I'd like a different card, please.

Macey failed her first test at school. FAILED. She bombed this test with such flair that the woman who administered the test sent a letter home in Macey's Tinkerbell backpack. It was in a sealed white envelope with the words "To the parents of Macey Haynes" in serious elementary school cursive on the front. When Macey handed me the envelope my stomach dropped down around my kneecap region. I had the same nauseated feeling that I used to get when I didn't have my homework done (read: most of high school). My hands trembled as I tore the letter open and read the following:

Dear Parents, (breathing into brown paper bag)

Your child's vision was recently evaluated...

Whew!

I let out a huge sigh of relief. Thank heavens it's not her BRAIN. It's just her EYES. She failed a vision test.

According to the person who administered said eye exam, Macey's vision is 20/50 in her right eye and 20/70 in her left. [Sidenote: I have NO IDEA what these numbers mean.] Since my vision is *perfect* and the idea of Macey's vision being impaired has not once crossed my brain, you can imagine the frenzy of highly accurate, mom-administered vision tests that insued. ("Hey Macey, which number is the big hand on the clock it pointing to?" Macey, squinting her eyes and inching closer to the clock, "Three? Nine? Can I have some candy?")

After I finished my battery of vision tests, I gave Macey some candy and began some serious thinking, the kind of thinking that can only be done whilst eating fudge made by your sister's boyfriend Frank. [Another sidenote: If your sister doesn't have a boyfriend named Frank who makes you fudge, how do you get any thinking done?]

Here is the nutshell version of my thoughts: In life, we're all moving our pieces (I'm the silver tophat) around the board and sometimes we land on the square that says to draw a card. Sometimes the card is good ("You won a beauty contest. Collect $50."), sometimes the card is crappy ("Your daughter inherited your dad's terrible eyesight. You must schedule an eye exam and will probably have to buy glasses that will be cute but that you can't afford. Pay $400 to the nearst optometrist who is already wealthy and doesn't need it.") I'm going to sneak my card back under the pile and hope that I win the beauty contest.

Which brings us to the nostril hair...

Once, when I was laboring away as a missionary in South Royalton, Vermont, the temperature didn't top ten degrees for the entire month of January. It was so frigid that my nostril hairs (yes, I have them, let's try to be adults here) froze and when I pinched my nose they made a little crunching sound. Gross, but true. Moral of the story: Don't live in Vermont. Or have nostril hairs. Or pinch your nose. Or any combination of the preceding.

Why am I relating tales of frozen nostril hair, you ask? No reason. It just came to my mind. I've been thinking a lot about spiritual things** lately. Naturally, when I am waxing spiritual, I have thoughts of my mission. Which brings us to the nostril hair.

Thank you for joining me today.


**I've been thinking a lot about the pride cycle in the Book of Mormon, and how DJ and I are experiencing it first hand. From what I've gathered thus far, it is infinitely more enjoyable to be on the "flocks and herds and gold and silver and precious things" end of the cycle than it is to be on the "death, terror, famine, and pestilence" end. Just an observation. I am going to try to remember to be humble instead of prideful next time. Maybe I'll get to stay on the "flocks and herds" end a little longer (here's me wink-winking heavenward).

Bull. HONKY.

I would like to take a moment to address the people who built the house that I live in. Actually, I only have one thing to say to you: I will see you in hell. Because surely that is where all builders go who put carpet in a bathroom. They convene there with other builders--the ones who decided to position the A/C filter at the top of a vaulted ceiling.

(You may be wondering what I will be doing in H-E-double hockey sticks. As I was scrubbing the entire tube of toothpaste that DJ squoze* onto my bathroom carpet out of my carpet, I unleashed a string of profanities that would make Ralphie's dad proud. I'm not excited about going to hell, but it will be worth it when I get a chance to slap that builder in the face.)

Also, a note to those of you who told me that boys are easier to raise than girls: bull. HONKY.

On the bright side, my house smells minty fresh!

*Squoze is a word. I dare you to challenge me on this today.

Not a fingah!

We cut down a Christmas tree this weekend. It's a pinion pine and I think it's either an alcoholic or has inner ear problems because it keeps falling over. Yesterday morning it fell down twice. The first time it fell down my back was turned and this is what I heard:

CRackPOP!KsshPOP!"AAAahhhh!Mommmmy!POP!Aaaaaah!

(Chancho was under the tree when it came down. Suspicious? As Macey would say--I think, YES. It was actually the second time the tree fell on little DJ.)

I yelled for big DJ to come help me wrestle the tree off of our two-year-old. I was truly relieved to find that the ornament that my mom gave me when I went into the MTC had not shattered. Whew. That little glass ball had made it through two cross-continent flights, three transfers, and SIX MOVES without breaking. Oh, and Chancho was okay. We brushed the glass and pine needles off of him and he seemed fine.

DJ and I mopped up the tree water, swept up the needles and ornament shards, and went back to our Frosted Mini Spooners, when what to our wondering ears did we hear?

CRackPOP!KssshhPOP!CRACCK!POP!

That's right. It fell again, without DJ's help this time. And my MTC ornament finally shattered. Also, in a moment of perfect irony, my Christmas Story leg lamp ornament broke. (Did I forget to mention how classy my decorations are? I also have a sombrero-wearing snowman.) I've never felt a stronger inclination to yell, "Not a fingah!" than I did in this moment, with my Christmas tree lying on the tile, my MTC ornament shattered, and my leg lamp ornament broken in half.

And that, ladies, is the perfect excuse to dump your soggy Mini Spooners down the drain and eat pumpkin pie for breakfast.

(In case you were looking for one.)

(You don't need one. Pumpkin pie is healthy.)

P.S. For those of you who are concerned about my son's safety, DJ secured the tree to our house using a complex system involving fishing line and screws and that will require some post-holiday spackling. But what doesn't?

P.P.S. Here's a cute picture of Tess:

My Lucky Charm

If you have any respect for me--or if you have a sensitive gag relfex--you should stop reading and continue to think of me as the charming, refined, hygienically diligent person that I appear to be. For those of you who have no respect for me, enjoy. I present, for your reading enjoyment slash disgust...

My Lucky Charm

On Friday night I remembered this ad I saw for the Turkey Trot 5k which is held annually at the Seegmiller Historical Farm to benefit the Dixie Care and Share. So I said to DJ, "Hey DJ, whaddya say we do the Turkey Trot 5k tomorrow? There's no entrance fee, we just have to donate canned food." After applying a bit of the aforementioned charm, I talked DJ into walking the mile with my kids in the stroller while I ran the 5k.

We woke up bright and early Saturday morning, filled an old Walmart bag with nonperishable, tuna packed in oil that I bought on accident-type items, and drove to Washington. And I (really, you can stop reading any time) didn't shave my legs. And it had been quite a while since I had shaved, to be totally honest. And I wore shorts. (Aaaaand there goes my last shred of dignity.)

Where was I? Oh yeah, running. So I ran the race and it was great, but that's not where the lucky charm comes in. After the race they have a little raffle thing where they give away massages and t-shirts and frozen turkeys and things of that nature. Get this-- DJ and I totally won a 12 piece meal with a 1/2 gallon of A&W root beer from Kentucky Fried Chicken! A thirty dollar value! I know. AMAZING.

As we sat at under the gazebo at the park snarfing our fried chicken and cole slaw I was feeling very grateful, so, clutching the bucket of chicken, I stood and made the following speech:

"I have so many people to thank for this award. DJ, who snores away while I go running every morning and yet is very supportive. My children, for providing me with the baby fat that inspires me to run. And especially, my leg hair. I usually hide you under pants. However, today you have proven to be my lucky charm and I will no longer be ashamed of you! Thank you! Thank you!"

I bowed and waved to the crowd that had assembled. And then I had to go find my children, who were off trying to pretend that they belonged to a different family.

JewwDUSS!

Yay! I got tagged for one of those games where you post a random picture and (WHEW!) it's not an embarrassing picture! Let the fun begin! The rules are...

*Open your first photo folder.

*Scroll down to the 10th picture. (if you dont have 10 in that one, then go to the next folder that does).

*Post that photo and the story behind that photo on your blog.

*Tag 5 friends to do the same

It's Chancho when he was five months old. I think I took this picture because it was the first time I put gel in his hair but you can't tell because his hair is translucent. Trust me, it was cute.

I'm not going to tag five friends. Instead I've decided to do this: "HEY! FIVE OF YOU! POST A PICTURE OF YOURSELF!" Now we'll see who responds the fastest. What fun.

I'm feeling so special this week! Not just because I was tagged in a fun picture game but because I was asked to participate in a CDC survey about birth defects. I know, right? How could I not feel special? It was actually really cool. If your definition of 'cool' includes doing an hour long phone survey about your eating habits from June 2008 through May 2009. Cool, huh? Nothing spells humiliation like someone asking you how many servings of chocolate you eat in a week, on average. And then having to answer honestly. I had to tell her about my Marshmallow Mateys addiction in horrifying detail! She actually asked about my cold cereal habits and the specific brands I ate. And how many times I ate them per week. Good thing she didn't ask about the size of bowl I used.

Participating in that painfully embarrassing survey reminded me of high school. I took this statistics class my senior year and we learned all about surveys and what makes them meaningful and margin of error and correlation and blah blah blah... But what I remember most from the class was this guy, Richard, who sat behind me the whole year. He had this bizarre habit of saying, "JUDAS!" whenever something irritated him. You know... Judas. Only he said it, "JewwDUSS!" with a heavy St. George accent. Like Mr. Ward would give us a lot of homework and I'd hear Richard behind me: "JewwDUSS!" Or the power would go out: "JewwDUSS!" Or the air conditioner would kick on: "JewwDUSS!" You get the idea. All year long.

So all through the survey I could hear Richard in the back of my head.

Survey lady: "Ms. Haynes, in the three months prior to becoming pregnant and the first three months of your pregnancy how many times would you say that you ate Marshmallow Mateys cereal? Once a month, once a week, more than once a week, twice a week, three times a week, four times a week, five times a week, six times a week, once a day, or more than once a day?"

Me: (thinking) "JewwDUSS!"

Me: (responding) "Umm...at least once a day."

It went on that way for an hour. On the bright side, they are giving me twenty bucks for participating. You know me, there's not a lot I won't do for twenty bucks.

Throw out your dead!

When DJ and I entered into this bwessed awaingement six years ago, I never EVER would have envisioned the following scene:

The curtain goes up and we see the Haynes living room. Swine Flu, Day Nine. All six members of the family are crowded and sprawled out onto two couches, their hair matted to their heads. Tissue wads and and used dishes are everywhere, Baby Einstein is on the TV on repeat.

DJ: "Macey! Quit digging your toes into my back!"
Elise: "Why does it smell like feet in here?!"
Macey: "Can I do Barbie dot com? Can I do Barbie dot com?" (Repeat 400 times.)
Olivia: "UhhhhuuUUUUuuuuhhhhhh............" (That's Olivia melting.)
Chancho: "Happy birtday, Mommy." (He's still celebrating my birthday, sweet boy.)
Tess: "............" (Tess screamed herself hoarse on Day Seven.)
Elise: (thinking) "Why is everyone BREATHING so LOUDLY?! And it still smells like feet!"
DJ: (thinking) "Maybe I should open a fishing lodge in Alaska...YEAH! I should!"
Elise: (hearing DJ's thoughts) "No, you shouldn't!"
Chancho: "Happy birtday, Mommy."

I am so DONE with this flu. We had bacon and Halloween candy for dinner the other night. And if I have to watch Baby Einstein one more time, so help me, I will rip my own eyeballs out with a rusty fork.

The End.

Or is it?

P.S. I promise, this is my last flu-related complainy post--cross my heart, hope to die. No, really. HOPE to DIE. See ya next time!