This is a house

Sometimes, when Luke is being particularly adorable, the stars align. I actually know the location of my camera.

I take pictures.

It doesn't matter what he is wearing, cause he has this face:

See what I mean?

But our magic doesn't last for long. Because this is a full house. 

A house with other paparazzi, stealing away his attention:

A house with big, bed headed brothers who are sure every picture is enhanced with their face gracing it:

A house of baby blowouts that require costume changes. We certainly don't take pictures of that sort of thing.

But most of all, this is a house full of people who like to slightly humiliate one another for our own amusement:

Yes, you see what I mean.

4th grade

Recently, Hailey started fourth grade. I think its this time of year that makes us evaluate our children. Who they were and who they are becoming. How they used to be all small and chubby and slobbering. And how they become all big and mature and only occassionally slobbery.

From this:

To this:

I totally love this girl. I admire the strength she has. I admire her discipline. I love her desire to do good for people, and her desire to create.

I find it more than slightly amusing that I send her out into the world and they all see her like this:

Sweet. Nice. Quiet. Lovely.

But within the walls of our home we see this:

Pure crazy, spazzy, Hailey.

I love that unlike her older brother, she allows me to point a camera at her face.
Even with friends present!

Like, in total public!

 I like her. I think I will keep her.
I do, however,  reserve the right to change my mind when she turns 13.

a growing battle

My oldest, Jonas started 7th grade. 

That is so weird.

I feel like I went to sleep with my cute little stuttering 3 year old, and woke up with a handsome 12 year old with an ipod glued into his ears. When he speaks his little child voice has been replaced with a man voice. I look up to see his face instead of down. I ask him to reach things for me or open pickle jars, instead of the other way around. And I no longer ask him if he is hungry, cause he is eating ALL THE TIME. 

On the monumental first day of school, I pulled out my camera ready for my mom duties of preserving and slightly embarrassing my child through a barrage of pictures. But before I could head into paparazzi mode, He shut me down, refusing to have his picture taken. He informed me of his age, and status as a middle schooler and that he would no longer require my photography services.

Silently crushed, I respected his wishes. 

And took him to school.

When he came home, I asked him how his first day was.

I was told it was both cool and boring. 

The cool was having a locker, eating a GIANT chef salad in the cafeteria for lunch, and cooler teachers and classes.

The boring? Well one look at his hand and I saw just how bored he was with all the syllabus talks in class:

But he let me snap a picture!
No, not of his face, but his ink filled hand.
Years from now, I may not be able to look back and see what Jonas' face looked like as a teenager, but I will always have this image of his hand.
So not good enough.
But don't you worry, I fully intend to employ some guilt filled speeches today and will break him down like only a mother can.
Because Jonas isn't the only one who grew up this last decade.
I grew up and learned how to became a real, live nagging mother.

I will win the picture war, just you wait and see...

A brother's hands

Having four boys and having five brothers I am now considering myself sort of  like a brother connoisseur. 

I feel like I know brothers. 

I know a brother's hands can inflict some serious damage.

They can hit and punch and tackle.

They have been all sorts of nasty places.

They are not pleasant to smell.

Brother's hands can hold you down even when you squirm for your life.

Brother's hands can steal your precious things. (Like the doll you have convinced yourself is a real live person with real live feelings. I have a brother who shall not be named [Robb] who once kidnapped my doll and left a ransom note. I was beside myself. Thankfully my mom came to the rescue or who knows what would have become of my precious doll?)

But brother's hands don't behave badly all the time.
Sometimes they are really useful.
They can get you to a level on a video game that you couldn't get to.
They can build way better lego creations than you thought possible.
They can reach the suckers mom put out of reach on the top shelf.
They can protect.
They can soothe.
They can love.

A brother and his hands are good to have around.
Just don't eat out of them.
Those things almost always need a severe disinfecting.

from his eyes

Bath time for Luke has been a fun family event this summer. Everyone wants in on it somehow. I have to divide up the body parts to wash ( don't worry, I handle the unmentionables).

Everyone squeezes in by the sink and presses their faces as close as they can get to his. I can only imagine what it must look like to him. Perhaps that's why he gives us looks like this:

["These people are all sorts of crazy"]

Eventually, all our cooing and gibberish gets to him and he can't stay weirded out by us for long:

["Maybe they aren't so bad after all"]

And then in the end he is all in:

["I'm going to have so much fun laughing at these people all my life"]

Bath time.

An adventure in Crazyland.

Depressing thought of my day

Today my maternity leave is up. My baby is six weeks old.
No, I didn't suddenly get a real, live, paying job.
By "maternity leave", I mean "Using the baby as an excuse not to do stuff".

For example,
It will no longer be acceptable to eat cereal for dinner.
I no longer have a "Get out of Church Free" card.
It will no longer be acceptable to go three weeks without vacuuming my stairs.
It would now be uncouth to answer the door in my pajamas at noon.

Yes, now I will have to go back to pretending.
Pretending that I would never feed my kids cereal for dinner (happens at least once a week).
Or that I am not ever bored in church, daydreaming about the food I am going to pounce on when I get home (happens weekly).
Or pretend that I even vacuum my stairs. (husband does it when he is disgusted enough).
And that pajamas are a thing reserved for nighttime in this house. (It is all day attire around these parts, year round, round the clock).

That is enough to send my into postpartum depression.
Bring on the happy pills! Which in my case come covered in chocolate!

Lucky number 7

We are now a family of 7.
I am still getting used to that.
It shouldn't be such a shock growing up in a family of 9, but it's an adjustment. A big one.
Sometimes I hear people say, after three kids it doesn't matter. Being outnumbered is being outnumbered, you can't tell the difference.
Those people are highly delusional or highly stupid or just plain high.

Every addition to my family has mattered
and has rocked our world
and thrown our routines out of whack and
added extra chaos (believe it or not it is possible).

I mean, 7 people under one roof.
You people with big families know what I am talking about.
And no, watching the Brady Bunch doesn't count.
Those people were WAY too happy with each other to validate anything you saw on that show. [We all know Marsha would have kicked Jan's butt to the curb on more than one occasion.]

7 people.
We are now just one person shy of having our gratuity automatically included at a restaurant.
We have filled our mini van to capacity.
One hotel room isn't big enough.
Laundry is oozing out of every surface.
Trips to Costco, even though frequent, cost a small fortune.
And the noise level? Well lets just say, I may be deaf by 35.

But 1 mom +
      1 dad +
      1 girl +
      4 boys
________________
= more fun,
   more laughter,
   more inside jokes,
   more learning experiences,
   more sweetness,
   more chances to teach tolerance and service,
   and so much more love than I ever thought possible.

And I wouldn't trade it for anything in the world.

Except maybe for someone that would permanently clean my bathrooms.
That's worth at least one boy.

I think I had a baby...

I am just not sure. Because babies are tiny. Newborns are these sweet little things.
I didn't have one of those.
I had a baby giant. A baby Hagrid, if you will.


Luke James tipped the scales at 10 pounds 14 ounces (22 inches long).
For those of you people who are mathematically challenged, that is two teeny ounce shy of eleven pounds. ELEVEN.
I am a firm believer that babies should not be born in a double digit range.
Those of you who have pushed a person out of your body know what I am saying. You feel me. You are shaking your head with a profoundly sympathetic look on that face of yours as you read this aren't you?
Because, come on... ELEVEN? Really?
Furthermore, if you are unfortunate enough to push a baby giant out of you, then I believe body numbing drugs should be involved. I also suggest you receive these drugs in time for them to actually take effect.

I had a baby giant with ineffective drugs.... and I am here to tell the tale.

I think I need a t-shirt with that statement.

Or one that says: Giving Birth; #1 on the Things I Won't Ever Do Again! list.

Cause I won't. For like, ever.

Even if he is the sweetest baby giant in these here united states.

Tomorrow? We move on from giant babies and head to giant families.

Stay Tuned...

Tred Lightly

Late into the night the squeals of Caleb can be heard from the bottom of the the bunk bed that he and Jonas share. They make secret plans to sneak strawberries and cheetos into their beds and have a feast late into the wee hours of the morning. They hide their DSs under their pillows and battle each other way past their bed time.
And they are convinced we have no idea.
We let them think it.
But after a few nights of late partying, I end up with cranky children.
Then I start to crack down.
A few nights ago, Brian and I could hear the laughter and the whisper yelling still going strong at 10:30. Brian decided to be the enforcer.
He swung open their door in a hurry, surprising them. They fumbled to stuff their DSs under their pillows, thinking they were still hiding something from us at this point.
Brian handed down his most stern look, and used his "I mean business" voice and he said,
"Boys. Do I look stupid to you?"
Caleb sat up in bed, squinted hard to examine his father and proudly declared,
"Yep."
Jonas, myself and Brian did our best to stifle the laughter. We are always doing our best to stifle our laughter at the expense of Caleb.
This time we failed miserably.
Next time though, we will know better than to ask Caleb for a truth we aren't ready to hear.
The boy has no filter after all.

Lucky Number Thirteen

Thirteen years ago today, I made a decision. I walked into the biggest commitment of my life.
Marriage.
I was a baby. Just barely 20.
I don't know how that baby made such a wise decision.
I thank her for it all the time.
Here I am, thirteen years and almost 5 children later,
 and I know.
I know it was the most rewarding decision I have ever made.
I thought I knew thirteen years ago. I was sure I knew everything about that man. I thought I knew how great of a father, how great of a husband, how great of a friend he would be to me and to our future children.
I had no idea.
Most of life doesn't turn out the way we plan. Most of the time that hurts until it doesn't.
But being married to Brian has turned out so much better than I ever planned.
All our dreams haven't come true.
We aren't rich.
We don't have it easy.
We don't live a fairy tale romance.
But we still dream together.
We laugh together...
 and at each other.
We band together through the hard stuff.
We are still best friends.
And even though I desperately want to kick him out of bed for snoring, I have yet to do so. Even in my current 9 month pregnant, sleep deprived state.
We are still in this life together.
And every day I am grateful for that.
Except for those days I'm not.
But those days are few and far between.
And the Xbox is usually involved.
You know how it is.

Antsy

Sometimes you just need to get out.
Sometimes, even when winter has been mild, you desire sunshine.
Sometimes, when your husband has to go out of town for work, you just have to tag along.

Last weekend, our family did just that and we left the gloom of winter and headed for the sunshine in St. George.

We hiked around snow canyon discovering nooks and crannies:

The children had a few close calls but luckily we managed not to allow anyone to tumble off a cliff.

We played Where's Waldo. Jonas was always Waldo, wandering farther and higher than the rest of us.

Having three boys, rocks and sticks quickly became friends and props. Caleb enjoyed being a sand person from Star wars most of the first hike.

A good time was had by the big kids and the littlest ones.

We ate. A lot. But there are no pictures of that, because eating is too important to stop and photograph for prosperity.

We hung out at the hotel, and swam and played and relaxed. Mostly we just got really wired and weird.

Wired:

 And weird:

 The car ride home, was spent discussing baby names and future vacation plans, and wondering how on earth we will ever get anywhere with five children. FIVE. As in 1,2,3,4, and 5. I may or may not have had a panic attack. I do however know that if this kid is anywhere near as awesome as the rest of my crew, then we will manage somehow.

Besides, if anyone acts up, we can always strap someone to the roof of the car. I am sure it's nice up there.

The Verdict

We had out ultrasound Monday and I am happy to report that everything looks great with the baby. When it came time to find out the baby's gender, I found myself mentally repeating , "girl, girl, say girl."
Why, you ask?
It is not because I don't love my boys. I do. They are sort of the awesomest things on the planet.
It is because I have one lonely little girl who wants a protege.
It is because I have five brothers and I know what it's like watching your friends with sisters sharing clothes and arguing/talking late into the night, and feeling the pang of jealousy for something you won't ever really understand.
It is because three small boys in a row, sounds like the makings of a perfect storm that could wipe out any order to this house.
It is because my two little boys with me now are capable of so much noise and chaos that I have been sure a time or two they have given me an aneurysm.
But mostly it is because My husband has been right on guessing the gender of every single child of ours and I couldn't handle him being right on this one too, because he would rub it in my cute face FOREVER. And no one likes a husband who is right all that time, less than me, because we all know I am, or should be, at least the rightest.

But that perky little ultrasound tech, moved that magic wand over to my baby's legs and there was no denying it:
Boy.
Again.
And while I looked at Brian's smug face, and I did happen to utter, "Dang it!"

I am happy.

Happy that my lone daughter said she is dealing with it.
Happy that I know she will deal fabulously.
Happy that I can already see how much fun this new boy will have being trained in the ways of the Jedi's that are already running amok in our household.
Happy that Jonas gets to be king of the hill to these three adoring boys that will think he is God's gift to them.
Because he is.
I am happy to welcome a sweet boy into our home,
and I know that my husband is more than overjoyed to do the same.

But I swear, If I am a den mother for the rest of my life, I will hold it over all of those little boys' heads until the day I die.

Abandoned.

There are times in life where you can feel like you can handle the world. Okay, there are times in life where other people, meaning you all, feel like you can handle the world; I can barely handle bringing in the groceries by myself. But usually there is a sense and order to my life that I enjoy. Blogging was always part of it. A piece of me. A place to share my little stories. But then I got uninspired. At first it was because I was celebrating having our family all back together again, with Brian coming home, then I felt like my little stories were too little to share. Dumb. I started thinking about who was reading it out in the world instead of who I write for. Me. My kids. Their someday spouses. Their someday children.
So I stopped.
Then something unexpected happened. I found out that our complete family of six, wasn't as complete as I thought. In other words, I began puking again on a daily basis. I began looking for the bathrooms first in every store. I started wishing for a nap an hour after I woke up. And my kids started spouting off random baby names in any given moment of the day. (Jedi! Zeke! Turtle!)
My life quickly became about what I could do to survive. My poor family. But weeks and weeks have passed. Wonderful drugs have been consumed (by me, of course), and here I sit, sixteen weeks into it, feeling like I am coming out of  a fog. I have even been cooking dinner! Okay so maybe it was bagel bites and bagged salad and strawberries on paper plates, but it's an improvement people. That's the point.
So I feel ready to bring my life back into this blog. To bring back my meaningless stories, average pictures, and petty complaints. Which should have you wondering, "Why do I read this again?" in no time at all.