Sexy Briar

I told Briar that I'd posted a sexy picture of her on my blog when I posted that pic of her haircut. She thought that it was this one and was all disappointed when it wasn't.
So here it is.

Abraham, Age 32

Abe texted me a few days before his birthday with the following message:

"All I want for my birthday is you."

Then, a few moments later, he added:

"And Angelina."

So I took Friday off work and we went to see Salt, starring Angelina Jolie.

The Birthday Boy with his first birthday wish.

The Birthday Boy with me doing my best to look like Angelina Jolie.

That evening the Rexburg sibs (Quentin, Caleb, and Merritt) joined the rest of us at home for a homemade macaroni-and-cheese extravaganza.

Hillary and Briar gave Abe these lovely matching "Thinker" bookends.
He was (clearly) pleased.

I gave Abe a little statuette of a daddy with a baby.


I think he liked it.

Abe and Soren blew out the candles on his Macaroni and Cheese.
(We had cake on Sunday with my family.)

And then Abe took a moment to show us how it feels to be getting old.

(Photos taken by Quentin.)

(Except for the insane one. I took that one.)

Briar's hair

Quentin dyed Briar's hair a dark red. Isn't it sexy? Also, isn't that a fabulous haircut?

Rub a dub dub...three kids in a tub.

Soren's cousins Maya (12 months) and Chase (2 1/2) came to visit a few weeks ago. They brought along their parents, Lara (Abe's sister) and Nathan. It was a really nice visit and the kids seemed to enjoy interacting with each other. Even in the nude. See below for details.

Soren and Maya started out with friendly introductions. "Hey there! You come to this tub often?"

Soren was pretty excited about having someone to bathe with.

He was more excited still by the addition of a third party, who decided that Maya and Soren shouldn't have all the fun.

The kids have all found something pretty awesome in the middle of the tub. Said Something Awesome was so cool it even illicited a Garfield-esque "oooooh" from Soren.

Maya showing off one of the many classy, expensive, and high-tech bathtime toys we've purchased during our many travels abroad and given Soren. This one we bought in Paris. It's called a "Boogre Suckre."

Newsletter: 17 Months

Dear Soren,

Your turning 17 months old means one thing to me: in 1 month you'll be old enough to go to nursery during church. Wandering around with you in the halls for three hours while you ransack other people's diaper bags and tear the fake grass out of potted plants is great and all, but I think it will be nice to put you into a soundproof room with four walls, other small children, and lots of supervision-- and just walk away. (I think you'll enjoy being there too, actually, but that's not what's important here.)
Words you now say on a regular basis include: "Uh-oh" (usually before you intentionally throw something off your food tray or down the stairs), "No" (pronounced "oh" and said in a very forlorn tone), "Ow" (generally accompanied by hair-pulling), and "Meow" (upon seeing a cat, of course). You have also said "shoes" on a couple of occasions and your Uncle Sue swears that you recently whispered "horse." Also, it would seem that you frequently up and out with an "Oh shit," but I'm pretty sure that you're saying something else, like, "What's this?" and it's just coming out all wrong.
Earlier this month you and I walked to a park and you pushed your umbrella stroller around in the grass like it was a plow and you a little plowboy. Then we went down the spiral slide together, you giggling every time, until my calves couldn't stand the thought of climbing to the top again. Instead I talked you into playing in the playground's wood chips, an activity that amused us together for quite a while. Later we drove to Auntie Collette's house, where you were passed from child to child while we sat around a campfire and roasted weenies.
You are the family darling, and generally loved and adored by all. Your Grandma Hanson, for example, insists on referring to you as her baby, and when you spend time together, she'll periodically burst out with, "I love Sorenelli! I love Sorenelli!" Grandpa Hanson is always happy to take you outside or roughhouse with you on the carpet. Auntie Collette calls you "Little Nephew," and practically begs me to let her babysit you. When we visited Yellowstone National Park this week with the Smiths, Little Marty insisted on riding in our car so that you could play with the K'Nex airplane he had made that morning. Tessa also had to take a turn riding with you. Calysta pushed your stroller along the boardwalks. And when the kids made a teeter-totter out of a felled tree, Arielle pulled you onto it and helped you ride. It was quite a sight: five kids on one side, Big Marty on the other.
Even Auntie Loriann and Uncle Sue, neither of whom would consider themselves big "kid people," and who do not take to just any old child, delight in your presence.
Today, however, you had a sad initiation experience into the Real World. Your dad took you to the park and-- because school is out now--it was full of other children. He sat down on a bench and let you wander off on your own. Pretty soon you were approached by a sour-looking little boy of about 5, who leaned down and pointed his fingers in your face menacingly. You stared at him blankly, then turned around and toddled off. The mean little boy then proceeded to shout at and kick you. At this point, your dad intervened, yelled at the kid to back off, and scooped you up into the safety of his arms. Your were shocked and saddened but recovered quickly, as you always do. I think I cried more about the incident than you did. At first I contemplated hunting down that kid and kicking his butt, but then I realized that a kid like that doesn't come from nowhere. I imagined his big brother or dad kicking or hitting him for no apparent reason. And I felt worse for him than I did for you. You had a pair of strong arms to protect and comfort you; what did that little boy have? So tonight when we helped you say your bedtime prayer, we asked that the mean little boy from the park feel loved and safe.
I frequently make lists of things that I hope to instill in you as you slowly grow into manhood. They vary, but a few things stay the same. I hope that I give you a sense that you are loved and lovable. I hope that I help you develop a sense of competence and courage. I hope that you learn to be compassionate, kind, respectful, and reverent towards every living being you encounter. I hope that you become self-disciplined and self-controlled, that you won't let what you want now keep you from what you want most. I hope that you develop the capability of thinking for yourself; I particularly hope that you will be able to think through the consequences of your actions. I hope that you will enjoy life and be happy.

Anyway, sweetie, I love you. I'm so glad we've got to spend another month of life together. You are my sunshine.

Love,

Mommy

The Case of the Shy Bladder

(If you're offended easily by talk of the pottying processes, you should maybe not read this one.)

So Abe's brother Quentin has been living with us since February. The idea when we had him move in was that he would get a job and start saving money for college, but months have gone by and he has extended very minimal effort in the direction of obtaining some gainful employment. His days have been passed sitting blithely in front of the computer, sleeping and eating when it seemed convenient, and participating in family activities when moved upon by the power of the woman of the household.

Our initial condition for him had been that if he didn't have a job within two weeks of his arrival, we were shipping him back to New Hampshire. Sadly enough, those two weeks came and went, Quentin didn't get a job, and we couldn't find it in our hearts to send him back. Fortunately, another condition we'd set for him was that he needed to pay $150.00 in rent each month to help offset the increase in expenditures on utilities, groceries, and gasoline that his presence here would inevitably create. And this one we've been tough about. So tough, in fact, that when May 5th arrived and Quentin couldn't find the cash for this month's rent, I took his computer as collateral.

And lo and behold, on May 6th, he'd found himself a job.

Which is really where our story begins.

Quentin had been offered a job at Wal-Mart as a member of the nighttime floor cleaning crew, contingent on his passing a drug test within 24 hours of his interview. So on May 7th, I drove a full-bladdered Quentin to the drug testing office. I decided that Soren and I would wait in the car, imagining that it would only take Soren about 45 seconds to reduce the waiting room to rubble while simultaneously ingesting an entire People magazine, and also imagining that signing in, filling out paperwork, producing a urine sample, and surrendering the pee couldn't take more than 15 minutes from start to finish.

Oh, how wrong I was.

After an entire hour of singing Sesame Street songs and watching Soren push every button on the dashboard multiple times, I decided to call Quentin and see if there was a long line, if the paperwork was extensive, or if he'd failed the test.

"Hello?" he answered.
"Hey Quentin," I said. "You about done in there?"
"I don't know."
"What's going on?"
"I'm just drinking and waiting."
"Drinking and waiting? Didn't you tell me you had to pee several hours ago?"
"Yes."
"But it's just not coming now?"
"No."
"Well, um, how much longer do you think it's going to take?"
"I don't know."
"Not even an estimate?"
"Nope."

So Soren and I drove over to my friend Loriann's office. We spent another hour gabbing with her and making hearing aid box towers until she had to leave. So I again called Quentin.

"So, um, you....produced....yet?'
"Nope."

By this time, Soren was past ready for his nap, so I putted the car around in the foothills of Idaho Falls while he snoozed in his carseat. We drove up hills, we drove down hills, we drove past a wind farm, we drove past an alfalfa farm, we drove past several potato farms. It was really a nice drive, tainted only by the fact that I knew that I was devoting an entire afternoon to the production of a small urine sample.

Finally, two and a half hours after I'd dropped him off at the testing center with a completely full bladder, Quentin succeeded. He lost all his inhibitions. He cut himself loose. He went completely crazy. And he peed in a cup.

As we drove home, I tried to get him to explain to me why it was so hard for him to empty an already-full bladder on demand.

"I mean, gosh," I told him, "I had to do it every single time I saw my obstetrician while I was pregnant. And I was extremely fat, which meant that there was a lot of arm reaching awkwardness and a complete visual obstruction. And yet, I produced. Every month for nine months. And also, I produced while in labor at the hospital. So please, please explain to me what it so difficult about going into a quiet restroom with a full bladder, by yourself, while not in labor, with a very clear view of what you are doing, and producing a little urine. Please explain it to me!"

But he could not. "It's just so demoralizing," was all he said.

And the next day he got offered a job working as a gardener for the Idaho Falls temple, which means he didn't even really need to take that drug test at all.

And so are the days of my life.

Catch-up Post

I've been up to my elbows in childcare and new house affairs for the past couple of weeks and have simply not had the strength to either post on my blog or read the blogs of others. So if I haven't posted on your blog lately, it's not because I don't love you. It's just that I've got other things going on at the moment.

Here's the run-down of our little family's activities during the past few weeks:

-The first week of this month, through no real fault of his own, Soren single-handedly delayed the conception of his next sibling ("by a year," is what I would have said earlier this month. But now it's been cut back to a couple of months. They say that women's brains are programmed to forget negative child-related things so that they'll continue to produce offspring. I believe it). How did he do this, you might ask? He developed a nasty case of croup. Every experienced mother that I've told this to has sighed sympathetically and said, "Oh. That's the worst." And it was! It was miserable. I was certainly grateful that it wasn't a life-threatening illness or anything like that, but it was hard to have him be so miserable for so long. And it reminded me of what it was like to have a newborn: lots of midnight wakings, inconsolable crying, and a general excess of neediness.

(Soren, sad and sick, forces himself to eat some saltines to keep his strength up.)

-And then, after Soren got over his illness, I came down with a nasty cold of my own. I have never, in all my days, experienced so much sinus pressure for so long. I even tried taking a nasal decongestant, a thing I have never done before, but it made no difference. My daddy-in-law suggested snorting up a bunch of hot water while I showered, but I was afraid I might drown myself, so I didn't try it.

-All of this occurred in the midst of the painfully drawn-out closing process on our house. I had no idea that buying a home would be such a convoluted process. Abe and I have developed strong legs from jumping through so many hoops throughout the past several months. Would you believe we've been actively working on this process, beginning with our loan application, since August 2007? Yes, that is six months. Six months! Just to buy something!

-But the good news is that we're drawing near to the end of this whole process. We finally own our own home and, for the past week, Abe's dad has been here, helping us get the house all ready for us to move into. They, with a little help from my own dad, have been making walls and banisters, tearing up floors, painting, insulating, repairing, plumbing, and wiring. I'll be posting "before" and "after" pictures on our blog soon. They're sure to be impressive.

-It's been great to have Daddy Skousen visiting for the past several days. He and Abe have been able to spend one-on-one time together that they haven't been able to enjoy for years. And it's been fun for Soren to have another adoring fan on hand. For me, it's been a constant source of amusement for me to observe the parallels between Abraham and his Dad. The ways in which they talk, act, and think are remarkably similar. Abraham is unmistakably the genetic offspring of his father. No doubt about it.

(Here, Soren shows Grampa Skousen his Christmas package.)

-I also noticed recently that my baby has a multitude of nicknames. I'll record them here for posterity, with a parenthetical reference following those who are used primarily by one individual: Sorenito, Sorentino (my dad), Sorenelli (my mom), Sorentelli (my dad), Bill (Uncle Dewey), Toad (Abraham), Spud (Abraham), Squirt (Abraham), Nito--pronounced Neeto-- (Me), Noodle, Beebee (Me). There are others that I'm forgetting, I'm sure, but I've got to wonder if we're confusing the poor child.

-Soren has been a mister whiny pants lately. Especially around me. He'll be perfectly happy, then I'll walk into a room, and he'll start fussing. I'm all paranoid that I've been doing something wrong. Do I pick him up too much? Have I been giving in to whining? Am I responding to needs or giving in to manipulation? It's so hard to know...

-Another worry I've got is that Soren's not using words yet. Not even really "mama" and "dada" in context. He does talk to himself in Sorenese a lot, wherein he makes all kinds of difficult sounds, like "s" and "t" and "r." And he does say "hi." But beyond that he doesn't seem to match words to objects or circumstances. Again, I wonder if this is my fault. Have I not been prompting him enough? Should I be making a conscious effort to teach him words? Or was it the nitrates in the hot dogs I ate when I was pregnant? Have those affected his brain development?

-A cute Soren trick lately, though, has been clapping. He picked up clapping lately and just can't stop. He claps in the high chair. He claps in the bathtub. He claps while playing. He claps when I sing the pat-a-cake song. I'll go to pick him up out of bed and he'll be clapping (sometimes even clapping and crying simultaneously).