Rollie Pollie Olie

I’m not sure if I’ve ever mentioned that my little Jdog is not all that little. At his recent 4 month appointment he weighed 18lbs and 4oz and was 271/2 inches from stem to stern. And this little chubby bubby is learning to roll his pudgy 95^th percentile proportions around. And it couldn’t be cuter.

He begins lying down on his back. In this position Jdog’s belly looks like a bull-frog’s: thick, soft, squishy and perfectly round. Then he gets a good grip on his feet, latches tightly to his toes, and tips them up to his lips for a taste test. They must taste pretty darn good, because he likes sucking on his toes much more than any of the binkis I’ve bought him. Once his toes are firmly planted in his mouth, he tips over to his side. Soon, something from his new side view snatches up his attention, so he kicks his leg, arches his back and digs his head into the floor. And slowly, but surely—like a patient, pudgy little puppy, baby J makes his way from his back to his belly. Then he tilts his heavy head to the side, and the rest of his body follows suit, returning him to his back.

I’m sure most babies roll their way around in similar fashion. It’s Jdog’s sweet, patient temperament he has had while learning this new skill that has me amazed. He usually doesn’t get frustrated when his arms get stuck. Today while eating dinner at the in-laws he just slowly, quietly rolled his way around the living room while we all stuffed our faces. Every time I looked over my shoulder to check on my little man, he had completed another 360 toward this or that toy. And when I call his name, he looks my way with his hound dog cheeks drooping. Oh how I love my rollie pollie baby.

The Run Down

My running shoes and I—we have a pretty good relationship. I take them out for a 40 minute spin around the neighborhood almost every day. We survey the surroundings together, take inventory of my latest thoughts, pause to pick up random items that spring forth from the stroller, and occasionally get a good work out.

Today was one of those occasions. We ran a half marathon: me, my shoes and my SIL Famous. It hurt so good. Here’s our 13.2 mile play by play, just in case you were interested:

Mile 0: Racing around my apartment trying to chase the butterflies out of my stomach as I watch the clock and wait for just the right time to wake up the Atrain. As much as he won’t like waking up to a momma who was leaving, he would have loathed waking up to a babysitter (even though she is the nicest girl around).

Mile 1: Famous and I are drowning in a tidal wave of 8,000 runners. We’re nervous, but it helps to get going. It’s still hard to believe that we’re doing this.

Mile 2: Famous ditches her gloves on the lawn of the public library.

Mile 3: We are stuck running behind a tall, muscular chap who is wearing toe shoes, tight black gear and uncomfortable looking, wedgie-inducing underclothing. He makes us cringe.

Mile 4: We wonder whose body odor we smell around us, and then converse about P-diddy and the husbands’ incredible ability to sweat. They are brothers, and share the same remarkable ability to perspire profusely.

Mile 5: Stuck behind wedgie-man again. He prances down the road with his bottom awkwardly protruding. We are unsure if his strange gate is caused by the toe shoes or the underwear lodged between his buttocks. I hate that I am analyzing his wedgie. We make a valiant effort to pass him.

Mile 6: We stop for 10 minutes at the port-a-potties. The lines are astounding and the mood is tense. There probably isn’t a more impatient crowd than a heap of racers waiting indefinitely for others to finish their business and continue on with the race.

Mile 7: We turn down my favorite road in the city—the small, windy road where the D.I. lives. Passing the store calms my nerves and sends a second wind my way.

Mile 8: We initiate the mile marker dance ritual.

Mile 9: I talk to the husband who successfully loaded both kiddos into the car and is heading down to the finish line.

Mile 10: “I belive in a thing called love,” by The Darkness comes on my playlist. Famous admits that she has never heard the song. I am appalled. So, I give her one of my head phones and we job in synch as downtown’s skyscrapers come into view. We’re giggling with excitement like silly teenage girls at a late night sleep-over.

Mile 11: We take inventory of our hurting bodies. I can feel my right knee complaining with every step and my left ankle has also decided to revolt. But we’re almost there. Famous is feeling sore, but great. I know she could keep running for another 13.2 miles.

Mile 12: In the shadow of downtown’s skyscrapers and amidst random rounds of applause, Famous and I finally realize that we hadn’t yet discussed the most exciting news of the year, Esteban (the husband’s brother) and Hillsey’s engagement. We squeal with delight. It gives us just the rush of endorphins we need to make it up the last hill.

Mile 13: My body is protesting, but my mind is pumped. We’re now in the thick of the crowds, soaking in the applause. Famous and I are searching for familiar faces. I’m so excited to see the husband, Atrain and Jdog. They will be so proud of me. I’m so proud of me. I knew Famous and I could do it and it’s almost done. I turn up “Single Ladies” and let Beyonce guide me to the finish line.

Mile .2 – finish line: There are fences gating off the road. Many happy people are yelling “Good job! Keep going!” Little kiddos press their faces against the bars and stick their hands out for high-fives. I give friendly high fives as I look for the husband and my little men. I can’t wait to see them. I hear a familiar “momma” yell from the right side and I flip my hair around to see Atrain sitting atop the husband’s shoulders. They’re smiling and waving excitedly. I blow kisses. I feel so happy you’d think that I was the first one coming down the route. But nope…not even close—we’re probably a good hour behind the first finisher, but it still feels amazing. Famous and I cross the finish line with our arms linked. We stop running. We hug. We laugh. Then we can’t remember how to make our bodies move forward again.

Cool down: Famous’ husband, P-diddy reviews our stats—which are not all that impressive, but we’re still impressed. I give Atrain, Jdog and the husband a kiss. The Jdog lifts his huge cheeks into a toothless grin, knowing that he’ll soon be able to eat a huge morning meal. I smile knowing that I’ll soon be able to do the same.

Finishing the half marathon was great—not because we posted an amazing time, or because of all of the calories I burned or because I finally have a great running playlist to enjoy on my daily jogs. It was great because of the company, because of our cheerleaders, and because I proved to myself that I still have a few surprises up my sleeve. Can’t wait to see what else is up there.

Miles to Go

I’m running 13.2 miles tomorrow. I run little bits a lot, but this will be my first longish run. I can’t wait. I feel like I’m waiting for Christmas morning. The husband is doing the bike tour that follows the marathon route. He has set out all of his biking gear perfectly under piano like presents under the Christmas tree. So I merrily followed suit. I don’t have any cool running gear—normally I run in whatever t-shirt and basketball shorts are clean (and pull whatever I can find from the laundry if they’re not). But tomorrow I’ll be decked out in the t-shirt they gave me, borrowed running capris and the cool custom headband my cousin made me. It’s one of the ones that didn’t fall into the toilet the other day. The only thing I’m missing is the match to my super cool, extra supportive socks. Hopefully it will turn up in the morning.

My half marathon playlist is downloading onto my phone. I hope it works. I can’t wait to rock out to Beyonce while I’m jogging down the big city roads. Beyonce will be joined by The Jackson Five, Joss Stone, The Darkness, Captain Bhangrhe Da, and even a little Nickel Creek. But who knows if I will even listen to any of them. I’ll have my SIL Famous there to keep my mind off my sore knees and aching toes. With her, I’m sure that I’ll finish. I just hope that I don’t loose any toenails in the process. I hate it when that happens.

Atrain can’t wait for his kid run. He wore his race T-shirt around all night, posing with his “tough guy” crinkled nose, flexed arms and ready-for-anything squat. He’ll hang out here with his adorable nursery teacher (who so kindly consented to be our early morning babysitter during the hour and a half gap in parental units while we are on the road). His race starts at 10:00. I think I’m more excited to watch him cross the finish line than to cross it myself. Wish us luck.

Being a Butt Head

When in high school, everyone becomes the butt of a joke at one point or another. It’s no fun; being the butt downright stinks. But, it’s high school—if you’re not the butt head, you’re the butt. And everyone alternates roles.

When I was a sophomore, I became the butt of an ongoing joke that still haunts me today. It’s the “15 minute rule”—a regulated time period that signifies when I am not allowed to revisit past conversations. I break the rule all of the time, which is (I guess) why the institution of the rule was funny in the first place. But I don’t really care. I can’t really help it. My mind often muddles in rewind, especially when I’ve been a butt head.

Today I had lunch with a few of my high school friends. I adore these women. I love the variety of memories we have together. I’m grateful for how much I have learned and how much I’m still learning from and with each of them. I love teasing the husband about how he (most likely) kissed every one of them in his youth at one point or another. Aren’t I a sweet wife?

One of my friends, I’ll call her Veronica, is practically perfect in every way. She’s also been dealt a set of seriously imperfect circumstances of late. But, she’s the kind of woman who won’t let a hurricane of hurt blow out her candle. Even though I’m sure there are moments when her flame flickers, she maintains a warm, steady stream of light that amazes and inspires me. I need to be more like Veronica. But instead, I say dumb things that could make my nicest friend feel badly.

You see, we were discussing everyone’s summer plans when Shaloha asked if I was going to Texas with the husband. “Only for a couple of weeks,” I said. “What will you do for the rest of the time he is there?” she asked. And then, without even thinking I stupidly said, “I’ll just be a single mom, I guess,” as if there were even a comparison to be made. There’s not. It’s just one of those phrases that I used to say without really thinking. That is, until Veronica became a single mom. Now I think about it all of the time: how I can’t understand and hope I never have to understand what it would feel like to be in her shoes. As soon as those words, that empty comparison, came so casually out of my mouth, I felt like a slob—like an inconsiderate, ungrateful butt head.

Veronica wasn’t even listening, but after the phrase marinated in my mind for much longer than 15 minutes, I knew that I had to call her and apologize. Not because I think she was offended—she’s not the kind of girl who easily takes offense. She always gives everyone the benefit of the doubt. But I wanted to express my regret for being so ignorant for the past 26 years of my life. I don’t’ know how many times I’ve thoughtlessly used the phrase “single mom.” I hope not too many. After I got off the phone with Veronica I felt renewed. Even if you’re calling to apologize for being a butt head, she has a talent for making you feel like the most beautiful person in the world—a trait that runs in her family.

I shouldn’t say things when I don’t really know what they mean. You think that I would have learned that the first time I said a swear word in front of my parents. But, I guess I’m still learning. I’m glad that I’m still growing up with such good friends. And, I'll probably always be breaking the 15 minute rule. It keeps my muddling mind in check.

Good, Goody, Ugly

The dishes are stinking in my sink and I’m trying not to care. No matter how much I love the sight and smell of a clean sink, I love recalling the goodies, the not so goodies and the uglies of my day much, much more.

Many good things happened today. We bought new umbrellas at the “big grocery store.” Atrain has been dragging a broken one through the rain storms and puddles of late. We needed something large and sturdy—something that can wear through whatever weather a spring college football game may throw toward the husband and Atrain. When they went last weekend, all they had was a polka-dot pocket-sized contractible one to shield them from an onslaught of rain and snow. When the husband returned I asked how the umbrella worked and he said that it was broken. Either he was lying, or just too ashamed to say that his pride prevented him from opening a polka-dot umbrella at a football game. Because when I fished the little thing out of the washing machine it was still in fine working condition. Whatever the case, new umbrellas were a definite high point in our agenda today. I choose a large, blue and white golf umbrella for the big boy. And, for the slightly smaller big boy, I surprised him with his very own McQueen umbrella. His uncontained joy at the sight of his surprise is still making me smile.

Goodie #2: I was so very proud of Atrain when I told him we couldn’t buy the swimming flippers he was crying over. I stuck my ground and after a quick fit, he put them back on the shelf by himself and said, “I will ask my swimming teacher if I need them.” Even though we don’t technically have a swimming teacher, I liked his logic and went with it. “Yes, Atrain, when we go to swim lessons soon we will ask your teacher if you need flippers or not.” Guess I need to sign him up soon.

Goodie #3: While cuddling with Jdog I got to listen and watch the husband play football and hide-n-seek with Atrain. They are hilarious. The husband enjoys the games as much or more than Atrain. He is so much more fun that I am. It’s sad how we’ve already assigned the parental roles in our home. I’m definitely the disciplinarian, but I can hide-n-seek with the best of them when I get my turn.

Goodie #4: listening to Jdog blabber “mamamammma.” Technically, it has no meaning associated with me for at least a few more months, but his mimicking mumblings make my heart turn to mush. I love him more every minute. This little boy holds such a peaceful presence in our home and in my heart. It’s hard to explain. He is my calm before, during and after the storm. Sometimes I feel somewhat sorry for him—all of the loving abuse he receives from Atrain (even though he’s pretty a pretty sturdy 18.3 lbs and 28 inches long)—not to mention having to deal with my attention being split in two for most of the day. But, he doesn’t seem to mind. Baby J is happy as long as he is fed, changed and cuddled regularly. He is a great cuddler.

Which leads me to my not-so-good list today: I missed Jdog’s back-to-front roll over again. When it happened the first time I was in the bathroom wiping Atrain’s bottom. I returned to little J’s spot on the floor and he had flipped all by himself and was playing there on his belly, happy as a hippo. I was so angry that I missed it. Today, my anger doubled when he flipped while I was flipping grilled-cheese sandwiches. I just wish I could somehow do everything and see everything all at once. But I find restitution when I remember that I too am a second child. I grew up being beat upon by my big sister Bambie and it made me stronger. My mom might have missed my first few roll-overs and I still turned out alright.

And, then we come to the ugly. While preparing to urinate, the husband tipped over my basket of hair accessories into the toilet. Atrain was the first to hear the crash. He ran into the bathroom and exclaimed, “Wow Dada, what happened?” I quickly followed to find that all of my headbands, elastics, clips and bobby-pins were submerged in the toilet water. Yucky. At least they were tipped over before the husband did his business in the potty. He was kind enough to fish all of them out for me, wearing my cute pink cleaning gloves. “Sorry,” he said as he pulled my headbands from the water snickering, “guess you’ll just have to be a poop head.” Atrain thought that one was pretty funny. Now that is ugly.

Missionary Monday

Dear Brother,

Hello missionary. I hope that you’re doing well. Atrain really wants to tell you something exciting, “We’re going to Texas on an Airplane,” he says. Yep. We’re coming to the great lone star state this summer. The little boys and I will only be there for two weeks, but the husband will be doing two month-long rotations at MD Anderson in Houston. It will stink to be without him for the rest of the six weeks, but we will manage. Atrain, Jdog and I can’t wait for our little taste of Texas. It will be a fun vacation.

Speaking of vacations, it’s hard to express how stinking jealous I am of Mom, Dad, Allerina and Dalliwag right now. Hawaii…my second home…the place where I “grew up.” Man, it’s hard not to well up in tears when I imagine them walking through the BYUH campus, or when I think of the adventures they’re having over there without me. But I guess a 5 month old and a 3 year old aren’t exactly conducive to a care free week in a beach cottage, right? Someday I will go back. Someday I will love visiting my old professors, going on the hikes that I should have done when I was studying, snorkeling through reefs that I was too scared to explore and paying insane amounts of money for milk (that I used to water down to make it stretch further while I was there). I’m sure I’ll be calling them for their vacation play-by-play more often than I should.

There are a lot of things I’ve done lately that I shouldn’t. We had a lesson on honesty today and my memory is thick with guilt. Or at least, it should be. I’m conflicted. I’ve been swimming (for exercise) with the Relief Society President in my ward a couple of times. It costs five dollars to go if you don’t have a pass at the University pool. I don’t have a pass, but when I went I brought my money, ready to pay. After they swiped my student ID card and it didn’t work (because I’m an alumna), I told them I wasn’t a current student, but they let me in anyway. “Score!,” I thought. The second time I went, I also had money to pay—just incase—but they let me off again when my card didn’t work (as expected). That time I didn’t tell them that I’m not a current student…I deceived them, allowing them to believe that there was something wrong with my card. I’m a horrible person, I know. The worst part about it is that the RS President said she was “relieved that I’m normal.” Shoot. I almost had her fooled.

Now I feel like I need to march myself back into the athletics office and pay my $10, plus interest for cheating them out of their charges. The husband thinks I’m ridiculous because at least part of our $30,000 of tuition should cover pool fees. So, is it my responsibility to “stick it to the man,” or should I just pay the darn pool usage fee? I do want to be honest in all my dealings, so I think I’ll pay up. It sure is inconvenient to be completely honest sometimes, but I know that it will “pay off,” in the long run, right? Good Karma.

You would have been proud of me the other day. I ran five miles in a snowstorm along the country roads back home. I loved feeling the falling snowballs pelt against my face. I felt so hard core as I wiped the layers of slush off my sunglasses. I don't want to do that everyday, and especially not when I attempt my first half marathon next week, but it felt amazing. Yes, that’s right, I’m going to try my first “half.” That is, if I can find a babysitter. The husband is also doing the bike race that morning, so things will be a little tricky with the kiddos. Too bad they won’t let me take them in my stroller. I hope my knees hold up. It will be a great challenge.

How was singing the national anthem at an NBA bball game? We watched part of it, but didn’t see you in the crowd. The husband was rather jealous that they let you go to a basketball game while on your mission. Did you even recognize the Jazz team? There’ve been so many trades and injuries that I didn’t even know who was on the court, playing for Utah. And, I miss Jerry Slone on the side, yelling at the refs. Not that I really care all that much…I’d much rather be watching HGTV, unless of course you could be somewhere in the bball arena. Will you and the San Antonio missionaries be doing a spot on HGTV any time soon?

I have a final thought for you before I finish rambling. Today in Sunday school we were talking about the parable of the good Samaritan. I’m sure you’ve studied this a lot, and I might not have anything to offer, but as I thought about the man who lied on the side of the road, “half dead,” and those who passed him by, it was interesting to me that the difference between the two church-going, calling-holding men who passed him by and the Samaritan was compassion. He had compassion on the man—he didn’t know if he was really going to be able to help save him or not, but his compassion on him stopped him on his course. He didn’t assume that the man was already dead as others may have done. He just gave the man who had been beaten down everything that he had and promised the innkeeper he would repay whatever debt was owed as the man regained his strength. Not only do I have a lot to learn from the Samaritan about not assuming anything about the condition of another’s soul and what it means to really be compassionate. So often in life, I am the half-dead man and Christ is my Samaritan. I know that He knows when I have been beaten down. He always assumes the best of me, has compassion on me and has paid for my debts. I know that He lives.

Atrain is telling me that I’m done, and that it’s time to read books with him. And Jdog will be waking up soon. He looks a lot like our side of the family…they even said so at his immunizations this week with Dr. Grandpapa. Here is a message from Atrain:

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The X is for texas. Love you so much JD. Keep up the good work. You are in our thoughts and prayers. Thanks for all you’re doing.

Love,

MJ.

PS-your lady in waiting texted me this week…told me she’s been wearing the guitar necklace I bought her a lot. She’s so sweet. I sure like her.

Deceitful Me

Today in church we had a lesson on honesty. I don’t normally consider myself a dishonest person, but today I felt like a worm wishing that I could burrow myself deep under the church’s foundation. You see, the relief society president in my ward is also my swimming buddy. And when we go swimming we’re supposed to have a swim pass. She has one. I don’t.

The first time I went swimming I brought money to pay the $5 fee. They scanned my student card, but since I’m an alumna and not a current student, when my card was scanned it beeped the “intruder warning” tone. I looked the lifeguard in the eyes and told him that I’m not a current student—truth. He rewarded my honesty with a free swim session. The second time I went I also brought money to pay the $5 fee, though I hoped I wouldn’t have to use it. I handed over my student card to the lifeguards, but this time when it beeped the “intruder” tone I turned, a deceitful, confused look grew across my brow and I said, “Hum…that’s funny. I wonder why it’s not working.”

I’m still not sure why this little lie slipped through my lips. I had the money to pay, just in case this lifeguard wasn’t as willing to let my alumna status slide. But, instead I—almost instinctively—lied. And I got away with it. I scuttled away, instantaneously feeling like the slime that feeds on the scum that grows on the bottom of the pool. The worst part about it is that when I turned to my relief society president and asked her, “Am I the so horrible,” she laughed and responded, “I’m just glad you’re normal.” Shoot. I almost had her fooled.

In the meantime, I need to return to the pool pronto to pay my $5 fee with interest, even though the husband disagrees. He thinks that somewhere in the $30,000 of tuition we pay every year to the university my pool fees should be covered. I agree, but can’t convince my conscience that it’s my responsibility to “stick it to the man.” Maybe someday I’ll figure out how to do both.