It's a girl...again...Yay!!

I like my girls, at this moment Eliza has an old lady scarf perched on her head and is doing her best pirate impression, She's trying to say "Arrrgh", but since saying her r's isn't quite a skill she has yet, it's kind of more like "Awww", maybe she's a bashful pirate. Anyway, as I was saying, I love my girls. And we're going to have another one...oh boy.

I was absolutely positive this bun in my oven was a boy, my crazy old neighbor lady told me it was a boy before I even knew I was pregnant. She would come out of her house, in her night gown, followed by 13 of her cats and say in her trance like voice "your pregnant, and it's a boy", then turn back around and disappear. If you can't trust a prediction like that then what is this world coming to? Also, my doctor would listen to the fetal heart beat and spout off all the old wives tales that said that the slower beat meant it was a boy, and he's delivered a bajillion kids (Seriously, he's old, he wears a bow tie). So you see, I had it on pretty good authority Charlie was finally going to get a boy that would play in the dirt with him (my girls don't like dirt, Eliza gets up several times during a meal to wash her hands...I'll worry about that later.)

But then the ultrasound day came, with me on the table with that gross jelly all over me, Charlie and the girls trying to stare at the screen and pretending they knew what they were looking at and the doctor announced that we were getting girl #3. I breathed a sigh of relief because what on earth do I know about boys? Charlie laughed, because what else can he do? Mia's response? "Darn!" We all looked at her for a second and she said in her really disappointed voice "little sisters are too much work". Then we all looked at Eliza, who was busy trying to shove a latex glove into an outlet...she didn't really care what else was going on in the room. And I've mostly gotten used to the hormonal uncertainty that is the established mood at my home. (Do any of you remember a vignette in the old Animaniacs cartoon called Katie Kaboom, where the daughter of a family was all sweetness and light, until she got mad, then she made the incredible hulk look like a sissy and destroyed the house with lasers coming out of her eyes and tossing Acme bombs with abandon? Yeah...Mia...) hmmm. I guess I at least have the stuff for a baby girl already.



Let the fight over names begin!!!

I need to pick my vacation destinations more carefully

I took the soul crushing van of doom on a road trip last week. And, it did not, I repeat, did NOT, involve a soccer tournament. Ok, kind of it did. Charlie was going to Cedar City for summer games. I paused and envisioned myself trying desperately to entertain my high energy children by myself in a hotel as charlie refereed soccer for 14 hours a day, and practically shouted that he was going alone. I only meant to be vehement, but I have volume control problems sometimes. Then, I had another vision of me with the two bored girls here at home for four days, while I was in the throws of morning sickness(oh did I forget to mention I am expecting again? Well, there you are.) Most days I have about 3 hours in the morning where I feel human, then I crash into a ball of nauseous slime on the couch until bedtime, only to rise to hurl once in a while. Charming, I know. My world is a glittering palace of glamor and excitement.

Where was I? Oh yes, so I was thinking about how much fun that would be, then for a split moment I envied polygamists. (in no way do I agree with their doctrine, but when you feel awful, you kind of wish you had a back up housewife around to entertain the kids and do the dishes. That's all I'm saying.) Then I thought of my awesome big sister, Wendy, who loves me and is nice to me even when I am whiny and gross. So I announced that while Charlie was gone, I was taking the girls to see their Aunt. He mostly looked confused at this point, taking the girls on a car trip longer than 10 minutes is something I avoid like the plague. But he just shrugged and said to have fun. Then I sat down and realized I had just planned a trip to VERNAL. Wendy has very few faults, but one of the major ones is her choice of hometown. Come on, Vernal. Hmm. I suppose there are good things about Vernal, so I will end my rant here.

All in all, it was pretty awesome. The girls behaved reasonably well. I was right in assuming that Wendy would keep my kids safe and entertained while I crashed on her couch for a few days, she's like the really cool version of Mary Poppins (but with less singing.) And the girls introduced her to Phineas and Ferb. I'd call everyone involved a winner. Even the van, it contained us and transported us just as advertized. Hmmm.

vehicle induced identity crisis

The day finally came. My tenuous and distant grasp on anything associated with my carefree youth has finally slipped away from me. I drive a minivan. How those words have crushed my soul with their enormous weight. I knew this day would come. The moment the phrase "Hey, lets have kids" passed between Charlie and myself, the minivan of doom has hung with its soul crushing mass over my head. Like the proverbial cartoon piano hanging precariously from a fraying rope out a window waiting for me to pass by, it has been there. Hounding me relentlessly from the edges of my subconscious. And now it is here. Parked in my garage. Mocking me and my self image as a carefree, relatively cool person. I stare at it as I go to lock the doors at night, and for just a moment we stare each other down. It always wins. I'm a middle aged mom who drives a minivan, there's no denying it anymore.

I will write more and make it amusing later, some day...when it doesn't hurt. I thought it wouldn't be a big deal. I learned to drive in a minivan. My mom's minivan was the only vehicle available to me until I had bought my own car. Why is this so hard for me to accept? I'm not even a car person. It shouldn't bother me. I should accept it as just another marker of the passage of time in my life. Like the first time I bought eye cream, or waited patiently for food storage items to go on sale. It's the way life goes, and I will accept it. I can still be me as I drive down the road in my shiny, silver dodge caravan. Just give me time. And perhaps a drink.

Martha Stewart takes a holiday

So, maybe it's just me, but sometimes I have days when I wonder why the universe has allowed me to be a parent. Most the time I'm ok, I give myself a B+, which is fine, I'm not striving for hall of fame or anything, just survival.

So imagine my surprise when I woke up Friday and had an itch to sew my cute little girls cute little matching sun dresses! I don't know what happened. Sewing generally thrills me about as much as wading through pools of spiders. But hey, who am I to resist a completely innocent urge? I dragged the kids to the fabric store (mia was in tears because that was not what her plan for the day was) and forced them to pick out fabric as I slyly asked the clerk what the easiest pattern in the store was as I am a what I like to refer to as a special needs seamstress. Anyway, long story short, here's what we ended up with after 3 hours of me cursing my machine





Yes, they are freaking adorable, thank you for noticing. This picture was taken Sunday morning about 10 minutes before we left for church. Approximately 13 minutes later, Mia's dress, hair and dignity will lay in shreds on the kitchen floor. (Aha! you were wondering when I would get to the "Amy is a massive mom failure" part of my story!) We wandered to church, my cute little matching girls holding hands and giggling, me trailing behind with tears of self satisfaction glistening in the sunshine. We selected our usual pew and settled in for the chaos we accept as sunday worship with kids. Here's where I made my fatal mistake, I asked Mia to (Brace yourself) Move to the END OF THE ROW! I know, how dare I say such things to her? Her screams of indignation echoed through the chapel as I tried to calm her down and explain that she can't sit in the middle because she puts her feet on the hymnal holder thingy and refuses to let anyone squeeze past her. This lead to more hysteria and a violent outburst. Charlie finally noticed that he was dressed and at church with his family just in time to raise his eyes from his smart phone and see his angelic 6 year old take a swing at me with her remarkable right hook. I've always been proud of that right hook. Anyway, he dragged her out of the church, all the way back home with her scratching and screaming and clawing at him the whole way. By the time they reached the safety of the house she had ripped her dress, reduced her cute curly hair to a hopeless birds nest and worked herself into such a frothy mountain of rage it took her nearly 2 hours to get a hold of her emotions and return to church (charlie had sewn her dress strap back on with a needle and thread and tried his best to salvage her hair, because he is adorable.)

Anyway, my point is, within about 3 minutes my "I am the worlds best mom with adorable girls whom are worthy of a magazine cover in dresses I sewed with my own hands" mood fell to "my whole ward just saw what a miserable failure of a disciplinarian I am and my children are secretly abusive monsters that should be locked in the basement for the safety of the whole neighborhood" kind of mood. It happens that fast. Eliza and I sat through the meeting with shame hanging over our heads (well, I did anyway, eliza mostly was irritated that her dad wasn't sitting next to her, she likes him lots.) Yep, that's how it goes. Kids. Hmm.

Hello?

Is anyone still out there? Charlie finally had time to sit down and figure out why I was locked out of this account this morning, so I guess I'm back. Woohoo!

Man am I relieved, the voices in my head were beginning to be really obnoxious without this particular creative outlet. I've been telling my kids my rants instead, and quite frankly they don't really care. Anyoway, I promise to start writing again, even if no one is reading this anymore, in fact that may be a good thing, no pressure and all that.