what if

I was impressed.

i want it

I want it bad. It's on sale at Banana. I know you sent out that great email on provident living, Aud. But whatever. Can you pick this up for me and pack it in your suitcase? POR FAVOR!!!! By the way, sis, while you're packing stuff, I'm interested in brown sugar, cornmeal, Italian dressing mix, and ranch dressing. And maybe Cinnamon Life cereal, if you've got room. But the hat is the priority.

a perfect afternoon

Some days I wanna drop my kids off at the nearest orphanage. And then other days - like this day - life is just plain good.

the preferred sport

When I think of soccer in the U.S., I think of those little league YMCA soccer games where half of a 5-year-old team is a glued pack around the ball, the other half is off picking daisies, and suburban soccer moms are looking on with sliced oranges and Capri-suns packed in coolers.

But when it comes to the favorite sport here in Aztec country, there's no question. Futbol is a whole different ball game. We're definitely not in Suburbia anymore. Only B's inherent competitive drive and love for goal-scoring is pushing him to keep up. These kindergarten-age kids are like mini-me's of their dads, yelling when their teammate misses a goal, dribbling and passing like pros and blocking shots with their heads. B's learning fast, though. I took some pictures one day at school and he was yelling along with the rest of them, "Pasela! Pasela! Pasela! Mire! Mire! Aqui! Aqui! Aqui!"







This inherent competitive drive will either make him a really good futbol player or a little messed up. I'd be lying if I said it didn't make me nervous. However, this ambitious nature cannot be a surprise when considering the source from whence it sprang. The other night, Bruce got together with some guys from work and they played another group from a different firm. It was freezing, but Geraldine and I were dutiful wives. Go, team.


Too bad I was rooting for the losers. I admit, in my mind, I totally generalized all Mexicans as good futbol players. But I forgot to account for the accountants. The other team creamed Bruce's colleagues. Bruce was the only one to score from his team. Probably because he was in a mad, adrenaline-rushed craze from losing so badly. I think the final score ended up being 8 to 3. And only a 5-goal difference because the other team decided to show mercy. Nice going, accountants. Not only did you lose, but you let the Americano score for you. I obviously need some practice taking action shots at night. None of the pics I took turned out, except this classic one of Bruce lying next to the goal in pure cardiovascular agony.


Bruce and his motley crew.


The winners. They even look bigger, fitter and faster than those accountants up above. AND there was less of them. Sad, so sad.


At least I'm not stuck watching baseball in this place.

visitors

Yay!!!! These girls are coming to visit in just a few weeks... well, not Andy, of course. He's not a girl. Andy, you will be missed. Bocce ball forever. We heart you.

music and my brother

My family and I - well, we love music. Some might say we're obsessed. Maybe it was all those years of piano and voice lessons (thank you, Mom), but it's an inherent part of who we are. Some of us love to sing, some of us love to dance, some of us like to play the guitar and/or piano, and some of us create and compose.

One of the composers is my brother, Jason. I wish everyone had a Jason. He would make their world a better, more awesome and hilarious place to be. I don't know anyone that knows more unknowable stuff than this guy. He's a genius. He's talented. He's athletic. He's thoughtful. He's loyal. He's patient. He's sweet and funny. I adore him.


The guy owns three computers, three guitars, two keyboards, a large amp and some bongo drums.



He composes music as a hobby. And I'm not talking that stupid, acoustic stuff. This guy's music is EPIC. MOVIE. SOUNDTRACK. MUSIC. If only he would let us record his stuff and make a demo... none of us know how to hack into his computers to do it.


When I need technical or music advice, he's my guy. And he doesn't even laugh at my musical taste. Out of pure love for an older sister, he sent me a playlist today of songs that he had put together for me and thought I'd like. If you're like me and always on the lookout for new tracks, take a listen. Jason, I love you. If only everyone was so lucky to have a brother like you.

Playlist from Jason

liar, liar, pants on fire...

While playing cars with L the other day...


Me: "L, do you need to use the potty?"
L: "Uh... nope. No thanks."
Me: "Really? Then what's on your pants?"
L: "Um... nothing. Nevermind. S'okay, Mom. S'only water. I promise."

That is some strategically placed water.



When people ask me for potty training advice, I just don't know what to tell them.

near-drowning experience

Yesterday, we almost lost this guy.


We were at our pool and while I was digging around my bag looking for something, L fell off the stairs into the deep end. I don't know how long he was under for (I was sifting through my bag for at least a few minutes), and when I turned around, I didn't see him at first. I yelled over to B and said, "Where's L?" And then I saw little L's head bobbing underneath the water. My heart stopped and time stood still. I sprinted over and jumped in to grab him, but luckily, a swim instructor who happened to be there, turned around when I yelled out, and since she was closer, she grabbed him and pulled him out.

I held L close afterward and he clung to me for a good while. He tried to tell me what happened, but L is not a boy of many words. He tells stories with sound effects and actions. Here's how it went...

"Mom, I can't swim. I can't swim, Mom. I blowing bubbles... [pretending to blow bubbles here]... and I fall [makes a whooshing sound]... and I... [kicks legs and arms here]... but Mom, I can't swim. I so sad...[makes a sad face and whimpering noises]. I so scary... [makes a scared face]."

I was so scared, too, L. I love you, buddy. Mom will be more careful next time. L is now signed up for swimming lessons on Wednesdays at 3pm. With the lady who saved him.

P.S. To my doomsayist father: Save your speech. I already know what you're going to say.

sundays

A day of rest? Doesn't feel like it. Sacrament meeting is spent holding down escape artists and shushing whiners alone while staring at Bruce safely tucked behind the pulpit as I slowly mouth the words, "You owe me." Primary is always an adventure. "Will my teachers show up today?" is the first question. I have yet to experience a Sunday substitute-free. We have stairs in our church building. I'm usually running up and down, across and inbetween, in and out looking for people, children, counselors, bishopric members, subsitutes, someone willing to serve. I'm sweating profusely before the second hour has even begun. And then there's sharing time. Teaching, conducting, cuddling, holding down of wiggly ones, shushing mini discussions around the room or children lost in solo conversation. "Note to self," I say. "Reverence issues on the agenda for my next presidency meeting." I think this must be the eternal theme of every Primary president.

But then the Primary children sing "If the Savior Stood Beside Me" in their loudest, brightest voices while I hold my Stop & Go sign. And when we get home, B wanders around the house with a transformer in one hand, singing, "When Jesus Christ Was Baptized." All three verses at the top of his lungs. And at bedtime, L prays that we can be safe, have the Spirit with us, and that M will be nice to him. And I remember that these are the Sundays I chose to have. Restful or not, I only want these kinds of Sundays.

dear family

I finally looked at Mom's Picasa albums today. It made me miss you and tears flowed. You look so good from far away... ha. I wish every family was as cool as ours. I love us.

i've o.d.'ed

I'm suffering from a dangerous addiction to Fruit Loops right now. One bowl is bad enough. Three bowls in half an hour is sacrilige. Where'd my will power go? First things first, I never buy Fruit Loops. But B and I were at Costco the other afternoon, it had been a long day, and long story short - I was broken down. He caught me in a weak moment, I caved, and before you could say "Toucan Sam," Fruit Loops were rung up at the cash register. Total novice mama moment. What the heck? I have three kids. I should know better.

I'd like to tell myself I'm suffering through a serious consumption of Fruit Loops, because I'm trying to keep the kids from O.D.-ing, but let's face it, people. I've got a problem. However, if we're looking at this quandary from the cool side of the pillow, we can learn a few things:

1. Never grocery shop when you're hungry.

2. Never grocery shop when you're hungry and tired.

3. Never, EVER grocery shop when you're hungry, tired and with your kids. (Cue scary music and red flashing lights here.)

This is a perfect example of why I need to work out to support my eating habits. Instructor friends, if you're reading this, don't judge me.

philabus

My brother just sent a video of "this noob" (his words). What the sweater vest. Pop, I hope none of your co-workers/colleagues come across this blog.



Maybe I should explain what would possess my dad. Aud was blog stalking, found this post, and sent it to all of us with the email subject line: "all dads are indiana jones material." I think only immediate family members will get why my dad felt an irrepressible need to go push up a couch himself. Well, maybe Dana, Christi, Melanie and Melissa will get it, too... nice job, Philabus.