Five months

Some serious drool; she's definitely teething.

Just last week Audrey hit another big milestone. Watch, and she'll show you.

Ready, set...

...flip! Still a bit surprised by her new talent.

Those eyes look like they're gonna stay blue!

Forget those girls in white dresses (with blue satin sashes)

Just for fun (and because I'm up way past my bedtime), let's count down Jimmy's ten favorite things...

#10: "Tiger" cheese

#9: Trucks

#8: Scrambled Eggs Super! by Dr. Seuss

#7: Trains

#6: Spiderman

#5: Sprinklers

#4: Ice cream

#3: Kitties

#2: Anything Star Wars, but in particular Lego Star Wars for Wii

and finally, #1 ...

It's great to be four, to be young and easily satisfied. (Oh, and #7 may explain why Jimmy thinks "train" is the magic word, because "please" does not appear anywhere in his top ten.)

Incandescence

Grown cold, embers pale
ashen husks separate
then scatter with

a breath, a touch

gently fans one
faltering flame to fervent
all-consuming fever.

What's in a name?

Let's take a little journey back in time. Back to long before Jim and I were even expecting, back to one of those times where I was supposed to be working hard at my job but was, instead, sticking it to the man by daydreaming about baby names and surfing the endless proliferation of baby namer websites. (Shh! That can just be our little secret, okay?)

One of my searches turned up a hit for the Utah Baby Namer website. Pure gold. Not that I would ever name my own kids any of those names, but I couldn't stop laughing, especially when I read "The Cream of the Crop" list. I lived in Utah, and could swear I have actually met some of the people with those names.

So, if you're searching for more evidence to add to the pile that Mormons are way too weird for the Oval Office, or if you just want a good laugh, check it out. Turns out "Mitt" is pretty normal compared to some of the things other Mormons name their kids. (Oh, and Mitt's first name is actually Willard. I think I'd go by "Mitt", too.)

Goodbye, President Hinckley

A few minutes ago we got a phone call from Jim's sister Anna, who lives in Salt Lake City, to let us know President Hinckley passed away earlier this evening. (For my non-Mormon readers, Gordon B. Hinckley was the president and prophet for the Mormon church from 1995 to 2008.)

While I've never met him face-to-face, I have fond memories of him.

Shortly before Jim and I married, I got a job working in the motor pool at the Church headquarters in Salt Lake City. At the time I was living in Provo and going to school in Orem, but I could make better money in the city, so I commuted sixty miles on the bus every day. My favorite memory of the motor pool job was when President Hinckley's bodyguard showed up one cold January morning in my office, down on the lowest level of the underground parking garage.

During the winter months, I had a standing order to keep three of our SUVs on reserve for the members of the First Presidency, of which President Hinckley was the first counselor at the time, so the leaders could get around safely in the inclement driving conditions. Our three newest SUVs were all Ford Explorers, and the newest of those was a freshly minted dark green model. We also had a red one and a blue one, both a few years older but nicely maintained and perfectly serviceable. When weather got nasty, security staff for each of the First Presidency would come down and pick up their keys; I always handed them out without any thought as to who got which vehicle.

That particular morning, President Hinckley's bodyguard stood in front of my desk, smiled affably, and pleasantly asked me if the green Explorer was available. It was. He then explained (in the meekest manner imaginable) that while President Hinckley in no way expected preferential treatment, the green Explorer was his favorite, and he wondered if it would be possible to reserve it for him for the remainder of the winter.

It was, and I did.

Thank you for all your humility, humor, and hard work, President Hinckley. You will be missed.

Benched

Mercifully, not me. Since Monday, after I finally got a full night of sleep, I've been on the mend.

No, I'm talking about my son. Just moments ago I was sitting here at our dining room table, checking my email on the laptop and I heard a springy sort of noise behind me. I turned around and caught Jimmy in mid-jump above our couch. He was looking in the other direction at first, but then turned, looked me right in the eye, and kept on jumping. So. Flagrantly. Defiant. In a quietly deliberate how-far-can-I-push-this sort of way.

Granted, our couch is no prize. In a far distant past, it was textured tone-on-tone beige (in spite of my best efforts to persuade Jim to not buy a white couch, he prevailed). Countless juice stains and dirty footprints later, Jim calls it our "ghetto couch". When we get our tax return in a couple weeks, the full amount is earmarked to buy... wait for it... a new couch. The main justification for our furniture-jumping ban is that our home's hardwood floors, built-in woodwork with sharp corners, and cast-iron wood burning stove with brick hearth all create a rather hostile environment for young would-be acrobats.

Despite its questionable success in real life, we operate by the "three strikes" principle at our house. After the third strike, Jimmy gets a four-minute break (basically the same thing as a "time-out") to help him calm down and get ready to behave appropriately again. Unless we are away from home, he stands in a corner of the small hallway between our dining room and the first floor bathroom with his nose to the wall. I had reminded him of our "no jumping on the furniture" rule at least twice already today, and so to the corner he went.

I know, what kind of mean mom am I, with no special "time out" chair? Me and Jim are kind of old-school when it comes to discipline. The hall corner is an ideal spot because it's out of sight from most of the action and with no visual stimulation but bare white walls and ugly green carpet, it's bo-ring. Busy kid that he is, lack of stimulation is an extremely effective discipline for Jimmy.

Most of the time. I've got to admit: I remember the thrill of a good, springy couch myself, and the four year-old me would have put my son to shame as an instigator for rule-breaking. Sometimes it's worth the cost to ask forgiveness rather than permission. But don't tell Jimmy I said that.

Calling in sick

My nose is dripping like the leaky faucet in our downstairs bathtub. I feel like I'm breathing under water, and I can't stop sniffling and sneezing. My throat feels like it was shredded. For the last few nights I've been waking up coughing at three in the morning and can't get back to sleep again. I look like death nuked on high for two minutes, then forgotten in the microwave for a few hours.

I'm just grateful my kids already had this and I have a sweet husband who ran to Taco Del Mar and got me fish tacos last night when I was too wiped out to make dinner. Jim, you're my hero.

Can I go back to bed now?

He's not heavy, he's my brother

It's true. Lee got all the skinny genes in the family, but we still love him anyway. And since today is his birthday, here's a shout out to my little brother.

I have so many great pictures of him (the one from our trip to Mazatlan with the iguana on his head? the one of him doing his dishes in his bathtub in St. Petersburg? the one of the "train wreck" on his tongue at my mission farewell party?) but if I had to choose just one, it would be one of us together, above. This was at the Salt Lake airport, circa 1993, less than a year after I got home from my mission, and as he was leaving to Russia for his. I was so proud of him.

Lee is one cool dude. He's laid back, funny, and loyal. He's a pilot and a runner. He loves U2, Ren and Stimpy, and Calvin and Hobbes. He's a wonderful dad and husband. We've had to share a bedroom twice (right before I left on my mission, and right before he left on his), and we still get along (even after that one time I rearranged the furniture while he was working at Domino's and he got home at three in the morning and tripped over everything in the dark).

Back in the day before our family got so big we had to share a room, we had this weird arrangement where he had to go through my bedroom in order to get to his. But he was always considerate and respected my privacy (except for that one time his best friend was over and they came barrelling up the stairs while I was dressed only in a towel). On Saturday nights, we'd run to the supermarket down the street, get a two liter bottle of Cherry 7-Up and a bag of Doritos, and hole up in his room watching SNL on a 13" black and white TV with rabbit-ears antennae. Good times.

Now he lives in Utah, works out of Wyoming, and we haven't watched SNL together in decades. That's okay, because SNL isn't as funny as it used to be.

Happy birthday, bro!

Leaving

I'm leaving home today
I've packed safely away
each possession, some to take with me
and some that have to stay.
Boxes full of treasure
memories to measure
from childhood, so long ago
some full of pain, some pleasure
heirlooms of my youth passed by
each is laid (with a sigh)
gently in its place until
the box is full; then I
begin to pack the things I'll take
hopes I cherish, plans I make
as I sail toward future dreams, leaving
the memories in my wake.

Sad but true

It's pathetic, I know: as of 7:50 a.m. today, I still have not taken down my Christmas tree. Unfortunately, I can no longer use the excuse of being too busy taking care of sick kids because neither of my kids have been sick for a few days now. Jimmy and I did get the ornaments put away on Thursday, and I promise I will get to the tree.

Today.