mice vice

So it turns out that whacking a baby mouse with a broom does not make it explode in blood and guts. Believe me, I was afraid of that.

Now, don't think that I turned to broom whacking right away, but when I saw that baby mouse zip around like he owned the place it really. freaked. me. out.

Something had to be done.

Probably when you hear or read "baby mouse" you think of a cute cuddly creature capable of no wrong. Not me. I think of breeding and infestation and extermination. You see, we've been having a sort of a mouse problem here in our house lately. Let's just say every night after we put the kids to bed it's not uncommon to see a couple of mice zip by in the kitchen. It's okay, you don't have to come visit.

Back to the baby mouse. Like I said, I didn't want to whack it right away, mostly because I was afraid of the blood and guts thing, and because the only whacker I had in the vicinity was a short 2x4 and frankly, the small surface area was too risky to try. So I tried the most humane thing I could think of and loaded a mouse trap with parmesan and placed it in the corner. And waited.

Sure enough! it smelled the cheese and came scurrying straight to the trap. ---

You know how in scary movies you see the unaware girl walk closer and closer to the bad guy and you know what's going to happen, but you can't help but watch anyway? Well, that's how it was watching this little mouse head right to it's death.

Except, (to my horror) I watched that little varmint crawl right on top of the trap, eat all of the cheese, (I could've sworn it nodded a thank you) and then crawl right off. It was so light that it didn't even trigger the dang trap.

Darn. It was up to me, now. Remember, it was not just one mouse I was killing, it was all the future babies, as well. I know, that sounds so much better.

So I gathered my courage, ran upstairs, grabbed the kitchen broom, took a deep breath, (my heart was pounding like crazy) and whacked it until it was only twitching. Okay, you probably didn't need that last part, but you only have to read it. I had to witness it.

In conclusion, am I a hero? Probably. Can I sleep at night knowing what I've done? Not really, only because I'm afraid that a mouse will run into my bedroom. But the most important thing is knowing that after having the courage to kill a baby mouse, I can do anything.

Well, almost.

discovery

Do you know what an Oryctodromeus is?

No, it is not a medical procedure.

If you answered dinosaur, then you are correct. Can you name any special attributes that are characterized by this dinosaur?

Yeah, me neither. Maybe you have to be a young boy of five.

In last Wednesday's paper, I read an article on a local discovery of this creature. Knowing Roman has a love for all things prehistoric, I showed him the article and asked him if he had ever heard of an Oryctodromeus. It sounded foreign even to me and we read a lot of dinosaur books.

He said yes, and then paused before saying in an excited voice, "Those are the dinosaurs that dig into the ground!"

I said "Really?" just kind of humoring the little guy, but holy buckets! the next sentence in the article was (and I quote): Oryctodromeus is noteworthy, Krumenacker and other researchers said, because it is the only dinosaur known to dig small underground burrows.

Pretty noteworthy, indeed.

i know

It's been way too long.

Don't worry. You haven't missed much.

the elephant in the room

For reasons that only make sense if you are two years old, Greggory used the Elefun Game for target pee-practice while he was playing in our unfinished basement downstairs with the other children. I didn't get the memo, but apparently an Elefun Game makes quite a handy toilet in case of an emergency. (Emergencies can include laziness in not wanting to use the upstairs bathroom). I guess I can kind of see his point of view. They are both...shiny? with a hole in the middle?

I was less than pleased on the matter as I carried the dripping Elefun Game to the garbage. Greggory followed me upstairs, telling me that I needed to get that "thing, er rather, fing" out of the garbage and I reminded him that it was now broken because he had just peed on it.

He insisted that he hadn't peed on it, but in it so it would be fine.

On my wall, I have a sign with a quote by President Hinckley reading, Life is to be enjoyed, not just endured.

I wonder if he was including two-year-olds in that statement?

update on the dead meat

As for all you blogger-naggers out there, don't complain, I've been a little busy, sheesh...

Onto the post:

My loving father called me the other day wanting to know if I wanted any of the chicken that was, um, harvested. Heck yeah! I told him right away.

He said I could even have it for free. Okay, I said a little more haltingly, thinking there must be a catch.

He said I could have as much as I wanted--I just had to come down and get it. Hmm. My suspicions were increasing with every statement.

Here it was: I only had to come down and help break their necks, pull off all their feathers, and then clean their guts out. That's it. The grand stipulation.

Oh. I thought they had already done that? Well, it turns out that there were a few chickens left--as in thirty--that they hadn't quite gotten to yet. I thought about this. Could I really do this? I mean, my great-grandmothers did this practically on a daily basis for their dinner. I wasn't really a pure-bred 21st century girl was I? Maybe if I wore long latex gloves and a face mask and closed my eyes it wouldn't be so bad. Besides, it would just be a few hours of pure torture for ten organic, hormone free, preservative free, fresh chicken. For Free.

I would do it. I wouldn't kill them, but I could clean them out. (Remember, Cheapskates go above and beyond.)

Dad called me back a few hours later. I wouldn't need to come down after all. The chickens were already headed to a local butcher where he would do all the dirty work and present a store-worthy packaged chicken for the fee of $3 a chicken.

Well, great!! That's a bargain, if you ask me!!!

dead meat

I don't do a lot of posts about my father probably because I'm so busy dealing with certain minors. But that is something I will have to remedy because, you see, I have a great father. And when I say great I don't mean great as in future president great, but something even better. He's great at all the important stuff. He's also great at keeping it real.

He owns a big company, but underneath he's a farmer through and through. He's also a get-her-done kind of guy.

For example, we have a big family reunion today. We've been planning this reunion for many months and everyone in the family is very well aware about it.

I called my mother to enquire about today's events and exasperated she told me that she hasn't even starting to get ready for the reunion. The one that starts today. I asked her what she was up to and she told me that she was cleaning her kitchen. And then she was going to sanitize it.

Okay, that's not really a thing I would do in preparation for a huge family reunion but whatever floats her boat.

Then she told me that the reason that she needed to do this was because my father woke up this morning and maybe to mark the occaision of the big reunion, or maybe not (who am I to say?) went to his farm, beheaded thirty-five chickens that he had been raising for meat, brought them home and announced to my mother that he and the boys were gonna clean 'em out right there on the counter.

My mother, having been married for 30 years to this man, eventually relented knowing that she didn't really have a choice as there was the issue of the chickens dripping blood on her floor. My father, having been married for 30 years to this woman, should have known that she may not have liked doing this a) at all, and b) on the day of her family's reunion.

But, hey. At least dinner's planned.

oh boy

Boy, oh boy oh boy oh boy.....

Yes, I am referring to the little boys that live in my house whom I often refer to kindly as sons, but once in a great while they act more like little hyenas--up to no good and always giggling about it.

Today, after being exiled to the yard, (and yes, I did use that exact word as I banished them outdoors) I went to check on them. They were in the garage. Besides the fact that there were cheetos all over the garage floor, which wasn't really a huge deal because they are easy to clean up, there wasn't really anything that seemed suspicious until I tried to close the garage door and it just wouldn't budge even after pressing the button several times.

Roman then explained that as the door was going up he had used it as a sort of a ride and then somehow it just stopped working.

Great.

Well, I hope Roman enjoyed his day in exile because it just may be his last. Which poses the question, is nowhere safe for young lads of, say, four and two-almost-three? I think not.

I now know why there is a foreboding phrase of "oh boy" and not "oh girl".

missing

So I walked into the bathroom the other day and noticed that the toilet paper roll holder was missing. Immediately I went to find the Two-Year-Old.

I found him sitting on the couch, relaxing.

"Do you know where the toilet paper roll holder is, Greggory?"

Without taking his eyes off of the t.v., he shrugged and said, "I flushed it."

Matter-of-factly. No remorse there.

This fact was confirmed by a sudden wailing coming from the bathroom: Roman. Trying to flush his...business...down. It just wouldn't. Funny how a little thing like a toilet paper roll holder will cause such a ruckus.

Enters Weston.

At this point, I decided to join Greggory on the couch, very innocently, and wait.

Weston walks into the bathroom to help Roman. A slight pause followed. Then an outburst of Mormon swear words. A question, directed at me. (At least I assume it was directed at me.)

"Where's the toilet paper roll holder!!!" I guess it wasn't really as much an inquiry as it was a statement? Or a demand?

"Um, Greggory said he flushed it."

More Mormon swear words. And muttering as he walks into our room and comes out with a sort of fishing contraption made of hanger wire. You know, hangers really deserve much more credit than they receive. They are so useful for all sorts of things. But that's another post.

Greggory and I follow him into the bathroom for curious observation.

"Are you fishing, Daddy?" The Two-Year-Old asks in perfect innocence. (I truly think that children are born with the "innocence voice/look" as a defense mechanism to enhance their survival.)



"You're lucky." Was all he said.

cracked

I can't decide.

Are graham crackers the best thing since disposable diapers, or are they really a menace to the household lurking in the cupboard?

I used to think they were a sort of a solves-all. Kids hungry? Here's a graham cracker. Kids bored? Give 'em a graham cracker. Wanna build a house? Graham cracker to the rescue. Want s'more? Graham crackers, of course.

Well.

That is until I realized that they really don't fill the kidlets up. Five minutes later it's I'm still hungry! I mean, maybe if they were made out of hummus then it would be different. Come to think of it, maybe I could make my own recipe....

Also, I do considerably more sweeping when those blasted crackers are in my house. I swear everywhere I look all I see (beside children) are crumbs!! It's on the counters, on the floors and in the cupboard. And just when I get done sweeping the kitchen clean, here comes another child munching on a...graham cracker!!! It's impossible to eat those things without making a mess. Worth it? I think not.

I don't know. What do you think?

this may be slightly gross

Potty training Greggory is like giving birth.

I often hear myself saying, repeatedly, "Push, Greggory! Push, Greggory! You can do it!!...."

Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn't.

And the waiting! He'll say, Mommy! I've got to go potty!!! It's like a rocket blasts off and we rush to the toilet! But then---nothin'. So we make up potty songs and go through several false alarms and sometimes he goes. Sometimes he doesn't.

And sometimes his water will break, but it will really be pee and then I have to clean it up.

I bought him a toy tractor. That's what started this whole potty business because I figured he had to earn it, I couldn't just give it to him. And for the most part it has worked great. He's a full-time undy-wearer now.

Being the third child you would think that I have this potty-training business all figured out. Well, you would be.... wrong. All I know is that when the mother is finally ready to have the carpet cleaner as a permanent fixture in her living room, then it is time to train the child.

i'm glad i'm a mother

When Greggory tells me that frankly he doesn't need breakfast because he's already eaten. Half a tub of whip cream.

When I overhear Brooklyn teaching Roman that England is an ocean and Roman agreeing, saying, "Yeah! That's the place with all the Indians!"

When I am saying my morning prayers and Greggory kneels down beside me very reverently, then passes gas very loudly, and then just in case I hadn't heard it, proclaims, "I just farted!" while giggling wildly.

When Weston tells me that during a how to brush your teeth, children demonstration and some toothpaste...stuff... accidentally falls out of Weston's mouth onto the floor, Greggory, the opportunist, quickly scoops it up with a carrot he happens to be eating to use it for dip. Egh.

When I discover that both of my daughters happen to be growing their bottom two teeth at the same time.

Watching Holland crawl for the first time and watching her eat delicious cheese pizza for the first time--and loving it.

When it's nine o'clock at night and I go in to check on the boys who are supposedly asleep and I discover them playing hawk and jumping off the top bunkbed and diving for shoes that are posing for mice.

I'm glad I'm a mother.

crime, then a loaf of bread

I had never doubted our "upstanding citizen" example to our children until yesterday when we pulled into Broulim's parking lot and Roman asked,

"Mom, are we going to rob a bank, now?"

holly-olly oxen free

She's baby-licious.

captain underpants

I'd like to think that being resourceful is a good thing.

stiffed

I learned that if I want to get a nap in during the day while my children are playing, I'll just suggest a nice game of medical school.

They are delighted to learn that I am going to be playing with them--as their cadaver subject, of course.

grocery rules 101

While grocery shopping with the children, I have decided that there are certain rules that one must follow in order to have a more positive experience for all parties involved. (It also helps to ensure the safety of the children from certain angry mothers...)

1. When choosing a parking spot, park closest to the cart corral. Not only does it bring entertainment to the children when you are unloading groceries (picture: hey Roman, let's play zoo! you're a lion and this is your cage...) but it enables you to quickly deliver the cart without too much inattentiveness to your offspring.

2. Training your little ones to ride on the side of the cart is acceptable, as long as there are equal amounts of weight on both sides. Otherwise, the cart will probably tip over. Not acceptable.

3. Have your list handy and do not give it to the baby to hold. She will invariably eat it.

4. Circle the perimeter of the store to pick up the "boring" items first: fruits, veggies, meats, etc. DO NOT give treats to the rugrats until the end of the trip. Having them promise to be good while holding a tempting bag of candy never works.

5. Always be aware of where you stop your cart if you need to price something out. For example, if you need cereal, do NOT stop in front of the fruit snacks as this will cause excessive commotion. Pause, if you must, in front of the coffee. A much better alternative. Ideally, with practice, you can learn the "walk and grab technique" which doesn't allow any time for the children to be aware of potential treats.

6. Having stuffed your pockets with Corn Chex from home is handy in a pinch.

7. And lastly, to prevent all dismay and pulling out of hair, leave the children home with their father and take as long you need to. Maybe by going grocery shopping in the next city?

aye-what?

Last night we played a family game of charades. Holland went first. She was a baby. Easy guess. Then Greggory. As he hadn't really caught on to the point of the game, he was a little boy chasing his sister. Another pretty easy guess. Then Brooklyn. She started flapping her arms and running around the room.

Hmmm. "Butterfly?"

No.

"Bird?"

No.

Then Roman suddenly announces, "You're a unicorn."

Yes!

Okay. Roman's turn. He climbed onto our coffee table on all fours and then started tapping the table and making animal-like gestures.

"A dinosaur!"

No.

"A woodpecker!"

No.

"An elephant?"

No.

He jumps off the table enthusiastically and exclaims, "I'm an aye-aye! It's an animal that hunts for food by tapping on the ground like a woodpecker!"

Oh, that. Maybe a different game, then?

worst

Aside from the children and husband dying, and the house catching on fire, the very worst thing happened. (This may or may not have a happy ending.)

I was at Winco. With all four children.

The end.

Okay, seriously, another worst thing really happened. At Winco you have to bag your own groceries. I was doing this and then I paid the cashier for my food. I finished loading the bags into the grocery cart, gathered up the kids, walked outside to the parking lot, approached my van and then stopped cold.

I could not find my purse anywhere.

I searched the cart finding nothing and rushed back inside remembering that I had set my purse on top of the middle console where the paper bags are held. I remembered placing the change from the cashier inside my bag before loading the kids to leave. I walked straight to the spot. My purse was not there. I asked the cashier if he had seen it. He had not. I searched my cart again. No purse. Feeling quite frantic but keeping relatively calm, I thought, maybe I had dropped it on the parking lot when I was leaving? I rushed outside again. Nothing. I should mention that I was doing an awful lot of praying. I thought, go back inside and ask customer service if someone had dropped it off. I asked them. Nothing. At this point, I was at a dead end. My purse contained all of our monthly grocery cash, my cell phone, car keys, house keys, and pretty much the whole of our paper existance. I was shaken.

At customer service I wrote down my name just in case and turned around to walk to, well, I didn't really know. Then I saw a lady. She was approaching me very quickly from the other end of the store. And she was holding my purse! As I thanked her, very profusely, relief washed over me so intensely that I couldn't hold back the tears. But get this. She said that someone had left it in a cart outside.

I don't really know what to make of that.

bath and potty works

Yesterday, after hearing several unauthorized splashing sounds, I went to check on the boys in the bathtub. Sure enough, they were giggling and dumping water on each other with a bucket. The fact that the water was blue from being saturated by bar soap did not seem to deter them.

And then I realized that the bucket that they were so gleefully playing with was Greggory's training potty!!

But with all that soap in the water, I just figured the soap and the potty canceled each other out.

holland, the baby

Can you believe she is already almost eight months old? Sitting up and somewhat of a talker already, she reminds me more and more of her sister at her age.

She gets plenty of love and kisses from her family and we like to have "make Holland smile" contests. But being the youngest also has its share of quandaries. At times I will hear a sudden squall in the other room and walk in to find little Holland, sitting on her haunches, completely alone, having been accidentally abandoned by her more mobile siblings. Brooklyn is pretty good about lugging her around when she is playing, but when she is at school, her brothers are somewhat less remembering about their pint-sized playmate.

But, oh, we love her! Already I can't imagine life without her. Isn't it amazing how that happens so quickly?

bauble backfire

I think parents put too high of expectations upon their children.

It's bad enough that we demand them to learn all their colors and shapes before the age of three, but to insist that they actually play with the toys that we buy for them is going over the top. How could we possibly expect such an unrealistic burden?

The other day I got fed up. I couldn't remember the color of Roman's carpet (which is pretty bad considering he has the same carpet as the rest of the house) and I was plum out of creative ideas for cleaning manipulation. My sister-in-law told me an idea about hiding all of the toys if they didn't pick them up. Brilliant. So, I set the trap by asking him to clean his room. And waited.

Sure enough! Four hours later, the clutter still waited to be uncluttered. I sent him outside to play and dashed in to clean his room (ironically it only took me fifteen minutes) organized the toys by like and lugged five full totes in the dark basement. And waited again.

Roman came in and right away noticed his clean room. He excitedly thanked me for it, then slow realization dawned like a flying squirrel that jumped a foot shy of his landing.

"Mom, where are my toys?"

"Well, Roman, because you wouldn't pick them up I had to. So now they are mine."

Cue flowing tears and ensuing anger.

"How do I get them back?!?!"

"Well, you have to earn them back. Here is a basket of laundry you can put away."

Even though the whole point of the plan was to motivate him to work, I was still surprised when he immediately started folding clothes without complaining. My plan had worked!!!

Over the next few days, however, his motivation to earn his toys back decreased as he soon found new toys to play with. I was flabbergasted as his room slowly started becoming messier and messier, but this time with things like the five bags of Sleeping Beauty pullups that I had bought for him (I was actually kinda grateful that he was getting some use out of them). A handful of my kitchen utensils. Cardboard boxes. I couldn't believe it. My plan had backfired. Why should he bother working for real toys when he had an abundance of laundry baskets and shoelaces to play with? In fact, it has been a good two weeks, and he hasn't even asked about his beloved dinosaurs still waiting in the dark basement waiting to be saved.

I think they will be waiting a long time. I guess in the mean time, I am back to the drawing board.

no mumbo jumbo here

Brooklyn is just about the happiest girl on the planet right about now.

Finally! After lots of encouragement, Holland started saying, mamamama, much to my delight. But, this does not make Brooklyn happy. Spurred by a competitive nature (from whom I cannot say) Brooklyn set out to teach little Holland how to say Bo Bo (short for Brooklyn).

Well, after a few days of enduring a bombardment of 'Say Bo Bo! Say Bo Bo!! SAY BO BO!!!' only a few inches from her face, Holland finally conceded and uttered a cute little

"bo bo bo bo".

Hence, Brooklyn has been beaming ever since.

on roman

I was pretty pleased with myself when I came across a hot sale on pullups the other day. Wanting to take advantage of the awesome prices I grabbed as many bags as I could and walked out smiling knowing how much money I had just saved.

Much to my shock, I discovered a few days later that I had accidentally grabbed five bags of "sleeping beauty" pullups instead of the intended "car" pullups.

I tried to convince Roman that wearing sleeping beauty was actually pretty manly but unfortunately he didn't buy it. I wonder if it was because Brooklyn was begging to have them, and she doesn't even wear pullups?

Well, at least Holland will get some use out of them. In two years. They don't go bad, do they?

Roman can't ever accuse us of not having enough toys to play with. Last night at dinner, after a bit of cracker landed on my shoulder, I looked up to find Roman using a stalk of celery as a makeshift blow-dart gun.

I was actually kinda proud.

In an effort to speed things along, I said, "Roman, run fast! Like a gazelle!" He promptly turned to me and stated matter-of-factly, "Mom, Ornithomimus are a lot faster than gazelles."

Well. Pardon my ignorance on species of dinosaurs.

bathroom bombshell

In case any of you were wondering, fiber chocolate chip cookies, fortified with extra fiber, are probably not the best thing to let your children snack on all day. To clear any further confusion about this, read on.

Last week I had an evening class leaving Weston to care for the young-uns. When I returned home, I knew that by the look on Weston's face that he had an unusually rough night and that maybe he needed a hug.

He told me that Roman, after a sudden I-need-to-go-potty! announcement, ran to the bathroom like the dickens, but, apparently, the three feet from the bathroom door to the toilet was a bit too far. So, doing what was only natural to a young boy, he just dropped his pants and exploded on the floor.

After letting that sink in for a minute, Weston then told me that the bathroom has never been as clean as it was right now, thanks to him.

At that point I considered telling him about the fiber chocolate chip cookies I had made earlier that day and offering him one to make him feel better. But I recognized that it probably wasn't the best time for that.

being the new kid

Today I had the opportunity to go and eat lunch with Brooklyn at her school. I brought along Roman who was excited to get a glimpse of real kindergarteners in action. Brooklyn didn't know we were coming and was very excited and surprised when we suddenly sat down beside her in the classroom "pit" a few minutes before the lunch bell.

Right away she informed us of a couple of lunchtime rules to make sure we didn't get out of line--literally. Walk to the line. Stay behind your person. Don't yell. Don't run. If you do these things then Mrs. Tucker won't become the "mean teacher." I nodded solemnly and our lunchtime line proceeded down the hall and toward the cafeteria.

After being served our pizza and chocolate milk we sat down to eat. As we ate I asked Brooklyn and two noisy boys sitting across from us about their day, what they had learned and if anybody ever got white milk. They didn't remember what they had learned, their friend Kylie liked Brian because he could count to over a hundred and that was amazing, and no, nobody ever got white milk. All in all, aside from the interjections of sound effects and invisible ghosts attacking the table, a decent conversation.

After lunch, recess. Brooklyn showed us--along with about seven groupies (who knew that a mom could make you so popular?) around the playground and I showed my sweet pushing skills on the swings.

As I watched the kids playing, I couldn't help but wonder where their lives would take them in the next few years. They were so innocent. Everybody was friends with everybody else, no one cared about clothes or style or being cool and the only thing that made you stand apart was how high you could count.



What makes all of that change?

it's a dirty job

On Monday, after his third dirty diaper, I asked Greggory if he wanted to use the potty like a big boy and wear undies like his big brother, Roman.

He looked at me for a moment and then said, "No, that would be dangerous."

Hmmm. He's probably right.

calm down, willya?

It finally happened.

Ever since I brought my first-born home from the hospital I have been afraid to shower. Not because I think there is a monster hiding in my bathtub but because of what my children might do while I am bathing. I can handle messes. It's blood that really makes me worried. I always leave my door unlocked just so that if somebody were to lose a hand or an eye they would have easy access to me for notification.

Well, the other day, for some reason I chose not to leave my door unlocked and the minute I turned the water off (after a more indulgent shower than usual, I'm ashamed to admit) all I heard was terrified banging on my bedroom door. And screaming. Instantly, my heart started pounding. Thoughts raced through my head of previous incidents of emergency rooms and x-rays and stitches and I braced myself for a grisly situation.

I opened the door to find Roman holding his hand--covered in blood. I raced him to my bathroom and held his hand over the tub to catch the blood dripping from him. At that moment, I knew that I could easily make a frightening situation much worse if I did not get control of my demeanor and tone right away. So, I took a breath and calmly told him that it would be all right and that he just needed a bandaid, praying that I was right.

Luckily, I was. It turned out to only be a superficial cut and he was soon back at play.

I then remembered how at scripture study that morning we had talked about talents. I asked the children what talents they had. Brooklyn knew her talent was dancing and singing, Roman's was flipping over things and Greggory thought he was good at climbing. When asked the question, none of them had hesitated. They all boldly declared what they were good at.

So, I think I will learn from their example. I have a talent of staying calm in a crisis. And that's pretty good, I think.

children of the morn

I quietly woke up early this morning with the lights off. I quietly got dressed to go to the gym with the lights off. I quietly walked toward the kitchen with the lights off. As I quietly turned the corner, I saw the solemn figure of a two foot personage standing in the middle of the kitchen staring at the floor with the lights off. I half expected to see glowing red eyes slowly look up at me and command levitating knives to suddenly dart into my bowels spilling my innards for the little devil's morning snack. Instead, it was only Greggory. He wanted some toast and milk.

--Weston

pass the toothpaste

I bought some new toothpaste the other day. (I know, right?!?!) And ever since my new upgraded lifestyle (see two previous posts) I decided on the better, fancier brand. Actually, it was the only kind I could purchase according to my new friend, thekrazycouponlady, to get them for krazy cheap. Yeah, I'm pretty much a couponer now. I'm trying to decide if that warrants a special prefix to my name.

Anyways...

So I come home with my brand new toothpaste excited that not only did I save two bucks per tube, but now I get to look forward to brushing my teeth with a new mint flavor. At this point I have to make a decision. Do I wait to use the new paste until the old paste is gone, or pull a switcheroo? Well, that really wasn't a tough one. The old paste is immediately demoted to the back cupboard and I tear open the sparkly box.

Hang on to my hat! What do we have here! Not only is this toothpaste extra minty but it also comes in a see-through tube!! I've never seen this before! What craftmanship in a plastic container!

Well, after the excitement and hubbub calmed I started thinking, is this what we've finally come to as a society? Do we really need all the extras in order to consider buying a product? Does this see-through tube really make my teeth cleaner? Maybe. I don't know. Probably.

It's just awesome. The pioneers really missed out, you know?

back to bread

I was reunited the other day with a long lost friend: my Kitchenaid dough hook. I like to make bread and I depend on it to get the texture just right.

Well, to make this post more interesting I'll throw in a twist. My boys also are quite fond of the hook--but not to make yummy butter rolls. It provides the final detail to make a fearsome pirate, arrgh matey. Well, after a few battles between bread and swashbuckler my dough hook vanished. Never to be seen again. I was quite saddened and so were our tummies as they, too, missed cinnamon rolls. This was several months ago.

For Christmas, my sweet husband surprised me with a replacement and then promptly said, "get to kneading!" (I'm just kidding, but I bet he thought it.)

So I made some rolls like I usually do and didn't think anything of it. Well, Roman happened to be playing with playdough that same day and when I came in the kitchen to check on him, much to my amazement were two sheet pans resting on the counter with neat little playdough-rolls placed on top. The rolls were identical to the ones I always make, cut and rolled exactly like mine. I asked Roman about it and he excitedly told me that he made the rolls just like I made them. I remembered how Roman always liked to help me when I was making bread, but I didn't think he was paying that much attention.

I was so flattered with his work that I forgave him for any foul play that he may have been involved with with my old hook. It just goes to show that you never know when the short people in your house are paying attention. So be careful what you say and how you roll your dough because they're always watching.