Peter recently sent these to me for . . . well, nothing in particular--

There was an amazing note attached to it,
but I don't think he would want me to share:)

I'll say this much--
It was good.

Achievement Days

Recently the Achievement Day girls had an activity about temples. I volunteered to be the designated photographer just so I could set my new camera up on that tripod practice.
I was surprised to be the only mom with two girls in AD right now in our ward--
Heck, I'm still surprised I ended up with any girls at all!

kidtopia

The latest projects were the kid's rooms. I did the girls in hot pink and mint green ("Tinkerbell green) and then I painted flowers on the walls. It came out nice.
(Sarah is into dolls in case you can't tell)

John's hero is Buzz Light Year. In a desperate attempt to get John to sleep in his bed I created a space room complete with solar system, etc. I pretty much can't draw, but I can do basic shapes.

These little globes on the dresser I got at Ikea and they light up. Pretty cool.

Identity Crisis

Almost every time I leave the house I get the same question from perfect strangers.
"Where did your kids get their red hair?"
I want to scream, "ME--YOU IDIOT!!"
But, I refrain and instead politely reply, "From me. In fact, my hair used to be as red as theirs."
I get looks of shock and awe--"REALLY??!!"
(Here is where I give them my evil eye)

My hairdresser (a copper redhead) and I have had many discussions about what color it is exactly that people think my hair is. She thinks it is clearly red (as do I). Yesterday my VT's came over and one of them asked the golden question. So I had to take the opportunity to ask. According to her I am definitely a blond.
See, here's the thing--as you well know, if you have been one color most of your life it kind of becomes part of your identity.
For you blonds, you get older and your hair gets darker. For us redheads, our hair just goes lighter and lighter. I colored it for a couple of years for this very reason. One day I had a lady say to me, "What a gorgeous color your hair is! You can't fake red like that, you know."
Well guess what? It was kinda fake.

It has been noted by several professors in my English classes that it is always the redheaded woman that is the deviant in Victorian novels and paintings--the fallen woman, the evil seducer of men.
It was beginning to make me jealous of my former self.

I finally took the plunge yesterday and got a large amount of dark red highlights. At least now people can attribute both my children and my fiesty behavior to my hair.

Because this is MY blog, I'm going to vent

I miss Peter.

Before the tax season started (and before I knew that Peter would be in California for most of the season) I told him I wasn't really looking forward to it. I know money is good, but I also know how there is going to be this big drought of time with him.
So now that he is gone for yet another three straight weeks people are asking--is he still gone?
Then they try to empathize, "I know! I hate having my husband gone--then I have to do everything by myself."
Hmmmm. . .
Not really the reason for me (bless him for trying) he just isn't really concerned about the household affairs that much. Like a lot of men, including my son, he can pretty much live in oblivion to the fact that there is a kid running around with spray paint, the dog is chewing on my new shoes and the phone is ringing. I have come to accept that this isn't intentional--he just really has this uncanny ability to ignore.
Just this last week I had another teacher tell me how amazed he is with Nathaniel because no matter what is happening it doesn't phase him--he can work right through it.
I bet Peter's teachers thought he had amazing focus too. . .
I used to get stressed about this and and try to analyze what it was he was thinking as he stared intently at a spot on the wall, but Peter assured me it is mostly thoughts like, "hmmm...I'm hungry."

ANYWAY--the point is yea, it's a bummer that he isn't around to help me move the piano or tell me how fabulous my cooking is. He isn't there to help put kids to bed, sit with us at stake conference, call the car insurance company or help me through my computer problem.
But that isn't really it, is it?
The hardest part is that I miss him. That's it. Nothing earth-shattering.
I want to see him and touch him and just have him in the house. I don't want to wait until he isn't meeting with a client to talk to him at night--or during the day--or in the middle of the night for that matter.
When I'm stressed, or sad, or hear something only-he-would-understand-insanely-funny I don't want to have to call and be put on hold. I just want him here.
Today he called and we just sat on the phone.
"So . . . (long pause) . . ."
Then he tells me that he doesn't really have anything to say and I get it because that is our way of sitting together right now--with long pauses on the phone mostly talking out loud to ourselves like we are in the same room or something. It's not like we have anything exciting and new to talk about. We just pretty much say the same things all the time.
me-- "so what are you doing?"
Peter-- "working"
me--"how are you feeling?"
Peter-- "tired, sick of talking to people, wanting to be home"
(duh--what is he supposed to say?)
We do this several times a day.

So I'm painting like a madwoman to distract myself (projects are good for when the man is gone) and listening to love songs on the radio that are making me sentimental.
Then I listen to Dr Laura in the car and I tell her "I would be my husband's girlfriend, but you see, he isn't here right now, but I have really good intentions for when he comes home . . . " Then I feel guilt for all the times he was here and I was mad at him.
I am so pathetic.

Oh, Poe

Tonight Nathaniel asked me about Edgar Allen Poe and what made him so famous. I told him about how he was a creepy psychological writer and he wanted to know if I had ever read him.
I told him I had as recently as this last semester and he wanted to know what I read.
It was "Tell Tale Heart." A story about a namless man who wants to kill an old man who lives with him because he is disturbed by the old man's cloudy blue "vulture" eye. Long story short--he kills him after a long and very strange week of haunting the man in his sleep. He then chops the old man's body into pieces and then buries it under the floorboards. When the police come he is completely calm and they suspect he is innocent. The crazy man begins to hear a sound that he is convinced is the beating heart of the dead man, can no longer stand it, and confesses.
Nathaniel said I could have just told him he didn't want to know.
Whatever.
I thought it might be fun to get up around 3am tonight and play the sound of a beating heart on our Halloween CD through his bedroom door.
Nathaniel said he is already sick and doesn't need to die of fright.
He also said before I do something like that to him I should remember that he is the one picking out my retirement home. He said he'll pick a leaky one where instead of bringing you food you have to hunt for it-- and you know--survival of the fittest and all that.
I laughed myself silly.

More weird facts about my son

John is completely germaphobic. Kind of funny, but sometimes just weird.
When he wants seconds he has to have a new bowl or plate and utensils, because he says the other ones have "germs" on them now.
If we drink out of his straw when we are out somewhere John yells at us and then flips the straw over to use the other end (I know--it doesn't really make sense.)
You are dead meat if he catches you double dipping--which he totally will by the way.
Today at Costco we had pizza. He hardly ate any of his so I took my empty plate and covered his with it--apparently a big no-no for John.
Later I sneezed in the direction of his sweatshirt I was holding and he refused to wear it in the 30 degree weather outside because it was now contaminated for life.
This from a kid who mixes food in with his drinks for experimentation, wipes his poo on my towels instead of replacing the empty toilet paper, and pees in his trash if he is mad.
What the heck?