The Fast and Slow of It

It's been pretty boring here on the homefront the last week or so. The sun is on hiatus and the house continues to grow smaller and smaller each day that the basement remains unfinished (and empty, since everything is crammed upstairs).

We (read: Josh) have also spent a lot of time sitting in time out contemplating our actions. Apparently, three minutes translates to 45 minutes and a tantrum inside Josh's head.

Saturday, I was (un)fortunate to run my first 5k of the season. I've been eagerly anticipating this day for roughly a year now, and so I was understandably upset to wake up last Monday morning with a sore throat.

I "nursed" my sore throat all week by sitting on the couch and demanding things be brought to me at my beckon call.

It became quite obvious at 10:00 Monday morning that this approach was not going to work. So I settled for just not exercising all week.

There is a school of thought that thinks that if you're sick from the neck up, you're okay to keep running. But I disagree. I think a sniffle is as good as an excuse as any to not exercise. And thus, keeping with my philosophy, I did nothing all week.

I can't tell you with any certainity that this shortened the duration of my sickness. I was considerably crabbier and my patience level was a tad bit shorter. Pretty impressive because as the scale of patience levels go, I hover near the bottom on a good day anyhow.

So on Saturday morning, after experiencing the worst night of sleep in my lifetime, I arrived at the starting line of the 5k, ill-prepared for a 3 mile jaunt in freezing temperatures. I had coerced my sister-in-law and two cousins to join me and all in all it was a good time. The course was mostly downhill, which helped pad my dismal time. After cruising down the first hill, my shoelace came untied and that sunk me. I had to stop to tie it. It took awhile because my fingers were so numb and I lost all momentum. I had visions of me sprinting past my SIL at the last possible second at the finish line, but they failed to materialize. I finished 24 seconds behind at 31:23. I can't say that I'm all that disappointed with my time considering all things. But...still....the winner came in at 13:56. While I'll never be that fast unless being chased by a bear--and even then, undoubtful--I would certainly like to close the gap a little bit. Better luck next time.

The only thing I got from the 5k race was a worsening cold and extremely sore legs. This does not a happy mom make. Sleep the last few nights has been induced by Nyquil--which I love. I love that 10 minutes after taking the medicine, I can feel myself slowly slipping away. What I hate, though, is having to wake up in the morning. I feel groggy all day and not much gets done. Not that much gets done anyways, but I usually have a good reason. Today, it's just that I need to take a(nother) nap.

Aunika had her four month check up yesterday. The doctor was impressed with how happy she seemed. When asked how long she sleeps, I answered 12 hours.

"12 hours, counting naps?" He asked, his fingers poised above the keyboard ready to type in my answer.

"No. She sleeps from 8:30 pm to 8:30 am and then takes a cat nap in the morning after her first feeding, a two hour nap in the afternoon, and another cat nap in the evening after her dinner feeding."

"Oh. That's very unusual. Normal babies sleep about two to four hours before waking up to eat in the middle of the night. You're really lucky."

You better believe it. And whatever I'm doing, I'm going to keep right on doing it. I love the 8:30 am wake up call. (Except, of course, when I'm on Nyquil).

Aunika weighs in at 14.3 oz and is 25 inches long. I think the length is off because the nurse didn't stretch her leg all the way out. She's probably closer to 25 1/2 or 26 inches. She's in the 75th percentile for both weight and height, so she's a big girl.

She was extremely happy the entire time, kicking her legs, laughing, giggling and cooing at the doctor, all the way up until they gave her her shots and then she looked at them with this look that said "hey, I was being cute here and then you go and do that?" and let out a big wail that took a while for me to calm down.

Afterwards, though, she was a perfect doll, even tolerating an extremely long trip to Costco. She put in another good night, and I think I'm safe to say that shots don't bother her like they do some kids. They didn't bother Josh either. Just lucky I guess.

This week will prove to be a bit more interesting. I signed up for a fitness boot camp thing with some friends and I'm giving my first speech in Toastmasters on Thursdays. Both activities should be rife with stories to share.

A Report From the Inside

This week at my Toastmasters' meeting, I got to witness my dad speak. Typically, my dad is fairly reserved, even around family, and so this was a new experience for me--to see my dad in a completely different setting, completely at ease, telling stories.

I'm often asked how long my dad has been a member of Toastmasters. My standard reply has always been "for as long as I can remember."

I came to find out on Thursday night, I wasn't that far off with my pat answer. He's been a member for 26 years. That's basically as long as I can remember.

And as I listened to him tell an amusing story about buying new cookware with my mom, I was suddenly struck with a thought:

He's been a member for 26 years. Thus, he's been giving speeches for 26 years. Clearly, none of us had put much stock into what he was speaking about, because the reality of the situation only dawned on me in that room. He's been talking about US for the past 26 years. About rearing twins. Snotty teenagers. Pets. Sending kids on first dates and to college. Agreeing to give his baby girl's hand to an almost stranger who offered to buy lunch at Arby's in exchange. (Luckily, my dad thought I was pricier than an Arby's meal deal, and took Wade to a steakhouse--footing the bill himself. It was that Wade called him at work and wanted to take him to lunch that counted afterall). Buying cookware with my mom.

I don't know for sure what he's spoken on all these years and he doesn't remember a lot of the speeches either. But, 26 years of memories and stories and how I wish I could've been there for all those speeches. To see how he saw life as it circled around him.

He made a curious observation on Thursday. One that opened a whole new view of him in my eyes. He commented that purchases in his household followed a certain pattern. Mainly, it was that his wife made them. He, though, could gently suggest that something needed to be replaced, and in a few days time, she would see the need and then tell him that it was time to get a new computer/refrigerator/house etc. and he'd smile and agree.

This explains so much. Like, how does my mom know when it's time to get a new computer? And all this time, I've been thinking that he just doesn't care when in actuality, he just plants the idea in her head and waits for her to think that it's all her.

During the course of his speech, my dad made jokes cracked us all up, especially me, because I have first hand knowledge of what he's talking about.

My mom had told me just a few days prior that she had bought a whole new set of cookware--pans and such--because she's never had a brand new matching set before. Of course, I had no idea that this one minute blurb of her life could've been stretched into an eight minute speech from my dad's point of view. She failed to mention all the details concerning the pan purchase, and I didn't think to ask. What's so interesting about a pan purchase.

Apparently, a lot.

When I called my mom on Friday morning to share my news from inside the Toastmasters' meeting, I asked:

"Did you know that dad has been a member of Toastermasters for 26 years now."

"That sounds about right." She casually replied.

"Do you have any idea what he's been talking about for the past 26 years?" I rebuttled.

"I guess I've never really thought about it. He gave a speech on the kitty one time."

"Us, mom. He's been talking about us for the past 26 years. I bet people know more about us then we do. Yesterday, he gave an 8 minute speech about your new cookware. When you told me about buying new pans and stuff, it only lasted a minute. 8 minutes. About buying cookware with his wife."

"Hmmm...that is very interesting to think about. 26 years, huh?"

I Probably Should've Just Stayed Home

I swim most Monday mornings when Josh is in preschool. In theory, I should swim Wednesday mornings as well, but usually by then I've shelved my exercising for the week and vow to start anew the next week. But Mondays, I'm pretty consistent.

I drop Josh off at preschool and head into town to the swimming pool. The average age, at 10 am on a Monday, hovers around 75-80, with a lot more men than women. Why? Who knows. But that's the demographic and yesterday was no different.

I arrived, got situated, and jumped in to the pool. I did a warm-up lap and on the way back down the lane, I felt sorta strange. As though I was cruising freely through the water. As though...I had no swimsuit strangling me.

Of course, this realization does not hit me until I've crossed the entire length of the pool. I cringe at the idea that I've "popped" out of my swimsuit, but lo and behold, there I am. Practically in all my glory. Not completely out there, but not leaving much to the imagination either.

I can only theorize that I hadn't tied my swimsuit around my neck tight enough and thus, when I started swimming it sagged, allowing all my assets to be on display.

Fast forward to my evening run. Wade returned from work and I headed out for a leisurely 4 mile run. It was the first day of my half-marathon training plan and I was determined not to fail one day in.

I'm about a half-mile away from completing my run when I come across two eight year-olds. I run past them, not thinking much about it. Suddenly, I hear the clip-clop of little feet in big shoes. I'm a bit startled because it seems to be gaining on me quite rapidly. I turn around and note that it's one of the girls I had just passed a moment ago. I hug the fence and she continues past me, slowing down to a walk while looking over her shoulder at me. I amble on at my usual (snail) pace and as I close the gap between us--she starts to run again. When she gauges that she's far enough ahead of me, she slows back to a walk. This continues all the way up the street.

As a side note, I've seen this type of behavior in 5k races. Most of us pick the one person at the starting line that we'll do anything to beat. And most of us have the sense not to let on to the chosen person that they're in a death match to the finish. But every once in a while, it becomes quite obvious that you're someone's intended victim. One of the telltale signs is that you see the same person over and over as they continually pass you and then start walking, allowing you to pass them back. In one particular experience, I actually overheard someone turn to their friend and say "we can beat her."

No, they couldn't. And even after the resulting knee surgery, I was still proud to have beat them at the very last minute. It made it, and the months of rehab, all worth it. (Unfortunately, my parents--footers of the surgery bill--did not quite see it that way.)

So back to last night. My little eight year old nemesis is continuing her assault up the street. Had a finish line sprouted out of nowhere, she would've won.

Clearly, I can't let this happen.

And this is how I came to be in a footrace instigated by an eight year old. I had no idea we were competing for top spot in the neighborhood, but I wasn't going to let her take it without a fight.

I sped up a little bit, just to get her more winded and then at the very last possible second, I sprinted the last few yards to my house. Mean, I know, but little eight year old girls need to know that I'm a force to be reckoned with.

One might argue that perhaps this little girl was merely trying to run away from me. That she perceived a threat and was trying to distance herself. Here's the kicker: When I started sprinting, so did she! She had an imaginary footrace going on inside her head--with an adult nonetheless--and she was crushed when I finally emerged the victor.

I, however, felt like King of the Road. Bring it on, little girl. I could beat you any day of the week.

Yeah, I probably should've just stayed home yesterday.

The Breadstick Ordeal

So here's what happened:

I was on my way over to the in-laws for a birthday party. The kids and I had just gotten out of a very long Disney on Ice presentation and I had had enough with other people's whiney kids dressed up as little princesses and kicking the back of my seat. Not to mention the five mile run I did at 7 am and the trip down to Orem that morning.

So, we drop of my friend and her son and are headed to the in laws. I call Wade to tell him I'm on my way and he asks if I could pick up the pizzas they had ordered at Papa Murphy's. Since I'm out and about anyways I agree and confirm that there are three pizzas and breadsticks in the order.

When I get to the pizza place, I call back Wade as he requested. He informs me that there are four pizzas, not three. It's at this point, I realize that I'm kind of in a bind with two kids--one in an infant seat--and four pizzas plus breadsticks. I voice my concern. For the record, he DOES offer to come down, but I feel stupid making someone drive all the way down to help me walk the 40 feet from the front door to the car with pizzas. Someone inside will help, won't they?

I form a (admittedly, half-thought out) plan in my head. I will wait until a spot opens in the front row of the parking lot. Then I will move my car over and I'll be that much closer.

Of course, everyone in Sandy is buying pizza at this particular time and the line is stretching out the door. Cars are whizing in and out of the crowded lot and my nerves are shot from aforementioned demon princesses. Not to mention that both kids are soundly asleep in the back, offering the most quiet I've seen in something like 10 hours.

A spot opens up right up front and I rush to it, happy with my good fortune. The line seems to be shorter and so I unbuckle the kids and take them inside to pick up our order. Josh is groggy and immediately sits down on the icky floor, so I have to hold him and inch my way forward towards the cash register while simultaneously shifting the car seat that Aunika is in with my feet. It's hot and stuffy and clearly none of us are happy to be there.

When it's my turn, I pay for our order and then look helplessly at the 10 people behind the counter. My genius plan involved the cooperation of an employee to see my predictament and offer to carry the pizzas outside.

Nothing.

So I say that I'm going to load the kids in the car and then run back in to grab the pizzas. A few employees nod in compliance. So I head out and buckle them back in to their seats. Then I dash inside to grab the pizzas.

I congratulate myself on remembering the breadsticks and run to the front to get them from the turntable, but some old lady--who I know saw me coming--grabbed the last one and was holding on to it for dear life.

I calmly walk outside and load the pizzas into the car. I tell Josh I have to run back in to get breadsticks. But there aren't any yet. I wait for 10 seconds--always keeping an eye on my kids. However, a couple walked by the car and noted that there were two children unattended in a vehicle. I sprint outside again so I'm not carted away for child endangerment. I might have muttered some choice words under my breath, but there's no telling if I did or not.

I unbuckle both kids, again, and walk back in. Sitting up front is a whole new batch of breadsticks.

Tired, hungry and Disneyed out, I'm in no mood for games. And so I grab my order and leave.

When I get to my inlaws, the first question I get bombarded with is "how did you manage to get the pizzas to the car with both kids?"

I relay the story, and when I got to the breadsticks part, my sister-in-law stops me. "Breadsticks? We didn't order breadsticks." Apparently, when I called back and Wade clarified the order, it was just four pizzas, NOT three pizzas and a breadsticks.

We laugh about me stealing breadsticks all evening. There's more than enough pizza to go around and so they remain uncooked in the refrigerator.

However, inside my mind, I can see the entire scenario play out. From here on out, at every family gathering for years to come, someone will bring up the Breadstick Ordeal and I will feel guilty because I didn't pay for them. Everyone will offer what they would've done in the situation. And it will all be the same solution: Go and pay for them.

It doesn't matter if that's really the solution they would've chosen if the roles were reversed. That's what they will all tell me as the years go on. And so I make the decision. Not based on doing good or good karma. But because of something more selfish--if I don't go and pay for them, I'll never live it down. Oh, and because it makes for a good blog story.

So I call the store. I tell the pre-pubescent voice on the other end what happened and offer to pay for them over the phone. Nope. Don't take money over the phone.

And so upon leaving the party, I drive in the complete opposite direction of home and pay my $3.27 for breadsticks.

The employees don't know that I did it for selfish reasons. They think that I'm an honest citizen and really, that's all that matters.

Compromise

It's not you. It's me.

Okay. That's a lie.

It's all you. It's your incessant whining and your...your expectations. You're flashy and inconsiderate. You radiate jealousy and mock me when I'm tired. Your buttons are too easy to push. I'm spineless in your control.

There are days that I wonder if I'm going to be thrown against the wall, your power too much for me to defuse.

I plod along, one foot in front of the other, and yet I go nowhere. You run on as though there's no end in sight. Because, for you, there is no end in sight. All five feet of you could go on forever. You don't even break a sweat.

I realize I'm not who I once was. I was once consistent and loving. Now, I just hate your guts. The mere sight of you makes me want to vomit. And yet, I still visit. I still call. I push down the bile and suck it up to be in your presence.

And so, Mr. Treadmill, it's time we compromise. We're foul-weather friends at best, and I'm sick of the foul-weather. Therefore, I'm sick of you. I know that signing up for that half marathon less than six months after having a baby might have been a dumb idea, but it's done and now I need your help. I need you to lower your expectations. Turn off your happy bleeps. Stop sitting in the corner and mocking me when I come downstairs. I have 10 weeks until the race and I need to step it up. I need to get back in gear so I'm not left in the dust every Saturday morning. 13 miles is a long way to go in this body and I need all the help I can get. I need you even though I don't want you. I want the sun and the pavement. The feeling of accomplishment that is achieved because I made it the whole way and didn't cheat. Didn't cut corners to make the run a little shorter.

When I'm outside, I can't magically turn off a machine and be transported back home. There was one time on an 18 mile training run for the marathon that I sat down at the half way point and bawled my eyes out because I still had 9 miles to go. And still, I had to go the whole nine miles because that's where home was. There's no cheating. There's no beaming me back to my house and the comfort of a hot bath.

You give me the option of turning you off. You make it easy. You and your red numbers and your pace calculations and your incessant scrolling so I don't concentrate too hard on how not fast the mileage is creeping up.

I just need you for a few weeks longer and then you can go back to your corner in the dark basement and brood about your lot in life until I pull you out again in the late fall.

Work with me here, Buster. Help a girl out for once. Make it just a little easier. A little more entertaining. Make it something before I completely break down.

I'm going to be great one day and I'll thank you personally if you can get me there.

And then I'll promptly replace you with a newer model.

Respectfully yours,

Nerdy running math chic

#12 Join Toastmasters

So here's the thing: My father has been a member of Toastmasters--a public speaking club--for years. He's endured a lot of ribbing from us, as his family, over the course of his tenure in this club. I've been wanting to give it a try. Not because I have a really huge desire to learn to speak in front of large crowds, but more because I want to spend some quality time with my dad doing something that he enjoys.


I've been tossing this idea around in my head for a few years, but the timing never seemed right. With school, it seemed like just another night away. Then there was the marathon training and then being pregnant. I just figured that I would wait a few more years until the kids got older. I never really voiced my desire to join dad's Toastmaster group until I seriously started considering it about a month ago. At the time, I thought that logistically, it would be improbable with Wade being away on Thursday nights. But then I got to thinking. Wade is gone every night. And I'm feeling lethargic and unproductive and definitely need something to stimulate my brain.

Wade would argue that there are a lot of other things out there, besides Toastmasters, to stimulate brain activity. He's probably right. But, this is my dad's pet project. This and French lessons. And Toastmasters seemed the easier of the two options. Besides it's fairly cheap and I don't know a single soul in there except for my dad.

Lately, I have felt a pressing need to start up soon. And so on Saturday night, I informed my dad that I was going to start coming to their weekly meetings. At first, he didn't appear to be that excited I was coming and I thought maybe I was making a big mistake. My mom informed me the next day, by telephone, that he was indeed elated that I was coming to my first meeting that week. Perhaps I just knocked him off guard.

So what's a typical meeting like? Very formal, yet informal at the same time. Agendas are printed up and everyone has a role they play. Sargent-At-Arms. Ah Master. Grammarian Master. Table Topics Master. And the main dude that oversees the entire meeting is called the Toastmaster. But there's a lot of joking going on and it's all very casual.

Three people prepare speeches and then deliver them during the meeting. Another person is picked as an evaluator and offers immediate feedback for those presenting. At this particular meeting, we only had two speeches scheduled. The first one was on the joys of gardening. I was a little apprehensive because I have little interest in gardening, but the speaker was very engaging. The second speech was on recruiting new members for the club, and though not as entertaining, it was still very well put together.

My father, who was acting as the Toastmaster for the evening, stood up after the gardening speech and relayed a story about how he once had an interest in gardening. He went to his father-in-law (obviously, my grandpa, for those a little slow on the uptake) and asked for some help cultivating his interest. My grandpa was more than happy to share his hobby with his new son-in-law, but it became quite apparent that the arrangement was not going to work. For starters, my grandpa was retired and so he wanted to do all his gardening in the morning, when my father was at work. Grandpa was not willing to wait around for my father to get off work, and so the two never did collaborate on gardening. The story made me smile because that was totally my grandpa--who's been gone for 15 years now and of whom I have very few memories. Also, it was something personal that my dad shared and he doesn't share a lot of personal things with us during family gatherings. I was looking at my father in a different light.
After the prepared speeches, there's a round called Table Topics. The Table Topics Master--my father for this meeting--puts together a persentation of sorts by asking each person for a one to two minute speech on a particular topic. This teaches you the ability to think on your feet. I was given the choice of not speaking, but figured I might as well jump in feet first. It was a little nerve wracking, but I survived.

Following Table Topics, the evaluator stands up to give their feedback on the speeches given. It was interesting to hear the comments and the constructive criticism, all delivered without any fear of being shot down for being a horrible public speaker. No one threw stones or insults. It was all done with the speaker's betterment in mind.

After the evaluator spoke, a strange little man stood up and introduced himself as the Ah Master. I'm ashamed to admit that it took me until this point in the meeting to realize what an Ah Master was. He turned to me and said: "Sandra. You said 4 Ah's and 3 Um's during your speech." Seriously? You counted my Ahs and Ums? He then preceded to tell everyone else their Ahs and Ums count as well as point out any grammatical errors they made during their speeches. I was a little dumbfounded, but having thought it through, I realize this is an important part of public speaking.

We all then voted on which table topic speech we enjoyed the most. To qualify for the win, you had to use the word of the day--acrimonious--in your speech. I was so nervous that I had forgotten all about that, so my speech didn't qualify though I'm sure it wouldn't have won with all those Ums and Ahs in it.

The club did some housekeeping and then the meeting adjourned. I stayed after for a bit to talk to the grammarian, because he's such an interesting fellow. Apparently, English isn't even his native tongue. He immigrated to the states when he was a child from Panama. You would never have guessed. He has no trace of an accent at all. And he has such a commanding grasp of the English language. Best of all, he's a cab driver. Awesome.

I called my mom from the car to give her my overall impression of the meeting. She commented after my five minute description of the event that this was the most she'd ever heard about Toastmasters in the 20+ years my father has been a member. Of course, she never thought to ask him about the meetings and he never volunteered information, probably because he figured we weren't interested.

So the verdict: I was pleasantly surprised by how much I enjoyed the meeting. It was nice to get out and meet people I wouldn't otherwise associate with. No one has to know that I was so shy as a child that I peed my pants during the class picture during Kindergarten because I was too scared to ask to use the bathroom. Unless I somehow put it in a speech.

I realize the importance of being able to think on your feet and to speak in front of loud crowds. It's a skill that will make you more marketable in a lot of areas. For example, if I were to become a novelist, I would be expected to do readings and answer questions. I wouldn't want to stand up there and Ah and Um my way through every presentation. That would not lend credibilty to anything I'd written.

If nothing else, this experience will not only strengthen my relationship with my dad, but also give me good fodder for my blog.

A Letter to the Baby

Dear Neckless, Hairless, Toothless Wonder,

I can't believe you're already three months old! It's hard to believe that you're growing so fast--and so big.

You definitely have taken on more of a me look than your father's look. This is a positive because I'm not entirely sure that his look would translate to a girl very well.

You're always so happy and peaceful I sometimes forget you're around. Except for when you're hungry. Then everyone knows you're around. You always have a smile on your face, even in the morning when you've gone an unprecedented 11 hours between feedings. It's a "grin through the tears" kind of look, but I see that smile nonetheless.

So what if you look like a football player stuffed in a dress? You only have to wear one on Sunday. I won't make you wear one any other time unless you really want to. (Or I want you to wear one in a picture. Or you have to. Or there aren't any other clean clothes.) I'm sure Grandpa didn't mean it when he said that there wasn't much girl in you. I can't help that you have little hair and no neck. It's how you were made. I personally think it's kind of cute. It won't be so cute when you start Jr. High though, so we're hoping you're smart too.

I'm having g a hard time finding dresses that cover your bum. They don't make them long enough, so I'm apologizing in advance for all the pictures that will emerge of you with your bum hanging out of every dress. Again, maybe dresses aren't your thing.

It looks as though God just placed your head on top of your shoulders and called it good. There's a neck buried under those cheeks somewhere.

There's really no need to look so serious. We (kinda) know what we're doing. We've done it before and look how that turned out. Wait, scratch that. We are much older and wiser than we were with your brother. We have learned from our mistakes and will do much better this go round.

I see you eyeing that food and soon you'll realize that there is more to life than a warm bottle of formula every three hours. There are tastes and textures that will blow your mind. Not to mention chocolate. Chocolate is my reward for making it through the day. And for getting out of bed and brushing my teeth. And for showering and getting dressed. Chocolate is a good motivator. Many things will come to fruition because of chocolate.

You're very close to growing out of your car seat. In fact, you probably have by their guidelines, but we'll remain ignorant until you're at least sitting up. I can't really drag you places if you aren't sitting up on your own.

You will hate how tall you are until you graduate high school. You'll never like how big your feet are going to get. People will always comment on your red hair (assuming that hair does grow in at some point, otherwise they'll comment on your lack of hair) and tell you how they wish they had hair that color. You will just wish that you could tan. Just a little bit of color so that people aren't always shading their eyes when they see you walking down the street in shorts and a t-shirt. There will always be someone prettier/smaller/shorter/tanner/skinnier than you, even if I think you're the prettiest/skinniest/smartest/funniest. It's a lesson that would best be served if you learned it now. I know it's too much for your brain to comprehend at this point and you'll learn it in due time, but just know, it's been like that for eons of time and it will always be like that. It's a vicious cycle. And every girl, despite her popularity or her outward appearance of "having it all" has to have her turn in the ringer.

Nobody likes Jr. High. Just grit your teeth and get out of there as soon as possible. You'll look back at it, shake your head and wonder who's idea it was to stick all those hormonally charged, emotional wrecks in the same building.

Since you are only about 90 days old, I'll let you be a baby for a while longer. I don't want you to grow up too fast.

You fit so well into the family and it's hard to remember when you weren't with us. Except for Saturday mornings. I remember very clearly Saturday mornings before we had kids. But, I wouldn't trade you and your brother for all the pre-kids Saturday mornings in the world.

I Read, Therefore I Can

I did it. I made my very first loaf of bread. And it was good. Dang good. And easy. So much easier than I had ever thought.

Using the first recipe that popped up in google when I entered the search term "homemade bread" I made my inaugural loaf on Monday and repeated the process for this afternoon's lunch date.

Sadly, there is not a lot to write about a loaf of bread. But here are some pictures as proof that I'm not a complete idiot in the kitchen.

Random Thoughts at 1 AM

• I just finished my lesson for Relief Society that I kinda forgot about until earlier this afternoon. I had plans to go to the aquarium with my brothers and parents while Wade was out ice fishing with the scouts. Clearly that sounded like a lot more fun that putting together a last minute lesson on any topic in the whole wide world and so I blew off the lesson and went to hang out with them. It wasn't until I got home at 10:00, that I started putting together my lesson. Shame on me.
• The printer running out of ink while printing my lesson out could be a sign that perhaps I either chose the wrong topic or I was being punished for my procrastination. In any case, seeing as it is 1:00 in the morning, I will just have to wing it on the parts where the printer didn't print the words. This should be interesting.
• Since joining Facebook last Sunday, I've been thinking in third person, like the status updates. For example Sandra is riding in a car, thinking she might start screaming because the little boy in the backseat won't shut up. Or Sandra should never have picked up the Alvin and the Chipmunks Greatest Hits CD at the library and offered to listen to it in the car on the way to Salt Lake.
• There is a small part of me that feels bad that I have to bribe my son to go to the gym's drop in childcare with a candy bar from the vending machine.
• A bigger part of me feels bad that the gym has become my safe, quiet haven.
• How come it's so hard to get out of bed on Sunday mornings?
• Why do I hate laundry so much? I know that if I were to fold it as it was coming out of the dryer it would take mere moments, but I don't. And then it grows and grows and I hate the very sight of it. My sister-in-law asked if I've become "one of those women"? I'm not entirely sure what this means, but it doesn't sound good.
• I'm hoping my wheat grinder makes it here in time for my bread making.
• It's pathetic that my inaugural bread making episode has such a prominent spot in my social calendar.
• My nearly four year old comes in first place on MarioKart. A lot. Is this a sign that he plays too much MarioKart?