You Have to Admire the Wholeheartedness of a Three Year Old

Sometimes when Adam says "No," he likes to follow it up, for emphasis, with "Never," spoken in a drawn out, dramatic whisper. This can be especially comical when he changes his mind, as happened this morning.

Me: Would you like milk on your oatmeal?
Adam: No! Never! . . . I mean, um, yeah, I do want milk on my oatmeal.

One Of These Things is not Like the Others

The latch I finally found for the fridge was $3.00 very well spent, but there's still the challenge of training everyone to remember to use it. Here's the smaller, cuter consequence of someone forgetting to latch it today:

I couldn't resist buying the flip flops this morning when Ellen kept holding them out to me and saying, "Uh ahn leppers [want slippers], Mama." And apparently, she couldn't resist putting them in the fridge for safekeeping after we got home.

I won't go into too much detail about the other, less cute consequence, but I will say that what had been on the shelf before the flip flops was a bag of dried apricots, and that Ellen ate most of what was left of them, and that there followed later the steaming of carpets and the soaking of soiled clothes, and a few baths, and a bath "incident" necessitating the bleaching of bath toys -- and I think I've now gone into too much detail.

I Don't Know Why I Continue to be Surprised by the Extent of the Obsession

Adam just set aside his imaginary lightsaber to unexpectedly climb into my lap, put his arms around me, and say, "Mother" in the most affectionate of tones. 

Me:  Aw, thanks for the hug.  I sure love you.

Adam:  I love you too, Padme.

Adam's Own Personal Rorschach Test

Adam, pointing to blot of milk he spilled on the table: Mom, look! This looks just like Mr. Incredible punching someone!

Two Circa 1940 Photographs by Helen Levitt

I'd never heard of photographer Helen Levitt until today's post from the smaller blog. All of her shots in this set are great, but I loved these two images in particular too much not to share them. (No, I have no legal rights to display them on my blog.)



Living with little children, there are innumerable delightful moments that happen and then are gone forever. I take a lot of pictures in a feeble attempt to capture some of it, but my pictures rarely do real justice to the moment. Maybe that's why it makes me so happy to see these perfectly evocative, beautiful images of childhood moments from nearly 70 years ago.

Abducted by a Sofa: One Victim's Story

Last Friday, I couldn't find Adam. Not upstairs. Not downstairs. Not in the backyard. Not at the neighbors' houses where he usually plays. Nowhere to be seen as I searched around the cul-de-sac (or "colder sack," as Zuzu likes to say).

OK. Keep calm. He must be here somewhere. Look downstairs again . . .

walk past the couch on the way to check the backyard again . . .

But wait. Is that a bit of blanket? . . .

Well! I should have thought to look for him asleep, face down, covered with a blanket, smashed behind a couch cushion in the first place, really.

One More Door to Keep Closed

I'm told that some children aren't climbers, but I've never given birth to one of those.

When Life Gives You Lemons (and Limes, and Cilantro), Let Someone Else Make the Lemonade (and the Pico de Gallo)

Friday, Cafe Rio-type salads were sounding good for dinner. So I: seasoned/cooked/shredded the chicken cooked the rice and beans minced the garlic washed/chopped the tomatoes/peppers/onions/jalapenos/cilantro squeezed the lemons/limes blended/bottled the dressing washed/shredded the lettuce mashed the avocados cooked the tortillas assembled the salads set the table

and sat down to dinner, thinking about what a terrific value restaurant food can be.

We finished eating and I: cleared the table loaded the dishwasher packaged the leftovers washed the slow cooker/salad spinner/knives/cutting board/saucepans/blender/electric skillet ran the disposer swept the floor wiped the counters refilled the water pitcher

and went to return it to the fridge, thinking about how my feet hurt and how glad I was to be about to leave the kitchen . . .

and found this magnet of unknown origin* staring back at me.  As if to taunt me.

*Yes, its origin is clear, but it was new to our fridge door. Most likely suspect: Zuzu, pocketer of all things free.

(re)Fridgeraider

While there's food in the fridge, she will not go hungry.

This Post is For You Naysayers Who Don't Think Star Wars Clips on YouTube Count as Educational Media

Adam, to my visiting neighbor: Red and blue make purple.
Neighbor: That's right! You're so smart. How did you know that?
Adam: Darth Vader and Obi-Wan.
Me: Umm . . you know red and blue make purple because of Darth Vader and Obi-Wan?
Adam: Darth Vader's lightsaber is red, and Obi-Wan's is blue, and when they hit . . .

Tulip Festival (If You're Into That Kind of Thing)

Don't bother going out to the Gardens at Thanksgiving Point. Not unless you like stuff like masses of flowers
blooming in a riot of color,

wide open spaces in which to frolic,

grassy slopes perfect for rolling down,

pools and fountains,

idyllic backgrounds for photographing your favorite subjects,

or toddlers who run with their tongues hanging out. (That might have been a one-night-only attraction.)


There's also dappled sunlight, meandering streams, and waterfalls. If you like that sort of thing.

Three Items for Your Thursday Morning Consideration

1) I need to obtain a childproof lock for my fridge before I take any more showers.

2) Being sick is such a waste of a beautiful spring day.

3) The sound of Adam and Ellen making each other giggle wildly in their play is delicious ear candy.

Now That I Think About It, I Can't Believe This is the First Time He's Ever Asked Me to Sew a Bag for Him

One nice thing about sewing is the option of creating that particular thing that you have in mind but can't find. In this case, it was a bag for Peter. Understand, Peter takes his bags seriously. A strong believer in the right tool for the right job, he's on something of a lifelong quest when it comes to finding just the right pack for each of life's gear-carrying situations.

What he's been wanting is a waist pack to wear when he's out on his bike, with just enough space for a spare tube and the tools he carries. After trying this pack and deciding it was still overkill, he finally came up with this highly elaborate pattern for me (note the special, high-tech pattern paper):

which sewed up into this:

Peter provided the webbing, buckle, and heavy duty nylon, leftovers from his own bag sewing days. Yes, he sewed a few mean bags himself back in the day. (Does anyone else find that you and your spouse tended to "specialize" after you got married? He almost never touches a sewing machine anymore and I usually get him to do the things that require power tools. It's just more efficient. I let him install all the Dixie cup dispensers too, and you get points if you know the reference for that inside joke. This parenthetical aside has become considerably longer than the rest of the paragraph.) He cut the black rectangle of grippy stuff from a now-obsolete bag's shoulder strap.

A place for everything and everything in its place. With just enough room left over for a set of keys and a stick of gum.

If You're Zuzu, You CAN Take It With You

Knowing her aptitude for hanging upside down, we require Zuzu to wear shorts under skirts to school.

Me: Zuzu, do you want to wear some shorter shorts that don't show?
Zuzu: No, mom, look! With these, I have SIX pockets in the front. See? One, two . . . (lifts skirt) three, four, five, SIX!

Perfect.

On that note, let me share the contents of her backpack from this morning:

• school papers (including several blank "extras" -- every day she brings home whatever leftover worksheets she can get her hands on)
• froot* roll wrappers
• 5 rocks
• 2 plastic magnifying glasses
• 1 brand new pencil (I can only hope not stolen from her teacher's desk)
• my bodhrán tipper (no, unfortunately I don't play -- my sister sent it to me from Ireland where she was a missionary)
• small tree branches and their dried-up blossoms

After I took this picture, Peter found, in addition, two pairs of clean underwear in another zipper pocket. I was baffled, but she explained they were still there from when she packed for a sleepover at a cousin's house a couple of weeks ago.

You're right if you think this post feels like a rerun.

*Normally I'm not a lover of novelty spelling, but considering the questionable connection of this item to actual fruit, it seemed like the right thing to type.

On Rare Occasions, a Girl Has Better Ways to Spend Her Time than Blogging

Friday, while Peter and a couple of his Footnote homeboys rode Porcupine Rim, I hiked to Delicate Arch.

I love this part of the world. Achingly. Hopelessly.

Sign I'm old #762: I overheard a young woman say to the young man she was with, "It's sick how there's no one here!" and I thought, "But I love how it's not crowded," and "Hmm, does she mean that all this beauty is wasted on so few appreciators?" Then I remembered: sick=something good in Young Upstart Speak. I can't help it, when I hear the word sick, it sounds like a bad thing.

Saturday a group of nine of us (mostly Peter's coworkers) went into Dragonfly Canyon in Arches.

Peter's throwing and catching skills came in handy for getting backpacks, ropes, etc. across a series of potholes full of water. (Once citywide MVP in his baseball pony league, dontcha know.)

He wouldn't throw me across. I had to jump in.

First rappel, just after that last pothole.

Russell and Brent setting up the second rappel.

View from the top.

Walking down the wall.

I am sorry if this is making you ooze with jealousy. If I were reading this post instead of writing it, it would be killing me. I am totally buying flowers for Helen and my Dad for watching the kids so that I could go.

The whole group, after the beautiful hike the rest of the way out to Courthouse Wash. Russell, in the green hat, was our guide and the ropes expert. His wife Molli (in blue) carried a full sized pack of gear the whole way and washed the mud off of my feet with the last of their drinking water. Sure, we were all headed back into civilization and its plentiful water sources, but still.

Every Time You Read a Blog and Don't Leave a Comment, a Fairy Dies

Just kidding.  I'd be the worst kind of fairy-killing hypocrite myself.  I don't leave a lot of comments on blogs -- usually only when I really have something to say.  But I did begin to comment more after starting my own blog, because before then, I had no understanding of how you go crazy for the comments when you blog.  

Before I started blogging, I guess I had this idea -- don't laugh -- that blogging would be more, well, social. In retrospect this is funny. I mean, duh. Me publishing something, alone in my house (actually "alone in my house" is a rare luxury, but you know what I mean), with no idea if or when any stranger might be reading it = not social.  But in fairness to myself, I was coming from my background of reading blogs, that activity where you're looking in on other's lives and reading their thoughts, and that does feel kind of social.  And there is a moment when, as a blogger, the experience can turn into a social one: the moment when someone leaves a comment.

"Houston, we have contact."

I get some statistical reports on my blog through Google Analytics.  The other day I figured out that there are around 260 people who have visited more than 9 times, which kind of blew my mind, even if it's a tiny number in blogospherical terms, because: who are you?  What is your favorite color? Do you like cheese?

A couple of times I've had the experience of running into an acquaintance who I didn't know had ever been to my blog but who makes an insider reference to something they read here.*  And I'm like, wow, all this time that person knew that about my life and I didn't know that person knew that about my life.  It's kind of a bizarre experience to me not to know who knows and who doesn't. How do I keep track?  If I start telling this story to this friend or family member, will she have already heard read it?

So I'm requesting that from now on you will please leave your initials in the comments field after every post you read.  With a link to your full life story.

Just kidding again.  I know some people feel there's something shifty about "lurking" on someone's blog without revealing yourself -- and maybe that's becoming more true with the huge explosion of friends-and-family type blogs -- but I've never been of that mind.  I always figured that was exactly what I'd be signing up for if I decided to publish myself on the internet. 

OK, is it just me, or have I now used the word "blog" enough times to reach that critical mass where a word takes on a life of its own and becomes a strange jumble of sound divorced from meaning?  I'll take that as a cue to end my metabloggy rambling, after this quick summary of what I've written so far:

Blah blah blah BLOG blah blah BLOG blah blah blah blah blah BLOG.

Blog.  Bloggitty-blog, blog, blog.

*One friend I hadn't seen in a while greeted me with, "You're sarcastic.  I didn't know that about you.  I am too."

So Much Descends Upon

Remember a couple of days ago when I posted pictures of blossoms under snow? Turns out, that was nothing. Turns out, the storm system was only taking a breather, gathering strength for the real show. It started coming down again Wednesday evening, and Thursday morning, we awoke to this. On April 16th.





Peter took this picture last Sunday. He called it "So Much Depends Upon."


He titled this one, taken on Thursday, "So Much Descends Upon." Every day that man gives me new reasons to be proud I'm married to him.


I know at least one person who's thrilled about the crazy weather. Last night he was down in the garage, mounting bindings and putting wax on his brand new telemark skis. And today he was taking advantage of the free-after-3:00 p.m. policy at Alta.

My Schizophrenic Friend Named Utah Valley Spring

2007 Easter Dresses

This year for the second year running, I wanted, but didn't manage, to make Easter dresses for my girls, so I'm consoling myself with pictures of the last ones I made, in 2007.

I had this vision in my head of a dress with gathered neckline and sleeve inserts for a couple of years before I made it come true. It came out kind of close to how I envisioned it.


Now I'll treat you to an exclusive behind-the-scenes view of how a typical photo shoot goes down at our house. Witness the quick devolution from picture perfect . . .

into general shenanigans . . .

into pandemonium.

This pattern of behavior is not limited to photo shoots. It's a fair description for most undertakings at our house. Except usually, there's also crying involved.

Also, see pretty Zuzu?

Here's what she was hiding in her mouth the whole time.

If I wrote medical textbooks, I would tell pediatricians-in-training that a blue tongue indicates a child who has recently had gustatory chemosensory exposure to saccharides.