Tonight I took my kids to visit my Grandpa Williams. I believe he is 92 years old. He can't hear well so I prepped my kids beforehand to talk loudly. After we arrived, my boy (who was in a very bad mood about something and sat far away for the first 5 minutes) came over and sat by me and asked Grandpa, "What do you do for a job?". Grandpa answered that he is retired, then both he and Grandma went on to explain how retirement works. Grandpa also explained what he did for employment before retirement (farming and worked at Logan Manufacturing).
My children all hugged Grandpa and Grandma voluntarily after our visit which made my heart happy. Tonight, in his prayers, my son gave thanks "that Grandpa has money" and told me he wants to start saving his quarters for his own retirement.
If my daughter were born a "bull"
I am currently at my mountain home and in the county of my mountain home is a rodeo. According to the rodeo announcer and the newspaper, this rodeo is the longest running night rodeo west of the Mississippi. How's that for recognition?
So, I took my two older kids to the rodeo for the first time last night. We were clear back by the calf-shoots, which doesn't add to the best rodeo experience, but it was OK. My kids were in some kind of shock-and-awe anyway, watching the calves get wrestled to the ground or get their hooves tied together. This was all a new experience for them.
We had a good time though and I quite enjoyed it. I recognized some people in the reserved section next to me (junior high teacher Cattani, my sister's family was at the top, couple of kids from my hometown). By the time the bull riding came around, we were ready to go home. However, the third to last bull had so much character, I just have to share. He was massive and white and seemed to be retarded. I am not saying that in a derogatory way either, I really think he was a special needs bull. That said, he had some mannerisms that were so like my second daughter, I couldn't believe it. He would walk away from the bull-catcher cowboys (all the while lassoing their ropes) and then suddenly do this sort of somersault thing and lay down as if he were dead or at least asleep. He did this over and over. My daughter does this exact thing. She'll get in trouble for something and immediately feign sleep (curl up in a ball).
Now, I am not saying my daughter is special needs or even close OK? She just has this temperament and these habits . . .
Even on the way back into the red gate, that bull-headed animal stuck his back leg out as if to say even his hind leg would refuse to do what he was suppose to do.
Now, you've met my daughter.
So, I took my two older kids to the rodeo for the first time last night. We were clear back by the calf-shoots, which doesn't add to the best rodeo experience, but it was OK. My kids were in some kind of shock-and-awe anyway, watching the calves get wrestled to the ground or get their hooves tied together. This was all a new experience for them.
We had a good time though and I quite enjoyed it. I recognized some people in the reserved section next to me (junior high teacher Cattani, my sister's family was at the top, couple of kids from my hometown). By the time the bull riding came around, we were ready to go home. However, the third to last bull had so much character, I just have to share. He was massive and white and seemed to be retarded. I am not saying that in a derogatory way either, I really think he was a special needs bull. That said, he had some mannerisms that were so like my second daughter, I couldn't believe it. He would walk away from the bull-catcher cowboys (all the while lassoing their ropes) and then suddenly do this sort of somersault thing and lay down as if he were dead or at least asleep. He did this over and over. My daughter does this exact thing. She'll get in trouble for something and immediately feign sleep (curl up in a ball).
Now, I am not saying my daughter is special needs or even close OK? She just has this temperament and these habits . . .
Even on the way back into the red gate, that bull-headed animal stuck his back leg out as if to say even his hind leg would refuse to do what he was suppose to do.
Now, you've met my daughter.
Whitewashing the WS
When I was in high school, the tradition was to whitewash the "WS" each year. The WS was up on the mountain behind the high school. The seniors would wear grubby clothes and form a bucket brigade and literally whitewash the lettering each year, changing the year to their own. It was fun and something I looked forward to for a long time. Now that all is said and done (a long time ago), I can't seem to remember much about the experience.
Now I am in Idaho with my little kids. We've driven past the WS mountain a number of times and my kids can't get over how "cool" it is that I was up there on top of that mountain :-). They've asked me to describe it all and they've asked if I can take them up to the WS. The last question posed by my son was, "Mom, did you get permission from the mayor?"
Now I am in Idaho with my little kids. We've driven past the WS mountain a number of times and my kids can't get over how "cool" it is that I was up there on top of that mountain :-). They've asked me to describe it all and they've asked if I can take them up to the WS. The last question posed by my son was, "Mom, did you get permission from the mayor?"
Meet the Mayor
Ever since school got out (a few weeks ago), my 7 yo has asked if he could meet the mayor of our city. My boy was "Assistant Mayor" in one of his classes at school. So, I thought, "What the heck -- it wouldn't hurt to shoot an email to the city government." And, I did. A nice secretary responded and said we could come over.
Doesn't that just feel "small town" to you? Or, does it mostly just feel odd?
Well, I know small town and I don't live in a small town. The City Hall building is very fancy and the mayor's office is on the 4th floor. He doesn't have another job.
Here is my son sitting in the mayor's seat:
I prepped my son just a little beforehand asking him to have a few questions in mind to ask the mayor. My little boy was charming and thoughtful. These were some of the questions he asked:
Doesn't that just feel "small town" to you? Or, does it mostly just feel odd?
Well, I know small town and I don't live in a small town. The City Hall building is very fancy and the mayor's office is on the 4th floor. He doesn't have another job.
Here is my son sitting in the mayor's seat:
 |
| And, what do YOU want to be when you grow up? |
- Is it fun being Mayor?
- Do you have a family?
- What did you want to be when you grow up?
- What was your favorite subject in school?
Then, the mayor asked my son some of those same questions back. These were his answers:
- When asked what he wants to be when he grows up, my boy answered, "A Mayor" or an astronaught, or a bone digger, or a teacher
- Favorite Subject: I like math. I am good at math.
- When I was Mayor in my class, I got to dismiss the kids from their tables. I really liked that.
Since we've gotten home, he's told everyone about meeting the mayor. "The Mayor even met the President of the United States!" Then my boy asked if we might be able to meet the Mayor of Idaho (I am pretty sure he means the Mayor of Clifton). I will have to check his schedule ;-).
PS -- Just to bring our fame-seeking, "I-met-the-mayor" heads out of the clouds -- Child #2 had a literal heart attack just outside the building when one of her flip flops broke
Shepherd's Pie
Yes, for those of you who know my past, today was a "Shepherd's Pie" day. Big Smile right?
Before I go into that, let me just say that today has actually been a really nice, peaceful day. The kids were exceptionally well-behaved at church which was such a relief to me. All of the church meetings were inspiring and generally enJOYable :-). So, those things all bring a smile and sense of peace to my soul, but none brought out actual laughter, which is OK for today. Because, (take a deep breath), I am going to share a "funny" from my past.
For dinner, I made Shepherd's Pie. It was delicious and my stomach is very happy tonight. Needless to say, my Shepherd's Pie experience isn't all delicious and happy.
When I was in college, I had planned to catch a ride north back to school after a weekend visit home, with my cousin (super nice - Troy). Our plan was to meet at my oldest brother's home in Utah, load some plates up with dinner and begin the trek northward. Prior to this occasion, my parents had been very good at loading me up with compliments about how my shepherd's pie was just the best in the world. There couldn't have been another Shepherd Pie maker better than me. Or so we ALL thought :-).
I knew many mouths would need to be fed for dinner on this particular day, so instead of using real potatoes, as I had always done (and c'mon, I am from Idaho, would I have possibly considered an alternative? And, actually admit it?), I thought I would go the easy route and use fake potatoes (cue the horror music) for this batch. And, batch it was. I am telling you, I made the biggest pan of Shepherd's Pie that can be conceived. Normal families in this "day and age" DO NOT have pans the size of the one I used for this batch. I happily prepared the meat and shredded the cheese. When it came time to do the fake potatoes, I cheerfully talked with my sisters (can I throw them under the bus in this story -- I am sure blame-shifting could come in handy about now) and dumped a bunch of fake potato dust in a pan. When it came time for the salt, I must have really (I will repeat for effect) really been distracted. Instead of adding, maybe 3 tablespoons of salt, I added something like two cups of salt.
I continued on my merry way. Down in Utah, I pulled out this ginormous pan of Shepherd's Pie, everyone oohing and ahhing, mouths watering (this could be foreshadowing) over how good it would be. I put it in the oven at my brother's and chatted with many family members while it baked. My cousin arrived just in time for me to pull out the Shepherd's Pie and load up our plates with it. We took off.
I was in the kind of mode (and my cousin was just WAY too nice to say anything rude) to simply keep taking bites and thinking, "hmm, this might be a bit salty". I probably finished my whole plate. My heart will probably forever reap the consequences of taking in so much sodium.
I don't even remember my family contacting me about the dinner after I arrived at my apartment. I must have gotten some kind of feedback, but I don't remember it. Apparently, my oldest, wisest brother helped himself to such a huge portion and first bite that his reaction was warning to the rest of the family to stay away. All I know is, I simply can't even show up to a family event now without one of my family members bringing up, "Hey, did you bring some Shepherd's Pie"?
Before I go into that, let me just say that today has actually been a really nice, peaceful day. The kids were exceptionally well-behaved at church which was such a relief to me. All of the church meetings were inspiring and generally enJOYable :-). So, those things all bring a smile and sense of peace to my soul, but none brought out actual laughter, which is OK for today. Because, (take a deep breath), I am going to share a "funny" from my past.
For dinner, I made Shepherd's Pie. It was delicious and my stomach is very happy tonight. Needless to say, my Shepherd's Pie experience isn't all delicious and happy.
When I was in college, I had planned to catch a ride north back to school after a weekend visit home, with my cousin (super nice - Troy). Our plan was to meet at my oldest brother's home in Utah, load some plates up with dinner and begin the trek northward. Prior to this occasion, my parents had been very good at loading me up with compliments about how my shepherd's pie was just the best in the world. There couldn't have been another Shepherd Pie maker better than me. Or so we ALL thought :-).
I knew many mouths would need to be fed for dinner on this particular day, so instead of using real potatoes, as I had always done (and c'mon, I am from Idaho, would I have possibly considered an alternative? And, actually admit it?), I thought I would go the easy route and use fake potatoes (cue the horror music) for this batch. And, batch it was. I am telling you, I made the biggest pan of Shepherd's Pie that can be conceived. Normal families in this "day and age" DO NOT have pans the size of the one I used for this batch. I happily prepared the meat and shredded the cheese. When it came time to do the fake potatoes, I cheerfully talked with my sisters (can I throw them under the bus in this story -- I am sure blame-shifting could come in handy about now) and dumped a bunch of fake potato dust in a pan. When it came time for the salt, I must have really (I will repeat for effect) really been distracted. Instead of adding, maybe 3 tablespoons of salt, I added something like two cups of salt.
I continued on my merry way. Down in Utah, I pulled out this ginormous pan of Shepherd's Pie, everyone oohing and ahhing, mouths watering (this could be foreshadowing) over how good it would be. I put it in the oven at my brother's and chatted with many family members while it baked. My cousin arrived just in time for me to pull out the Shepherd's Pie and load up our plates with it. We took off.
I was in the kind of mode (and my cousin was just WAY too nice to say anything rude) to simply keep taking bites and thinking, "hmm, this might be a bit salty". I probably finished my whole plate. My heart will probably forever reap the consequences of taking in so much sodium.
I don't even remember my family contacting me about the dinner after I arrived at my apartment. I must have gotten some kind of feedback, but I don't remember it. Apparently, my oldest, wisest brother helped himself to such a huge portion and first bite that his reaction was warning to the rest of the family to stay away. All I know is, I simply can't even show up to a family event now without one of my family members bringing up, "Hey, did you bring some Shepherd's Pie"?
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