Because I'm much better at decorating for Christmas than I am for Halloween

Over at the Mormon Mommy Blogs, they're doing a "Holiday Home Tour" - everyone posts pictures of their house to create envy ideas. Well, sign me up for needless guilt and stress!

This is The Tree. It probably looks like everyone else's. Except I'm thinking that it's in desperate need of some gold scarvy-thingies, flung artistically here and there. Maybe next year. If they're on sale.

Surprisingly, Da Boyz have left the presents alone. Somehow the threat of disembowelment has worked well.

This is our front room. It's not all that Christmas-y. But I've been meaning to post it to show off my awesome ceiling that had me limping for a week. Plus the woodworking we had done. (Your home teacher should be a carpenter, too.)

That big blue ugly thing over the piano will be a beautiful mosaic of the temple someday. You know, when I have "time." Later.

Easiest, cheapest Christmas decor: wrap your existing pictures.

Although I think I'm going to change the wrapping paper to green. The silver isn't working for me.

This is my project this year; it will hang over the piano (replacing the big blue ugly future mosaic) once Michael's receives shipment of the "r's" and "t's." Why are they ALWAYS OUT OF SOMETHING? (I don't know why this picture is posting sideways, despite my having flipped it three times. I didn't invent blogger.com. Unfortunately.)


I like my kiddies.

This is the advent calendar that my awesome sister-in-law made us for our first Christmas. An identical one hangs in my in-law's house, and it wouldn't be Christmas without it. That big yellow puffball to the right is a camel, okaaaaaaaaaaay?

This kind of garland-y centerpiece stuff is all over my house. Garland. Gold berries. Gold spray stuff. Green apples. White doves. You have to buy those doves in packs of eight, and I put them to good use.

Sheepies are important to us. My Man's family have been sheep farmers for eons. Except for him. He's in finance. Sorry.


I'm proud of this. It took a long time to wire together. Probably longer than it would have taken you. (Look! Green grass behind the door! And a ball.)


Who needs a fireplace? We have a gorgeous buffet table that we got for free in Brazil. It is my favorite thing ever. (And dude, I know there's only four stockings for the five people in our family. I've been meaning to buy Mr. Squishy one ....)


The garland is hung with all of our sentimental-type ornaments. (I wanted a pretty tree, but didn't have the heart to throw away our many trinkets. This is a compromise.)

This ornament was brought to the Americas from England by my great-grandmother.

The snowman is from my kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Seuss. Much to our chagrin, she wasn't married to the Dr. If she was, she wouldn't be teaching a bunch of snotty five-year-olds.

But my favorite ever ever is this one:

My mom's ward gave them out a while back. It was MomLady's idea OF COURSE. Though she had Brother Nethercott paint it, because Brother Nethercott is a flippin' genius.

And of course, our Christmas village. Me likey ye olde church.

Belonging to the true church, of course.

I like the ice skater.
And the Wal-mart makes me laugh.

I am not the first. Nor will I be the last.

Lots of people have blogged about Tiger's recent transgressions. (I should say "alleged" transgressions, but c'mon. He totally cheated on his wife. He knows it. I know it. And so does the rest of the world.)

Sarah over at State of the Obvious had something to say about it too. And I was so prolific in her comment section that I figured I might as well have my own post about it. I will tell you what I told her:

I don't contribute to the celebrity gossip industry. Sure, I read the headlines in the grocery store. But I don't know how many kids Angelina and Brad have, and I'm STILL not quite sure who the Kardashians are, or why they're famous. I didn't even find out the Balloon Boy was fake til like a month after the fact. Clueless. That's me.

But I know who Tiger Woods is. And so I'm taking his downfall pretty seriously.

I love The Family. I love Marriage. I love Love and Happiness and Bliss and Joy and all that goopy, gooey stuff. And there are too many people in the world who believe that it's all fairy tales. Too many people honestly believe that it's not possible to be happy with just one person for the rest of your life. Too many people who think infidelity is a given - the inevitable consequence to a years-old marriage without romance or passion.

And these people - these pessimistic, jaded people - point to real life. They point to the countless examples we have in Hollywood, politics and sports. It seems there isn't a single public figure that can have a good, healthy, happy marriage until death do they part. (If you know of any, PLEASE let me know. Mel Gibson's divorce set me back a while, too.)

So when I hear about another one biting the dust, I cringe. Because it seems to support Their Theory. Their heinous, faithless theory that marriages CAN'T be a forever gig.

And I say support their theory - but not prove. Because their theory is wrong. Dead wrong. That kind of happiness IS possible. I know it. I'm not a public figure, but I'd be willing to make myself the poster child for MY theory - There are Such Things as Fairy Tale Marriages.

Rant over.

Works for me FRIDAY - because I forgot to post this on Wednesday

It's Christmas, in case you missed the constant jingle-belling on the radio, light displays on every store, and gigantic Santa Claus and singing reindeer in the Jones' front yard. It's Christmas. It's true.

We recently had a Family Home Evening about this ever-popular holiday. First question: what is Christmas time all about? Little Prince: Presents!

Hmmmm.

Christmas time is, in fact, NOT about presents at all, and we are making it our goal to change LP's answer by December 25th.

One of the ways we are working to put Christ back into the Mas is by keeping His bed warm.

Nothing makes the Savior happier than loving and serving our fellow man. I know. He said so. So the best birthday present we could give Him would be? You got it - loving and serving our fellow man. (I know! It's like I already gave you the answer!)

Every day this month our family is looking for service opportunities. After dinner, we gather around the nativity and report on our good works. For every act of service, we add a "straw" (in this case, toothpicks) to the manger. By Christmas Eve, the Christ-child should have a pretty warm bed.

The kids are totally into it. LP took a truckload of candy to school, begging his friends to take it so he could keep Jesus warm. Ouro Branco is shockingly sweet with the pleases and the thank yous and the sharing his toys, muttering to himself that Jesus has to keep warm. I'm tellin' ya. Jesus is much more effective than Santa Claus for behavior modification. Jesus is better, because Jesus is real.

We are now entering the sixth month

And the baby is apparently taking up at least half of my backside.

At least ... I hope that's baby.

Monkey business

An excerpt from Five Little Monkeys Jumping on the Bed, as read to Ouro Branco by That Girl

It was bedtime. Five little monkeys took a bath. (Look! He's blowing bubbles, Mom! Yes, I know, how fun!)

Five little monkeys put on their pajamas. (Uh-oh, Mom. That monkey doesn't have a shirt on. Why doesn't he have a shirt on, Mom? I don't know, sweetie.)

Five little .... (I know! His mom went to got get it. Yes, probably.)

Five little monkeys brushed their teeth. (I like RED toothpaste, Mom. RED. The blue one is spicy. Yes, I know you like red. Let's keep reading.)

Then five little monkeys said good night to their mamma. And five little monkeys went to bed. (Why are they waving? They're saying goodnight. But why do they wave? They should just say goodnight. Yes, you're right.)

Then, five little monkeys jumped on the bed. (Why are they jumping Mom? Because it's fun. But they will get hurt. Yes, you're right. Let's keep going. See - *flips pages* they get hurt right here. Yes, I know, they shouldn't have jumped.)

One fell off and bumped his head. (See! They got hurt. And HERE, *flips pages* the mom gets hurt too. Who takes her to the doctor? I don't know. The daddy? No, I think the kids carry her. That must be it.)

The mamma called the doctor and the doctor said, (*flips pages* why does the doctor cry, Mom? Because no one listens to him. I listen to him. Yes you do.)

No more monkeys jumping on the bed! Then four little monkeys jumped on the bed. (Why is this pillow empty? Because the monkey who sleeps there got hurt. So he will sleep on the couch now? Yes, I guess so.)

One fell off and bumped his head. (I think the doctor poked his ear. You think so? Yes. That's why he cried. The doctor poked my ear and I didnt' like it. No, it hurt you, huh. Yes. But it's better now. That's good.)

The mamma called the doctor and the doctor said, (Why does no one listen to the doctor, Mom? I don't know. Let's keep reading to find out. But - No, let's just keep reading!)

No more monkeys jumping on the bed! Then three little monkeys jumped on the bed ..... (Mom? ...)

Thanksgiving in pictures

Prior to Thanksgiving, we figured we'd better go over the basic point of the holiday. Role playing is our favorite way to teach. That, and lots of construction paper and staples.

My Man graciously provided power for the Mayflower - and MomLady was lucky enough to be Head Indian Big Momma Chief Lady at the First Feast.











We then proceeded to drive to Texas. That would be 1000 miles, or roughly 16 hours, of driving time. And ya know what? The kids were awesome. The drive was awesome. Life was awesome.

Awesome, I tell you.

Plus we saw some cotton fields, and had a quick educational detour. Da Boyz thought it was pretty much the coolest thing ever. And it was.
















We then arrived at my brother-in-law's mother-in-law's. They were kind enough to be out of town, and leave us with lots of beds and pretty serving dishes.

We did the whole Thanksgiving Thang. My sister-in-law did the turkey like it was NO BIG DEAL. (But oh, it was....) Little Prince got his dearest wish in the shape of a turkey leg. And we made way too much food. WAY too much food. But isn't that the point?














Oh, and we had pumpkin pie, too.


Then we had serious relative time.
















Mr. Squishy played a lot.













Ouro Branco played a lot.















Little Prince played a lot, too, but avoided the camera while doing so.

Then we went home.

The night we pulled into the driveway of our Home Sweet Home, we had a delivery:






















Our neighborhood ROCKS.

Givingthanks ...

I am grateful that I'm too busy and happy to blog.

In which I make up a silly word for a deep, psychological characteristic

People are different.

I know. Shocker.

But let's rewind a little bit. Whrrrrrrrrrrr! *Play*

So I'm in Brazil. Visiting friends. Having the time of my life, if you remember. But for every high there is a low, for every up there is a down - I'm pretty sure The Sword in the Stone has a song about that.

See, for some of those friends, a few days wasn't enough. For some of those friends, a few hours of (what should have been) laughter and conversation was 95% complaining that I don't keep in touch well enough.

This, in a word, BIT.

This plunged me into at least fifteen minutes of complaining to My Man - until we came to that SHOCKING conclusion: people are different.

I have a very good friend, whom we'll call Jane, because that's not really her name. We've been friends a long, long time. Good friends. Best friends. In high school, Jane befriended another girl, Betsy, to whom she became quite close. I liked Betsy. I had no jealousy issues. I was glad to include another body in my circle.

But in college, Jane "dropped the acquaintance," as Jane Austen would say.

Betsy called. Left messages. Wrote emails. Sent letters. Yet Jane disdained not to reply.

I got mad at Jane. "Write her back!" I urged. "Call her back! She's your friend!" But Jane, in so many words, made it clear that it was not a friendship 'worth keeping up.' Jane only had so much room in her emotional friend box, and it could not include Betsy at the moment.

I've thought a lot about that Friend Box.

Everyone is different.

For some, picking up the phone and calling once a year is plenty enough to keep up the status of "best friends." For others, once a month is better. Some women are more every-day-ers, who need constant physical companionship to deserve the word Friend.

And I don't think any one of them is Right, where the others are Wrong. Just different.

I've come to the conclusion that a Brazilian Friend Box is quite large. They have huge emotional capacities, ready and willing to embrace everyone as a long-lost soul friend - and work hard to keep them that way. They write weekly - sometimes daily - messages. Emails. Phone calls. And it's still not enough. My friend Jane, on the other hand, has a relatively small Friend Box. Select are the few who gain admission. And she's content with a once-a-year phone call to stay a part of that exclusive club.

I think I fall somewhere in the middle.

I'm totally okay with months of silence from some of my best friends - among them, my college roommates. They rarely remember my birthday. I never remember theirs (although I could TELL you what they are ....)

And that's totally cool.

I used to know everything about them. I was intimately acquainted with every item of clothing they owned - where they got it, and how much they paid. I knew when they ran out of cheese. I knew the daily ups and downs of their emotions, and what kind of tampons they used.

Now, I don't know those things. I have no clue what's in their closets - or their refrigerators - or their bathroom cabinets. But I know THEM. I know the foundational soul-building part of them that makes them my friends. And luckily, our Friend Boxes are relatively the same size. It makes things so much easier.

We don't see each other often. When we meet, there's that initial coolness and the "what've you been up tos?" and then everything is fine. We're back at Apartment 80, discussing the deepest darkest parts of US with music blaring in the background, and trying on each other's makeup. (Heidi always had the best. )

They are in My Box. But so are the Brazilians. It's just that Brazilians need more frequent proofs of their membership.

And that's okay.

Because people are different - and so are their Friend Boxes.

In which I brag a lot, but make up for it by posting an incredibly bad picture of me

So as previously mentioned, we went to Brazil last week. Just My Man and me. MomLady flew in to watch the kids. (Did I mention I love this aspect of living in the States?!) My Man had some meetings in that beloved country o' ours for his side business; as his personal assistant, I went along. I'm such a devoted employee.

We had limeades.
We had cake.
We actually didn't have churrasco, which is funny.

Mostly, we hung out with people like these:

Every day My Man would drop me off at some unsuspecting person's house, and I would give them a heart attack. Then we would laugh and cry and laugh some more. Then we became Alvin and the Chipmunks (talking as fast as we could) for hours - usually followed by more laughing and crying. Then I'd walk to someone else's house, and repeat the process.

Heart attack. Laugh. Cry. Talkreallyfast. Laugh. Cry. Repeat.

Basically, I had the time of my life.

Can a person actually DIE of joy?

To make things extra-uber-special, My Man and I even got to escape to the beach for a day, where we got really burned and read The Lightening Thief, which we loved. We also had deep philosophical discussions - the kind that you don't want to sleep for fear of missing something. The kind that reminds you that life is perfect because you married the perfect person. The kind that just makes everything that is less-than-happy, disappear.

It was a really good week.

And now, to make you feel slightly better about my Defying the Boundaries of Ecstasy, here's a picture that brings me back to earth:

Let's have a close-up, shaaaaaaaaaaaall we?

Wow. I really hope that's just bad lighting, even badder luck, or the fact that I just got off an international flight. Because I'M ONLY HALFWAY THROUGH THIS GIG.

I might need another trip to Brazil ....

Extreme dating

So My Man asked me out. To a churrascaria. In Brazil.

I said yes.

See you next week!

Dude. Dude. Dude. DUDE.

It's a boy.

We're so excited.