The Great Fly War--AKA: The Zombie Fly

Shem and I found a colony of flies living in our house yesterday.

It all started last night. I'd just walked in the kitchen after putting Luke to bed to see Shem holding a full cup of water, waiting for a fly he had found to land. He had a disconcerting look on his face that told me there was every possibility that very soon, that full cup of water was going to be an empty cup of water and a huge mess to sop up.

"Whatcha doin'?" I asked hastily.

"Killing that fly." He answered without breaking eye contact from the winged beasty.

"With what?" There was a slight tremor of fear in my voice now.

"With this water. I'm going to drown it." The fly landed lazily on a rung of the blinds, none the wiser that it's ultimate demise was being plotted by my fully grown husband who was brandishing water as his weapon.

Quickly, I grabbed the fly swatter (yes, we have a fly swatter. I know, right?) from behind the fridge, "Honey. How about instead of flooding the kitchen, we use this aptly named device to swat the fly?"

He paused, "I have a better idea."

Uh-oh.

He grabbed the nipple to a bottle which was in the sink, waiting to be cleaned, and filled it with water, "We can't swat it while it's on the blinds; it'll escape. So, I'll startle it with a squirt of water and then you smack it."

I thought this over for a moment and then, deciding that the stream of water was so tiny it couldn't possibly result in flooding, I agreed.

He squirted it, but instead of flying out towards the woman with a fly swatter (go figure) it flew behind the blinds to seek refuge next to the window.

Shem pull the blinds open so I could get it, and that's when it happened: A torrent, a hurricane, an army of flies was released into my kitchen. I'm not kidding you, there were at least 12 flies and they all flew out at the same time. It was like sick, nasty, hairy, buzzy rain fall. I might have screamed a little bit.

It was then that my inner killer was released. I went crazy. I didn't hold back. No one was safe. Letting out a strangled war-cry, I flung that fly swatter as hard and as fast as I possibly could. Shem swiftly left my presence in an attempt to protect himself. (A wise move, I assure you) The flies broke ranks and scattered in every direction. I killed one. I killed another one. They were dropping like...well...you know...flies. Smashing, crashing, screaming...I really didn't care what I hit or where they were killed. I'd killed four before I paused, searching for more.

I found a few, unwisely chilling on my kitchen wall. After a couple more fly casualties, I had killed as many as I could find. I'd definitely won the battle.

It was now time to sweep up their tiny, squished remains. As I was sweeping, one of the dead ones miraculously resurrected, JUMPED at me and flew into my blouse. (People, I couldn't make this up if I tried.) I screamed, spun around in circles (in case you don't know, that's the proper technique for removing flies from your blouse. You can thank me later) and wiped my outfit vigorously in attempts to remove the nasty un-dead zombie fly from my person. I don't know if it worked. But since then, I've changed my clothes and taken a shower so I think it's safe to say it's no longer on me. Crisis (eventually) averted.

I'd won the battle, but not the war. I think I killed a total of six last night. There are at least six more hanging about my abode. I got two this morning. There is one buzzing stupidly against the inside of the blinds in my bedroom as I write this. There was one that flew out at me from behind the shower curtain as I was getting ready for the day (he will pay for his startling trick) And I know there are others. Ohhhh, are there others. Believe me, I WILL find them. And I WILL kill them. And the zombies? I will DOUBLE kill them. That's how serious I am.

They picked the wrong house, guys. The wrong. House.

Walking, Talking, Shouting. Also Music.

Michelle and I have begun to embark on an exercise routine in the morning again. We've been waking up at seven to go for a walk in the park together. I bring Luke. He plays in the leaves. It's a party.

This morning, on my walk back home from the park, I had my ear buds in and was listening to music. I try and keep the volume really low so that I can hear and respond to Luke as he jabbers about the world. Also, so that I can say hi to people who pass and hear what they say back so that I can avoid embarrassing interactions in which a really old lady will speak to me as though I can hear her and I will try to respond as though I heard her and it just doesn't work out because our conversation is like:

Her: My, what a handsome boy you have!
Me: Thanks! You too.

...yeah...

(Not that this story comes from experience. Okay, who am I kidding? Yes it does.)

So, there I am, walking home when I see a big, rather intimidating man who is also wearing headphones, walking toward me. I smile and look down so as to try and avoid interaction with him because I'm the scardiest scardy-cat of all time and was, at the time, imagining all the horrible things the guy would do to me if he were the type of guy to do horrible things to people like me. You can understand my horror then, when he, assuming I had my music blasting, shouted at the top of his lungs, "GOOD MORNING!"

I think I visibly jumped about a foot before regaining my composure, smiling and saying "good morning" back to him. Then I passed him ...and started walking a lot faster.

Overall, it was a really good workout.

When Luke-A-Duke Puke-A-Duked

Well, it finally happened.

Years before I had children, I dreaded this part of motherhood. I knew I'd be a pro at handling mud, clutter, general messiness, bloody noses, skinned knees, bee stings... I was ready for all of that. Heck, I even knew that explosive diapers would be no match for my supermom alter-ego. Potty training? Sure. Accidents? Bring them on. Two year olds painting with feces? Absolutely.

This is thanks, in part, to the fact that I did so much babysitting/nannying while growing up. Wiping a stranger's child's butt for a living has a way of callousing you toward all other horrifying things in life.

If I'm being honest, when facing most of those things in real life, they are much more terrifying than my naive 16-year-old brain thought they would be, but that isn't the point. The point IS; even at 16 I knew that the somewhere in the dark, shadowy, ugly places of my future the moment would inevitably come that my children would expel through their mouths that which they had just consumed and that it would be far worse than any other horrible happening ever.

This morning I had a meeting with destiny.

I gave my baby a bottle of milk this morning because I needed an extra few minutes to wake up and usually a bottle will buy me those minutes. I never expected, as I walked sleepily back into my room to wake up, that I'd be seeing that milk again so soon.

Twenty minutes later, awake and cheerful, I went to get my boy for a morning filled with laughter, singing and tickle fights.

Then it happened.

I smelled it first. Then I saw it. The barf. I'm not talking about that gunk that newborns hoark up on a daily hourly basis. Spit up has nothing on what happened to me this morning. I yearned for spit up after this morning. I would EAT spit up after this morning.
(no. I completely take that last sentence back.)

Also, he had rolled in it. Because just puking all over the entire right side of his bed, his bumpers and somehow the wall, wasn't gross enough. No, he also needed to paint with it and smear it all over his face and squish it into the strands of his soft hair.

It was then that I cursed the universe for having created this reality in which Shem had to work early today. Only today. Out of any of the days in this week. It had to be today. The cursed day. In which my innocence died.

Two hours and several buckets of scalding hot, soapy water later, the smell was entirely eradicated from my house and order had been restored, Luke was bathed and (kind of) fed. He was hungry, but not presumably because of his icky tummy. So breakfast greatly consisted of his throwing dry toast on the floor and spitting applesauce at me as a thank you for cleaning up his puke. Also, the dust pan was lost because he likes to play with it and put it who-knows-where when he's done, so sweeping up the bread crumbs was another fun adventure brought to you in part by my one-year-old.

I have no idea why he's sick. But I think it has something to do with the fact that he likes sucking on tables when we go out to eat.

So, that's how my day was.
How was yours?

Today's Adventure Brought to You By: Cravings

That moment when you go into a chocolate induced coma at around four o' clock in the afternoon and don't wake up until after five so now at 10:46, you're not the least bit sleepy and instead you're up thinking about nothing and watching youtube videos of X Factor auditions since you don't have cable and as you're thinking about nothing, you realize you should probably not be up watching youtube videos mindlessly waiting to become exhausted, you should instead be running about five miles to burn off all the chocolate you consumed earlier which is in every way responsible for all of this trouble in the first place so you stand up, trying to convince yourself to do a jumping jack or something, but the mental exertion of just thinking about doing something like that so overwhelms you that you realize, happily, that you are now ready for bed.

Arise and Shine, Despite the Rocks

Oh Taylor Swift, you've spoken to my soul yet again.

Five minutes ago I sat here, staring at the one or two sentences that I'd very poorly constructed and not knowing how to move forward. I had a lot to say, I just didn't know how to say it.

Frustrated, I flipped over to glance at Pinterest. Someone had pinned a quote from one of my favorite Taylor Swift songs (eh, who am I kidding? All of her songs are my favorite) which miraculously unblocked my writer's block.

Now, the nice thing about Taylor Swift is that while she isn't Bob Dylan (Thank goodness. I'll give you that the guy is a lyrical genius, but my heavens his voice sounds like a toad that was hit by a train in the vocal chords) she just knows how to talk to me. I don't know what it is about the way she writes her music, but I relate and or have in the past related to about 90% of her material.

My friend Kyla and I used to joke that she writes our lives. It's so truuuuue, Ky! So true.

Back to it: Thanks to the anonymity that social media allows, strong and passionate opinions (oftentimes unedited and unfiltered) have been flying for the past three months about a myriad of different social issues, none of which this post is about. This has all lead to my current plight which is that I'm feeling under attack as a religious, right leaning, young wife and mother who on occasion allows her voice to be heard when it comes to social issues I feel strongly about.

I'm also feeling frustrated that I can't seem to express myself concisely. I'm frustrated at my inability affect change; to soften hearts; to share the love that I have for the things I believe without having the them torn apart and thrown back in my face as twisted, ugly, evil things.

"Arise and shine forth that they light may be a standard to the nations"

I'm tryin' to shine, here, people! Why are you not catching fire??

Maybe it's because I'm trying to light buckets of water.

So then Taylor told me in a song she wrote:
"Don't you worry your pretty little mind. People throw rocks at things that shine."

Like two little boys, sitting on a pile of dirt who see that thing glinting in the sun which turns out to be an aluminum can, perched on a fence and they decide to see who can knock it down first.

If you put it up there, there will always be people who want to knock it down. But that doesn't mean you should stop putting it up there.

I will never convince everyone to believe what I believe. I may never convince anyone to believe what I believe...but that's okay. What matters is that I shared what I believe and didn't back down when accusations flew or personal attacks were made. I'm not going to stop shining just because you keep trying to put my light out. I'm not going to stop hanging out on fences just because you keep trying to knock me down.

Because gosh darn it, I'm a shiny aluminum can, glinting in the sunlight!!

...well, you get the point...

I'm NOT pregnant. But I Sure Feel Skinny Now.

*Disclaimer: Parts of this post may be considered "TMI" please proceed with caution*

So, I was late this month if ya know what I mean. (There, I'm getting the TMI parts out of the way early. Feel free to read on, that's as graphic as it gets.)

The reasons this freaked me out are thusly:

1. EVERYONE I talk to lately has been asking me when I'm going to have another baby. My response is usually something like: when Luke stops being one.

2. I've had three people in the last two weeks ask if I'm expecting again. I do not know why this is occurring. I'm not even getting fatter! Maybe I was wearing the wrong sort of shirt or something. But gee...way to make me feel lovely guys. Upon discovering that I'm late this month, my mind of course immediately jumped to the conclusion that I MUST be pregnant if people are asking me about it.

3. Since Luke was a surprise, I'm pretty much convinced every single month that I'm pregnant. This month was no exception, but it WAS the first month that I was ACTUALLY late.

So, I finally broke down (my husband would snort himself silly if he read that, because he knows that 'broke down' actually means 'chomping at the bit') and bought a pregnancy test.

I was at Walmart.

So were about 25 other Mormons that I knew.

I managed to sneak the thing into my cart without any of them being the wiser, but it made me nervous and jumpy so the conversations I had with them were the most awkward conversations of all time: "Uh. Yeah. Hi. Good to see you. Is that your daughter in your cart? Oh..haha...yeah, I'm glad she's yours and not some random stranger's or something. That'd be weir...okay, yeah! You too. See ya."

So it was negative. But there was this blurry line in the place where the positive line is supposed to go, so (because I'm kind of baby hungry and simultaneously terrified of being pregnant ever, ever again) I naturally had to buy another test to make sure.

This time I chose the dollar store.

I had a feeling about this checker before she even rung me up. Something about the way she said, "Welcome to the Dollar Tree!" so cheerfully when I came in. I just knew she would say something about the test. I just knew.

Sure enough: "Ooooo. You're gonna be in trouble."

Not what I expected.

In the absence of my response, she repeated herself, but directed her comments at Luke. Because that's not creepy.

"She gonna be in trouble!"

Luke didn't answer, so I finally said, "No. We'd actually be pretty happy."

So then she told Luke that HE would be in trouble. So I told Luke to tell her that he would be excited. He didn't.

But I think she got the message.

ANYWHOO...lest I keep you all at the edge of your seats that test was VERY DEFINITELY negative so. No new Hawks yet. Which is actually probably a good thing *sigh* since Luke is still so little. But it was an exciting adventure nonetheless.

The Expression Should Be: "Grows Like a Luke"

Now that Luke is walking everywhere and is sitting in a 'big boy' car seat, he seems more and more like a toddler and less and less like a baby. These developments are bitter sweet.

                             What happened to my wrinkled, squishy, immobile lump of cute?

Now he's a rambunctious, curious mover with an aptitude for flirting the likes of which I have never beheld in one so young.



He also sleeps through the night. Which is a bonus. And he feeds himself (when he isn't delighting in throwing corn on the floor and or rubbing pizza enthusiastically into his long, blond hair).

He knows the word "ball" because balls are his favorite things in the entire world short of myself and daddy. He has one in his hand at all times and frequently engages whomever is handy in a game of catch. And gosh darn it if he isn't the most accurate little aimer you've ever seen. He's got quite the arm.

He knows the word "dada".

He says "mama" when he's upset or wants to get out of his crib or needs a good hug, but I'm not sure that he associates that word with me 100% of the time. Whereas with "dada", if I ask Luke "Where is daddy?" he toddles off to find him or points and says "dada!" He's not quite doing that with "mama" yet.

He knows where his toes are. I tell him "Luke, get your toes" and he does. Because he's a genius basically.

He points at everything.

He knows the ASL signs for "more", "eat", "bottle" and "out".

He throws a mighty fit when he doesn't get what he wants. And what he wants is usually my cell phone. And what he wants with my cell phone is usually the marvelous reaction I give when he throws it on the floor with violent force.


But he's easily distracted.

I delight in him every single day. Being his mommy is the best thing in the whole, wide world.  I love watching the world through his discoveries. I can't believe that he's walking now! What a big boy he is. And what a joy.