(Not His) First Day of School (Yet)

Hello. I've missed you. It's not that I don't love you anymore... I do! It's not you. It's me. I've been... not quite myself lately. I'm not prepared to discuss it any further, but just know that the reason I've been absent from the blogging world has nothing to do with my feelings for you, dear reader. I've just been preoccupied with some stuff. I'll explain everything later, I promise. But for now, just believe me when I say I'm glad you're in my life, and I'm happy to be back in my own life too, even if it's just for today.

Today was the first day of school for most of the world as I know it. Both my parents went back to their classrooms to teach. (When I asked my dad how his first day went, and if he has any snot-faced brats in his junior high classes, he said, "Bring it!") All four of my siblings are in school, which hasn't happened in a few years. Can I just say how happy I am to be done with school? Graduating from the U was one of the happiest accomplishments of my life, and not because I've found my mathematics degree so useful since then, and not because I was so proud of all the hard work I had suffered through, but because I knew I never had to set foot on campus again. I didn't even walk in my graduation ceremony; I think my man and I went out to dinner instead. Food or an hours-long ceremony in which I know maybe a handful of other students? Food please!

Aaaaaanyway. School started today. Neither the punk nor I actually set foot in a school, but the woody scent of sharpened pencils was in the brisk morning air, and academic improvement was on our minds.

I posted this photo on FB this morning, and my friend Tara said, "I bet he jumps from letter to letter as you say them." I scoffed, but later today, we played that game. Me: "Can you find Q?" He would study the canvas and then point. Me: "Go stand on Q." And then he would run over and dance on the funny-shaped letter.

For Health class, we practiced identifying body parts. He even learned 3 new parts that he never knew he had: hips, wrists, and earlobes.

And what would a perfect school day be without P.E.? Our friends Amy and Adam gave us a wonderful new punk-size slide, which we enjoyed for much longer than a 15-minute recess would have allowed. We even practiced counting the steps on the slide. The punk counted 10 steps! That's 7 more than I counted. He's pretty talented.

Happy First Day of School to you and yours! May this year be filled with lovely teachers, chocolate pudding snacks, and Algebra.

What?

Algebra is fun!

Sister Day

Little Sis and I created our own holiday 9 years ago, when we looked like this:

It's called Sister Day. Yes, we are very creative. On Sister Day this year, I posted the following status update on Facebook:

Happy Sister Day! On today's agenda: lunch, pedis, movie, photo albums.

Only spellcheck automatically corrected "pedis" to "penis." Yes, wholesome fun for everyone! Lunch. Penis! Movie. You're welcome Little Sis!

Faster!

My long-legged running partner and I decided that we would sprint the last stretch of our run yesterday morning. Actually, she decided this and I grunted my assent. I am not a sprinter, you see. I'm just not built for it. I really don't have much muscle mass, unless you count the muscle that has formed around my midsection; love handles are muscle, right?

They're not?

Oh.

Forget I said anything.

So as we approached our last quarter mile, I could feel our pace start to quicken. It felt good. I was conscious of my form. My arms were pumping back and forth to help my momentum. I was breathing heavily, but rhythmically. And then Amy started pulling just a couple inches ahead. I lengthened my stride to match her. Now we were really flying! I actually started laughing! I was so happy to be keeping up with her. I must be a great runner! I glanced over at her and smiled, sharing my euphoria at our incredible speed.

Then she smiled back. And said, "Should we go fast?"

But...

But...

And then she took off and left my sorry butt in the dust.

Tears of Laughter

I'm going to Hell for sure.

Last night, I was enjoying a blue moon blender from Red Mango with Little Sis, when something struck me as funny. Little Sis was mid-sentence when I burst out laughing, spitting as I did so, and continued to laugh so hard that I cried. I couldn't talk for several seconds. Little Sis just sat there staring at me like I was nuts, because it wasn't her story that had tickled my funny bone. It was another frozen yogurt customer: a 50 year old woman with an eye patch.

I saw this nice blonde woman, and my imagination immediately took over. I imagined her looking at me, hooking her finger, and exclaiming, "Aaarrrrgh!" Like a PIRATE!

After this poor lady, whom I'm sure is very nice, and probably just had some kind of eye surgery, purchased her creamy treat and returned outside where Sis and I were sitting, it hit me AGAIN! Tears were rolling down my cheeks and I was just hoping against hope that she hadn't noticed the lunatic who was allowing blueberries and chocolate to dribble down her chin because she couldn't contain her evil laughter.

At least Little Sis and I did do something besides laugh at the unfortunate. We made summer rolls! Check us out here.

Will Run for Sanity

Last night, I was in a bad place. Everything around me was irritating. Everything made me mad or annoyed or caused me to roll my eyes and walk out of the room. Of course, none of this was my fault. The dark, unfeeling world was provoking me!

But then this morning, against my better judgment, I went running for the first time in a week and a half. (Running is always against my better judgment. Why would a person willingly and repeatedly do this to herself?) It was beyond tough. I only ran 3 miles instead of my usual 4 because I had a time constraint. But despite the relief that should have come from slicing that mile off my workout, I felt like I had lead feet AND a giant rubber band tethering me to a light pole down the street. I couldn't catch my breath. I wanted to stop and walk the last mile, but I knew that if I did that, I would make my man miss his flight because I would never make it home. He would have had to come scrape me off the side of the road if I didn't force my legs to continue their movement.

So I ran. And I ran some more. And I didn't die. I walked in the door, kissed my man goodbye, and then didn't stop smiling for several hours. I was more patient and loving with the punk. I enjoyed the moments in my routine that may be considered mundane. I was more appreciative and more helpful and more fun.

All because of a few little endorphins.

Tent-Induced Crazy

Filthy. Stinky. Grumpy. Prickly. Greasy.

That's what I was when I arrived home yesterday afternoon after 4 days at the ranch followed by 4 days on trek.

My grandpa's ranch is heaven on earth, despite the tent factor. It was cold and slightly uncomfortable, but we do it every 4th of July and I love it. I have never been home for Independence Day. Ever. Although I would much rather tent it than go to "town" (Vernal) at night with some of the others to sleep in a cheap motel, living in a tent gets tiring after a few days. But I do love being in a place where there is no cell phone coverage (no land line either), very few clocks, no TV, no internet. Just grass, trees, wind, rocks, a painfully cold river, solar power, and dozens of cousins.

Directly from the ranch, my man and I left the punk with his grandparents and drove to Middle-Of-Nowhere, Wyoming to meet the teenagers of our stake for pioneer trek. (Tell me, is there anywhere in Wyoming that is not the middle of nowhere? No wonder why no one stopped there in the 1800s on their way to Utah, California, or Oregon!) Unlike the ranch, there were no showers on trek. No sinks, no tubs. Just Camelbaks with which to brush our teeth, and wet wipes for our faces. We walked an easy 6 miles around Martin's Cove on Wednesday, but on Thursday, we pulled our handcarts 14 miles on the Mormon Pioneer Trail, ending at Rock Creek Hollow. The LDS Church has an agreement with the Bureau of Land Management in Wyoming so we can do these treks with our youth; however, the agreement stipulates that we must stay on the designated trail, no matter what. This trail took us through about 7 large mud holes, some up to the waist, and we were not allowed to go around them. We even had two missionary guides on horseback who made sure we stayed on the path. Many people lost their shoes to the hungry muck. My man has quarter-size blisters on both feet. I have one smaller blister; it was pretty much impossible not to get one since we were all walking with wet socks and shoes that were filled with mud and rocks.

After this long hike, everyone was tired and filthy, but happy to have accomplished such a feat. We ate well and had a nice testimony meeting that night. In the morning, we packed up camp and headed home.

At a gas station on the way home, my man picked up two small fountain drinks for us: Diet Cokes. Yum! Now, it's not like I hadn't had any Diet Coke this week. Aunt Cindy had shared her stash at the ranch, and I had joined two other leaders in the back of a trailer for a "discreet" (read: secret) Diet Coke pow wow on the second day of trek. But for some reason, this Diet Coke with ice in a styrofoam cup tasted like love itself. I took a sip and sighed with pleasure. Although my legs were still caked with dried, cracked mud and my hair was a giant glob of grease and dust, I was satisfied.

So when my man reached for my cup because he had finished his, I screamed, "No! No! No! No! No!" and violently grabbed it out of his hands. I think I shocked the teenage boys in the back seat, who started laughing nervously, and I know I shocked my man. He looked at me like I was just a tiny bit crazy. About 60 seconds later, I started giggling. It took me that long to realize that yes, I was crazy indeed.

Another Poop Story

Yesterday, I was changing the punk's diaper. I laid him on the changing table, undid the velcro tabs, and then realized there were no diapers in the cupboard. So I took one step over to his closet to grab a new package, and before I could get my hand on them, the little man had grabbed the diaper from in between his legs, and pulled it out from under himself.

Now if this had been merely a wet diaper, it wouldn't have been so scary. But of course, you know by the title of this post, it was not. As he pulled the diaper up into the air, the large nugget landed squarely on his chest. Curious, he picked it up to examine the item that had fallen. In a panic, I took it out of his hand... with my bare hand. Gag! I placed the token back in the dirty diaper and feverishly proceeded to wipe his hands and my hands with wet wipes. Then I slathered hand sanitizer all over both of us. Then, I found two smaller turds lying next to him, and gathered them. After changing his poop-smudged shirt, we both visited the bathroom sink to thoroughly clean our hands with anti-bacterial soap. Then more hand sanitizer.

And now, to clear your head of the awful story I just told, please enjoy these photos of the punk and his pal Bogey (Grandma Lynn's doggie). They share a favorite hobby: playing with "la-la" (water).

Do you feel better now?