A Jen Too Many

When I was a kid I was notorious for constantly having a book in my hand. (I still do, it's just not as obvious that it's a book, since I keep my books on my PDA now.) I walked home from school, reading all the way. I walked around the house, reading. I even read while I was supposedly listening to my teachers in junior high school, hiding the book under the desk, on my lap (until I got caught by an irate science teacher.)

This morning, Oldest Girl Child was walking around, re-reading her latest library book, Junie B. Jones and the Mushy Gushy Valentime. Every time I turned around, there she was, reading instead of getting ready for school. We had to pry her away from the book in order to do morning scripture study and afterward, when her father was trying to get her attention so that he could ask her to give the family prayer, she replied, "I know, I know, I'm just reading a little bit."

She left the house for the bus stop, nose buried in her book. I couldn't be more proud. That's my girl!

I'm back!

A big Thank You to my baby brother (who is considerably taller than me, but who's measuring?) who suggested that I check the monitor. Yes! It was broken!

Unfortunately, that was not the only thing that was broken.

Another big Thank You to the geeky guy at Geek Squad! When I brought my computer in he told me to call the company that made my computer to order a new recovery disk. He saved me lots of money!

Gateway does not get a thank you. They make you order recovery disks online, a place that is hard to get to when your computer insists on rebooting every time it tries to run Windows. If you happen to be lucky enough to find a phone number for them, you will get sent to various places, told by everyone that they cannot help you because your computer is out of warranty, and then finally told that you have to go online to order the disk because ... your computer is out of warranty.

Thank You to my sister who patiently went through the Gateway website with me, reading to me, typing in as I directed, and who has faithfully promised she forgot my credit card number faster than I read it off to her.

Nothing was lost permanently, thanks to Mozy Backup. Seriously, if you don't have a backup in place, take care of it now! I would have been fine losing most of our stuff, but not the family photos. The very thought makes me hyperventilate.

I have also fixed the oven, just in time for Thanksgiving. It was scary! Very, very scary! I don't like working with wires, which is what you have to do when you replace your bake element. I unscrewed a panel at the back of the oven, pulled the wires forward and then spent quite a bit of time trying to figure out how to detach the blasted element from the wires. Then the new element was a little too lose and I had to try to clamp everything tighter. I am now living in terror that I did something wrong and will wake up to a fire fighter beating at my door some dark night.

Oh - when working with electricity, always remember to TURN IT OFF FIRST. I almost didn't. I was carefully placing the flashlight so the light would shine in the right place. I idly thought how it was a good thing the element was in several different pieces, so that it couldn't come on and melt the plastic flashlight. And then I thought, "Oh. Right. I should turn off the electricity." And then the magnitude of my goof really hit me, and I panicked and became obsessive about making sure the electricity was off. I flipped the breaker for the range off, then turned on all the burners and the broiler element and watched them carefully for 10 or 15 minutes to make sure nothing was heating up.

But I did it! And it worked! Watching the oven element heat up (after I turned the electricity back on) was quite the moment of triumph for me. It feel as competent as my mother.

The context: Driving past the local high school and the technical institute next door.

Oldest Girl Child: (pointing to technical institute) When will I go to that school?

Mommy: Well, that depends on what classes you take in high school. Some classes are over there, like if you want to learn to be a mechanic.

OGC: What school do you go to if you want to cut hair?

Mommy: (firmly) First you have to graduate from high school. Then you can go to a beauty college.

YGC: What school do you go to be a princess?

Mommy: Oh, you don't go to school for that, sweetie. You have to be born a princess. Or marry a prince.

YGC: (extreme disappointment)

When last we left our heroine, she had been dropped into the Paleozoic Era by the evil wiles of Professor Periwinkle! Barely had she stumbled from the chamber of Professor Periwinkle's time machine than she was snatched up by the fearsome Nemicolopterus, and hoisted into the skies to be carted home as an offering to its rapacious offspring! Fortunately for our heroine her struggles proved too great for the creature's grasp and she broke free - only to find herself plummeting through caustic gases toward the crater of an immense volcano that was actively spewing molten lava! We take up our story where we left off ...

"And that, Janet, is how I repaired the time machine, captured Professor Periwinkle, and was reunited with my one true love, who turned out to secretly be a Time Patrol Agent - the same Time Patrol that Periwinkle was seeking to uncreate with his dastardly manipulation of time."

"Golly, Jennifer! What an amazing story! Whoever would have thought it was possible to accomplish such amazing feats of intelligence and physical prowess! And all this from a middle-aged mother of two!"

"Well, thank you, Janet, but I'm nothing out of the ordinary. Why, everything I've done could have been done by any woman with the courage of her convictions, a pure love for her husband and children, and a pocket-sized nuclear device."

"But weren't you afraid of altering the time-stream and forever changing the future?"

"Oh, Janet, that was never a concern! The futuristic Danellian supermen put everything to rights! But enough about me; is this your new pet Tyrannosaurus? What an adorable little thing. Look! He fits right in the palm of my hand!"

Travelin' Oma's School Days Seminar - Day 2 Homework

~Blog about a trip that was a disaster. Ideas: "Our honeymoon should have been perfect, but" or "I woke up in Disneyland with chickenpox."

To be honest, my memory is a little hazy about that trip. Or maybe not hazy. Maybe I've just repressed large blocks of time.

We had gone travelling the previous summer with The Boy Child. I was 7 months pregnant with Oldest Girl Child, huge, miserable, already short of breath. It was only meant to be a day or two, but after visiting Kirtland we thought we'd jaunt on up to Palmyra, and after getting to Palmyra we realized the Hill Cumorah Pageant was going on and that seemed like something not-to-be-missed, so we stayed to see that, and, all in all, it wound up being a week before we got home.

It was a tiring, breathless trip, filled with small mishaps, but also full of wonderful experiences, memories that I still treasure. So, the next summer, it seemed only logical to block out the time to take a trip to Nauvoo to see the temple during its open house.

The trip wasn't all bad. I saw my first fireflies. I saw the place where some of my ancestors lived. Ummmm ...

Give me a second. I'm thinking.

Things went wrong from the beginning. OGC was the sort of baby you couldn't overstimulate. She was never happier than when in the middle of a noisy crowd, a trait that was apparent in her first few days. They was so much to see! Hear! Do! Learn! Even then, she was a raging extrovert.

Which meant that, faced with the stimulation of a trip, she wouldn't sleep. All day long that first day of travel, sitting in her car seat, watching the countryside outside her window, nearly delirious with delight. That night, at the motel, at 2 a.m., with an exhausted sobbing Mommy, who still hadn't learned to let Daddy take over sometimes.

I go blank after that.

The next thing I remember is standing in line to tour Carthage Jail. It was sooo hot. The line was huge. OGC wanted to get down and practice walking. I was Excessively Tired and Not Happy. I left my husband standing in line with the baby while TBC and I went to find a drinking fountain and a bathroom. I looked at several highly memorable and significant Mormon memorabilia with complete indifference, then shuffled back to the line to find my baby running around barefoot. Some ... woman ... had taken it upon herself to remove my infant daughter's footwear. It was too hot for a baby to be wearing shoes! she told me, smiling cheerily at the woman she obviously considered a completely incompetent mother. I was too angry to speak.

... filing through the uppper room at Carthage jail, hot, hot, hot, very crowded, just wanting to get out of there ... driving to Nauvoo, where we parked amid a huge number of cars, then walked and walked to get to the restored cabins ... TBC (or was it his father?) leaving my camera behind at the blacksmith's demonstration and not realizing until much too late that we'd lost it - all our photos, gone! ... getting baby food at some convenient grocery store ... sitting on the floor with an excited baby, so so tired, and too afraid to let her cry herself to sleep, because the noise might get us in trouble with the hotel management ...

The next day it is our turn to take a tour through the Nauvoo Temple. We are short on time when we finally get there, I don't remember why. Realize the baby's wet, ask where is a convenient place to change her. Get blank looks from the volunteers. After much discussion, get directed to a portable restroom, which doesn't alarm me. This isn't the first LDS temple open house I've been to, after all, and the facilities are uniformly clean and sweet smelling. (We put a lot of effort into making these things nice.)

Open the door and walk into the nastiest, filthiest public bathroom I've ever seen. Nowhere to lay the baby down but the floor and I didn't even want to set a foot on that floor, much less my baby. Obviously the volume of visitors has overwhelmed the small Mormon community in the area. Go back to the volunteers. I am worrying about missing the scheduled time for our tour. More confusion and blank looks from the volunteers. Impossible and ridiculous suggestions. I give up (she's only wet) and we get in line.

Ask another volunteer several minutes later, when we are nearly at the head of the line if there is anywhere to change a baby. Well, maybe. Back there? He thinks? Checking it out would mean losing our place in line, possible losing our chance to see the temple, all on the weight of a "maybe". Decide to take my chances with the perceptibly loaded diaper, but feeling increasingly frazzled and unhappy. Not to mention, the baby is heavy. I'd pass her to her father, but if her diaper goes, my dress is easier to clean than his suit.

More waiting in another line. We finally get in the temple. I am too upset and distressed, too worried about the baby's diaper to enjoy the once in a lifetime experience.

And then it happens. The diaper hits critical overload and a long line of liquid splashes down my dress. Luckily the absorbent fabric of my skirt catches it all. The brand new carpet I am standing on (back aching) is safe and dry.

I am ready to burst into tears.

We finish, go back out. See another volunteer, ask again about a place to change the baby. Get directed down a long staircase, to the first bathroom. Back aching, dress stinking, feet hurting, I look at those long stairs, then lose it entirely and give the poor young woman the most venomous glare and refusal I have ever given anyone in my life, frightening her and causing my husband to look at me as if I have lost my mind.

Sit impatiently and angrily through TBC and my husband eating something sweet. Frantic to get back to the car, where I can finally change the baby. Finally, finally, FINALLY!!! get to change the baby. Trying not to be angry on the way back to the hotel. Trying not to ruin the experience for TBC and my husband. Not succeeding.

The baby finally started sleeping a little on the trip back, but I still can't think about that trip without getting angry and weepy over it. And while we'll talk sometimes about the previous summer's trip to Kirtland, no-one ever brings up the Nauvoo trip.

It was years before we traveled for fun again.

I've been reading Kira's blog, Kiwords, for years. Not only is she a brilliant writer, it's a fascinating glimpse into life with little boys, something of which I know very little. (The Boy Child was no longer particularly little when his father and I married.)

In Kira's latest post (about triumphing over a video game that had given her trouble) she says:

"Can I try now?" Raphael wanted to know. "Can I have a turn?"

But no, he couldn't because it was bedtime.

I immediately visualized how a statement like that would go over in my estrogen laden household, and I couldn't help but wonder if boys react anything like girls to being told, "Sorry, but it's bedtime. Fun's over. Go brush your teeth."

Is there an immediate emergency siren-like wail of despair? Stomping? Inadequate teeth-brushing as a way of punishing the mean mommy?

Do they lurch as they stomp, physically overcome by the cruelty of the world until they cannot walk without throwing themselves about, reeling side to side, backward and then forward with every step? Are there slammed doors? Is there earsplitting weeping, sufficient to make the dead wince and cover their ears?

Is there prolonged sulking once the initial dramatics are over? Pouting as they throw themselves onto a corner of the couch, staring blankly at the TV screen? Can you see a recounting of past wrongs done to them flickering across their little faces? Do they slump over with groans of despair and anguish to lie obstructively across the couch so that no-one else can sit down?

Do they yell at their siblings?

Am I going through all this because I have girls, or because I have children? TBC was not inclined to dramatics until he became a teenager. If the girls increase the drama by the same percentage that TBC did ...

Wow. Ummm - can I just go hide in a hole when that happens? Please?

One of The Boy Child's best friends is getting married, so I've been going through the loving couple's online registry this afternoon gauging how much we can afford to spend on a present (and rather surprised at the modesty of their list - the most expensive thing on there is a $100 vacuum.)

Funny story - years and years ago, before dinosaurs walked the earth, I had a roommate who was getting married. She was in college and all our friend were either in college or working for minimum wage. In other words, everyone we knew was as broke as we were. The week she got married there was a sale on drinking glasses (six to a package) at one of the local discount stores. Sure enough, when she was opening presents after the reception she found that she'd gotten 14 dozen sets of glasses! (And boy, wasn't I relieved I'd gotten something else? I actually had considered those glasses ...)

When The Love of My Life and I got married we kept things very small. We weren't even planning on having a reception, but a friend decided we needed to have one and threw us a small open house at her home. We wound up getting something like 10 presents out of it, several of which were broken. It wasn't a statement on anyone's feelings about the marriage, honestly. It was just a funny coincidence. To this day I have a beautiful cobalt blue pottery bowl with a long, thin crack in it that I am very careful to never use for anything heavier than dried flowers.

Do you have any funny wedding present stories? Share them in the comments!

So we wound up getting the new transmission instead of the used one, because we realized we didn't know how many miles would be on an old transmission and what was the use of getting the transmission replaced if we were just putting in something that was also going to run out of miles soon, too?

Which turns out to be a good thing.

Yesterday, driving home from church, the car gave a huge jerk / lurch. I thought I'd hit something - something big, like a log in the middle of the road. I looked in the rearview mirror to try to see what I'd just run over, but saw only the car behind me (way too close - my momentary hitch had caused them to nearly hit me.)

I drove on for a little bit, feeling that premonitory "How expensive is this going to be?" churning inside. Sure enough, when I had to slow down a few blocks later I heard strange noises as I tried to get back up to the speed limit. Which is when I started sending loving thoughts to my fantastic mechanic, who had urged us to get the new transmission with the 3 year / 100,000 miles / all parts and labor covered warranty.

Because it was the transmission. Yeah. The transmission. Not the engine. No, no, no, no, not the engine.

I made it safely home (hooray!) but when my beloved tested the car later he confirmed that I'd been lucky not to be stranded by the side of the road. The car starts, but it won't go into reverse. Or rather, it will shift into reverse, it just won't move. He didn't check to see if it would go forward - we have enough problems without crashing into the house.

All of which leaves me sitting here, waiting for 8 a.m. so that I can call our mechanic and arrange to have a tow truck come pick up my poor van.

It was two weeks to get it back last time. We have 3 1/2 weeks of summer vacation left. So much for fun day trips. I guess we'll spend a lot of time playing in the wading pool, instead.

Unscheduled time is good for kids, right? Right?

The context: The Best Daddy Ever had been gone for a week. Youngest Girl Child cried every day on my shoulder about how much she missed her Daddy. His daily phone calls were momentous occasions and the Ceremony of Crossing Off the Remaining Days was an event not to be missed, lest there be floods of tears and storms of weeping.

Daddy: (walks in the door, home at last)

YGC: (racing up and throwing her arms around his knees) Daddy! (backs up a few steps to be able to look into his face) What did you bring me?

According to Youngest Girl Child, it is impossible for her to sleep, "...because it's too dark." This just scant hours after having told us that she was too tired to participate in Family Home Evening. She was too tired, she informed us, "...because I didn't get enough exercise today."

Recently YGC has taken to staying up until around 11 p.m, which means that at least one of her parents also gets to stay up, as a deterrent to naughtiness and dangerous behavior. (If you have children you have no need to ask, "What dangerous behavior?" If you are unfamiliar with this miniature form of the human species, allow me merely to point out - 1) Complete mobility, 2) No experience to speak of, 3) Judgment that measures somewhere in the negative numbers, 4) A degree of impulsiveness that makes a butterfly look like a tortoise.)

The Love of My Life and Father of My Children has just gone to bed after informing me that, "I'd have had children just for the comedy value." He has been dealing with YGC's excuses ever since her bedtime, while I cravenly escaped to our room, where I spent the evening leisurely reclining upon the pillows, reading science fiction and enjoying myself hugely.

It is 10:30 p.m. Do you know where your children are? Mine is lurking in her bedroom doorway, trying to find a way to convince me to let her come out and watch TV.

The context: It had been a long day and she was tired.

Oldest Girl Child: (sobbing)

Mommy: Honey, what's wrong?

OGC: I don't want my hair to change!

Mommy: What?

OGC: When I get old! My hair will lose its color! (increased sobbing)

Mommy: (goes into a long and rather frantic explanation of hair coloring techniques, the beauties of graying hair, and a rather sheepish explanation that it's simple vanity that has me coloring my gray)

****************

The context: None. This came out of the clear blue sky for no reason that I can discern whatsoever.

Youngest Girl Child: (cheerfully bouncing on the bed) I'm never going to move out! When I grow up I'm going to live with you, Mommy, until I'm dead! Dead, dead, dead!

Mommy: (thinking that she's going to get a nasty shock on her 18th birthday if she doesn't grow out of this idea pretty quickly)

I made a quick run with the girls to the grocery store last Saturday. They were wildly excited about the holiday and, before we'd gotten past the bakery section, were dashing wildly about playing some sort of running and shrieking game. They were admonished once as we passed the deli, twice in the produce, and again when we went down the salad dressing and condiments aisle.

In the soup aisle, I'd finally had enough. I stopped, called them to me (this took a few repetitions) and calmly pointed out that, although the prospect of fireworks was very exciting, there were a few truths that they were not recalling:

1) Treats and toys must be earned; possession of them is dependent upon good behavior.
2) Bad behavior will lose them treats and toys.
3) The treats and toys (snakes and snappers from the fireworks stand) that were promised to them following the grocery store visit were in serious jeopardy of being taken away.
4) It was in their best interests to calm down, stay near me, and play some game that was much quieter.

Halfway through my list, a shopper near us chuckled. As I finished I looked toward her and saw a white-haired woman watching us with a wide grin. She gave me a thumbs up and continued down the aisle, still chuckling to herself.

I was left feeling relieved I'd kept my temper and hadn't threatened anyone.* It's so much nicer, after all, when perfect strangers think you're a good mother.
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*I ran into an acquaintance at the store a few days before this, when I was doing our weekly shopping. She congratulated me on how well the girls were behaving. I confessed that she was only observing a momentary aberration and that the whining and fighting were driving me batty. She admitted in turn that she had been thinking of beating her four and then running over them with a truck. Ah, motherhood. It brings such joy. Such contentment. Such thoughts of violence.

This is day 3 of my 80 day sentence. So far it's been much worse than I ever dreamed. I think I might have a case for cruel and unusual punishment. If I take it to court, do you think I can persuade the judge to put me in solitary confinement?

The quibbling and nitpicking started soon after everyone rolled out of bed Monday morning. It hasn't let up for more than a few minutes since then. Nothing has worked to quell the disturbances, and I fear we are working up to a riot. If not from the Oldest and Youngest Girl Children, then from Mommy, who was sick of the whole thing 'round about noon, Monday.

When the girls aren't squabbling, with each other, they are fighting with their friends. When there is no fight to entertain anyone, they take turns whining. To fill in any spaces on their calendar they try on outfits, then throw the clean clothes on the floor and trample on them.

Monday, YGC was sent home from a friend's house for her excessive whining. Tuesday, OGC threw up in the grocery store. Right now they are both sitting in opposite corners of the couch, forbidden to do anything but sit, until they make up with each other. YGC is sick of sitting and is begging OGC to make up. OGC is stubbornly clinging to her anger. I am practicing my relaxation breathing.

The context: Driving to church yesterday, talking about their uncle's upcoming birthday.

Youngest Girl Child: I love Uncle S. He's so nice. I just love him! (pause) When is he going to be dead?

Mommy: (Laughing)

YGC: I just want to know!

Mommy: (Still laughing)

YGC: (very indignant) Why are you laughing at me?!

"I’ve had cheap pedometers and expensive pedometers, and I just must walk weird, because I’ve never yet had one that was remotely accurate." (Quoting myself, from a comment over on Segullah. )

My first pedometer was a very nice one, a gift from my mother when I was complaining to her about my post baby weight. It was nice, but I had the darndest time keeping it on. It had a very small clip and had a tendency to flip off my waistband every time I bent over, and since (as a mother) I bend over many, many times during the day... I kept using it longer than I would have, just because it came from my mother (Hi, Mom!) and her thoughtfulness really touched me.

Then we moved, and it disappeared, so a while later I picked up another one, cheap. Very, very cheap. It was also the best one I've ever had, as long as I wore it on my pocket instead of my waist band. That way it managed to count about 7 or 8 out of every 10 steps. Unfortunately, a pocket is not the most secure location. One day I went to look at my numbers and the pedometer wasn't there. I went back to the store to buy another one, but they weren't selling that kind anymore.

Since I was already there, I bought the replacement cheapo, but it was horrible. I could take 10 steps and wind up with the pedometer counting only 1 step. Or 3 steps. Or 4. (Never as high as 7 or 8, though.) It didn't matter where on my waistband or pocket I put it - the only way I could get an accurate count out of it was to hold it in the palm of my hand. Not exactly convenient for someone who rarely goes 10 minutes without plunging her hands into hot water.*

My fourth was more expensive, but just as inaccurate as the cheapo, with a tendency to reset itself at unpredictable intervals. And so it has gone with every pedometer since then, leading me to conclude that either I am doing something wrong with the pedometers, or I walk weird.

I'm inclined to the "walks weird" hypothesis.
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*Just life - not OCD. The results of doing things like wiping off counters, cleaning toilets, wiping off messy faces, preparing an inestimable number of meals, snacks, and drinks, mopping floors, washing dishes, doing laundry - seriously, have you ever considered just how many parts of motherhood involve water?

I went to pick up my new glasses today. After all, Walmart had called me to say that they were ready to be picked up. It was reasonable to assume I could go in and get them, right?

On the other hand, I also though it was reasonable to pick up something on the shelf at Walmart and try to buy it.*

So, there I am in the Walmart Vision Center, watching while the very nice white-haired little old lady who works there is pulling out the box that holds my new glasses. She looks at the contents, then says to me, "All right. I need your glasses."

And I start to take off my glasses.** Then I pause. Something isn't making sense. "Why?"

"To put your new lenses in."

"No," I tell her. "I bought - and my insurance paid for - new frames. The new lenses should be in new frames. Where are my new frames?"

Much searching ensues. No frames.

"Do you see it here, dear?" she asks me.

I look at the two walls full of glasses frames (which have been rearranged since the last time I was there, so I can't even look in the same place) and try to remember exactly what the frames looked like.

"They were $62?" I offer, feeling wildly inadequate. I look some more. There are way too many frames that look very similar to the one I picked out. None of them seem right, though - the shape of the lenses doesn't quite seem to fit the shape of any of the frames I'm looking at. "Doesn't it say anywhere which frames I ordered?"

She shows me the piece of paper with all my glasses information recorded in blue ballpoint. "It just gives a number, dear."

I memorize the number and start looking at the tags on the frames. The format of the numbers on the tags don't match the format of the number on my order record.

I falter at this point, not really know where to go from here. The Little Old Lady finally goes to the computer and looks up the number. It's bad news, though.

"We don't have those frames here, dear. They're gone. You'll have to pick out new frames."

What? I turn and look at the hundreds of frames lining the walls. I can hardly see without my glasses on. Choosing a new set of frames involves getting so close to the mirror that I can't use both eyes at once, much less see my whole face. It's not easy to get a good idea of how the new glasses will look on me.

In other words, I hate picking out new frames. Doing it all over again, after going through the whole torturous process just last week ... My heart quails. I just want my money back. Can I, though? Or has this already wound its way through the insurance system beyond recall or refund?

"Can I just get my money back?" I ask. "Or am I stuck?"

"Oh, you're not stuck, dear."

It wasn't as easy as I might have hoped, but eventually I did get a refund to my credit card. My prescription was restored to me. My insurance will be cleared by tomorrow, if not sooner.

And then I will have the wonderful opportunity of gathering my willpower together and going through the entire process all over again. Hopefully, this time will be successful.
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*It was cleaning solution for my Clorox mop. They came and took it away from me when I was at the cash register and told me they weren't allowed to sell it. When I asked why, they said something about it being recalled.

Really? Because there were no recalls issued that I could find. And the other Walmart in town is still selling it, no problem.

I probably don't want to know, do I?

**I learned to be obedient when I was young. I've been spending the rest of my life unlearning it. Just say no, Jennifer!

One of the advantages of being a stay at home mom is lazy mornings snuggling with little people. Cuddled up to Mommy, they'll talk and talk, pouring out every thought that crosses their minds. I try to encourage this as much as possible; when they're teenagers I want them to be used to long conversations with me. Not that I have much hope of actual conversation during those years, but I figure if we've got an established habit to work with I might have some faint possibility of getting more than eye-rolls out of them.

Hey, at least I've got a plan. Meanwhile I enjoy the fruits of my machinations.

From morning conversation with Youngest Girl Child:

"Mommy, you sing the alphabet and then I'll sing the alphabet."

We did that, with YGC's version ending, "... Q R X, T U V, W X, Y AND Z ..."

As she explained to me, "It sounds better with two Xs."

Later she asked, "Mommy, why do buffalopes not have any tails?"

Trying to recall if buffaloes had tails, I replied, "I don't know, sweetie. Heavenly Father just made them that way, I guess."

She thought for a moment, then said, "I've never seen a buffalope, so I don't know if they have tails or not."

Yep. That makes a difference.

Oldest Girl Child informs me that they are having Career Day soon at school. She also informs me that she has changed her mind about what career she wants to have. Before today she wanted to be a Queen or a mother. This morning she changed her mind, and has decided that she wants to be an animal rescuer. (This would be inspired by Diego, for those of you who do not have small TV watchers in your home.)

She is especially interested in rescuing kittens. Indeed, she was so inspired by the thought of cute, cuddly, furry, purring little kittens that she threw herself into my arms and exclaimed, "Kittens! Kittens! Kittens!" over and over in complete rapture.

Something tells me she isn't quite ready to start volunteering at the local Humane Society shelter.

Every school morning we have scripture study / reading time before Oldest Girl Child goes to school. We would, and should, do this on non-school days, but it's easier to wrangle family members on a school morning, and I tend to forget about it on non-school mornings.

Yesterday morning, the Love of My Life was able to join us.* Youngest Girl Child was unrousable** so OGC sat between her parents as the three of us took turns reading a verse at a time.

She was acting strangely, though, sitting with her scriptures balanced on her lap, her hands firmly tucked into her pants pockets. She refused to hold her book, or follow the line with her finger as she usually does.

Then she had to pull a hand out to turn the page. I saw a quick glimpse of blue-green fingernails before she could tuck her hand back into her pocket. Mystery solved! I glanced over at her father and got a nod in return. He'd seen the fingernails. Then we had to look away from each other to keep from laughing.

Usually my children use crayon to color their fingernails; this time it was permanent marker, so she went off to school with her oh-so-lovely nails intact. Also her blue-green cuticles. And a goodly portion of the skin around her nails.

At least she didn't try to cut her hair.
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*Always a delight when that happens. A crazy work schedule means he usually is either on the road or sleeping during this time.

** Which is going to make kindergarten an exciting time for her and me.

Youngest Girl Child: I don't like white. I like the white that has colors.

Mommy: White doesn't have colors, honey, that's why it's white.

Youngest Girl Child: Yes, it does. (pause to think) My favorite is the white that is purple.

Mommy: (speechless with laughter)