The Witch

Confession: Every single time I watch The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe, I really want to be The White Witch. That is not to say that I want to be evil or that I want to be Tilda Swinton. I simply wish I'd been the one to play the witch on screen.

Also. Am I the only one who wants to bury my face in a CGI lion's mane and ask him to hold me?

Around the Word in 90 Days

Our church is doing something called Around the Word in 90 Days. Some of us are reading the entire Bible. Others are choosing to go through the Old or New Testament. We started promoting it at the end of last year. I thought it would be ridiculous for me to try to do the entire Bible in such a short amount of time. See, I have a speaking engagement in March and another in April. Typically, I spend a great deal of time in preparation for a conference or retreat. Plus, I'm still participating in women's Bible study which means I have homework for that as well. However, my husband asked me to at least try to commit to the whole thing. Generally, he asks very little of me. Make dinner, balance the checkbook, be sure the children don't kill one another. That's pretty much it.

He asked me to start early and see how far I could get by the middle of April.

I did the math. If I gave myself exactly 90 days (we officially begin on Sunday) I would have to read just under 11 pages a day in my Bible to finish on time. I started early and I'm reading roughly 10 pages a day. It takes about a half hour. If I'm not interrupted that is. It's considerably less of an undertaking than I thought it would be. I'm not following the outline provided by the church which gives us readings in both the old and new testaments each day. I've read the Bible that way in a year before--skipping around. What I've never done is read the Bible cover to cover, without skipping around, in just over one hundred days. So that is what I'm going to attempt to do. And I'm putting it here so that maybe I'll feel publicly accountable.

I want to challenge you--my readers--to choose one of our reading plans. If you don't have a half hour a day to read the entire Bible, do you have 23 minutes a day to read the Old Testament? Do you have seven minutes a day to read the New Testament? Who knows, maybe you read faster than I do. Maybe you don't have a four-year-old who interrupts you.

If you want to commit to one of these plans, I challenge you to leave a comment with your commitment. Trust me, you can still continue to do your personal Bible study. You can still prepare for your conferences--if you have conferences. I've been doing all three. And it's been really, really good. And, you know, if no one jumps on my bandwagon, that's okay. I'd just like to encourage you to consider it.

I'm going to list my progress in the side bar so that you can see how I'm doing. You certainly miss small details when you read the Bible at this pace, but you definitely get the comprehensive overview which is important to growing faith.

Now Is Now

Bunk beds are in my sons' future. Someday. When Matthew is no longer in a crib.

It's been awhile since we moved The Rock Star's bed into the playroom. The Little Buddy started his midnight parties filled with giggling and squealing and Garrett simply couldn't sleep through it.

But then, two weeks ago, they shared a tent with my dad and Matthew did so well that four nights ago we let Garrett sleep on the floor of the bedroom, just to see how they'd do together. The oldest, remarkably, didn't try to sneak into our room to sleep on the carpet next to Troy's side of the bed. The youngest, even more remarkably, didn't throw a party in the wee hours of the morning. Well, actually, he might have. According to Garrett, Matthew woke up and started to play. He claims that he said, "Matthew, go back to sleep." Whether that happened or not will remain a mystery. There's a video monitor but after four years of learning to tune out the small noises of sleeping children, a symphony could probably drift through it's speaker without waking me.

The next night we did it again.

And the next.

"Garrett," I offered tonight, "would you like to move your bed back into the bedroom?"

Oh. Boy. Did. He. Ever.

So after dinner we spent an hour rearranging both rooms. Every five seconds The Rock Star would ask me if he could please go to bed right then. Every five seconds The Little Buddy would grin and babble something that I think had something to do with his big brother's bed being in his room.

I lowered the railing on the crib thinking that maybe we'd just see what happened. Go big or go--uh--to bed, right? After I'd read the boys their Bible story and we'd prayed I laid Matthew down in the crib and I crawled into the bed with Garrett. I've been reading half a chapter a night out of Little House in the Big Woods and I knew we were going to finish it tonight.

The moment I started reading, Matthew sat up, looked at us, and was over the side of that crib in record speed. So much for that. Garrett giggled, "Uh oh." His baby brother toddled over to us, climbed up onto the bed, and laid directly on top of him. Garrett smiled and scooted over, allowing enough room for the three of us to fit--incredibly snugly--in the bed. I read. They listened.

I was thinking of what a sweet moment it was, of how peaceful our nights have been since they've been sharing a room again, of the way my heart skips a beat when I'm blindsided by a snapshot of perfection with these brothers.

I was already having a moment, is what I'm saying.

Pa's strong, sweet voice was softly singing:

"Shall auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to mind?
Shall auld acquaintance be forgot,
And the days of auld lang syne?
And the days of auld lang syne, my friend,
And the days of auld lang syne,
Shall auld acquaintance be forgot,
And the days of auld lang syne?"

When the fiddle had stopped singing Laura called
out softly, "What are days of auld lang syne, Pa?"

"They are the days of a long time ago, Laura,' Pa
said. 'Go to sleep now."

But Laura lay awake a little while, listening to Pa's
fiddle softly playing and to the lonely sound of the wind
in the Big Woods. She looked at Pa sitting on the bench
by the hearth, the firelight gleaming on his brown hair
and beard and glistening on the honey-brown fiddle.
She looked at Ma, gently rocking and knitting.

She thought to herself, "This is now."

She was glad that the cosy house, and Pa and Ma
and the firelight and the music, were now. They could
not be forgotten, she thought, because now is now. It
can never be a long time ago.

-Laura Ingalls Wilder

I will not forget the fourteen months leading up to Matthew becoming a permanent part of this family. Like stones from the Jordan river, I will remember what the Lord has done for me. But I am thankful--ever so thankful--that now is now.

Belated 22

Dear Matthew,

I didn't forget that you hit the 22 month milestone more than a week ago. I didn't continue to tell people that you were 21 months old still. On the contrary, for some strange reason, when people ask how old you are, I generally just reply, "He'll be two at the end of February." I have no idea why I do this. 22 months is a much shorter answer. So I didn't forget. I promise. It's just that we left on the day after Christmas to visit family and I didn't really blog while we were away. Then there was the whole matter of The Tink (otherwise known as The Great Hair Massacre of 2010) needing to be explained.

So you're 22 months old but you may as well be two because you certainly act like it. You hate having your diaper changed in the morning--a fact which I just can't wrap my mind around--and for the past many months you've given me heck about it. You'd rather be playing. Or snuggling. Or eating. Or anything but getting your soggy diaper removed in favor of a dry one. A few mornings ago, when I laid you down on my bed and started to take off your pajamas, you frowned, sternly said, "No!" and then proceeded to point your chubby finger at me and continue, "Un. Do. Fee." Apparently I was in trouble and you were giving me three seconds to respond correctly. Believe me, honey child, this is a direct result of the ten thousand times a day when I point at you and count to three. Make no mistake. You act like a two-year-old. The tantrums are epic. The tears, Oscar worthy.

If we're at home, you always have drum sticks. Or pencils that serve as drum sticks. Or a whisk and a spatula. Every household item is your drum. You've got rhythm and your moves are excellent. Often, they involve sticking your little bum out and bobbing to the tune in your head. But when we're listening to music, you bob on beat, baby. You are still walking about the house singing, "Ingabeh. Ingabeh. Inga ah beh!" (Translation: Jingle bell. Jingle bell. Jingle all bell. Which, you know, aren't the actual lyrics but whatever--you're only 22 months old.)

Matthew, you love to give kisses, cuddles, wrestle with your brother, ride the dog, chase the kitty, and watch Timmy Time. Except the episode where Timmy wears a mask. That one terrifies you and you break into hysterical sobbing if it comes on. Meaning, if we turn it on. Which we've only done two or three times. Because it's cruel and unusual punishment. But it is super hilarious to watch you dissolve into a puddle of despair because a lamb puts on a paper plate mask. Alright, in fairness, if I saw a lamb wearing a paper plate mask I might be emotionally disturbed as well. You love to have books read to you. You love to eat cardboard books. This is a strange phenomenon because you're not otherwise a very destructive child. You love your sleep and for that reason mommy loves you to bits and pieces.

Well, that reason and the fact that you're delicious. Especially when covered in shea butter. And your giggle is infectious. And the way you say, "Mommy!" is heart melting. And today, when I dressed you in new overalls and a striped turtle neck, I almost couldn't handle how cute you were.

You think you're a big boy. While we were visiting Grandma and Grandpa, you got to sleep in the tent with Papa and your brother for the first time. As I tucked you into the covers you looked up at me, grinned, and said, "Nigh nigh!" The next morning you were still sacked out in the tent when Papa and Garrett got up. Several minutes later, you appeared, holding your beloved stuffed monkey. "Hi!" you smirked. And it was a smile that seemed to say, "I've arrived."

And, in many ways, you have.

The Tink: Take Three

I tried to think of other things I could do to my hair to keep this going. I could, for example, use an outrageous amount of product and turn it into a faux hawk. I could curl it in teeny, tiny ringlets and get in touch with my inner Shirley Temple. Although, I don't really think I have an inner Shirley Temple. I could flip it out and do my best tree top impression.

I could, at the very least, get a better picture of what it actually looks like. I could take a picture that doesn't have a giant poof residing over my right ear. I could take a picture where I was paying attention--even the smallest amount--to my squinty eye.

Have I told you about the squinty eye? I never noticed that one of my eyes photographs thirty times smaller than the other one until my wedding pictures came back. Horrified*, I thought maybe it had been a wedding day phenomenon. So I looked at my engagement pictures, my 12th grade pictures, swim team pictures, and on and on and on. All of them. Squinty eyed. The real wonder was that I didn't notice this until I was nearing 22.

I've since learned a few tricks. Turn my head, ever so slightly, so that the squinty eye is forward. This makes it look larger. Smile gently so that the over zealous cheek doesn't upstage the eye quite so much.

But when Troy snapped this picture, I turned the squinty eye away--for reasons unknown.

It should also be noted that both Troy and I like my hair exponentially better a couple hours after its been styled. It has time to relax. When its freshly styled its all, Well, hello there, World. Look at me. When its freshly styled its all up in my business. And by business, I mean face.

So.

In any case.

Drum roll.

There you have it. But, look away from the hair and squinty eye. I know it's hard to take your eyes off of it. But try. For the sake of my collar bone, try. Because, let's face it, if there's one good thing about that picture, it's the collar bone.

*I love my wedding pictures, despite the fact that I look like I need to be wearing an eye patch.

The Tink. Take Two.

Good gravy (which is, after all, a fun, down home Southern cookin' alternative to good grief)! Alright already. I'll post a picture. The thing is this. This is the thing. The thing is--no I'm not stalling--I actually thought it was somewhat manageable on Sunday. Then, my husband saw it for the first time when it was completely unstyled. He cocked his head this way and that and examined me as though he was a plastic surgeon and I was his human canvass. Later that night, my stick straight, wet hair was plastered to the sides of my head. I was hunched over the toilet where I'd just recently thrown up more than I thought my body could even hold. Yes, it's true, two nights ago I, the world famous barfer, was at it again. But come on people, focus! This is about my hair! So there I was, clad in flannel pajamas, draped over the toilet like it was my conjoined twin, hair still wet from the shower--and, truth be told, probably a little vomit--and my husband says, "Your hair looks cute in a messy I just barfed kind of way."


And I'll be honest, it made me feel good about myself. Not so much that I was, apparently, rocking the post wretch hairdo as the fact that I have a husband who loves me so much that he will look at his wife who is curled up with a toilet still full of her own stomach contents, and compliment her lousy cut. If that's not living your wedding vows, I don't know what is.


Well. Yesterday I wore my glasses all day, looked a little wan, and had zero desire to style my hair. This morning he caught a glimpse of it, actually done, for the first time. There was a weird little lump in the back that I could not, for the life of me, get rid of, but otherwise I was actually kind of proud of it. It's nothing I'd have done on purpose, mind you, but it was decent. I felt confident.


Until.


My husband cocked his head this way and that. Then he, who has only ever had the shortest of short haircuts, offered a helpful suggestion, "Maybe if you just pull the straightener down and barely flip it at the end?"


"You mean, exactly like I did? Maybe I should do exactly what I just did?" Emphasis on exactly. "You only like my hair when I've just finished throwing up!"


"That is not true!" He backpedaled. He told me it wasn't bad. He promised that he doesn't hate it even though yesterday he did send me a text message with a picture of Tinkerbell bubble bath. He convinced me that he plans to stay married even though I have suddenly aged thirteen years and gone back in time several decades.

So...

Without further ado...

I give you...


My hair...


It's awesome. Right? Please stop making fun of how ridiculous my face looks. I was taking my own picture in the bathroom and it's just difficult to take yourself seriously when you're staring into a mirror and a camera lens, simultaneously. Wait? What? You're not laughing at my face? You're laughing at my hair? I know. I told you. It's absurd.

But at least you can tell that it is terribly short. This gives you some idea, does it not? Are you satisfied?

If you aren't, perhaps tomorrow I'll post a picture of what it really looks like.

A statement

Scene: Somewhere on the 15 in Provo. A car drives North. Two children are in the backseat in strapped to their car seats. A mother is in the driver's seat.

Matthew: MOM?
Me: What?
Matthew: MOM?
Me: What?
Matthew: MOM! Agabababanonoflundenflock!
Garrett: Matthew, that is not a question. That is a statement.

Progresso Soup Giveaway

Over at my other blog www.familyfishbowl2.blogspot.com I'm hosting a Progresso giveaway.


All that could be yours. Just visit the giveaway blog and enter for your chance to win two coupons for Progresso soup, a soup bowl and spoon, a spoon rest and a can organizer! The giveaway will close on January 12 at 3:00 MST.

The Tink, Explained

It only takes one snip to know it's all over. That's what happened back in high school when I was growing my bangs out. They were down to the end of my nose and, with one cut, the stylist undid all that hard work.

I had my hair cut over the summer. I was tired of long locks that, more times than not, I threw up into a ponytail so that I could resume chasing my boys. I had it layered and used the straightening iron to give it a fun flip. While I'm sure there were people who hated it, I got many compliments. Repeatedly. And I loved it. The best part was that I couldn't put it in a ponytail. Not even if I wanted to. So I had to make an effort with my hair and this was a good thing.

But it hadn't been cut in four months. That's a lot of growth y'all. And my hair doesn't even grow fast. A little known fact that had me in the fetal position not six days ago.

So I got it cut.

Oh. Boy. Did. I.

"So, just a trim?" She'd asked me.

"Yes." I'd returned.

A few minutes later I said, "I haven't had it cut in awhile so..."

And she interrupted, "So about an inch?"

"And then some." This was clearly where I went drastically wrong. "I don't want to be able to put it in a ponytail." You see, recently, I'd been able to. I rarely did because I've come to terms with the fact that you can be a mom to small boys and still make an effort but the fact that I could concerned me. What if backslid? What if I fell off the wagon?

She smiled. And snipped. And I saw the chunk of hair in her hand. The chunk that was probably somewhere between three and four inches but I hallucinated and imagined myself with a crew cut. When I'd said, And then some, I'd meant between an inch and two. Not four. If I'd meant four I would have said four. Clearly my mistake was using a phrase that seemed to give the stylist sole power over my head. So, I attempted to retrieve every acting lesson I'd ever had. See, rarely have I been disappointed with a hair cut but when I am, I try not to say anything to the stylist. The cut has been made. The bleeding cannot be stopped. There's just no point in making the poor girl feel bad. So she whacked and chopped and severed. It'll grow back. Which is exactly what I kept repeating in my head. Like a somewhat crazed, hairless mantra.

And I kept thinking, Maybe I'll like it.

It was short. Very short. Oh, who I am kidding. It is short. Shorter than my hair has ever, ever been since, well, since I started growing hair to begin with. Babies are born with more hair than I have. Okay, that's an exaggeration. But only a moderate one. My mom entered the salon. I don't think that I imagined her widening eyes.

It was styled.

"Do you feel naked?" The hairdresser asked. I was so afraid that when I answered her, my voice would betray me.

"My neck definitely does." I smiled. I then accompanied my son to the restroom.

"Mommy," he said, "I love your hair!"

"You do?" I questioned. It would later be determined that he liked my hair because he thought it made me look like a tree top. Apparently my now visible neck was the trunk. That wasn't the effect I'd been going for.

I was a dramatic nut case in the car. I called my husband and nearly cried. I reminded him that he'd said, "For better or worse." My mother kept telling me that it wasn't bad. It was growing on her. It was fine. It had potential. My son asked me why I didn't like it. "Oh, honey. I love it. It's going to keep me very humble." I'd replied.

The next day I tried to flip it the same way I was accustomed. It looked like I'd stuck my finger in a light socket. My mom walked up behind me. "I figured out who you look like?"

"Who?"

"Julia Roberts in Hook."

"TINKERBELL?" I'd screamed. "Tink? I look like a fairy?"
For the record, my bangs don't cover my forehead. They sweep dramatically to the side. And I don't have elf ears poking out. Well, okay, so sometimes I do. But that's hardly the stylist's fault.

That's when we affectionately dubbed it The Tink.

The next day I stuck a headband in it and left it alone.

The next day--Sunday--I had an epiphany. It was much too short to keep flipping out. That gave it a decidedly electrocuted look which was not what I was going for. So I flipped it under instead. That actually earned a few compliments. I was still met with the occasional strange look as people decided whether or not to comment on the new do. But, thankfully, the few compliments were welcomed and very much needed.

I'm working on growing it out as we speak.

And if you think I'm going to post a picture you're crazy. Just understand that Tinkerbell up there is doing a fine job of modeling it.

Understudy

While you are all waiting for Lori's return and the chance to view her new hairstyle, the understudy (husband) has been conscripted to fill this space with a post or two just in case you wondered what was going on in the land of Doozleberry.

Certainly, I'm not as entertaining of a writer, so in addition to the picture of the boys above I'm going to enlist a video from the Rock Star taken about a month and a half ago. Now before you view this video I feel the need to tell you that sometimes the Rock Star morphs into the goofball. He has all sorts of strange faces, alter egos, and voices. The other day he was pretending to be a sheep. I don't know why. It might have had something to do with all the practices for our church nativity play which did include shepherds. Then again it might be because Little Buddy wants to watch Timmy Time non-stop.

At any rate, when Garrett turns into a sheep this is what it looks like:



At least he's rarely ever a sheep. Full of it quite often, but not often a farm animal.

I'll Be Back Soon

I'm still here. I'm not posting because I'm caught in the haze that settles between Christmas and New Year's. I'm caught with family though, so that's always a good thing.

Coming soon: A post about the haircut that has been affectionately named "The Tink" because this morning my mother said, "You know who you look like? Julia Roberts in Hook."

To which I replied, "TINKERBELL? TINK? I look like a fairy?"

Christmas Timeline

Christmas for us is typically lazy. Sweet. Perfect. It goes a little something like this...

7:52- I am slowly brought out of sleep. I hear my husband say to my son, "Wake up Mommy." I glance at the clock at mutter, sleepily, "Mommy is sleeping until 8:00." The Husband calls me Scrooge. The boy asks if he can go see what Santa brought. I mumble that he can. From downstairs I hear squealing. He is thrilled that Santa brought something for the dog and the cat. They were small items, purchased months ago with him in tow. I think "Santa" spent a whopping three dollars total. Apparently, this made Christmas.

7:59- I climb out of bed. Troy, outrageously more chipper than I for once, bounds into the toddler's bedroom. I stumble into the bathroom and put my eyes in. I cannot be expected to function until I've done this. Contacts are like my version of strong coffee. I brush my teeth. There are few things I hate more than the taste of my own morning breath. I cover up the zit I sprouted last night. Certainly don't want that thing making an appearance in any pictures.

8:22- We've managed to gather in the living room where Santa left the stockings. We sing Away in a Manger and then take turns opening the presents. The Rock Star is delighted to have received microwave popcorn, bubble gum, orange tic tacs, chapstick and a squishy ball. There were a few other items but we decided that Santa could have stopped there. Among other things, I received a coconut creme filled Santa chocolate. It was determined that Santa didn't pay very good attention when he went candy shopping. After all, Santa knows full well that I don't like coconut. It should be noted that Santa brought me lots of other things that I do like. Like Hillsong.

10:00- The stockings are opened. The Dragon World Fortress is out of its box. Troy is in the shower. Garrett and Matthew are happily playing with their fortress. I am putting the finishing touches on breakfast. Scrambled eggs, potatoes, bacon, sweet rolls, and bananas. Hot cocoa on the side.

10:27- Breakfast has been consumed. I head to the shower. The boys head back to their fortress. Troy clears the table and washes every dish by hand. Because that's how he rolls. We have a functioning dishwasher. I remind him of this periodically. To no avail.

11:15- We Skype with Troy's parents. Garrett wears the toy armor they bought him. Matthew does a weird little jig.

11:30- The boys open their presents from us. The Rock Star hugs his stuffed Larry the Cucumber as though he's never loved anything more. Then he opens his dragon--Toothless from the film How to Train Your Dragon--and a new love is born. The Little Buddy hugs his Pillow Pet and audibly squeals.

12:15- Matthew has had a snack. No wonder he's rivaling small countries in land mass. We put him down for a nap. Garrett is eating popcorn and watching How to Train Your Dragon--a gift from his cousin in California. Troy and I open our gifts.

2:07- After cleaning up the house, Troy climbs the stairs for a long 90 minute winter's nap.

2:53- Garrett and I talk to my mom, dad, brother and SIL on the web cam. Matthew wakes up at the end of our call and participates for a few minutes.

3:58- We leave to go to our friends' house for food and fellowship. I am annoyed because Matthew won't listen to me when I tell him to let me put his jacket on. Also the house is a mess even though I cleaned it yesterday and we made several trips to the trash can.

3:59- I get over it.

4:03- We arrive. We spend the late afternoon with three other families from our church. We talk, laugh, and eat way too much. Matthew consumes his body weight in cheesecake and trifle. Garrett takes two bites and says, "That's enough." I consume my body weight in cheesecake and trifle after consuming it already in lasagna, salad and bread.

7:00- We leave our friends' house and head for home. All of us too stuffed to move very quickly.

7:30- After playing with new toys, the boys take a long bath. It is supposed to be relaxing. Instead they giggle and splash incessantly.

8:00- We put two very tired boys in bed. Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.
****************************************************
Happy New Year as well. Posting will be sporadic, at best, over the next ten days as I am looking forward to some serious family time.

Christmas Eve Service

In John chapter 14 Jesus says, "Do not let your hearts be troubled. You believe in God; believe also in me. My Father’s house has many rooms; if that were not so, would I have told you that I am going there to prepare a place for you? And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come back and take you to be with me that you also may be where I am. You know the way to the place where I am going.”

It's what He came for. Born to die. Came to leave. We have the assurance that He has gone to prepare a place for us.

I've been following a blog for many days now. I prayed, along with thousands, that little baby Samuel's life would be spared. This morning, the doctors were going to take him off of life support. Should God call him away from this earth, I believe there is a place prepared for him in heaven.

I've been praying for my friend's family. Suddenly losing their daughter--at age 43--the day after Thanksgiving is not what they'd expected. Still, the Lord prepared a place for her and this Christmas she is caroling with the angels.

So if He was born to die, do we not owe Him honor? If He came so that He could leave and make a room for us, are we not called to respect Him? And at Christmas of all times. The shepherds knew what to do. They left what they were doing immediately and went before Him. The magi--though they came later--were on a mission from the very time they knew a Savior had been born.

Our Christmas involves getting gifts. . . and giving gifts. We have good food and family and tradition. I don't deny any of that. I practice all of those things. I get just as caught up in the magic of a sparkling tree as any child I know. But it became a crusade--if you will--of mine, when I was not quite an adult, to make the Christmas Eve service at church my most important tradition.

Had I married a doctor, a fireman, or a sanitation worker, instead of a pastor, it wouldn't have changed the fact that this family--my family--goes to church on Christmas Eve. What if we all threw a party in honor of someone's birthday and didn't include the person? What if we read the story of Christ's birth and gathered the family He gave us around and watched a Christmas classic and ate a turkey but we failed to come together, as a body of believers, in celebration? Well, it just might not seem like a birthday party.

I just never want the Lord to look down upon His own birthday party and wonder where I am. I don't want Him to think that I thought I had better things to do than worship Him on the night He was born to die. For me. For you. For baby Samuel and for my friend's daughter.

He came that we might have life and have it abundantly (John 10:10). I can certainly light a candle and sing songs in remembrance of that night so long ago. Christmas is magical. In our home it begins with celebrating the reason we celebrate to begin with.

North Pole

So. The Santa thing.

I believed.

Troy believed.

We decided, probably before we ever even had kids, that we'd do the Santa thing. Unless it became a problem. Unless our children cared more about Santa than they did about the real meaning of Christmas. I think The Rock Star's preschool Christmas program debacle demonstrated that it hasn't yet become an issue.

Garrett has wanted to ride a train for a good long while. A month ago I was looking into some train excursions that run out of Heber City. One of them happens to be called The North Pole Express. "Enjoy hot chocolate and treats while sharing favorite carols and holiday entertainment. Delight while your children tell Santa their Christmas wishes when he climbs aboard your coach."

I just couldn't resist.

We used saved birthday money to pay for the ride and booked a matinee train on December 23. Today. A few weeks ago Garrett saw a commercial for The North Pole Express and went berserk. He desperately wanted to go. I think I told him we couldn't afford it.

Today, we dropped Matthew off at our friend's house and headed up to Heber. I turned the camera on when we approached the station.



We were an hour early and the kid was bouncing off the walls. We explored the station, explored the grounds, located our car, took some pictures and finally we were allowed to board. As soon as the train took off, over sized elves brought us chocolate chocolate chip cookies and hot cocoa. We listened to 'Twas the Night Before Christmas. We watched the passing scenery. We answered trivia questions about Christmas movies. There was a question, which neither Troy nor I can remember, but that said something about a gift or what the best gift was or what the first gift was or...something. Garrett shot his hand up, looked at me, and whispered, "God!" with a huge smile. The host selected someone else to answer. That was probably a good thing unless the other passengers had specifically signed up for An Earful of the Gospel: by Garrett.

And then our host told us that Santa and The North Pole were coming on the right side of the train. We were sitting on the left side but there was an available seat on the right side so I scrambled up to it with my boy in tow. Suddenly, there was a barber style pole sticking out of the snow. Santa was standing next to it waving. And my son went nuts. I don't know that I've ever seen him smile as big as he did. He frantically waved to Santa, looked at me, and grinned, "I can't abweave I'm at the North Pole!"

Shortly after that, Santa boarded the train. My son was able to tell him what he wanted for Christmas. Santa gave him a red top, which Garrett is convinced is the roof of the Dragon World Fortress that Santa is hopefully bringing him and his brother tomorrow night.
Later, Mrs. Claus entered our car with Santa's favorite cookie recipe. Since they called for a pound of butter and six cups of flour and I had no intention of baking enough cookies to feed Santa, all of his elves, and our entire church congregation, I decided that we could just give Santa something we already had. Interestingly, Mrs. Claus was British. Or was pretending to be British. I still haven't quite decided.

We sang Christmas carols as we returned from the North Pole. Garrett was given the #1 card for The 12 Days of Christmas so I got to throw him up in the air twelve times as he proudly displayed his partridge in a pear tree.

Our trip was 90 minutes. The joy on our son's face was worth every second.

A Glimpse Into Our Home

1. The Rock Star's vomit=Bleck!

2. The Rock Star's vomit all over the place=Double bleck!

3. The Rock Star shaking as his daddy cleans him up in the middle of the night and then whispering in a pathetic voice, "Daddy, I love you."=Priceless

4. The Little Buddy sticking a small chunk rawhide in the VCR so that it starts to eat two tapes before I realize the problem=Grrr!

5. The Little Buddy holding the phone up to his ear and saying, "Heh-woah?"=Cute. Me: Who is it? Him: Dedus (Jesus)=Double cute! Me: Really?! What does He have to say? Him: Tank ew!=Adorable. Why Jesus is thanking us I have no idea.

6. Finding The Little Buddy on my bed, with his back turned, scarfing a piece of candy I didn't know he had=Priceless.