say cheese

Thanks to a recent Dads-Night-To-Cook, I have discovered that fried cheese is probably healthier than regular cheese. No way, Jose, you say? I jest not. (I am 93.875% sure on this!)

The reason being is that when you fry cheese in a skillet, there is always fat and oil left in the pan after the cheese is fried to a yummy crisp. Try it and you will see I am right.

I think this is very valuable information. Imagine all you dieters that can now break free! Break free from not eating cheese and eat fried cheese instead!

Yeah, feels good.

this is the place

How often do you get to walk the same ground that your great-great-great grandfather walked? We happened to do just that over the weekend at Pineview Reservoir for a family reunion. Dad was in charge this year and, ever the sentimental fella that he is, decided it would be best to throw in a little familiar education while we ate our potluck under the pavilion at the lake.

So we learned about Joseph Stallings. He was a convert to the church from Maryland that headed out west and homesteaded 250 acres in a quaint little valley by the reservoir in Utah. Can I say gorgeous? I was about to pack up my own belongings and homestead my own third-of-an-acre-on-a-corner-lot.

We were able to tour the property where he lived and took pictures of the original home that he built and, just as exciting, see the original outhouse that he used (where I’m sure a lot of great ideas were born.) We also got to see the local church that he helped to build, and a few other historical landmarks.

The most exciting thing about the whole trip, though, was hearing Dad tell how he knew about the place in the first place. He told us that a few years ago, while my mother’s family was vacationing in the area, he decided to go for a drive and just see if he couldn’t gather some info about this man. He knew that he had settled in the general area, he just didn’t know where.

He drove around and finally stopped at a house hoping someone might know something that could help him. Dad knocked on the door and an older gentleman answered. Dad asked if he had ever heard of a Joseph Stallings or had any information that could help him on his quest.

Well...

This is the place, he was told. The man just happened to be Joseph Stallings' grandson and Dad just happened to knock on the door of the very house that Joseph Stallings had built.

Of all the houses in the valley, it was the right place. Coincidence? I don’t think so. But, you decide.

what a gas

We have been having family dinner now for quite some time. It is quite revolutionary. But, I will save these reasons for another post.

Sometimes while we are eating we will play a game where someone starts a story and we each tell an addition of the story until we either run out of food or the character ends up dying. We try to always let the girls start the story because as soon as either Roman or Greggory share their part of the story the main character usually dies. And for no logical reason. Actually, most of the time the cause of death is from the character’s bowel movements or some gaseous explosion, aka, it farts to death.

So you can see why we like Brooklyn to start the story. We even give Holland a chance to add on, making up sentences from her burbles, trying desperately to drag the story on as long as possible until the inevitable death that awaits.

Yesterday, I was fed up with all the farts. A: we are eating. B: we are eating and C: we are at least trying to make this somewhat educational and so far it was back-firing. (haha) I told the boys that from now on farts and death were banished from our story game. They took it pretty well considering I just wiped out all of their material.

Brooklyn then started the story (I still didn’t completely trust the boys) about a rock named Fluffy. The plot grew and another character, Herman, a sting ray, was introduced. So far, so good. Roman’s turn. More plot. No farts. Great.

And then, I hear this:

Roman: ...then Fluffy dug and dug a big hole...

Gregg (muttering to himself): and then he farted (suppressed giggling)

Roman: ...and they found a key that unlocked the treasure...

Gregg (still thinking that no one can hear him): and then he showed his bum to people (more giggling)

Roman: ...and they rushed through the forest...

Gregg: and he farted! (more giggling)

At this point Roman hears Greggory and just bursts out laughing. And I can’t help it, I start laughing, too. Of course, this encourages Roman and he adjusts his thought mid-sentence and kills the character by, you guessed it, farting to death.

I don’t know if it’s the boys who will never learn. Or me.

diplomatic insult

Today I overheard Roman telling Greggory that he was “close to an idiot”.

Of course I told Roman to not call his brother an idiot, it wasn’t nice.

Roman told me that he did not call him an idiot. He said he was close to an idiot so he actually wasn’t being mean.

Yeah, I guess he had a point.

butte-iful day

What’s more fun on Memorial Day than climbing an old volcanic butte?

How about carrying a 28 lb. toddler on your back, having it rain AND hail, and having your seven year old daughter literally thinking she was going to die and not caring if the whole valley knew about it.

But, hey, that’s what good family memories are made of.

The highlight? Seeing my sons excitement knowing they have walked in a real volcano.

cookie {and} monster

I asked Greggory what he wanted for breakfast this morning and he told me he wasn’t hungry because he had a nightmare about a whale last night. I must have appeared confused because he added that the whale was eating him.

Okay...

He then explained that because of this horrible nightmare, he had to wake up in the middle of the night and eat all the chocolate chip cookies out of the cookie jar (which happened to be about eight).

And therefore, would not be eating breakfast today.

Well, I’m just glad they were oatmeal chocolate chip.

flower child

Little girls and dandelions. Is there a sweeter combination?

the shoe must go on

Here's the thing. Holland has an adorable fetish with shoes and that pretty much sums it up. There's no funny story behind the scenes, or freak accident--she just likes shoes. Of all kinds. It doesn't matter if they are men's, woman's or her brothers. She'll try on whatever comes her way.

I think it's cute. And I think she's cute. What more is there to say?

This is Holland liking the fact that I'm taking so many pictures.

"Maybe if I play dead she'll go away."

ride on

It seems almost cruel. Especially to a sweet little boy.

Last week was our week-long season of Spring where we live. We celebrated by planting flowers, pulling out the kiddie pool and buying the long-anticipated new bike for our oldest son. Which meant that the older, smaller bike immediately was inherited by the younger, smaller brother. He couldn't have been more delighted. As soon as we strapped on those training wheels he was off! Well, after several pushes from his mother. We watched as he circled slowly around the cul-de-sac past our house. Weee! We heard him say. The rest of the day was spent on that bike, circling slowly, around and around.

Yesterday. The little guy wakes up excited to ride his new bike. Well, it's Sunday, and we get to do other activities on Sunday, so we explain that he needs to wait until Monday. He nods, trying hard to be patient.

Today. Today's the day! The first words out of his mouth were not his usual launch about the urgency of eating right away, but are declarations to ride his bike! I convince him to have his breakfast first. He agrees. After his oatmeal, he manages to ride around the circle a couple of times, then comes in, defeated. It's cold, he says.

And so it is. And so it will remain (with chance of showers) for the rest of the week. I'm trying to decide if printing out a picture of a bike for him to color would be therapeutic or torture.

privacy, please

Okay, I'm going private. Who wants in?

here's something

So, here's a thought:

Actually, that's the problem. I haven't had many lately. I blame it on the weather. I mean, it can't even make up its mind to decide if it's spring or winter. Unfortunately, right now it's leaning more towards winter. I guess I shouldn't be too hard on the weather, though. It must be hard being the weather. So much pressure--literally! Hahaha. Okay, that was bad--but great. Come'on, more great than bad.

Onto other non-news, here's an idea that you might like. For Family Home Evening the other week we decided it would be fun to draw names in our family for "secret service". Basically we do things for the person who's name we drew throughout the week in secrecy.

This week, Brooklyn drew Roman's name and he could not, for the life of him, figure out who wrote him the I love you note that was shoved under his bedroom door. All week long he studied the note, trying to figure out who the author was. He finally narrowed it down by reasoning that because the y in you looked like a number four, then the writer had to be the age of four. You can imagine his shock and surprise when he learned on Sunday that it was actually his sister of seven.

Overall, it's been a success. But just when I think my children are learning the value and purpose of service, Roman draws his secret name and immediately starts groaning, No! Not him!!

Poor Greggory.

weston v. toilet

I was gone one evening. That alone calls for a minor catastrophe at the Davis household. Not that Weston isn't capable of holding down the fort--he is very qualified--he just seems to attract catastrophes sometimes.

Weston told me that he had sent the boys to brush their teeth. After hearing certain non-brushing noises such as hollering and crying, he went in to investigate. Roman accused Greggory of flushing his toothbrush down the toilet and Greggory readily agreed. He never explained his purpose for flushing it down the toilet. My own theory is that he just grew tired of looking at it day after day and figured it was time for a change. I mean, what really possesses little boys to do the things they do? So, grumbling, I'm sure, Weston went and grabbed his homemade Something's-Stuck-In-The-Toilet-Snatcher-Grabber made from a bent wire clothes hanger and fished in after it.

I had to ask, however. Did Roman get a new toothbrush? (You never know with husbands). He said, yes, he figured that having his toothbrush flushed beyond sight was grounds for a new one.

Well, that was good.

greggory, part mr. hyde

Lately, whenever agitated or provoked or actually for no reason at all, Greggory has been retorting with a "Well, you're an idiant!" Meaning to say idiot, of course.

I keep telling him that we do not call people idiants. Well, it's not nice, for one. I also keep debating with myself on whether to enlighten him on his mispronunciation. I mean, what if when he's 17 and in a fit of anger calls someone an idiant to their face? Not very intimidating. Not that I want Greggory to be a bully, but he really should correctly pronounce any threats.

It reminds me of a story that my dad told me about a student of his when he taught high school. If I recall it correctly, my dad asked him a question in class, and when the student didn't know the answer he retorted, "What am I? D-U-M?"

Perhaps.

I don't know if I will correct Greggory or not. But in the meantime, the word "idiant" will be put on our Words That We Do Not Say Because They Are Naughty List.

picnic in the hall

This morning after I sent Brooklyn and Roman off to school, I was embarking on the task of cleaning up breakfast when little Greggory asked me if I wanted to play with him.

"Sure," I said. That sounded more fun than doing dishes. "What are we going to play?"

"Restaurant," he said, and continued, "I'm the Ice Cream Man and you sit here and then I'll give you ice cream and a toy."

I sat licking my fake ice cream--which happened to be a stack of rubber tires on a stick--and asked him if he wanted any food.

"No," he said knowingly, "Ice Cream Men don't eat." I nodded, agreeing with him. Soon Holland wandered over. I told her to sit down, too. Greggory, the Ice Cream Man, handed her a plate with a plastic turkey on it. She watched how I nibbled on my ice cream and then pretended to nibble on her food, too. Except her food got a lot wetter than mine.

We sat for a few minutes in the hall. I was thinking, this is so fun. And Greggory and Holland and the kids get to do this every day. What have I been doing all these years?

"Mom?" Greggory asked.

"Yes?"

"Guess what. I love you." He stated it matter-of-factly.

"Guess what, Greggory?" I asked him.

"Ladybugs don't bite?" He answered.

"Yes. And I love you, too."

"Yep."

just in case you haven't had enough (of mice)

On Sunday, I was talking to my Dad about our mouse, er, problem (which, by the way, I feel that we are winning the rodent war at our house) and he told me a story about a man he once met in England while my Dad was serving a mission there. This man had been walking around his house at night one time and accidentally stepped on a pack-rat (I hate it when that happens!). For you vermin ignoramuses, pack rats are not small creatures. And he knew that if he took his foot off this rodent that it would bite and attack him.

Now, what would you do? Find a book? Get comfortable? Pray for wings? Make a mental note to call a realtor in the morning? Maybe.

Well, this unfortunate man did none of those things. He stomped the heck out of it with his other foot. (I pray this never happens to a one-footed person) And went back to bed. (Maybe he washed his feet first?) Aye, he's a brave Englisher.

So there you go. I probably wouldn't share this story at bedtime with the youngins', but you all did learn something today. You know, just in case this ever happens to you.

You're welcome.

we resolve

Our family's goals for this year:

Weston: To be home by 6:00 for dinner. (I may have helped with that one.)

Brigette: To have the house at Weston-level by the time Weston gets home at 6:00. (Weston may have helped with that one.)

Brooklyn: To be the best she can be.

Roman: To learn new tricks.

Greggory: To help Dad build things and to get a whooping crane.

Holland: To learn to say, "I love Daddy." (Want to guess who might have helped with that one?)