*News Break!*

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

(boy legs)

Emotion unsheathed

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

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

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.

I

Love

You

Adding Insult to Itch

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

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

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

From my house to yours

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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?

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

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)

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 ....)