Just a heads up...

...that is, if anyone is out there...

I'm going to be blogging again.

Here.

Soon.

And often-ish.

Because I don't remember to document the important things in life if I'm not planning on blogging about it later. And seriously, I need to be held accountable for my lamey ways.

So, look for exciting and important Meredith updates, coming your way!

For example:

I recently had a hair-dye misadventure and now my hair is super dark. I kind of like it. Also, I fit in my high school prom dress.

And:

I accidentally froze some eggs on the top shelf of my fridge.

PLUS:

The baby on my blog header? Is not so small anymore.

Thus we see the lameness of my picture-taking these days. But you guys will hold me accountable, right? Because, you know, Halloween is tomorrow! And other holidays are coming!

SO LET'S DO THIS THING!

Jenna the Songwriter

Jenna is not particularly chatty when it comes to sharing feelings.

Tell us how you really feel.

This gets really frustrating when, say, instead of telling Halle how mad she is, she punches her.

Or when she freaks out for no apparent reason one Sunday at church and for the next two months refuses to go to her church class and bursts into tears at the sight of men in dark suits and I freak out wondering what happened to her involving men in dark suits until I finally eke it out of her that our dear bishop thought it would be cool and funny to pop out his fake eye in the Primary room in front of all the kids, except Jenna didn't get sufficient warning and it made her cry and then she internalized the fear, because she doesn't like to talk about her feelings.

Stuff like that.

A few months ago, I hit on a brilliant solution.  I gave Jenna a notebook.  "When you are frustrated, angry, or sad, you can write in this notebook," I told her.  "If you want to show it to me and Daddy, we would be happy to read it."

It works well.  I'm a flipping genius, GOSH!

Through this, Jenna has discovered a love for writing songs, and I gotta say, she rocks at it.  I'm seriously jealous in a maternal-pride sort of way.  I wish I could write catchy songs like hers.

This morning, basking in the glow of a two hour delay for school (and also basking in the fatigue of staying up way too late neurotically emailing a friend), I sent my kids back to bed when they got up at 7:45 and told them they couldn't get up for another 15 minutes.

So Jenna went back to her bed, not happily or quietly, and wrote this song:

Wateing For You

When you'r up in the tree-ee-ee

its bringhing you back to me you see

cuase when I'm wateing in the rain,

I have a little pane

waiting for you.

Don't now

Wate, do,

How am I gona

think this throw

Without you

oh-oh-ohoh

without you

uuu

It's almost enough to guilt me into getting up in the morning and, you know, making breakfast or something.  Then again, I should probably just keep slacking off.  Gotta give Jenna plenty of fodder for her songs, right?

In case you're interested.

I started a writing blog.  Where did I put it?  *shuffle shuffle*

Ah, yes.  Here.

If reading about a tortured writer isn't your idea of fun, that's cool.  I'm sure I'll be remembering more humiliating stories soon.  Or living them.

Jingle Alllllll The Way

My sister-in-law is a great sounding board for embarrassing/awkward/dorky stories.  Usually, it goes like this:



Me: Oh, looking at this random object reminds me of a story where I blah blah blah *dorkiness abounds*

Sister: *rolling on floor in puddle of pee, gasping for breath* That is soooooooo hilarious!  You should blog about that one.

Should I be concerned that she's encouraging me to reveal such humiliating, repressed memories? 

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Nah.  This one is pretty funny.

In seventh grade, (warning: SHOCKER ALERT) I wasn't popular.  My best friend, on the other hand, was extremely so.  We were quite the paradox, walking the halls together.  I got two kinds of looks: 1) The "Why the heck are you standing so close to that cool girl?  Did she give you permission?"  or 2) The non-look, where the person (usually a boy) didn't even see me, although he managed to notice the paint chipping off the wall right by my ear, the gum on the ground that his buddy almost stepped in, and the person standing directly behind me.

I don't know if it was all that non-attention, or maybe just my innate ability to make ordinary moments painfully awkward, but I got the best idea ever!  


For the last day of school before Christmas break that year, I decided I was going to awesome it up and go all out in my festive spirit.  I braided my hair in about twenty tiny braids and attached a jingle bell to each one.  I made myself a jingle bell necklace, two bracelets, two ankle bracelets, and a couple rings.  And since that wasn't quite enough, I tied lots of jingle bells to my shoes.  Lots.

I felt cool for about thirty minutes that morning, and then I got to school and realized this idea...was not so cool.  My ridiculous amount of braids were weighed down with bells that whipped people in the face every time I turned around.  I couldn't carry a conversation and walk--or move at all--at the same time.  And I got a lot of weird looks.  Lots.

Even teachers, who are generally kind and say things like, "Oh, look how festive you are!" didn't say anything.  I think they probably couldn't trust themselves not to laugh in my jingle-bell framed face.

The crowning point of the day came when my teacher sent me and another student to the office on an errand.  I didn't know the other student very well.  The awkward silence that always fills such moments was even worse, because it wasn't silent.  It was filled, step by step, with a hundred jingling bells.

I have a hard time with bells now.  I think I know why.

If you haven't read Harry Potter yet, go do it first. I'll wait.

For some reason, I have thus far kept the extent of my love for all things Harry Potter kind of on the down low.  I think maybe it's because I was already into my college years when they started hitting the big scene, so I was all like, "Oh, Harry Potter, yes, good books, I guess.  I don't really care one way or another..."  *cough*  That's a big, fat lie.  It's Riddikulus, you might say.

A few years into our marriage, I got Rex to read them.  (Quite the feat, btw, getting him to read at all.)  He was hooked, and then we gladly simmered in our Harry Potter geekery together, spending many an evening in discussions of all the ins and outs.

Ah, but even then, I had no idea that I was an iceberg, and had only just begun to scratch the tips of my surface.

When Deathly Hallows was released, our local Walmart held a book-release party, complete with games, costume contest, treats, etc., etc.  I sat at my parents house and laughed at the thought of so many dorks in one place, but secretly, I wanted to check it out.  Turns out, so did my sister-in-law.  So we devised a plan.  We volunteered to go on a candy run, but instead of going to the grocery store right down the hill, we went across town to Walmart.  Because they have a better candy selection and better prices.  Can't beat the rollback.  Can't.  beat. 

It was so cool!  We got to brew our own potion, and they were handing out wristbands to tell you what house you were in (aka where you stood in line).  I got Ravenclaw.  I kept it, because it makes me feel smart.  So we got our geeky fill and then went back and laughed to our family about all the dorky costumes we saw (and were so jealous of.)

When I read in the last book, on his parents gravestone, that they'd died in 1981, I actually got a little dizzy.  I almost tipped out of my chair, because I realized, Harry Potter and I are almost the exact same age!  I totally remember what I was doing on Halloween, 1981!  I was being a baby, too!  Just like Harry!  And the thought that Harry was only a year older than me, well, it makes me warm inside. 

So after that, while lazing about in the shower, I started doing a little math.  (Arithmancy, maybe.  I don't really know what you do in that class.)  If Harry was born in 1980, that means the Battle at Hogwarts happened in 1998.  In the spring.  I was totally having a Choir Tour Romance with Rex in spring of 1998!  And then, THEN, nineteen years after that is 2017.  And if James is 12 and Albus is 11, that means they were born in 2005 and 2006.  Just like Halle and Jett!  And Lily is two years younger--just like Reese!

Also, I think it's worth mentioning that Rose is also Jett's age.  And Hugo is Reese's.  So, pretty much, I'm planning on marriages/BFFs from both families. Because I like Ron and Hermione, too.

Do you know what that all means?  If I lived in England, and Harry Potter wasn't fiction, and Rex and I were wizards, and our children weren't squibs, we could all totally be friends!  And our kids would get into all kinds of mischief together at school and we'd sigh and laugh about the owls we get from Headmistress McGonagall telling of said mischief, and Ginny would say, "Here, Jeigh, my same-aged friend, would you like some treacle tart?  It's Harry's favorite."  Ahh.  Good times.  Oh, and I'd send my love to Professor Longbottom.  Because he's pretty awesome.  And he'd be my friend, too.

So there you have it.  The truth. 

Do you know what I'll be doing in the fall of 2017?  That's right--I'll be loading my kids onto the school bus, all the while pretending like it's the Hogwart's Express.

The tribe has spoken

I have a game on my iPod called "Unblock Me", and I love it.  Essentially, what you do is move little blocks around the screen in the right order to make an opening for the orange block to escape, whoosh, out the side.  It's so satisfying.  I love it for the relaxation, I do.  And I like the mental exercise.

But I'll be honest.  Every time I finish a puzzle, I hear Jeff Probst say, "Blue team wins immunity!"  And he throws his hands up in the air that way he always does, and I'm pile-drived in the middle of a sweaty, stinky hug**, because I just carried my tribe to victory.  

It's the best.  I'm pretty sure I'm destined for Survivor.

When it first started, eleven long years ago, I had a teacher tell me he pictured me on Survivor some day.  Kicking serious trash.  It's sparks like these, guys, that are dangerous in my brain.  They smolder.  They spark.  And they inflame my imagination!!!

I have a whole plan for when I get on.  As soon as I get the notice that I'm in, I'm going to stop eating chocolate and pizza, so I'm not dealing with withdrawls.  I'm going to learn how to untie knots really fast.  I'm going to learn how to swim really well, how to eat gross things like fish, and how to start a fire with my mind.  And I'm going to play Unblock Me.  A lot.  Oh, and I'm going to get my armpit hair lasered so it grows back sloooowly.  Because armpit hair itches and throws off my game.

Also, I'm going to make Rex get me a pretty ring made of twine or something, so I don't lose my wedding ring, but so the hunky young men know: *sing-song voice* "Taken!"

We had "Survivor: The Board Game" back in the day.  I totally won, because I was the master of false alliances and blindsides.  Pretty much, I took out my own alliance first.  There were only five of us playing, but still.  I won the final vote.  By a landslide--two votes to one. 

So watch for me.  I'm almost done having babies.  And then, I'm off to be...the Ultimate Survivor.  (Ah-uuuuuh!  Oh way oh we oh we oh way ahh, ooh wee oh way uh!  Boom boom boom boom boom!)

**except for some guy named Gino, because he wants me gone in a bad way, because I'm a huge threat.  But no one else likes Gino.  

It's official

I'm a lame mom.

Have I mentioned how I don't like Halloween?  Yeah.  Yeah, I have.

Our story starts about two months ago.  Rex and I were at the store when I came upon a beautiful vision: a box set Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, part 1, 2, and 3 AND TMNT the cartoon.  It came in a cool, circular tin that looked like a manhole cover and it came with Ninja Turtle masks, just like they wear in the movie.

As Rex and I stood, contemplating the many reasons why we neeeeeded to buy this overpriced impulse buy of all impulse buys, a heavenly light shone down on Rex and he started speaking in tongues.

"I know!" he babbled.  "Our kids can be Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles for Halloween!"

And this is what we both pictured in our heads:

It was gonna be epic.

So we bought it.  And then, too late, we remembered that I am Halloween costume-challenged.  I blame it on three things:

1. I am too cheap to spring for store-bought costumes.
2. I am too craft-clumsy for homemade.
3. I'm from in Idaho, where it traditionally snows before Halloween, so most of my costumes growing up consisted of snowpants, a heavy coat, boots, and a hat.  And sometimes a fairy wand.

So, here's what we did.  We got green pants and a green shirt for each child.  We spray-painted heavy duty paper plates green for the shells.  Plastic weapons.  And the ever important masks.

My girls had their Halloween parade at school today.  I had the brilliant idea to glue the paper plate shell to the back of their shirt with hot glue.  But, my crafts are not meant to be.  Halle's popped off as we pulled the shirt over her head.  Jenna's stayed on, but it stubbornly refused to stop looking like a paper plate glued to a shirt.

Without further ado, here is the finished product.

Halle walked like that the whole time because she couldn't see through the eye holes.

Jenna, and a decent shot of her paper shell.

And showing me that her plastic weapons broke.  Again.

Nothing to see here, really.  Batman, Spidey, and Leo always like to get together and talk shop over a mid-afternoon snack.

So, to recap, green sweats, face paint and masks do not a TMNT make.  Next year I might just spring for store bought.