Image

I've had something on my mind lately, or maybe many somethings I've been trying to work out in my own head and they just need to get written down. Maybe the appropriate place for these thoughts is in a personal journal (like so much of what I think about putting on my blog); then again, maybe you've felt this way too or you have some helpful advice for me.

So the thought process started as I was complaining as I rarely do to Matt about the baby weight I still have to lose. And he asked me why it was so important. Did I think I needed to lose that weight and have the sculpted body of my dreams to have optimum health? "Well...no." Then what was the big deal?

What IS the big deal?

I think it's this: I care less about the weight than what I feel like it says about me. As a girl who graduated in Fitness and Wellness, carrying around extra weight seems hypocritical. And I feel like it makes me look lazy, like I'm not taking care of myself, when I am taking care of myself. Not perfectly, perhaps, but trying nonetheless, and it feels like I have nothing to show for it. Why do I NEED something to show for it? Isn't it enough that I know I'm trying to take care of myself?

It's the same with my house. I look around and see clutter and dust and mysterious gumminess stuck to things and think "It looks like I'm letting the place go!" And yet I feel like I never stop moving. But there's the fear when the doorbell rings that whoever it is will think a) I don't know how to clean my house, b) I don't care about living in filth, or c) I desperately want to clean my house but am trapped under something heavy (that reference was for you, Buff).

Seems like the obvious answer has something to do with not caring what other people think. Of COURSE that's true. But it seems like I'm going to have to stop caring what I think in order to achieve peace around here. Because I look at the baby weight and the gummy dust and think "You lazy bum!"

Okay, maybe not that harsh, but more like "Where are the results of all my hard work?" I'll tell you where: they're screeching like rabid monkeys and jumping off the furniture. And that's okay. I'm there. I get it. I would MUCH rather have the three messmakers (and the stretchmarks!) than an always-clean house and a beach body. I guess I'm just looking for some tangible evidence of a LOT of effort, for the kind of validation that a mom is unlikely to get because her work tends to be invisible and slow, with eyes turned to a far-off horizon.

So I write. Right?

Gratitude, Six Years Late

It's our anniversary today, so Matt and I watched our wedding video tonight. After we shooed Truman out of the room because he WOULD NOT STOP ASKING QUESTIONS ("Where am I? Where AM I? WHERE AM I? Am I sleeping in heaven? Why are some people born in this video but I'm not?") and settled in to watch, I was overwhelmed.

For one, we were so young. I mean, it's only been six years but I feel like I look so haggard now. Mothering small children will do that to you, I guess!

Beyond that, as we watched the rehearsal dinner I started to get uncomfortable with how long it was - not that I minded watching, but I was embarrassed at how long we tortured our families with tributes and slideshows and the like. Then at the end I realized, when do you get to hear yourself essentially eulogized? Your funeral, that's when. Or in our case, our wedding dinner, which we have on video and can watch whenever we want.

So thank you, families, for sitting through all that. Those tributes and memories are priceless to us. I loved hearing advice out of Grandpa Washburn's and Grandpa U'Dell's mouths, since we've said goodbye to them since then.

Thank you Jon for videoing all the advice. Thank you, Bry, for letting him abandon you and one-year-old Seth so our wedding would be immortalized on film.

Thanks, Dad, for the amazing food and paying for the perfect wedding. Thank YOU Mom for, well, everything else about that whole process.

Thank you, Paul and Jill for so much work and food prep for the second reception, for grinning at and bearing with and welcoming me. And thank you, of course, for raising the man of my dreams.

Thank you Alisa for the lovely pictures. I wouldn't have wanted my day captured in any other way. 

Thank you people who traveled from so far to be there, who didn't mind that they got only three minutes of one-on-one time with us during that weekend.

Thanks to everyone who cleaned up the aftermath while we went blissfully on our way.

I'm more grateful for that day now than I had the capacity to be then. I was youthfully oblivious, too, to the insane amount of work and cooperation it takes to pull off a big event like that.

I'm more in love now, too, than I had the capacity to be then. Matt looked at me tonight and said "It's funny to remember that panicky, butterflies, high-school-crushish feeling. It's just so comfortable now. I like it better."

Amen, my love.

Coming Soon

Posts about "image", darnit-you-ARE-good-enough, triviality, the dividing lines between moms and non-moms (or Mormons and non-Mormons or Zumba-lovers and non-Zumba-lovers...), and why I want to be Glennon Melton. Only the Mormon kind.

At least, all these posts are what I tell myself is coming soon. Dozens of them form and fade away in my head over the course of the day, and one of these times, they're all gonna start coming out! I like writing, a lot it turns out, I just can't seem to make the time. But at least there's a new post from me on your reader, right?

Dear New Mom,

I've hesitated to write this letter to you for a lot of reasons; mostly, I'm afraid you'll think I'm nuts (which, let's be honest, I sort of am), and I don't want to scare you if you're doing just fine. Plus, every experience is so different that I don't know if you'll even need to hear what I have to say. But having my first baby was hard on me, and maybe something in my situation will ring true for you – now or in the future – and you'll know that you're not alone.

I expected to feel instantly bonded to my baby the minute he was born, and I thought there was something wrong with me when I didn't. Mostly I felt scared. I was oozing from every part of my body, I was sore, and I was tired. Nursing HURT. My toes would curl in pain as the baby latched on (and I was doing it right!), and more than once I cried through a midnight feeding while my husband slept soundly. I resented him, a lot. I was mad at him for not knowing that I was so tired I thought I would die of it, how my life had been turned upside-down-inside-out and then lit on fire, while his life was essentially the same. He was working and going to school at the time, so I didn't want to wake him in the night; plus, I was nursing so there wasn't much he could do anyway. But I was still mad. :) And the poor man had no idea what to do with me.

Then there was the boredom. Suddenly, I didn't know what to do with myself. The baby was so unpredictable in public that I hated to take him anywhere for fear he'd scream the whole time. And the loneliness was almost unbearable, but I didn't want to interrupt the well-oiled routines of the other moms I knew. And I think I was secretly afraid they'd judge me.

There were times in those early days when I'd look at expectant mothers and think, “Poor girl, she has no idea what she's in for. Isn't anyone going to give up the act and tell her how hard this is?” At the same time, I was terrified that her experience would be the simple, beautiful transition that mine was not, and I was so mad at myself for feeling grumpy about the whole thing. I thought I must be unrighteous, totally selfish, or broken for my lack of contentment. I can look back now and see that I had postpartum depression, but at the time I just thought I was deficient somehow. How could this thing that I'd been told I was supposed to do, this life's work that I wanted make me so miserable? And since I felt at the time that I was “supposed” to have a gaggle of kids, all I could see was more of the same agony stretching on through the next two or three decades. I was, in a word, a mess. (Okay, two words.)

And now the good news: it got better. I did in fact want to have a second and even a third child, and my experiences have been completely different. I got help for my PPD after #2, using a combination of medicine and counseling to pull me out of what I refer to as “the dark place.” I had only a whiff of PPD after #3, and by the time I suspected it, it was gone.

I don't read childcare books anymore, because they're written about other people's children, not mine. I used to think all my kids' sleep problems were a product of poor parenting; then I had my third, who was sleeping eleven hours straight at two months old, and I realized I had no control whatsoever! I guess that's been the hardest transition for me – relinquishing control. My plans get changed, my sleep interrupted, my patience tested and tested and tested. And at the risk of sounding like that well-meaning but unhelpful friend who pats you on the head as she offers useless advice, I say this: whatever you are doing with that baby is perfect. And whatever you decide to do differently tomorrow will also be perfect. Because that baby is yours to mess up, but you won't. And if you ever find yourself swearing in your mind (or out loud) about how hard it is to be the mom, you know where to find me. I AM SERIOUS ABOUT THIS. I even know a good counselor.

Welcome to the club! I'm cheering for you.

Love,

Brittany

Perfect Peter Strikes Again

Last week I was watching two of my friend's boys, and when it was time to take them home I had to get their carseats into my van, then get my two bigger boys plus hers coaxed into it and strapped in. I figured Peter wouldn't much care for being trapped in his infant seat the whole time I did that, so I left him propped up on the couch while I took care of business in the garage. It took a few minutes to get everyone settled, and when I came back inside this is what I found:

I guess he figured I was never coming back. But at least Caleb had given
him that Power Ranger to keep him company.

While we're on the subject of the Angel though, here are a few more recentish shots:

Cute baby body


Peter's blessing day

My little Greek boy!

About as typical as it gets from the Three Stooges: Truman cheesing it up, Caleb gritting his teeth trying not to squeeze/hit/scratch someone, and Perfect Peter

Bilingual

I suspect that being part of an in-law family is a little like being fluent in a second language. (I wouldn't know for sure since I speak only English fluently, but come along with me here.) It seems to me that you might enjoy the second language just fine; you may genuinely love speaking it and take pride in your skill; you even may prefer speaking it in certain circumstances or to express a particular idea because of nuances that can't be captured in English.

I know from experience that it's possible to be so comfortable and well-integrated into your in-law family that you forget you're not one of them. You adopt their mannerisms and phrases, their tastes, even their history (I tell my in-laws' family stories like they're mine and I was there, when for the most part they aren't and I wasn't!). You may even prefer the company of your in-laws when you find common interests that aren't shared by your own family.

But I imagine that even a fluent, comfortable speaker misses her native tongue and hurts for those familiar sounds in her ears, those syllables flowing so easily from her mouth -- the words she could form from the time before she has memories.

So it is that sometimes I miss the comfort of my "native" family. Not because they're better than my in-law family, but because they're more mine. They have memories of me before I even remember being me, so I see my whole life reflected when I'm with them. They speak my language, if you will. Because they were my family first. And since they don't have to move aside to make room for me there, I suspect they feel my absence more keenly.

Yes, straddling two languages can be painful. You find at times that you've forgotten the right word in both, or maybe you never learned it in either one. But I bet that anyone who knows a second language will tell you (I assume anyway --I'm not bilingual, remember?) that her world is richer for the knowing.

Aha.

My sister recently introduced me to a blog by a Christian writer/mom of three who writes about as beautifully and honestly as anyone I've ever read. One of her most recent posts took sides on a very controversial topic, and while her heart was absolutely in the right place, her doctrine was not.

At last count, there were 668 comments on the post from readers with varying viewpoints, many MANY of them Christians with different interpretations of the Bible. The comments were respectful but passionate, and everyone had a different explanation.

First of all, I was impressed. I was impressed that there are so many faithful people willing to sift and struggle through the Bible to make themselves scholars of it, all with the hope of honoring God, not offending Him, and learning His will for them.

But at close second, I was thinking. "I can't believe what these people don't know! They don't know about modern revelation like the Joseph Smith Translation that clarifies and enhances the Bible. They don't know how the Book of Mormon goes hand-in-hand with it to teach eternal truth. Most of all, they don't know that we have a prophet on the earth today so we never have to, as the blog's author put it, 'decide what parts of the Bible to prioritize and demonstrate in [our] lives.' "(She cited the Biblical scriptures that state women are not allowed to speak in church, wear jewelry, or leave their hair uncovered, ideas which are obviously not supported by modern Christian women. But I digress.)

It has been a long time since I have been part of a conversation like this one. I guess I had started to take my faith, my knowledge, for granted. These people were in real turmoil over the topic at hand, with nothing but their own genuine efforts and an imperfect translation of God's word to guide them. I realized afresh, and maybe for the first real time, what it means to me to know that a prophet speaks to God today. Think about that for a minute: You can know what God's priorities are for your life, not only through your personal relationship with Him but also through His chosen mouthpiece. Two witnesses. That is dazzling doctrine! I'm almost embarrassed to have gone so long without fully appreciating it.

Perfect Peter

That's what we're calling him at our house these days, because he really is the perfect baby. Eats well, sleeps well, rarely cries, and puts up with a lot of tough love:

The shot above and the next four are from a photo shoot
his Aunt Alisa did for us when he was two weeks old.

This one is from a couple of weeks ago...

And these are from a bath just today.

Matt thought he looked like a Jedi in the hooded towel.
I can't get over that deep dimple in the right cheek.
And I can't get enough of this baby.

On Christmas Cards and Guilt

You may have noticed (or not) that we didn't send Christmas cards this year. My excuse is that I just had a baby which, I'm finding, is a great excuse for a lot of things.

"Oh, you need volunteers for the blood drive? Sorry, I just had a baby."

"I'm not going to be able to wait in this long food line. Can I cut to the front? See, I just had a baby."

"You like my stretchy pants? I won't be wearing real clothes for a while, because I just had a baby."

"Honey, I'm going to nap while you wrangle the monkeys we call our offspring. I'm soooooo tired since I just had a baby."

Also, I was thinking today as I arranged for display the Christmas cards I have received (and this is with NO ill-will or finger-pointing to those who have sent them, just an observation as one who has sent and will continue to send such cards), "When did it become a tradition to send pictures of yourself to your friends and family for Christmas? Like this is your gift to them? Photos of you?"

In other words, "Oh, did you want a Christmas card from the Johnsons this year? So you could treasure a photo of me weighing more than I have in over a decade? Sorry, not going to happen. You see, I just had a baby."

Not the birth story

Since I didn't bore the blogosphere with details about my first two births, I'm not about to go ruining my record now. (Ironically, I love reading other people's birth stories.) Suffice it to say that Peter's was my roughest delivery yet, but only because he was posterior and I had to push more than five times. And the labor was only about three hours start to finish -- with a perfect epidural -- so I certainly won't complain!

In fact, complaining is about the last thing I ever want to do again. I can feel that my life is so good, and I can also feel it slipping through my fingers: when I watch Truman walk through the door to his preschool, too-big backpack slipping off of him; when I realize Caleb is so heavy I can hardly hoist him over the crib rail to put him down for a nap; when I try to remember what my older boys were like at Peter's age and the memories, so recent, are already dim.

I've cried blessed little since Peter was born, but in two- or three-minute bursts it comes out. Motherhood will break your heart, one way or another. There is a certain anguish in loving a little person so much and knowing that, in some ways, you will fail him. And with the addition of our third little boy, I feel sometimes like my heart might burst from loving him AND the other two so much -- and, lest I forget, the good good man I married. My love for him has grown with each baby too.

So, no birth story. But man, it's a good life.

Peter Jens Johnson

He has a name! I am sure Brittany will post details about the delivery soonish. Here are some newer pictures.

New Baby Johnson

We are pleased to announce the birth of our third boy (name still to be determined). He was born at 2:27 pm, was 7 lbs 3 oz and 20 inches long. He and Brittany are doing great. Check out his hairy back and arms.
-matt

The Monster, The Witch and the Elephant

...and the priest (with a glass of milk, do we love it?). And the tiny skeleton.

Happy Halloween!

The Self-healing Van

So our minivan (which was 'new to us' five months ago but hasn't been 'new' in over a decade) has power locks that have never worked quite right for us. The passenger side sliding door never locks or unlocks with the rest of them, it just sits there. Until the last two days, when it has randomly decided to fall in line a couple of times.

I was telling Matt about this yesterday when we started talking about how cool it would be if you had a car that gradually got less run-down and beat-up rather than more: painted over its own rust spots, popped out its own dents, and eventually turned itself into a 2011 Honda Odyssey. The ultimate self-healing car.

Fast forward to Zumba this morning. Caleb and I walked out of the church and he wouldn't get in the car. I coaxed him inside with the keys, which he put in the ignition, then he spent a few minutes avoiding my snatches at him (my ever-growing belly makes it hard to drag him out of the front seat of the car), pushing buttons, turning on the A/C, etc. etc. Then I caught him, strapped him in his seat and closed his door.

I went around to my door. It was locked. One of the many buttons Caleb had pushed was the power locks. No big deal, I thought. That sliding door never locks.

Except for this time. The third time in its life. So there was Caleb, strapped in tight, looking at me through the window and expecting to leave any moment. And there was my phone sitting next to him in the car. And there were my keys in the ignition. And my spare key was at the seminary, only a couple of miles away, but in Matt's pocket as he stood in front of a class of teenagers. And there I was dripping sweat.

I flagged down a friend who offered to take me to the seminary, but retracted the offer when she realized the van might get too hot in that amount of time. So instead she found the police dispatch number on her iPhone, then we waited around for about ten minutes watching Caleb get red-faced and sweaty in the car as it heated up (thankfully it was only about 11 AM and today wasn't a scorcher).

So the police officer showed up, looked at me disdainfully, slipped his hanger-looking thing into the car and hit the power lock button. At which point all the doors unlocked.

Except for the passenger side sliding door. Because, you see, that door never locks or unlocks with the rest of them.

When I got home, I cursed the self-healing car. And then myself for forgetting that another spare key was hanging from the key holder in my kitchen - five blocks from the church!

C'est la vie.

Post-op

Matt had his gall bladder out on Monday (full of stones, but no one knew that until it was out!), and I just can't keep his coming-out-of-anesthesia loopiness to myself. I wrote the quotes at the time through hysterical laughter and nervous tears since he was SO out of it. Our only regret is that we didn't video any of the fun!

This is more or less the way that first little while out of surgery went:

Nurse: "Matt, are you feeling nauseous?"
Matt: (furrowed eyebrows, clearly confused) "I don't know. Are you feeling nauseous?"
Then he noticed me. "How long was it?"
Brittany: "The surgery? From the time I left you until this minute was an hour and a half."
M: "Not 15 minutes? So we had a bad doctor? I want apple juice."
B: "I don't think you can have any yet. Do you want some water?"
M: "I want apple juice, Shaun the Sheep, and the iPad."
B: (laughing, since these are the items Caleb requests every morning when he wakes up) "Do you know who else likes those things?"
M: "YOU?!"
B: "Nope, Caleb."
M: "Caleb who?"
B: "Caleb our son."
M: "Oh, where is he?"
B: "At our house, with your mom."
M: "I want apple juice."
B: "I think you have to wait for that. Do you want some water?"
M: "If it has apples in it!"

I got him some apple juice.

M: "I want to cough, but I think it'll hurt. Why don't you cough?"
B: cough cough "Did that help?"
M: "No. My feet are sweaty."
B: "Let me take your socks off."
M: "Well now they're cold. Did you say they gave me some pain medicine?"
B: "Yeah, morphine."
M: "Did you get some morphine?"
B: "Nope, I wish!"
M: "Where are our kids?"
B: "With your mom, at our house."
M: "Do I have to have this thing on?" (shaking the oxygen monitor on his finger)
B: "Yeah, I think we better leave it on."
M: "It's bugging me. Can I move it?"
B: "To where?"
M: "To you?"
B: "No, I think it better stay on you."
M: "How long was it?"
B: "An hour and a half."
M: "Did you say she gave me some medicine?"
B: "Yeah, a couple of times now."
M: "I don't believe it. Not for one second. He wasn't kidding when he said this would hurt."

The nurse said he could have some oral pain meds if he could keep down some food.

Nurse: "So, what can I get you? Crackers, applesauce...?"
M: "I guess I can't have a double cheeseburger?"
N: "No. I'll bring applesauce and crackers."

After one cracker Matt wanted some oral meds. The nurse said he couldn't have any until the applesauce was gone.

M: "She is a hard taskmaster."
B: (Spoonfeeding applesauce) "Two more bites."
M: "You said two bites like nine million bites ago!"
B: "There, done."
M: "Where'd my socks go?"
B: "I took them off. You want 'em back on?"
M: "No. But I am done with this thing." (shaking the offending oxygen monitor again) "Who do I see about getting this thing off? Can I put it on you?"
B: "No I think we better leave it."
M: "How many stones?"
B: "I can see a dozen in the picture."
M: (Looking at the picture of his gall bladder on a tray) "That is yucky. Those stones are GROSS."

Nurse came in with some Lortab.

Nurse: "How's your pain now, on a scale of 1 - 10?"
M: "I've never had a broken femur before. How long was the surgery?"
B: "An hour and a half."
M: "How many stones?"
B: "A dozen."
M: "That is so yucky."

There was a lot more asking about the kids, the length of the surgery, the oxygen monitor, and complaining about the yucky stones. Thankfully, that stuff wears off, and he's recovering nicely. The pain has been getting a little better each day, and he's still planning on teaching starting Tuesday, even. Thanks to all for your prayers and concern.

T-bag

He's four now, and the quotes are just getting better.

Truman on his fourth birthday, which we spent at Matt's parents' cabin up Logan Canyon.
This shot is from Tony Grove.

This boy...

...thinks he is so smart when he saves time by washing his hands before he goes to the bathroom. (He gets mad when he has to wash them again after!)

...likes to sing the words "rock, paper, scissors" to the hymns in church.

...is convinced that the "sprinkles" on his feet (wrinkles) make him itch.

...tells inventive stories. Most recently, he came home from school on his motorcycle to find that Mommy and Daddy were gone getting married at the temple. Then Daddy skipped work to go on a mission.

...insists on eating grapes with no holes in them. (!)

And as for quotes:

OUCH.
Mommy asked, "Am I losing my mind?!" Truman answered, "What mind?"

"Mom, but you have such a big bum."

"I sure wish Grandma Jill was my mom."

"Mommy, when are you gonna go home?"
"Home where?"
"Home to the zoo, cuz that's where you live!"

Thinking about the future
"I think I want Daddy to stay a dad and I will grow up to be a Grandpa instead."

"Mom, when is Earth gonna get old?" (EVERY night before bed. Who even put this thought into his head?!)

"I want to be a daddy and a grandpa and a missionary and a fireman and a policeman. Police is last cuz I want to be a policeman forever."

On good vs evil
"I wish bad guys didn't have any bums!"

"Mom, a bad guy named Magic Man turned you into a bird. I'm pretending that."

When Daddy told Truman he was killing ants by coloring on them with sidewalk chalk, he said, "Well, that's just the way I hath to do it."

"I'm Iron Man! I just ironed that dragon's head off and its wings!"

"Why is that police car going so fast?"
"Maybe to catch a bad guy."
"Like a bad guy who kills fish?" Then, "[GASP!] Are there bad guys on earth?"

Wonderings...
"Mom, when you eat the fudgsicle and it breaks into pieces in your tummy, does it fall on the baby's head?"

"Jordan, why are YOU driving? Why isn't Carly driving? Is it because she's not a very good driver?"

At the end of Land Before Time: "So...are they gonna turn to humans now?"

Outta NOWHERE
"Mom, baseball players don't. Have. Phones. Cuz they just play baseball."

When Mommy told Truman to count sheep to help him get to sleep, he said, "Yes, and then the kangaroo will jump out and scare the sheep!"

Holding Mommy's hair straight out to the sides of her head:
"Mommy, you're turning into an animal."
"What kind?"
"A bat."

Grab bag
"Number one: I run. Number two: I run fast. Number three: I run into you. Those are the clues."

Complaining about bumpy roads on the way home from Logan: "Stop it! Stop shaking my ears!"

We're having a...

...third boy! Matt is thrilled to pieces, as he is the third in a line of three boys himself and, after all, what would his older brothers be without him?

Truman is unsurprised, since he's been telling me this baby was a boy for months now. "Mom, I don't want any sisters." Fair enough.

The tricky part? Naming the new little guy. Suggestions will be welcomed.

The big 5

It was our anniversary last week.

5 years.
4 moves.
3 kids (well, almost - #3 coming December 1st!).
2 lovebirds.
1 blissful marriage.

Okay, the truth is I wanted you to think this post was about something completely different than the fact that we're having a baby, but there you have it.

And to be fair, I do have a blissful marriage that I have thoroughly enjoyed for the last five years. Here's to many, many more.

Payoffs Part III

Before we get to Truman's latest zaniness, here is the promised pic of my first-ever sewing project. Did I take a 'before' shot? No. Just imagine peeling black vinyl (?) on a recliner. You can also imagine how black would make the walls look gray instead of sage - I think the floral really warms up the room.

As for T-Biscuit...

On guns:
I told Truman about the game Chutes and Ladders, and a few minutes later he asked if we could play "that game Ladders and Guns."

After the military salute (read: guns being shot) at Grandpa's gravesite, TERRIFIED: "Why did they shoot him? Are they gonna shoot him again?!"

Important questions:
Sucking nitrous oxide at the dentist: "Mommy, I'm flying. Are you flying with me?"

"What is my friends made out of? Fingers and hair and shirts, just like me?"

One Sunday morning: "Daddy, why do you have to go to meetings and meetings and meetings?"

"Why am I asking 'why' all the time?"

Clearly, he's missed something:
"Mom, we're on a date. That's where you go to the top of a mountain and look for a big, big, big, big, big, big pool."

Looking at the 'wedding wall' of newlywed photos at Grandma Patti's, he counted "1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8...(pause)...mmmmmissionaries and princesses!"

During a guessing game, Truman knew that Uncle Jordan was thinking of a big cat with hair around its face, that roars. Jordan tried to help Truman with "A li..." and the boy shouted, "A LIAR!"

Explaining traffic lights to his Hot Wheels: "This light means you hath to stop. And this one means you hath to go super fast cuz the light is gonna turn red. And this one means you hath to go swimming."

"Mom, can we go to B.O.?" "Um, you mean DI?"

On growing up:
"Look how tall I am! Soon I'm gonna be a missionary!"

"When you were a little girl, did you throw snowballs at your mom?" "No, I wouldn't do that." "I would! I would throw snowballs at your mom!"

When Daddy asked if Truman was going to stay in his bed all night long, he replied, "I'm still learning. Maybe when I'm 17 I could stay in my own bed."

On gender confusion:
"Mommy, kiss me and I will turn into a princess."

Truman's superpowers, according to him, are "making stuffed animals, books, and flowers, and putting water on buildings so they can grow."

Standing on the arm of the couch: "I am Mrs. Queen of the Mountain!"

Daily life:
Looking at a family picture: "Mommy, you're not mean to me in this picture. But you're mean when you're a real mommy."

While Mommy was changing Caleb's diaper: "EW! It looks like chocolate, but it's poo!"

From the back seat of the car: "Keep it down, you guys! I'm trying to pull my socks up to my knees!"

Wearing Mommy's glasses, looking in the mirror: "I look like someone who doesn't know me!"

Truman wouldn't talk to anyone at a wedding reception one night. Later, when we asked why, we were told, "They had feet sticking out of their pants and I didn't want to see their legs!"

So much...

...has changed since my last post. Sure, it's been almost three months, but still, we're talking CHANGED.

First and foremost, three people I love have recently been diagnosed or resumed their battles with cancer: my sister-in-law, my nephew, and a good friend in my ward.

My prayers have become a lot more heartfelt, for obvious reasons.

Truman is now, erm, closer to being potty-trained than he was three months ago. It's kind of a two-steps-forward, one-step-back kind of thing.

As of last post, Caleb was taking a few steps. Now the child runs away from me (gleefully, I might add) at the mention of the words "diaper change" or "bedtime."

We own a van now. Two kids, a mortgage, and a minivan = real-life boring adults. (Just kidding, our swagger wagon is sweeeeet.)

I started sewing...sort of. This is a big step for me. I made a slipcover for the recliner in Caleb's room which was, in Matt's words, an 'ambitious' first sewing project. Indeed. I ripped out a lot of seams and probably could have spent a couple [dozen] more hours on it, but it turned out pretty well. I'll post pics (maybe) when Matt brings the camera home. I've also shortened a skirt, hemmed a pair of pants, and mended a couple of Matt's suits. At this point, I would have no idea where to begin if someone put a pattern in my hands!

I guess the only constant thing in life is change. And that Truman is bound to say outlandish and wacky things. Stay tuned for some more gems from him, coming soon.