My Haunting Past

For as long as I can remember, my mom never bought me clothes. Not for my birthday. Not as a Christmas gift. Not before school started. She had to wait until I was with her, because chances were, if she bought something without me, I'd hate it. Being picky about my clothes doesn't even begin to describe me in my youth. Admittedly, I was a huge pain.

I went through a phase of not wearing tank tops because I was self conscious about having chicken pox scars on my shoulders (which nobody ever noticed but me). I remember safety pinning my shirts to the inside of my shorts to make it look like I was wearing a body suit (how embarrassing). And I probably wore overalls every other day for about four years straight. I can imagine my mom cringed everytime she saw me in those awful, baggy overalls.

I can still remember the torture of going back to school shopping when I was young and walking into the Mervyn's juniors department for the first time. The clothes there were way cooler than in the girls section. I thumbed through a bunch of size 1 and 3 clothes, only to realize they were all too big. I was probably 13 and I was too thin to fit the clothes in the juniors department. I remember making that agonizing walk to the other side of Mervyn's and being forced to look through shirts that were attached to skorts and other awful girl choices. It was embarrassing. I was too old for that stuff, but yet, it was all that fit.

I think that's why I stuck to the overalls. Nobody had to know how skinny I was under all that denim. But my own self consciousness, is not really the point of this post.

The point is, my past is coming back to bite me in the butt in the form of a daughter named Gabriella.

She is me in disguise. And I'm getting paid back all those years of battling with my mom over clothes. Big time.

This girl hurries to her closet every morning to get herself dressed. It's always one of two leggings. One of two dresses or one particular skirt. She hates to wear pants and refuses to wear some of the cutest shirts because of the "puff sleeves" or some other ridiculous observation she made about them. I see the same clothes on her little body day after day. And I want to burn them.

Today she came skipping into my room after getting herself dressed with a knowing look. A look that said, "I know you hate this pink corduroy dress and blue polka dot leggings I wear every other day, but I got myself dressed, so you must be proud of me, right?"

I was not proud.

I want the washing machine to eat that outfit. It's horrible.

I walked with her back to her closet and pulled open her drawer. For a good fifteen minutes I tried negotiating with her to wear something else. Me. Negotiating with a five year old. Over clothes. I had reached a new parenting low.

I said she could pick out a shirt then I would pick out the pants. She wanted a skirt. So I finally told her she could wear her favorite skirt if she wore the shirt I picked out. She agreed. She then proceeded to follow me around the house with her skirt on, and holding the totally adorable shirt I picked out, crying about not wanting to wear it. This went on and on. She was stubborn and persistent about it. I got flash backs to doing the same thing to Bryn. I would follow her around the house begging her to let me wear her shoes, or the shirt she was planning on wearing. I have a good sister, because most the time I got my way. Thanks Bryn.

But with the roles reversed, and Gabs following me around, I was losing my mind. Finally, with about ten minutes before her school ride was to be here, and still needing to eat lunch, I told her to pick out whatever she wanted. I didn't care. She stood there dumbfounded that I would suggest such an idea. Then bolted to her room, so excited.

She emerged in this little number with a grin from ear to ear.

I can not imagine giving up full control over her wardrobe choices at the tender age of five, but I suppose I can let the girl pick out her own outfits from time to time. Look how happy she is. It's not the end of the world if she is wearing two contrasting shades of pink, navy blue and black, and a short sleeved sweater over a long sleeve shirt. I'm sure this is only the beginning of my battles with girls and clothes. I probably deserve it.

And mom, I am so, so, so, so, sorry.

4 Signs...

...that Gabriella and Gwen view Henry more as a doll to dress up and play with than as a little brother.

Luckily, he plays the doll role perfectly for them.

Two Wheeler

Gabriella got a bike last year for Christmas. I can probably count on two hands the number of times she has actually ridden the bike. I guess that makes me a bad mom. But I'll take the high rode and blame it on a bunch of other stuff and free my mind from any personal guilt.

She got it in the middle of winter and there is no bike riding in winter here. Since that lasts until about April, I'll blame the next few months on the fact that I had a newborn and wasn't going for many bike rides. Then it was perfect summer weather and we would go on family walks while Gabs rode her bike. But, honestly, she was lazy. She would tire out blocks from home and preferred to walk along side her bike while pushing it. Many nights she would sit on her bike holding onto one side of the double stroller handle, while I pushed from the other side giving her a free ride. Basically, I pushed two children in the stroller and pulled one child behind the stroller. That's when I quit. Then it was winter again, and the bike retired almost untouched to the garage.

Until Monday.

Joe had the day off, so I treated myself to a date with only Henry. We don't get a lot of one on one time together and he had been begging me to take him to the fabric store. So reluctantly, I went. Three hours later, Henry finally let me leave. Man, does that boy ever love his fabric store.

When we pulled into our back alley to park in the garage, I was surprised to see Joe and the girls playing in the back instead of in the front like we usually do. As I got a better look, I saw Gabriella was riding her bike. All alone. Without training wheels. I couldn't believe it. I love how happy she looks with herself in the pictures. Her tongue shows such focus and concentration. And I absolutely love how she is swerving all over the place towards me. Adorable.

Apparently, Joe decided to walk with the girls to the park on our beautiful 58 degree, non rainy, January day. He eventually ended up dragging two bikes with him, while the girls ran ahead of him. Frustrated, he asked Gabriella if she just wanted to take her training wheels off and learn to ride a bike. She said yes. One trip down the back alley and she was golden. That's when I showed up to snap pictures. This is her on her way back down the alley after her first try. Amazing.

We were all so proud of her. And she was filled with such joy and excitement. She proudly marched her two wheeler right back inside our garage with such confidence. Like she had really accomplished something.

And she hasn't touched it since.

Big Changes

Henry had gotten up early (6:15) and I was feeding him his bottle in my dark bedroom trying to keep him quiet so the rest of the house wouldn't wake up (We have two messy haired girls who jump out of bed running at the slightest noise-especially if that slightest noise is Henry.) It was Monday morning last week and we had a full day ahead. Gabriella was getting screened to start an early Kindergarten pilot program at the elementary school down the street. I knew we would have to be up and going earlier than normal, but I wanted the girls (especially Gabs) to get as much sleep as possible.

Henry and I were singing our gazillioneth pat-a-cake song when my cell phone rang at 7:20. My stomach dropped.

You see, I had been waiting for at least a month for that early morning phone call. I knew, one day, Joe would show up at work, check his work e-mail, and get very important news. The news of where we would be spending the next 4 years of our life.

We found out we're moving to Manhattan.

Manhattan, Kansas that is.

I felt so relieved to finally know. We were hoping for Kentucky or Kansas. Those were the best places on the list given us. We really, really, did not want the others on the list. Ft. Sill, Oklahoma, no thank you. Ft. Leonard Wood, Missouri, no way. Ft. Hood, Texas, not so much. Ft. Polk, Louisiana, over my dead body. News of us being sent to one of those places would have made me cry. I would probably still be crying. Those are BAD places to live. They're in super small towns, with no one but military living there, and you're surrounded by nothing!

Kansas is such a blessing! Here's what we know and are excited about Manhattan, Kansas:

*It's called "The Little Apple"

*Manhattan is home to Kansas State University. The Wildcats. (Joe and I already looked up the football schedule and even though we're BYU fans through and through, it won't hurt to bleed purple for a few years. First game of the season-UCLA. We'll totally be there.)

* Was recently noted as one of the Top 10 places to retire. (Not that we have any intentions of retiring there, it's still nice to know).

* Is surrounded by lakes, golf courses and the Flint Hills (which means it's probably not so "flat".)

* Has a Target, Hobby Lobby and Joann's in the city, so what else could I possibly complain about? Oh wait, the fact that Costco is 150 miles away. But I just look at that as an opportunity to save money.

* Joe will finally be graduating residency and be the only ENT physician serving Ft. Riley. He is very excited to not have to "report" to anyone anymore. He'll be his own boss and in control of his own clinics and OR's. He'll be busy enough at Ft. Riley, but have plenty of time for family time.

* We'll be able to move into a home bigger that the 1,500 square foot home in which we currently reside.

* There is a zoo, library, public parks and pools for the kids to keep busy.

* They have fun annual things like the Country Stampede Music Festival and the New Year's Eve Little Apple Ball Drop. I love that!

* The temple for that area is the Winter Quarters Temple, in Nebraska. How cool is that?

* We'll be surrounded by church history. I can't wait to take the kids and show them all these places.

* We'll actually be 80 miles closer to Joe's family and 140 miles closer to my family than we are here in Washington.

* There will be TONS of opportunities to do corn mazes. Fun for all!

* It's within driving distance to St. Louis (we can't wait to go back and take our kids to all the places we loved but never got to experience with children) and Colorado (great skiing vacations).

* We've been told it's a great, friendly, community. It has that small town feel, but big enough to give you everything you need.

Overall, it sounds pretty perfect. I remember saying to Joe five years ago how I didn't want to wish away his residency. I knew his schedule would be crappy at times and not easy, but I wanted to enjoy it all and not hurry it along. I wish that I could pause time right now and enjoy my family just as it is for a little while longer. We're healthy, happy, and life is simple with three young kiddos. But, the five years are over and it is time for us to move on. We're upbeat and excited to start fresh. Moving to a new place is refreshing. We love to explore places and experience new things. For us, the military is all about keeping us out of debt and enjoying people and places we would have never experienced otherwise. I never would have thought that I would live in Kansas. But I never imagined living in St. Louis (which I fully expected to hate) or Washington either. But guess what, we loved and love both those places. They have been perfect for us. We have grown as a family and become closer because of it. I can't imagine living the past nine years any other way. I know we are meant to go to Kansas. I know it will be prefect for us, right now, at this point in our lives. I'm thrilled to see the ways our family will grow while we are there and what life will be like.

So just like these past five years in Washington, I don't plan on wishing the next four years in Kansas away either. I know they'll go by faster than I want anyway.

Yes, I know the pictures have nothing to do with this post, but speaking of big changes, I had to post these pictures. I made Henry this tie and he wore it today for the first time. Doesn't it totally change him from an infant to a toddler? I actually wish the next four years would take about eight, just so I can keep these kids younger a bit longer.

Sunday Dinner

Someone was suppose to be feeding Henry dinner.

Someone didn't even put a bib on him.

Someone got busy in the kitchen doing a million other things for everyone else's dinner.

Someone just handed our nine month old a crumbly roll to eat.

Someone didn't notice when Henry crumbled that crumbly roll all over his tray, chair, floor, shirt and face.

Someone wasn't even paying attention when he put his crumbly, slobber ridden, hands through his own hair making him look like Alfalfa from The Little Rascals.

Someone left Henry in his seat far too long for dinner.

That someone wasn't me.

But someone, who shall remain nameless, but starts with a "J" and ends with an "-oseph", did give Henry his second bath of the day. And wiped his tray and chair. And swept the floor. And put his clothes in the laundry. And made lamb for dinner.

So, while I was milking the fact I'd gotten my wisdom teeth pulled a few days earlier, I'd say someone did a pretty darn good job handling Sunday dinner.

And Henry didn't seem to mind one bit.

Rum Tum Tugger

My dad has always told Gabriella that she has Rum Tum Tugger hair. She had wild hair as a toddler and would wake up in the mornings and after naps with the most wonky hair you'd ever seen. When she was a little older he would tell her that she had beautiful strawberry blonde hair. And Gabs would always reply, "It's not strawberry blonde. It's blueberry blonde." Because, at the time, her favorite was Blueberry Muffin, not the more popular Strawberry Shortcake. It made my dad laugh every time. He continued to tease her about her "strawberry blonde" hair, because she was, and still is, so sure and adamant that her hair is not strawberry blonde.

I guess it has been awhile since the two of them had this little rehearsed conversation, because the other week we were talking to my parents on Skype for the first time, and the dialogue changed a bit. My dad told her once again that she had such beautiful strawberry blonde hair. Gabriella told him this time, "It's vanilla. Not strawberry." She must think my dad is crazy and unsure why he keeps telling her her hair is red like strawberry, when it's obviously blonde like vanilla.

She was born with curly locks of strawberry blonde hair. The nurses at the hospital told me that they were talking while she was in the nursery and had decided that she had arranged to go to a beauty salon to get highlights before she was born, because they had never seen so much light hair on a newborn. She could wear piggies in her hair just after her first birthday. She has received several, few inch, cuts, and still her hair is just like mine, grows like a weed and is super long. She never cries or complains when I comb it. And she always patiently waits for me to style it. She's an easy hair girl. No drama, for a change, in the hair department.

For months, really ever since Gwen got her hair "trim", she has been telling me that she has wanted to cut her hair. I couldn't bring myself to do it. You see, my hair is my security. I've had long hair most my life. And when I, irrationally, decided to cut my hair, I wished for my long hair back. I hate short hair on me. I don't look good with short hair. So, I've kept my hair long. And as I kept giving Gabriella excuse after excuse as to why we couldn't go get her hair cut, I realized, her long hair too, had become a security for me. I just couldn't bring myself to cut her gorgeous long hair. Her hair is part of who she is. And I couldn't cut it off.

Finally, over the Christmas break she asked again to cut her hair. I decided I needed to let go of my own personal insecurities and let the poor girl get her hair cut. That's what she wanted, and she's old enough to have her hair the way she wants it. So I told her we'd go.

I whisked her out of the tub before I lost my courage and we got ready to go. I snapped a few pictures for fear I'd loss all memory of her long hair and we set out to get it cut.

On the way, she announced she wanted it cut "all the way down to her neck." Her neck?!! I was not prepared for that dramatic of a change. I called Joe (who loves her long hair), my mom, and Bryn for reinforcement. I'm stupid I know, but I was nervous!

As soon as I told all of them where we were going, they all said the same thing. "You can't cut her long hair."

I KNOW!

But we were on our way and it was going to happen. So I told her we'd compromise and she could cut it to her shoulders. She was so giddy she could hardly sit still in the chair. I could hardly look.

I watched her pretty blonde locks fall to the floor and couldn't believe how much was being cut off. She was beaming and kept tossing her hair from side to side.

She looks cute. But different. And I'm glad her hair grows fast. Because I want it long again.

But not Gabs. She loves it. And shows everyone her hair cut.

So I guess I'm the only one with hair drama.

A Red Nosed Reindeer

I couldn't let this holiday season slip past without recording one of my favorite moments. It was the highlight of Christmas morning for me and I would regret not recording it. Kids are only little and innocent for so long, and I have to remember Gwen and her belief in Santa because pictures don't do it justice. I'll try in words...

I had my Christmas shopping complete in September. We weren't doing anything fancy this year because our 9 year old piece of crap, tube monitor, no speakers, slower than all get out, hard drive memory full, computer was being replaced (hello brand new, bigger than our tv, a little excessive for my taste, but beautiful none-the-less, brand new iMac that I have come to completely love, computer). Otherwise, Christmas was simple and sweet and finished by September.

About two weeks before Christmas, Gwen started saying she wanted a "red nosed reindeer" from Santa. I wasn't really giving it any thought because we had been watching Rudolph and listening to the Rudolph song, and I just wasn't thinking that it was really something she wanted. Well, one day she told our magical Elf on the Shelf that she wanted a "red nosed reindeer" from Santa. And then each morning after that, she very specifically told our hidden Elf (who became known as "Freddy") that she wanted a "red nosed reindeer." It was starting to sink in that she was seriously wanting this "red nosed reindeer", whatever it was.

Then the Saturday before Christmas, Joe took the girls to a pancake breakfast with Santa. He called as it was ending and told me that Gwen sat right on Santa's lap (whom she had previously been terrified of) and looked him square in the eyes and told him what she wanted for Christmas. "A red nosed reindeer." Joe said we had to make it happen. I agreed. This little girl needed that "red nosed reindeer".

Remember it's the Saturday before Christmas and I had pleasantly avoided all the Christmas shopping nuttiness for months. But we set out with all the other crazies that day for one reason and one reason only. To find a "red nosed reindeer". "This will be easy. It's Christmas and she wants a reindeer. It's not like she's asking for the Easter bunny. A red nosed reindeer will be easy to find." That's what we thought.

So all five of us load up in the car and fight the insane amount of cars navigating through pouring rain and drivers not filled with any amount of Christmas spirit to get one itty-bitty, should be easy to find, item. Just as we pull into a parking place far far far from the stores, I say to Joe, "I hope this doesn't turn into something impossible to find." Well, that did it. I jinxed us.

We went to Kohls. Nothing. Target. Nothing. Hallmark for goodness sakes. Nothing. Marshalls. Nada. I even gave Michaels a look. Not a red nosed reindeer in the bunch. Lots of moose. But no reindeer. I didn't even know what I was looking for exactly, but nothing was even remotely acceptable. Gwen was going to be one sad little girl come Christmas morning.

After several hours, I had Joe drop me at Fred Meyer, a store I rarely frequent, so I could run in and check it out. It was MADNESS in there. I almost turned right back around before I got too far in because it was overflowing with people. Instead, I walked to the Christmas aisles that were picked over from floor to ceiling and looked around. Finally, I just asked two workers I saw talking if they had a "red nosed reindeer." I even took my two fingers and did the "quote" sign, because I was a little annoyed, for one, that I wasn't finding anything, and two, so they would know that a moose just wasn't going to cut it.

The man apologetically shook his head no and said they didn't carry anything like that. But the lady standing with him kinda looked off into the distance over my shoulder and said "yeah, I think we might." She walked right past me and I whirled around to quickly follow her.

She walked straight over to this random CD case and way up on the top of it she pulled down the "red nosed reindeer". I didn't know what I was looking for, but when I saw this beauty, I knew I had hit the jackpot.

It was $30.00, but I didn't care. I would have paid $75.00 just to get out of there and be done with the whole thing (Apparently, $30.00 would have been a stellar deal-I can't find one less than $90.00 on line.) But the lady told me all their stuffed animals were 50% off but she wasn't sure if this one was included, because it played music. Yup, its nose lights up when you press its ear. Like I said, its perfect. As we were walking around to find a scanner to check, she told me that she had personally received three phone calls the day before for people looking for this authentic red nosed reindeer. She said they didn't carry it. But that this morning, she had spotted this one in the back and set it up on that random shelf. It's mouth was even a little dirty. Who knows how long it had been tucked away in some back room. She told me it must have been meant for me. I think it was meant to be too.

We found the scanner and sure enough it was 50% off. I could have hugged the woman, but I resisted and instead just told her that she made my day and would make a 3 year old very happy on Christmas morning. She told me she would make my day even better and gave me a 10% off coupon. That's when I hugged her. Just kidding. But I wanted too.

I walked out of there with the best looking "red nosed reindeer" for the best $13. 57 I'd ever spent. I was so excited to give it to Gwen.

For the next week, every time she told the Elf what she wanted, I told her that she can ask, but that Santa gets to decide what he brings to children. She would nod her head like she understood. On Christmas Eve, as I was about to kiss her goodnight, she told me, "I really hope Santa decides a red nosed reindeer." I told her I did too.

On Christmas morning the girls woke up and ran to the couch to see what Santa had left. When Gwen saw her reindeer she stopped dead in her tracks and covered her mouth with her two little hands and was literally shaking with excitement. I thought she was about to cry she was so happy. You could just feel the excitement she had oozing out of her. She ran in circles and jumped on the couch and kept saying "He did decide to get me a reindeer. He did decide."

Finally, after minutes of celebration and joy, she reached out and picked up that reindeer and hugged it so tight. It hasn't left her side since. She sleeps with it, takes it in the car with her (which generally is a no go), combs it's fur, feeds it her apples, uses its blinking red nose to lure Henry her way and above all else, makes sure it is referred to as a "her".

As far as Gwen was concerned Christmas was over and everything else wrapped up under the tree was chopped liver. Compared to her reindeer, it's safe to say, it was. Santa was the big winner this year. Nothing else even came close. I hope Santa pulls through like this every year.