Since Kenny was working late tonight, the kids and I decided to be lazy (I am raising those kids RIGHT!) and order a pizza for dinner, instead of going with our planned menu meal.  We have this really great pizza place right up the street from us, and we order from the establishment frequently.  I won’t tell you how often, because you’d be shocked and I’d be embarrassed.  Suffice it to say, our frequency cards keep us in free pizza every month or so…

     (Free pizza!  Mmmm…)

     Oh yeah, I was talking about tonight.  So, I left the three oldest playing Wii, Nintendo and computer, respectively, and took Anthony with me to get our doughy goodness.  I pulled up next to a small black car, and I just happened to glance over at the driver.  Imagine my surprise when I recognized him– it was my dad! 

     Now, we live fairly close to each other, but not so close that we frequent the same pizza restaurants, so it was quite remarkable and extremely unexpected to see him there.  Anthony was screaming, “Grandpa!  Grandpa!” from inside the van so loudly I think my kids at home probably heard him, and my dad smiled a huge grin and hopped out of his car to greet us, leaving his hot pizza to grow cold on the front seat. 

     He followed me into the pizza place and pulled out his wallet to pay for our dinner.  With my coupons (thank you again, frequency card!  or should I say, thank you again, inherent laziness!), our two pizzas and an order of breadsticks came to a whopping $6.50, and Dad still insisted on paying.  It was such a sweet gesture!  I know it made my night, and I have the feeling it made his, too.

     After a hug and a kiss, we parted ways;  me to my hungry kids, and him to his.  I think our chance meeting made the pizzas taste EXTRA good tonight. 

     So, what do you say, Dad?  Same time next week?  Or, pick a night.  Any night.  (Every night?)    :D

     During my two-month absence from the blog, I was (fortunate?  cursed?  humiliated?) to have experienced several situations that put me in a special sort of category.  A People of Walmart category.  A take-your-kids-to-work-with-no-pants sort of thing that morphed from the mortifying into the hilarious, at least for those who happened to view it.  Us.  Whatever.  (Trust me, those stories are coming.  And you will LOVE me for them.  Just not tonight.)

     I try to adopt the “laugh so you don’t cry” mentality, which may be a sure sign of my descent into full-blown white-trashiness (“Hi, my name is Kemi and I have no class.”   “Hi, Kemi.”), but I’ve found that it helps me retain what little sanity I have.  Especially when dealing with my husband  children  family.  Perhaps the ability to embrace the tackiness that makes up my life is somewhat like Prozac, only without the pharmaceuticals. 

     So, my life being what it is, after I got all the kids to school this morning, and Abbie went off with her dad (*insert your own title-related joke here*), I noticed a two-inch spot on the wall in the hallway.  Upon further investigation, I saw that someone had used my wall as an artist’s canvas.  This someone, when interrogated after her Kindergarten dismissal, said that she didn’t have time to grab a sheet of paper, and therefore felt completely justified in using the wall.

     Also?  This is not her first time.  Nor is it the first (or second, or hundredth) conversation we’ve had about what markers and crayons are SUPPOSED to write on.  And yet?  I find mini masterpieces on her limbs, her clothes, her sheets, her books, MY books…

     Who needs wallpaper (or nice paint) when you have an artiste  living under your roof?  Perhaps I should charge for her services and fund my retirement.

Living Room Abstract

2′  x  3′

Hannah, age 2

Dry erase marker on white paint

(faded paint courtesy of magic eraser)

Composed while artist’s mother was nursing artist’s infant brother

Happy Hallway

2″  x  2.5″

Hannah, age 5  (three weeks shy of 6)

Red felt tip on white paint

Composed covertly while artist should have been in bed

     Oh my goodness, we’ve turned into this: 

     When I was a little girl, my journal read something like this:

October 19, 1983

Grandma Smith bought me this new journal for my eighth birthday!  I am going to write in it every day.

January 1, 1984

I haven’t been very good about writing in my journal, but I’m going to start now.  I’m going to write in it every day.

August, 1984

Wow, I wasn’t very good at writing in my journal.  I need to be better.  So much has happened, but it’s late tonight and I need to sleep, so I’ll write tomorrow.  PROMISE.

September, 1987

Wow, look how long it’s been since I’ve written in my journal!  I’m in eighth grade now, can you believe it?

August, 1992

So, I was packing for college and I found the old blue journal that Grandma gave me when I got baptized.  Since only two or three pages were written in, I decided to bring it along, just in case I wanted to write in a journal.

     And you know what?  I did write.  EVERY SINGLE DAY for two years.  Going back and looking through that big, blue journal makes me smile.  Things that happened to me, boys I had a crush on, the friends I made and the experiences I had (both good and bad) are all there for me to browse through.  I LOVE that I was so diligent at keeping a journal.  It’s funny– the primary reason I did it was because I wanted to tell my mom every single thing that happened when I was away, and it was too expensive for me to call long distance every night.  (Feel free to laugh at my dependency.  Some of my roommates did, often.)  I filled that journal, plus two more, over the next 2 1/2 years.  Ironically, I stopped writing nightly around the time I met my husband, and just between us, those are the times I SHOULD have been writing regularly.  (He remembers our history just a *teency* bit differently than I do, and it would be so helpful to pull out my journal and show him just how wrong he is.)

     Anyway…

     Some of you probably noticed that I have been absent from my blog lately.  (Some of you may not have, and I’d rather not have you tell me you didn’t notice.)  Without going into too much detail, let me just say that life seems to have hit me squarely between the eyes when I wasn’t looking, and I have been feeling slightly (read:  SLIGHTLY!!!) overwhelmed by it all.  Some of it is funny (in hindsight, of course);  some of it is sad.  Some of it is touching and sweet, and a good share of it is frustrating and cringe-worthy. 

     All of it is mine.

     It stands to reason, then, that it deserves to be written about, rather than avoided and/or forgotten.  At some point in the future, maybe one of my children will have a child who acts like another of my children (although having TWO of them in this world will signal the apocalypse, I’m certain), and it would be nice for them to read that while their mom’s head did, in fact, explode with frustration on a regular basis, it managed to grow back every single day.  Perhaps they’ll find themselves lacking faith, or unsure about the future, and they’ll take comfort in the fact that someone else has been there and made it through.  (Please, God, let me make it through.)

     If nothing else, I hope to be able to look back on this time in my life and be reminded of who I was and how far I’ve come.  It might also be nice to keep count of how many times a mother’s head can explode before it fails to regenerate.

     I’m up to 174.

     I took Hannah to the school this morning to meet with her teacher for a Kindergarten readiness screening.  It took her nearly 20 minutes to decide on an outfit, and her hair had to be *just so* and of course, we couldn’t forget the backpack.  (It’s as big as she is.)

     (I’d also like to note, for the record, that if I have to listen to daily commentary about the pros and cons of making an outfit out of every single article of clothing she owns– and there’s a lot!– my darling daughter will be going to school in her pajamas. 

So, what do you think Mom?  I have the blue daisy dress with white flowers with yellow dots in the middle, or there’s my green flower dress that looks just like the blue one except it’s green and instead of yellow middles it has pink ones, but I really like the blue one, but maybe the green flower one would be better, or maybe I should wear the hoodie that Grandma bought me with my new capris but then I wouldn’t be wearing a dress, and what if Mrs. Hoffmann doesn’t think I look cute?  But I think she’ll think I look cute because she loves me and she stayed at the school so she could teach me and so I think she’ll like whatever I wear because I’m cute and she likes me a lot and I think I’ll wear the blue dress, but do you think my new brown shoes with the bows that Grandpa bought me will match okay, and do I need to wear socks with them and do you think white ones will be good and I was going to wear my rainbow dress on the first day of school because it’s my favorite — *SQUEE!!!!* — but I wore it to Back-to-School night and Mrs. Hoffmann already saw it so maybe I’ll wait and wear that one on the second day or maybe the third or fourth or maybe I’ll just wear the orange one that I wore to Kindergarten Orientation, but she’s already seen that one too so today I’m going to wear the blue daisy dress and when I go to Kindergarten next week I don’t know what I’ll wear yet because it’s still so far away, but maybe I’ll wear a dress or pants or capris or- did Grandma get me any shorts?- maybe shorts. 

     And then my head exploded, and I might have said something about taking her to school in her underwear if she didn’t just putsomethingonalready.)

     She passed off her letters, numbers, shapes and colors, and had a great time touring the Kindergarten rooms and the bathroom.   Mom!  The sinks are SOOOOO tiny!  They’re just my size!  And the boy’s bathroom is green.  My teacher told me so I didn’t have to look inside it with boys in there.    (I lost it with that comment.  I laughed so hard I cried.) 

     This afternoon we picked up her first pair of glasses, in plenty of time for her to get used to them before Kindergarten starts next Thursday.  Thankfully, the frames are pewter (and Princess!), so we won’t (SHOULDN’T) have any wardrobe-coordination issues.  I think she looks adorable!  A little geekish, but in such a cute way!  Glasses today sure are a lot different than they were when I was a kid!

     Also, is it bad that I’m jealous of how she looks so much better in glasses than I do?

     Here are two of the four little darlings on their first day of school today.

     Alex started fifth grade, and Kendra is in fourth.

     Now, for anyone who doesn’t know (I’m sure there are many of you), I used to teach 5th grade.  I LOVED it.  I loved everything about my students, and if I ever went back to teaching, fifth is the grade I’d choose first.  HOWEVER, despite my affection for them, those were some obnoxious kids.  Loud;  silly;  full of potty humor, sound effects and bodily noises.  The year I had Alex was the last year I taught school, and I couldn’t imagine my precious little baby boy ever reaching that 5th-grade age.  (Or the mentality.)  They seemed so old.  So (im)mature.  So far ahead of my little bundle of joy.

     Fast-forward ten years.  Yup, he’s TOTALLY a 5th grader.  (How did that happen?  How did I LET that happen?)

     Having two upper-grade [elementary school] children isn’t even the worst part.  What I want to know is, when did I get old?  How is it possible for me to be the mother of two upper-grade [elementary school] children?

     *sigh*

     I’m happy to report that the first day was a smashing success.  Kendra is thrilled with her teacher, Mrs. Nance, even though she didn’t get the teacher Alex had last year.  Alex is elated that he gets to have one of the two male teachers in the school, Mr. Rolley, who is a mad computer genius and seems to have embraced his inner 10-year-old boy with unbridled joy and ferocity.

     It’s going to be a great year, despite the fact that my kids are getting too old, too fast.  (To say nothing of myself.)

     I was released from my calling in the Relief Society Presidency this morning.

     After nearly four years of (barely-attended) Enrichment activities, welfare meetings, Sunday lessons, planning sessions and a whole (WHOLE!) lot of murmuring– Bad Kemi, I know–, I am done.

     Yesterday, before I knew it was coming, I thought I’d be elated.  It turns out I loved it more than I realized, because today I can’t seem to stop crying.  I choked up when I got off the phone with the Executive Secretary this morning.  I sniffled through our RS lesson on (how fitting!) the organization and history of the Relief Society.  I cried when we gathered up the tablecloths and decorations for the last time.  I sobbed when my name was read over the pulpit, and the tears just kept coming during Sacrament Meeting, at least until Anthony wet his pants on the padded bench and I had to take him out to the van for a complete change of clothes.  (It wouldn’t be Sunday without my family providing comic relief for the ward.  Also, do you know how hard it is to quietly blot urine out of upholstery when you’re sitting on the FRONT ROW and your kids keep asking, Did Anthony have an accident?  Eeeew!  No one sit there!  Anthony peed his pants!)  The new presidency is going to be wonderful, but a little (big) part of me wishes I could start the whole calling over again.  (I KNOW!  I am clearly MENTAL.)

     In the five years and three months we’ve lived in this ward, I’ve gone a total of two weeks without a calling.  I feel like running a side bet to see 1) Which new calling I’ll get, and 2) How long it will be before it’s issued.  (Feel free to leave your guesses in the comment section, but please understand that if you guess Gospel Doctrine teacher, we will no longer be friends.)  

     I went to the library today to pick up some books I’d put on hold.

     When I opened my wallet to retrieve my library card, a giant (and I mean GIANT) earwig crawled out of it.

     It wasn’t a cockroach, so at least there was that, but still…  what sort of person (unknowingly) transports icky bugs to public places, only to have them crawl across the checkout counter while dozens of  (two)  library employees stare at it in horror?   (*shudder*)

     I was MORTIFIED.

     So, I did what I thought would be least embarrassing (although in hindsight, stripping naked and doing the hula might have been the safer choice):  I smiled, brushed it off the counter with my bare hand and stomped on it three times so it was good and mashed into the carpet.

     I KNOW, RIGHT?!?!?!

     I make my family proud.

     I got a phone call early this afternoon.

     It was Kristi, and I could hear her grin through the phone.

     “Guess what?!?!”  she (practically) shrieked.  “They found my backpack!  They have my backpack!  It’s at the police station and I can go get it!”

     I instantly broke into my version of the happy dance, which, if you saw it would remind you more of the potty dance, but whatever.  There was dancing.  There was celebrating.  There were even tears.

     Someone found it next to the canal that runs behind the elementary school that is across the street from our neighborhood.  Everything inside was wet (most things were soaked, thanks to the solid week of rain we’ve gotten), but most of it is salvageable. They had gone through everything and dumped it into one huge (extremely soggy) pile, but aside from a few credit cards, three DVDs, some cash and a little change (okay, about 2 pounds of change) and her laptop, it was all there… plus some snails.  Being the heroic sister that I am, I picked them off and threw them into the street.  (Okay, one.  I picked one off.)  I know that there weren’t snails in her bag when it was stolen, so wasn’t it nice of Mother Nature to leave her a little something to make up for what was taken?

     Even the zip drive was there, completely dry and unaffected.

     A lot of people prayed for her during the last week, and just the other day I told her that if you went by  my kids’ prayers alone, her backpack should sprout wings and fly through her bedroom window. 

     Of course, this way was good, too.  It was a happy, happy day.

     We were sitting in Sacrament Meeting this afternoon when the clouds rolled in and it started to pour.  Anthony was sleepily cradled in my arms, and at the quietest part of the meeting, we saw a flash of light through the windows and heard a loud clap of thunder.

     Because we’re idiots  Because it’s a habit we started ten years ago, we sit on the very front row in the chapel.  Imagine the delight of the rest of the ward sitting behind us when Alex and Kendra heard the thunder, giggled gleefully and Alex jumped to his feet and pumped his fist in victory.  Hannah shrieked in mock terror, and Anthony opened his eyes wide for a minute, before smiling a drowsy grin and saying, “Awesome.”  Loudly.

     That was pretty much how my kids spent the remainder of the meeting– listening for thunder, watching for lightning (or “strips of bacon”) (yeah, don’t ask), giving the occasional high-five when the rumbling was particularly noisy, and giggling –loudly– about how cool it was. 

     It was cool, even I have to admit.  (I don’t remember ever being in church during a thunderstorm, so it was a new experience for all of us.)

     It was also embarrassing. 

     My kids are heathens. 

     We just got back from our anniversary dinner date (Goodwood BBQ and Star Trek).

     Yum and yuh-huh-huh-huh-mmm.

     Never having been much of a fan of ANY of the Star Trek realms (except for Generations…  for some reason, I LOVED that movie!), I have to admit that my interest was peaked way back in January when I saw him in a Star Trek commercial:

(Oh, Sylar, you bad, bad man.)(Also, the casting director was PURE GENIUS.)

     Then I saw the trailer in April, and I told Kenny that I actually might consider seeing it.  Maybe even for our anniversary.

     I have seen a lot of really unpleasant movies in the name of our anniversary.  (Gladiator, anyone?)  Thank you, J.J. Abrams, for giving me a movie I could enjoy, even if my reasons were completely different from my husband’s.

(You’re welcome.)

     I have jumped into the cult of Trek with both feet. 

     Live long and prosper.       l\/l