And so it begins

I always figured I had at LEAST a good ten years before my kids started being embarrassed by me. Not so, apparently.

Last week, I had on my early morning ensemble of sweats and a ponytail and was ready to head out the door to take Riley to school--which, by the way, begins at the horrid hour of 7:55 a.m.

Riley looked at me and said, "Mom, don't you want to wear sumpin' more pretty."

To which I responded: "Nope, I'm good."

To which he responded: Well, don't you want to make your hair look nice? You're 'posed to look nice for school."

Ouch.

To Riley's credit, I guess I can kind of see where he's coming on this one. I never bother getting dressed up just to drop him off. And when I pick him up, I'm usually coming from the gym. His teacher has seen me in actual clothes and make-up maybe five times. She probably thinks I'm a crazy bag lady.

To make up for my lack of PTA-momness, I decided to volunteer at Riley's school library book fair. I didn't mention to him that I was going to be there, and I just knew he was going to be oh so very excited to see me. After all, I was wearing actual non-pj clothes and even some make-up. Nothing to be embarrassed about there, right?

Wrong. Riley walks in the door, and I very giddily try to get his attention. "Riley, Riley!" I'm waving my arms and it may be possible that I'm beaming. Riley looks right at me. Then he looks away. And then he proceeds to completely ignore me for the next five minutes.

The humiliation was worsened by the well-meaning grandmotherly lady beside me who had witnessed the whole scene. She kept clucking her tongue and uttering phrases like, "They grow up so fast."

Then, just before the book fair was over, Riley fell down and skinned his knee and came running to me as fast as he could. (And yes, I do realize my child is possibly the only kid on the face of the planet who can manage to injure himself in a library). I was tempted to give him a dose of his own medicine and turn up my nose and find some other kid to hug. But I didn't because, well for one, that probably would have gotten me arrested. AND Secondly, I guess I'll take what I can get.

Germs, what germs?

Lately, I am turning into a little bit of a germaphobe.

Mostly, I blame it on swine flu. And Riley. It's pretty hard to stop thinking about germs being EVERYWHERE when you have a four-year-old boy who is always picking his nose or scratching his bottom (Note to reader: for some mysterious reason, Riley seems to think the scratching of the bottom can only be properly performed without the troublesome barrier of pants or underwear).

We've had the germ talk before, Riley and I. And I used to be under the illusion that some of it was sinking in, that maybe, just maybe, I could stop being the hand sanitizer nazi and have a chance at a normal life again.

Those hopes were pretty much dashed yesterday. Riley informed me that he had to go "poo"---Lucky for me, he always lets me know, and in those exact delightful words, usually as I'm about to take a big bite of dinner.

Anyway, Riley went to the bathroom and when I could hear that he was done, I decided I better intercept him and do a quick hand check.

Me: "Hey buddy, let me see those hands. Did you get them good and clean?"
R: "Yeah, mommy. They're weal clean." (yep, he still has a speech impediment.)
Me: Grabbing hand.."Let me see. Wait just a minute, they aren't even wet. And why is your hand all balled up like that?"
Me: Prying open Riley's fingers... "Is your hand full of teddy grahams? Why would you take Teddy Grahams to the bathroom?"
Riley: "They're just weally super e-licious and I didn't want Ashy to eat them. I just weally, weaally, like them."

For those of you who are wondering how an uncordinated four-year old can manage to hoist himself off the toilet, wipe properly, and zip up his pants one-handed and without any cross-fecal contamination of the teddy grahams, let me solve the mystery for you: It Can't. Be. Done.

Good thing they sell hand sanitizer in bulk.

In other news...

After a very, very, very long hiatus I have decided to rejoin the blogosphere. At least until I get tired of it again---which, to be honest, is likely to happen sometime in the next couple of weeks.

Too much has happened around here in the past six months to cover it all, so I'll just hit the high points. Let's start with me, me, me, me. I have been really into running lately.

I honestly never thought I would hear those words come out of my mouth. Or technically, see them on my computer screen after my fingers typed them. For the past couple of months, my friend Judith and I have been training for a half-marathon (which, by the way, is now right around the corner.)

Two months later, and I've learned some pretty important things. 1-Jogging makes your behind huge. Seriously. No one warned me about this phenomenon, and I'm not sure how I feel about it. Apparently, rumor has it that the general male population likes some junk in the trunk, which is kind of weird but whatever. But it just makes me feel unbalanced (physically, not mentally.) 2- If your prior lifetime running experience consists of a half-dozen fun runs and then you jump immediately into training to run 13. some-odd miles, you are likely to be really, really, slow. Pathetically slow.

In preparation for the half, I ran the 9.3 mile Tulsa run on Halloween. Halfway though, I was going strong and feeling pretty darn good about myself. Then, I glanced up and noticed I was being passed up by a fireman in full-out uniform, complete with a huge oxygen tank strapped to his back. I give you permission to call me speedster, if you want.

In other news, this guy:

... is now one. His birthday was like two months ago, but since I haven't posted since May, I feel like I've got to mention it somewhere. He is still as good-natured as can be but refusing to walk. I'm thinking he might have a little bit of a lazy bone in him. Pretty sure he got that from me.

And this guy:


......is now a certified school boy. He goes to Pre-K four hours a day and by all accounts appears to be doing quite well. They haven't kicked him out yet, so that's got to be a good sign right? Between music and gym, lunch time, and two recesses, I'm not sure how much actual learning takes place, but he loves it and that's all that matters. After all, what are our tax dollars for if not the amusement of our children?


I guess that pretty much wraps things up.

Oh yeah, the hubby. Guess I should mention him. Sam is enjoying being a third-year medical student and all of the responsibilities that go with it. He is rotating in the hospitals and doing doctorly-ish chores. Can you believe they actually gave him a scalpel and let him cut some sort of growth off of someone's face? He's almost a real doctor now. We only have to wait approximately six more years before we start making money to speak of.

Sam is also really, really, really looking forward to the ward Christmas party, where our family has been asked to sing "I want a Hippopautamos for Christmas." No matter what he says or how much he complains, I can secretly tell he is mega excited about it. I bet he's secretly choreographing a dance routine.

That pretty much wraps it up for now. Stay tuned for additional updates.

It's the circle, the circle of liiiifee

Today, I was able to spend my mother's day with two of the most important gals in my life: my mom and my grandma. And although I'm not glad of the circumstances that brought us together --my grandma had a stroke so my mom flew in to help--I was especially grateful, on this day of all days, to be able to observe the commitment to motherhood that these women have always had.
Mother's days always leave me waxing a wee bit contemplative, and promising to be more patient and enjoy the journey a little more and worry about the things that don't matter a little less. With examples like these, maybe I'll actually be able to keep that promise.

Please ignore the fact that Riley appears to be (and most likely is) licking my grandma in this photo and that my grandma is also sprouting an arm from her ear. My newly-cut and still-confusing-to-style bangs looked good in this picture, and that's all that really matters.

Hope you all had a great mother's day! I also have to give a shout-out to my hubby for my yummy mother's day breakfast, bookstore gift card, and Sunday nap. Oh yeah. Too bad the next mother's day is an entire year away.

Winter's Last Hurrah

For the past few weeks, it's been all green grass and chirping birds around here. But Saturday, we woke up to this:


Six inches of new snow! I'm not sure how my blossoming perennials felt about that, but a certain three-and-a-half year old sure was excited. And luckily, we have some neighbor boys who were all too willing to roll around in the snow with the Riles, while I sipped my hot cocoa and watched through the window.




Winter, it was a fun good-bye party, but please don't show your face around here again until next year.

And this is why I have babies...

They are so Yummy. Especially when they aren't screaming bloody murder.

Props and a big thank-you to my good friend Lacey and her amazing photog skills. You can check out her photo blog here:

Little Picasso

My lack of artistic ability is legendary. When I started kindergarten, my stick figures could hold their own, but unfortunately my talent continued to stay at that same level for the next 20 years. By the time I got to junior high, I'm pretty sure I made my art teacher question his career path on a daily basis.

So nothing thrills me more than the fact that Riley seems to have not taken after me when it comes to art. The kid is down right obsessed with drawing these days. I'm not ashamed to admit I think he might already be a better artist than me. Okay, so maybe i'm a tiny bit ashamed.

Here's a sample of some of his latest work. They are available for viewing at the McMurry Art Gallery. Price of admission is only $20 dollars-ish.

This is a duck, hovering over a pond, in case you can't tell. Not the best pic, but trust me. It's a thing of beauty.


A self-portrait of Riley getting his yogurt out of the refrigerator.
Some sort of rocket. I may possibly have taken the photo upside down but I can't be sure.

Last week when we were at the doctor's office, the doc was flipping through Riley's art book and came across this little beauty:
The following conversation ensued.

Doc: Wow, these are really good. Especially that helicopter. That's pretty amazing.
Me: Umm, well I actually drew that last one. Except for the smiley face pilot.
Doc: Hmmm... Well, the Kid must take after his dad, right?

Rub-A-Dub

I'm not totally sure Asher was enjoying his bath, but here's some pictures for the Grandma's anyway.

You did what now?

So maybe I'm just a follower, but I saw this on Natalie and Fig's blog and decided I loved it and wanted to copy it.

Dear Coma Guy: I'm sorry I stole some candy out of your hospital room when no one was looking.

Dear Sister # 1: I'm sorry I tricked you into watching the "Changling" with me and then scared you half to death by climbing under your bed and banging on your bed poles in the middle of the night.

Dear Sister #2: I'm sorry I shot you with a bb gun and then told everyone it was an accident. I'm actually pretty sure I did it on purpose.

Dear Brother: I'm sorry I kept my mouth shut that one time when mom was cutting your hair, slipped, and shaved your neckline halfway up the back of your head. It wasn't until a few weeks later, when your hair was growing back in ugly patches, that you finally discovered why everyone had been laughing at you.

Dear High School Self: I'm sorry that I had no idea how to fix your hair, your make-up, or dress you in a semi-fashionable manner. I'm also sorry I made you play the french horn in the pep band.

Dear Boyfriends #1, #2, and #3: I'm sorry I had the emotional maturity of a second-grader and decided that simply ignoring you was an acceptable method of breaking up.

Dear Trevor from BYU-Idaho: I'm so, so, so sorry that I hid in the closet when you came to pick me up from our date.

Dear Television: I'm sorry you have to work so hard. One of these days I'll give you a nice long break.

Dear Riley: I'm sorry the television is your surrogate mother.

Dear Fig: I'm sorry Riley threw fruit salad on your wall during dinner.

Dear Puerto Rico: I'm sorry I never made it to see you last summer like I promised. One of these days, I'll be there.

Dear Husband: I'm sorry I wore old lady pajamas on our wedding night.

Dear Mom: I'm sorry I bought you a book one year for Christmas about how to have successful family relationships. I have no idea why I ever thought that would be a good idea.

Dear Mother-In-Law: I'm sorry I cried to Sam that first summer after we were married and practically lived at your house that I was sick of eating PB and J and I needed some fruits and vegetables. I'm doubly sorry that Sam went to you and told you to start cooking meals for me after you got home from a long, hard day of work. I promise, I never asked him to do that.



Ahhh....I feel so much better.

It's about time

Christmas---despite my lack of enthusiasm for posting the pictures---was fabulous! We spent almost the entire break in Utah and Colorado, surrounded by friends, family, and lots and lots of snow.

I'll try to recap the whole thing in as few words as possible.



Pre-departure, there was the ugly sweater competition with friends.


At my mom and dad's house, Riley discovered puppy love. Asher was mighty relieved that big brother had someone else to poke, nuzzle, and lug around.

See, doesn't he look relieved?



Then, we drove to Colorado in a blinding blizzard to spend Christmas day at my sister's house. We dressed the kids up to re-enact the nativity scene and Joseph had a grand old time wiping his mascara beard on everything in sight.



Then, Mary and Joseph started fighting over who got to ride the donkey. Jospeh won.


Finally, after much prodding, Joseph decided it would be all right to share.


Baby Jesus took everything in stride.

Then, I made the boys pose for some Christmas photos. I love how Asher has the exact same look on his face in all the pictures.

"Gee mom, I thought we discussed this. You said you weren't going to let this guy hold me anymore."

"Ummmm, mom...."


"I really don't have a good feeling about this."

Then, we drove to a ski resort in Colorado and met up with all our Okie family and stayed in a beautiful condo, courtesy of my Grandma.

There was lots of family bonding time.

Makeovers....
Learning to ski....

And doing the "Bye, Bye, Bye" Dance while on skis (Although I have no memory of this, I can't figure out what else I would have been doing that would make me look so lurpy.)


Good times.

Intrepid Reporter

Now that my days are pretty much plumb full--what with trying only semi-successfully to keep the Riles from shoving his morning cereal into the baby's mouth--I've had to quit my part-time, work-from-home job.

You see, I am a freelance reporter. Er, was. And truth be told, I kind of miss it. (Except for the hair-pulling stress fest that happened every week because I procrastinated and had to scramble like a madwoman to meet my final deadline.) A part of me liked being able to identify myself as a working girl. When someone asked if I had a job, I liked being able to say, "I'm a correspondent for a newspaper back in Utah."

It sounded impressive enough, as long as no one asked any questions. But unfortunately, people usually did ask questions, and I either had to answer them or stare at their face for awhile and then run away. When I did answer them, the convo usually went something like this:

Q: How big is the newspaper you write for?
A: Well, we cover a middle-of-nowhere area with a handful of small towns whose population combined still wouldn't equal that of a semi-respectable metropolis.

Q: How many people read your stories?
A: Four. An editor, my mom, grandma, and on extremely special occasions, my husband.

Q: What kind of stories do you write?
A: If it's something contained in the annals of small towndem, I've covered it. Beauty pageants, county commission meetings, features on Farmer Joe Jr. winning the 4-H competition. All very exciting stuff.

And even though I never reached the Wall-Street-Journal employment status that I envisioned when I decided to be a journalist, I've still had my fair share of rewarding experiences as a small-town reporter. Those aren't very fun to talk about though, so I'll share my most shameful moments in journalism instead.


Goats Gone Wild and Other Unknowns

I still remember the first story I was assigned to write professionally. I was home from college for the summer feeling like hot stuff because I had, like, one entire journalism class under my belt. I strutted into the newspaper office that day wearing my only pair of shoes with a heel on them (Yep, it's true. I had no style. Note to self: You were supposed to work on that).

I was expecting the editor to hand me some terribly exciting crime story. Instead, I was instructed to drive to Ballard and meet Mabel something-or-the-other out in her cow pasture. You see, Mabel's goat had just given birth to quadruplets (or maybe it was quintuplets...I forget which). I was given the oh-so-important task of getting a picture.

So, I made the drive and started trekking through Mabel's muddy field in my only pair of heels. Now, at this point, you're probably asking yourself, "Self, I've never photographed goats before. I wonder if they're cooperative subjects." Let me just clear that up for you. No. No they are not.

I herded those stupid goats around that field for an hour while they ran from me and Mabel laughed. But this was my first assignment, darn it, and I was not going to mess it up. I think the end result was a picture of one of the goats looking at me and the rest of them mooning the camera.

Later that summer, I was also assigned to write a story about a dark, new trend among male teenage athletes. You see, groups of them were, ahem, shaving their legs. I had to immerse myself in this world of teen angst to get the real story.

Why were they doing this? What was their motivation?

I don't have the article in front of me for reference and, surprise surprise, it apparently wasn't deemed worthy enough to make the online archives. But, to the best of my recollection, these are some of the shocking answers I helped reveal to the world.

"Because it feels, like, so totally smooth when I climb into bed at night."

"It helped me shave like 1/980,000 thousandth of a second off my swim time."

On the plus side, at least I have a couple of stories I can add to my resume when I do decide to seek employment at the Wall Street Journal.

Drama Queen

It's good to see that four of the five readers of my old blog made it to the new site. Thanks for following us here.

I guess maybe I have some 'splainin to do about the new address. Awhile back, some weirdy with an unknown number started calling my phone and making extremely unwelcome and disturbing comments. And while I don't think this is the fault of the internet, (oh internet, you know I could never hate you) it did make me decide to be more careful.

As part of my new careful campaign, I figured a blog address that didn't include our last name might be a good idea. So if any of you out there have us on your blogroll, please identify the site as either "The Homefront" or "Sam and Lacey."

In retrospect, the whole freaky experience with my phone caller was probably just some random, sick prank. He appears to have grown bored of me not answering his calls and has found someone else to bother.

But, at the time the calls were coming, it almost pushed me over the edge. I may as well admit, I'm terrified of weirdys anyway. I hate being home alone at night when Sam is gone. I freak out at the tiniest of unknown noises. And, I may or may not be afraid of the dark.

I know, I'm kind of a freak. But at least I'm a freak who is now toting some mace. Now if I can only manage to keep the Riles from spraying himself in the face with it, life will be good.

Sweet Baby Asher,part two

Sweet baby Asher is three months old today. I'm having a really hard time facing up to the fact that my little guy is almost out of the newborn stage. Here are some things you may or may not want to know about him.

--He weighs in at about 14 pounds and has a massive double chin.
--He's a cuddler, a cooer, a sleeper, and a grunter.
-- He frequently smells like baby puke. Maybe his mom, whoever she is, should consider bathing him more than once a week.
--He hardly ever cries. When big brother's loving gets a little too hard too handle, Asher's eyes scream out, "Help me, Help me!" but his lips stay sealed. In short, the heavens seem to have recognized that another, shall we say, strong-willed child would be it for me and procreation. Asher is as mild-mannered as they come. Knock on wood.

When Asher first came home from the hospital, my multi-talented friend Fig came over with her fancy-schmancy camera and took some photos of him for me. Said photo shoot resulted in Asher peeing on five sheets, two pillows, and my blue jeans. Fig and I also about died from laughter at our extreme inaptitude of posing a newborn.

Still, she got some great shots. I know they're two months old, but I still wanted to share.





And here's Asher today, thanks to my multi-talented S-I-L Sarah and her fancy, schmancy camera.

Sweet Baby Asher, part one

We blessed little baby Asher last Sunday in church. Sam gave a beautiful blessing and the day could not have been more perfect. Asher was like, so totally the most popular baby around--lots and lots lots of family were able to travel here for his blessing. Thanks you guys! It made the day really special to be able to be surrounded by everyone we love.

The Two Grandmas

All of us

Me, my momma, and my sis. Love you guys!