All By Myse-e-e-elf

I am at a hotel. ALONE. Five miles from my house. Did I mention ALONE? That really is the important part here.
Hubby was out of town on business this week in Florida. I think something clicked inside him this time as he was lounging on the fluffy bed, eating room service and flipping through channels. (Because--as we all know--a man's retina will spontaneously explode if he settles on one channel for more than 5 seconds.) Maybe he'd just hung up from talking me out of selling our children (again). I don't know. But in some "EUREKA" moment he realized that Hotel life can be a lot more rewarding than home life, and maybe a little Hotel time would be good for ERIN. So he sent me off this afternoon and FORCED me to check into the Hampton Inn. Alone. I put up a slight fight, because I'm the cheapest person on earth, but I knew he was right, and so did he. So the resistance was mostly for show. I didn't even push it when he insisted I NOT stay at the Motel 6. I'm getting soft, it's true.

I've been gone from home for 6 hours. I'm supposed to be resting, but I get this strange urge when I'm left alone with no kids in my care. It makes me want to conquer the world. Or at least the mall, which is conveniently located across the street from this particular hotel. (Next time he's gonna agree to the Motel 6 in the middle of nowhere! Hee!)

Also, is it weird that I met Hubby at TJ Maxx 30 minutes after checking in? Somehow seeing him outside of the house makes all the difference. It was my idea, and it was fun.

I know there are a lot of mothers who can't relax when they're away from their kids. I've just never had that problem, even when they were tiny. Just another one of my talents: I'm good at being gone.

In search of a support group

I suffer from second-hand chocolate. This is how it works: I purposely do not buy any chocolate (at least not the kind I like). The man I live with, however, buys all sorts of chocolate. Almost daily. And then he leaves it--OPEN--all over the house. The good kind, like almond-toffee chocolate bars. Every time I walk by it, it's like I have no choice but to partake. IT'S FORCED ON ME, I tell ya. Much like a woman married to a smoker. Therefore, I am a victim of second-hand chocolate.

Ode to Shnookie4

As you know, Shnookie4--my baby--turned 8 recently. I seem to have established a pattern of writing a tribute to each child on his/her b-day; therefore, let's put my youngest under the microscope.

BTW, there will be no mention of alcohol in this post, BECKY. (Okay, not including that time. I was just mentioning alcohol in passing.) (Dangit. Maybe I really am obsessed with alcohol.) (Aaargh! I need a drink.)

Shnookie4 is an amazing kid. As she grows up, we keep discovering new talents she has. If this continues, she's gonna be an adult royal pain with her perfectness! Physically, she has always been slightly on the smaller side. When she was just 7 or 8 months old, she got RSV, and it was a pretty rough year after that. She caught EVERYTHING, and then she'd get dehydrated. We spent a lot of time in the hospital that year. Finally, she got so bad while on a family trip to Colorado, that we had to admit her to the ICU for several days. She literally almost died. We don't know if that year has anything to do with her petite-ness, but every day she got stronger after that, we cheered.

This girl loves order in the world. As a baby, she'd methodically remove her diapers from the basket and lay them end to end to create huge patterns. I have to admit, it was a little unnerving to walk into a room and see a giant crop circle where there was none before. Hubby got a bit worried that she was driven by voices to create satanic symbols in our home. (I told him that just because HE hears voices, doesn't mean everyone else does.) As she grew up, her scope of tools widened, and she experimented with lining up all sorts of things. But mostly her clothes. We had paths of OshGosh droppings everywhere.

So guess who grew up to love patterns?? Give her beads of different colors, and she's engrossed for hours. Modern theories in education have discovered that patterning is the foundation of math. So guess who is good at math?? The truth be told, she's good at all school subjects and gets excellent grades. Parent-teacher conference is so awkward, since the teacher and I just stare at each other for most of it. Once the "she's amazing" and "I wish all my students were her"s are out of the way, there's not much to talk about. Every mom should have such problems, eh?

Hubby always says that Shnookie4 is "just so darn CAPABLE." If you ask her to give her teacher a note three weeks from Wednesday at 2:30, she'll be there, a few minutes early, note in hand. Smiling ear to ear. No reminder necessary. It's like she was born with a Franklin Planner for a brain. And this kid does not let anything stop her. If she needs a cup on the top shelf? She drags into the kitchen a 50-pound chair from the other room, climbs up on it, steps over to the counter, and scales shelves until she can grab it. Then reverses the whole process (remembering to replace the chair to its original space, of course.) I don't think "Help" is in her vocabulary.

Combine her can-do attitude with her loving spirit, and she's a wonder. At Christmas, she casually asked me what that book I wanted for Christmas was. I told her and watched as she meticulously copied down the title on a piece of paper. I went back to cooking. Ten minutes later, I stumble over her and my laptop on the floor of the family room. She's got Amazon.com up and is searching for that book by its title. I was stunned. And half-tempted to just let her keep going and see what she offered them for payment.

Shnookie4 may be a mere eight years old, but she's definitely an old soul--wise beyond her years and a pleasure to be around. I hope she'll never stop wanting to sit by me to watch American Idol, and that she'll greet me each day with that smile for a long time. Someday I'm gonna have to share her greatness with the rest of the world, but for now I'm hanging on to every last sweet morsel of her. Love you, Bibber!

Shnookie4 turned 8 on the 24th, and Hannah Montana reigned supreme! It is so weird for me to think that there will be a generation of girls in the not far off future that will say "Hannah who?" Right now I could swear she's a member of our family with how much her presence is felt around here. Anyway, here's my little pre-teen pop rocker with her new Hannah gear:

(Sorry for the lame late-winter indoor lighting photos!)
Yes, that is a Hannah Montana wig she's sporting. Just another way we're trying to contribute to the well-being of the poor little Billy Cyrus off-spring. You do what you can in this cruel world.

Right after turning eight, Shnookie4 got to be baptized. (The LDS faith baptizes at 8 yrs instead of as babies, since older children are better able to choose. See http://www.lds.org/ldsorg/v/index.jsp?vgnextoid=bbd508f54922d010VgnVCM1000004d82620aRCRD&locale=0&sourceId=1af539b439c98010VgnVCM1000004d82620a____ for more information. Kay.) It was a VERY. BIG. DEAL. and special for a lot of reasons, one of which is that Shnookie1 (who is 16) got to baptize her. Did I cry or what??! I had been so busy all month preparing for this big day, that I was totally unprepared for the wave of emotion that slammed into me when they were in the water together. And then he gives her a big hug before helping her back up the stairs. HELLO! Nail in the coffin (so to speak--not the best phrase to use here, lol) for Mom's emotional control. Luckily, I had to rush in and help her change, so the all-out blubbering had to wait. Here they are together:

I'll pause here to allow you to complete your "ooohing" and "aaaahing" over her stunning dress, which I just might have made myself. I know. I'm crazy. But I had made Shnookie2 a dress when she was baptized. And when Shnookie3's time came, I went so far as to buy the fabric for a dress, before realizing the obvious--that recovering from chemo and sewing a 5-layer jewel-encrusted gown did not mix. (Shnookie 3 has VERY elaborate taste.) So along comes Shnookie 4's time, and I have $100 worth of fabric from the previous aborted attempt. What would you do? (Don't answer that. I know. I'm crazy.) *I* would lose all reason, buy a slightly simpler pattern, and spend 40 hours making Shnookie 4 her special dress. Which apparently I did. (Much to Shnookie 3's changrin. "NO FaiRRRRRRR...that's supposed to be Myyyy dresssssss!") She looks beautiful, though, doesn't she?

My oldest and my youngest. Sigh. I am one lucky mama.

Mac Betty

It has come to my attention that Mac users cannot see the lovely shade of pale green of my comments link. I think the word 'prejudiced' was flung out there. In my defense, it is not *I* who has anything against Macs. No, it's BETTY. She's a Mac bigot. She regularly says that Macs suck. I, of course, tell her that we don't use that word in our house, but she can be very belligerent, especially after a few drinks. (Hey, what she does on her own time is none of my business.) However, after 2 of my 3 readers point out the same problem, I have to step in. So I've convinced her to change the color to white. She says if you can't see that, then it's time to get a real computer.

(Again, her words, not mine.)

Give me a 1...Give me a 4....

Shnookie2 turned 14 on February 10th. It's hard for everyone else to believe, and in some ways it is for me (like I remember pushing her out of me JUST YESTERDAY), but mostly, her getting older is never a shock to me. She's just so darn mature and capable and poised, and I think I'll vote for her for president. The funny thing is that she's a little short for her age, so when we go to restaurants, they often give her a kids' meal, which makes her about as mad as she ever gets. But those hostess-people don't KNOW her; otherwise they'd be asking her if she'd like a wine list. Okay, that didn't come out right: My daughter is NOT an alcoholic. She's just so mature that we who really know her sometimes forget she's not an adult. Not that we forget and give her alcohol ever. Not that she'd take it, because she's a good girl. Not that people who drink are bad. (Afterall, I did name my dog Boozer. Not that he drinks alcohol. Not that I'd stop loving him if he did.)

Sooooooo....Shnookie2. This year was technically what we call a 'family year,' in that we don't have a friends party, but I told her she could have a few friends over. I said that because I know she'd do it all--and I do mean all--by herself. And she did. She made invites, she bought all the decorations and goodies (I did force a fiver on her to help out), she researched party games on the internet, she decorated, and she directed the whole gala herself. My only job (self-imposed, btw) was to relieve the teenagers of Shnookies 1 & 2 every once in awhile. But mostly I just lay in bed watching TV. I can handle that.

That party was Saturday night, the 9th. On her actual b-day, she begged me to 'let' her make her own cake. This girl loves to bake. And she does not know the meaning of simple. She ended up making 4 dome cakes that she decorated and inverted to make Barbie dresses. Here's the pic:

After she spent 4 hours making these cakes, we spent 2 minutes devouring them, and she turns to me and says "Thank you Mom for letting me make these." And I said "Hey, my gift to you." Do I need to say it again? PERFECT CHILD . . . . . . PERFECT PRESIDENT
yah baby.

Seriously, every week someone different is telling me what a treasure Shnookie2 is. "She's so sweet" "She's always happy" "She's so helpful" "She's the best babysitter we've ever had" and on and on and on. My response these days isn't "Thank you," it's "Isn't she amazing? I feel so lucky." It just doesn't seem right to take credit for the personality this child was born with and has made blossom all on her own. I swear she could've been plopped down in the middle of the desert and somehow figured out how to be Mother Theresa. A couple of weeks ago, she casually mentions to me that she's going to pick girls at her school who are so sweet but don't have many friends, and annonomously slip an encouraging note into their lockers. She's so incredibly kind to EVERYONE, including her siblings, and--more shockingly--to me, her mother. She tells me at least once a week what an incredible mother I am. I know--can we bottle that?

This may seem like an odd thing to point out, but I have admired her lately with how little she gossips. At an age when girls live to dis other girls, she has nothing but glowing things to say about everyone. I know that her friends feel like they can confide in her, because she'll stay mum forever about other people's business, even if they don't expressly ask her. As a mother, it's very frustrating, cuz how am I supposed to know the goods on my neighbors if she won't spy for me through her friends???! hehe

It's one of those things where she's so perfect that, as her parent, you freak yourself out every so often, wondering if she's obsessive about perfection and she's gonna snap any day. Like she'll start ranting "NO WIRE HANGERS!!!" and shave all her hair off and we'll hear about it on YouTube.

I learn things from this kid every dang day. I hope that we always stay close, that she'll always share with me her life. Because it's gonna be phenomenal, and I am blessed to have her example for inspiration. Love you, my baby love.

They grow so fast...

I was prepared for Boozer to grow fast...I thought. Afterall, we once had a Newfoundland who started out 1 pound at birth and was 140 lbs at one. I knew he grew so fast that I only had one semi-good picture of him as a 'baby.' I learned from that and have been taking TONS of pictures of Boozer (I'm sure the kids feel a little slighted. Sibling rivalry and all that), but 4 weeks later and LOOK . AT . HIM:



(And may I remind you, you are supposed to be looking at the DOG, not at the sheet hanging in my entryway. From a fort my girls made 3 WEEKS AGO but have not looked at since. Cuz that's how we roll.)

So Boozer resides in our guest bathroom (because it has a tile floor...think it through...ah-hah), and we've put up a baby gate in the doorway. To get him in or out, you have to lift him over it. Well, I'm quite sure I'm in my last few days of being able to do that. The poor guy runs from me when he can tell I'm about to lift him in, cuz it ain't pretty. I think we're both stripped of our dignity from the ordeal. I have to wrap my arms from behind around his middle, heave him up into the air while quickly shifting to grab one hind leg for leverage. This leaves all his 'business' exposed to the world at large. Once we get to the gate, (which, unfortunately, puts us face to face with a mirror) I have to use my ab muscles and a well-place leg to propel him over the gate. At this point, he usually starts squirming, eager to end the humiliation. Sometimes he lands square on his face, but the deed is done.

Just be glad I don't have pictures of THAT to share.

Oh, this would be a good time to share a story: We (the humans only) are eating dinner around the kitchen table the other night when we hear a familiar sound--a toilet flushing. But a quick look around the table confirms that all six of us are indeed seated at the table. We all rush to Boozer's bathroom, and sure enough, he'd somehow flushed his toilet! I half expected to see him sitting on the pot, reading the paper! (There would definitely be a photo in that!) But actually, he was cowering by the door, staring at the white fixture that had somehow made the scary noise. So here's me with my fingers crossed, hoping he'll figure out the rest of the toilet procedure and we'll never need a pooper scooper again. It happens in movies, right?

And finally, I've taken a pic of Boozer every Saturday to document his growth. Here's the series so far: (If you flip through them quickly, he does a little dance :) haha)

January 5, 2008

January 11, 2008

January 19, 2008

January 26, 2008

February 2, 2008