Newest Chapter...

My brain is in a post-move mushy funk. And so this post will mostly be just a few pictures for the sake of updating. We made it to Baltimore---and Sam started his first week at his internship, a day that couldn't have come soon enough due to the extreme nerves/pant peeing that took over my husband during his last few days of freedom. We were happy to give him a kiss and give him the boot on Monday.

Before I get to talking about Baltimore, I will say that it seems that the insect population in Chicago joined forces and plotted our swift and sure exit from their city. I spent our last couple days there officially creeped out and heebie-geebie-ish when these little dears set up camp outside ALL of our windows:

I will freak out right now. I felt like I was on Arachnophobia. And they're not small, either. Like the size of a quarter. Want a closer look?

BLAM!

I think I just peed a little.

THEN! About an hour before we left, Sam opened the medicine cabinet in our bathroom and found this little P.O.S. making himself at home:

(That's my hand in the photo. To show you how big he was.)

Sam and I tried to kill him at first... but our united front against him quickly dissolved into rage and blaming and personal insults. The kind that only manifest themselves under circumstances of extreme duress and fear. The roach kept scurrying away, running into my bare feet, and across Sam's hand at one point. And each time he made a break for it I would become so overcome with terror that I'd botch the operation and prance around for 15 seconds straight, shaking all of the cockroaches off of me. Sam became so enraged that he banished me from participating... which I resented due to my superior skill and knowhow concerning most everything in general.

Nevertheless, I became quite liberated once I was dishonorably discharged from Operation Cockroach and listened intently from the safety of the living room as chaos erupted and then ended abruptly with an ear-splitting STOMP! After which, Sam emerged from our bedroom with his arms raised above his head, nodding slowly.... little remnants of cockroach dangling from his mouth. Victory was sweet. And it was his.

And then I sent him off with a clorox wipe to dispose of his prey properly. Because there wasn't actually cockroach remnants around his mouth. Just mostly all over the floor.

And so we gave Chicago and the spiders and the cockroaches the bird and headed off on our adventure to Maryland.

Our little, furnished apartment reminds me of our home when we lived in downtown San Francisco. Which gives me bitter-sweet-newlywed-blissful-no-kid feelings. Anyway, we're right by the harbor and there are lots of shops and restaurants and everything splendid in and around our building.

A shot of inside:

Views from our windows:

A little stroll with the Bischoffs down to the harbor two blocks from our building:

We took the day Saturday to head down to Vienna to visit Sam's brother, Joe, and his family. Heather, Joe's wife, gave birth to their 5th child one week ago, but that didn't stop her from preparing a delicious barbeque feast for us. It was a delightful day, indeed.

Pictures of Leah and her cousin, Maggie. Maggie is a complete chimp in the climbing department and left Leah in the dust all day. Here she had climbed into her crib, and then quickly out again as soon as Leah caught up with her.... took Leah a good 15 minutes of grunting and heaving to get out of that crib...

Maggie is of the mind-set that smiling for pictures is unfashionable. Much like her dad... and our ancestors of old. Every time she saw the camera, she'd get this very solemn look on her face. I thought she was quite dignified for a 2 year old. Leah, on the other hand. Well...

Babies gone wild

The few pictures I got of the boys were mostly far away of them playing soccer. And therefore quite uninteresting. I will send them to you, though, Heather. Thanks for the glorious day!

In other news, Carina and I have been exploring around (what would I do if she wasn't here with me!?!?!) and set off to a giant mall out in the burbs' the day before yesterday. We felt fat and ashamed with our pregnant selves when we were both pretty much out of commission yesterday... blaming our comatose state on "really overdoing it at that mall!"

I'm planning my most exciting venture to date today... a little jaunt to a fudge shop down the way that Carina has been raving about. It will probably earn its very own blog post.

And Today Makes Thirty-Three

My brother, Jesse, would have been 33 years old today. I wonder what his 34th year on this earth would have held for him. Would this have been the year that he was able to finally get his life back after such a tumultuous 4 years? Would he have started to be the wonderful father that he was only able to be in glimpses during his struggle with this life? Would he have finally started to live the principles of the gospel this year? I'm happy that I know he is living the gospel now, with our Savior, a teacher greater than any of us could ever hope to be. A perfect teacher.

My sister, Bethany, and I were peeing our pants with laughter on the phone yesterday, recounting some of the crazy things Jesse did during his last couple of years with us. Things that may or may not have made us laugh when they actually happened.

One of the attributes that made Jesse stand out from the rest of us was how fiercely protective he was. His exposure to the harshest realities of this world gave him a sense of suspicion and danger that his more sheltered siblings could never have even conjured up in our imaginations.

Bethany visited my parents in Idaho Falls last summer with her family and recounted one night when she was awakened by a black-hooded Jesse, hovering over her bed and shouting in a whisper that someone had just broken into her van. He insisted she get up and inventory her belongings. Bethany agreed, but not until she gave him a swift verbal lashing for waking her up in the night, clad in a hooded sweatshirt, hood up, shouting about "robbers!!" Don't screw with a mother of four, dressed as a robber yourself, in the middle of the night, Jess.

He laughed, as he often did, "Sorry sis. Sorry sissy."

Bethany went out to her van to find it locked and secure, with nothing out of place. When she reported back to my brother, she noticed he was fashioning a small arsenal of weapons that consisted of an ice pick, small hammer, and a lock tied to the end of a shoe-lace, to his belt. He was unsatisfied with her report of no foul play and decided he was going to go on a patrol of the neighborhood. And then he set off into the night.

In this instance, there were no robbers. But rest assured, Jesse employed himself as the Neighborhood Watch: protector of all mini-vans, for the remainder of my sister's visit.

This story itself may not seem too extraordinary. But I tell it because it was just so him. Jesse always fancied himself a sort of vigilante... always looking for some injustice to make right, some underdog to protect or stick up for, some naive sibling he could wise-up to the "real world."

I had an awful dream the other night that something unspeakable was happening to my brother, Abe, at the hand of some corrupt government. In panic and horror, all my family could do was look to Jesse. We knew he was the only one with the strength, courage and skills to do anything. And the rest of my dream consisted of watching Jesse wreak havoc on those who were trying to harm his little brother.

I woke up relieved and desperate to see both of my brothers. And then relief settled into the all-too-familiar sadness that comes with this sort of reality. I will be gloriously reunited with my brother, Abe, in Idaho in couple of weeks. But for Jesse, I will have to wait a little longer.

One thing I do know is that it has been just over seven months since Jesse's passing and, somehow, he is still finding a way to fiercely protect his family. I am sure of that.

Happy, happy birthday, my dear brother. Your littow sistow can't wait to see your face.

Pregnant Beast Insanity

You know those days where you feel like everything in the universe got together for a secret meeting with the sole agenda being how they (the universe) can plot to send you spiraling into a dark abyss of rage and hate? Oh, you don't? Hmmm. Weird.

My new found hero, Allie*, brilliantly coined this phenomenon, a "Sneaky Hate Spiral," and today, well, mostly just this evening, actually, I found myself in the midst of my very own sneaky spiral of hate.

It started with more of a hate ambush, actually. My mom called me and exclaimed that some soulless, hateful, wretch of a white-trash-no-good-lilly-livered-two-bit-sonoffabeach-scheister stole the potted lilies she left on my brother's grave a couple of days ago. I couldn't believe it. Who would do that?

After we raged to each other and ruminated about the sure damnation of whomever it was that would do such a thing, we hung up the phone and I sat for a while stewing over the suckiness of humanity in general. Naturally, I dreamed up an elaborate plot to wait in my brother's cemetery this summer, clad in ninja gear, ready to pounce and assassinate any would-be flower/hope-in-humanity burglers. I felt confidant that no one would ever suspect a largely pregnant woman to be capable of a crane kick to the face. And that's exactly how I planned to administer the assassination.

After I felt satisfied with my assassination plot, I decided I should head to the gym to begin training. Since I haven't gone to work out since the very beginning of this pregnancy, just the thought of getting some exercise made me feel all wonder-womany and empowered. Look how awesome you are for going to the gym when you're feeling all sub-par and pregnant. Everyone will think you're so adorable and admirable with your pregnant belleh bouncing around on that elliptical. You'll probably make some new friends. And when you explain that you are simply there to get in shape to selflessly rid the world of flower/hope killers they'll think you're a real hero!

Yes. This was a great idea.

I gleefully pulled a pair of spandex workout pants from my closet and pulled them up over my protruding stomach. I'm currently in the awkward regular-to-maternity clothes transition where nothing fits quite right, and my non-maternity workout pants cut me off right in the middle of my baby bump. And it gave me a complete BIF**. Which happens to be my very favorite look.

I decided not to be discouraged, pulled on one of Sam's t-shirts and went on my way. I made my way to the front door where Sam was studying on the couch and, in a plea for moral support, turned to him and asked, "Am I too fat for these pants right now?" WARNING! WARNING EVERYBODY!

Sam looked me up and down, furrowed his brow, and said, "Hmmm. Turn around."

HOW!? HOW!? HOW ARE YOU STILL SO STUPID?! HOOOOOWW!?

Me: Um, you really should have just said, "no."

Sam: Honey, you're pregnant!

Me: Not in my thighs! Thanks.

Sam: No, it goes everywhere baby. Thighs, butt, arms. You know.

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Me: Alright, that's enough out of you. You really should have just said, "no." (DEATH STARE)

I exited immediately feeling the flower ninja rage start to fester up again in my gut.

I pulled up to the gym and parked alongside a car whose driver was still sitting in his seat. As I got out of my car, I saw him exit his in my peripheral. He was startlingly tall and huge and looked like a yeti. And he proceeded to walk six inches behind me the entire way into the gym. I kept waiting for his foot to scrape down the back of my achilles. He was that close.

He continued to close-walk up the stairs all the way to the cardio room. I considered blasting him with a horsekick behind me on the way. I shot him a crusty over my shoulder. I pretended to stumble in hopes that he would dodge me and move on. But Yeti was undeterred. When we entered the cardio room, much to my dismay and bewilderment, he climbed right up onto the elliptical next to mine. And as we started up our machines, I noticed him peeking over at me as I entered my weight. Judging me.

It didn't help that both my weight and age had increased since the last time I had been at the gym. And that my little TV didn't work. And that Yeti smirked and blew a little snot out of his nose when he saw me discover that it wasn't turning on.

What is going on here? Were you sent here by the flower/murderers of hope and love to taunt me? YOU THINK YOU'RE BETTER THAN ME, YETI!?

I sat there, glancing longingly from side to side as he and the lady on the other side of me chuckled along to "The Office" while they labored away.

After Yeti had worked up a nice sweat, he lumbered over to one of the huge communal fans in the corner and proceeded to hercules it over his head and set it down right beside his elliptical on the side opposite of the side where I was located. He positioned it so that the air was being blown directly across his body and blasting me in the face with his sweaty stench. And then he got back on his machine and began pumping his arms up and down.

I hated Yeti. I hated him even more as his huge Yeti body started making his machine jump around because he was getting a little too enthused about his workout and he had clearly left the "resistance" at the lowest level causing a complete elliptical spazz-out. And I hated the lady on the other side of me whose TV worked and who took her cues from Yeti and went ahead and positioned a fan on the other side of her, forcing me into a turbo-wind vortex of stranger B.O. and SARS and bird flu.

And I felt the hate start to boil over, consuming my body. And I did a jedi-mind hulk t-shirt shred... in my mind. And threw some heavy equipment through the second story window. And I verbally berated Yeti about how he was a dude and how he should be over on the treadmills with the other dudes because his body was too huge and lumber-y to be graceful on an elliptical....

Things really took a turn for the worse when I finished up my workout and made my way to the exit. I noticed Yeti immediately shut down his machine and walk towards the exit as well. No, No this can't be happening. I left in a hurry, Yeti still right behind me. It all came to a head when his close-walking continued all the way back to my car. I couldn't handle it anymore. I turned around and raised my hand to try to slap him. He grabbed my wrist and muscled me up against the garage wall and slapped me in the face over and over. They weren't really hard slaps. Just mostly hard enough to let me know he meant business.

Just kidding. None of that happened. I never even went to the gym. Just kidding again. Only the him following me out and slapping me part didn't happen. Oh, and I never tried to slap him either. But you can imagine what it would have been like if I did.

I don't really know what else to say. Because truthfully, I just finished my work out and left. And felt a little better as soon as I got out of the stink-vortex-of-hate-and-everything-bad. And I feel even better now that I've spewed everything out on this here blog post. But if you feel like recounting this story to any of your friends, feel free to end it with the slapping part. I won't judge you. But I will say that those flower/happiness ruiners really have it coming this summer.

And now I've got to go say family prayer.

*Read her blog at your own risk. Your productivity will be hindered greatly and you will start to only ever be able to think in terms of her illustrations.

**If you know what this is, you'll think what I said was funny. If you don't, I'm sorry.

A Little Bit of Lately... And Oh Happy Day!

Hyde Park in the summer is a magical place. It's amazing what a stark difference the weather makes in this neighborhood. The winter rips through, killing all of the ivy on the buildings and leaves and flowers and turns it into a mangey, desolate wasteland. Saying I was ready to give winter 2009/2010 the boot would be an understatement. I was ready to beat winter 2009/2010 to a bloody pulp, actually. With a rusty mallet. Laced with anthrax. And smallpox.

Anyway, the point I'm trying to make is that we've been having loads o' fun since it warmed up here. And I've been feeling happy as a clam and quite rejuvenated.

First off, I have to give a shout out to my lovely husband who got me this beauty of the Mount Timpanogos temple, where we were married, for my birthday:

My sister has a similar painting of the Salt Lake temple that I have been coveting for some time so Sam really came through big time! The picture doesn't even do this baby justice. And it's HUGE! Like 4 feet across. And every time I look at it I get all giddy and swooney. And I love it. And I love Sam. And I love all of you.

We had a little joint birthday party to celebrate all of the summer birthdays that we're going to miss out on while away for summer internships. It turned out to be quite the fiesta.

Turns out Matt and Mimi are baking ninjas and showed up with this mind-blowing Mario Bros cake in tow. They just threw it together before the party. No big deal.

Sam loves to have his picture taken.

Paparazzi

I would have to say the highlight of the night for me was Leah's fascination with the boys' football game. I couldn't keep her away.

Setting up the play...

Clothes-lining Matt... completing the play.

Walking it off...

Just look how gleeful these boys are. They really love to play together. And it was so cute how they would hug hug hug and give a niiice tushy squeeze after each play... just to show there was no hard feelings.

Wiped out after a day of partying... she didn't quite make it through her book.

Leah doing a little meditation at the beach... channeling her inner dolphin spirit...

Then the freezing water ascended and sent her scrambling. Little did we know she was merely transforming that handful of sand into a delicious dorito...

Leah and "Cookie" (Leah's version of Brooklyn) soaking up some rays...

A few teenage boys made this little "sand city" and the munchkins were occupied for hours stomping around wrecking all of their labors.

*Thanks to Carina for most of these excellent pics! (Amber, we missed you!)

Somebody thought she was better than the sun and too cool for sunscreen even though her pasty skin hasn't been exposed for any significant amount of time for a good 3 years. I'm seriously an idiot. I feel like I have to learn this lesson at the start of every summer.

Leah has been climbing up on me all morning, under the guise of wanting to snuggle, and then full on slapping my sunburn and saying "Owie! Owie!" like it's hurting her. I think she may be possessed. She's nearly been punted out the window several times.

This was the only "appropriate" crispy-skin picture Sam gave me permission to post. But you can view the others at www.nudie-sunburns.com.

Just kidding. That's not a real site. Just something I made up just now. But I did embed a tracker on it to see which of you actually tried to click on it.

Just kidding again.

And finally... one of the perks of living in Hyde Park is our somewhat unorthodox sacrament meetings. Our bishop really caters to the local crowd, which results in rather lively musical numbers, unlike what you'd find in your typical, more reverent LDS services.

That being said, this last Sunday our ward choir sang "Oh, Happy Day" and I was delighted (terrified) to be the song's soloist. Don't think for one second I wasn't pretending I was singing in the finale of American Idol the whole time. Cause I was. Which is why I rushed the mic right afterward and starting shouting "thank yous!" and "I love yous!" and blowing kisses and crying. And, while I debated posting this clip at all (feeling a little sheepish, and a lot heffer-ish for doing so) I decided to throw caution to the wind and be brave.

Thanks so much to Carina and Lincoln for recording this on the down low (hence there being no picture, just sound.)

Oh, and listen closely at about 2 min 10 seconds. You'll hear a spirited fellow choir member bust out, "Sing it! Sing it! Sing it!" It was definitely the high point of the song.

When did this happen? *UPDATED*

So little did I know the Turkey Sub knows her letters. I haven't taught her any of them---so I was a little surprised to discover she knows 19 of 26 letters perfectly. Anyway, my phone ran out of space before we could finish, so you don't get to hear her calling the "W" a "double-vee!" Plus, this was like the 500th time I'd made her say them so she wasn't being as cooperative. BUT, here's a little clip for the grandmas and aunties!

*UPDATE* OK, Mom, I finally got her to cooperate with the rest of it. But it cut off the Y and Z for some reason.... anyway, here you go!

*Note: for those of you who don't know, the reason this is such a celebration in our house is because the Turkey Sub has been a late bloomer in the speech department--which brings along with it all sorts of other developmental concerns. She's gotten to a point where there is now little concern, but any leaps in the right direction make us pee our pants...

Loser

This post isn't going to be about anything in particular. Just some ramblings. Oh, and the titled loser is me.

In the past week I have left my apartment a total of 3 (THREE!) times. And not even for cool things. The store, church, and the doctor have been my destinations. I have a good excuse for being such a loser, though. Last Tuesday, this little lover....

...came down with a lovely case of hand, foot and mouth disease. If you don't know about it, it's a really weird virus that causes babes to get a fever, sore throat and weird, blister-like sores on/in the mouth and on the soles of their hands and feet. And the little bastage is super contagious, too. Pretty much waiting in pouncing position to leap onto unsuspecting little dears with plans to make their lives miserable for 10 days.

The real downer was that Leah got sick the day before her birthday, thus forcing us to cancel her little shin-dig. We would reschedule but it's MY birthday this week. So, sorry, Leah. There can only be ONE belle of the ball at a time.

Just kidding. But seriously.

No really, just kidding. We might reschedule. But prolly not.

Truthfully I haven't hated being quarantined this week. Whenever I can blame someone else for my laziness I feel quite liberated. And we've been watching lots of movies and eating lots of popsicles.

In other news, I went to the doctor yesterday and saw our little 12-week-old acrobat in motion. There is nothing so glorious and bizarre as witnessing the complete fiesta going on inside of your tum. Our little meatball sub was back-bending, steamrolling, and bicycling all over the place. And I had a very lively ultrasound tech who screamed out loud every time baby moved. I loved her a lot.

The doctor I've been seeing is a recurrent miscarriage specialist, so I've been getting all of the "high risk" VIP treatment for the last 6 weeks. At our first appointment she gave me a little container to collect tissue in should this pregnancy result in miscarriage (sorry for being a little graphic and gross). So yesterday, when I walked into her office, she looked at me all red-faced and gleeful and asked, "Do you have that container I gave you?" I said I did and fished it out of my purse. She snatched it from my hand and proceeded to stand up and slam dunk it into her waste basket, shouting, "Looks like you won't be needing it after all!" And then she high-fived me... complete with the leg-lift-behind-you-high-five-follow-through that only occurs after the most enthusiastic of high-fives. Then she gave me the boot. Because healthy pregnancies don't interest her. It was a glorious moment, indeed.

Can I make an abrupt change of subject and ask what the crap is with psycho pregnancy dreams? I've been cheating on Sam every night for a week. And when I'm not cheating, he is. Or something else equally preposterous that leaves me in a dream-funk for the first half of my day. In fact, some of you have done some pretty crappy things to me in my dreams lately. Pissed.

No, but really. My dreams are stressing me out. And the worst part about it is that Sam couldn't be less interested in hearing about them. And he never remembers his, which is especially annoying because I can never throw, "But I listen to YOUR stupid dreams all the time!" in his face. So I'm forced to call one or both of my sisters and tell them all about my make-out sesh with our hugely obese dry-cleaning man. Seriously, no one knows my struggle.

And that's all I have to say about that. Now I've got to get back to trying to get Leah to like, "Miss Spider's Sunny Patch," cause I secretly love it.

P.S. Those pictures of Leah were taken directly after she repeatedly pointed to the little Snow White picture on the plates she's gripping and said, "Mama? Mama!" I thought she deserved a photo shoot for buttering me up.

I Have a Two Year Old TODAY! *Serious Leah Enthusiasts Only, Por Favor*

To Little Miss Leah Mae "Turkey Sub" Palmer,

Today you are two years old! I realize this is a big step for you... what with your highly anticipated "Terrible Two's" finally being legit and all...

Here is a glimpse of you very first thing this morning, enjoying a little toast and banana delight:

Right now, as I type this, you are watching your favorite (for the moment) show, "Backyardigans: Mission to Mars," and you just bull rushed me and tried to slam my lap top closed. I had to straight arm you and banish you to your rug. I'm sorry for the straight-arming.

You've had a beef with my lap top lately. I'm currently waiting for my "Z" key to show up in your diaper. I'm pretty sure you ate it. Just to show it who's boss. But that's beside the point. The point of this post is that you are the birthday girl! And for fear of forgetting exactly how you are right now, a thought that makes me feel panicky and grief-stricken all at once, I wanted to share a few of the favorite (and not so favorite) things that make you the love of my life.

You wake up in the morning and start jabbering away at me straight away. I like to think your dreams are just so preposterous and glorious that you've been waiting ALL NIGHT to tell me about them. It makes me feel special.

Your awakening from naptime is a completely different story. You require NO LESS than one half hour of snuggling while you make your way out of your sleep funk. You are very tender and sappy during this time... complete with loving gazes into my eyes and cheek caresses galore. But your cheek caresses can turn to face slaps on a dime. Immediate-post-nap-sleep-funk is a fragile and unstable time for you.

Whenever the lullaby, "Hush, Hush" from the "Backyardigans" comes on, you become very somber and shed no less than three tears by the song's end. There is no ugly-face crying or hullabaloo... simply a quivering chin, a reach for my arm, and a few drops rolling down your cheeks. This phenomenon has prompted your father to play the song for you every night for months.

You charge me with the remote high above your head, in bludgeoning position, shouting, "Schow? Schow?" whenever you want to watch a little tube.

You are obsessed with various beverages, and when given a frosty brew, you gulp it to the point of desperation, followed by a gasp for breath and an "ahhhh!" People witnessing this for the first time become very uncomfortable, and then very impressed.

If I ever dare fall asleep on the couch while you are on the prowl, I WILL be awakened by you trying to shove a goldfish cracker between my lips.

As soon as I have finished doing your hair for the day you, without fail, run into our bedroom to check yourself out in the mirror. Then you search the apartment for dad to show him your do.

You close the door to your bedroom when, and only when, you have somehow gotten your mitts on my purse and are seeking a little privacy while you spread its contents out all over the floor. You know you are not allowed to do this, and will someday become wise to your door-closing-dead-give-away. I'll be very sad when that day comes. For now, I find great delight in barging in on you and causing you to fill your drawers on the spot.

You have an extraordinary fake giggle. You walk around our apartment all day long with your head thrown back, force-giggling up a storm. And when your giggle is fake, it has an alarmingly low-pitch. Like Ursula.

You collect small toys and shove them in my lap or under my legs. Once you have collected a satisfactory amount you come and sit on them, like a roosting hen.

The slightest hint of a beat or music of any kinds makes you feverishly cut a rug. And you frequently bust out startlingly complex dance moves.

The entire time I am in the shower, your fat little hand darts in and out of the curtain. And with each pass of your hand, a captive toy or gadget is tossed into the water. I never see your face. Just that fat little hand over and over again. Coupled with an occasional Ursula giggle.

You respond to every question I ask you with a contemplative "ummm..." followed by a sharp, "no." No matter what I ask you.

Each morning you come into bed with your dad and me at 6:30AM. And then you proceed to body slam me until 7:20AM. Which is when I finally give up and get up. And you slide off the side off the bed, elated and victorious.

No matter who I am on the phone with, you pester me until I let you talk. And the moment you get the phone from my hands you put it to your ear, put your other hand on your hip, and walk away from me, jabbering up a storm, as if I had been interrupting YOUR very important conversation the whole time. When you are finished, you hand the phone back to me, only to become overcome with giver's remorse. And then we hand fight over the phone until I get up and lock you out of my bedroom.

I know as soon as I pick you up I will feel your little hand start working its way up my sleeve to the back of my upper arm. Which is super toned. And that's why you like it. You like to squeeze my toned, muscley arm...

And finally, you are, without a doubt, the most snugly, tender-hearted, little munchkin I have ever encountered. You would spend every waking moment in my arms if I let you. And for now, that's how we spend a lot of our time together. Because we can. I love it.

I have a million more 2-year-old Leah-isms on a list that I will save just for you.

You are the light of my life, little girl. Sometimes I feel like the only reason I was sent to this earth was to be your mother. But I get a little nervous as you get older... I feel like I've started a countdown to when you will be old enough to actually pay attention to what I say and do and that I'll disappoint you sometimes. Hopefully that's what motherhood is all about, having a reason to be better. Happy, happy birthday, my little love.

Love,

Yermummy

A Post About Mothers Named Nancy Who Gave Birth to Me.

There is no one on earth quite like my mother. Those of you who know her, even just a little bit, know this to be true. She is a unique and special soul. I've tried my whole life to "sum up" my mom. People in my adult life have often asked me, "So what's your mom like?" And my reaction is always the same. I say "well..." a lot. And look up and around at different spots on the ceiling thinking about her, trying to think about what I could possibly say to describe her. And then I laugh a bit, and will usually say something like, "My mom is crazy. But in a good way." And then I stammer around some more and maybe tell a few stories about her. But in the end, there's just really no summing up Nancy Lee Hatch Collard. And those of you who know her, know exactly what I'm talking about.

I will say that I still feel a small tinge of fear every time I have to close my eyes to rinse in the shower. This may or may not be the result of my mom's sheer and utter delight at striking terror into the hearts of her children by holding disturbing halloween masks up and over the top of the shower curtain when we were growing up. There is nothing so shrill as a blood curdling scream echoing between the walls of a shower/tub combo. And nothing so joyous as my mom's laughter directly following.

I've often considered my mom to be a bit of a magician. I remember when she, on a whim, decided she was going to hold a fundraiser for a local food bank when I was in high school. Everyone watched in astonishment as she scurried around, organizing and planning, and two weeks later delivered a benefit concert food drive at the Idaho Falls's Civic Auditorium. She had single handedly rallied up the performers for a two hour set, featuring the Idaho State step team, a popular band from BYU-I and various other local and semi-local music acts. The auditorium was packed and the concert was a major hit.

The crowning jewel of the night was when a local news anchor, who was MCing the night, welcomed my mom out on stage to accept the funds she had raised in the form of a check. My mom made her entrance on stage, with her hands up in the air, raising the roof. And the crowd went wild. And my mom's roof raising got faster and more exaggerated. And they got louder. And she may have gotten her legs involved a little.... and dabbled in a little crowd surfing. *

She has been known to start conversations with complete strangers by asking if she knew them in the pre-existence. And becomes unabashedly huffy if she discovers you have altered one of "her" recipes.

She is physically incapable of not lifting her hand up in a last minute peace sign or wave directly as her picture is taken. Which always results in her little hand appearing as a blurry smudge. In every picture.

She has single-handedly kept Deseret Industries in business. I receive no less than three calls a week asking me to look up this or that artist's name. Always looking for hidden treasures among the thrift.

She became a dedicated stage-mommy when I, at the age of 12, insisted I was to be the next Britney Spears. With my mom behind us, my sister and I performed together as a duo called, "Double Platinum." My mom styled us in sweet gear that included matching velvet sweater/skirt combos, and scored us a gig as the opening act for Def Leopard at the Eastern Idaho State Fair. We officially quit the music biz after that performance. We figured there was really no where to go from there, but down.

Double Platinum rest in peace.

I have heard my mom claim on several occasions that she is, indeed, a masseuse. The truth is, she just has a freakishly strong hand grip and can subsequently massage you and any one else's back or feet or whatever without tiring. Ever.

I remember being on the court playing volleyball in eighth grade and double-taking the bench, where I beheld my mom massaging my coach's shoulders.... my coach's head rolled back in ecstasy, paying no attention whatsoever to the game we were playing. As I continued to play, I witnessed my mom proceed to scoot down the line, from coach to assistant coach to player, until every last person on the bench had received a good rub down. I observed this exact same scene at several of my siblings' sporting events throughout the years.

I could go on and on about funny, quirky or slightly odd stories about my dear, sweet marme. But all of those things just make her fun(ny) to be around. The truth is, she is the best woman I have ever known. She is a best friend to everyone. She is the greatest mom I could have hoped for myself and the greatest Grammy I could ever hope for my children. She gave me my "little, beady" eyes, my round face, and my wide ribcage. I hope she gave me her magical genetic wrinkle repellant. She single-handedly blessed every one of her children WITHOUT the need for braces (really, with no help from my dad... who we affectionately call "Captain Snaggle-Tooth.")

She taught me what it means to be a true friend, and any of my natural inclinations in that regard come directly from her. She is a leader, a teacher, and shining example of our Savior. In all of the ways I want to be better, she already is.

I love you so much, Marme. I wish I could be with you on this special day. Happy Mother's Day!

*It's a little fuzzy, but I don't think my mom actually did any crowd surfing at that benefit concert. But she definitely could have. The roof raising did, in fact, happen. Including the leg involvement.

Oh, and I had to include the full body shot of this one... to display my dad's awesome platform boots. So hot right now.

My Dirty Little Secret...

Sam and I are so romantic. Seriously, you would be so jealous if you even knew. I was perusing through some of Leah's newborn pictures, of course getting all smitten and baby-drunk, when I was suddenly overcome with the need for another. Even amidst all of the miscarriage hoopla, and regardless of our intent to wait until getting some tests done, I was crazy for it. The whole "baby hungry" phenomenon, I've concluded, is purely Heavenly Father's way of getting us to keep reproducing. Show the heffers a little, crumply faced, bundle of joy and it's like sprinkling us with memory dust. Suddenly the 9-month-really-closer-to-10-month-stretchmarky-pukey-pantpeeing-flabbygut-insomnia inducing-exhaustion-causing coma "wasn't that bad."

Anyway, back to us being disgustingly romantic. In my newborn stupor, I looked up at Sam, and in a tone that came out way witchier and demanding than intended, threw my hands up in the air and shouted, "SAM! You've gotta freaking get me pregnant!" He responded without looking up from his book, cool as a cat, "I'll get you pregnant as soon as you get the laundry done." Then he started giggling and scrambling away from my swiping like a little kid who just told his mom to "shut up." At least that's what happened the ONE (10) time(s) I told my mom to shut up when I was little. For some reason I keep envisioning Ursula crawling across a ship deck after Price Eric and Ariel. Weird.

Anyway, I got the laundry done.

AND...

DING DING DING! This one's sticking, people! And we're thrilled! Thrilled! THRILLED!

Ohhh! The thought of a little Meatball Sub joining our family makes me laugh and cry and shout around all together at the same time. And that's exactly what I'm doing right now as I type....

HOWEVER!!

(cue lightning strike and blood curdling scream).

There is a dark side to this tale....

A side that brings with it great waves of anxiety. Because, what you don't know, is something horrifying is waiting just around the corner. Something very disturbing to all who have witnessed it. Something I've gone to great lengths to keep hidden from the world....

Meet me (Dec. 2009) and my bloated, pregnant twin, Frieda (May 2008):

(Cue blood curdling scream #2)

.............

............

...............

................

................

.............

Here, have another look:

She's swollen.

She's hairier than is socially acceptable for a woman.

She's inexplicably irresistible to my dear, sweet husband. Who should be considered for sainthood for that reason, and that reason alone.

She has spindly, nappy, unmanageable hair...

...and teeny, weeny, beady eyes that peer out menacingly from a vast, beet-red canvas.

She's easily offended.

She's lazy.

And she's violent.

The "Frieda-Effect" begins at about 6 months pregnant and lasts until just about 7 months postpartum. I really love it.

You're the only person in the whole wide world who truly understands me, Princess Fiona.

Curse you, water retention!!! (Shaking fist at the sky while still laughing and crying and shouting around and typing).

She's coming, my friends. She's coming.

*******

BUUUUUT! So is she (or he)! And she (or he) LOVES Frieda. So step off.

P.S. Should any of you feel compelled to tell me Frieda isn't that bad, I shall consider you an insincere friend. So put away your trytomakeVanessafeelbetter compulsions, lest my opinion of you be tarnished forever.

We're pregnant! Hooray!

Because I'm Feeling a Little Blue And Philosophical...

I always get SO annoyed when people say they don't have any regrets. I feel like every single celebrity makes a point to say this in every single interview, and I think it's so egotistical and amoral that I feel literal rage when I hear it. I once heard Lindsay Lohan utter these words and I nearly hit the roof. Oh really, Lindsay? You don't regret that one time, wait wait, five times you drove drunk and nearly killed someone? Or those drug binges that nearly killed you? Really?

The sad thing is, people who say it think that they sound all balanced and good self-esteemy. And often follow it up with things like, "everything I've done has made me who I am, and I like who I am." (Equally preposterous!) But regardless. To me, if the words, "Yeah, I really just don't have any regrets," ever come out of your mouth, you sound like a shallow, prideful idiot.

Now don't you worry. This isn't some passive aggressive shout out to any of you. I'm talking about other people. And celebrities. I know you were sweating bullets just now.

On that note, I have lots of regrets. In fact, sometimes I lay in bed at night playing certain things I've done in my life over and over in my head until the pit in my stomach grows so large and daunting I force myself to fall asleep for fear of falling into it. I'm not obsessive about it, and don't get spooked everyone, I haven't committed any (serious) crimes or anything like that. But sometimes I get into a bit of a regret funk. Now I will share some of them with you to make myself feel better and ask for your forgiveness.

I regret not finishing my degree. Not that I can't finish it now, but it's so much harder and less fun than it would have been on campus. And not that I really had the option to finish on campus... what with getting married and moving to San Francisco and everything. But, you know what I mean.

I regret cheating on a science test in 7th grade. Our teacher, Mr. Storms, always had us pass our test to a neighbor to grade and two of my girlfriends and I traded tests one time and gave each other full credit, even if our answers were wrong. I remember thinking we were so clever and giggling about it together. The worst part about it was that Mr. Storms and I had a great relationship. He knew all of my older brothers and sisters and I knew I was one of his favorites. And then he caught us. And he was livid and especially disappointed in me. I can still picture his face to this day.

I regret that one of the last conversations I had with my brother before he died was telling him that he was acting intolerable and that he was going to get fired if he showed up to work acting the way he was. He was on a combination of medications that caused him to act slightly sedated and, on this particular occasion, pretty obnoxious. I was trying to "set him straight" in order to protect and help him, but it was COMPLETELY against my nature and I know he was surprised and hurt by my words. He just kept saying, "Ok, thanks sissy. I'm sorry, sissy." As if he owed me something. I regretted that conversation even as the words rolled off my tongue.

I regret not enjoying high school more. I played the part, and was very involved, but really just wanted to be out of there. This regret includes the petty and catty things I participated in, and the people I hurt along the way. Sometimes I marvel that more of our nation's prison system isn't populated with high school-aged girls. I really feel that this insecure and hormonal age makes for some completely psychotic behavior. And I was not immune. Unfortunately, gossip and slander aren't crimes.

One of the more personal regrets I have is marrying Sam. Just kidding. I just had to make you all pee your pants and get all uncomf and feel embarrassed for me if I really had said something like that in this post. For the record, I 100% DO NOT regret marrying Sam. I yuv him a whole bunch. But I DO regret the actions of those who put things like that on their facebook statuses and stuff. Maybe I'm bringing it up because I might have taken a quick facebook break from writing this post and maybe just read an update that said, "I'm tired of men always treating me like (expletive)!! I'm losin' weight for me and me ONLY!!" And maybe the person who said it is married. And maybe we should all share a moment of silence for her. Just in case she's real. And we're embarrassed.

One thing I DON'T regret is THIS tasty morsel. Enlarge it. You won't regret it.

And now that I've confessed a few of the regrets that have been taunting me on this particular episode of, "Regret Funk: Feel Bad About Yourself in a Flash!" I feel a little better. Luckily I can say without hesitation that the regrets I do have are far outnumbered by my self-pats-on-the-back. And so, with that thought, I will make an end to my writings. As always, thanks for reading.

A Reason to Celebrate!!

Everyone,

Meet Miss Scarlett Marie:

We thought Meradith was destined to go against the family grain and birth little pipsqueaks after her babe, Lucia, weighed a mere 6 lbs 11 oz nearly two years ago. But Scarlett tipped the scales at a healthy 8 lbs 10 oz! Yes!

Just look at that voluptuous little figure! She's a girl after my own heart.

Oooh I love love love her! I'm so happy she's here, and so sad I'm not there to kiss her face. And Mera's face too. And Jason's.

WELCOME TO THE WORLD BABY SCARLETT!

A small warning to Mera...

You better be lockin' all yer doors at night... I'm not scurred to do a little baby snatchin'. Even from mah own kin.

A Tale of Two Piggies. Actually Just One.

My dear San Francisco friend, Lauren, (technically, neither of us are in the Bay area anymore, but that is where our love first blossomed) commented on my last post asking about, "Scooter." Because I am (always) in a story telling mood, and because it occurred to me that this part of my life has not yet been documented, I felt immediately compelled to share with you a riveting story of Love, Hate, Loss and Betrayal. A tale I simply call, "A Guinea Pig's Story."

Ahem.

Several months after Sam and I moved to San Francisco, I started to feel the itch to nurture. We weren't ready to have babies yet, and we didn't want the long term commitment of a dog, and Sam is allergic to cats (at least he had fooled me into thinking he was up to this point) so naturally, when I got online to search the local animal shelters and found this little gem:

Scooter "The Pig" McGavin:

... I knew it was a match made in heaven. I was in love. I sounded the alert and we hopped in the car and ventured off to claim our pig. We arrived at the shelter, and after finally bypassing the dude trying to sell us on a rooster, we were introduced to Scooter (named Willie at the time). We knew it was meant to be and felt good about adopting him, so after passing no less than a full body cavity search by San Francisco's SCPA regulators, we brought him home to our apartment.

Once we settled in, we gazed adoringly at each other. And at our new little addition. And watched him explore his new home. And take his first dump, thus soiling the new stuffing we had just lovingly used to cushion his cage. And in an instant, we hated him.

It's not that he wasn't a good pig. He had his endearing moments. Like the way he would screech and squeak up a storm the second we walked in from work, begging for food. And his squeaking and screeching would turn to violent bulldozing (of stuffing and food dishes, etc.) as soon as he heard the rustling of his bag of "greens."

But he was mostly just gross and useless. With his ever growing flowing locks and affinity for peeing in his food dish. His fur required more maintenance than my own {fur}. I would bathe him and then have to brush and blow dry his coat to keep it from matting and entangling his tiny man-parts in a painful little man-part noose. And Sam and I would fight about who had to change out his stuffing once he made our apartment start to stink.

One time we left him in the care of one of my coworkers while we went on vacation. And when we went to pick him up, she had just left him outside on the front porch of her apartment building. I'm not sure how long he had been there. But later, she told me that he had purposefully scooped his stuffing out of his cage and on to her floor whenever she swept or vacuumed, just to taunt her. And that he would only squeak when she turned on the TV, purposefully ruining her television experience. It appears he was a very vindictive guinea pig. Another of my coworkers reported that she (the caretaker) had been involved in spreading vicious rumors about Scooter around the office while I was gone. And I was certain he suffered severe abuse at her hand that week.

When I became pregnant with Leah and my pregnancy progressed to the point where we knew it would continue full term, we became concerned with what to do with Scooter. We certainly didn't want to have him around after the baby was born and my sensitive pregnant nose could handle him no longer.

And then one morning, just before the Christmas of 2007, as if he knew he was no longer wanted, we were awakened by the sound of struggling from little Scoot's cage. The scene was heartbreaking. He was laying on his side, struggling to breathe. And every couple of minutes his little body would become all mangled up in seizure as he fought through the last moments of his life. He continued this way for a half hour until he tensed and relaxed for the last time in my hands. And Scooter "The Pig" McGavin was gone.

We shed a few tears, and held each other close, and wrapped him in a Victoria Secret bag, and put him out on our balcony until we could dispose of him properly.

That evening, Sam and I returned from work with one question, "what the crap are we gonna do with Scooter?" We lived right downtown. There was no backyard or field we could bury him in. We researched online for answers to what people in San Francisco do with their perished animals and were dismayed to read that they pay hundreds of dollars to have them laid to rest in pet cemeteries. Ummm no. Only in San Francisco. Weirdos.

Finally we hatched a plan and waited until late that night to execute. We donned super awesome ninja clothing (completely necessary), gathered flashlights, a large pie serving utensil for digging, our makeshift Victoria Secret coffin, and scurried down to our apartment building's atrium.

We approached the least conspicuous of several very large, concrete planter boxes, and I stood guard while Sam began furiously digging out a little grave in the soil. I whispered, "How's it coming?" to which Sam proceeded to ditch his loot, and me, and run off in a panic towards the nearest exit. When I finally retrieved him, he explained that he thought I had said, "Someone's coming!" and had, on instinct, panicked and fled the scene, George Costanza style. (This is the BETRAYAL part of the story, in case you were wondering).

We finished the job hastily... dumping Scooter's little body in the freshly dug, single foot hole and bolted back up to our apartment. Then we peed ourselves with laughter and high-fived a job well done, the subsequent high of our delinquent behavior serving to mend the pain of our loss.

We avoided that atrium for a few weeks, but finally decided it was time to revisit our handy work, and pay our respects. We were shocked and disturbed when we approached our potted tombstone and noticed a tiny, crooked, skeletal Scooter hand sticking up out of the soil. It was then that we realized we had buried him alive!

Jk. But it would have been creepy if we did.

We didn't ever revisit it, actually. We avoided that atrium like the plague until we moved out of our apartment. But I kinda like that we buried him there. Our first pet as a married couple, forever part of our first apartment building. Unless they repotted those planters.

Now, let's all share a moment of silence for Scooter.

The End

This and That...

I don't have anything of note to blog about right now. I blame it on the post vacation funk I've been in since our return from LAS VEGAS!! That glorious, shiny town full of marital bliss and lots of Sam giving me attention. It takes a toll on one's motivation to do anything new when coming down from something like that. SO, instead, I'm going to document another little gem at the expense of my husband. He loves my blog. Here we go.

One evening, when Sam and I were first married, I brought home a snickers bar that someone had given me at work. I was feeling all selfless and excited to give it to Sam... but my hopes were dashed when he responded, "meh, I don't really like snickers that much." Oh really fool? You don't like snickers?! I tossed it on our nightstand in disgust and punished him for the rest of the night for not appreciating me enough.

You can imagine my surprise when that night, in the middle of the night, I was awakened by the sound of rustling wrappers. I looked up to see Sam sitting in the v-sit and reach position next to me in bed, the snickers clasped between his hands like a hamster with a sunflower seed. The wrapper was peeled back, banana style, just enough to reveal half of the bar. Ah ha! I sat up, armed with ridicule, when the light of the moon fell on his face and I realized, much to my surprise, his eyes were still slammed shut. He was asleep. He was asleep, and eating my candy bar.

I sat there in wonder, watching my little heffer of a husband gripping his wee little candy bar, in his wee little hands, taking bite after bite, crunching away until the very last bit of chocolaty goodness disappeared. I started laughing. He was undisturbed. He tossed the wrapper off the side of the bed and snuggled back in. Really? Not even a drink to wash it down? I laid down next to him and stared in disbelief as he puffed peanut breath on my face, snoozing away peacefully.

The next morning when I recounted our midnight rendezvous, Sam was skeptical and completely oblivious. I referenced the empty wrapper on the floor next to our bed as evidence. He was shocked. We laughed for a long time. And then turned to the internet for a little self-diagnosis and googled, "sleep eaters." Turns out it's a real, somewhat disturbing, disorder that wasn't nearly as amusing as my hubby and his candy bar. We're talking people who fire up the grill and stuff in the middle of the night in their sleep and burn down their houses and crap like that. Talk about a buzz kill.

At any rate, I still find occasional evidence of midnight dining at our house that Sam claims to have no recollection of. Generally if we have left over dessert. Hmmm.

Creepy.