Lack of Exercise

I exercise everyday. I feel the need to brag shamelessly about that. For thirty years of my life I exercised pretty much never. Not to say that I didn't try every now and again. I went to a yoga class once five years ago. When it started to get hard, I lied down on my mat and took a little rest until class was over. And I occasionally would read books about people exercising, which is kind of like exercise osmosis. But I never exercised consistently until last year.

About a year and a half ago, I noticed that my stomach was really sticking out, so I thought as any rational person would--I probably had a tumor growing inside of me. I went to my ob/gyn, convinced that she would find my tumor, cut that mass out of me, and I would leave her office a skinnier woman. Unfortunately an ultrasound revealed that all I had growing inside of my stomach was fat.

Which is why last January I made a New Year's Resolution that I would exercise everyday. And I have. (Totally bragging again.) In a seriously sick and twisted world, I have actually come to ENJOY exercising. I like getting all sweaty. I like ignoring my kids for 45 minutes every morning. I like singing along to awesome music from the 80's and 90's as I lift weights and glide on my secondhand exercise equipment. I like seeing myself progress. When I started lifting weights I could only bench press the bar, but now (control your jealousy) I'm bench pressing fifteen pounds. Oh yeah.

Which is why I am seriously bummed about a little incident last night, I would like to call "Kodie running into her cedar chest in the dark and injuring her knee." I was in bed, and I was thirsty. I got up to get a drink. Being considerate of my husband, I didn't turn on a light. That was pretty much my downfall, (literally), because thirty seconds later my knee collided painfully with the cedar chest at the bottom of our bed, and I was rolling on the ground crying in pain.

My husband, being considerate of me, began laughing. "That cedar chest has been there for three and a half years. How could you run into it?! There is at least a five foot path around it!"

He is, of course, right on both accounts. I would have probably hated him for life, but he made me breakfast in bed and cleaned up McKay barf four times today, so he is back at the top of my favorite people list.

Now, here is where the story gets weird. Since I am incapable of bending my knee without pain, I realized that exercise was going to be out of the question tomorrow. This really bummed me out. (That is the weird part.) I should be excited because I have a lot to do tomorrow. Like laundry. Today my family was so desperate for clean clothes that Deacon ended up wearing McKay's socks to church, and Chris told Parker that a pair of too little cotton shorts were boxer shorts. (They weren't.) So a little extra time in the morning should be seen as a windfall to a woman whose family is doing without the luxury of clean underwear.

But I didn't feel excited, I just felt bummed, until I happened to glance at my kitchen counter. I cheered up considerably when I noticed all the Christmas gifts my neighbors had brought me that afternoon--cookies, fudge, chocolate covered pretzels, homemade hot fudge sauce, and chocolate cream cake. Just to be polite I tried all of their gifts, and they were delicious! And then, because I felt like I should probably eat something healthy, I ate half a container of guacamole with chips.

Which brings me to the moral of this story--let your light shine before man, even if he's half-asleep in your bed. Trust me, your knees will thank you.

Something Royal

This morning I am trying to make breakfast while McKay is rollerskating around my kitchen, occasionally crashing or running into me. It is driving me crazy.

"McKay, could you please not roller skate while I'm trying to make breakfast?"

"But, MOM, I'm practicing for Cinderella on Ice."

Before I have time to counter this statement, she turns to Deacon. "If you could be a little more royal, you could be the prince."

"Yes!" Deacon exclaims excitedly.

"First you have to wash the Cheetos off your face."

I assume the Cheetos and royalty problems were overcome, because soon I have McKay crashing into me on roller skates, and Deacon crashing into me in socks.

"Enough!" I shout. "You can practice after breakfast."

McKay turns to Deacon, "Next time we practice--try to be more royal."

Being Parker's Mom

The sun has mostly set, just a sliver of light remains in the sky. It's the time of day where people have turned on their lights, but not shut their blinds. I am spying on my neighbors, as I walk down the street, looking for my son.

Before I see him, I can hear him. "That's not fair! We were going to punt!"

Yep, that's my boy.

Before he sees me, his friend spies my approach. "Parker, your mom's coming."

Parker glances at me, and then urgently yells, "Hurry, guys! One more play!"

I wonder how they can see the flags in the dark, but it becomes apparent that the flags are really just a formality. In a rush of energy and testosterone, all four boys pile on one another. Somewhere at the bottom of the pile I'm sure there's a football.

Parker walks home beside me, the ear flap on his winter hat half torn off, giving me a play-by-play of the game. "I really need to work on my running game. I'm practicing every night, but there's only so much time..." Daylight savings time has been a real hardship on Parker.

We arrive at the house. "Here," he says, placing his moist mouth guard in my hand, "you really need to wash this. It tastes disgusting."

Yep, that's my boy.

Chris the Awesome

"Here," I said, tossing a dollar on the book Chris was reading, "I will pay you one American dollar if you will put the kids to bed."

He tosses the dollar back. "No deal. I'm going to sleep."

"Fine, then you have to help me put them to sleep. Do you want boys or girl?"

He takes the dollar back. "Boys."

"You don't get paid to help."

"Yes, I do."

Five minutes later we are getting into bed. "You were overpaid," I say.

"I don't know, I had to listen to Deacon tell me he hates me. At least I know where I stand with him."

"Don't worry. Tomorrow you will be 'the best dad ever.'"

"You may continue to tell me how I am sainted."

"You do put up with a lot," I say, "You're married to me, and I am super bossy. Plus, sometimes I can be a slight control freak. I like things done my way, you know?"

"No, I've never noticed. Continue on with my saintliness."

"You're the giver in this relationship. You give. I take."

"I'm the giver, huh?" Chris ponders this. "What do you give?"

"I give you happiness."

"So I give you everything just to have the opportunity to bask in your presence?"

I begin to giggle. "I didn't mean it that way."

"I think you did."

"No, I mean that without me you would be old and boring. I make you fun. And you would sit around the house moping and playing the martyr all the time. What would you be like if I wasn't constantly telling you to suck it up and get over yourself? You would be unhappy!"

"Alright, we're getting way off track here. We were talking about how wonderful I am."

"How about I blog about it? You're constantly begging me to blog about how wonderful you are."

"OK," he says, rolling over. He begins snoring almost instantly.

Let me tell you about that snoring. It was truly wonderful, amazing snoring, produced by a talented individual. It was, dare I say it, sainted snoring. Not every girl can be as lucky as me.

Healthy Eating

"For the most part I'd have to say you're a pretty good mom," Parker told me the other night, "Except for one thing--the healthy eating! Stop! That's pretty much where the whole bad mom thing comes in."

This was after the chicken potpie dinner. I wouldn't even classify that as uber-healthy.

"Wait," Parker said, as I cut into the potpie, "I thought we were having pie for dinner."

"We are. Pie with chicken and vegetables."

Parker sighed, "I guess I'm eating cereal tonight."

"You have to eat at least one bite."

McKay is carefully examining her piece with a fork. "I see onions in here! You didn't say anything about onions. I hate onions!"

"You won't even taste them once they're cooked."

Unconvinced she begins picking apart her piece, pushing all the onions to one side. I pass her the bread.

"Is this wheat bread?"

"It's always wheat bread."

"Where's the Nutella?" she asks, looking across the table.

"In the pantry."

"I can only eat wheat bread if it has Nutella on it."

With much gagging, the one mandated bite is shoved down the kids' throats.

Today McKay is sick. Not very sick, just a headache and a slight fever. Just sick enough to get out of school. Just sick enough to get to spend the day lying on the couch watching hours worth of Barbie movies. Just sick enough to tell me, "I'm starting to feel better, but not better enough to do school."

So trying to be a nice mom, I make waffles for dinner--a McKay favorite. I do not make my normal healthy whole wheat and oatmeal waffles with fruit on top. (You're feeling Parker's pain right now, huh?) No, I make the best waffles in the world, Jenni Thomas waffles. (Jenni was my roommate for several years in college, and we ate these waffles pretty much every other day for two years.) Then to make dinner extra sweet, I try a new recipe for a buttery caramel syrup. There is nothing healthy about this syrup--butter, milk, corn syrup, sugar, and vanilla.

I take a bite and announce, "This syrup is AMAZING!" Then being an extra nice mom, I offer McKay a bite.

McKay lets out a scream. An actual honest scream. You would have thought I'd offered her an onion or a slice of whole wheat bread. "No," she cries, tears pouring from her eyes, "No, syrup! I'll eat my waffle plain." Because McKay is just sick enough to weep over waffles, I turn to Deacon.

"Try mommy's syrup," I said, shoving a fork towards his mouth.

His teeth clench shut, and he dodges my fork. Afraid I will shove a bite of food in his mouth if he opens it to speak, he shakes his head in the negative.

"Come on, it tastes like candy," I coax.

I get the teeth clench head shake.

"Eat it! It's so sugary. It's dripping in sugar! Don't you want this sugary goodness?" I move my fork closer to his mouth, and he backs up to the edge of his chair.

I'm just about to say, "You're not getting down from this table until you've had at least one bite of my candy-flavored syrup," when I remember something. I remember I'm force feeding my child sugar.

I can't wait until the weekend. I'm making caramel apples for a Halloween party, and so help me, those kids better eat them, or else....

Deacon Chatter

Deacon and I were driving to the grocery store yesterday.

"Do you want to listen to the radio or talk?" I asked.

"Talk."

"What are you thinking about?" I asked him.

"I want to climb on the roof of our house." He pauses. "Wait! I think that what be dangerous. Mom, would you sing "Book of Mormon Stories" with me?"

"O.k."

"You're singing it wrong! It goes 'When it rains, let it rain, righteously.' Sing it the right way, mom."

Deacon begins making silly noises and laughing at himself.

"Mom, you are my mother so you have to laugh at me."

"O.k." I attempt a fake laugh.

"Mom, you are my mom so you have to freak out with me."

"How do I do that?"

"When I yell, 'Freak out,' you freak out."

"How do you freak out?"

"I don't know, but I know how to eat breakfast, lunch, and dinner."

"Mom, I think there are trampolines in heaven."

"Oh?"

"Oh, heaven is a place on earth," he sings, doing a good imitation of Belinda Carlisle. Apparently that's the only line of the song he knows, because he continues to repeat it.

"What the heck?" Deacon asks, looking out the window, "Where are we?"

"At the grocery store."

"Grocery store--I love grocery stores! Let's go, mom!"

Watching Deacon Bowl

Our homeschool P.E. group spent the afternoon bowling today. Ten frames later I think I have Deacon's strategy down.

Step One: Grasp ball with two hands. Tell mother, "I'm strong."

Step Two: Casually walk up to the lane. Drop bowl on the floor. Lightly tap ball to get it headed in the right direction.

Step Three: Wait.

Step Four: Continue waiting. Lay on your tummy on the floor, resting your chin in your hands. (Top Deacon ball speed--.71 mph.)

Step Five: Watch ball knock over one or two pins.

Step Six: Yell, "I got a strike!"

Step Seven: High-five mother and shout, "Booyah!"

Step Eight: Return to seat and ask, "Is it my turn yet?"

Pied Piper

School is out today, which means my house is filling up with extra children. This afternoon I answered the door to add the fifth neighborhood child to my house. As he bounded up the stairs to join the other kids, Parker suddenly seemed to notice that his bedroom was a little more crowded than usual.

"Hey, why does everyone always want to play at my house?" he asked his friends.

"I don't know," one of them answered, "maybe because your house is always a mess."

If you want to be the Pied Piper of your neighborhood, you might want to give the messy house thing a try. It may backfire on you, though. A few years ago I was in the kitchen, when I overheard Parker ask his friend (an only child), "Why do you never want to play at my house?"

He replied, "There's always Cheerios on your floor. Your refrigerator is covered in papers, and your toaster oven is a piece of crap."

He's got a point.

Flamingos and Stuff Like That

I should have recognized it as an omen when Deacon peed on my foot.

Yesterday I was at the park with the kids. We had come a few minutes early to our homeschool P.E. co-op. My kids were happily playing on the playground, when Deacon announced he had an urgent need to use the restroom. It was so urgent that when I pulled his undies down in the bathroom, he didn't wait to get into position. He simply let loose. He let loose all over my foot. Consequently I found myself balancing on one foot like a flamingo, while trying to wash my other foot off in the sink, all in a bathroom that didn't contain paper towels.

After an hour and a half of soccer, kickball, and playground time, my kids were hot and sweaty and ready to go home. I would have liked to obliged but I had a little problem.

My tire was flat.

And...

My husband was out of town.

My husband was out of cell phone range.

I didn't know where the spare tire was.

I didn't know where the jack was.

I had never changed a tire.

My cell phone battery was dying.

So, I called my mom, so she could tell me what to do. (This is what moms are for.) She suggested I call Les Schwab Tires. I did. They told me they would be right over to help me out. (Apparently right over meant 85 minutes later.)

"Ah, here's your problem," the helpful tire guy said. (Let's call him Jeremy, since that is actually his name.) "Do you see this piece of metal stuck in your tire?"

Yes, I did.

"I'll inflate your tire with air and then follow you back to the tire center to get it repaired."

"How long is this going to take?"

"Do you have urgent plans?"

"Yeah, it's half-price Happy Meal night."

After two hours of playing in the park for P.E., and then an extra hour and a half of playing waiting for the tire guy, Deacon had had it. He crashed in the car on the ten minute drive to the tire center. I carried him into Les Schwab and held him while I waited for my tire to be fixed. The kid was out cold. Which is how I found myself trying to hold a sleeping three and half year old in my arms while digging through my purse for my debit card. Then I remembered the flamingo. I pulled one of my feet up to my knee and balanced Deacon on my "leg shelf" while balancing myself on one foot while finding my hidden debit card.

As the cycle began, so it ended. I began the afternoon in flamingo position. I ended it in flamingo position. And somewhere in the middle I learned something. I learned that this better not be a repeating cycle.

Garbage Giggles

Tonight while putting Parker to bed, he tells me, "Mom, I need to tell you a hilarious story about Deacon."

"O.k."

"This morning I heard the garbage truck coming. I remembered how much I loved the garbage truck when I was a little kid, so I got Deacon and had him look out the window with me. I said, 'Look, Deacon, that man's taking our garbage away.' And guess what he did, mom?"

"What?"

"He started to cry!" Parker giggles. "Then he crawled up into my bed and was laying there kind of sad. So I said, 'What are you doing, Deacon?' And he said, 'I'm going to lay on your bed until that man brings our garbage back.'"

At this point Parker is laughing hysterically. "I told him, 'Deacon, we will never get our garbage back. It's gone forever.' And then he cries even harder!"

By now Parker is laughing so uncontrollably that I can't help laughing along, despite the fact that his story is really not funny at all. When something really tickles Parker, he has an infectious giggle that makes everyone around him start laughing, too.

Parker notices I'm laughing and says, "You're laughing now, mom, but it won't be so funny when he grows up to be a hoarder."

On the Menu Tonight...

Do you remember that Stove Top Stuffing commercial from the early nineties where the two boys are deciding whose house to eat at based on who's serving stuffing? I remembering watching that as a kid thinking, No one would actually do that. But guess what? I was wrong. I have proof that it happens--just not over stuffing.

"Hey, mom, can I eat at Caleb's?" Parker asks yesterday.

"Why don't you just eat here?"

"Caleb's having mashed potatoes at his house. What are we having?"

"Hot dogs, fruit salad, and baked beans."

"Aaah, I love hot dogs! But I also love mashed potatoes." He turns to Caleb, "What else are you eating?"

"Cube steak and corn on the cob."

Parker seems torn, "I just don't know what to pick."

Caleb pipes up, "Cube steak is actually kind of disgusting."

This seems to cement the deal. "You're right. Let's eat here tonight. Come on, Caleb, let's go ask your mom if you can eat with us."

Yes! My dinner never beats Caleb's mom's dinner.

Job Description

McKay: "Mom, how do we get money?"

Me: "Dad goes to work and makes it for us."

McKay: "Does he actually make money at work or does someone pay him for doing his job?"

Me: "Someone pays him."

Deacon: "I have a job!"

Me: "What's your job?"

Deacon: "Playing and seeing with my eyeballs."

Truth is Stranger than Fiction

It was the perfect storm really. Everything was aligning--vomit, hubby out of town, and lack of a mop. All these factors played into Thursday's night activities.

"Children," I announced at dinner, "tonight we are going to play Pippi Longstocking."

You see for a week our family has been cycling through which family member gets to lay on the couch with a Sprite and a garbage can by their side, watching countless hours of television, and moaning about tummy aches. As a mother of young children, this is always an exciting week, which allows me to play a game known as "Dodge the Vomit." However, the downside is, if you lose at this game repeatedly, you also lose your sanity. I find it is better not to play and allow my husband to take my place. But here was the kicker--hubby was out of town on business.

So after a week of losing Dodge the Vomit, and after a week of being quarantined to my home, I was looking for ways to spice up my life and also clean my kitchen floor. My cheapy grocery store mop died after only three years, and I keep forgetting to purchase a new one. This means I either have to mop on my hands or knees or avoid mopping my floor altogether. This choice, being a no-brainer, meant my floor was encrusted in squashed food messes.

"How are we going to play Pippi Longstocking?" McKay asked sweetly.

"We are going to mop the floor like Pippi!"

"Yeah!" McKay declared. "Hurry everyone and eat faster!"

"Do you have enough scrub brushes to tie to everyone's feet?" Parker asked.

"I'll see what I can find."

Makenna, our neighbor, was eating dinner with us. "Wow, I haven't been over for awhile. I forgot what your house was like."

After dinner I gathered sponges and scrub brushes, poured some soapy water on the floor, and let the kids have at it.

All was going well, so I soon left the kids to their soapy fun, and went to take care of Deacon, who was taking his turn on the couch that day. After that I remembered an email I needed to take care of, and then I remembered I needed to renew my library books online, which reminded me that I would actually like to sit on the couch and read for awhile. Which I did. While ignoring the children. Even while I heard the sink turn on and more water being dumped on the floor. I just kept reading and ignoring. Even after Makenna asked, "How are we supposed to get all this water and soap up anyway?" I just said, "Use some towels," and went right on ignoring. I'm pretty good at ignoring. It may be the most special talent I possess, but I hate to brag when others just aren't as good at it as I am.

About two hours later, long after the kids had tired of playing Pippi Longstocking, I tucked my kiddos in bed, and checked on the kitchen.

Wow, the floor looks really clean, I thought. Then I went to bed.

The next morning when I went downstairs my laminate flooring was warped and starting to peel up a little--very clean, but very unattractive.

This is what I have learned from the experience. 1. Do not attempt to clean flooring after losing at Dodge the Vomit. 2. Write "mop" on grocery list. 3. Pippi Longstocking is actually a fictional character. This is why she could clean her floor by tying scrub brushes to her feet and skating acrossed it. This is also why she kept a horse on the patio, outsmarted policemen, and had a cannibal king for a father. I am not fictional. I am real. And now my kitchen floor really bugs me.

Mealtime Manners

Deacon: "Mom, get me my water NOW!"

Me: "Excuse me. Did you mean to say, 'Mother, that I love, please get me a drink of water'?"

Deacon: "Mother, that I love, please get me a drink of water."

I place a glass of water at Deacon's place.

Deacon: "Because my clothes are getting out of style here."

Shopping with Parker

Me: "I'm not sure if this watch is my style."

Parker: "Mom, you have no style. Can we get out of here?"

Honesty is the Best Policy

"Brush your teeth and get in the van for swimming lessons. We need to leave in five minutes," I yelled at my kids this morning, as I stood sentinel at the doorway.

First down was Parker.

"Did you brush your teeth?"

"Yes."

"You may proceed to the van," I said stepping away from the door.

Next came McKay.

"You forgot to wear shoes," I reminded her.

"Oh, yeah," she said, heading back for flip-flops. I would think that wearing shoes would come automatically to most people, but not McKay. Once I went to unload her from the van only to discover she was barefoot. Her ballet bag saved us that day, as she danced her way through the store in ballet slippers.

Finally, Deacon made it down the stairs.

"Did you brush your teeth?"

"Yes, sir, mom-o," he announced, as I let him by. "I also left the water running in the bathroom sink and made a house out of toilet paper."

What? I raced upstairs. Yep, Deacon was correct on both accounts.

Alright, the out-the-door mommy questions are going to be tougher from now on. "Did you brush your teeth? Will I need to file an insurance claim when I return home based on any of your actions today? Should I stop at Costco and buy another case of toilet paper?"

Oh, yeah, nothing's going to get by me now.

Spiritual Moments

Ahh, family home evening, the one night a week where our family gathers together to learn about Lamanite toileting habits.

Tonight Deacon had the scripture. "Let me go get the dictionary," he announces, running off. "Dictionaries have great scriptures in them!"

He returns with a pocket-sized German-English dictionary and begins reading. "The Lamanites pooped fire out of their bums."

He turns the page. "Then they stuck their fingers in the fire, and their fingers were dead!!!"

He continues to read about various body parts getting burned by fire, until he announces, "Then their whole bodies fell in the fire, and they died. But they came back to life. There they are behind the couch! And they're shooting me!"

At which point screaming erupts as all the children run from the Lamanites.

Calm is restored, and McKay teaches us the story of the Tree of Life. I'm asking the children to explain the symbolism behind the fruit, the iron rod, etc., and they're doing remarkably well. I'm impressed. Then I ask, "What does the great and spacious building represent?"

Parker responds, in all seriousness, "Barack Obama."

The lesson went downhill from there. "What could be some of the filthiness of the world, that the river could be representing?"

Parker had an idea. "Like those bikini girls in Las Vegas with an American flag on their bikinis."

I'm wondering how Parker knows about Las Vegas bikini girls, as I answer, "Yes...that could be filthiness."

McKay interrupts, "Wait, I thought the dirty river was chocolate milk."

Trying to bring a little spirituality back into the lesson, I conclude with a question. "So, what do you learn from the story of the Tree of Life?"

Parker exclaims, "Never wear a bikini! Especially if you're a man!"

Yep. That's family home evening around here.

A Reasonable Battle

I’m exercising when Deacon comes bursting into my room, swinging a shoelace.

“I’m Indiana Jones and this is my rope,” he declares, his shoelace twirling circles in the air. “Watch out! There’s a giant rock rolling towards us!”

Deacon dives out of the way, doing a few rolls across the floor for good measure. “That was a close one.”

Parker enters the scene, shooting a Nerf dart gun at Deacon. “I am a bad guy!” he declares, rapidly firing foam darts.

"Not today!” Deacon yells, charging straight at Parker with his shoelace swinging.

After a few minutes of intense dart gun and shoelace fight, it becomes apparent to Deacon that his shoelace is no match for a rapid action Nerf gun. He does what every superhero should try in the heat of battle. He walks straight up to Parker and says in a calm voice, “I am the good guy. You cannot shoot me. You are the bad guy.”

When all else fails, try attacking your enemy with reason.

May the Force be with You

Five minutes into Sacrament meeting today, the first counselor announces the opening song.

"We will now sing on page 60, 'The Battle Hymn of the Republic.'"

Parker excitedly asks, "Are we singing a Star Wars song?"

Music was making Parker think today. The congregation was standing to sing the rest hymn. In the quiet lull of singing between verses one and two, he asked, "Why don't these pews come equipped with built-in whoopee cushions?"

You have much to learn, young Parker.

Falling With Style

My children dress themselves, so this is normal attire.

As is this.

And this.

So it is no surprise that today Deacon dressed himself in Buzz Lightyear pajamas. Especially since he's Buzz Lightyear about 50% of the time around here.

"I'm Buzz Lightyear," he told me. "I come in peace."

"Mom, I think if I'm brave enough I'll be able to fly."

"You mean in an airplane?"

"No, with my arms."

This worries me, as he is already a crazy little monkey who climbs and jumps off everything, and broke my blinds by swinging on the cord like Tarzan. (Though he informed me he was not being Tarzan, but rather George of the Jungle.)

"Deacon, people can't fly. I'm sorry to break it to you, but that's just how it is."

So this morning, he climbed onto my bed, and touched the red button on his Buzz Lightyear jammies. Immediately, his arms shot out to the side like wings.

"To infinity and beyond!" he declared, as he leaped off my bed.

He landed on the ground safely, and looking up with a grin, said, "I told you so."

Make A Choice

"Mom, look at the beautiful clouds! They're pink!"

McKay loves everything beautiful. Just last week I caught her drawing with sidewalk chalk in the rain. "The rain makes the chalk beautiful!"

Tonight, however, she was entranced by the clouds. Her enthusiasm dampened when I spotted lightning. I, personally, love lightning storms. My kids are terrified by them.

"Quickly, Deacon," McKay admonished, "run inside."

Deacon, being Deacon, stood his ground.

"Deacon," McKay said, "lightning can kill you. You have a choice. Do you want to be a dead Deacon or a not dead Deacon?"

Deacon made a beeline for the door.

Good choice, kiddo.

Childhood Confession

My sister, Riki, is pregnant. Really pregnant. So pregnant that her baby is coming out whether or not he wants to on Monday. But, as any woman who has ever been nine months pregnant knows, five days is a very long time to wait for a baby. So I'm going to do by best to help assist her by irking her into labor. Induction by annoyance--this is definitely going to work.

It is time to confess about a little episode from the past when I was ten, and Riki was nine. Riki and I were fighting over an object. I say "object" because I have no idea what the thing was--a toy, a gift, a small woodland creature--it could have been anything. My recollection of "Object X" is gone, but at that time we both needed Object X so desperately that we would have ceased to exist without it. So, I did what any loving older sister would do. I grabbed Object X out of Riki's hands, ran like a maniac down the hall, and locked myself in our bedroom with it.

Riki responded the way any adoring younger sister would. She tried to break the door down with her brute strength. Her brute strength being limited by her nine year old frame, she rethought her strategy. The door began to endure an assault by credit cards and bobby pins, while Riki vocally reminded me that I was the meanest sister ever.

I was in a pickle. I could hide Object X, but I knew that eventually I would have to leave the room. At that point, Riki would enter the room, search it top to bottom, and find the coveted treasure. The room was too small, and Riki too familiar with it, being that it was half hers, for any hiding place to go unnoticed. I had to think outside the box. Or in this case outside the room.

I did what any normal ten year old would do. I opened the bedroom window, popped the screen out, climbed out of the window, hid Object X outside, climbed back in the window, propped the screen back in the window, closed the window, and opened the bedroom door.

"Try to find it now," I said, smugly to my sister.

She turned that room upside down looking for Object X. As her frustration increased, so did my self-satisfied happiness. I never confessed, and eventually she gave up looking for the wonderful, Object X.

Sorry, Riki. I bet you're so angry you want to burst. Like maybe, even, your water wants to burst in annoyance. And if it does, trust me, you are going to be thanking me for deceiving you as a child.

Something To Touch Your Heart

I'm sitting in Relief Society, listening to the lesson, which is fairly good, when the teacher challenges us to "put some music on in your homes. It doesn't have to be a church song. Just something that touches your heart."

Suddenly the lyrics to Bon Jovi's "Shot Through the Heart" come flooding through my mind and will not leave. One second I'm feeling the spirit, and the next second I'm silently singing Bon Jovi.

This is the first song that pops in my head? Sometimes I wonder how my mind works. I suppose if you're shot through your heart, it's a pretty good indication that something has touched it.

I can see the conversation now. "Family, after we listen to the Mormon Tabernacle Choir on Sunday, perhaps we could throw on a little Bon Jovi? It touches my heart, and Bon Jovi advocates for 'living on a prayer.'"

Perhaps Parker's right. Maybe I listen to too much music from the 80's.

Why It Took 73 Minutes to Get 30 Minutes of Exercise

I am happily gliding along on my exercise machine this morning, when...

Deacon: "I just did a great job pooping!"

Parker: "My science test is done. Come grade it, mom."

Deacon: "If you hug me, mom, I will turn into a chipmunk."

McKay: "Mom, would you put my hair in a ponytail?"

Deacon: "I need a drink of water."

Parker: "Why do you always listen to 80's and 90's music, mom?"

Deacon: "Yeah, this song is really freaking me out."

McKay: "Mom, can I exercise with you?"

Me: "Yep."

McKay: "Get off your exercise machine and give me a turn."

Deacon: "Here, mom, you hold Buzz Lightyear, and I'll hold Woody. Now go defeat Zurg."

McKay: "Where are my Silly Bandz? I put them on pillow last night, so I could remember to say my prayers this morning. You moved them, and I forgot to say my prayers, and it's all your fault!"

Deacon: "SISSY'S NOT SHARING!"

Parker: "I can't do any schoolwork with these mosquito bites on my leg. They're driving me crazy!"

Ahh, flat stomach, I will think of you in my dreams tonight. In the meantime, I need to shower. With the door locked.

When I Grow-Up I Want to Be...

"Mom, did you want to talk to me?" Deacon asked.

I did not want to talk to Deacon. This is Parker's latest trick to get Deacon to stop bugging him. When Deacon won't leave him alone, he tells him that I want to talk to him. Sometimes when that doesn't work, Parker tells Deacon that I want to give him candy.

"Did Parker tell you I did?"

"Yep."

"Parker was teasing you. You can go play."

"I want to talk to you, mom," he insists climbing onto my lap.

"O.k. What do you want to be when you grow-up?"

"I want to be a daddy and go to work and use THE GROWN-UP SCISSORS!"

"That sounds awesome."

"And I'll sit at my desk and eat a ginormous doughnut!"

"Anything else?"

"I can watch daddy movies!" He pauses. "Bye, mom, I need to go watch Mickey Mouse Clubhouse."

Love and Marriage: A Conversation Overheard

"Mom, I'll never get married," McKay declares, sadly.

"Why do you think that? Of course, you will."

"Well, no boy has asked me yet."

"That's because you're five. Five year old boys don't ask girls to marry them."

"Oh," McKay sighs, looking genuinely relieved.

Deacon is listening in on McKay's marriage conversation. "I think I want to marry Gracie," he states, matter-of-factly. Gracie is McKay's good friend.

"Yeah, but do you think Gracie really wants to marry you?" McKay asks.

"Yeah."

"O.K., here's what I'll do, Deacon," McKay says, "On Sunday, I'll ask Gracie at church if she wants to marry you. Wait---first we'll laugh about it, and then I'll ask her."

McKay is quiet, thinking for a second.

"But, Deacon, will you be loyal to Gracie?"

"Yeah."

"Will you treasure her?"

"Yeah."

"O.K., you can marry her."

"Actually, Sis, I changed my mind. I want to marry you."

"Oh, Deacon," McKay laughs, "It doesn't work that way."

Potty Training Success

If you've been reading my blog for any extended period of time, you know we've been potty-training at the Davis house for awhile. It may seem that I've been blogging about potty-training for over a year now. That, of course, would be inaccurate. We've only been potty-training for eleven months.

We finally seem to be accident-free at our house, and I contribute this success to bad parenting.

It all started on Saturday. I had been puppy-sitting for our neighbors for three days. The puppy had adorable floppy ears, big brown eyes, waddled around on its over-sized paws, and most importantly, was the spawn of the devil. I had spent most of my time for three days alternating between cleaning puppy messes out of my carpet and retrieving my flip-flops from the drooling devil's mouth.

My sanity was hanging by a thread.

I had just cleaned up my one millionth puppy "present" from the carpet, when I heard Parker announce, "Deacon's pooped everywhere."

I will spare you the details, but Parker's statement was accurate.

I wanted to scream, swear, or spank, but I pulled it together. Besides I had a worse punishment up my sleeve.

Shampoo.

Deacon hates having his hair washed. I hate washing his hair, because it usually involves me holding him in the tub with one hand, while attempting to wash his hair with the other, all with a lot of tears, screaming, and flailing of limbs. So I don't do it that often. And by often I mean I would be embarrassed to admit how frequently his hair actually gets washed. (Wet hair is as good as clean hair, right?)

Since my patience was gone, I threw Deacon into the tub and proceeded to shampoo his hair.

"Not the scary part!" he screamed, as I lathered up his hair.

"Yes, the scary part!" I answered. "From now on, every time you poop in your underwear, I am going to wash your hair!"

"NO! I'm sorry, mom! Don't wash my hair!"

After the threat of cleanliness, we have not had a single accident. Shampooing did the trick.

Today after Deacon used the bathroom, he turned to me and said, "You won't wash my hair, because I pooped in the potty, right?"

"Right, kiddo. I'm so proud of you."

Proud Mama Moment

Parker is an eight year old boy. So mostly he does eight year old boy stuff like obsess over Legos and play Little League. I like him to be a boy, but I want him to learn how to be a man, so I try to teach him to work.

This doesn't always work out.

Yesterday I came back from the grocery store. I had a million bags to bring in and put away. Parker is trying to earn money, so I told him, "I'll pay you a quarter if you bring in the groceries."

He ponders this for a second, and then asks, "How much will you pay me if I turn on the TV for Deacon?"

"Are you serious? Nothing. You have to work to make money."

"Well, then I think I'll pass on the quarter and just watch some TV."

That's pretty typical around here.

A few hours after the groceries had all been put away by yours truly, I was sitting with Parker and Chris at a Red Cross Volunteer Recognition event. Parker is the youngest Red Cross Volunteer in the state of Idaho. He spends every Thursday at the Red Cross office with Chris, where he vacuums the floor, retrieves documents from the printer, and eats all the Butterfingers out of the CEO's candy jar.

Parker was honored at the event with a special certificate of appreciation. As Parker stood at the front of the room receiving his award, I felt so proud. I could feel my eyes tearing up. I was surprised at myself. I'm not a crier. (Chris claims I had my tear ducts cauterized when I was three.) What could account for my overwhelming emotion?

I'm just so proud that Parker knows how to use a vacuum.

Ten Years

Chris and I recently celebrated our ten year anniversary. (And by celebrated I mean we fed the missionaries dinner and took all three kids with us to U-Swirl for ice cream.) I have been thinking about what has made our marriage a success these past ten years, and it all comes down to one thing--division of labor.

In our marriage, we each have our own jobs to do. For instance, I give birth to our children, and Chris turns off the lights and locks the doors each night. This works well, as long as we remember DO NOT DO THE OTHER PERSON'S JOB!

I discovered this when I allowed Chris to accompany me to the birth of our first child. It was my job to push this child out, and having him sit around watching Japanese animation was not helping. Neither was his decision to go into insulin shock. I mean, really, I'm kind of trying to push a baby with a 95th percentile head out, and I don't need all the medical attention going to my husband.

By the birth of my second child, I realized it was time to pull the division of labor card.

"Where's your husband?" the nurse asked, when she came in to check on me.

"Oh, I sent him away. He was driving me crazy. I'll call him when it gets close."

By the third baby I drove myself to the hospital.

"Bye, honey," I said, grabbing my keys, "I'll call you when I get to a ten."

"I'm here to be induced. Is this where I check in?" I asked, when I arrived at the hospital.

"Are you alone?" the nurse exclaimed, like no woman has ever driven herself to the hospital to have a baby.

"Yep."

That was the best birthing experience of the trio. I had a job to do, and I just focused on getting that kid out without interruptions. Division of labor. Literally.

Now Chris has the job of turning off the lights and locking up each night. Sometimes when he is out of town for the night, I actually never turn off the lights. I'll be upstairs in bed reading, when I decide it's time to turn off my light and go to sleep. Then I remember I never turned off the downstairs' lights.

Curses, I'll think, Those lights are going to have to stay on all night. It's not my job to turn them off.

One night Chris was really sick and lying in bed. I decided to be nice and lock the doors and turn out the lights for him. I came upstairs to tell him of my good deed.

"But that's my job," he said, slightly hurt.

It's not just chores we divide up. It's our brains. I have always been a math idiot. Chris is a math genius. So when I married him, I decided to allow all parts of my brain that were being poorly used to store math facts to be re-purposed into storing other important information like how long it's been since Deacon last pooped. Chris's brain could store all the math knowledge for the both of us, and mine would store all the knowledge of our family's toileting habits.

Last Sunday during my Gospel Doctrine lesson, I am teaching the parable of the unmerciful servant.

"Does anybody know how many dollars 10,000 talents equals?" I ask.

Someone raises his hand, "I've got written in my scriptures 1 talent=$325."

I'm standing in front of the class, and I am trying desperately to figure out how much 325 times 10,000 equals, and for the love of Pete, I cannot do it. All I know is that there are three rolls of toilet paper under the kids' bathroom sink, eight in the downstairs, twenty-four in mine, and Deacon last pooped the night before at seven o'clock.

"Hmmm," I say, "I'm kind of a math idiot, so I can't figure out how much that equals, but I'll tell you what James E. Talmage said in Jesus the Christ."

I may not be good at math, but I've figured this out. Division is only one factor in a happy marriage. The other important factor is mint brownies. If you go to a ward party, and your husband notices someone brought mint brownies, and then he notices his wife is still struggling at the back of the line to carry Deacon's plate and her own plate, and he grabs a mint brownie for her because he's afraid there might not be any left when she gets to the end of the line, then my friend, you have found something special. I love those things. Mint brownies and my hubby.

Dryer Romance

Last night I went to pull my clothes out of the dryer only to find them still soaking wet. I pushed the button again and nothing happened.

"Dryer's dead," I announced to my husband.

He began flipping breakers, checking fuses. When nothing happened out came the screwdriver, and pieces of the dryer came flying off the back. Recognizing that my husband hadn't gone to dryer repair school and quite possibly had no idea what he was doing, I decided to help.

I pulled out the laptop and began googling.

"Alright, this site tells you how to test the start button. But you'll need something called an ohmmeter to measure electrical current, so I guess you won't be able to do it."

Three seconds later Chris comes back from the garage holding an instrument that looks like it came out of Ghostbusters.

"You mean this?"

"You have one of those things?!? Who are you?"

After testing the start button and realizing it was working fine, he continued to pull more things apart from the back of the dryer. I began googling the cost of a new dryer.

"The cheapest one is $35o at Lowes, but I haven't heard of this brand.."

"Aha!!"

"What?"

My husband is holding a piece of plastic and wire against his Ghostbuster tool. "The thermal fuse is blown! I just need to replace this fuse."

Fast-forward to breakfast this morning. We are going over the schedule for the week with our kids. Wednesday is our ten year anniversary. On that day I am teaching my co-op preschool, taking my kids to homeschool story hour at the library, and feeding the missionaries. It's also my grandma's birthday.

"After the missionaries leave, we might need to go to the store and buy a new dryer if dad can't fix ours tonight," I say.

"That sounds like a romantic thing to do for an anniversary," Chris says.

Deacon is looking out the window at his swing set. "And we could buy another slide!" he says enthusiastically. "Slides are romantic!"

Problem Solver

"I'm going to bring my tools to church today in case there's a problem," Deacon said this morning.

His "tools" consisted of a plastic hammer, a roll of electrical tape, a German-English dictionary, and a pencil all contained in a toy kitchen pot.

"O.k.," I said, brushing McKay's tangled hair. I hit a particularly knotted patch and McKay let out a loud, "OUCH!"

"Do you have a problem?" Deacon asked, concerned. Then reaching into his "tool box," he grabbed the electrical tape and held it out to McKay.

"Here--this will fix it."

Amelia Bedelia Moment

"What are you doing?" I exclaimed, as I watched McKay happily emptying the contents of a box of baking soda on my kitchen table.

She looked at me confused. "Mom, you said to put the baking soda on the table."

Parker's Ponderings

Parker: "If you say 'booger' in England will the Queen arrest you?"

Me: "No."

Parker: "Sweet!"

Snapshot

A peek into my kiddos' minds at this point in their lives.

Parker

Parker enthusiastically cheered on BYU during their game last night. (Side Note: After Jimmer's amazing three-point shot, I woke up Deacon screaming, "Did you see that shot?" Thirty seconds later, I get a phone call from my brother exclaiming, "Did you see that shot?") However, after their disappointing loss, Parker wasn't so enthusiastic.

I found him in his bed sobbing. "BYU won't be number one this year."

"That's o.k. There's always next year."

"But they won't have Jimmer."

"You can watch Jimmer play in the NBA."

"It's not the same, mom."

McKay

Wednesday afternoon found me in a doctor's waiting room, waiting to get a prescription for Parker's eczema. I handed McKay a Curious George book to entertain her. She rejected it and grabbed a copy of People Magazine. Then she laid on her tummy and examined a spread on red carpet fashion.

"Which dress do you think is my favorite, mom?"

"This one," I said, pointing to a glittery dress.

"You're right! How did you know?"

"It was the sparkliest."

"I love it! But I hate her purse."

Deacon

I just answered Parker's call of, "Mom, Deacon painted on the wall." I discovered a purple and green watercolor blob on the wall of the boys' room.

"Deacon, did you paint on your wall?"

"It's a picture of Buzz Lightyear."

"Do you think it was a good or a bad choice to paint on your wall?"

"Good choice. It made me happy."

Food for Thought

Today was my day to teach my preschool co-op. We were learning about charts and graphs, so I decided to make a bar graph on the table. I passed out a card to each of the kids and had them write their name on it. I guided Deacon's hand to write D-E-A-C-O-N.

"Now write 'I want a snack' on it," he directed.

Once all the kids, including "Deacon I Want a Snack" had written their names on their cards, I pulled out an apple and an orange.

"We're going to make our own graph. I'm going to put an apple and an orange on the table, and you put your name under which one you like best."

Deacon's eyes lit up. Math he understood! Then he grabbed my apple off the table and ate my bar graph.

I guess he wanted a snack.

Grammatically Correct

I was driving Parker to scouts last night, when I noticed a kid playing basketball in the street. It was dark.

"Watch it kid," I muttered, "You're going to get killed."

"What are you talking about?" Parker asked.

"Oh, there was a kid back there playing basketball in the street."

"Was? You mean you killed him?!?"

"No!"

"Then why did you say 'was'?"

"Because we've already passed him."

"I don't think you're using good grammar, mom."

A Lesson in Cleanliness

"Mom, can we clean, too?"

I was cleaning encrusted pee off the floor around my toilet with a toothbrush. Apparently this looked like Disneyland to my children with Davis genetics, so I found a couple of old toothbrushes, put the cleaner on the top shelf, and let them go at it. Then I left to help Parker with his science.

This was my downfall--unsupervised cleaning. After about twenty minutes I went to check on their progress. That's when the smell hit me. The smell of Lysol. A lot of Lysol. And then I stepped in it. Lysol. A lot of Lysol. And then I saw it glistening on the toilet, the sink, the counter, my children, the mirror--everywhere except for the bottle which rested empty on the counter. My children were happily using their toothbrushes to scrub my freshly cleaned bathroom mirror. Only as an added bonus they had abandoned their old toothbrushes in favor of my new one.

I was not pleased.

After stripping off their Lysol-saturated clothing and throwing them into the tub, I grabbed some towels and soaked up my bathroom, then re-cleaned my mirror. We may never have another germ in that bathroom again.

"Alright, McKay did you think it was a good or bad choice to get down the cleaner and saturate the bathroom in it?"

"Bad choice."

"Then you need a consequence. You have to spend the afternoon cleaning the house."

More cleaning. That will teach her.

Speckled Frogs

Family Home Evening starts out fairly ordinary with our family singing, "Five Little Speckled Frogs." This is a family favorite, and Deacon is jumping off the couch into the "water" licking up imaginary bugs off the floor. After prayer, it's Deacon's turn for scripture.

"Say 'Blessed are the pure in heart,'" I begin.

"No, I don't like that scripture," he says. "I want to do my own scripture."

He grabs a blue marker and scribbles circles all over a paper. "I drew a scripture."

"What does it say?"

"It says the Lamanites were sitting on a log, and they jumped in the pool with the speckled frogs."

"The Lamanites, huh?"

"Yeah, and then there were three people left and Nephi said, 'Don't jump in Lemuel.' But he jumped in the pool. Then Nephi said, 'Don't jump in the pool, Sam.' But he jumped in. Then Nephi was left. And he jumped in the water."

Parker, laughing, "You should blog about this mom."

Done.

Haircut

Parker needed a haircut. I hate cutting Parker's hair. Parker hates having me cut his hair. The last time I cut his hair Chris said, "He looks like a monk."

So I had to use some bribery to convince Parker to sit still. He's trying to earn the Lego Star Wars Visual Dictionary with a good behavior chart. "I'll let you color in four squares on your chart if you let me cut your hair."

"Deal."

Thirty seconds into the haircut, "This is definitely worth five squares."

Two minutes into the haircut, "Why don't you make dad go through this?"

"Because dad would be too whiny about it."

"Even whinier than me?"

We suffered through the haircut together. My haircutting skills are limited, but my ability to get hair down the shirt, in the eyes, etc. is stellar. "Alright your done."

"I think I deserve eight squares."

"Give me a good reason why you should get eight squares."

"There's hair down my underwear."

"Eight squares it is."

Happy Valentine's Day

I know I should be annoyed at him for being mean to his sister, but the conflicting messages make me laugh.

Theme Song

I'm eating my scrambled eggs and bacon, when I notice something. Each of my children are singing their own theme song. Parker is humming the Star Wars theme song. Deacon is singing the theme song to Toy Story, and McKay is singing a song off a Leapfrog DVD. The competing melodies don't seem to bother them. I'm musing over what would be the Davis Family Eats Breakfast theme song, when Deacon finishes his song and crawls across the table. He presses his forehead and nose against mine, and when our eyeballs align inches away he asks, "Was that a great song, mom?"

"Yes, please get off the table."

"Parker, would you sing me a song?" Deacon asks. Parker obliges, and McKay bounces out of her place and begins an interpretive dance throughout the kitchen to the beat of Parker's song.

Parker finishes his song. "Mom," he exclaims, "Did you know that grandma didn't have a TV in her house when she was a little girl? I mean, how did she live?"

Ignoring Parker's obvious TV addiction, I ask McKay, "Where's daddy? I thought you woke him up."

"Well, I tried lifting his eyelids up, but he didn't really move."

Parker butts in, "You have to give him a hug and kiss to wake him up."

"Oh," McKay says, "that's why it didn't work."

At that moment a groggy Chris comes stumbling into the kitchen, just as Parker's proclaiming, "Did you know the book I'm reading was written in the 90s?"

Chris says, "The 90s, huh?"

And then he begins singing, "I just want to live my life like it's the 90's...Like it's a TV show..."

Well, hubby, we've at least got the theme song covered.

For Your Entertainment

At dinner tonight, I told that family what I overheard this morning. "I heard Deacon talking to himself. He was having an imaginary conversation."

Deacon (to himself): "Did you say butt go go?"

Deacon (answering himself): "Yes, I said butt go go."

Everyone laughs.

Parker: "That's the Davis in him."

Now everyone decides they have to outdo Deacon, by being funnier than him. (This is really the Davis in all of them coming out.)

Parker begins. "Knock, knock."

"Who's there?"

"Banana."

"You are not allowed to continue with this joke."

McKay: "Knock, knock."

"Who's there?"

"Centipede."

"Centipede who?"

"Santa peed on the Christmas tree."

(My father-in-law introduced that joke to my kids two years ago, and it's still going strong.)

Deacon: "Knock, knock."

"Who's there?"

"Banana."

"Banana who?"

"Santa peed on the Christmas tree."

This joke is followed by Deacon fake laughing like a maniac.

Davis humor at its finest.

I Worry About the Future...

I worry when I hear the following comments coming out of my children's mouths.

Parker: "At Scouts we were talking about what we wanted to be when we grew up. Everyone wanted to be video game testers. I was thinking, 'Guys, don't you realize there's no money in that?'"

McKay playing Barbie and the Three Musketeers with her friends: "I want to be the green one, because she's the one who loves boys."

Oh my.

Growing Up

This morning, I was doing McKay's hair for church. After several minutes of chest-level staring, she began to notice a problem with my attire. She patted me on the bosom and said, "You still need to grow into this dress, don't you mom?"

Sad Day

Last Saturday, New Year's Resolution fresh on my mind, Chewie and I decided to go for a run. This lasted approximately thirty seconds before Chewie was too tired to go on. Whew, I thought, I tried to run, but my dog wouldn't let me. This reminded me of another excuse--my dog ate my homework. Perhaps my dog ate my exercise.

Yesterday, we had great plans to finish painting McKay's bedroom. All of her stuff had been dragged into the library. Between Barbie houses and princess dress-ups, you could barely walk through the upstairs. We looked like people who should be featured on Hoarders. As soon as we were done with breakfast, we planned to attack that room with paint, reassemble her room, and let normalcy ensue.

Normalcy appeared to be the enemy of the day, because when I went to feed Chewie after breakfast, I found him laying on his side, struggling to breathe. I knew he was dying. Chris carried him to the van. Drops of blood trailed behind him, and I knew Chewie wouldn't be leaving the vet alive.

The vet pronounced cancer of the GI tract. We made the decision to put Chewie to sleep, but we didn't have to follow through. Chewie died while we were filling out paperwork, and the vet was readying his tools. Everyone was sad, except for Deacon, who didn't seem to get it.

But I was wrong about Deacon. He snuggled up next to me last night and asked, "Mom, would you drive me to heaven, so we can pick up Chewie? He needs to be at our house."

I wish I could, Deacon. I wish I could.

Bedtime

It's 9:30. Chris and I are in bed reading books that are making us laugh. I will read something, giggle, and read it to Chris. He will not laugh. Then he will read to me, and I will not laugh. We begin to question the other's sense of humor.

In walks a very grumpy Parker with Deacon in tow, mumbling something, but all I caught was, "...my brother..." He grumps out of the room. Deacon happily climbs into our bed, blue bunny blankie in hand.

Chris rolls over, very grumpy, mumbling something, but all I caught was, "...my son..." He turns off the light.

Chris believes Deacon has a personal mission to insure his spot as the youngest child in the family. According to Chris, Deacon accomplishes this mission by climbing in between me and Chris and spending the night kicking Chris in sensitive regions. Chris is not thrilled to see Deacon crawling into our bed.

I have a gift to ignore my external surroundings and focus on the book I'm reading, and I begin exercising that gift. A few minutes into my reading I become aware of the fact that Deacon is eating trail mix in my bed. I am, however, unaware of how he acquired the trail mix. I keep reading, and Deacon chatters on to me. I ignore everything he's saying, but a phrase does stick out. "I love you, mom, but monsters are not real."

Finally Deacon starts begging me to turn off the light. "O.k.," I say, "Let me go to the bathroom, and then I'll turn it off."

"I'll help you."

"No, this is a task I've mastered. I don't need any help."

Deacon jumps out of bed and follows me anyway. A trail of peanuts and raisins follow him. I begin to understand the origins of the word "trail mix."

I'm washing my hands when a few drops of water splash on the blue bunny blanket. Deacon becomes indignant. "You got my blue bunny blankie wet! I don't appreciate that!"

A glass of water later, and we are finally tucked into bed. At this point Chris has begun to snore.

"What's that sound, mom?" Deacon asks.

"That's daddy snoring."

"I can't sleep in here," he says, covering his ears. Three seconds later he jumps out of bed and heads out the door.

"Good-night, mom," he says, closing the door after him.

"Good-night, kiddo."

Family Home Evening

I love this picture.

Putting Deacon to Bed

Step One: Tell Deacon a story about his birth. Explain that he used to be a baby, but now he is a big boy. Big boys sleep in their beds all night long.

Deacon: "I'm your baby. I'm baby Buzz Lightyear."

Step Two: Tell Deacon to close his eyes and try to sleep.

Deacon: "No. I need my pop gun."

Step Three: Remind Deacon that we do not sleep with guns.

Deacon (tearing up): "But I just need my gun."

Step Four: Sing a lullaby to Deacon.

Deacon: "Shhh, mom."

Step Five: Listen to Deacon talk to himself.

Deacon: "Where's Daddy? Maybe he's under my bed." (Rolls over and peers at crack between bed and wall.) "He's not there."

Step Six: Listen to Deacon pretend snore. Try not to giggle.

Step Seven: Sneak out of room when pretend snores turn into real snores.