Celebrating 4 Years!

Family Chatter

Jordan: "Well, then I won't clean the toys in the living room until you turn on Arthur."
Mom: "I will not turn on Arthur until you clean up the toys in the living room."
Jordan: "Well, then I won't watch TV."
Mom: "Right!"

Andi: "If I were a worm, would you squish me because you loved me or just to see what would happen?"
Mom: "I'd squish you because I loved you." (Of course!)
Andi: "Well, I was trying to love it, but I squished too hard. Look what happened." (Poor worm, I hope you had a chance to tell your buddies to run!)

Dillon: Signing every sign she had learned in a two week period. And still throwing herself on the floor.
Mom: "Would you just tell me what you want."
Dillon: Stands up, grabs my legs, pulls me to her room and points to the crib, still repeating signs that make no sense.
Mom: "Do you want to go nighnight?"
Dillon: SIGH

Josh: "Did you lock the car door?"
Billi Jo: "Well, I think I did."
Josh: "You thought you did last night, too."
Billi Jo: "Well, did I?"
Josh: "No."
Billi Jo: "Oh."

The Slaughter House

Consider this a warning to the squeamish: this post contains images involved with processing meat.

Hunting season always brings the fear of, "What if...he really does shoot a deer?"

Unfortunately, Josh brought home two deer this season! So our garage once again turned into a slaughter house. Josh worked a couple of seasons processing deer and has slowly accumulated the tools deemed necessary to accomplish this task at home. For the two or three husbands that were forced into reading this post, now is the time to be jealous, very jealous. This year he got to pull out the over-powered motor to hook up to the way-too-big-grinder: power tools to process venison. A man will do anything to increase speed.

But let me tell you, I was beyond impressed. We accomplished in one night what has previously taken us an entire week. Josh was able to grind over 90lbs of venison in less than an hour while I struggled to keep up with wrapping and labeling. The sounds of the power tools, the hum of the bullet-heater as it increased the temperature in the garage to a comfortable 70 degrees, the whine of the motor as it spun the over-sized fly wheel on the way-too-big grinder, all helped to drown out the sucking noise as the venison entered the grinding shaft. Josh still will not confess the true per-pound-cost of the venison that fills our freezer, which should include the hotel, shooting range, and power tools, etc., but I am non-the-less pleased at the opportunity for us to bond, and I am certain James Dobson would agree: A couple who process deer together will stay together.

Barely an A

The other night I got the privilege of having only one kiddo, so I took advantage of the opportunity to go bra shopping. First of all, let me just say that I am in no way envious of any sales associate who works in the lingerie department. The fitting room was littered with bras and empty hangers before I even began my experience. And after I was done the room was significantly trashed. Anyway, did you know there is a manufacturer that offers a Nearly Size, like "Nearly a B"? How optimistic of them! However, what I need, at this point, is "Barely an A" that appears to be somewhat more than nothing at all. LOL.

Blogging can be downright painful

It even makes me cry, and crying, in my world, is completely unacceptable. I hate the sting of tears as they are being produced and the way they well up on the bottom of my eyelids, although sometimes at this point, I am able to halt the production before they spill out and run down my cheeks. But other times I am not. It is at these moments I feel helpless, out of control, and downright relieved that this release of true emotion can be so comforting.

Crying, whether from joy or sadness, is not one of my specialties. It ruins my mascara.

Why tell you all this? Well, the other night it all came crashing down on me when I sat down to reflect on and blog about the overwhelming sense of frustration I was feeling. I couldn't put my finger on why, so I allowed the psychologist in me to ask a few simple questions like: When did you first discover this sense of frustration? Who are you thinking about lately? Why do you think they are on your mind? And then it hit me like a physical punch to the gut: my sister is actually being deployed. The reality. The possibilities.

And all I could think about was how stupid I was to argue with her. Then I realized if my emotions were this far out of whack, I must truly love her. Just for the record, I always have loved her, the problem is the only way I know to show this love is to "question" her. Why did you do it that way? How come you didn't try this? Why on earth are you going to do that? When will you learn to do it my way? Part of the reason for the questioning is that I honestly want to know. Most of the reason for the questioning is not knowing how to tell her I love her AND the way she does things. (Stupid tears make it hard to see what I am typing).

So now I have reduced myself to using my blog as a way to tell my sister that I do indeed love her, I will miss her and I am so proud of her. These are the tears of joy, appreciation and downright respect for the one I will continue to question, as my way to show her my love, simply because I look up to her and have admired her for so long.

To this sister of mine…I love you…please be safe. And why do you have to be so stinking stubborn?

Locks of Love

How much time could a mom use, if a mom had all the time to use it?

I do not fit into the stereotype of woman that enjoys a two-hour bath. I even regard showering as a mere necessity for practicing proper hygiene. It is on a very rare occasion that I will take a "long" shower. On one such occasion, prior to jumping into the shower, I selected a pound of meat to thaw in the microwave at 10% power for 30 minutes. I grabbed the baby, a few toys and headed into the bathroom, turned on the shower to warm while I selected clothing to put on afterward. I got into the shower and literally took as much time as I wanted to wash, rinse, condition, and rinse my hair; I even scrubbed with some of that fancy sea salt oil. Seriously I stood in the shower for a decade. I even decided to shave my legs. All smooth and clean I got out, smothered myself in smelly lotion, got dressed, read a board book to the baby, and slathered in some hair product. Then I walked into the kitchen only to hear the microwave still working away at the pound of meat. There was seven minutes left.

Being Creative or Borderline Cheating…

I agreed to be apart of Julie's 500 Mile Club and I have developed a plan in which I am certain to come out victorious and one that will hopefully encourage the rest of you into joining My idea of a 500 Mile Club. I have converted everyday situations into miles…

Dusting for 30 minutes equals a half a mile
Washing the windows for 30 minutes equals half a mile
Filling/emptying the dishwasher or doing the dishes for 30 minutes equals a half a mile
Vacuuming for 30 minutes equals a half a mile
Sweeping for 30 minutes equals a half a mile
Moping with a mop for 30 minutes equals half a mile
Shoveling for 30 minutes equals 1 mile
Mowing the grass for 30 minutes equals 1 mile
Raking for 30 minutes equals 1 mile
Gardening for 30 minutes equals a half a mile
Hoeing for 30 minutes equals 1 mile
Wrestling with children (putting on winter apparel constitutes wrestling) for 30 minutes equals a half a mile
Sledding for 30 minutes equals 1 mile
Folding/putting away laundry for 30 minutes equals a half a mile

Because it is necessary to count for something…

Scrapbooking for 30 minutes equals one tenth of one mile

And last but not least…

Blogging for 30 minutes equals one tenth of one mile


I am convinced that if you calculate all of these events and the number of times they are actually performed everyone could complete 500 miles worth of activities in a reasonable amount of time, all of which would count towards gaining the bodily figures we so desire. Creativity is the only way I can successfully accomplish this task.

Please feel free to add other suggestions into my comments. Now get moving and start tracking your 500 miles.

Good Riddance Tannenbaum

Now that the season has passed and the misery is behind me I can reflect on the wonderful joys of the Hunt for our Christmas tree. Pretend you just heard the needle scratch across a record and we are warping back in time about five weeks…

Oh, don't remind me that Christmas Tree season is almost here. I despise the things and, try as I may to sabotage the whole event, I somehow always cave in and find myself snapping photos of my over-bundled children as they desperately try to keep up with their daddy. He plows his way through the knee-deep snow (keep in mind that knee-deep on my husband is about 10" of snow and waist-deep on the baby), through row upon row of sap-producing, needle-tossing, water sucking, spray painted, trimmed-to-perfection bushes. It pains me to decide which of the perfectly manicured shrubs to select, remove from its current location and bring into my home. And this, ladies and gentlemen, is just the beginning.

Once the tree is home the fun can truly begin, as I pull out and untangle the lights that I hope still work (at least for one more year), then proceed to walk in circles trying to hang the lights I hope will work once I get them up on the now dying and soon to be dead tree. Then I get to open the boxes upon boxes of "ornaments" and remove them from their mounds of tissue paper to place them on the tree, pretending not to know I will be removing, rewrapping and re-boxing them ALL in just a few short weeks. All this while warning my children to "JUST LEAVE IT ALONE!"

I truly, on so many different levels, do appreciate and desire a Charlie Brown Tree. It is simple, it is NATURAL, and it is unique. This year I simply gave up. I untangled and hung the lights that happened to only function part of the season; I hung two strands of beads and two strands of metal hearts; I allowed the girls to hang candy canes and that was ALL. As close to simple as I could get my family to accept. And even still I overheard Josh comment that it was the most boring Christmas tree he'd ever seen.

Beauty truly is in the eye of the beholder, because I thought, and still think it was BEAUTIFUL. Yet another example of how minimalist I truly am. Maybe one year as a gift to me, we could just scratch the whole real tree thing and simply decorate the front window like one of Anthropologie's window displays, which, by the way, I spent half of one free afternoon simply admiring. Sounds pretty cynical I know, I just do not understand what joy there is pulling things out only to put them away…not for a tree. Someone please provide a worthwhile reason for enduring this ritual.

2008 in Review

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