A Brave World

Statistically speaking, correlation is not necessarily causation.  But, in the case of the extra fiber added to milk, and the Sunday night shart I got from Abby, I'd say it is.  Keep in mind, Abby often runs around in only her underwear, "Brave" underwear at the current time.  Her underwear are usually baggy, because she has no butt.

In cases like these, it's my usual course to throw away the offending underwear.  Right out to the trash. But, these were new underwear, and Abby would notice they were missing.  So, I cleaned off what I could in the bathroom, then went outside to squirt them down with the high-powered hose nozzle, before I ran them through the wash.  Due to back-splash, it was not a good idea.

It reminded me of the time I was working as a landscape maintenance worker the summer after my freshman year of BYU.  Some of our jobs included 11 churches in the Provo/Orem area.  I was at one of the churches, using a gas-powered weed whip, and whipped right through a pile of fresh dog poop.  It splattered my glasses and face, and sent me running to a house next door that had sprinklers going.  I knelt down at the sprinkler, and scrubbed my entire head off, while gagging.

I'm so glad my mouth was shut.

It Was a Nail-Biter

 The Family Fun Kit Family Night.  It really was fun.  Kate set the kit on the desk in the kitchen, where it's been all week.  

Hmmm.  I thought it was a #10 can full of family fun.  Funny how things like this just jump up and grab your attention like a fire ball, or a streaker.   

This girl has started to chew her nails.  Both finger and toe. 

It's quite serious.  She can't leave them alone.  She even tries to chew my nails.  She'll be sitting on my lap, then notice my fingernails.  "Mom, your finger nail is just a little bit too long.  I need to chew it."  I don't let her.  

Yesterday, Abby was admiring Sarah's green fingernail polish that made us late for church (grouchy Sarah on St. Patty's Day Sabbath, angry that she didn't have any green stuff that she wanted to wear to church, so she started painting her fingernails green at 8:56 am.  Little stinker).  

Sarah's ring finger on her right hand is forever maimed from the door slam of her 13th month that left the tip of her finger removed, and her parents horrified at the dismemberment.  Over the years, we've come to affectionately call that fingernail her "claw."  Since the entire pad of her finger is gone, the fingernail curls over her finger and gives it a claw-like look.  When Abby saw that claw, her eyes got really big, and she begged Sarah all day if she could please chew it.  

Poor Sarah.  Between Abby and the claw, and me and her blackheads, that girl is constantly under attack.  

For the past little while, Neal has been adding a fiber supplement to his milk (the things we do for colon health).   Kate and Abby must equate it to Nesquick, because they are constantly asking for some, like it's a treat.  It makes me chuckle inside.  We'll be at the dinner table, and Abby will say, "Dad!  Can I have some fiber in my milk, please please please?"  Sure.  A little extra fiber can't hurt.  

Actually, it can.  Have you ever had a fiber one bar?    

Segue into the next topic:  In sacrament meeting yesterday, Abby was standing in front of me, facing me, and screwed up her nose and said, in a not very quiet church whisper, "It smells like crap in here." But, lucky for her and me, she didn't act too much like crap yesterday in sacrament meeting.  It's funny, because previous experience would dictate that Jacob, at 17 months, would be the live wire in church.  Nope.  He's settled into a routine and behaves himself quite well.  It's still Abby who flares my acid reflux.  I'm done dealing with her in Sacrament meeting.  Neal and I decided that if she acts up in sacrament meeting, I would get his attention on the stand, and he would take care of her.  

Last week, she got mad at Jacob, pushed him over, then slapped my leg and called me an idiot when I corrected her.  I got Neal's attention, waved him down, and he swooped her up and hauled her little butt out of there.  He was walking so fast, he whooshed the air in the chapel.  Every eye was watching them.  It's not often that the Bishop gets up to discipline his kid.  My dad just recently said, "You guys were pretty good in church when you were little."  Yeah, because you never had to sit by us!  You were always the Bishop and Mom had to pinch us and make us behave.  

Neal took her into his office, stuck her nose in the corner, held her hands behind her back, and gave her a Neal Peton Time-Out Special, Church Version.  It's intense, because he keeps his cool, talks quietly, but holds his ground.  Sarah trained him and helped him perfect his technique.  Oh, the memories of time-outs with younger Sarah.  

After about 10 minutes, they came back in, she sat down quietly, hugged and kissed me and told me "sorry," then sat quietly sucking her thumb for the rest of the meeting.  

For all of the parents in our meeting, I would recommend using the threat of the Bishop to keep your kids in line.  "You'd better be quiet.  The Bishop is watching you.  Remember last week when he swooped in and hauled Abby into his office?  That's part of his job.  Watch out."

Falafel and Such

Great Family Night tonight.  Kate made a "Family Fun Kit" at her Activity Days group.  She taught us a great lesson, then we played charades.  Honestly, it was the first Family Night in a long time, like ever, where someone didn't cry, eye-roll, yell out of anger and frustration, or insult someone.

Before the amazing game of charades, Kate gave us an object lesson on repentance.  She had a plate that was covered in salt.  The white salt represented our clean, sinless innocence.  Then, we sin (sprinkle some dirty pepper on the white salt).  As Kate was sprinkling on the pepper, she explained, "Say we decide to do something bad, like go to a stripper club.  Now, we're not clean anymore!  But, we can repent."

She rubbed a plastic spoon on the carpet to gather some static electricity, then hovered it over the pepper sprinkles.  Wow!  It pulled the pepper away like a magnet! 

Our game of charades was only acted out by 3 people.  Me, Kate and Sarah.  We are the only ones not currently suffering from diarrhea or barfing.  Yet.  The pooper and barfer were still able to participate by sitting still on the couch and guessing.

Neal thought he could sneak into work today and handle himself.  That's what Immodium is for, right?  He needed to drive to Corvallis to do something courty.  Since he was in the area, he decided to stop and visit a client to talk to him about his case.  The client is Lebanese, and owns a restaurant.  Neal really likes the guy, and the guy likes him, so the client said, "You are my great friend! You must enjoy the best we have to offer!  Sit!  Eat!"

Oooooo.  This could be tricky. You know when you're suffering from a little gastroenteritis and you just know when you shouldn't eat certain things?  Today should have been a saltine and gatorade kind of day, but he ended up eating falafel and such.

He barely made it home.

As I was making a coconut shrimp curry dish for dinner tonight, Abby started filling the barf pan.  I aborted that dish and threw it in the freezer.  It was another one of those feelings, "Um, we probably shouldn't eat that if we're getting sick."  We opted instead for macaroni and cheese, oranges, apples, and bananas.  That might be a little more pleasant to barf up in the middle of the night.

A little love from this boy.

Casinobot

 They each have a window at which to keep vigil.  So dedicated. 

A trip through the Costco parking lot that was so wet, I said, "Screw this!  I'm going home to dry out.  I can go to Winco later."

 

 As far as Pacific Northwest winters go, this one has been awesome!  I think I've seen the sun more in this winter than any other.  I'll take that and enjoy it, thank you. 

Have you ever experienced a childhood memory that comes back to you and you find yourself thinking, "What the hell?"  That happened to me the other night.  I was tucking Abby into bed and telling her some stories of when I was a little girl. 

This particular story was about a Christmas we had during one of the lean years the Hansen family experienced.  Being poor in America is totally overrated, by the way.  In retrospect, those were awesome years.  I even asked my parents about those lean years, and they agreed (in retrospect and with wizened, experienced minds eyes), those were some of our best years.   There was certainly a suck-factor, yes.  Especially for my parents, who were struggling with unemployment, lots of kids, and being a very young Bishop.  But it was no Third World suck factor.  It was First World suck factor, and in the whole history of the world, First World Suck Factor is champagne wishes and caviar dreams. 

Back to the story.

It was late Christmas Eve, and the 6 Hansen kids were asleep (the 7th wasn't born yet).  My Mom was reading, and the few presents were under the tree.  She heard the back door open.  At this point, she pooped her pants (not really, but I'm certain clenched her butt cheeks pretty good), and ran down the hall to the bedroom to tell my Dad that someone came in the house.  They went to investigate.  Sitting on the landing were brown grocery sacks, full of wrapped presents with all of our names written in the "to" section, with the "from" section signed by Santa himself. 

It really was a great Christmas that year.  My Mom had her suspicions as to who it was that delivered those presents.  They denied it for years, until just recently before they passed, they finally admitted it was them who treated us to a great Christmas.  My Grandpa Gil and Grandma Ginger, along with Grandmas only sibling, Aunt Barbara, had so much fun going shopping for us all and wrapping all of the presents.  On Christmas Eve, they waited till late, loaded up the white diesel Mercedes with the gifts, and headed out across the valley to make the delivery.  Their plan was to lay them out under the tree.  But when they heard my Mom, they bailed. 

Family lore taught us that there really was a Santa Clause.  How else could we have received all of those gifts in different wrapping paper, with different handwriting? 

I'm pretty sure that was the Christmas that I got the Casinobot.  What the hell?





I had the red one.

Knickerbocker

 "They're knickerbockers!  They never go out of style!"  my Mom said.

"Or, you could call them clam-diggers, Natie.  They're so cute!" added my Grandma Ginger. 

"Ok," I said. 

Then, I wore them to school -- my homemade school clothes that my Mom was so proud of.  I'm sure I did look cute.  But I hated  them.  I cannot stress that enough.  I really did hate and loath that outfit from the 4th grade - blue knickerbockers and a red plaid-ish shirt. 

To make matters worse, we had the fitness test on the day I wore that outfit.  As I ran, my bra strap was showing, and I was so worried about it, I swung my arm around really funny as I ran the 50 yard dash, so that my strap wouldn't show.  I was one of the 2 girls who wore a bra in the 4th grade.  I actually started wearing it in the 3rd grade.  No one could know I had a bra.  I had a hard time with that aspect of growing.  Mr. Burnside and Ms. Pierce were laughing and asked me what I was doing.  I was mortified.  And, my time sucked.  I was not the fastest girl that year.  It took me a long time to get over that.  I was so used to being the fastest girl in the grade, it was a tough pill to swallow. 

Now, I hear myself telling my kids, "They're classic!  They never go out of style.  You look cute.  WEAR IT!!"

Perhaps I'm scaring them.

 The little garage helper. 

 Helping with the kitchen table project.  Oh, the kitchen table project.  Someday, I'll share with you the Allegory of the Kitchen Table.  How it pecked apart at our marriage. . . . but it's still too fresh. 

 

 I love this screen shot of Jake and Kate. 

If I ever forget the sound of Abby when she cries and screams, I need my head checked.  Who am I kidding - I'll never forget.  She is aging me.  Oh, so slowly, she is aging me. 

 

I have a feeling that Abby won't have a hard time accepting the need for a bra.  Just yesterday, she said, "Mom, when I grow up, I'm going to have boob crack just like you."  She said it so proudly.