Birthday business

The local branch of the company Andrew's father works for is closing down (don't worry; Reid still has his job (he's worked remotely for several years now)). Their official last day was on Friday and so after everyone had left for the day (and forever) we showed up to scavenge (since Andrew's dad was in charge of shutting things down). 

The kids had a blast running around to all the offices and grabbing the whiteboard markers that had been left behind. We picked up a few erasers, too. Zoë was in charge of carrying a few and ended up getting really messy. 

"Did you put that eraser on your face?" Grandpa asked when he saw her.

"No," she answered.

"Okay," Grandpa said. "You've got a little something on your nose..."

Dripping Rock

We did not make it to the Icelandic Festival this weekend, but we did make it to Dripping Rock! My mom came down to visit with us for a while (since yesterday was my birthday and we didn't have a big shindig) so we took her out hiking with us. 

Alexander at 8 months

I have a confession to make: I forgot how old my own baby was.

I'm not quite sure how it happened, but somehow instead of rounding down when people asked me how old he was I started rounding up. That's out of character for me because I always want my babies to stay little. Alexander is rather ginormous so I think it's pretty clear that he's not going to stay little and somehow, like I said, I just started rounding up.

By the time he was actually 8 months old I had convinced myself that he had been 8 months old all along and thus thought he was now 9 months old. But then—after tallying things up on my fingers—I realized that he was truly only 8 months old.

So suddenly my baby is littler than I had been thinking he was! I've gained an entire month of his life back, folks! Perhaps that is the way to make them seems smaller—rounding up instead of down.

Whatever the case, Alexander is 8 months (and one week) old. Here's what he's up to:

So instead we went to Iceland

It's the first day of summer, so naturally today was supposed to be quite a bit hotter than it has been so far this year. We've mostly stuck to home this week so I suggested that we go off on an adventure—an easy, shady river trail to Dripping Rock where the kids could splash in the cool mountain water!

I carefully planned out my route so that I could avoid hopping on the highway (because this girl doesn't hop on the highway) and once the kids were loaded in the van we took the circuitous route through town only to find that the one road that would connect me from Canyon Road to East River Bottoms Road (3400 E) is closed due to construction.

Now that I'm looking at the map again, I suppose we could have driven all the way past the cemetery (we ended up driving there, anyway) and hopped onto Scenic Drive. Or I guess 1400 E would have eventually gotten us to East River Bottoms as well. But I'm not a very adventurous driver and running into that "Road Closed" sign killed my ambition.

So instead we made our way to Centennial Park—a very hot and sunny alternative. Still, it was fun to explore a new playground. There were no swings, which Benjamin (who recently learned how to pump) was disappointed to discover, but there was a lot more to climb on and several more slides.

Here's Rachel climbing a support pole (not technically part of the playground):

Floor Ice Cream Scandal

While Andrew was dishing out ice cream this evening, I was flipping through the little instruction/ideas manual that came the science kit Benjamin got for his birthday. It claims to have "over 50 ideas!" And...it does. But more than half of them require items not included in the kit. Some ideas only include items not included in the kit. And that thing is rife with spelling words.

In the middle of my criticism of this booklet, Andrew flipped a gigantic scoop of ice cream out of the container. It flew through the air and fell on the floor.

I snorted and laughed, "Honestly..."

Andrew examined the glob of ice cream and announced, "It's fine."

He plopped it in a bowl and continued scooping. I continued to tell him the silly things the science booklet was instructing us to do.

"Cut a small strip of regular white coffee filter paper and put it to your tongue. Keep it on your mouth for 5 seconds. Now you know what regular paper tastes like," I read.

But, honestly, I think every child knows what regular paper tastes like already. And why does it have to be coffee filter paper. Why not just regular paper?

The point of that exercise, in case you were wondering, is that approximately 70% of people in the world (according to our booklet) can taste the bitterness of a PTC strip. So, once you taste regular paper and then taste a PTC strip you'll know whether you fall into that 70%. (This 70% thing checks out on Wikipedia, so that's reassuring).

The book also tells you how to make a red cabbage indicator (hint: boil red cabbage) but then doesn't tell how to use it, so you'll just be left with a pot full of cabbage water wondering why.

Blog stuff

Andrew, who served me floor ice cream this evening, has been trying to wean me off of Picasa for several years now. He says my computer is the only computer in the entire world that still has Picasa installed. He tells me it hasn't been updated since 2015, which in computer years means the program is a relic. He installed Lightroom on my computer and shoots me judgmental stares whenever he sees I have Picasa open instead.

Lightroom simply has a steeper learning curve (says the girl who has been using Picasa since its early days (circa 2006 for me) so maybe the learning curve isn't true and I'm just a creature of habit).

One reason I couldn't give up Picasa, though, was that making collages was so easy (and comfortable) and I didn't want to be throwing things into Photoshop all the time (because that also has a relatively steep learning curve). When I blog I just want things to be easy.

Enter Adobe Spark.

It's free.* Its interface is relatively user friendly (at any rate, it has so far seemed easier and more intuitive than, say, other Adobe programs that take quite some time to really master (says the girl who only ever took one design class (and it was so long ago that we used Quark) so mostly is self/husband-taught in InDesign). And, the final products look pretty good, if I do say so myself.

I used it to make the Boise/Stockholm collages!

In a future installment: Andrew drags Nancy, kicking and screaming, over to WordPress...

* Though apparently if you don't own it, Adobe slaps a watermark on the finished project. We have a Creative Cloud subscription so there's no watermark for us (typesetting-husband perks).

Meanwhile, back in...

Earlier this month I attended the Mormon History Association conference (in Boise—oh, boy!), which was my first professional conference in years. Soon after we moved here, I did an interview with Heather Stone, who was collecting oral histories of women who had moved from a Mormon-minority community to a Mormon-majority community during their Young Women years (12–18) sometime between 1975 and 2000.

I first moved to Utah in 2000 so I just barely made the cutoff!

She presented at MHA, but wanted to do a "public history presentation" and rather than simply present her findings, she brought along some of her interviewees as a sort of "display." So I, along with five other women, prepared a 7-minute monologue drawn from stories we told Heather during our interview.

It honestly was difficult for me to squeeze what I wanted to share into seven minutes and I wasn't really sure that what I was saying was particularly noteworthy. But also, I suppose it didn't matter because the whole idea was that it was simply a collection of stories, and everyone has a story.

Oddly enough, I was nervous to share my stories out loud. I feel fine sharing things here—on the blog—for all the world to read, but telling parts of my story to a room full of people was rather difficult. To be honest, I had the same catch-in-my-gut feeling when a secretary at the Sanford school asked if she could forward my post about graduation to the rest of the school to read. Like, I guess I know people read my blog but also I don't think that many people read the blog (we have numbers on this so we know the audience isn't exactly wide). It spooks me a little when people admit to reading my blog even though I know full well that it's public.

Poopy face

"Mommy, I need you to help me wipe my bum!" came the cry from the bathroom.

Though I prefer to potty train my children fairly young, I don't expect them to take care of hygiene on their own for quite some time. In fact, I strongly discourage solo wiping because there are simply some things that I'd rather take care of myself, especially when it comes to bathrooms (which give me the skeevies).

Just the other day, for example, I heard Zoë tinkering around in the bathroom and asked her what she was doing. "I'm just cleaning the toilet!" came her reply and I just about died because the very last thing I wanted was a three-year-old splashing toilet water all around the bathroom (ew, ew, ew).

When Andrew bathes the kids he will put the lid of the toilet down and sit on it; the very idea is enough to make me ill.

So to avoid getting poopy messes all over the place, I train my kids to call me to wipe their bums until I think they're old enough to wipe themselves. Sometimes, however, children seek independence earlier than I'd like and today was one of those days. I walked into the bathroom and found Zoë hunkered down by the toilet, rather frustratedly picking bits of soiled toilet paper from her fingers. Poop was smeared all over the toilet seat. It was a rather big mess.

"It's on my hands!" she cried in mortification. "I can't do it!"

Poetry without borders

Yesterday the church announced that they'll be releasing new versions of the hymn book and children's songbook. They have a survey up for people to take so members can share things they like about the books as well as things they don't. And they've asked for submissions of new works and so forth.

Poetry swirls in my brain constantly, though I don't write much of it down, but I thought it would be fun to try to write some song lyrics to submit. I think my chances of creating anything noteworthy is slim, not because I don't think I'm capable of writing well but because I think I'm incapable of escaping the slightly silly, slightly sarcastic tone my poetry is wont to take.

It's a family curse, I swear.

As proof, I offer first to you poem Andrew's ancestor, Joseph Stacey Murdock, wrote:

Come, listen to a prophet’s voice,
And hear the word of God,
And in the way of truth rejoice,
And sing for joy aloud.
We’ve found the way the prophets went
Who lived in days of yore.
Another prophet now is sent
This knowledge to restore.

At the dinner table

"Merci," Miriam said.

"De rien," I answered.

"Gracias," Rachel said a few minutes later.

"De nada," I replied.

"America," Benjamin said.

We all looked at him and blinked.

"What?" I asked.

"America," he repeated, patiently yet expectantly.

Murmurs of confusion swirled around the table.

"Ugh!" he said, throwing up his arms in great frustration. "Washington, DC, guys! Come on!"

And when still no one caught on he added quietly, "But aren't we playing Name That Capitol?"

In his defense, we've been playing that game at the dinner table a lot recently so I can see how he thought that we were perhaps playing that came, what with the call-and-response format my exchanges with the girls had taken.

In our defense, weren't playing that game so we had every right to be confused.