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.