Speaking of chauvinism...

My husband sent me this article earlier this week. Am I supposed to take it as a hint? Or should I be flattered that my husband thinks my sense of humor is intact enough to take it all in stride. Either way, my favorite part was the following: Don't complain if he's late home for dinner or even if he stays out all night. Alas, I would have failed by 1955 standards. In any case, for those of you who know Tim, isn't it so him?


Snopes.com has dubbed it as a fake. I don't think it matters. My husband still sent it to me. The same man who urged me to read The Proper Care and Feeding of Husbands by Dr. Laura Schlessinger long before my book club took it up.

My life just got a little busier.

Yes, that is the top bunk in the girls' room. And yes, Rachel climbed up there all by herself (in less than 15 seconds, I might add). My 14 month-old is going to be the death of me.

A man's job.

I haven't gotten up a single day this week to exercise. Not feeling too badly about it either. Why? Because I've been shoveling mounds of the white stuff once, if not twice (gasp!) a day. I can remember when I first moved into this house, I watched my neighbors mowing their lawns, a man's job, if you ask me, and vowed never to mow the lawn, lest I set a dangerous precedent and adopt a task that I would rather have my husband do... for the rest of our lives, preferably.

Up until this year, I had never touched our snow shovel, either. Again, a man's job. Up until this year, though, our annual snow accumulation was negligible. I first tackled the job as an expression of love and service to my dear husband, who does SO much for our family. Now, it is officially my job. I guess I'm being reprimanded for being chauvinistic.

Really, though, I don't have much to complain about. Half of the time, my kids come out and play through my toil and strife so I don't have to feel like I'm neglecting them. The other half of the time, I have at least one neighbor out there to keep me company (all females, I might add). And, as I've said before, on those days when I've missed my little alarm clock named Rachel who normally wakes me up for my morning workout routine, I feel redeemed for at least getting some form of exercise. Bring it on Mother Nature.

After Rubbermaid.

We're preparing our house for sale next month. I never realized how cluttered my pantry was until I bought a few storage containers to package up all those half-empty sugar and flour bags that were just sitting on the shelves, one practically on top of the other. Makes me wish I had a before picture, so you could really see the difference. Here are the after shots:

Tim considers me a bit OCD when it comes to clutter but I, for the record, do not color code the items in my closet.

Great days begin with root canals...

and spilled cereal.

And they end with blood-curdling screams on the monitor.

Anna asked us the other day if Daddy was like Cinderella (in that he works so hard all day long). Tim and I replied in unison, "Nope, Mommy's more like Cinderella". I don't need to tell you why...

Starting from scratch.

We're a few weeks into the new year and it's the third Sunday since I began teaching a new class at church, a class composed of 5 six-year-olds. I admit it. I already miss the class of 8 three-year-olds I taught last year. Today I sat in the back row of the Primary room when all the kids met together for singing time and a lesson and discovered that the kids in my class were the least well-behaved of the bunch. I couldn't help but gaze longingly as the little three-year olds I had worked so hard to train were sitting reverently in their seats while my class played musical chairs.

It's not that I don't have a great group of kids this year. I do. They just happen to be the type of children that take some time to adjust to new circumstances. And they just happen to deal with their inability to acclimate by acting out. Once we get into the classroom and they get a bit more individual attention, they are stellar. But I spent all of the 40 or so minutes of Sharing time stumped as to how I was going to get them to pay attention or, better yet, enjoy the experience.

Fast forward to just an hour or so ago. I found this great website called sugardoodle.net I now have a firm testimony of the power of google.

Date night.

Is there some sort of belief that if you disclose your New Year's resolutions that they will not come to pass? I hope not. Because I decided that this year, Tim and I would revive our weekly date night tradition. I know, sad. That third kid simply breaks you. I can count on one hand the number of dates we have had since Rachel was born. And the BYU bowl game where we dragged her six-week-old self along to a sports bar while I tried unsuccessfully to nurse her discreetly in a undersized booth does not count.

Anyway, we have a schedule, a discount card to a number of good Boise restaurants, a babysitter we really like, so we're all set.

We went to Riverdance a couple of nights ago. Aside from the fact that we spent an exorbitant amount of money for the tickets, it was pretty great. (I really miss student tickets to BYU productions - at less than 10 bucks a pop for almost-professional quality performances, we were truly spoiled.)

My two favorite parts:

1. The dance-off between the tap dancers and the Irish dancers. Tim and I, of course disagreed on who prevailed. But what don't we agree to disagree on :)

2. The time when, during intermission, the man sitting in front of Tim opted to leave with his too-big-to-sit-on-his-lap but too-young-to-bring-to-Riverdance daughter. Seriously, I think she took at least two potty breaks just in the first act! Thank you sir, for leaving at intermission so Tim could actually get his money's worth. Sorry you didn't get yours. Might want to get a babysitter next time.

Our next date: I don't know, we're still scanning the community education pages for a class to take together. What do you think? Belly Dance or Feng Shui For Improving Your Luck & Prosperity?

Turning lemons into lemonade.

So this morning, as I was working out to one of my favorite aerobics videos for the 3rd time this week (hurray!), it struck me. I remembered the part in The Hiding Place where Betsy ten Boom prays and thanks God for the fleas in their concentration camp barracks (it's been a few years since I last read it, am I remembering it correctly so far?). Corrie (her sister and the book's author) thinks it ridiculous to thank God for something so detestable but goes along, recognizing her sister's superiority in spiritual matters. In any case, they later find out that the fleas are, in fact, the reason that the guards never enter their quarters, thus allowing them to study the Bible on a regular basis with their fellow captives. That very ritual was a source of great strength to them during their ordeal and might have, in fact, prolonged their lives because of the boost it was to their spirits in spite of such troubling circumstances.
As I was saying, though, I thought back to this particular lesson and found that I should have been thanking the Lord for the fact that Rachel wakes up every morning at 6:30 a.m. (most of the time, even earlier). Why? Because it now affords me some precious exercise time, time that I have excused away because I can't get a decent night's sleep! I'm still not getting a decent night's sleep, but I am sweatin' to the oldies! (Just checking to see if you're still reading :)
Oh, and thanks mom, for the title idea.

Before I forget...

In the past week or so, Anna has had a couple of moments that I really need to document before I forget them.


1. Last week we were painting at the kitchen table and, after cleaning up all damage but what was left on the floor, I left the room to go change a load of laundry. I quietly remarked (half to myself) that I needed to come back and sweep the floor beneath the table shortly. What I came back to was shocking. Anna was emptying a combination of paint flakes, crumbs, (a fingernail?) and whatever else lives on our hardwood into a dustpan. Without being asked! I lavished her with praise and invited her to hold the dustpan while I finished the job. After the last speck of dust had settled in the trash can, she proposed, "Can I have some money?" Somehow I knew the unsolicited act of service was too good to be true.

2. Tim and I discovered several spots on the girls' bunkbed that appear to have been chewed at. That's because they have been chewed at. When Tim interrogated Anna about it, she carefully avoided the question and went on her merry way. That night when I took up the challenge to discover the truth, she hesitated, then admitted to having chewed on the headboard. When I asked her why, she simply said, "I like the taste of wood." It was pretty hard to stifle a laugh on that one.

Say goodbye to elbow grease.

Preface: this is not a product endorsement. Just a small expression of gratitude that my husband convinced me to invest in a steam-cleaning upright vacuum last year. I have yet to steam clean every inch of carpet space in my entire home. However, let me just acquaint you with a small portion of the items that I have managed to extract while using my trusty Hoover SteamVac, listed in no particular order.
1. Urine (Quite possibly the liquid found in the greatest abundance AND in the greatest number of locations)
2. Red tempera paint.
3. Stephen's Hot Cocoa
4. Raw egg.
5. Lotion
6. Vomit.
The last item on my list was the one that put me over the edge. Why? Because it was at 1:30 a.m. that Anna decided to spew the black bean soup and corn bread we had had for dinner that night from the top of the bunkbed ladder and coat at least 1/3 of the floor space in her room with the lovely goop. She then ran to our room, crying, to tell us all about it and unloaded what had once been our family home evening treat of brownie sundaes in the doorway. Upon surveying the damage, it was clear that this was a task for my trusty Hoover. I was in bed less than half and hour later. Another thorough shampooing in the morning and voila! The pukey mess was as good as gone. Clearly a wise purchase on our part.
Now my only question is, "How is it that what went in first (Anna's dinner) was also what came out first?" Puzzling...

Is she walking yet?

It seems that when a child turns 1, most people, upon finding out his/her age, will immediately ask whether or nor he/she has begun walking. I can't blame them. In fact, I've done it. Why? Because the average age at which a baby takes his/her first step is, indeed, at 12 months. Not my kids. They take after their mother, whose inability to walk until 18 months of age prompted a call to the doctor to determine "what is wrong with this child?".
Regardless of when my children begin toddling around, I have noticed something very interesting about the manner in which they learn this important skill. That is, it is more indicative of an individual's personality than a mark of future athletic ability. Here's how.

Anna took her first steps as a 14 month old. I was convinced she had been practicing in her crib every night because there was little faltering, let alone falling. She just took off! I have since learned that Anna is terrified of failure, particularly in front of others. She resists my teaching her to play the piano because she doesn't want anyone watching while she plucks an errant note or two. She'd rather just figure it out on her own and then allow us all to gawk at her talent when she plays an entire song flawlessly. After all, how many four-year-olds do you know who have taught themselves 7-8 songs on the piano? Mozart excluded, that is.

Lily was just too darned content to even bother getting around on two limbs instead of four. Heck, the girl didn't even crawl until she was 11 months old! Why bother, when mom would just place a couple of toys that provide hours of entertainment on the floor and then pick her up before she'd even played with one or two of them. Lily is a self-entertainer. And she's not really motivated to do anything that requires much effort. The same applies to her potty-training where, five months later, she still thinks that sitting in her own pee is better than interrupting her play to deposit it in the toilet.

So now we come to Rachel. Who I wouldn't classify as a walker, just yet. She's taken dozens of unprovoked steps. She's also fallen down just as many times, if not more. Rachel is most definitely not a perfectionist. She'll take a few steps, fall down, pick herself up, try again (much less gracefully), take another spill, and keep repeating this process over and over until it has disintegrated into something akin to a slapstick comedy routine, with more falling than walking.

So what does this say about Rachel? I'm not sure enough to make any predictions, but I'm hoping for the best...

Grand Ol' Party

I got a call from the Republican National Committee the other day. I've never been a straight-ticket voter, but I have always considered myself a Republican and tend to vote that way with very few exceptions. I confirmed this with the lady on the phone, after which she launched into a campaign of guilting me into supporting the RNC, financially, of course. Most of the tirade included scare tactics like, "I'm sure you know that the Democrats, being backed by labor unions and Hollywood liberals have raised millions of dollars to get the likes of Hillary Clinton, Barack Obama, or John Edwards into office. Surely, you would like to prevent them from weakening our national defense, compromising our borders, and socializing medicine."

I couldn't agree with her more. In fact, I'm probably about as conservative as it gets when it comes to such policies. However, I was pretty perturbed by the use of leading questions and, at times, downright intimidation to get me to open my pocketbook.

Here's another problem. The Republicans are a complete sell-out. In the past four years they've been too busy perfecting a "wide stance", granting amnesty to illegal immigrants, and sending sexually-charged emails to young congressional pages to earn any support from me. All the conservative principles that the idealist in me wanted to believe they would endorse have gone out the window. And so have all our tax dollars. I would have expected a Democrat to spend my (ok, Tim's) hard-earned money on useless programs but it appears that fiscal conservativism is now unpopular in both parties. Needless to say, I didn't give them a cent.

Grand Old Party... ha!

I won't sleep in past 6:30 a.m.

But put me in a chair and torture me and maybe I'll get some shut-eye. If Rachel could talk, that is what she would say. Jill and Mom, this video's for you - just so you can get your Rachel fix. Everyone else, you're more than welcome to watch.

I promised them..

And here they are. The Egbert Family Christmas pictures:

We woke up to snow Christmas Eve morning. We couldn't let it all go to waste!

Rachel learned how to smile for the camera and say "cheese" just in time for Christmas.

And I quote from Lily's mouth, "I can't believe it! Santa brought me candy!" I can't believe he brought them makeup. After all he knows about my kids and messes, why, oh why?

Anna and Lily didn't seem to notice the deficiency in the number of presents for Rachel. Neither did she. Who would, when there are plenty of bows to keep one company?

My kids suffer because of the practicality of their mother. They get a pair of everyday shoes (in a very boring color that matches most everything they own) and pair of church shoes (same color rules apply). Thanks be to grandma for satisfying Anna's urge for a pair of unordinary shoes. I think her exact words were, "they're pink and sparkly, just what I've always wanted!"

And the award goes to Lily, for the cheesiest camera smile (and the cutest little Dorothy outfit).

There was so much more, but really, my favorite part of the whole day was watching how genuinely excited the girls were about each other's presents. No envy, no coveting, just sincere joy. It was a peaceful, unhurried day on which we could reflect on the Savior and the abundance of blessings He has provided for our family. They are truly innumerable.