If you want a taste

of Heavenly Father's time frame, just think about how long it took your child to go from 16 minutes old to 16 years...

Happy Birthday, Beanie Baby!

Decisions Made Ahead of Time

I learned, again, today, that it is not a good idea to leave a 2-year old alone for very long. OK, ever. Even when it seems like he is completely engrossed in his "Thomas the Tank Engine" episode. So engrossed that you think, "OK I'll just quickly go (fill in the blank here) in the other room and come back before he knows I am gone."

Those of you who read this blog are thinking, "you STILL haven't learned that lesson? Haven't you read your blog posts on this child?"

So I'm a slow learner.

Anyway, George was ENGROSSED in his "Thomas the Tank Engine" episode...well you get the idea.

I was in the other room, and heard, "Mom!!! Mommy! Mommy! Mom!!!!! Mommy!!! Mommy! Mommy!!!"

The calls did not sound like distress, so I called back "Son! What, son? Mommy is in here! Son!...," thinking he would come and find me.

All I got back was, "Mommy!!!! Mommy! Mommy!, etc., etc."

So I decided to see what the situation was. I walked around the corner to the kitchen just in time to see a chubby little hand let fly a bunch of white flakes that landed all over the counter, joining the other white flakes that were already all over the counter, the stools, and the floor.

Oatmeal. Dry Oatmeal.

He was throwing dry oatmeal, in what looked like an attempt to make a snow globe out of the kitchen. He had taken the lid off the oatmeal canister all by himself.

And he was extremely proud.

He wasn't calling me because of a problem. He was calling me to show off his discovery!

He saw me, and the enthusiasm ramped up--he went into his gibberish that he still uses when he is excited and needs to talk really fast. Every 5th or 6th word is intelligible. "Mommy! alskd jflsakjg oiu aerh wrjlxz cmvlkjs Mommy! ekwlul vnoie alhepo gks djk Mommy!"

He was telling me all about it as he continued to throw little handfuls of "snow" hither and yon; the cutest happy and proud look on his face, as if to say, "see this amazingly fun game I have discovered, Mom?"

Have you ever had a surreal moment when time slows down and you can see what is happening, but other thoughts or ideas run through your mind at the same time, so that in a split second you are basically processing two things at once? That is what happened here.

As I watched him, all I could think about were the Mormon Public Service Ads where the kids are playing in the mud with a hose and they accidentally spray the dad, or the kids accidentally start the car rolling down the hill backward into a ditch, or the kid spills spaghetti all over the floor. And every time, the PSA cuts to the parent who is standing there, obviously upset, but also considering whether running in and beating the children is really the best option...

Of course they don't ever choose that option (let me add here that neither would I, nor have I). What kind of PSA would that be?!?

If you have seen the PSAs I'm referring to, you will know where I am going with this...

I thought, "If I am to follow the example of those PSAs, this is where I run in, grab handfuls of oatmeal and start tossing it all over the room with my son, while flakes drift down in slow motion, feel-good music plays, and a guy comes in with the voice over: "Family: isn't it about TIME?" Cut to George and me, having the time of our lives in the messiest dry-oatmeal-snow-globe-kitchen ever. But we don't care! Happier faces have never been seen!"

Then I snapped back to reality and started laughing because I LOVE those PSAs, and this situation would have made a FABULOUS one at that.

I looked at my kitchen, and realized* that this was not going to be one of those times I join the child and make a huge mess. A huge mess had already been made, and we have a party here tonight. One that does not involve skating through dry oatmeal covering the wood floor. Though maybe that is an idea for the future.

Thankfully, the options in life aren't simply: 1) yell at the child or 2) make a mess with him.

I went for something in between: 3) Me with a smile and feigned excitement: "Son! Are you having fun? Wow--that is a giant mess you are making! Cool! How about you come in Mommy's room?" ("Where I can keep an eye on you..." I thought.)

Fortuitously, it turns out that Chewy likes to eat dry oatmeal,** so he has been helping with cleanup.
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*"realized?" As if I had to think about it for more than a nano-second, and then "come to the conclusion?" I didn't "realize" anything--I already knew the second I came around the corner that I would not be throwing oatmeal anywhere.

In fact, not throwing oatmeal through the air may have even been, for me, one of those "decisions made ahead of time." This is where a person makes a decision long before they ever get into a situation where making the decision may be tough. For example, deciding at age 8 that, "I will never do drugs." Or at age 23 that, "I will never eat octopus." (Though making the octopus decision during the "octopus-eating-opportunity" situation probably wouldn't have been hard--even with peer pressure.)

Yep--I'm pretty sure I made the decision long ago (in pre-mortal life, even) not to throw dry (or wet) oatmeal around any room. I feel in my bones that this is true. Because, when the moment arose, BAM! There I was with my decision: No oatmeal throwing. It is a very liberating feeling, knowing exactly what not to do.

This is why that surreal "vision of the Mormon PSAs" was so weird--I already knew what I planned to do, yet at the exact same moment, I was running those TV spots through my head, and people were throwing mud, and getting spaghetti wiped on them; I was throwing oatmeal, etc.

Hmmm...after seeing how much fun George was having, I may have to re-think my position on the oatmeal throwing.

(Don't worry. I still won't do drugs. Or eat octopus. I had to adjust my squid decision--I accidentally ate some in Korea. But the octopus decision I was able to hold completely firm on during that time.)




**We already know Chewy likes cooked oatmeal. He hangs out underneath George, in the hopes that George will throw some his way. Which George does. Every time. Because he loves to feed Chewy.

Too bad this also means that the dog is covered in stuck-on, hard-as-a-rock oatmeal until he gets to the groomer (the groomer loves this, btw). Because George, in addition to enjoying feeding Chewy, also likes to drop food on top of him--for sport. And Chewy doesn't mind. What's a little (or a lot) of oatmeal in the fur, when you have the chance at getting people food for breakfast?

I'll tell you though, it is not fun to pet Chewy after an "oatmeal for breakfast" day.


I couldn't find one of the ads I was talking about, but I LOVE LOVE LOVE this one:

Other than when he was a brand new baby, I can count the number of times he has fallen asleep on me on one hand. Two--maybe three times.
Once he could hold his head up well enough to look around, he was too busy to be falling asleep--or even cuddling, for that matter--on Mommy. He has not been a snuggly baby in the least. Just busy, energetic, enthusiastic, happy (except for those few, choice colic-y months) and, well, destructive. :-)

As he is getting older, he is becoming more and more affectionate; though still preferring enthusiastic patting of people on their bottoms over kisses (hey--it's where he can reach when people are standing up). And he does like to give hugs if it involves running to the person and hugging/getting hugged really hard.

I must disclose here, that there is a line of "enthusiastic patters" and "hard huggers" that I descend through--it is called "being a Herd." Or maybe that should that read, "being 'Herd'," because those of us in this family line also tend to laugh loudly and can be extremely exuberant in our interactions with people.

Many of you will know exactly what I am talking about, others of you won't, other than remembering that you have been either hugged hard, or patted to death, by me. Or both. Can't keep my hands off people, apparently...

Anyway, he comes by his "signs of affection" honestly.

I'm hoping he begins to enjoy giving kisses--he certainly gets enough of them, but he is very judicious in handing them out. Maybe this is so the receiver appreciates them to the fullest. I know I do when I get one.

I guess I digress. Today he woke up from his nap angry. I sat down with him and started (what else?) patting him. Two amazing things happened: 1) he snuggled. 2) HE FELL ASLEEP. I was shocked. I had Goose grab the camera and document the whole thing, because it may not happen again.

I did my best not to move, and relished every second of the half hour he slept on me. One of those "Mommy Moments" I will remember forever.

Merry Christmas from, well, wherever we are...

4:10 p.m.

Me: “Honey, it’s 4:10. We are running out of light. We were supposed to be there by 4:00.”

The Dad: “I thought Leesh was coming over here.” “Where are we going?”

Me, as if it was obvious: “Will Bigby’s farm.” (where else would we go?)

The Dad: “Will Bigby’s farm? How would I even know that?” “Why would we go there?”

Continuing frantic putting on of clothes, doing hair, putting on makeup, and chasing of George.

4:23 p.m. Made it to Will Bigby’s barn.

The Dad: “Did you ask Will if we could take pictures here?”

Me: “No.”

The Dad: “Did Leesh?”

Me: “I don’t think so—when they took their picture here, they just came and did it.”

The Dad, with not a small amount of exasperation, starts hunting in his phone for the Bigby’s number.

Leesh pulls up, and we pile out of the car.

Me: “Did you get a hold of Will?”

The Dad: “He says, ‘well, if you are already here…’ No, I talked to Ellen. She said it was fine.”

The Dad, to Leesh: why we would want to take our photos at Will Bigby’s?

Leesh: “Because they have all this cool old stuff!” (of course)

The Dad, with his very logical mind, does not get it, but thankfully, he is patient with his wife and her ideas.

We make our way down the slippery hill to the barn.

And we take some shots by the cute, rustic window.

Me (and Leesh): Ooooh! Let’s take some by the fence!

The Dad, holding George, moves to another window, kind of by the fence.

Me: “No, Honey, over here.” He doesn’t move. “Over by the fence.” “Honey, over by the fence.” (see how I nag.)

The Dad, moving slowly and reluctantly to the fence (patience of wife’s ideas wearing thin): “To me, this says: “here we are, living on our pig farm.”

Fast forward to later that night, as I’m staring at photograph after photograph, trying to figure out how I’m going to have to:

a. switch three heads, if I use that one, because…why are they making those faces?

b. change the color of Chewy’s leash, if I use this one, because it is red, and we have a blue motif.

c. move Goose over, if I use that one, so it doesn’t look like my bottom is in the crook of her neck.

d. remove the vein poking out on my head if I use this one, because…why am I becoming a person that has veins poking out on her head?

e. move The Dad’s smile from a different picture if I use this one, because he is doing his square “grin.”

f. etc, etc.

Because, you know, we want this to be realistic. Like how we are EVERY DAY—happy, without wrinkles or poking-out veins, no weird faces, and combed, cereal-free hair. Getting up at the crack of dawn as a family on our pig farm, wearing lovely sweaters in coordinating colors with our old jeans, so that we can feed the pigs and mend fences and stuff. And though it is snowy, we don’t wear coats. Or gloves. Well, a couple of us throw on cute hats and scarves--we aren’t CRAZY. But mostly we have our love of one another to keep us warm...because that is how it is EVERY DAY, on our pig farm.

The Dad, coming up behind me, and pulling me out of my thoughts: “What are all of those structures in the background? Can we Photoshop those out, or fuzz the background or something?”

Me: “How about we just tell people we live in a Hooverville?”

This world--full of avatars, photo editing, plastic surgery, and entitlement teaches us that “perfection” is attainable here, now, immediately. But is this perfection or an illusion?

I’m inclined to believe that this quest for beauty, riches, and lack of want or pain, isn’t the type of “perfection” Christ speaks of when he says “be ye therefore perfect even as your Father which is in heaven is perfect.”

I strongly suspect it is Satan’s counterfeit of this commandment. Satan is all about twisting the important, and making it seem like something else. He is the master of illusion.

The "pig farm." The family photo. An excellent opportunity for me to be reminded of what is really important...

and it isn't worldly "perfection."

What is really important is for me to use faith and obedience and repentance to come to Jesus Christ, so that through the Atonement, someday I may be perfected in Him.

It is Godly Perfection.

And it won't happen through anything I do, but through what He Has Done. Boy, do I have such a long way to go.

So, so grateful for the Atonement. And for Hope.

Praying that each of you feel the love of the Prince of Peace, whose birth we celebrate this time of year.

Merry Christmas!

Loving the Baby Jesus



This reminded me of a post I wrote about 3 years ago, when The Dad looked like this. (I remember that particular time being somewhat brutal...)

But I digress. I thought the nativity post was worth a revisit, since I now have a two-year old that loves the baby Jesus.

I wish I had captured the interaction George was having with the nativity before I grabbed the camera. It was really, really cute. He was so excited to find the baby Jesus...

Brian Regan = The Dad?

Today George and I were watching the clip about refrigerators from my last post. Better to sit around and watch clips about the problem, rather than work on it right?

Anyway, George laughed obligatorily whenever he heard the audience laugh. It is important when you are two not to let on that you have no idea what someone is talking about. Just laugh right along with them, and no one will know.

Suddenly, the light of recognition filled his little face. He knew who that guy was! He stared yelling "Dad, Daddy, Dad!" over and over, while pointing at the video clip.

Ah, HA! So that is why The Dad goes out of town periodically. Also why he refuses to go to a "Brian Regan" live show with me.

It's a little like Superman, I guess. Mild mannered Cisco Systems Manager 3 by day, Brian Regan by night and when he is out of town.

Hmmm...I wonder why he isn't funnier around the house?

$10,000..."keeps all your food cold"...

The current situation at our house:



The cute people who owned the house before us had a built-in cabinet made for a special type and size of refrigerator...a Subzero, which, to it's credit, lasted 20 years.

Unfortunately, time going by=higher prices for a less superior product.

So the title of this post? Seriously accurate. $10,000. For something to keep our food cold. If we go with the new Subzero refrigerator that fits in the cabinet.

Trying to find other options--which, I'm discovering, aren't many.

Sigh.

NOT. PAYING. $10,000. FOR. A. FRIDGE.

Office Assistant

Our Dad works from home. He has a great set up. His own office off the garage. Most of his interaction with co-workers happens via email, phone or Telepresence (if he goes to the office in Salt Lake).

Here is an email conversation from this morning between the Dad and one of his colleagues:

"On Aug 1, 2011, at 9:01 AM, kgholsto wrote:

I got a call from George (I think). He didn’t bother to introduce himself. It was a brief, but pleasant conversation. Please give him my regards.

Regards,

K

PC to K:

Sorry about that.

The basement flooded this morning and while I was dealing with that, it appears that I left my office door open. I returned to find George (21 months) sitting on top of my desk pushing buttons on the phone. I appreciate you taking the time to speak to George.

I am just glad I don't have SJ on speed dial....or a home Telepresence room....

PC"

Perhaps working from home isn't always what it is cracked up to be.

Update:

Apparently, K wasn't the only one who received a call from George. Unable to reach him directly, George went ahead and left a voice mail message for the Dad's manager, J, who saved it, and plans to play it during various conference calls, as needed.

Poor the Dad. He tries so hard to keep people at work from knowing that his family lives with him.