The Misplaced Americans

News Break!

2009-05-15T09:25:00.008-03:00

Find image here.

People, I am now PLACED.

Whole new life, whole new country - whole new blog. I'll be siphoning my thoughts from now on at http://www.pensievity.blogspot.com/ while we make the transition to Arizona.

Thank you for being a part of my life.

See ya on the flip side.

Wordless Wednesday

2009-05-13T14:15:00.004-03:00

(boy legs)

Emotion unsheathed

2009-05-12T14:00:00.003-03:00

I have a fight to pick with Mr. Webster.

"Goodbye" is the biggest misnomer I've ever heard. Because when are "byes" ever good? (Okay, I can think of a few instances ... a birthday party with fourteen three-year-olds, for example. Or dinner guests with hyena laughs and a tendency to enumerate their gall bladder operations - but I digress.)

I've known for five years that we would leave Brazil. I tried not to think about it, instead dwelling on the happy-here-and-now. It worked for me. Now, with less than two weeks to go, all that emotion I've been putting off for years is coming to a head.

I'm one of those people who tries to laugh instead of cry; once I start, it's like Niagra Falls on steroids. (Confession - I've giggled my way through funerals. Somehow it's so much easier to be irreverant than deal with the pain.)

For the last few months, whenever a friend starts to get doe-eyed and frowny, I turn on my brightest smile and change the subject with a wave of my hand and a, "let's not think about it right now." That distant moving date circled on the calendar isn't real - just an ethereal shape representing the fact that Little Prince no longer has to go to school.

I've been focused on my bulleted, responsible, stoic to-do list. No feelings involved.

But "Saying Goodbye" is my most important to-do.

And it's time.

I realize now that in my attempts to smooth away the wrinkles of despondency, I became too smooth, too un-feeling, too optimistic.

My friends thought I didn't care.

So it's time to open the floodgates and allow myself to really feel the pain of leaving this beloved country. It is a cleansing pain. It feels good, somehow, to sob on the shoulders of my dear friends and let myself bawl over how much I love them - just how much I will ache to not see them every day.

How often do we tell our loved ones, face to face, how much they mean to us? It is a vulnerable feeling, confession. Even Catholics do it behind a curtain. To admit how much we need each other, right into the other's eyes - it's hard. Hallmark makes billions of dollars per year so that we can acknowledge our feelings behind the safety of a postage stamp. In front of someone -we have nowhere to hide.

It's going to be a long, long two weeks.

(Apologies for "boo-hoo, I'm leaving" themes almost every day ... but my head is full of it. And this is my Pensieve.)

Mommy Monday

2009-05-11T12:00:00.000-03:00

As mothers, we need to take the education of our children to heart.

And that includes tree-climbing.

There weren't any good trees in the immediate vicinity of our house, so we had to do some hunting. Eventually we found the perfect trees for our climbing lesson.

Happy Mother's Day - and I'm not just saying that

2009-05-10T21:39:00.006-03:00

I've been a mother for almost five years, which hardly makes me an expert.

However, I did major in Family Life Education - studying what makes a marriage work and the best way to teach responsibility to a three-year-old. I read the whole What to Expect series - as well as everything from Dr. Spock to Bill Cosby. Forty-some books grace my shelves on child-rearing; countless more have crossed my desk.

I read about the pros and cons of pacifiers, flourinated water and breastfeeding. I can recite the 'thou shalt nots' of teaching a child to sleep through the night. Time-outs are not a stranger; Withdrawing Privleges, I know thy name.

But nothing - NOTHING - could have prepared me for this.

No one told me about having 'my heart permanently walking around outside my body.' No one could exactly explain the pride in my children's accomplishments; the feeling of a soft, little hand in mine. The way that my baby fits under my chin, our breath in sync and my skin just melting into his. Words fail to describe the joy of teaching, playing, and just being mother-and-child.

Nope, no one has been able to express that love that I feel when I look into those deep blue eyes.

Except, of course, my own mother.

Love

You

Adding Insult to Itch

2009-05-08T09:53:00.007-03:00

Are you sick of the move? I'M sick of the move. In fact, if you're half as sick of the move as I am, you're probably curled up with a blanket and bowl. And perhaps a Frostie, because that's my favorite thing to eat when I'm sick - and you guys have the privilege that is Wendy's. (Which I will have when we move on the 25th - just a couple more weeks! Although I might go to Chiptole first.)

So, when I'm in a "let's change the subject" mood, I generally snark my way through revealing, embarrassing information about myself. I've already done poop, pink eye, and cold sores. What's left?

DANDRUFF, of course!

Here's my question for the cosmos: why does dandruff shampoo have to stink to high heaven? And I do mean that literally - I'm sure the Lord himself can tell when I'm using the offensive stuff.

It's like the Dandruff Company Guys are trying to ruin every sense we have.

Everywhere you go, you are surrounded with an oflactory cloud of brain-numbing odor that lasts for days. I'm pretty sure at least five hundred brain cells die with every use. And the burnt tar smell runs down the back of your throat, effectively flavoring everything you eat with a dash of medicinal metal. Good times.

Even if I arrange my hair to hide any tell-tale flakes, my scent arrives before I do.

Sniff, sniff, HACK. "Dude. Do you smell that?"

"That Girl must have dandruff again. Let's run away before she rounds the corner. My nose is already burning."

So let's get going, science. It can't be that hard to create an effective, sweet-smelling cure. My favorite fragrence is Freshly Washed Little Boy, if you don't mind bottling that. Oh, and if you could throw in a few side effects like weight loss and increased memory, that would be great too.

Real Time

2009-05-07T15:14:00.008-03:00

This is my house RIGHT. NOW.

I feel kinda weird. My hands feel very empty and my feet very itchy. Da Boyz are at a friend's house (safer on sooooooo many levels), and in the meantime My Man and I are kinda putzin' around. We've done everything we need to do, and now we're just staring at each other. (Wonderful on sooooooo many levels, as well - but there are a lot of people around.)

I have a very small inkling of what it must be like to be an ObGyn. You're neccessary, but for the most part you just sit there and let others do the work.

I have this thing wrong with me where I can't watch others be busy by themselves. (I have the same rule for crying.) If you invite me over for dinner, I will help set the table and probably do the dishes afterwards. And right now there are a pack of people who are constantly shooing me out of the room so they can work.

So hey! Blogging! That way I LOOK busy. Yeah.

HI.

We're moving. MOVING. It's really, really happening.

Which makes me feel both:

and

My head hurts.

Take 2

2009-05-06T09:21:00.003-03:00

Scroll down to watch the original, much more informative (and constipated) version of this week's Chick Chat.

From my house to yours

2009-05-06T00:00:00.001-03:00

The Three Bay B Chicks are hosting a "Chick Chat" every other Wednesday about varying topics across the board. Today's is "Life in Your Part of the World." Since my part of the world is rather unusual, they asked me to participate. I was honored to do so.

Other participants include:
Sue from My Home Wellingtontown (New Zealand)
Siobhan from Wandering the World (Egypt)
Laura from Under the Sheets…Shhh (California)

Make sure to check them all out - I'm sure they don't huff and blink half as many times as I do.

The truck's a comin' on Thursday

2009-05-05T14:00:00.001-03:00

And they're takin' all our stuff.

(They do all the packing and wrapping and boxing - which is why I can still afford to blog every day. I just have to make sure it's all clean and organized. "Just" - ha!)

We're shipping almost all of our things by boat. Our container will sail the not-so-friendly seas for two weeks, and then chill out in the even-less-friendly customs port for who-knows-how-long. (Best case: two months. Worst case: six. We don't talk about that.)

Everything's pretty much ready. I have boxes stacked up in the laundry room ready to go. The couch is clean. (And I don't let anyone near it.) Dressers are emptied and clothes stacked up neatly on the floor. (Ahem.)

All that's really left to do are these:

We have hundreds. And hundreds. And I love them all.

How can I possibly choose which books to send by ship (and therefore NOT READ for who-knows-how-long) and which to take later on the plane? I can't pick too many ... not only do we have a suitcase limit, but a weight limit. And we should give preference to things like CLOTHES. (Not all THAT important, right Kristina?)

But I feel like I could no sooner choose a favorite child.

I LOVE to read. Anyone who knows me even marginally knows this. More often than not, I have a book in my hand.

And because libraries in Brazil are a joke, I've been reading the same books over and over again for five years. They have become a part of me - some a continuing appendage to my body, some an integral component of my soul.

A book reads the better which is our own, and has been so long known to us, that we know the topography of its blots, and dog's ears, and can trace the dirt in it to having read it at tea with buttered muffins. ~Charles Lamb, Last Essays of Elia, 1833
These are not books, lumps of lifeless paper, but minds alive on the shelves. From each of them goes out its own voice... by taking down one of these volumes and opening it, one can call into range the voice of a man far distant in time and space, and hear him speaking to us, mind to mind, heart to heart. ~Gilbert Highet
"Tell me what you read and I'll tell you who you are" is true enough, but I'd know you better if you told me what you reread. ~François Mauriac

SO.

What books would YOU keep with you?

Lost in Translation

2009-05-05T13:42:00.007-03:00

Portuguese has these amazing words like "lembrancinha" and "saudades" that just don't translate into English.

A lembrancinha is a little gift 'that you will remember me by,' derived from the verb "lembrar" or "to remember." Literally, it would be "little remembrance." They are given out to people who visit new babies, go to birthday parties, and celebrate weddings. They are for the guests; when they look at the lembrancinha, they remember the event.

It is also customary when a loved one is leaving. (My mother receives countless lembrancinhas every time she comes to visit. These people are that loving.)

So I've been thinking for some time on what I'm going to give everyone when we leave. I settled on a family picture with all of our contact information as a "general" lembrancinha. We're going to hand them out like candy at our goodbye party. (Which we are throwing ourselves, because that's what you do here. You even throw your own baby shower -a social taboo in the States. It's not right or wrong. Just different.)

(And if anyone has PhotoShop to help me turn Mr. Squishy's head in the photo, I would appreciate it sooooooooo much! Please? Anyone? Anyone?)

But I needed another lembrancinha for my closer friends. Something more personal, and preferrably hand made. Effort = value. I came up with this:

(I've tried three times now and it JUST WANTS TO POST SIDEWAYS, SO DEAL WITH IT.) The translation is basically "God be with you til we meet again." Guaranteed tear jerker. I hope they like it. (I'm making one for each of my nine closest friends.)

The other word, "saudade," is harder to translate. Online dictionaries will spit back, "no matches found."

It is a feeling we get when we miss someone - something we have and hold in our heart. It is that emptiness that accompanies us when our companions don't. Eu estou com saudades de voce - I am with saudades of you ... That ache. That need. That hurt just to the right of our hearts when we need to hear someone's voice.

It's interesting to me that this word "saudade" looks a lot like the word for 'health' - "saude." As in - we are not completely healthy when we're missing someone.

Which means that I haven't been healthy in a long, long time. And probably never will be again.

I'm feeling much better now, thank you

2009-05-04T13:51:00.004-03:00

But I did miss church yesterday. And because I was home by myself, putzing around and trying very hard NOT to get caught up on blogs and instead do something 'churchy,' I found myself pondering on recent spiritual moments.

As many of you know, I teach the Marriage and Family Relations course in Sunday School. We just finished up the Marriage section and we've moved on to Parenting.

A couple weeks ago the lesson was on "The Divine Role of Mothers." It was a good lesson. I was well prepared and excited to learn together with my class.

Got to church - Relief Society first. As the first hour was wrapping up, I reached down for my lesson manual to go over the outline one more time (cuz I'm weird like that.) AND IT WASN'T THERE.

I had totally forgotten my manual at home - and there wasn't time to go get it.

Enter: fervent prayer.

I felt a distinct impression to open the Bible Dictionary. I followed it. The definition for "mother" (at least in the Portuguese Bible dictionary - don't know about the English) is as follows:

Divine title for a woman who gives light to children.

Bam. There's my lesson.

We spent the next hour discussing that one little phrase. Here's what we came up with.

Motherhood is a God-given role
It is a title - implying it must be earned
A woman doesn't have to give birth to be a mother - notice it just says "to children"
According to the Bible dictionary, "light" means "divine energy of Christ"
Therefore, to be a mother, we must teach our children about Christ

Question.

Does this mean a woman who feeds, dresses, and cleans her children, but doesn't teach them, isn't a mother?

I've thought a lot about that.

I hope I deserve to be called one.

Mommy Monday

2009-05-04T13:45:00.001-03:00

Dancing. Music. Kids love it, and so do you.

Every day, have at least thirty minutes of Music Time. Keep changing the genre - classical one day, oldies the next. Mix in a little jazz, raggae, country, R&B, Celtic, hymns and pop. Expose them to the good music to be found across the board. Kids truly love it all. Put it on and DANCE.

Let them feel the music and try to "interpret" how it makes them move. Give them "shakers," pots and pans, or tape butter knives to the bottom of their shoes to make them 'tap.' Swirl scarves or sashes through the air along with the music. Make sure you tell them the name of each song - and make sure you DANCE WITH THEM.

Your children will soon become connoisseurs, guaranteed.

For example. Just a sampling from Little Prince's Playlist:

U2's "Elevation"

"Duelin' Banjos"

Mozart's March in D

"Put a Ring on It"

"I Hope They Call Me on a Mission"

"Bad Day"

The Majestic soundtrack (all suh-WEET jazz music)

"I'm a Child of God"

Rachmaninoff's Prelude Op.23 No. 5

Anything Celtic

Any kind of camp song (that's muh boy)

I seriously love my kid.

And if you'd like to see him jive, just click here. (I posted the video last year - and it remains my favorite music video of all time.)

Title

2009-05-01T23:48:00.002-03:00

I am sick.

I hope it's not swine flu.

That would really stink.

I reserve the right to delete this post once I come to my senses

2009-04-30T14:50:00.002-03:00

I am ashamed. I have not been honest with you.

I'm a FAKE. SKINNY.

I actually know this for a fact, having been declared one only yesterday. A friend in the ward is making me some dresses, and I went in for a fitting. She had to let everything out, with the comment, "Wow, Re, I thought you were skinny, but you're not. You're like a fake skinny!"

Well, at least I know my place in the world.

While I appreciate your comments of my beauteousness, I need to come clean. I only post pictures that make me look good. Duh. But really? NOT. I feel I have deceived you.

Bloggers, I have sinned.

I have a double chin.

Here's me with the camera pointing down. Instantly gives you Audrey Hepburn neck! (It also has the added benefit of stretching your arms up, thus hiding any extra sets of triceps.)

But here is the previously UNPUBLISHED ARCHIVES, EXCLUSIVELY ON MY BLOG - me with the camera pointing up.

Wattle, wattle, wattle. The truth hurts.

Then there's my Equator of Love. I've got a good two fistfuls of flesh right above where I button my jeans. MUFFIN. TOP. (I prefer blueberry with the brown sugar crackle topping, but I'll go for double chocolate chip too. With butter.)

And I'm not EVEN puffing out. This is the real me in all my glory.

(Bytheway, belly fat is very fun to play with when you're watching a movie. But it gets in the way when I need to pick up cars. Or crayons. Or chalk. Or paper. Or little socks. Or food. Or silverware. Or ....)

Sidenote: I wasn't lying when I said I'm a size 6. But this is why I have no faith in the sizing system. I well recall reading the Wakefield twins in junior high, and they were described as "perfect size 6s." Well. I am the chubbiest size 6 I know. It's kind of like the penguins from Madagascar dreaming of Antartica all their life - then when they get there? This sucks. I'd rather be a tight 12 then a flabby 6. Period.

Next - thunder thighs. They really jiggle. If only I could hold them straight out while squeezing them constantly. Then they wouldn't look so bad. But I'm kind of a fan of WALKING. I would take a picture showing you how my legs resemble KFC's special recipe, but that would require moving. And I'm very comfortable in my chair.

Eyes. Lots of compliments on my eyes. MASCARA, people. Pur-lease. I'm a walking Maybelline ad. Haven't I already told you I'm an addict?

Skin. Huge pores. Irregular texture. Bumps. Zits (I'm 27!) And my eyes recently decided to get puffy dark circles as well, just to shake things up.

(Inhaling cleaning supplies for a week and going to bed at 2:30AM last night does things to you ....)

There. Now that I have effectively wasted half an hour of nap time, my conscious is clear.

Now I'm going to clean out the dining room. And maybe dig up some chocolate.

Game Face

2009-04-29T15:12:00.002-03:00

M-O-V-I-N-G?

I mock you.

You do not scare me.

Mountains of craporola - bring it.

Disorganized chaos - I scorn.

Uncertainity and stress and a fuzzy, murky future - BIG. FAT. WHOOPEE CUSHION.

I'm do-raggin' it and I ate two delectable chocolate chip cookies for lunch.

Bring. It. On.

'Scuse me while I go kick some movin' trash. Boo-ya.

In which I link a lot, so I'm not required to actually think

2009-04-28T14:29:00.004-03:00

All right, people. The list on my sidebar is actually GROWING, and freaking me out more than just a little bit. I don't even know why I'm on the computer. (Oh yeah - BECAUSE I DON'T WANT TO WORK.)

So to maximize procrastination with a minimum amount of brain power, I give you:

PEOPLE WHO SHOULD BE FAMOUS: PART ONE.

First off we have DaNae. Many of you know her. If you don't, ask yourself the deeply profound question - WHY ARE YOU DEPRIVING YOURSELF OF ENDLESS HUMOR AND WIT?! Many a moon ago, we were up against each other in a ~~cat fight~~ Mormon Mommy Blogs Spotlight. I beat her. And I can only conclude that my readers don't know her, because why on earth would they vote for me when I'm a total hack and she's gay?

Next up is Rachel. Her blog title rocks. (Trapped Between a Scream and a Hug - doesn't that describe us all?!) She is a wonderfully honest blogger and I love getting in her head. She'll make you laugh, make you cry, astound you with cleverness - and sometimes all three. Plus also she knows JaNae, who knows Heidi, who I know. So we're practically sisters.

(I would like to point out that I just used the word "cleverness." Hmmmm. That's ironic, somehow.)

And one of my favorite new finds, Stepper. She makes me want to reach through the computer screen and give her a big wet kiss on her pretty little face. I have actually gone through her archives and read every one of her blogs. Cuz I'm freaky like that. End of story.

Last today is Kara. Remember a while ago when I posted about being super stressed? She turned me on to Cherish Bound, an awesome online book-binding company that helped me whip out my Brazilian scrapbook in mere hours. The site is super easy to use, fast, and makes gorgeously professional books. Email Kara if you're interested - and mention me! She also has a blog detailing her journey recovering from cancer. Read it. You won't regret it.

Why are you still here? Get lurking!

Grumpity grump grumpy

2009-04-27T15:44:00.006-03:00

It all started with the cheerful lady.

I'd already noticed her - she was grinning at everyone while we boarded the plane like being a glorified waitress was the best job in the world. (There. Now I've offended all the flight attendants out there.)

She kept calling everyone "doll" and "sweetheart" until I actually wanted to give her the finger.

(Pssst. I've never done that before. But last night I really WANTED to.)

Mr. Squishy was awesome. He grinned and cooed and saluted (he doesn't wave) to everyone in our vicinity and was generally adorable. Then he went right to sleep in my arms and didn't wake up til we landed.

My own personal miracle.

And then there was this lady.

She was laughing and talking all night at the Stewardess Gathering Point - which happened to be directly in front of me.

And she was so CHEERFUL. Ugh.

(There. Now I've offended all the cheerful people out there.)

Whatever. We flew, we drove, we got home.

My darling boys were waiting for me with their faces pressed against the window. I almost had to look away, because the sunshine radiating out of their smiles was too bright to behold.

We hugged.

We rolled around on the ground and laughed and tickled and hugged some more.

I really REALLY missed them.

I was almost over the cheerful lady until I walked inside.

And my house - literally - looked like it puked on itself.

The floor was ... ew. The dishes were ... ew. The bedrooms were ... ew.

Not to mention the fact that there is ZERO food in the house. And I do mean zero. No cereal, no eggs, no meat, no bread, no butter, no fruit, no vegetables. Not even a potato. There is milk and condiments in my fridge. Yum. Oh - and no toilet paper or laundry soap either.

What the - ?

And my friend that baby-sat for me this week also took it upon herself to wash every towel, sheet, and piece of clothing in the house. Including My Man's dry-clean-only suit, which is now too small. (Sorry, hun.) Very nice of her, I'm sure. Except that she hung dry everything (even though we have a dryer - maybe she doesn't know how to use it?) and it smells like she didn't let everything completely dry before she took the laundry down.

So now everything in my house reeks of damp, going-to-be-moldy-soon cloth. Whoop-dee-doo.

And I'm tired and cranky and hungry and I want to play with my kids. NOT clean, grocery shop, and do laundry until sun up tomorrow. C'mon - is it REALLY so hard to keep order for six days?

(There. Now I've offended all the baby-sitters out there.)

I know she did an awesome job watching my kids. They love her. She loves them. I trust her with my life; my very heart is embodied in my children.

So tell me to shut up and be grateful that my kids are great and missed me, and quit whining already. Because she had the best intentions, blah blah blah.

But I refuse to stop complaining about the cheerful lady.

Hunting of the House: Day 3

2009-04-22T21:40:00.002-03:00

Ever notice how house hunting is like speed dating?

I've never really done either, but they seem essentially the same. Trying to make a long-term commitment decision based on a 3 to 8 minute physical assesment.

You've got your pre-reqs, of course. Must be at least four bedrooms. (At least 5'10".) Prefer an office and dining room. (Have a steady job and good manners.) Basement would be ideal, allowing room for family growth. (Good with kids, Mom must like him.)

But seriously? The house can meet every bullet on your list, and still be wrong. But you won't know it til you move in. (No one ever tells you on the first date that they are incapable of putting dirty laundry in the hamper.)

Maybe there's a bully across the street. Or a meanie teacher at the elementary school. Perhaps there's scorpions burrowing in the backyard (eek!) or the local ward needs a new bishop (ahem.)

They just don't put the REALLY neccessary information on the MLS listing sheet.

Because buying a house isn't just about where you're going to sleep at night. This decision will determine your social circle, your children's friends and education, and can even affect your health.

All crammed into a week of frantic in-and-out-of-the-car, taking pictures of everything and reading between the lines on the listing sheets.

No pressure or anything.

(And incredibly, amazingly, miraculously - I really did marry the right guy. I didn't even really know it at the time. Not like I do now. And I do. Know. He was custom made for me. And I get him for much longer than a 30 year mortgage.)

Haiku on Arizona

2009-04-20T21:43:00.001-03:00

Sandpaper white lips

The marrow sucked from my bones -

Still, good to be home.

(I also wanted to say, "My nose is so moisture-less it tingles and hurts to breathe," but it didn't fit in the syllable scheme.)

(Also, I love this woman even more in real life, if it's possible.)

(I'm going to be a really bad commentator this week. Apologies.)

(Aren't parentheses fun?!)

Quilt - CHECK

2009-04-17T08:00:00.000-03:00

So. You know how I'm suuuuper good at starting projects, and go full throttle until I suddenly get bored with it and throw myself into something new? No? Well, I do.

So about SIX MONTHS AGO I was just a few stitches away from finishing Little Prince's quilt.

Yeah.

Then the sewing machine broke and by the time I got it fixed I was doing two other quilts for my soon-to-be-arriving-at-the-time niece and nephew, and ... yeah. It never got finished.

But it's amazing how moving really motivates me to finish up all the various projects I have floating around. I'm leaving in a month? HOLY CRAP I HAVE TO DO A MILLION THINGS!!!!

This was the simplest one, and thus the first item to get completed - notwithstanding it being the least important. I wanted to cross something off my list, people, okaaaay?! (I'm the type to put "wake up. Say prayer. Make bed." on my to-do list just so I can immediately cross off three things.)

So with only moderate ado, I give you LP's quilt!

He likes it. A lot. And has sung the ABCs like fifty times a day since then.

And because my mother asked to see the Oops characters like five months ago, I'm finally giving it to her. Cuz I'm so thoughtful and dependable like that.

Now we should probably look for a house ....

What's in a name?

2009-04-16T08:00:00.000-03:00

So lots of inquiring minds were concerned about my name. My bloggy name, to be exact.

(I like the REplaced Americans. Cute n' catchy.)

But how long will it last? Will I still be just "replaced" after six months? A year? Six years? I suuuuuure hope I'll be well used to America by then.

I can't go The Arizonian Americans, because first of all that's weird, and second of all, what if we move again? Don't name your blog after your address, friends, it creates problems.

I kinda like "My Corner," though My Man squinted one eye, opened the other one wide, and did a funky thing with his mouth when I tried it out on him. Plus it's taken by some random dude who likes Lord of the Rings and hasn't written since 2002. Jerk. (Bless his heart.)

But this leads me to another naming problem.

What should my name be in the States?

I was Rebecca throughout my childhood, and it gradually morphed into Becky in middle and high school. College, too. (Although my roommate called me Rebecca Anastasia.) But when I married I felt like I should permanately switch to Rebecca - much more grown up and matronly. (Even though I always feel like I'm in trouble when someone calls me by my full name. YOU know what I mean.)

Everyone calls me Rebecca in Brazil - pronounced, "hey, BECCA!" which I don't like. I also have the delightful nickname "Re" which sounds like "hey." So personal.

But with moving comes unlimited freedom. I can introduce myself as anything I want. Maxine or Latisha or Fulana. Or George.

Have you noticed how feelings are associated with names? I hated a Lauren in elementary school, and had prejudices against the name til I met a really cute Lauren at BYU. I also can never like a Jolene cuz that was My Man's ex-girlfriend. (If you read this, HI! Bless your heart.)

Most Rebeccas I know are tall, beautiful, and have long, swinging hair. Very chic and reserved. Kind of dramatic looking. Not very ME, in other words. Beckys seem to be shorter, perky, gum-snapping types who smile a lot. Sorta kinda me. Not really.

I've had lots of people tell me I look like an Elizabeth. What does THAT mean? (Although I must say I like almost every Elizabeth I know. Liz and Lyzs too. Beths not so much. Besides the Little Women one, of course. Bless her heart.)

My mom tells me I was almost a Katherine. (With a K, cuz I like it better.)

So what do YOU think my name should be?

Read this to your husband and he'll never complain about blogging again

2009-04-14T16:25:00.001-03:00

How to get your husband a job - a simple how-to guide.

Step 1: Get depression

Step 2: Blog about it

Step 3: Make a friend

Step 4: Friend's husband starts reading your blog

Step 5: Friend's husband asks you to write an article about depression for his family service agency

Step 6: Friend's husband asks what Your Man does for a living (Answer: finance)

Step 7: Friend's husband and your husband get in touch with each other about open finance position in family service agency

Step 8: Interviews ensue (You and your friend are total crazies and email back and forth several times a day, barely coherent with giddy goofiness.)

Step 9: Your Man gets a job

Step 10: Move to Arizona (end of May-ish?)

Step Most Important: The Lord rocks

Dr. Giggle and Mr. Snide. (a.k.a. makesmeabsolutelyinsane)

2009-04-14T08:07:00.001-03:00

Somehow I missed that I gave birth to identical twins. You'd think I would have noticed. First there's Ouro Branco - and then there's his evil counterpart.

This is the boy that is the first to remind me to say a prayer when we get in the car. Becomes ecstatic at every opportunity to say please, thank you and your welcome. Helps with dishes. Cuddles. Holds himself personally responsible for my every whim (fetching wet wipes, setting the table, etc.) Willing to play absolutely anything. Sunshine personified. Shares beautifully. I don't think I've ever seen him get a treat without offering some to everyone around him. He is first to say sorry and becomes upset when anyone in the house is less than happy. He is, in a way, a towheaded emotional barometer. The sweetest one you've ever seen. Ever.

Also -

This is the boy who throws himself on the floor if dinner is not ready exactly 1.2 seconds after he decided he's hungry. This is the boy who has been known to scream himself hoarse when his blankie is not folded the exact right way. This is the boy who will chuck a hot dog across the room because HE wanted to put it on his own plate. This is the boy who flies at you like some deranged cat when you even threaten to put him in time out.

95% of the time, OB is the definition of an angel.

The other 5? .....

He's VERY, VERY TWO.

(it's just a phase, it's just a phase, it's just a phase ....)

In which I post a lot of pictures and don't actually say much

2009-04-13T09:01:00.000-03:00

Keeping with the fact that this blog is first and foremost a way to keep grandparents and aunts and uncles updated, behold: EASTER.

Blah blah blah.

We did Easter on Saturday, and thus laid out the painted eggs and carrots on Friday night. I stupidly thought we could take some cute kid shots. Becky, Becky - when will you learn that it's a lost cause?

Ew. My arm is grossing me out.

Saturday morning we hunted up the eggs. Ouro Branco ABSOLUTELY FREAKED OUT when he woke up to find them missing.

But he calmed down when we found the chocolate egg. (Do you SEE why LP drew Easter eggs so big?)

The Easter bunny doesn't do baskets in Brazil. Strictly chocolate, baby. Layers of milk and white chocolate with homemade caramel filling. Ohmyheaven. I made that, people. Worship me.

And then Sunday morning, decked out in our Easter best, and wishing that I had a children's clothing outlet store to buy matching suits, I AGAIN attempted the impossible.

Hope can only take you so far.

The individual shots were slightly easier:

(Look! Teeth!)

(That homemade suit has been in our family for over twenty years. Be impressed.)

And of course LP hogged the camera and OB got mad and ended up in time out.

Sigh.

Happy Easter!

Mommy Monday

2009-04-13T09:00:00.000-03:00

I got this idea from the marvelous Janae. She is an amazing mom, and yet doesn't make me feel stupid about my own efforts. Love that lovely lady.

So here it is: bowling with POP BOTTLES.

(And for the record, it's pop - not soda. Do not sully my blog with misnomers, pleaseandthankyou.)

We're not big pop drinkers in my house, but we have a lot of youth parties. And I save all the bottles - they make excellent storage containers for flour, beans and rice. And bowling. Duh.

Maximum noise with minimum damages. Can it GET any better than this?

No pictures of us doing it. Contrary to popular opinion, a camera is NOT permanently attached to my face. And sometimes the best memories are the ones not documented, don't you think?

WANTED: Couple friends

2009-04-10T14:21:00.004-03:00

N/d n/s LDS married couple seeking n/d n/s married couple to hang out and have fun. Occasional outings, but most likely chilling in the living room. Casual, laid-back personalities essential. No need for appointments. Becky must click with the woman. My Man must click with the man. Must love to laugh. Must love to talk. Must love to eat food. Must love games (particularly Guitar Hero, Settlers of Catan, card games, and Scattergories.) Same child-rearing philosophy preferred. Willingness to vacation together a plus. Girl can't be too hot.

Please send applications to watoozi at yahoo dot com.

*Why is it so hard to find a couple that BOTH of us like BOTH of them?!

Image from here.

On our front door this morning

2009-04-08T10:11:00.002-03:00

That's My Man and Little Prince painting Easter eggs. Which we will be doing tonight. As long as Dad's not late.

I, Rebel

2009-04-07T09:00:00.001-03:00

I was kind of a boring teenager. I broke curfew a couple times, and I might have talked smack to my mother now and then, but mostly I was Ms. Goody Two Shoes. My first kiss wasn't until after I graduated from high school. And I never, ever snuck out.

So to make up for my square-ishness, I TOTALLY RAN AWAY LAST WEEK.

And thanks to scheduled postings, YOU didn't even know it! See? SUPER SNEAKY.

We went to Rio last week. As in de Janeiro. We've been there before, but it's been a l-o-n-g while. As in, last time we were there, our family looked like this:

That's depressing.

(And DANG Mr. Squishy looks like Little Prince.)

So anyway, My Man had a meeting with a client last week and asked if I wanted to tag along sans kids.

Tcha!

So while he was in his meeting I got my nails done. For R$15 (about half that in dollars.) Brazilian manicures? Heavenly.

And then I got to hang out with

Yum.

We saw this randomly cool boat display. And said, "I sail!" a lot.

Then we went to a super famous churrascaria and I ate Ratatouille. ("Let's do this thing!")

And I felt stupid taking this picture. But I did it. For you.

We rode in a taxi. My Man was super excited.

It was kinda rainy, but it made for a (sorta) good picture.

I don't know why this building is. But it's cool.

We got a hotel to freshen up and - mini bar devotees that we are - checked it out. What's that in the corner there?

Ah, of course.

This IS Rio, folks.

But the best part of the trip was AMERICAN food. Or Australian, take your pick.

Rio rocks. Hun, I'm up for a getaway when-e-vah.

Security

2009-04-06T09:05:00.002-03:00

There is an eight foot wall around my condominium.

There is cut glass on the top of this wall.

There is barbed wire on top of this wall.

There is an electric fence on top of this wall.

There are security towers where guards with big guns keep watch.

There are more guards with big guns circling the condominium on foot.

There are locks on all my doors and windows.

And yet we have been robbed. A lot.

And we were just robbed. AGAIN. This time, he took My Man's guitar and laptop. (!!!!)

This is incredible to me. Despite all the safety measures we take, we can never be safe when we LET CROOKS IN.

We are never safe while the condominium continues to let a known thief into those gates - past the glass, wire, electric fence and big guns.

... And our own lives?

We pray. We scripture. We church. We have loving leaders. We go to the temple. We do Family Home Evening. We think we're safe.

And then knowingly let evil into our lives - through media, unclean thoughts, and allowing friends and family to sully our minds.

Don't let them in.

Only then will you be safe.

Mommy Monday

2009-04-06T09:00:00.001-03:00

Today's Mommy Monday tip isn't homemade. Sheesh, people, I'm not 100% crunchy. I use toilet paper, after all. Leaves just aren't my thang.

So lately one of our favorite Things To Do is play the "Cat in the Hat game."

People, this is sooooo much better than playing cars. (YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN.)

There are a stack of cards numbered 1, 2 and 3. One has an action, another an object, another a place. So when you pick up all three you could get, "hop three times with the ball between your elbows."

It is impossible to fall asleep while playing.

And your kids will love it.

And that's what matters.

More. (Yet another post about conference)

2009-04-05T22:35:00.004-03:00

Kicked off the weekend right with an hour long walk with myself. It's good for the soul, clearing out the cobwebs in time for its biannual spring cleaning.

Then we had blueberry white chocolate chip waffles. Also very, very good for the soul.

And then I basked at the feet of prophets for two days.

What I learned from General Conference this year:

I am nothing.
But I can do anything.
I need to study my scriptures more fervently.
I need to pray with more purpose.
I need to serve and sacrifice more.
I need to talk about the gospel more.
I need to dedicate myself to my family more.
I need to be more adaptable to change.
I need to go to the temple more (and not rush in to the session.)
I need to murmur less and be more grateful.
I need to use the Atonement more.
I need to be more like Christ.

Mothering 101

2009-04-03T07:49:00.004-03:00

*picture taken from here.
As we all know, Little Prince is in school.

His teachers are awesome. LP is learning so much, so fast. And most importantly, his teachers make school fun - so fun that LP begs to do his homework. (I have vowed to record his pleading and use it against him ten years from now.) We play school at home all the time - I am the student and LP is Tia Ju or Tia Cintia or Tia Cris, whichever strikes his fancy. From his imitations, I have gathered that they are kind, loving souls who let him do whatever he wants. ("No, Mom. I'm the teacher and I say we can watch movies and eat ice cream all day.")

I take every imitation with a pound of salt and continue to give his teachers all the adoration they deserve. They rock. After all, we want the BEST teachers for our children, right?

Just as long as they're not TOO good.

In other words, as long as they don't replace me.

Yesterday we went to the park. It was a good park day. We made it all the way there without fighting or a time out, and we played for a solid hour in brotherly bliss. I studied my scriptures while they were making sand castles (I have to squeeze it in some time) and when I finished we played tag. Fun was had by all.

We wrapped up the morning on the swings. Ouro Branco sat "spider style" on my lap as we reached our toes to the sky. I love the feeling of him cuddled underneath my chin, his blue eyes so close I can count every eyelash.

I was feeling pretty good about myself when LP announced: "My teacher taught me how to swing."

(Let it be noted that we've been working on the "first iiiiiiiiin, now ouuuuuuuuut" concept for a year and a half.)

I laughed and corrected him: "No, silly, *I* taught you how to swing."

"Nope. Tia Ju did. Cuz she loves me."

I let it go. But it hurt.

And then just the other day we were in the pool with a bunch of friends. One of them, upon seeing LP shooting around underwater like a fish, praised him and said, winking at me: "Wow, LP! You must have had a good teacher! Who taught you to swim like that?"

No hesitation. "Tia Cintia."

(Psssst. *I* taught him.)

I know it doesn't really matter. I don't mother for the award ceremonies and endless gratitude. (HA!) I mother because I love my children.

Still. It'd be nice to get credit every now and then.

So let's talk gadgets.

2009-04-02T13:10:00.007-03:00

Almost every blogger I know has one of those follower thinga-majiggies. And almost every blogger I know has complained about them.

"I'm thoroughly depressed today; I lost three followers. Oh me oh my."

Don't get me wrong - I totally get it. Really. Nobody likes it when you publicly become less popular. We immediately wonder why. Was it something I said? Someone I offended? Do I smell bad? Am I fat?

Which is precisely why I don't have a followers gadet. As IF I needed another reason to be self-conscious. I really - REALLY - don't want to know how many people like me.

Really.

So why is it that Blogger insists on telling me? Every time I sign in, there is a big fat "35 Followers" next to my name. Cool that it's growing.

Not cool that they tell me.

Because I know a secret. Statcounter.com tells me that I get over 200 visitors a day - with as many as 400 page views. So what does Low Self Esteem Becky think, instead of rejoicing over my fan club?

Only ten percent of my audience is willing to publicly admit that they read me. I must suck.

And people, PLEASE don't follow me just because of this post. Like, seriously. I would die of mortification. This is not a campaign for more fans. This is a desperate plea for IGNORANCE. (It really is bliss.)

The other gadget I want to pick on today is YOU, Mr. Live Traffic Feed.

Whenever I visit a blog with this gadget, I get nervous. It's like discovering a hidden video camera in the house of the people you baby-sit. You're not doing anything wrong, but you suddenly become paranoid. ("Sorry I took so long reading your archives! I swear I'm not a freaky stalker or anything ... I'll just scoot on out then ....")

Also, it becomes problematic when I want to check out the blogs of boys I used to date to see if their wives are prettier than me. (Hi! How are ya?!)

Lurking thoroughly and completely loses its advantages with this gadget. And I can't hide behind some generic city in Utah. When your gadget says you've had a visitor from Jundiai, Brazil, I might as well give you a sticker with "BECKY WAS HERE!" on it. Anonyminity can be a fabulous word.

Of course, there's always the "Michael Jordan's photo of the day" gadget - now THAT might tempt me.

(*And I would like to publicly scorn blogger.com for not understanding the "enter" key. How hard is it to double space?!)

Mr. Squishy would like to take a few moments of your time

2009-04-01T09:00:00.000-03:00

For those of you trying to lick my sidebar

2009-03-31T09:00:00.000-03:00

CAKE.

The moment has come. THE ONE. That you've all been waiting for. It's true.

RECIPES.

All Brazilians can make cake. All Brazilians can make GOOD cake. All Brazilians rock.

Because of their rocky-ness, I also need to say that Brazilians don't usually put oven temperatures or cooking times on their recipes. It's this genetic Brazilian thing where they all know when cakes are done. Actually, I don't think I've EVER seen a recipe with cooking instructions. So I've put guesstimates on everything - just keep checking to see if it's done. You usually know it's ready when you can smell the cake.

I'd say the most common cake layer (including the one shown above in that mouth-watering display of refined sugar) is Pao de Lo (with a ~ over the "a" and an accent over the "o.") It is very moist and sweet. This recipe makes ONE layer - but it's usually used in a 2-4 layer cake.

PAO DE LO

1/4 cup of butter
1 cup sugar
4 eggs
1 1/2 cups flour
pinch of salt

Beat butter and sugar until light and fluffy. Add eggs one at a time with the salt. Then stir in flour carefully. Bake in a 350 degree oven until done - about 20 minutes? (Add 1/2 cup of baking cocoa or chocolate drink mix like Nesquick to make it a chocolate layer.)

Make a filling and/or topping with either chocolate custard, mousse, whipped cream, or cook a can of sweetened condensed milk with 4 Tbsp. of Nesquick, stirring constantly, until it begins to come away from the pan. (The above picture has two layers - one custard, another mousse. And the topping is just chocolate whipped cream.)

CREAMY COCONUT CAKE

1/2 cup flour
1 Tbsp. baking powder
2 cans sweetened condensed milk
4 egg yolks
1 cup milk
1 cup ricotta cheese
2 cups freshly grated coconut
1 Tbsp. vanilla

In a blender, blend everything but the flour and baking powder for five minutes. Add flour and baking powder slowly. Pour in a greased, floured pan and microwave on high for ten minutes. Let rest five minutes before turning out of the pan.

For a topping, cook 1 cup of toasted coconut with 1 cup of water and 4 Tbsp. of sugar. Pour on top of the cake.

CRAZY CHOCOLATE CAKE ("Negra Maluca")

Mix and bake at 350 degrees for 30-40 minutes:

3 cups flour
2 cups sugar
1/2 cup oil
3 eggs
1 Tbsp. baking powder
1 cup boiling water
1 cup chocolate milk mix (like Nesquik)

When done, poke top of cake with a fork all over the place. Pour a full glass of chocolate milk over it and make sure the cake soaks it all up. Refrigerate for a few hours. Don't forget to make a filling or topping! Brazilians NEVER leave their cakes dry.

STRAWBERRY TEMPTATION

1 Tbsp. baking powder
6 eggs
2 cups sugar
3 cups flour
1 cup chocolate drink mix like Nesquick
1 cup water
2 cups oil

Beat the egg whites and reserve. Beat sugar and yolks well and then add the rest. Fold in egg whites. Bake at 350 degrees for about 45 minutes. Once cooled, slice the cake into two layers. (The layers should be thin.)

FILLING:

1 can sweetened condensed milk
1 liter of milk
1 envelope of unflavored gelatin
1 cup water
1 cup whipped cream
1 box of strawberries

Beat in a blender the gelatin and water, then add everything but the whipped cream. Fold in the whipped cream. Top cake with chocolate and strawberries.

Let me know if you make something - I want to hear your results!

Mommy Monday

2009-03-30T09:30:00.000-03:00

Two (2) Things

2009-03-29T16:00:00.002-03:00

Nooooooo, not THEM. Though they are distinctly cute. I always wanted twins just so I could dress them up as Thing 1 and Thing 2. (Okay. I wanted twins UNTIL I HAD CHILDREN. Now I just think all mothers of twins are saints. And I'm glad I'm not saint material.)

Anywho. Two things. Sunday-ish Things, it being the Sabbath and all.

Thing one.

This week I went to a CES training meeting - that stands for Church Education System. It is for all the seminary and institute teachers - essentially gospel, scripture based classes for teenagers and young adults. (Including my Marriage Prep class. Good stuff, people.)

This is Sergio. He is THE most incredible teacher in the world. (Sorry folks, he's here in Brazil. You lose.) He teaches with such power, such faith. He has us laughing one minute and crying the next.

I've been to Teacher Improvement meetings plenty of times, but for some reason this week's training really hit home. He drilled into us that GOOD teachers let the students teach. GOOD teachers let the Spirit teach. GOOD teachers leave the students thinking, "I felt the Spirit so strongly today," rather than, "she's a really good teacher." GOOD teachers don't teach at all.

And one of the secrets to inviting the Spirit is to ask good questions.

We learned that there are three types of GOOD questions:

1) Questions that force the students to look up the answer (in other words, questions that have no obvious answer, nor simply yes/no)

2) Questions that cause the students to reflect and ponder

3) Questions that cause the students to apply a principle to their life

I really loved that last one. So instead of, "Why do we need prophets?" (rote, by-the-book answer) we ask, "When have you already felt that President Monson is a prophet of God?" (causes the student to think about his/her life personally.) It is when the STUDENTS bear testimony that the Spirit thrives.

Before attending the training, Sergio asked us to prepare a 5-8 minute lesson on a few verses in Mark - about Jesus curing the blind man. I (of course) procrastinated, so I had to wake up early the day of the training to prepare. I was proud of the results. I really studied those five verses. I learned a lot. And I was eager to share it.

But Sergio never asked us to show our "homework."

And I was annoyed - after I went through all that trouble, I didn't use it.

Or so I thought.

The truth is - I came to realize that THAT is how we should truly study the scriptures. As if we were giving a lesson on it. I took those five little verses and thought up enough questions to keep me pondering and looking up answers for almost an hour. I got more out of a mere 1/4 of a chapter than I often did in my daily reading.

Cool.

So Thing 2 - this is Daniela and my teeth. Daniela and her husband Rodrigo were sealed in the Campinas temple yesterday for all eternity.

They've come a long way. A few years ago, they were living together - but more for convenience than for love. They drank. They smoked. They fought. They hit. They were seperated more often than they were together. They have two children, but had much to learn by way of parenting.

Witness the gospel changing lives.

Now they are legally married. They hold hands. They speak softly to their children. They love one another. They bear testimony of a living Christ who heals and cures and purifies and perfects.

I got to accompany Daniela yesterday. I was so honored. It was an awesome thing to watch her cry as blessings were poured upon her head and as she made sacred covenants.

I love the temple. It hurts me when people make that sacred place out to be something ugly, vulgar or unnatural. It is a beautiful place. I feel the Lord there. It is a sacred place. A place where I start to feel like the Becky He wants me to be.

So keep going to the temple, Daniela and Rodrigo. Return to that place as often as your life permits. Make it the center of your purpose on this earth. It is where the fluff falls away and our perspectives become clear again. It is there we gain greater understanding of who and why we are. It is there we concentrate on the most important things - on the Lord, on our families, and on love.

Not bad for a couple of things, if I do say so myself.

LOOK WHAT I DID

2009-03-28T22:10:00.009-03:00

See that? That's my NECK. It's not sweaty. Cuz there's no hair touching it. (Pssst. It's hard to take a picture of the back of your head.)

This week I was with a couple of girlfriends. I was commenting about the heat. Well - moaning and groaning on the floor is more like it - and swore I was going to shave my head. My friends said, "let's cut your hair!" and I said, "okay!"

And so we did.

And I like it.

I feel perky. Kinda funky. And when it's wet I look like a Romanian gymnast. (Except that I'm 5'7" and well over 85 pounds.)

And the BREEZE, people. Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah. Plus I bet I lost a good 200 grams.

I still use too much shampoo. And I can't stop touching it. And my kids look at me weird.

But the BREEZE. Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah.

Don't cry, Mom. It'll grow. If I let it.

Go time. Almost.

2009-03-27T09:41:00.011-03:00

We're moving. Soonish.

I hate moving.

Don't ask where, because we have no official answer. Don't ask when, either. We don't know. But we're moving.

My Man's contract ends the 30th of June - and with it, our visas. We have to leave the country within the next few months. THAT much we know.

How do you wrap up almost five years?

I want to move back home. I miss the States. I miss ... so much. I miss Americans. I miss convenience. I miss fall. I miss the food. I miss English. I miss quality. I miss not-needy church members. (Though they have plenty of those in the States, too, of course.) I miss an 8-5 work day. I miss my husband.

But as much as I want to move back, I don't want to leave.

I will miss my friends desperately. They have been my family in every way possible. They have seen me at my most vulnerable. Seen me through floods of tears and countless trials and difficulties - and joy, too. I have grown up here. Literally.

How can I leave?

There are so many things to do. My throat gets tight and my heart and belly go cold when I think about it. The back of my neck gets all tense and I turn into this fluttery, panicky mess.

My friends feel it. They are just as desperate as I am. Which means that there is always some get-together, party or visit happening. At my house, of course. (More stress.)

My young women feel it, too. They are over all the time - Tuesday we had a huge youth party - trying to savor every minute we have.

And then there are THINGS. I have to get going on our Brazilian scrapbook - remembrances of our time here. I don't want to forget anything. And then our regular scrapbooks. I'm four months behind on Da Boyz' "picture books," and I NEED to catch up before we move. After the move ... I just know it won't happen. It's a fact.

And so, so much more.

I figured it out. It's not that I need more hours in the day - I just need more hours BY MYSELF. My kids just need to take longer naps. Eureka! Or sleep in later in the morning.

And then there's my MAJOR personality flaw. When I get super stressed and there's too much to do, I get tied up in knots and can't do ANYthing. Which is extremely effective. Because procrastination is a great time management tool.

*sigh* I just want to fast forward like four months until it's all over. That okay?

This is it. My BIG HUGE IDEA.

2009-03-26T14:30:00.005-03:00

I remember well when we first brought Little Prince home almost five years ago. He was so little and cute. We were skinny and naive. I had taken all the parenting classes and was fairly confident about the how-tos of babyhood. I could extrapolate for hours about the benefits of listening to Mozart in the womb, was eloquent about the pros and cons of pacifiers, and could describe in detail the proper way to breast feed.

But mostly LP just slept. And I was bored.

I would sit and stare at him, waiting for him to wake up so that I would have something to do. By the time My Man came home, I was frantic for adult conversation. And also for a sounding board to my thousands of questions:

"LP slept 21 hours today. Is that normal? Too much? Too little?"

"He wants to nurse every half hour all morning, and then goes four hours in the afternoon. Should I be worried?"

"His poo was slightly green today. Do you think it was all that broccoli casserole I ate, or is he sick?"

And then one day I HAD IT.

"HUN - " I announced when My Man waltzed in. (More like sauntered, really. He's not much of a waltzer. Sorry, hun, it's true.)

"HUN - I have the GREATEST IDEA. All the women in the world should make, like, this huge NETWORK. And we could TALK together. And CONSULT with one another. And COMFORT one another. And it would be AWESOME."

Whaddya think? Did I have a great idea or what? I should be a millionaire.

Hrumphingly hrumphy hrumphed.

2009-03-24T17:40:00.002-03:00

So I'm reading all those wonderful comments from yesterday and I feel ... hrumphy. Uncomfortable. Squirmy. Like a squinched up pad. (Since I started last week, and all ....)

And I want to make something perfectly clear.

WE have a microwave. And a washing machine. And a dryer. And two cars. And five bedrooms. And we travel. A lot. And we have movies. A lot.

I'm not against wealth. I'm not even against STUFF. I'm against BUYING stuff when you DON'T HAVE MONEY. And also buying stuff when you never help other people buy stuff who don't have stuff.

That is all.

Sorry.

So to make sure you don't think I'm all holier-than-thou, Ms. Self-Righteous Let Me Just Preach to the World, I'm going to tell you something that will definitely lower myself in your eyes.

My neighbors think I abuse my children.

No. Seriously. It's true.

First let me begin by saying that IN GENERAL Brazilians tend to be on the permissive side of the parenting gap. (Don't get all huffy, Brazilians Who Read This, you know it's true.) I don't know how many times I've been told I'm a bad mother because my kids have nap times. And rules. And I do things like limit sugar intake. Bad, bad mother.

It also helps that my neighbor has only one son, while I have three. And her son is thirty-five years old, while mine are 4 1/2, 2 1/2, and nine months.

So let's go back a few years to when I was potty-training Little Prince. My first. We had talked up the Big Potty, gotten out our sticker charts, bought incentives (read: treats), and we were down to the last diaper. It was time.

The first two days were surprisingly simple. LP was thoroughly excited about being a big boy, and though we had some accidents, he was enthusiastic about the New Deal.

Enter third day.

That morning, he simply didn't want to wear underwear.

I told him in a chipper, saleslady voice that UNDERWEAR was awesome. SO awesome. Diapers are Zero Fun, Sir. He didn't buy it. His voice started to rise and the feet started to tap and I knew we were gearing up for a full on temper tantrum.

And .... he blew.

Above his screams, I informed him that he had two choices: 1) wear underwear or 2) go naked.

I left him to think about his life while I went to get myself and Ouro Branco ready for the day.

Ten minutes go by (all of which were spent screaming - him, not me. Yet.) and I offered him his choices again. Ya know, just in case he forgot. He was disinclined to acquiesce my request. And let me know at the top of his lungs.

Another ten minutes. I offered the choices. Another ten minutes. Choices again. Another ten minutes.

After the fourth negotiation session, I walked out of LP's bedroom to find a man standing in my kitchen.

Understandably, I screamed.

Which scared this man half to death.

He was one of the condominium guards, sent there by our neighbor. She had called to report that I was either abusing my son or had left him home alone.

"No abuse here! Just potty training ...." (*sheepish, watery grin*)

And I still can't look my neighbor in the eye.

Life Lessons from Jacare

2009-03-23T14:47:00.000-03:00

Yesterday in marriage class, I taught a lesson on Financial Bliss in Marriage.

Yes, I put those two words in the same sentence: Financial. Bliss.

The thing is, most Brazilians don't really need a lesson on money management. They should be teaching us. They have very clear ideas on the difference between NEED and WANT. (Something Americans struggle with in excess of ridiculousness.)

Here's a typical Brazilian neighborhood in my area:

These are not favelas. These are not slums. These are semi-nice houses where good people live. (Though plenty of good people live in slums, too.) I have lots of friends who live in houses just like these.

Meet one family. This is a family that My Man baptized years ago (he probably won't admit how many years ago.) We went to visit them.

They have three rooms in the house - not BEDrooms. Rooms. As in, living room, kitchen, bedroom. Oh, and a bathroom, sorry. (And there are five kids - one is not pictured. So all five kids AND the parents share a room.)

They don't have a microwave. Or a phone. Or a washing machine. Or a table. Or chairs. When they served us lunch, we - as the guests - sat on the couch while the family sat on the floor.

And I have been in much more humble houses than this one. Entire residences that, I'm willing to bet, would fit in your living room. Without a couch or a stove or a fridge or even a shower. Houses with one room - a bed, a kitchen sink with a camp stove, and a toilet in the corner. There's one young woman in our ward who has to wash dishes at a neighbor's house - there is no running water in hers.

And ya know what? These people are happy.

They don't have much, but they have each other. And what's more, they don't have the headaches and stress that debt cause. A lot don't even have a bank account.

In Brazil, they buy ONLY what they can afford. Many build their own houses (something I realize is next to impossible in the States, but bear with me.) First they build a little brick room. The whole family crams in there and saves, saves, saves. Soon they have enough to pay for caulking on the walls. Then maybe a nice ceiling. Then they add on another room. Maybe a floor. And so on and so forth - paying for everything with cash.

So it frustrates me when I hear Americans complain about the crisis - yet still have their cable, cell phones, fast food and three cars. You think you CAN'T LIVE without a dishwasher? Guess what. You can.

It just. Isn't. Neccessary.

Mommy Monday

2009-03-23T14:38:00.002-03:00

Today's Mommy Tip is a simple one - good for a rainy day or to occupy a pre-schooler at church.

Sewing.

Just cut out simple shapes from cardboard and punch holes in it. (In and of itself a fun activity.) Wrap tape around a piece of yarn or ribbon to make it easier to thread and ta-da! Toddler sewing.

(We always. Always. Sew cars or trucks.)

Ding ding ding ding ding!!!!

2009-03-21T00:24:00.003-03:00

My husband reminded me that TODAY was the last day for my giveaway. Dang. I'm either really stupid or ... okay, I'm just stupid. Today was the TWENTIETH?!?!!? Wow. *hangs head in not-keeping-up-with-the-calendar-shame*

Also, we confirmed the fact that I cannot count backwards from one hundred after midnight.

Luckily, My Man CAN.

Random.org pronounced #71 the winner -

Boy Mom, that means you! Please email me your address, lady.

This incredible lady is raising SEVEN boys - 1-2-3-4-5-6-SEVEN boys, so she totally deserves some Brazilian lovin'. And some bloggy lovin'. So hop on over and leave her some comments why dontcha.

Metamorphoses

2009-03-20T13:21:00.006-03:00

We like bugs in our house.

(We have three boys.)

Many times I'll be ~~blogging~~ dutifully cleaning the house when I hear, "Mom, Mom, come quick!"

(I try very hard to always answer such summons no matter what I'm doing. I'm never disappointed.)

Last week it was a bit fat caterpillar. Our camera was out of batteries when said caterpillar arrived on our doorstep, but the above picture from BugGuide.net is pretty darn close. The same cute little black butthead, the same fuzzy fur. Ours was perhaps a little more vibrant yellow - but you get the idea.

We named our caterpillar Hungry. Because Hungry he obviously was. He never wandered far from our front door and we always said goodbye to him on our way to the car. He let us watch him for half-hours at a time. We had a pet. (And best of all, no cleanup!)

Then last Sunday we noticed Hungry had left his comfort zone and was exploring the garage wall. We watched him find a spot he liked, hang upside down, and do a funky thing with his butt to secure himself there.

It was pretty cool.

Three hours later we came home to find THIS:

It is beautiful. And I can't get over how quickly Hungry cocooned himself.

Now every day Da Boyz and I check on him. We have endless talks about caterpillars-turning-into-butterflies and high hopes of seeing it in action. (We'll see.)

Hungry is part of our daily prayers. Little Prince, especially, blesses him to become "a beautiful butterfly like on Bug's Life." Now that's faith.

And I can't help but think about our own metamorphoses. How each of is constantly growing, changing, and evolving into something beyond our imagination. I don't know if Hungry realizes what will happen. I know he felt compelled to shut himself up for a few weeks. I'm bettin' his transformation is uncomfortable - maybe even painful.

Was he scared when he sewed himself up into darkness? Will he be surprised when he comes out? Will he be confused? Will he still know himself?

I'm guessing yes to all of the above.

But I know he won't be disappointed, either.

The mark of your ignorance is the depth of your belief in injustice and tragedy. What the caterpillar calls the end of the world, the
Master calls the butterfly. Richard Bach

May we each murmur a little less about the cocoon, and be a little more grateful for the butterfly.

Open letter to everything below my chin

2009-03-19T13:38:00.008-03:00

Dear Body,

Hey, babe. We haven't spoken in a while. I know I've pretty much ignored you lately. Kids are sick and all, and exercising is on the bottom of the prioity list. YOU know how it goes ....

We've been through a lot together. Lots of scrapes and cuts and even a couple dislocated knees. Surgeries and illnesses - some allergies, some infections. Good stuff too. Some crazy thrill rides, truly divine food and getting married - THAT was fun.

I know I get mad at you sometimes. We've had our share of disagreements over acne and potbellies and thunder thighs. But really - I like you.

You let me run and swim and bike and roll around on the floor with my kids. I know I too often take you for granted. Sorry about that.

Best of all, you let me give birth to three glorious sons. You really pulled through on that one. It was hard work, but we did it together and brought forth my loves without medical assistance. GOOD. JOB.

I also have to say I especially appreciated the fact that you held off on that whole menstruating thing while I breast fed. A solid year and nine months without PMS is A-OK with me.

BUT.

Mr. Squishy is only nine months old. He is STILL NURSING. So can I just say

WHAT THE HECK?!?!??!

I had my suspicions when my face broke out this week. And then I mysteriously gained four pounds and my pants got tight. Oh, and then the whole VERY WEEPY AND SUDDENLY DECIDED I WAS MAD AT MY MAN FOR NO REASON WHATSOEVER. Yeah, that.

And then this morning. THIS MORNING.

You betrayed me, Body. How could you do this to me?

I'm hurt. Very, very hurt.

Especially when there's no chocolate in the house.

Begrudgingly yours,

That Girl

Sao Paulo Haiku

2009-03-18T14:19:00.003-03:00

Ahem.

Sick kids, coughing kids
Traffic in a boiling car
Doctor's freaking far

Thank you.

And God looked upon the light and pronounced it good. And a litmus test.

2009-03-17T09:20:00.010-03:00

I remember well the first fight that interrupted our marital bliss.

My Man claims that it was about broccoli - I love it, he hates it - but it wasn't.

It was about the very deep and profound subject of LIGHTBULBS.

But before we get into that, an introduction: This is my dad.

My dad is the all-knowing god of the computer realm. (Translation: I really can't tell you what he does for a living.) He also happens to be Mr. Fixit Extraordinaire.

Dad installs carpet and wood flooring, tiles kitchens, knows how to rework the plumbing on the bathroom sink or dishwasher and redid our roof to boot. He's knocked down walls and rebuilt them, and knoweth the 'thou shalt nots' of electrical wiring.

I took it for granted that all dads do that sort of stuff.

So when the first lightbulb burnt out in the first hallway of our first homestead, I patiently waited for my own personal Mr. Fixit to replace it.

And a week of darkness went by.

I got more and more frustrated that he was neglecting such an obvious part of husbandship. Truly, didn't he NOTICE the gloomy globe of outer darkness hanging above our heads? Finally, in exasperation, I berated him for not fulfilling his duty as resident All Things Maintenance Man.

And that's when I learned that my mother-in-law was the MRS. Fixit in the My Man household.

He'd been waiting for ME to change the lightbulb!

Thus ensued many years of re-defining our roles of who-does-whats in our abode. 'Cuz household duties aren't outlined in The Family: A Proclamation to the World. So many of us naturally think that the way our parents did it is THE WAY IT IS.

And it isn't. It's whatever we WANT it to be.

So we each have our own 'deveres de casa' now (or 'musts of the house') -

And at this very moment there are about eight lightbulbs that need changing.

Recipe for a good day

2009-03-16T15:11:00.000-03:00

Start the night before by having an awesome Sunday and staying up late er, TALKING, to your husband.

Wake up before the kids do. (This is the secret to happiness. Though not neccessarily the penguin.)

Read your scriptures FIRST. (Even if the chapter was abnormally long and you didn't have time to wash your hair because of it. Spirit before beauty!)

Love them boys.
After breakfast, go blackberry picking. Fresh. Eat them all.

Once you're all hot and sticky, jump in the pool. Try to decide which is the more brilliant blue: the sky, the pool, or your son's eyes.

Have a special picnic lunch - grilled cheese-tomato-and-basil sandwiches and cinnamon sprinkled apple slices. Accept the fact that you're the best mommy. Ever.

Take eldest to school. Memorize his sweet just-bathed smell and count the freckles on his nose one more time. Kiss each one.

Go home - snuggle with baby and wrestle with two-year-old. Then put both down for a nap.

Switch the laundry and sweep the house. (You should do SOMETHING productive today ....)

Lick the last of the chocolate frosting from last week's cupcakes.

Blog.

Life tastes good.

Mommy Monday

2009-03-16T15:00:00.000-03:00

Go CAMPING!

I put on waterproof mascara this morning

2009-03-15T16:30:00.001-03:00

I think ahead.

See, in two days it is the anniversary of the Relief Society, an organization to which I belong. It was founded in 1842 by a prophet of God and serves two main purposes: to provide relief to the needy and bring people to Christ.

It is an organization of women. The largest in the world.

There is a hymn - a theme song - for members of the Relief Society. Title, "As Sisters in Zion." It speaks of the power and roles of women. How we are to be ministering angels. How we are here to work. How we are here to love each other.

I was always annoyed by the song.

It always seemed so cheesy to me. It is a gentle, suave song. Soft. And I preferred rousing numbers that got my blood going and made me want to march around and shout, "Hallejua!" Like "Ye Elders of Israel." Much cooler hymn.

And then I moved here.

I remember well my first Sabbath in Brazil. I didn't speak a word of Portuguese when we first arrived in Sao Paulo in October 2004. I had a brand new baby in my arms and held My Man's hand tightly. All of my adventurism and courage failed me at the steps of our church building. My sweet husband kissed me at the door and wished me good luck.

He left me.

I walked hesitantly into the Relief Society room. Head down, feet shuffling, I hurried to grab a seat in the back. The VERY back.

I had timed it just right - I took my seat just as the Relief Society president began the meeting. Sweet. No time for introductions.

She said some things in some language to some people. Everyone was smiling, finishing up friendly conversations and opening books I couldn't read.

I began to cry.

I missed my family. My friends. My language. I knew that there was absolutely no way I could do this. Truly, what WAS I thinking?

As I sat pondering my stupidity and feeling extremely sorry for myself, the pianist began playing the first strains to a familiar tune.

"As Sisters in Zion."

I couldn't understand the words, but my heart did. It swelled in size and warmth and sent chills down my spine. It didn't matter that I couldn't speak the language or didn't have a friend for thousands of miles. I had SISTERS here. I have SISTERS everywhere.

Fast forward four years.

This week my Relief Society president asked me to speak today, during our Super Special Relief Society Presentation in sacrament meeting. We all wore blue blouses and chique gold scarves. We sang a song. We had some talks. And then it was my turn.

I bore my testimony about this inspired organization of women. How we can have family no matter where we go. How we truly are sisters in Zion. And how the Spirit speaks all languages.

And then I sang our hymn - in English.

I broke down after the first line.

Tears streaming down my face, I kept one hand on my mouth, trying to control myself. I stood at the pulpit in the sacrament meeting room. All eyes on me. My face was glowing red and the piano continued through the music written by Janice Kapp Perry.

And one by one, my sisters joined me.

Soon the entire congregation was singing softly the words written over a hundred years ago. And I wept. I stood before my sweet sisters, sharing in their spirit and celebrating their strength.

As sister in Zion, we'll all work together
The blessings of God on our labors we'll seek
We'll build up the kingdom with earnest endeavor
We'll comfort the weary and strengthen the weak

The errand of angels was given to women
And this is a gift that, as sisters, we claim
To do whatsoever is gentle and human
To cheer and to bless in humanity's name

How vast is our purpose, how broad is our mission
If we but fulfill it in spirit and deed
Oh, naught but the Spirit's divinest tuition
Can give us the wisdom to truly succeed.

Amen and amen.

Women rock.

A neighborly visit

2009-03-13T14:11:00.005-03:00

Kids were asleep. House was clean. I sat sewing at our kitchen table, feeling decidedly domestic and wishing I had on red lipstick.

And a little fellow that looks like this hopped through our back sliding glass door.

It tilted its head to the side and looked at me. I looked at it. It's liquid eyes seemed to size me up and finally pronounced me safe.

It hopped around the room for a while, each hop a little closer to me. I sat frozen, barely daring to breathe. I felt the compliment it deigned to give me with its prescence. I slowly reached to turn off my sewing machine -

but not slowly enough. It exploded into the air, escaping in a flurry of buttery feathers.

Five minutes later the bird came back with a friend.

It must have been a girl bird.

They paused at the door, trying to nonchalantly saunter in - no doubt embarrassed by the discourteous exit from before. I recognized my previous acquaintance; she was bolder, having been here already.

The pair inspected my plants, the artwork, the furniture. All met with their approval. I realized I'd forgotten my manners, and went to fetch them some refreshment. My original friend fluttered back to wait by the door, but her companion turned tail back home. Rude.

My friend waited for me. She pecked at the crumbs I offered, keeping one eye on me all the while. She seemed to say thank you with the way she turned her head.

After the repast, she politely preened and powdered her nose. I excused myself and continued sewing. She watched for a while, then flew over to the shelf covered in pictures of my loves. Examining each one, she tweeted and twittered her questions about my children. No doubt she had observed their play and was wondering where they were. We talked like old friends. I told her the strengths of one child, the triumphs of another. My hopes for them and the things that kept me up at night worrying. She listened. Occasionally she'd turn around and gaze at me intently. Maybe she was trying to tell me she had children she worried about, too.

We both felt the visit had come to an end. She circled the room once, then landed a few feet from me, pecking at a few more crumbs she had previously overlooked. I offered her my warm thanks for the visit, and welcomed her back any time.

Then she crapped on my floor and left.

And I slammed the door shut.

You guys wanna caption all my scrapbooks for me?

2009-03-13T14:00:00.000-03:00

Head Nurse or Patient - you be the judge, your caption for "Mr. Squishy's new look" made me laugh the hardest with "drop the camera and nobody gets hurt." (Though they all made me giggle.)

You are welcome.

In case you forgot this is a Mommy Blog ...

2009-03-12T08:00:00.000-03:00

Little Prince is now a full-time student.

I miss him every day.

A lot.

In Brazil, they start school at four years old, and it's practically all day. (Okay, it's really just from 1 to 6. But that's PRACTICALLY all day.) It's a very good school - bilingual, even. Although LP likes to correct the teacher sometimes - everyone loves a brown noser. I raised this kid right.

So now afternoons find me with just two kids. Do you know how EASY it is with just two kids? How did I ever think this was hard?

My problem comes with the entertainment part of the day. LP, being the older and wiser sibling (not to mention the most articulate and domineering) generally dictates what we will be doing for play time. Our activities are usually playing pirates, playing cowboys, playing bad guys, playing restaurant, playing dragons, playing school, playing knights, or crafts. Sometimes.

LP likes to pretend.

And because we've been play-acting for the better part of a year, I kind of forgot how to play at anything else.

Now I'm left with a couple hours a day of just me-and-Ouro-Branco time. And as much as I miss LP, I am loving this time with OB. I feel like I'm just now getting to know my sweet son as a PERSON - as a real little human being with his own (big) personality. When LP is around, OB reverts back to the adoring little brother, shadowing big brother's every move and going along with whatever.

It's when he's alone that he really shines.

And I like him. I don't just love him (though I do that very much), I truly like my son.

OB is dimples. OB is sunshine. OB is easily-forgiving-cannot-stand-the-slightest-raised-voice-best-hugger-in-the-world-Mr.-Busybody.
OB is Play Time personified.

But play time is different for every age. And I seem to have forgotten two-and-a-half-year-old play lately. Here's what I know.

Play time with OB is CARS.
Play time with OB is HIDE-AND-SEEK.
Play time with OB is AIRPLANES.
Play time with OB is BIKES
Play time with OB is TIGERS.
Play time with OB is TAG.
Play time with OB is SOCCER.
Play time with OB is TICKLE WARS.

I decided to interview my Ouro Branco: (it should be known that said interview took place on the couch right after a wrestling session)

Me: OB, how are you?
OB: TWO!
Me: Wow, you're two? You're getting so big ....
OB: No, I little.
Me: Yeah, but you're growing. So what's your favorite color, OB?
OB: [dimple showing] I ... get you, Mom!
[brief tickling interruption]
Me: That's a great color, OB. What's your favorite book?
OB: I TICKLE!!!! I BONK YOU!!!!!
[another tickling interruption]
Me: Wow, great book. I'm learning so much. So what's your favorite food?
OB: Big hug, Mom?
[that's my favorite meal of the day]
Me: I just love you, OB. Final question. Favorite movie?
OB: LIGHTENING MCQUEEN!

I love me some Ouro Branco time.

Mr. Squishy's new look

2009-03-12T00:10:00.000-03:00

Anyone wanna caption it?

In which I try to be like Ben

2009-03-11T07:31:00.006-03:00

I have a brother-in-law. (I know. Shocker.) But what's REALLY cool is that my brother-in-law can COOK. And when I say cook, I mean createthemostdeliciousthingseverconcoctedbythefoodgods. Plus he's a doctor. (Sorry, ladies, he's married.)

Over Christmas, Ben made us homemade potstickers. They were so deliciously yummy that they have haunted by daydreams ever since.

We don't have Chinese food here. Or Costco, which is almost as good.

So yesterday I decided to re-create Ben's Chinese miracle.

The ingredients: (do you love how I'm trying to be like the Pioneer Woman? As Emily of LM Montgomery would say, I am a humble alcolyte bowing before the altar of my priestess. But I tried.)

Olive oil, fresh ginger, garlic, soy sauce, pepper, salt, and cabbage. Also pork, but I had already cut it up before I thought to take a picture.

First things first. Chop the cabbage - I did half a head - and set aside in a bowl. Sprinkle with about two tablespoons of salt and let sit for half an hour. The salt will draw out the water in the cabbage. (It's MAGIC.)

Squeeze out the water and put back in the bowl. Add a package of pork, cut into pieces. (Even better would be ground pork, but I don't have that luxury.)

Now for the flavor! You can vary these according to taste (this is just me):

2 cloves of garlic
A whole stick of grated ginger (I loooooooove ginger)
1 tsp. of pepper
About 2 tablespoons of olive oil and soy sauce, each

I bet green onions would be good too, but I didn't have any on hand.

Inhaling the ginger is a must:

Mix them together and it should look something like this:

Now for the fun part! Place a large spoonful of the mixture on a wonton wrapper and wet the edges with water. Then fold over and seal. Try to press all of the air out! Did I say fun? I mean time-consuming ...

(For those familiar with this beloved pais o' mine, these aren't real wonton wrappers. It's pastel dough - the closest I can get to the real thing. And I chose big wrappers so I wouldn't have to fold potstickers for hours on end.)

Ben fried his potstickers before boiling them, but in the interest of feeling better about myself, I skipped the frying.

And it turned into a sticky soup of wonton guts:

Fry them for a few minutes on each side - WHO TOLD YOU TO DO OTHERWISE?!

After nicely browned, plop them in a pot of boiling water. They're ready when the dough turns translucent - about ten minutes.

I tried to duplicate Ben's magical potsticker sauce by combining grated ginger, garlic, and soy sauce. CLOSE ENOUGH.

You don't get any pretty finished product picture, because we ate them.

Make a meal of it with fried rice, a salad with mandarin oranges, and egg drop soup.

Soup recipe:

Boil a piece of ginger in a few cups of chicken broth and 1 clove of minced garlic. The longer you boil, the stronger the ginger flavor. Right before serving, take out the ginger and crack an egg over the soup, slightly stirring it to get that "stringy" effect.

Not only is this the most delicious meal EVER, but it impresses. Now go Asian!

Happy birthday to me!

2009-03-10T09:39:00.006-03:00

So I'm comin' up on 200 posts - which really, really surprises me. I've been doing this blogging gig since January 2008, but I didn't get REALLY into it til about nine months ago. (Read: that's when it became an anti-depressant ....)

And since I completely ignored my 100th post, a giveaway is in order.

I'm making up a whole "Best of Brazil" pacakge, which will include:

#1 neccessity for every tourist - Havaianas: The Brazilian flip-flop. They come in all colors - the winner can choose size and color.

Maracuja (you would call it passion fruit) juice mix. You can't get it in the States, and it is my favorite juice EVER.

Brazil has THE best hair care products. So luxurious. (Winner will tell me hair type - straight, curly, color treated, etc.)

Pao de quiejo mix - these are those 'cheese balls' you can get at Tucanos. Yummmmm

Brazilian sweets. Their chocolate is soooooo divine. (And no, Tamra, you can't enter more than once.)

Other Brazilian souvineer-y stuff as chosen by me!

I reserve the right to take a while to send it - I'm too cheap to send it from Brazil, and I'll make my husband do it next time he goes to the States for work.

Now for the REAL challenge.

I'm curious to see how many comments I'll get - my statcounter recently topped 300, and I want to meet all you lurkers who drop by here, invisible. So I will ONLY send a package out if I get past 100 - so it will be in your best interest to tell your friends! (Don't forget to leave your email address in the comment if it's not in your profile.)

If, by some miracle, I pass 200 comments, I'll send TWO packages. Be amazed. Be very amazed. (Comments will be closed Friday the 20th!)

Thoughts on your thoughts on my thoughts on the cave. Thoughts.

2009-03-10T08:56:00.007-03:00

Get that?

I just wanted a quick word on the whole "friends by appointment" thing. Apparently, most people DON'T like it. Most people LIKE the whole "spontaneously dropping by unannounced" gig. It is friendly. It is open. It is warm fuzzies and girl talk and feeling like people like you.

Everyone likes friends. Everyone. I could quote that whole "no man is an island" thing, but - well, actually I can't quote it.

So whaddya say we be Brazilian this week? Do you think you can make a friendly visit "just because"? Tell them I made you if you need some sort of excuse. I'm very interested to see how this experiment will go. I will take part in it, as well. (Though I concede it is exponentially easier for me.) And let it be said that even if this experiment passes with flying colors, don't do this every day. It gets annoying.

Most importantly, SMILE. Brazilians are always, always smiling. Their lives could be topsy turvy - their refrigerators might be empty - their mothers may be dying - but they are still smiling.

(This is my friend Geny, and I love her smile.)

From my cave to yours

2009-03-09T13:11:00.003-03:00

Sometimes I think I'd do well as a hermit.

I like people, don't get me wrong, I just also really like holing up in my little house-cave sometimes. I like wearing junkie clothes all day and just chilling with my kids. It's fun.

The problem comes in the form of socially-active Brazilians. Ya know in those old Southern movies where all the ladies are sipping lemonade on the porch, and people just "drop by"? And they'd get all dressed up to go "visiting"?

Enter Brazil.

In many ways, I love it. It reminds me of my college days, when you went over to your friend's house Just Because. You didn't need a reason. You just showed up. Unfortunately, as we grow older and get husbands and kids and Things To Do, the habit gets dropped. I think Americans are just very task-oriented. We're not anti-social; just busy. We are appointment-only kind of friends.

So it took some getting used to when my house soon developed a revolving door policy. Someone is ALWAYS OVER. Usually unannounced, and for no reason whatsoever. Just to chat, visit, "matar saudades," or what have you.

This translates to mean my house (at least the "visible" parts - the bedrooms are another story) is always visitor ready. And we always have cake. (Because that's part of the visit.)

Nine times out of ten, I open the door with a smile on my face. I love my friends, and I love shootin' the breeze with them, just enjoying their company and hanging out together.

And then there are days where I just really want to take a nap. (Or blog.)

Now excuse me - there's someone at the door.

Mommy Monday

2009-03-09T12:55:00.003-03:00

I've kinda been slackin' on the Mommy Mondays lately. In part because I always forget what day it is. Also because I didn't think anyone really cared - besides my own mother, who thinks it's cute.

But last week I got a couple requests for the return of tips on how to be the Coolest Mommy on the Block for preschoolers. So HERE WE GO.

Water.

This is one of those "duh" tips. I distinctly remember when my own mommy (the Coolest Mommy on the Block in her own right) told me to just let Little Prince paint with water for hours of stress-free fun.

Eureka! Why didn't I ever think of that?!

We have now developed all kinds of water-play fun. Any suggestions of your own are welcome, as always.

"Painting" with water. Paintbrush. Water. That's it. (Although it's even MORE fun when chalk is involved.)
Ice cube painting - sprinkle a piece of paper with Kool-aid or some other kind of powdered drink mix and spread it around with an ice cube. Very cool designs - and edible, too!
For those of you buried in snow, fill a spray bottle with colored water and "decorate" your yard or snowman.
"Wash" the walls. Don't laugh. My kids LOVE doing this. Just give 'em a wet sponge and have at it.
Make "soap crayons." Take about 1 1/2 cups of soap powder (like Ivory Snow), add food coloring and 1/2 cup of water. Let harden in small containers or an ice cube tray. You can "color" the walls during bathtime or outside (in the summer, obviously.)
Water balloons. Nuff said.
Play the "waterfall game." This is for young kids. Fill a container with water and take turns dropping pennies in. The game ends when one player drops in the penny that makes the water overflow. (Very. Very fun.)
You can also "drown the penny." Using a rubber band, secure a tissue or napkin over a water-filled glass. Place a penny on top, and take turns poking the tissue with a pencil until the penny finally falls.
Make a "sprinkler" out of an old milk jug. Just poke holes in the bottom, fill with water, and tell your toddler to make sure EVERYTHING gets a drink.

I recognize that most of these are for summertime play. File them away for later use!

Fashionably honest

2009-03-08T16:23:00.001-03:00

I got a lot of compliments on my outfit today at church.

Which makes me laugh. Because I didn't choose this blouse for its fashion sense. Rather, for its large amount of armpit room.

I sweat. A LOT.

(And I'm so. Totally. Sucking it in here.)

Thoughts on being weak

2009-03-08T16:22:00.005-03:00

LisAway recently posted about being "weak" in the face of scary situations with our kids. Quote.

My stomach totally does a flop when I even think about a serious injury.
David once knocked his front teeth pretty badly and they were all a little
wiggly and bleeding. While I was cleaning him up and checking things out I
just felt ILL. I was still good about the not freaking out and about the
comforting etc. but my stomach did not handle it well, and it wasn't even an
open wound!

We've had our fair share of gore in the This Girl household. No broken bones, although we did get a split chin once. (In a hotel room. In a city I was unfamiliar with. THAT was fun. I think the hotel receptionist almost passed out.)

But I think the worst thing that's happened to us didn't involve any blood at all.

It was two years ago. Two of my brothers were visiting (why am I talking so much about my brothers lately?! Oh. Because I love them.) and we took them to a fancy shmancy hotel on the beach. We had a fancy shmancy suite that walked right out onto the pristine (fancy shmancy) sand.

On our last day there, Ouro Branco (then a wee little one) woke up at about 6ish to nurse. In my half-awake state, I noticed that Little Prince wasn't in his bed. I nudged My Man and asked him to check if LP was sleeping with my brothers.

I must have drifted back to sleep with OB in my arms when My Man returned and began putting on his shoes.

"LP isn't here, Becky."

"Mwa ... huh?"

"He's not here, Becky. The front door is open. Wake up."

The next few minutes were a blur. I plopped OB unceremoniously into the crib and threw on a shirt. (Backwards, I later found.) We ran out the door, calling LP's name franctically. I was vaguely aware that my brothers were right behind us.

Everyone at the hotel was still asleep. I burst into the barely-opened hotel kitchen, shaking violently and trying my best to describe LP amidst my stutters.

And a mile in each direction was the ocean. Waves crashing upon waves, a deep, unforgiving blue.

My brothers were racing down the sand, their voices no longer discernible. My Man was searching the hotel pools, the jacuzzi, the kid's play room.

And I collapsed into a soggy heap of despair.

My glasses wouldn't stay on, my tears were so violent. Visions of my firstborn son being dragged out to sea filled my head. He was never afraid of the water.

The search went on. And on. And on. The clock neared seven.

And I prayed.

I only said five words. Dear Lord, not my son. Dear Lord, not my son ....

We are told not to give ourselves over to vain repetitions in our prayers. And though I was repeating myself, there was nothing vain about it. I have never prayed so fervently in my life.

And just when I closed my simple, heartfelt prayer, I heard a cry. Coming from our hotel room.

My Man and I raced back in time to see a little head crawl out from under the bed. Where he had, apparently, slept through this whole scandal.

Ether 12:27 My grace is sufficient for all men that humble themselves before me;
for if they humble themselves before me, and have faith in me, then will I make
weak things become strong unto them.

I was one strong lady that day. And I will be again, each and every time my kids need me.

Two mandates from me

2009-03-06T20:56:00.002-03:00

First, kiss your kids.

Then, kiss your bathtub.

(Because they don't do bathtubs in Brazil.)

Perspective

2009-03-06T08:20:00.004-03:00

I am reminded of a conversation I had with my brother over Christmas. Not this brother, but THAT one. The one smack in the middle.

(Isn't my family hawt?)

But Middle Brother is not only hawt, he is infinitely cool. People actually knew who he was in high school. People thought I was just wall decoration.

Over Christmas I was trying to impress him with my newly improved coolness skillz, as demonstrated by blogging. (Sort of.) Intending to leave him breathless with awe, I informed him that I have readers from all over the world.

Instead he looked at me with one eyebrow raised.

"That's just freaky."

Touche.

Two Faces Have I

2009-03-04T20:26:00.003-03:00

I just realized I have a double standard. And I can't explain it, even to myself.

I have no problem with cosmetic dental surgery. I'm all over "potions and lotions" to improve skin elasticity, erase wrinkles, and treat blemishes. Microderm abrasion and facial peels sound pretty cool, too.

But I can't reconcile myself to plastic surgery. That includes face lifts, tummy tucks, Botex and boob jobs. I'm not morally opposed to it - I'm Beckally opposed to it. It's like I'm okay with external renovations - it's once needles and knives are involved that I get all question mark-y.

What do you think?

Rosetta Stone of Brazilian hand gestures

2009-03-03T15:56:00.004-03:00

There are many different dialects in this beloved pais o'mine, and I'm not talking about the Amazons. In Brazil, it's all about Hands. My sister-in-law has often said that if you tie up our hands, we'll be rendered mutes.

This is a simple guide to help you navigate the world of Brazilian sign language.

1. The Swipe

Hold your right hand at waist level and without too much arm movement, "swipe" your hand as if wiping a table. This means "to steal."

Ex. Swipe your hand while saying, "We can't find the radio." Indicates that it was stolen.

2. Estou de olho - I'm Watching You.

Pull down one of your lower eye lids a few times in a row. Means that you don't neccessarily believe what someone is telling you, or that you're on the watch.

Ex. Pull down your lower lid while saying, "He says he has to go to the library." You know darn well he has no intention of checking out a book.

3. Lotado - Full

Hold up your right hand to shoulder level, bending elbow. Join all fingers and thumb pointing upwards. Open and close the fingers like a tulip would. This means that the place in question was full to capacity.

Ex. "The party last night was

4. Delicious

Point to the left with your right hand and sweep across mouth, closing it to the thumb on the corner of your lip. This is a quick movement. Indicates that the food was fantabulous.

Ex. "Sister, this lunch was

5. Depois - "After"

Hold up pointer finger on right hand and twirl in a circle perpendicular to your body. This sign is ALWAYS used when wanting to delay something.

Ex. "When can we set that appointment?" Response:

6. Sumiu - "Disappeared"

Left hand faces up with right hand passing over it in a forward "clapping" motion.

Ex. "It's time to take out the garbage. Where did Gustavo go?"

BUT THE MOST IMPORTANT OF ALL:

7. The Thwack.

A favorite among missionaries, this is hard to master. Hold your right hand with your middle finger and thumb forming an "OK" position. Then "thwack" it down quickly, letting your pointer finger make a slapping sound on the other fingers. It means "working hard" or "lots of effort."

Ex. Appropriate response to, "Whatcha been doing all day?"

I will expect you all to visit soon and converse freely with my neighbors.

Cannot. Think.

2009-03-02T22:15:00.000-03:00

Or do anything besides dream of Graeter's ice cream ....

The List

2009-03-01T22:00:00.000-03:00

My children are born flirts. Mile-long eyelashes (why is it that BOYS always get them?!) and dimpled grins aid tremendously in their conquests. It helps that they're the only Americans for miles around, too.

We'll just say that they're hot commodities in church.

Usually the Young Women (girls 12 to 17) and even some of the Relief Society (18 and up) are begging to hold them. When I walk in the door, sometimes I don't see Mr. Squishy until it's time to go home.

So you can imagine the fight that ensues when it comes time to pick a baby-sitter for Friday Date Night. (A holy, holy night, bytheway.)

Little do they know the caveats that accompany this blessed privilege.

The List.

Their eyes inevitably grow rounder as we tick off the most sacred of routines.

The boys must eat all of their dinner before dessert.
ONE dessert. Not two. Not three. Four is right out. Just ONE.
After dinner, play time is strictly observed.
No hitting.
No saying "shut up."
No bikes in the house.
No throwing rocks in the pool.
No movies or TV.
No climbing out the window even if it's "just to see the other side."
They love playing horse. They love playing with chalk. They love jumping on the mattresses or hide and go seek or tag. They love to just PLAY.
At 7:30, warn them that bedtime is arriving. They need ample time to prepare mentally for this drastic occurence.
At 7:45, head towards the general direction of the bedroom.
Brush teeth. Little Prince brushes his own teeth but Ouro Branco needs help. You HAVE to sing the "Grandpa Gum" song. You HAVE to spit after every line. You HAVE to get a drink of water and THEN swish with flouride (do not swish, and THEN drink. Very important. The world may collapse if done out of order.)
Sing the "scripture power song" while getting on pajamas. LP puts on his own pajamas because his body is special and we can't see it. Unless he feels like playing in the sprinklers some morning when my visiting teachers are over - but sorry, that's a different list.
OB likes the CARS pajamas and only the CARS pajamas. Do not under any circumstances attempt to put on his dinosaur pajamas. All outer darkness will break loose.
Read scriptures. OB sits on the LEFT. LP sits on the RIGHT. THE SCRIPTURES SIT ON THE LAP AND THAT IS ALL.
Say prayer. You must be on your knees. You must fold your arms. You must bow your head. You can't lay your head down because that is not what Jesus looks like in the picture.
Kisses all around. OB usually needs approximately 392472947 kisses before he is satisfied. And kiss the monkey too.
LP wants the door just a LITTLE cracked. Just a LITTLE. Not too much because it's too bright. Not too little because then it's too dark. JUST RIGHT CRACKED AND THAT IS ALL.
And most importantly, tell them I miss them and love them and I'll be back before they wake up. If you have any questions or concerns AT ALL - call me.

There is also endless instruction about how to work the TV, the location and use of emergency supplies, and a "situation tree" of any possible deviation from normal behavior. I have never gotten mad when a baby-sitter calls with a question. Ever. But I do get frustrated when a baby-sitter doesn't follow The List.

And it makes me wonder.

What kind of list did Heavenly Father leave for us before giving us His precious children?

They must be obedient before the blessing.
They date at 16 years old. Not 15. Not 14. Thirteen is RIGHT OUT. They date at 16.
After teaching, loving is strictly observed.
No hitting.
No demeaning.
No shouting.
No losing your temper.
No questioning whether this is really want I want you to do.
They like to play. It's okay to let them blow bubbles in their chocolate milk. It's okay to let them splash at bathtime. It's okay to let them run around in the mud. THE WORLD WILL NOT COLLAPSE IF YOU LET THEM.
At 7 (or even much, much earlier!), advise them that baptism is quickly approaching. They need time to prepare mentally for this covenant.
This child really needs physical affection. He doesn't like to be nagged. Show him lovingly how to do something and let him do it himself. Let me show you how to do it.
That child struggles with self worth. Build him up and praise him and never tear him down. Let me show you how to do it.
This child loves to play with you. He doesn't like to be told to go play with his toys by himself. He loves YOU to play with him.
That child is having a hard time with peer pressure. Reinforce his testimony of whose son he is. Tell stories of when YOU had a hard time with peer pressure at his age.
And most importantly, tell them I miss them and love them and I'll be back before they know it. If you have any questions or concerns AT ALL - call me.

Do you think He ever gets frustrated when we don't follow The List?

Rise and Shout

2009-02-27T15:20:00.000-03:00

Right now I could totally pass for a vampire - if seen from far away and through very squinty eyes.

I'm pale white, have circles under my eyes, my throat fills with flames when I breathe, and I'm ice cold.

Sick. Sick sick sick sick sick.

I HATE sick.

And because I have an extremely low tolerance to medicine, and because I've got a very busy weekend and I thought it would be best, and because I took TheraFlu plus sore throat lozenges plus a nasal decongestant, I can't think straight.

Is anyone getting this? Because my head is floating away ....

So today, for your reading enjoyment, I am posting an essay on "description" that I wrote while at college. Because I don't throw anything away on the computer, especially when the teacher liked it. And cuz it still makes me smile.

Now I'm going to go drink hot cider. Because hot cider is goooood when you feel bad.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Rise and Shout

You enter the structure with a huge smile, a little breathless from the long walk. Your face tingles with a crisp breeze that carries thousands of cheers and laughs. You quicken your pace to catch up with the dozen or so friends you came with, and link arms with your nearest roommate. She is wearing a blue T-shirt with a big white “Y” on the front—the same one you have on. She grins at you, and the blue paw print on her right cheek dimples up.

The ticket in your pocket is brought out, a little mushy from being in there so long. It is spread out, and the fourteen of you immediately commence arguing where your seats are. You consult the map on the back of the ticket and proceed to the nearest circular staircase. Up and up you climb the tunnel-like stairs—slightly out of breath, but you try to disguise it. You don’t want anyone to know how out of shape you are. Finally you emerge on a platform swarming with people. They look like thick bees bumbling over and through each other. Still arm in arm with your roommate, you (gently) push and shove through the crowd to yet another flight of stairs. This time they are straight up, and you have to cling to the rail. You follow the friend in front of you down a long row of screaming college students, and stand at attention in front of your assigned seat.

With a deep breath of sweat and excitement, you survey the world around you. The sun shines directly in your eyes, so you bring your hand up as a shield. Thousands of people become visible, in a strange mix of blue and white and yellow. They look like a Monet painting—blurs of moving color. The very air around you tingles with electricity. You spin around and awe at the barely visible mountains, peeking out of the stands behind you. They are truly purple majesties, presiding over the game. The moon faces the sun, translucent as a pearl.

It’s time to focus. The crowd lets out a loud, “aaaaAAAAWWWWWWW!” building in intensity as a man in a dark blue uniform kicks an oval ball. He is too far away to see clearly, but you watch the massive screen to your left. Eleven men on the other side of the field run after the ball, and one catches it. The crowd sits down to watch as two teams battle for possession. Most scuffles end in large heaps, men in black and white waving their arms frantically. It is the classic American struggle: slowly gain ground, then lose it. Divide and conquer. Take possession. Grunt. Hit.

But let’s face it. You don’t really know much about the game. You came here for the experience.

You engage in passionate hand-holding with your significant other, and simultaneously carry on a conversation with your best friend about who’s getting married in the ward. (It’s up to forty-three percent.) Periodically your conversation is interrupted by warming bouts of “Popcorn Popping” and the wave. Your face hurts from smiling and your bottom hurts from sitting. Occasionally you glance at the score and let out an encouraging whoop.

“Anybody want the Creamery?” your roommate asks. You stand up with two other friends to begin your descent below ground, giggling excitedly about the passionate hand-holding session you just had.

Underneath the stands is a comparatively dark labyrinth of people and food. The smell of calories and fat knock you to the ground. Your mouth waters. A few damp bills are unearthed from your pocket and you try to decide between mint chocolate chip or strawberry cheesecake. You get one scoop of each.

Back at your seats, a scandal is in process. Your roommate’s ex-boyfriend has just asked out another roommate. (What was he thinking?) The latter friend, though happy, is trying to hide it. The former friend, suddenly very interested in the game, squeezes the blood out of your hand. The ex-boyfriend is clueless.

After a few brief eye-conversations, you turn to update your boyfriend. Guys can only talk with their mouths.

The band commences a loud rendition of Eye of the Tiger and all the boys around you begin jabbing the air with their fists with goofy grins plastered on their faces. Dozens of people are filtering onto the field and you realize it’s halftime. Your boyfriend turns to you with bunched up eyebrows and a frown and peppers you with questions about the last play. You nod in some key places, but generally haven’t a clue what he’s talking about. You make a mental note to ask him questions when there aren’t so many people around.

Camera flashes go off and you pile into a group shot, absentmindedly fixing your hair. You hug your slighted roommate and whisper that you love her. She looks like she just drank sour milk. You give her the rest of your ice cream and all is better.

The game continues, and this time you try to focus, but your boyfriend is playing with your hair. How can you focus with that? It is getting dark, and the adrenaline rush is over. Everyone stays seated, even during really fantastic plays.

When the score is up 21-7, the group stands to leave.

As you walk home, the hum of the crowd is still audible, and the electricity and happiness still present. Your throat is raw with screaming. You go to sleep with a smile and a blue pawprint on your face.

This is BYU football.

I am a carnivore, hear me chew

2009-02-26T20:30:00.000-03:00

Have you seen that "1940s wife" button floating around? If not, hi, welcome to Earth.

Okay, so I haven't actually TAKEN the quiz thingie, but I'm fairly certain I'd fail. Why, you ask? Cuz I'm sure all 1940s wives had this memorized:

I'm proud of myself that I can tell the difference between cow, pig, and chicken meat.

Now, I know the different cuts (sorta kinda.) I know that file mignon tastes good. I know that tri-tip tastes good. I like steak. I like sirloin. I like ground beef. But I couldn't tell you which part of the animal my meal came from.

And I most definitely don't know the "best" way to cook each piece.

There are women - and, let's face it, they all belong to my grandmother's generation - who can look at that cow and say, #1 - broil, #2 - saute, #3 - oven roast, #4 - good for soup, #5 - grill, #6 - pot roast, #7 baste and sear.... There are women who know the difference between panfry and panbroil.

I get to the supermarket and think, "Hmmm ... I think I'll buy some cow."

It doesn't help that I've spent most of my married life (i.e. most of my cooking life) in a foreign country. I can tell you that I really like picanha, mamminha, fraldinha, or costelas, but I couldn't tell you what they are in ENGLISH, let alone what part of the animal I'm eating.

And any meat vocabulary I've learned here is all due to this:

CHURRASCO.

Hi. My name is Becky and I break the Word of Wisdom. Eat red meat sparingly? OBVIOUSLY THE LORD HAS NEVER BEEN TO BRAZIL.

And I'll just throw this picture in of Little Prince for posterity's sake. What, don't recognize that cut of meat he's digging into?

Chicken hearts.

Pretty sure I can point to where it came from on the chart.

People say the rising generation is in trouble. I say they don't know the rising generation.

2009-02-25T08:07:00.000-03:00

Let me introduce you to one of the main reasons our ward rocks:

These are our young men. Priests (16 &17) top row, Teachers (14 &15) middle row, and Deacons (12 & 13) bottom row. They are all recently arrived from camp, which always takes place during Carnaval, to "take them out of the world," so to speak. It works.

Did I mention they are almost ALL recent converts?
Did I mention eight months ago we only had three?
Did I mention that there are young men pictured who have stopped drunken fathers from killing frightened mothers?
Did I mention that there are young men pictured who have been held at knife point while their step-father attempted to rape their sister?
Did I mention that there are young men pictured who have to deal with drug dealers at recess?
Did I mention that there are young men pictured who walk 3km on dirt roads to get to the bus stop that takes them to church?
Did I mention almost all of them are the only members in their family?
Did I mention that I get goosebumps every time I see them in white shirts and ties, when I think of how they looked like gang members a few months ago?

Did I mention that my heart wants to explode?

I won the Principal's award in middle school

2009-02-24T17:13:00.004-03:00

I can totally brag about this because it's the only thing that this coveted prize ever afforded me. Oh, and a piece of paper that is sitting in a box somewhere in my mother's basement.

Yet I recognize this award for what it is: a consolation prize. I did a lot of extracurricular activities in both middle and high school, but I never excelled in any of them. I think the principal was trying to tell me that he felt sorry for me. I deserved to get SOMETHING for my "never give up" attitude, right?

I participated in show choir and drama club - always in the background, a no-name character with a few lines. I did forensics - and never won anything. Cheerleading (to the everlasting ridicule of my brothers) - but I quit after one semester because I soooooo did not fit the profile. I did yearbook, NHS, tutoring, SADD, art, peer mediation and I don't know what else. Mostly because I didn't have much of a social life.

So I was thinking about my revered Principal's Award today and a repressed memory resurfaced: I ran for class secretary, too.

I truly do not what I was thinking. I was the quintessential nerd in middle school. Side ponytail. Coke bottle glasses. Braces with bands that coordinated with the upcoming holiday. I still played with My Little Ponies til freshman year of high school. Yup.

But encouraged by my loving mother (who is forbidden to comment on this post), I made dozens of posters with my name and slogan. The dreaded Voting Day arrived. I was required to give some kind of speech, and I swear before the Blogging Gods that Pedro from Napoleon Dynamite gave the same speech I did when I was thirteen years old. (But I didn't have dancing moon boots to back me up.)

I lost. I lost to a girl named Jenny Butts who I met the day of the vote. And you know what? I LIKED her. A really really lot. She was pretty and engaging and cool. And kind enough to make friends with me, her "rival" (though there was really no competition.)

I actually ended up voting for her.

This memory recently surfaced because I suddenly find myself in the same situation.

The other day I got an email from a truly awesome blogger at Real Mom, Real Life. (Check her out if you haven't already!) She informed me that she had nominated me for the Mormon Mommy Blogs' March Spotlight. (That really was a lot of capital letters, bytheway.)

Well! Of course I immediately felt extremely fond of the whole world and hopped on over to the MMBMS post. I had a grand total of THREE votes - enough for the lead! WHOO-HOO!

I skipped around the house most of this morning. It really is a beautiful day, isn't it?

But this afternoon, when I started to think about thinking about dinner, I checked again - cuz I'm cumpulsive like that. And I'm losing. To a blog called The Chocolate Chip Waffle. Of course I had to check out my competition, so I hopped on over.

And dang. She's good. Like, I-would-be-ashamed-to-show-my-bloggy-face-if-I-actually-beat-her-out good.

So yeah, vote for me, vote for her, whatever. I won the Principal's award in middle school, so I'm good either way.

Don't call the authorities

2009-02-24T08:00:00.000-03:00

We are now in the midst of carnaval, which means we will not be leaving our house or turning on the TV until Wednesday.

Dancers revel in the street, setting off fireworks and playing samba music loud enough to make the roads shake. The parades, they say, are incredible. But I'm not a fan of naked women gyrating in high heels. It just doesn't do much for me. Or the backs of my eyelids.

If you're too lazy to click on the link, the easiest definition of Carnaval is Legal Sin until Lent. Endless drinking and not taking responsibility for being unconscious for four days, then pious denying-of-all-pleasure for forty days. I believe September is a very popular month to be born.

Carnaval is really into role reversal. The men dress as women and the women ... don't dress. The poor act like kings and the rich act like fools. No one sleeps. No one abides by traffic laws. No one works.

So here at home, where I often forget I'm in a foreign country, we decided to do a little role reversal celebration of our own.

Ice cream for dinner.

Ice cream = dairy. Bananas = fruit. Peanuts = protein. Chocolate chip cookies = primary food group. I see no problems with this.

Revel on, my Brazilians. Revel on.

All things excrement - Reader Beware

2009-02-23T08:01:00.001-03:00

Things were getting entirely too serious in my corner of the blogosphere, so today will be much more lighthearted. What to write about, I ask myself. Something universally amusing, no doubt. Can there possibly be such a subject?

And then - eureka! Bodily functions. I bet you smiled just reading those two little words.

I'm not quite sure when my children learned that flatulence is funny, but they giggle at anything that sounds remotely similar. Raspberries. Mufflers. Flip-flops in the rain. (Incidentally, in my house they are not "farts," but "pooters." Mostly because I can't say the word fart without snorting like a twelve-year-old boy.)

I believe that potty humor is genetically inherent to the human race. It's just funny. And kids don't need to be taught that universal truth.

I recall several children in my acquaintence attempting to explain this crazy phenomenon that is - ahem - pootering:

"I burped my butt!"
"My bum just did a 'excuse me.'"
"Oooo! Thunder!"

One time at the temple a man with obvious intestinal discomfort was lettin' loose the whole time during the prayer. I was eternally grateful that I was not part of the circle, because if I had had to open my mouth, I most certainly would have lost it right then and there.

I have a loved one (don't worry, I won't mention that it was YOU, dear) who once pooped his pants in grade school. He didn't have the guts to tell the teacher, so he ducked behind the school building, stripped off his undies, and went around commando for the rest of the day.

A diehard marathon friend of mine was prairie-doggin at mile thirteen. She looked around both directions, took a side road, laid her pile in the middle of the road, wiped with some leaves and kept runnin'.

But my absolute best Bodily Functions story will embarrass only myself. The only people who know my shame are my mother, brother, and husband. And certain cat owners in Michigan.

The time - twelve years ago, when I was a fifteen year old nerd who never went anywhere without a book. The setting - a BOY/GIRL party taking place at a Certain Young Man's house who I very much liked. I felt the very height of cool for being invited. I'm pretty sure it took me an hour to get ready.

But in the midst of sitting around staring at each other and eating (because that's what you do at boy/girl parties that age), I had to poop. I don't really like relieving myself away from home, (anyone using the bathroom after you would KNOW WHAT YOU WERE DOING) but the urgency was such that it could not wait. I enclosed myself into a generic little guest bathroom and thus gave birth to the biggest log imaginable. Flushing again and again and again proved useless.

Just when my panic was reaching Everest heights, I could hear a knock on the door and the Certain Young Man's voice asking if I was almost done.

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Well, of course I could not open the door and politely ask for a plunger. The shame. The absolute mortification of it - I would never live it down. Instead I gave some lame "be out in a minute" answer and frantically started opening drawers and cupboards looking for something to rescue me in my moment of peril.

All I found was a drawer full of plastic utensils and a kitty litter box in the corner. Which gave me an idea.

Thus I, Becky, That Girl in Brazil, fished out my doo-doo using plastic forks and buried it in the litter box. I also opened the window and washed my hands about 892174927424 times before leaving the restroom. I never went back to the house, never spoke to the Certain Young Man again, and now I MAKE SURE TO POOP before leaving the house.

And I have no doubt that they took the kitty into the vet that week.

Mommy Monday

2009-02-23T08:00:00.001-03:00

This is a great activity to do with pre-schoolers. Simply get a large piece of paper (butcher paper works best), tape to the ground, and trace your child. Then let him color it in! This kept Little Prince occupied the whole time Ouro Branco was napping - in and of itself a blessing.

We hung the finished product on his bedroom door, and he now shows every house guest his masterpiece.

Teetering, tottering - the act of balancing. That doesn't rhyme but it's close. Okay, not really.

2009-02-21T19:02:00.010-03:00

I am a stay at home mom.

I devote every waking hour (and very often my sleeping hours) to my children - raising them, worrying about them, trying to mold them into somewhat normal people. House responsibilities are chiefly mine - I usually don't take out the garbage on purpose mostly so I feel like My Man is doing something. He does his share of dishes and putting away laundry (the bane of my existence), but it's usually just ME.

And sometimes I struggle.

Because I know that I CAN'T do it alone, nor SHOULD I. Nurturing our children is my primary responsibility - but it is not my sole purpose in life. Nor is working, his. I am just as much a parent as My Man is; we share the job of raising our three boys. And while household chores are usually mine, that is just because I'm the one who is home all day - not because I am a woman.

But I can't do it all. I CAN'T.

So here's the thing. Every time I ask for more help with the kids or around the house, I feel guilty. My Man has no time to call his own. He works 24/7. He's bishop of a very very (very very very very very) needy ward. The guy doesn't have two minutes put together. Whenever he's fulfilling one obligation, he's ignoring three others. Because he just can't be everywhere at once.

He does an excellent job of making me feel like I'm his #1 priority (and I am), and we work very hard to make sure we still get alone time at least once a week. We communicate. We talk. We share our deepest darkest feelings. Our relationship is just ... too pure and perfect to talk about here.

But it's never, ever enough.

Does this mean I'm needy? Does this mean I'm weak? Because every time he kills himself to spend more time with me, I'm reminded of all the other responsibilities he's ignoring. All the people who need or want him. And oh, I hear about it too. Members whining that they needed him to give a blessing, pay a bill, counsel until all hours of the night, etc., etc. And instead he was home watching a movie with me. I'm a sinner. A selfish, selfish sinner.

I can't help thinking of all the wives whose husbands travel for work. Or are in the army. Or divorced mothers or widows. They have it a thousand times worse off - I should just be happy, right? Just shut up and be happy ....

So why can't I shut up?

Where do you draw the line? How do you balance? When do you say "enough is enough" as opposed to "I can be stronger"?

Sometimes I feel like maybe I'm not SUPPOSED to do it by myself, but I SHOULD be able to. Because whenever I break down and ask for help, I just feel like a weakling. Especially since I know My Man is already giving me everything he has.

.... what do you do?

Do I have a target on my forehead?

2009-02-20T06:47:00.005-03:00

I told myself that I would do a Happy Post today, in recompense for whining yesterday. But I am far from happy today. I am ... well, mad doesn't quite cover it. Irate. Livid. And also sad, disappointed, humiliated and hurt.

We've been robbed. AGAIN.

Lest you think Brazil is all parties and beaches, I'm about to reveal the ugly side of living in South America's most beautiful country.

Safety is a real issue here. Your standard Brazilian house has a wall around it - picture your entire yard encircled by an eight foot brick wall topped with either spikes, barbed wire, or shards of glass. This is just your average house. I know quite a few families refuse to leave their house empty. (We get that excuse a lot when people don't come to church - "Jose was working, Maria went to visit friends, and I didn't want to leave the house by itself.")

Now, we live in a gated community, so our house has an open yard with no barbed wire. (Although the condominium does - and also guards with big guns.) But apparently that doesn't mean we're safe.

We found out yesterday that our gardener has been robbing us. He has been walking into our house and taking blank checks. We only found out because he was an idiot and signed the back of one of them. There are six in all - for a grand total of five thousand reais. (About half that in dollars.)

I am mad.

We have known this man for over two years. I have laughed with him. Joked with him. He brings little presents for the boys and they love him. He has relatives that go to our ward - although he is not a member himself. I have met his family and been to his house. He's a good guy.

And he's been robbing us.

I am humiliated.

Does he think we're stupid? That we wouldn't notice? Or that we wouldn't care? Does he think he can just get away with it, because we're church-going Christians who preach mercy? (And also justice?) Does he think we're undeservingly rich, and need to be pruned a little? Did he think we're just 'bomzinhos' and wouldn't mind?

I am hurt.

And I feel ... dirty somehow. Unsafe in my own little house. He's been IN here - when I haven't. He's been looking through our cupboards and drawers and opening things that belong to me. Our checkbook wasn't in the most obvious place - he had to hunt for it.

I am disappointed.

I keep thinking of his kids. Because yes, I believe in mercy - but I also believe in consequences. I will tell the condominium security and he will lose his job. I want my money back. He will have to sell his possessions to do so. And I remember his young children - his wife. Because every thief has a family. Every thief has people who love him - and depend upon him. Their faces tortured me in my dreams last night. He must have been desperate to go to such lengths.

And I'm sick, sick, sick of feeling like HE is the victim.

Because like I said, this is not the first time. We had checks stolen last year as well - we can only assume that it was him again.

But it doesn't stop there:

My Man had R$200 stolen from his BISHOP'S OFFICE at church once - on a mutual night.

A gas station once cloned our debit card and drained thousands of dollars before we discovered it.

Some jerk cloned our phone number and ran up a cell phone bill of hundreds of reals - it took months to sort it out.

My Man has had cash stolen from work, too.

Not to mention the four times our ward building has been robbed while no one was in it. And the countless times My Man's company has been robbed - some outside jobs, some inside.

I want to ask the world - WHY US? I know Brazilians my parent's age who have never been robbed. And yet we've had more than our share. WHY? Is it because we're American, because they think we're easy victims? Because they think they can get away with it because we're foreigners? Well, they won't.

I am MAD.

Small talk, smack talk

2009-02-19T11:50:00.004-03:00

I've never been a very good small talker. I'm usually task-oriented, focused on whatever I'm doing at the time, and can't work up the proper amount of enthusiasm to shoot the breeze with a perfect stranger at the grocery store or post office.

At parties, I usually just stick by My Man. I prefer intimate get-togethers, without the hassle of guests I don't know and the inevitable, "so, crazy weather we're having, eh?" Weddings are an absolute nightmare.

But Brazilians are Kings of the Small Talk realm, and I've gotten quite good at it. I can now talk anything from religion to politics for at least five minutes without offending anyone. Quite a talent, if I do say so myself.

Yet despite my newly found gift, my loathing of all things chit chat as only grown. Because it's the SAME FREAKING CONVERSATION EVERY TIME:

Oh, wow, you're AMERICAN?
Do you speak English?
Was it hard to learn Portuguese?
English is harder to learn, huh?
Do your kids speak?
You like Brazil better than the State, huh?
Are you glad Bush is gone?

If you've been around a while, you know that I've ~~complained~~ written about this before. But I can't help it. I cannot go out in public without answering the same questions.

Yes, yes, yes, no, yes, can't-answer-that-question, surewhatever.

It's gotten to the point that I avoid going to public places. As soon as the question of my nationality comes up, all feelings of good will toward my fellow man dry up instantaneously. I become a clam, determined to get the heck out of there as soon as possible. Or I convienently forget Portuguese.

So I was particularly impressed with my little brother this past week. (He left yesterday.) He grinned and nodded with the best of them, introducing himself and being introduced to people who hadn't a clue what he was saying. He even agreed to host a Priest/Laurel party at our house last Friday night (girls and boys ages 16 and 17 from our church.) Despite being unable to communicate, he was the life of the party - teaching us THE most hilarious games and even doing an unforgettable Michael Jackson impression. He will go down in history as The Coolest American Ever.

And it occurs to me that small talk and first impressions are almost entirely non-verbal. It is all in how the person holds his mouth, his hands ... body language, people.

And that's not a language I'm very fluent in, I guess.

Guess where I was yesterday (and the day before)

2009-02-18T09:59:00.005-03:00

HERE:

This makes me happy.

Do you love how you can totally tell I tried to alter my bathing suit to make it more modest? ME. TOO.

So we played with the beach ball....

Took some naps ....

Drank some coconut water (nature's sports drink ....)

Got all cute ....

Made some muscle men ....

Caught some waves ....

Made some castles ...

Planted some boys ....

Kissed a lot ....

Brazilianed it up ....

And came home.

Why is it that two days of vacation equals a week of clean-up?

Brazilian Birthday Bashes - they're Beautiful and Brilliant and ... okay, I'll stop now

2009-02-16T09:00:00.001-03:00

Birthday parties here are events. They're not just for kids - the whole family is implicitly invited when a child gets an invitation. (One time I tried to invite JUST the kids - it didn't work.)

There are always themes - usually a cartoon character or something (Cars, Cinderella, and Spiderman seem very popular.) Everything is coordinated - from the invites to the party hats to the cake to the decorations. There are lots of balloons and usually rented wall hangings made out of styrofoam with the character glued on top.

The party lasts for hours - often into the night. Everyone hangs out, talking and laughing and eating lots of fried "salgadinhos." And, of course, dancing. It's a BRAZILIAN party, remember? These people can dance.

They hardly ever have any games or organized activities - it's just free-for-all fun. The cake is only cut at the very end. (And don't try to leave early. You'll only hear, "No no! We're about to cut the cake! Stay, stay ...." Three hours later, you're still there.)

Lots of sugar, lots of people, lots of dancing - can you get much better?

Love and Marriage, Love and Marriage .....

2009-02-14T19:03:00.007-02:00

So today's Valentine's Day - in case you didn't know. I'm sure the stores have been blaring it at you since New Year's. See, I almost forgot; it's not a holiday in Brazil. Our "Dating Day" isn't until June. (And, quite frankly, I usually don't remember that one, either. I'm rather lame like that.)

But the thing is that I've had marriage on the brain lately.

Most of you didn't know that I was (fairly recently) released from my church callings as Young Women's president and stake Girls Camp director. I've been in Young Women since ... Young Women. I've been known as the Girls' Girl forever. So when I was released, I sort of lost my identity. I had to redefine who I was at church.

But my crisis didn't last long - almost as soon as we got back from Christmas vacation, I was called into The Bishop's Office and asked to sit in The Chair.

That's when you know your life's about to change.

I've been extended two callings - as our ward's Marriage and Family Relations teacher and as a CES Marriage Preparation teacher for two stakes. I have twenty and one hundred students, respectively. Now I'm known everywhere as The Marriage Lady.

And let me just say, I LOVE my callings.

It is a little known fact that I got my Bachelor's in Family Science. The goal was to get my CFLE license (Certified Family Life Education) and Masters degree, and go on to teach marriage prep and parenting through state extension programs. Things were all set to get both at Ohio State (much to the chagrin of my thoroughly Michigander family) when the opportunity came to go to Brazil. And that, as they say, is history.

I love the family. I originally set about to go into Family Therapy, but I was horrified to see all the sadness and tragedy that had already occured. I wanted to prevent it. I wanted to stop the problems from ever happening, avoiding all the pain that comes from, well, not being prepared.

You need a license to fish or dig a hole in your backyard, but ANYONE can get married or pregnant. And starry-eyed couples spend exponentially more time preparing for the WEDDING than they do for the MARRIAGE. I ache to teach people HOW to be married - happily.

But I never got to fulfill my dream of teaching others. Instead, for the past seven years, I've been teaching myself.

And this is what I know:

There is no prince. There is no princess. There's just two human beings, trying to be happy.
If you hear a couple claim that they never disagree, it means that they're either lying or one is completely dominating the other.
There is rarely a "right" or "wrong" way of doing anything. Just different. This is a tough one for people to get - especially with money. The husband wants to spend money on the car and the wife wants to buy the kids' clothes. Who is right? NO ONE. They are just different areas to spend on. The only wrong way is to disagree.
Everything is fixable. Everything. Some problems are astronomically harder to fix, but that's what the Atonement is all about. Fixing the unfixable.
Never try to change the other. Change yourself first and foremost.
Never pray to marry the one you love. Pray to love the one you marry. If He can part the Red Sea, He can change your heart.
Look for the good. You always, always find what you're looking for - especially faults.
Communication is crucial. But before you can communicate your wants and needs, you need to know yourself. You need to know HOW you want to be loved - and how the other wants to be loved.
Sex is important. Yes, I just said that.
No one is a mind reader. I know women want the men to "just know" what they want. Guess what. THEY DON'T HAVE A CLUE UNLESS WE TELL THEM, SO HELP THEM OUT ALREADY.
You have to be unified in everything. Remember the egg. When hot water comes (and it WILL come), if you don't break the shell open, the egg will harden - and separate. Never more will the white and yolk become one. But if you break the egg open and unify - voila! The hot water (the trials and difficulties that EVERYONE passes) will solidify your relationship - and never again can you be separated.
Be friends. Have common interests and do things together. You must must MUST date - alone, without the kids. You need time to talk, too. My Man and I have a Sunday Session every Sunday at 9:00. That time is sacred. We have a notebook with our agendas in it - after a prayer, we discuss, in order: 1) spiritual experiences that week, 2) us - our relationship, 3) the kids, individually, 4) finances/budget, 5) any calendar items that week, including Family Home Evening, and 6) callings/work/house stuff. It is often my favorite time of the week.
A covenant marriage includes three people - man, wife, and the Lord. Even when one spouse falters - or even both - the Lord is still capable and willing to carry the load. Basing marriage on the foundation of the Savior's love is the surest way to find joy.
Only in celestial marriage can we really experience the true pinnacle of happiness. I know it. I've felt it. I have it.

I hope you each have a Valentine that you love as desperately as I do mine.

Attention, all future-sister-in-law wannabes

2009-02-12T18:49:00.004-02:00

Dear Brazilian Young Women program,

Hi there! As you are well aware, my 17-year-old brother is in town. He got here this morning - but, silly me, you knew this. You've been marking down the days on your calendars.

Let me emphasize something: HE DOESN'T SPEAK PORTUGUESE. And your limited skills in English won't get you far. In fact, even if you could speak fluently, he will surely run away if you approach him breathlessly with, "You are bewtiful verrry much! Kiz me! I love you!" It's just not a tactic American boys are familiar with.

Cheers!

That Girl

Ding ding ding ding ding!

2009-02-12T18:44:00.004-02:00

Oh, Kristina, Queen of the Comment, Lord(ress) of the Bloggerworld, you guessed right. I'm

Although I never say it. I just say "I'll be 28 on my next birthday." It sounds older.

Um, thank you very much. Or not.

2009-02-11T21:14:00.006-02:00

Brazilians have no tact. (They would say they're just honest.) They refer to people by their dominating physical characteristic - The Blonde One, The Fat One, The Balding One, The Really Ugly One You Know Who I Mean.

There is no beating around the bush. No politically correct garbage here, thankyouverymuch! You will not find "pleasingly plump," or "slightly chubby," or even "nicely filled out." If you're fat, you're fat. And they tell you. They might even refuse to serve you second helpings at lunch, telling you that a diet is in order. It's been done.

I've kinda gotten used to people calling me gordinha - or 'little fat one' (I still prefer squishy.) It doesn't help that Brazilians are naturally short and thin. I'm simply gartantuan in comparison. I generally go to the plus size department when looking for clothes, and I've given up looking for shoes. (I'm a size 6 and 8 1/2, respectably.)

So I'm actually not posting about the whole fat thing. I'm over it. It's the AGE thing that's really irking me today.

Everyone thinks I'm sixteen.

Of course, I'm constantly walking around with three young'uns ages four and under. So the comments I get are somewhat humorous:

"Oh, honey, don't waste your childhood. You've got your whole life ahead of you."

"Your oldest is four? Have you been menstruating that long?"

"Your husband should be charged with statuatory rape."

Okay, not that last one, but BASICALLY.

I should add that these are always perfect strangers telling me that I'm too young to have three kids. Oh, REALLY! Dang it.

But let's just say, hypothetically, that I really AM sixteen years old. I would feel extremely sorry for myself, being constantly harrassed about being a teenage mom. I mean, give Hypothetical Me a break already. Move on with life. There are plenty of other things to talk about.

Of course, the whole Age Thang has always been a sore point with me. I get it in the States too. One time I was at work when a customer came in, took one look at me, and promptly scolded me for not being in (high) school. I calmly (I think) informed her that I was a college graduate. Another time I got a free prize on an airplane for being "fourteen and under." I was twenty-one at the time. I've also been confused for my younger brother's girlfriend - eight years my junior.

So how 'bout it, bloggers? How old do you think I am?

Is it possible I really do look my age and everyone is just trying to pay me what they think is a compliment? I dunno. I, for one, would LOVE to look ten years older. I love my birthday - I love watching my age creep respectably higher. I cannot wait to look like I should be ABLE to have three young children. (Although I guess they won't be YOUNG by then ....)

And why is it that my birth control plans are open to public criticism, anyway? People constantly telling me that not only am I too young to have children, but that they're too close together and I'm crazy for having three boys. (Cuz I TOTALLY planned that. Duh.)

I love the comments on the age spread, too (4 1/2, 2 1/2 and 1/2, bytheway):

"Wow! You're one brave lady!"

"What, are you suicidal?"

"Don't you know the earth's natural resources are running out?"

"Are you a sucker for pain or something?"

and my personal favorite:

"You guys need a TV or something."

Because yes. My husband and I have only made love three times in our entire marriage.

Anything else ya wanna know, O ~~Rude~~ Honest One?

< >

2009-02-10T19:52:00.005-02:00

The kids are in bed. The house is clean. My Man is gone to interview forty youth and I have the house to myself.

Perfect opportunity to blog, I tell myself. And yet -

is all I got.

Today was one of Those Days - completely deserving of capitilization, bold, italics, and LARGEST font. I tried everything - we went down to the indoor soccer arena and rode bikes. We played in the pool. I made a real lunch instead of serving leftovers. I put on Sesame Street. We even called Grandma. And it was still -

WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

times three all day.

All. Freaking. Day.

My Mommy Superpower Tank is empty. My mind is blank. I feel like a gump. My face probably resembles a Willow Tree figurine:

Except without the wings and graceful dress.

I'm off to fill the tank. Pride and Prejudice, anyone?

Consistency

2009-02-09T15:24:00.005-02:00

I am the world's most committed on-and-off exerciser.

I don't think I've ever exercised every day for more than two months in a row; I've also never gone more than two months in a row WITHOUT exercising.

Is that a check box on the doctor's questionaire?

Mr. Squishy is now eight months old. This came as quite a shock to me. That means he's almost NINE months old. NINE, people. It took me nine months for my body to blow up like a balloon, and I gave myself nine months to deflate. But I'm decidedly more squishy than he is.

Actually, I have lost all my baby weight. But my BODY ain't back. My legs are okay - I actually have the much-coveted space between my thighs. I like it. But my thunder thighs seem to have migrated upwards to my previously hourglass shape. I am now rectangular. My waist has DISAPPEARED. Is it possible to defy gravity? Cuz I just have. I used to be quite bottom heavy, but I've turned apple. I'm very conscious of my Santa belly, and my arms are very biceptuous as well. But not in a good way.

I'm a runner in general. Running is free and the most time-effective. No equipment. No driving anywhere. I do like the occasional Pilates, but I get sick of the same videos very easily.

The alarm goes off at 6AM and I debate with myself for a good twenty minutes whether or not I'm going to hit the pavement. (Or the cobblestone, to be exact.) I have to convince myself that it would be better for my body to exercise as opposed to sleeping another hour. Sometimes the pillow puts up an excellent argument.

But let's assume for today's illustration that my running shoes won. I slip on the contacts (running in glasses is ZERO FUN) and my bee-u-tiful running pants that are two inches above my ankle. My favorite sports bra is bright blue and was a present from a friend at Girls Camp with "Who dat? Becky J!" written in puffy paint. I pray that it doesn't rain.

The first third of my run is spent wishing the pillow won the fight. Every muscle in my body is protesting, and I'm breathing embarrasingly loud for the pace that I'm going. Who do you think you're kidding? You can't RUN. You run like a duck.

My hands are permanently forming the "thumbs up" position and my right arm punches the air in time to my feet, which splay out. I'm extremely bouncy. I run like Seinfeld's Elaine.

But the second third of the run is awesome. I'm warmed up. I realize that, not only CAN I run, I run AWESOME. I might even enter a 5K. Or a marathon. Or something. Visions of Skinny Me keep me going - graciously giving advice to wannabes and perhaps accepting the award for Hottest Mom on the Block. Maybe a TV appearance.

The last third of the way, I'm trying to figure out a shortcut home.

The trouble with exercising in the morning, though, is that you feel at liberty to eat what you want throughout the day. Sure, I'll have another cookie. I mean, I DID go running today.

Now, THAT'S worth all the trouble.

Mommy Monday

2009-02-09T15:07:00.007-02:00

(Psssst. If I'm gone for long periods of time, just assume I'm hating these guys:)

Internet - ya can't live without it. At least, you can LIVE; it's just no fun.

So back to Mommy Monday! Today is a very simple trick, essential for rainy days when the park is not an option. Mattresses. Simply pile up mattresses all over the room and HAVE FUN. Added bonus: they're always ready for nap time when you put them away.

"I want to jump on the mattresses, too, Mom!"

"Sorry, kid, you're not old enough. Can I bite your neck instead?"

I'm all about the genocide

2009-02-02T12:00:00.002-02:00

And I'm extremely cruel about it. I stick around to watch my victims suffer.

Summertime in Brazil means lots of samba music, sunburns, sittin' poolside, soccer, monsoons, Brazilian barbecue (a.k.a. churrasco) and sweatin' your brains out at about 4:00. But it also means these:

Invasions. Invasions of the worst kind - a breed of animal intent on hurting anything that stands still for more than 15 seconds. You never, ever walk barefoot on the grass in Brazil. And apparently these little buggers have hitched a ride from my beloved country to my other beloved country; they are taking over Texas as we speak. Sorry 'bout that.

This morning I woke up early and ruthlessly sprinkled poisonous dust on more than 20 mounds in our lawn. This afternoon I will pour boiling water on them - just to make sure. Because my compassion for all things animal only extends so far. I have zero pity for tiny creatures that sting and blister my feet into oblivion.

Some people try to convince us that fire ants are the good guys:

Fire ants voraciously consume populations of fleas, ticks, termites, cockroaches, chinch bugs, mosquito eggs and larva, scorpions.
Fire ants are extremely effective in controlling plant-feeding insects and arthropods such as boll weevils in cotton and stinkbugs in soybean. Under some conditions fire ants keep the pest populations below the level of economic loss providing a financial savings to growers.
Fire ants can benefit such crops as cotton, sugarcane, and soybean because they aerate and break up the soil making more water and nutrients available to the plants.
Auburn University/Alabama Agricultural Experimental Station and Texas A&M/Texas Agricultural Experimental Station studies have demonstrated that fire ants can kill other costly agricultural pests which do more economical harm than they do. These insects include the corn worms, cotton flea hopper, army caterpillars, and sugarcane borers.
After a colony vacates a mound in your garden, you are left with beautifully aerated and tilled soil.
Humans are not at the top of the fire ant food pyramid—as long as we keep moving.

Whatever. Die, die, die.

Mommy Monday

2009-02-02T12:00:00.001-02:00

I threw in this picture just cuz I wanted to.

OMIGOSH THOSE CHEEKS!!!

Anyway - so Mommy Tip Monday - PUPPETS!

Those are all handmade sock puppets - a zebra, an alligator, and a snake. (Only the alligator has eyeballs left. The other two are blind.)

They are obviously very easy to make. Just use all those lonely socks that have lost their mates to the Dryer Monster. Draw or glue on details - yarn for hair, googly eyes, etc. - and presto! Instant fun.

I got a puppet theater for Christmas last year (thanks Stephanie! We seriously use it all the time), but you can make your own using a pillowcase and string - which is what we did before we got all FANCY. Just tape the string across a doorway and drape two pillowcases over it. Ta-da! Curtains.

Ouro Branco likes playing peek-a-boo with our chic-y theater.

The curtain rod broke a while ago and we returned to our roots with a piece of yarn. Such is life.

Little Prince demonstrates how a pig attacks a princess.

In addition to the puppet theater, we also got a ton of REAL puppets and a whole slew of accessories.

Nothing gets a kid's imagination going quite like puppets. They're also great for church. Now get creative!

An Announcement

2009-01-30T08:30:00.003-02:00

In Biblical times, disciples of Christ gave themselves over to "much fasting and prayer." In our time, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints (which we believe is Christ's original church restored) preaches the same thing.

The first Sunday of every month is fast Sunday. We refrain from eating and drinking for 24 hours - praying and studying the whole time. ("Fasting without prayer is just a diet.") We fast with purpose - some for more faith, some for an answer to a prayer, some for strength and some for miracles. It is a personal and sacred experience. Money that would have been used for those meals is donated to the church's fund for the needy.

I have not been able to do a "real fast" in a long time. For obvious reasons, pregnant and nursing mothers cannot go 24 hours without eating. And I've been pregnant or nursing for ... well, five years. (HOLY. CRAP.)

Instead, I choose to refrain from other things - usually sugar or books. (Those are both really, really hard for me.) I generally go longer than 24 hours to really feel the sacrifice.

This time I will be fasting from blogging - starting right now til Monday. It will be hard, since I'm rawther addicted. Ahem.

But I need the Lord's help to make a very important decision for our family's future. I need the extra strength, and every time I get the urge to click the enticing "blogger.com," I will kneel down and plead for direction. (I'll probably get that urge often. It'll be a good reminder.)

Any prayers would be appreciated.

See ya Monday -

This would never happen in Detroit

2009-01-29T08:54:00.005-02:00

I grew up in the suburbs of the Motor City - very suburbish suburbs. Kids riding up and down the sidewalks, every blade of grass beautifully groomed and trees growing only where we wanted them to. There was the occasional glade that we referred to as "woods" or even "forest;" to my young eyes any grouping of trees was home to wild animals.

In truth, my contact with animals was limited to the standard dog, cat, and birds aplenty. Very rarely we saw a deer wandering around (okay, like three times in eighteen years) and it was enough that I remember each incident with clarity.

Then I move here. First of all, the winged species here aren't limited to your household robin. Macaws and parrots frequently fly past my window. (And they're freakin' loud.) One time I saw a monkey hanging from a tree just a couple blocks from my house. And don't get me started about the insects.

So I shouldn't have been too surprised when Little Prince came running in the other day, yelling about a "big dead rat" in the backyard.

Turns out it wasn't a rat. Or dead. Yet.

It was a dying possum - a little longer than my forearm, gray with white streaks. Quite cute, actually. She had obviously been attacked by a dog of some sort, and her breathing was shallow and raspy.

I guess I can say I can now see thestrals, since she passed away before we could do anything for her.

But what really caught our attention was the tiny little legs struggling underneath her. We figured the poor thing had just given birth, and the baby was still nursing when his mommy died.
We tried to pull the little thing out from under her (wearing gloves, I might add), but he just wouldn't let go. So we very carefully flipped the momma over.

And he wasn't nursing. He was BEING BORN.

After recovering from the initial shock, we commenced emergency surgery. We eased the baby possum out of her onto the grass - and another followed right behind. And another. And another. And another.

That would be SIX baby possums.

I knew full well that their chances of survival were slim to nil. A part of me realized that perhaps it would be kinder to just drown them, rather than let them die slowly of starvation. But my very being shunned away from the idea of murdering these tiny infants, deprived of their mother before they even got started on life. I'm a mom too. I'm sure she died thinking of her kids, possum though she was.

And even though humans might let a little baby die - deprived of their mother simply because she didn't want it - I couldn't do it. Because those little infants have feelings. They're still real possums - every bit as possum-ish as their mother. They can feel pain and loneliness, hunger and love. Just like a newborn baby.

So I had six little foster babies in the house until we found a loving home for them. (Or, at least, a forest animal hospital.)

Shouldn't we extend the same courtesy to our fellow human beings?

Ghetto Cheerios

2009-01-28T12:47:00.003-02:00

Wow, who knew so many of you were interested in how to make third-world Cheerios? I should add a disclaimer that they don't taste all that much like the real deal. They're made with oatmeal, good for the pincer grasp, and disintegrate well in little mouths. That's about where the similarities end.

And I have to add that I must really like you guys - because Mr. Squishy isn't quite old enough for these yet, and I normally don't go to so much work for my children who have teeth.

So let's get started, Mom!

First you grind 1 cup of oats superfine - my grinder is sitting in my mother-in-law's basement right now, so we use the blender.

Shaking the blender around to get all the oats is half the fun.

Mix it with:

another cup of oats
1/4 tsp. salt
1 tsp. baking powder
1 tsp. vanilla (optional)
3 Tbsp. oil of your choice (I use soy)
1/2 mashed banana or 1/4 cup applesauce for consistency (we don't have applesauce here, either - just thought I'd throw that in as decoration for my pity party)

It should look like moist pie crust.

Now SLOWLY add milk (I use formula - you can use breast milk if you want, but don't use regular milk unless the baby is over one year old.) Add it a few tablespoons at a time until the dough comes together.

Now you're ready to roll! A lot. This is like 1/3 of the batch:

My rolling helpers soon got bored and pursued other interests. I don't blame them.

You can also make 'sticks' using the same dough.

Bake balls at 350 degrees for 5-8 minutes, sticks for 20-30.

Wow! They look like little meatballs. Mmmmmm.

My favorite cracker recipe has wheat in it, so I haven't tried it on Mr. Squishy yet. But it is as follows:

3 cups oatmeal

2 cups whole wheat flour

1 cup wheat germ

3 Tbsp. sugar

3/4 cup oil or melted butter

1 cup water

Mix, roll thin, cut into squares or rectangles, and back at 350 for 15-20 minutes.

And a few curious minds were inquiring about freezing baby food. Quite simple - just puree the food (or leave chunks in it for older babies) and put in an ice cube tray.

Then just put in a freezer bag and you're set! Simply take out a few cubes at a time, defrost, and it's DINNER TIME!

But in case you wanted to know, I am SO buying a huge economy bag of Cheerios when we move back.

The accidental crunch

2009-01-27T14:42:00.002-02:00

So I've been lurking around Mormon Mommy Bloggers (you can find them by clicking on the button to the right. I'm too lazy to just link to it. Even though it would be much faster than just typing this all out. Anywho.) and I found the list titled "crunchy moms."

"What the heck is a crunchy mom?" I asked myself. "Do they crackle when you hug them?"

I Wikipedia-ed it and got everything from "Cruncy Nut Cornflakes" to "Chocolate Crunchies" to "Captain Underpants and the Crunchy Book of Fun." (I had to click on that one - I think I'd actually buy it.)

But after thorough investigation of the self-proclaimed crunchy mommies, (I'm nothing if not a scientist) I get it now.

It means all-natural, down to earth, back to basics kind of mommies.

And it got me thinking. (Obviously, since that's why I'm blogging about it. It's not like I blog about ABSOLUTE NONSENSE, or anything.)

By their definition, I am the crunchiest of crunchies:

I wash plastic ziploc bags
I gave birth naturally three times - on purpose
I make my own baby food (and freeze it in ice cube trays - that's the only thing I use ziplocs for)
I make my own crackers and cheerios
I make brownies from scratch
I am my children's doctor most of the time
I made our own Family Home Evening chart
etc., etc.

But here's the thing: I DIDN'T DECIDE TO BE CRUNCHY.

The fact is, Brazil is a 'back to basics' kind of country. I wash our ziploc bags because I have to bring them from the States and I can only bring so many. I make my own baby food because I have to. I make my own crackers because they don't have healthy snacks for kids here. Every single one of our meals is made from scratch from beginning to end - because I don't have a choice. I made our own FHE chart because we're thousands of miles away from the nearest Deseret Book. I often take a very homeopathic approach to illness because the nearest (good) doctor is freakin' far away.

Etc., etc.

We arrived in this beloved country o' mine when Little Prince was a mere four months old. I have only ever raised my kids in a foreign country. I don't know any different. I've never had the luxury of convenience foods or products. I bring what I can from the States, but baggage and weight limits are very real problems.

So I wonder what I will do when I move back to the States. Will I stock up on Gerber baby food? Graham crackers? Brownie mixes? Probably.

But I think only to an extent. In some ways, I am forever changed.

I will probably always reach for Tupperware before I reach for a plastic bag.
I will only clean with rags - never paper towels.
I will make everything from scratch because it's cheaper, tastes better, and I feel good doing it.

And most of all, I will never take ANYTHING for granted.

I can't write the numbers to this tag because my best friend in second grade told me it was the devil's favorite number.

2009-01-27T11:13:00.002-02:00

I've been tagged by Charrette to show the world the 6th picture in my 6th folder - but since I'm a compulsive organizer, it turned out to be the 6th picture in the 6th folder of the 6th folder of the 6th folder. Ahem.

So during one of my extremely ambitious moments (they are few and far between), I decided to start a Brazilian Scrapbook. There are so many things I want to remember - not just the people, but the culture. The art. The food. The landscape. The architecture. The streets. My Man and I made a list of all the things that make Brazil Brazil and got to work. This way, when our children inevitably ask us about that crazy country on their birth certificate, we can just hand them the book.

I've only done about 10 pages (out of over 70 - so far!), but this picture was taken for the nature spread.

Brazil's predominate color is GREEN. It's everywhere - year round. And they have the most beautiful, funkiest plants imaginable - as you can see.

Alright, ladies, I showed you mine, you show me yours. I tag:

Wonder Woman - Because she inspires me and makes me giggle - often at the same time.

Stephanie - Because I adore her to life (because adoring someone to death is rather frightening), and the 6th picture in her 6th folder is most likely my nephew and I want to see his little face.

Katrina - Because she's an amazing photographer and I wanna see what she's got.

Mommy Monday

2009-01-26T15:00:00.000-02:00

Declare washing-the-sheets-day an informal holiday by making THIS:

Their same-ole same-ole toys become exponentially more interesting when played with in a fort.

You probably won't be allowed in!

But you WILL be The Coolest Mommy on the Block.

You know those moments when ...

2009-01-26T08:20:00.004-02:00

... your husband is gone to a stake priesthood meeting

... and you've had a long day and are thinking about just making pancakes (again)

... but then you think that your man has had a long day too and doesn't really like pancakes

... so you set about making a real dinner with pork chops and all the fixins cause you love him

... and figure you might as well start the lasagna for tomorrow's missionary dinner (and also because you're insane)

... and while you're in the middle of it all you realize the baby is attempting to eat a banana through skin absorption - most particulary his head

... so you abandon dinner and give the baby a bath

... only to hear your four-year-old blast Moulin Rouge at full volume

... so you dress the baby and plop him in the ExerSaucer

... try to convince said four-year-old to play something like Sesame Street songs (he's not convinced)

... and you go back to the kitchen and the two-year-old is alternately licking the tomato sauce and eating pieces of raw pork

... and when you stop freaking out about that the four-year-old pops a balloon directly over the baby's head

... and the baby screams. A lot.

... and you're cooing and coddling the baby and finally just nurse him, because he's completely hysterical

... and when you finally get him calmed down, you leave the bedroom to discover the two oldest children running around like maniacs, fully dressed, in the pouring rain

... and you just figure THE HECK WITH IT

and join 'em.

Little Prince's miracle

2009-01-25T16:15:00.006-02:00

Today we woke to brilliant Brazilian sunshine. The kids wore (dress) shorts and sandals to church and still felt the heat. I wore my shortest possible skirt and still sweat. But three hours later, the final hymn closed with a BOOM of a South American monsoon.

Two hundred people stood in the foyer, staring open mouthed at the downpour. Of these 200, maybe 10 have cars. We own two of them.

And the rides began.

Men ran out in shirt and tie, giggling and car keys at the ready. The rest stood waiting for their turn, talking and waxing eloquent on how long the rain would last. Pretty soon the kids were antsy and I was hungry.

Now, our ward boundaries are quite extensive. There are some members who walk almost an hour to get to church on Sunday (and every meeting in between.) We're talkin' a twenty minute drive to some places - one way.

I looked around me. There were pregnant women. Families with double the amount of children I have. Lots with inadequate shoes. And they live far. FAR. While my house is a mere twenty minute walk from the chapel.

So we took off.

I packed Ouro Branco and Mr. Squishy rather sloppily in the stroller - leaving the carseat for My Man to bring home later. I took Little Prince aside and explained to him that other people needed the car much more than we did, so we would take advantage of our blessedly healthy bodies and walk home.

He took one look at the rain and said, "Mom? Let's say a prayer first."

So LP prayed.

"Dear Heavenly Father. Jesus, we need to borrow our car to other people who live very far away. We are going to walk home because we live close. Will you please stop the rain so we won't get wet? You can let it rain when we're home. Thanks. In the name of Jesus Christ, Amen."

And within minutes, the rain stopped.

STOPPED. He didn't seem surprised.

We walked all the way home in blessed sunshine - just a little window in the clouds, shining down on us.

Friends, miracles really do happen. Sometimes it just takes the faith of a child.

Technology be expletived

2009-01-23T14:42:00.005-02:00

I hate the phone.

I hate that it inevitably rings when I'm in the middle of something - changing a diaper, surviving the dinner rush, watching a movie with My Man, or stealing a little alone time with a book. The phone is interruptive by its very nature.

And the Brazilian "small talk" stuff drives me crazy. I have translated it here for your convenience:
_______________________________________________________________

*ring ring*

Me: (peeling off one child, shushing another, turning down the burner on the rice and taking a deep breath ) Hello?

Caller: Who is this? (I usually want to yell, "YOU called ME, punk, who are YOU?!" But I don't. This is Brazilian procedure.)

Me: This is Rebecca. May I ask who's calling?

Caller: HI, Rebecca! (They always sound surprised and thrilled to death that it's me. Like they don't know whose house they're calling. And the fact that I'm the only adult here during the day. AND the only woman.) How are you?

Me: Just great - how are you? (Not that I particularly care. I almost always have seen this person recently, and I know perfectly well that they're fine.)

Caller: I'm great. How's your family?

Me: Just fine. Yours?

Caller: Fine as well. And the boys?

Me: Fabulous. (Don't they fall under the 'family' category?)

Caller. Great to hear. And your family in the States? All okay? (I'm serious - they almost always ask.)

Me: Yup. (I never ask after extended family. I'm rude like that. And by this time I'm answering in monosyllables and my children are starting up a continuous "mommommommommommommommom." The rice is burning ...)

Caller: Great. Where's Your Man?

Me: At work/at church/ or home-and-there's-no-way-I'm-going-to-let-you-steal-him-away-from-me-so-forget-it.

Caller: Great! Send him a hug for me. Anyway, so why I called .....
_____________________________________________________

You may not skip the opening greeter. The preliminary niceties must be observed - even when you've just seen this person that very morning.

But perhaps my favorite question is, "Are you busy right now?" Of course I'm busy right now. What a dumb question. No, actually I've been staring at the phone all day, putting off everything on my to-do list just waiting for you to call.

I do try very hard to answer the phone - really, I do. But sometimes it just isn't feasible. And if it's an emergency, they should leave a message, right? Besides, my two favorite people to talk to - My Man and my mom - ALWAYS leave a message. (Usually giving me a few minutes to answer it: "Becky? ...... Are you there? ..... Hell-ooooooooooo?")

But Brazilians NEVER do. They just call. And call. And call.....

One time someone called me 17 times in a row. By then I refused to answer it just to spite them - because I'm an extremely mature adult. But honestly - you'd think they'd assume that I'm either not home or I OBVIOUSLY DON'T WANT TO ANSWER THE PHONE.

And then, when I see someone at church - we get over the "how are you" schpeel and then they confront me accusingly: "I called you all day yesterday. Where were you?" Like I have to apologize for not being home. (And most of the time, I'm really NOT home.) I'm sorry that I have a life. I deeply apologize that I had to go grocery shopping.

Then I pleasantly inquire why they didn't leave a message? The answer, inevitably -

"I didn't want to be rude."

Eternal truths

2009-01-21T21:16:00.008-02:00

Taking pictures of this boy amounts to an obsession.

(And can you blame me?)

My children never wear shoes.

(And my floor is always dirty.)

Real men wear aprons.

(And are freakin' cute when they do.)

Candlelight can make the blah-est meal special.

(And the boys will fight over who blows them out.)

Babies laugh at the silliest things.

(And we continue to be silly for that exact reason.)

Playing with the camera is fun.

(And I love my job.)

Final truth: This picture refuses to post horizontally.

(And it's driving me freaking crazy.)

The Misplaced Americans

*News Break!*

Wordless Wednesday

Emotion unsheathed

Mommy Monday

Happy Mother's Day - and I'm not just saying that

Adding Insult to Itch

Real Time

Take 2

From my house to yours

The truck's a comin' on Thursday

Lost in Translation

I'm feeling much better now, thank you

Mommy Monday

Title

I reserve the right to delete this post once I come to my senses

Game Face

In which I link a lot, so I'm not required to actually think

Grumpity grump grumpy

Hunting of the House: Day 3

Haiku on Arizona

Quilt - CHECK

What's in a name?

Read this to your husband and he'll never complain about blogging again

Dr. Giggle and Mr. Snide. (a.k.a. makesmeabsolutelyinsane)

In which I post a lot of pictures and don't actually say much

Mommy Monday

WANTED: Couple friends

On our front door this morning

I, Rebel

Security

Mommy Monday

More. (Yet another post about conference)

Mothering 101

So let's talk gadgets.

Mr. Squishy would like to take a few moments of your time

For those of you trying to lick my sidebar

Mommy Monday

Two (2) Things

LOOK WHAT I DID

Go time. Almost.

This is it. My BIG HUGE IDEA.

Hrumphingly hrumphy hrumphed.

Life Lessons from Jacare

Mommy Monday

Ding ding ding ding ding!!!!

Metamorphoses

Open letter to everything below my chin

Sao Paulo Haiku

And God looked upon the light and pronounced it good. And a litmus test.

Recipe for a good day

Mommy Monday

I put on waterproof mascara this morning

A neighborly visit

You guys wanna caption all my scrapbooks for me?

In case you forgot this is a Mommy Blog ...

Mr. Squishy's new look

In which I try to be like Ben

Happy birthday to me!

Thoughts on your thoughts on my thoughts on the cave. Thoughts.

From my cave to yours

Mommy Monday

Fashionably honest

Thoughts on being weak

Two mandates from me

Perspective

Two Faces Have I

Rosetta Stone of Brazilian hand gestures

Cannot. Think.

The List

Rise and Shout

I am a carnivore, hear me chew

People say the rising generation is in trouble. I say they don't know the rising generation.

I won the Principal's award in middle school

Don't call the authorities

All things excrement - *Reader Beware*

Mommy Monday

Teetering, tottering - the act of balancing. That doesn't rhyme but it's close. Okay, not really.

Do I have a target on my forehead?

Small talk, smack talk

News Break!

All things excrement - Reader Beware