Thursday, September 27, 2012

Complete and Utter Humiliation

Guest Blogger: Ruby

Guys, I have a problem. Why is it that parents make it their personal mission to embarrass their kids?
So, when I was little (I mean, really little...before hair came along) my mom would put these absolutely RIDICULOUS bows on my head. I didn't even have any hair, yet she insisted on putting a hair bow.
Ridiculous, huh?
Fortunately for me, they were easy to take out. Being as they really weren't attached to anything (at least not hair), I could get it out in less than five seconds.

So now I actually have a little hair (emphasize the word little). BARELY enough to put a pony tail in. But my mom insists on sticking my hairs stick straight up off my head.
That's not all, sometimes she does two. Twice the embarrassment.
Has she even looked at how ridiculous it is? When she puts them in, I cry since I can't tell her that it looks horrible. She thinks I'm crying because it is uncomfortable. That's the least of my worries. I'm crying because she is making my few hairs that I have stick STRAIGHT in the air. Mom, people will see me!

The worst of it is this: I can't get those stupid black hair things out of the hair. They're too tight. So I am forced to spend the day in complete humiliation. If she's trying this hard to embarrass me now at age 1, I can't even bare to imagine how my life will be at age 15.
Any advice? Please?

VOTE FOR MY BLOG BY CLICKING HERE!!!! (Remember, all you have to do is click. They just tally how many people get to their website from my blog. Last I checked I was ranked #37. I want to get in the top 25! You can vote daily!)

Tuesday, September 25, 2012

passport addendum

Remember this? (My theory that no matter what, it is impossible to have a cute passport picture?)
Two things have happened since I typed that post.
1. I found my first passport ever.
2. Ruby had her passport pictures taken.

First, I mentioned that I was in that horrible "tween stage" that we can refer to as "the ugly years" of any girl's life. Being an awkward 12 year old apparently wasn't bad enough--I had to get a picture of me taken at the angle that best showed off the double chin and bangs I chopped myself:

Second, my sweet, adorable, precious princess got her picture taken. Normally this girl could be a baby model (not that I'm at all biased):
Photo courtesy of Anna-Alyse Photography
But sure enough, the passport picture made even this adorable girl look, well, you can just take a look yourself:
(Since I'm her mom, actually still think she looks cute even though she's angry)

Since last time I wrote about passports, my feelings toward them have only sharpened as I've realized the true nature of international travel: making us look as absolutely pathetic as possible.
"No, customs guy, I swear I'm just a normal person! Oh yeah, the picture..."

Saturday, September 22, 2012


I love my grandpa. We call him Papa. I remember when I was a little kid (I would guess around six years old—definitely not more than ten), Papa and his late wife Granny came to visit. I specifically remember sitting next to a globe we had in our basement and he told me stories about places he had travelled as a soldier during WWII. He pointed out Papua New Guinea and Japan on the globe—showing me the routes he took through the Pacific Ocean. I remember it was then that I realized that I really love Papa. I remember in my little six year old brain, I thought to myself, “I love my whole family. But I love Papa.” There was something different about him. Something about the way he loved me. I just really love him. Of course since age six, my love for Papa has only grown.
Today my sister called and told me that Papa was in emergency brain surgery and whether or not he would survive was up in the air. She told me to start praying.
When I got off the phone I knelt down with my baby girl. I thanked God for all of the good times that Papa has shared with me. And I asked Him, if it be His will, to keep Papa with us just a little longer. I’m not ready to part. My grandpa has told me that he doesn’t fear death. He has told me that we shouldn’t be sad when he dies because he has had a fabulous life and done everything that he wanted to do. He said that I should never feel sorry for him. But I know I will still feel sorry for myself! I’ll miss him dreadfully, even though he may feel like his life has been fulfilled.
I took my baby to the park where we often spend the afternoon. Today was different though. My mind was racing. As I watched kids climb on the monkey bars, kick soccer balls, play catch, and chase each other, I kept thinking about Papa. My little girl seemed different too. It was as if she understood. Most days she chases other kids around and goes down the slide at least 50 times. Today she just watched. I think her little mind was racing too. Together we sat. We thought of the beautiful earth God created for us, of the opportunity we have to live our lives to the fullest, and of the amazing example of a wonderful life Papa has given to us.
When we got home I found a message on my phone from my mom. Papa had finished the surgery and it had gone smoothly. Though the recovery will be long, he is expected to be home before too long. I can’t believe how lucky I am to have at least a little more time with Papa—who I love so dearly.

This happened yesterday, and all is going amazingly well. He is now out of the ICU and should only be in the hospital a couple of days. We're really lucky!
This was originally posted on my 30 day diary at Check out my other daily posts there by clicking here.

Thursday, September 20, 2012

Splish and Splash

Camm usually works evenings so I'm the one who gives Ruby a bath and puts her to bed most nights. She is a water girl. The water doesn't scare her. She doesn't care if she goes completely underwater. She doesn't mind getting her hair rinsed out. She loves the stuff.
Unfortunately, this means she doesn't mind splashing. And lately boy has she been splashing. I sit on the side of the bath watching her. Out of nowhere she decides it is time to splash.

When I scream from the shock of it all, it eggs her on. She begins her little giggle with her splashing. I continue screaming, she splashes more and more. Before I know it, I need a towel for myself.

I hadn't told Camm about Ruby's new even more profound love for the water until Sunday night. We were finishing up dinner and Camm said, "Hey, I'll clean the kitchen while you give Ruby a bath." I looked around the kitchen (which was very dirty by the way) and I said, "You know what, I think I'll clean the kitchen." Camm was surprised until he got into the bathroom with Ruby.

I couldn't have planned this better. Somehow Ruby learned that day that splashing isn't good enough. She found her bucket and began filling it with water then dumping it on Camm.

From the kitchen, I heard Camm's screams and Ruby's laughter.
And I've never - in all my life - been so glad to be cleaning the kitchen.

PS--Did you notice my haircut from the picture? What do you think?

Tuesday, September 18, 2012

From police to thief

Ruby is obsessed with shoes.
We used to refer to her as the "shoe police" because she never let anyone leave them out. If she found shoes anywhere left out, she would pick them up, bring them to whoever they belong to, and demand that they put them on. Sometimes she would even find them in our closet, bring them to us, and demand that we wear them. She hated to see shoes off of someone's feet.
Ruby Clark, shoe-sheriff deputy
Then one day she changed. She had given up on shoe patrol and decided to become the shoe thief.
Disguised thief steals ten pairs in one hour.
Now every time she sees that our shoes are on, she takes them off and then wears them herself. She often leaves us with her shoes as if that makes it ok. "Don't worry mom, we'll just trade."

Thursday, September 13, 2012


This time I am the guilty one (as opposed to the last time I wrote about eavesdropping). I just have never heard this joke before and I thought it was really funny.

Camm, Ruby and I were coming out of the local hospital (we wanted to see if the hospital cafeteria has as good of shakes as our hospital in UT--no it doesn't).
We saw an old man approaching an old woman:
"Hey Lady! How's it going?" the man was excited.
"Oh hi, whatcha up to?" she responded.
He poked out and patted his beer belly, "Oh about 200".

I stifled my laughter and tried to get away as fast as possible. It was just so unexpected coming from this old man.
Has anyone else overheard a joke and had a hard time not just busting up?

Vote for my blog by clicking here. Once you click, your job is done. And I'm on my way to becoming famous! Vote every day by clicking the brown "Top Mommy Blogs" banner on the right of my page.

Like my facebook page!

Tuesday, September 11, 2012

Totally unpopular

My conversation with a man giving out samples of his home-made peanut brittle at the Farmer's Market.

"Oh, yum. Peanut Brittle!" I was excited.

"Yes," he replied, "And do you like organic?"

Without thinking about the fact that I was at a Farmers Market and that organic is really cool among people there, I replied "Oh I don't really care about organic so much."

dead silence

I'm sure he contemplated kicking me out of the market, but realized he didn't have authority to do that. His mind was racing with what to say. I sat there stunned, wishing I hadn't been so blatantly honest. Finally the man cut the silence with, "Uh, well, you can give it a try."

"Thanks," I took the peanut brittle and walked quickly away. I had just committed social suicide.

But, I still don't think having organic PEANUT BRITTLE makes it healthy. Trendy, maybe. Healthy, no.

Thursday, September 6, 2012

The sound we all hate: and our compromise

Everyone I know hates the sound of the alarm clock.
But everyone seems to have a different way of coping with the annoying sound.

There's the unintentional coping method that has happened to everyone at least once. The alarm becomes part of your dream. Maybe you're dreaming that you're making cookies and suddenly the oven timer starts beeping (really your alarm clock) and you are fighting to get the cookies out of the oven but an alien is attacking your house and it is impossible. Meanwhile you hear the beeping constantly and wake up an hour late.
Luckily this event is more rare in our house (good thing or else we'd be late to everything). So how do we cope with the sound we all hate? Camm and I have very different regular methods.

Camm's method ~ We'll call it "Love the ZZZZ's" or maybe "Snooze away!"

Camm likes that ease from restful sleep to wakefulness. He could go on and on with the snoozers until the very last possible second he can safely get ready.

I can't handle this. It  quadruples, quintuples, or hextuples the number of times you have to hear that horrible sound. And to me the "ease" from rest to wake is 30 minutes of anger that you aren't sleeping deeply.
I've got to do it at once. I set my alarm for the last possible second before I need to wake up. Then, one second I am awake, the next second I hear that terrible noise, hit it off as fast as I can and vow to not have to hear it again for 24 hours.

To make our methods work together, Camm has cut it down to 1 snooze which I can handle.

What methods do you have for dealing with the most annoying noise in the world?

Don't forget to vote for me by clicking here! I'm down to #40. My goal is the top 25.

Tuesday, September 4, 2012

18 years later...finally getting this off my chest

I came from a family with five kids and a Dodge Ram Van. I was the youngest.
As a kid, my family took a road trip in that Dodge Ram Van all the way from Seattle to Yellowstone. I remember very vividly the trip home. My dad was driving, we got caught up in bumper to bumper traffic, had the windows rolled down, and were sweating so much that our legs were sticking to the plastic covered seats. I was seven years old.

I looked out the window and saw a semi truck towering above me. In my seven year old mind it seemed like the perfect opportunity to get some excitement. I raised my hand to the window and made the honk sign right as the grizzly truck driver looked my way.
Immediately he honked. Loud and Clear. And boy was I proud of myself.
But that pride was short lived. My excitement came to a painful halt when I looked to the front of the van at my dad who was driving. He was angry. Phrases like these began coming out of his mouth:

"What on earth is that truck honking for?" "He already knows we're stuck in traffic, what good is honking?" "Is he just trying to get attention?" "What does he want me to do?" "How can someone be that stupid?"

I watched my dad get more and more worked up about it. All the while I knew exactly what had happened. Yet I said nothing. I just let my dad be upset. And I never said a word, until now, eighteen years later.
Sorry dad.

Vote for me by clicking here!