car at our scheduled departure time. I had even remembered Lauren’s homework, Mark’s homework, Katie’s bottle and diaper, and the directions to the Humanitarian Center. Plus a diet coke to boot. I proceeded cautiously down the hill, because the Provo Police Department likes to prey upon unsuspecting mothers in a panic to get their children to school. (How do I know this? I have been their unwilling victim.) As I rounded the corner on the hill I saw the familiar police car parked waiting for a victim. Never fear I would not be their victim today. Lauren successful dropped off at school, check. I proceeded from the school down Canyon road, the road perpendicular to where I had seen the police officer, who by the way was still fishing for unsuspecting mothers. A short distance from the school was a lighted school crosswalk. The cross walk was being manned by a Provo City Parking officer, however a Provo City Police officer was parked right next to the parking officer. I slowed cautiously through the school zone, to well below the posted limit of 2o mph. I would not be a victim today. Down Canyon road I traveled for about a quarter of a mile until I turned on the residential street leading to Mark’s pre-school. As I approached Mark’s pre-school, I happened to glance in my rear view mirror and saw the oh so familiar flash of red and blue lights. I stopped two houses away from Mark’s preschool. What in the world had I done? I knew I was not speeding, there was no one in the cross walk when I entered it, I had used my turn signal, why was I being harassed?

Officer 3178 approached my car and asked if I knew why he stopped me. Years of prosecuting has lead me to know that in any given traffic stop these are the first words out of the officer’s mouth. I said “I have no idea.” He asked me if I knew my registration was expired. Now technically I knew it was expired, but I decided to play the dumb blonde card, and said “no.” I felt no guilt about this because my registration was only expired by FIVE weeks, 38 days to be exact. I don’t consider, and neither should any reasonable law enforcement officer consider, a registration to be expired until it hits the 60 day mark. Furthermore if said reasonable law enforcement officer is going to stop a vehicle for an expired registration within 60 days after its expiration it should result in a warning, not a citation. Apparently the Provo City and I do not see eye to eye on this unwritten rule. Officer 3178 then says to me “Well your husband probably didn’t realize it was expired and re-new it for you.” Now I had several choices in how to respond to this comment, I could

1. Continue to play the dumb blonde card

2. Tell the officer that I was incredibly insulted that he would assume I was not capable of renewing my own registration.

3. Start screaming and yelling that he was a fascist, sexist, pig who needed to go track down real criminals and quit preying on mothers who are driving the speed limit, stopping at cross walks, secure their children safely in vehicles and simply did not have time to re-new a registration, because have you seen my to do list for the last 38 days? Talk to me on June 1, when it has been 60 days, then I will see what I can do about it.

I opted for #1. Going to jail for obstruction of justice just had not been penciled in for the day. I continued to sit in my car, while he sat in his. I assumed that he was probably checking my license, etc, and would be back with a warning. Meanwhile EVERY parent who has a child that attends Mark’s pre-school drove by, and stared wide-eyed at the still flashing lights Officer 3178's car, wondering what heinous act I had done to receive his wrath. I wanted to get out of my car and yell as they were dropping off their children “I am not a criminal, I am not a traffic violator, my registration is expired, and he won’t cut me a break.” After suffering the humiliation of EVERY parent seeing me at the hands of Officer 3178, he returned with a ticket, and informed me I had 14 days to re-new the registration on my vehicle if I wanted the ticket dismissed, plus once I got the registration renewed I had to go to the courthouse and show my renewed registration in order to get the ticket dismissed. I could not believe it. I really wanted to say to him “Are you kidding, you are giving me a ticket for a registration that is expired by 38 days! Then you want me to correct it in the next 14 days and make a trip to the courthouse? Have you seen what my May calendar looks like? Are you sure we can’t talk about this in June? “ Instead I opted for “Thank you, I will take care of this.”

NOTE TO SELF: Add emissions test, safety inspection, registration renewal, and trip to court house on to do list in the next 14 days. Remove sleep from said list.

Bugged by Bugs.

Recently Lauren came home from school and announced that her first grade teacher told the class that more people die from bees than from sharks. Now I can appreciate the teacher trying to calm the student’s fears about killer shark attacks, but has she looked at a map lately? We live in Utah, it is a land locked state. The likelihood of coming into contact with killer sharks is minimal, baring California and Nevada falling into the Pacific Ocean. Now the likelihood of coming into contact with bees, wasps, or any other insect with wings, that is known to frighten young children is significant. So as soon as Lauren told me this, knowing her healthy sense of self preservation, I knew panic attacks would soon ensue at the site of any flying bug. I wanted to throttle the teacher.

A day or two later at breakfast Lauren saw a moth on the ceiling, and wanted to know if it would bite her. I assured her that it would not, but she cautiously watched the moth the entire time she ate. Then later she and Mark decided to scream and yell at the top of their lungs while inside the house. I instructed them to go outside and told Lauren that when school was out this summer if she and Mark continued to make all sorts of commotion in the house I was going to send both of them outside and lock the door. She broke down crying and said “You can’t do that there are bees outside.” My point exactly.