Just a peek...

Favoritism

So, in the last day or so Jamison's babbles have added a new consonant. He's been great with the gggggguhs, and has quickly picked up the bbbbbbuuuhs and the mmmmmmuhs. So today, during the sunday school opening prayer he decided to practice them loud and clear for every one to hear. Buuhbuhhmaaahguuhduhduhmaaah. All throughout the prayer. It was cute but a little embarrassing. The kid has no shame.

So the new addition to his consonant collection is the dddduhs.

I was commenting on this over dinner at my in-laws house.

"He's been using his m's for a while," I said. "So I will be so mad if he says 'dada' first."

Then, from the seat at my feet, comes a sweet little babble.

"Da. Da."

I stared at my traitorous offspring with consternation as the whole table broke into uproarious laughter. I tried to protest that he is only five and a half months and clearly didn't know what he was saying, but to no avail. It seemed pretty obvious to our audience that Jamison had made his choice of favorite parent. I felt so betrayed. I am the one who incubated his little self, sacrificed my body to stretch marks and cellulite to carry his nine pounds around on swollen, tired feet. I am the one who has devoted every waking minute since then to be at my hatchling's beck and call, there to serve his every little whim, acting as doctor, chef, maid, dairy cow, laundress, and entertainer as his pint sized wishes demand... and this is what I get?

There is, however, a very simple explanation to this behavior. Once I figured it out, it all made sense.

For some reason, Jamison must think my name is dada. Silly boy.

The Gospital

So today was our fast and testimony meeting since next week is Conference and the week after that is our Stake Conference. I'm not always a huge fan of when little kids get up and repeat the words their moms made them rehearse. I know its important for kids to learn how to bear their testimonies, but I get a little tired when all we get in a meeting is a whole passel of kids and none of their parents. But today, a tiny little girl who couldn't have been more than four marched to the pulpit. She couldn't even see over it, she was so little. All I could see of her was a piggy tail bobbing up and down as she boldly proclaimed her testimony.

She started with the usual...I love my family, I love my sister, love my teacher, etc...and then kind of forgot she was giving her testimony and started blessing everything...but the very end was the best.

Her little voice rang out, "And I am thankful for the Gospital," she said.

The Gospital. Keaton leaned over to me and whispered, "that one is new."

I had to smile. I realized how lucky we were to raise kids in an environment where they can feel free to tell us all how they feel, and for parents--though they should be up there themselves--who are, every day teaching their children the truth, and encouraging them to be unafraid to testify of it.

I, too, am very thankful for this Gospital.

Growing

I want want want what I want want want, and this is how I geeeettt it...
(for those who've ever listened to Scripture Scouts)

This post has no theme, really. It's just another post about my baby. But he is...well, my whole life these days. And he's growing so fast... we both are.

Simply put, these are the days that make going through nine months of pregnancy and five sleepless months with a newborn worth it. He is a little person. A thoughtful, inquisitive, ever-learning person.

I marvel.

Opposition in all things?

So Keaton and I went to the temple yesterday.

I am ashamed to say that it has been quite a while since my last temple outing (I think at the time my temple dress had just started getting snug from my pregnant belly.) It had been on my list for several weeks but always something came up. This week I actually had a Saturday off of work and vowed that, no matter what, we would make it to the temple.

Keaton just had a simple request, "Before we go," he said, "could you sew up the hem of my new temple pants?" The old ones were getting too small and he'd bought a new pair that just needed a few inches taken off the hem.

So I did. I hemmed those darn pants up like a good card-carrying relief society sister should. I left them out the night before so Keaton could try them on before we went.

That night, he got home late from snowboarding. Exhausted, he fell alseep immediately.

That's okay, I told myself. He can try them on tomorrow before we go.

My alarm rang at 7:30 saturday morning and I slept through it.

We woke up late.
We ran around the house to get ready--especially since our babysitter (my mom) had plans and had been expecting us for several hours.

No time to try on the pants. Plus, we were both a bit ornery because what was going to be a nice morning session ended up right smack in the middle of our day. We were tempted not to go at all.

But we did, because I SAID WE WERE GOING TO GO. And that was that.

We dropped Jamison off and rushed off to the temple, rushed into the dressing room, rushed into the chapel...

My husband did NOT look happy when I met him in the chapel.

"You sewed the wrong pants," he hissed.

The pants he was wearing were his old pants. The short ones. I had hemmed them up several more inches.

He was wearing what could have passed as a very nice pair of temple capris.
Uh-oh.

A nice, quavery old temple worker chose that moment to approach us.

"Are you married?" he asked.
"Yes," I said, hoping that would still be true after this incident.

He asked us to be the witness couple.

Smart response: "Can we wait until the next session? My husband needs to go rent a different pair of pants."

Actual response: "OK."

So Keaton had to get up and down in front everyone wearing pants he could have stolen from a Keebler elf. Somehow he smothered his chagrin and resentment until after the session was over.

I think the Lord was just using me as a tool to teach my husband some much needed humility.

When we got home, I found the right pair (hanging up in the closet, not in his temple bag as I had thought) and sewed them to a satisfactory (ie: floor-touching) length.

The good news is, we are still married.
The bad news is, my relief society card has been permanantly revoked.

Dear Jamison...

*Special thanks to Savage Garden for writing this amazing, meaningful song.

Legs

The other day I was complaining to Keaton about how, after I'm done nursing Jamison, my bra size will probably dwindle. He smiled.

"It's a good thing I'm not a boob guy, then, huh?"

What? Not a boob guy? "What kind of guy are you?"

"I'm a leg guy," he said.

My world came crashing down around me. How could I have gone through five years of dating and three and a half years of marriage under the false assumption that my husband was a boob guy?

Then I started thinking. How often does he even ever see my legs? Never.
And then, how often do I shave my legs? Also never. Maybe the occasional Sunday.

Why on earth couldn't he just be a boob guy? I've got plenty of that! And they require very little upkeep.

Come to think of it, I hardly pay attention to my legs at all. They get me around. That's all I really ever needed 'em for, right? And they are white. Ghostly white. Haven't seen the sun in years. And when they do, they have a tendency to turn lobster red and then...go right back to white.

It became obvious that these appendages deserved closer examination. I gave them a good look-over.

Yep. White. Very white. A little freckled. Not a bad shape, really. And no varicose veins or spider veins (which is only fair. I have plenty of chubs and stretch marks left over from pregnancy, there had to be some slack cut for me somewhere.) So that was lucky. Maybe could use some good moisturizer. And some nice heels....well now. My legs aren't half bad.

So my beauty regimen now includes more in the way of leg care. I shave more often. (Like Sunday and Wednesday.) And I have vowed to seek out more cute skirts for my summer wardrobe. Gotta keep my leg man satisfied after years of neglect.

And I'm thankful.
At least he's not a butt guy.

Out with the old...

Last saturday I had a bride and groom over to discuss photos and book their wedding date, and I realized that it didn't matter how clean my house was, it didn't feel cute enough for someone who claims to know a bit about art/design/decorating. I realized I wouldn't be satisfied until it was exactly how I wanted it. I'd half-heartedly decorated while I was prego, but it never felt done to me. A couple of throw pillows and some knick-knacks just didn't fit the bill. This is what it has looked like since we moved in:Not bad, but nothing special, either.

So I hit the bargain racks (because however much I wanted a cute house, I was not willing to spend a million bucks on it) of Hobby Lobby, Big Lots, Target and Shopko. This is the result:

And because I'm a Campbell girl and we take much delight in divulging the good deals we found, here is a rundown of the few things I added and the bargains I hunted down to acquire them.