Turkeyboys' Girls

The Year of the Dragon Garden

2012-01-30T08:31:00.000-08:00

If there is an opposite of a gardener, that is what I am.

It is a good thing that children are not green, since I have never had any luck growing something that color. Plants wilt if I breathe on them. Tomatoes break out in boils if I touch them. Seeds I sew go into the dirt and never come out again. The only thing I have really ever had luck growing are cactuses (cacti, for all you smarties out there).

But this year is different. This year is the Year of the Dragon, the year when successful people are born, when successful businesses are started, and hopefully, successful gardens are grown. If there is any year when I have some hope to having a lush garden, this year is it. This year is the year of the Dragon Garden.

But the cards are already stacked against me. We live on a wooded, one acre hillside and the dirt is not really dirt at all, but red clay. Realistically, I would have more success trying to become a brick mason.

Plus, we have deer, rabbits, birds and squirrels to worry about, and no-see-em bugs that like to eat you clear to the bone so that by the end of the summer me and my children need skin graphs. I raise them to fear grass. As you can see, my work is cut out for me.

In order to make my shady clay hillside spring forth into garden abundant I needed a little help from my ingenious husband.

We actually began this process at the end of last summer.

To solve the shade problem he cut down a tree.

To solve the clay problem he had a truck deliver top soil.To solve the hillside problem he created a retaining wall.

To solve the deer problem he got me a dog.

(Doesn't he look absolutely ferocious? I bet you are glad you are not a deer.)

I'm not sure how Turkeyboy can help me solve the bugs that have already given me 8 years of scars, but I have a feeling it is spelled D-E-E-T.

Now my husband says it is my turn to start working. :)

So let the Year of the Dragon Garden begin!

A Tribute to My Heritage

2011-10-28T10:50:00.000-07:00

Recently our family genealogist discovered that my sisters and I are the descendants of Margaret Stephenson Scott.

Why is that so interesting? Mrs. Scott, it turns out, was convicted of being a witch and was hung at the Salem witch trials of 1692.

This qualifies me and my sisters for membership in the exclusive Associated Daughters of Early American Witches. In order to join you must be "at least sixteen years of age and able to prove descent from an ancestor or ancestress who was accused or tried or executed for the practice of witchcraft prior to 31 December 1699."

And guess what! For only $100 we can get a life membership!

Thrilled at the thought that I had a witch for an ancestor, I immediately wanted to test my witching skills, seeing as they have lain dormant for several generations. The best place to do that? My kids elementary school!

Naomi, me and Dan Dan the Skeleton Man.

With my supernatural powers I convinced a good friend of mine to join forces with me. She brought along Snow White. (Still not sure if either of them are qualified to be a member of the Associated Daughters of Early American Witches, but not everyone can be so lucky.)

From the wart on her nose to her fish net hose, I knew I had chosen the right person.

We each have two other children attending the elementary school, so we had four classes to visit.

Here is Angie, putting the trimmings on our poison apple wagon.
Angie says the skeletons are kids who didn't do their homework.

The school children were thrilled to see us and even more thrilled to try our poisoned apples. Sorry I don't have any photos of all the action, but we were very busy witches.

Sometimes we had to wait for the appropriate time to enter a class.

In between classes my witch friend tempted little Snow White to take a little bite.

The effects were immediate:
This is me and my apprentice witch whose birthday happens to be today. Happy #5, Naomi!

This is Dan Dan the Skeleton Man after the third class room:

I wish we had photos of the classrooms we visited, cause the kids were a lot of fun, and they enjoyed the apples very much. It appears I need some work on my poison apple recipe since I believe all the children are all still living.

(Actually the apples were part of the "Smart Snack" program that New Hope Elementary gets to participate in. Every day the school gets fresh fruits and vegetables to give the kids. How great is that? We were lucky to be able to hand them out.)

My friend made an excellent witch. It is just a hunch, but I wager she has brew in her blood. If she doesn't have a witch ancestor I must find a way to make her an honorary member.

Thanks, Angie....that was a lot of fun!

Strange Mormon Customs #3

2011-10-22T18:45:00.000-07:00

Britney and me in London

Mormons believe in being modest at all times and in all places. With that said, let me tell you a story about my bikini.

I was ten years old and shopping with my mom when I saw it there, hanging on the rack. I have a vivid memory of what it looked like: it was white with a purple and turquoise palm tree print and purple piping around the edges, and it was darling. I asked my mom if I could have it. What do you think she said?

Before I tell you, let me give you some history on my mom. When she was a child, she was tended on Santa Monica beaches by the famous stripper Gypsy Rose Lee while my grandmother mowed the lawn in her swimsuit. When my mom was a teen she became Miss Malibu. Though she grew up to become a devout Mormon, at heart she was still a Californian.

So I got the bikini. It was a while before I could wear it since we lived in Jackson, Wyoming, where it is warm enough to swim outside for only two hours of the year. But one weekend my family went to St. George, Utah and stayed at a motel with a pool. I was so excited to finally try out my cute suit.

There was only one problem. We got there late Saturday night and the next morning was Sunday. (Another Strange Mormon Custom: Mormons don’t swim on Sunday.) I looked longingly out at the pool.

Hoping that rules could be bent, I asked my mom if I could go swim for just a little while, even though it was Sunday.

This time my mom paused for a moment. But she still said yes.

Gleefully, I peeled off my clothes, strapped on my bikini and pranced out to the pool.

It was morning and I had the pool all to myself. I splashed around, having a great time, looking down at my body every now and then to glory in my cuteness.

Before long another person entered the pool area. It was a boy; chubby boy who was a little older, maybe 12 or 13. He watched me for a while and I toned down my frolicking. He eased himself into the pool continued to watch me with a strange smirky smile on his face. His expression gave me a weird feeling I had never felt before; as if suddenly I was wearing nothing at all. And even though I was young enough to have a chest so flat you could iron your shirt on it, I could feel that somehow I crossed some mysterious boundary of decency, and that by crossing this boundary I had let myself become prey for a wolf in fat-boy’s clothing.

I left the pool and never wore that bikini again. Since then, I never had any desire to wear a bikini. Not once. If you are trying to teach your children about modesty, I don’t recommend this strategy, but it definitely worked for my mom. I often think back on my mom’s willingness to let me dress like that and wondered if she knew what she was doing all along.

The unfortunate reality is that men have always been, and will always be, more influenced by a woman’s appearance than what comes out of her mouth….for better or for worse.

But that isn’t the only reason I dress modestly. As a Mormon, I see my body as a temple. Have you ever tried to enter a Mormon temple when you haven’t met the proper requirements? Sorry, buddy, you can’t get in.

It is the same with our bodies. This is the reason Mormons don’t smoke, don’t drink…our bodies are temples. Protecting the sanctity of our bodies is just as important to us as protecting the sanctity of our temples.

But that doesn’t mean we go around wearing turtle necks and skirts that go down to our ankles. Our bodies are not barns, not skyscrapers, not supermarkets, not strip malls, not condos, casinos or cabins. They are temples, and temples are exquisitely beautiful. Beauty and cleanliness are a reflection of the respect you have for yourself. I think people forget that that is part of modesty, too. Out of respect for my body I always try to make the most of what I have and be as beautiful to look upon as possible.

After all, I am the daughter of Miss Malibu.

Here are the guidelines our church gives the youth about wearing appropriate clothing.

Check out this great website the church has put together on the dress standards for our young sister missionaries….I bet you’ll like it.

I'll Make a Deal With You

2011-10-16T16:26:00.000-07:00

I was very surprise at the responses I received from my last post.

I had no idea there were so many other "closet writers" out there among my friends. Welcome to the party, guys!

It was inspiring to me--and I haven't been able to stop thinking about how great it is that so many of us have stories to tell. I can't even begin to say how important I think it is to stand up for what you believe, and to spread your messages of goodness or hope or truth out into this crazy world in a productive, uplifting way. That is what I am trying to do with my story. Perhaps the world will someday read it, perhaps no one but my kids will read it. But at least they will know where I stand, and that my belief is strong enough that I want it to be heard.

I doubt that anyone would really write a book with the intent to never ever let anyone else see it. If you are writing about something, that means you feel strongly about it. If you feel strongly about it, you want people to know about it. Am I wrong, people? No, I am right!

Now for the deal I want to make with you.....

In one of the many books I've read about writing I learned that when you "pitch" your story to an editor or an agent you should be able to tell them what it is about in one sentence.

I am going to be nice and let you have THREE sentences to tell me what you are writing about (or what you have written about.)

If I get more than TEN responses from people who are working on a novel or have already written a novel, I will tell you all what my novel is about.

You do not have to leave your name....you can post anonymously, if you want, but you have to be truthful.

So who will be first?

I have written a novel

2011-10-14T20:52:00.000-07:00

It took me one year. It is 285 pages long, double spaced. I have made it through two official rough drafts, but some sections I have rewritten at least seven times.

Wonder why I hardly ever post anything on my blog anymore and never comment on your blogs? Writing. Wonder why I haven’t come to play-group in the last 12 months? Writing. Wonder why I haven’t read any of the books in bookclub? Writing. Wonder why I haven’t been to Relief Society activities or volunteered at my kids schools or done any of the gracious and good things mothers are supposed to do? Wonder why my children look like malnourished orphans? You guessed it.

Today I realized I haven’t exercised in months. I can’t remember the last time I broke a sweat. My ward split almost a year ago and I still don’t know more than half of the people’s names. I have sheepdog-hair that is constantly getting in my eyes and mouth, but I don’t have time to go cut it because I am writing, writing, madly writing!

You see, I had an idea—a darn good idea—and I was on fire. I had to get it out on paper, or at least out on my computer screen, so that I could publish it and change the world with my lyrical language, witty humor and hidden gems of wisdom.

In some ways writing has been good for me. First of all, I love it. Typing up a scene gives me a little thrill and I actually get the (misleading) impression that I am actually good at this. I am going to be just like J.K. Rowling! How many zillion billion ka-trillion people have thought that before? Second of all, it is the only hobby I’ve had that doesn’t cost anything. Scott likes that part. Perhaps that is why he has been so supportive.

I bet you want to read it, don’t you?

Yes, yes….that is what they all say. But only ONE of the undisclosed-number-of-people I sent my mss to has read beyond page 100. Did I mention this was close to 300 pages long? If the people I love can’t finish it, how would I ever expect Big Scary Mr. Publisher to even open the envelope?

Believe me, I’ve done my homework. I have read Writers Market books cover to cover. I know what I have to do to get my book out there, into the hands of the masses. I know the odds.

I bet you want to know what it is about, don’t you?

The only way you will ever know is if you see it at Barnes and Noble someday, sitting there all pretty and glossy on the center display table….but that won’t happen. Nope. Do you know why? Because I am not going to work on it any more. Do you know why? BECAUSE I HAVE FOUR KIDS. THAT is why.

Now I know mothers need hobbies and all that. Believe me, I am the mother of all hobbyists. (Did that come out right?) Long before I became a "writer" I was a seamstress, an artist, a musician, a dog trainer. But writing a NOVEL? Aye, aye, aye. My own expectations disgust me.

Throughout the past YEAR I have kept my fingers dancing away on my keyboard with the illusion that if I can just keep trucking, ultimately this manuscript will come out of its cocoon and unfold its shimmering wings. I just want to create something special. Everyone wants to do something amazing, right? To accomplish something where everyone will say, bravo, you’re cool now. That was really great. You really changed my life, Steve Jobs.

To make it worse, there is that blasted American Dream mentality which makes us think we really can do anything if we work hard enough. This is what gets me in trouble, because I am a hard worker and so I obsess over sentence structure and plot and word choice, knowing that if I just put in the time eventually everything will come out sounding like Barbara Kingsolver.

But tonight I read my story with new eyes. And you know what? I don’t think that if I wrote for a hundred years I would be able to write like Barbara Kingsolver. Or Dr. Seuss for that matter.

And you know what else? I want my kids to remember me as a face, not as a glowing apple.

Besides, my rear end is huge and I need more exercise.

Strange Mormon Customs #2

2011-08-30T18:28:00.000-07:00

In light of the recent hurricane AND earthquake that occurred in my state last week, I would like to dedicate my next “Strange Mormon Customs” post to the overwhelmingly strong urge most Mormons have to store vast quantities of food.

We do this for many reasons: to prepare against natural disasters, job loss, disability, and…dare I say…Armageddon.

I myself have a small cache of wheat under my house. As well as black beans, corn, freeze-dried meat, dried fruit and potato flakes.

In my kitchen I have canned fruit, powdered milk and even this strange egg-powder stuff that I am afraid of.

Some of the can labels claim the food inside will stay “fresh” for 25 years. I could buy it now and still eat it when I am 58.

But even if that is the case, they say that you are supposed to do your best to actively use it, and rotate it, for two reasons: 1. so you know how to use it (after all, you have to grind the wheat before you can make bread, and you have to soak the beans before you can make soup) and 2. so your family can get accustomed to the taste.

I heard of one experiment where they had families live off their food storage for a month and they all had to go to the hospital with intestinal problems since their stomach wasn’t used to the foods.

My favorite (and most inspiring) food storage experiment was done by my aunt. She surprised all her adult children with a challenge: live off your food storage for two weeks, starting TODAY. Ready, set, go! (well, they had a little time to prepare...) You can read about it on her daughter’s blog. (Click on the link and then scroll down to "14 day challenge.")

Perhaps you are impressed with my food storage. But let me tell you a secret, sister, I am just a baby in the food storage world. There are Mormon women out there who could feed entire states from their basements. And not because they have tons of food…but because they know how to use it.

For instance, my sister regularly cooks dutch oven meals for her family and can make a baking oven out of an apple box that gets hot enough to make muffins—without electricity. Every year she plants a garden and cans everything in bottles, including salsa and her own grape juice. Not only does she have a year’s supply of food, she also has a year supply of fuel with everything from charcoal bricketts to propane tanks. I will not tell you where she lives for fear you might mob her after the next natural disaster. Besides…I’ve got to get there first.

This is water to help our toilets flush just in case the electricity goes out.

I think I have enough here for about two and a half flushes.

You know you are really prepared when you have the gadgets to go along with the food: the food dehyderator, the water purifiers and all the canning paraphernalia.

My most high-tech food storage gadget is my wheat grinder that hooks on to my Kitchen Aid, modeled here by my daughter:

It is the best thing in the world. I can grind wheat just like the Little Red Hen. Two days ago I ground my own corn and made corn muffins. It is kind of scary that I get a “high” from grinding my own grains. I even have a recipe to make my own tortillas, if there was someone in my family who would eat them besides me. There is only one problem with my grinder: it needs electricity. And in an emergency that is the first thing to go. My next food storage gadget will have to be a generator.

Obtaining this much food is difficult. Storing it is even harder. A simple pantry is not enough, so we have to improvise. I knew a woman who used 5 gallon buckets filled with sugar and flour as dining room chairs. Many of us have constructed nightstands with boxes of canned food, concealing it all under a lacey tablecloths. I have even heard of women who have false walls in their homes, just for cans. I want one of those.

I hope you appreciate how revealing it is for me to show you my food storage on line like this. It is like a woman sharing her how much she weighs. In a way it shows how prepared/obedient or unprepared/slacker I am….of course, it is all relative compared to how much YOU have stored.

By the way, I weigh 485 pounds.

Once upon a time it was asked that LDS church members store a year supply of food. Do you know how much a year supply is? That is a TON of food. Literally.

Then a few years ago the church revised their recommendations. They are as follows:

1. Gradually build a small supply of food that is part of your normal, daily diet until it is sufficient for three months

2. Store drinking water

3. Establish a financial reserve by setting aside a little money each week, and gradually increase it to a reasonable amount.

4. Once families have achieved the first three objectives, they are counseled to expand their efforts, as circumstances allow, into a supply of long-term basic foods such as grains, legumes, and other staples.

May we all be prepared. Consider yourself warned.

If you want to read more about food storage you can go to http://lds.org/ensign/2009/03/family-home-storage-a-new-message?lang=eng&query=food+storage

Strange Mormon Customs

2011-08-21T17:37:00.000-07:00

Every summer we take our family "back" West.

We want to see the mountains, breathe the clean dry air, and enjoy hair without the frizz.

But this summer we had an extra special reason to come "home."

And it had to do with two eight-year-old girls...

...and a special river

in the middle

nowhere.

(Incidentally, this photo was not taken of the road or the breathtaking scenic beauty, but of the bug splatter on the windshield. We don't get that in the East. Why? I don't know. Scott and I ponder over this every summer. Tell me why bugs splatter in the west and not in the east and I'll mail you a candy bar.)

When my neighbors asked me what our plans were for the summer I told them we were planning a trip to Wyoming.

"Really?" they said. "Jackson Hole?"

"No." I would respond. "The middle of Wyoming. A place called Martin's Cove."

"Is that a town?"

"No it is the side of a big rock."

"What town is it by?"

"No towns. There isn't a town for a hundred miles."

"What are you going to do there?"

"Well, it is actually a place where, over a century ago a group of

poor Mormon converts were stranded in a snowstorm, lost their limbs to frostbite, ate the leather off the rims of their handcart wheels, and many of them died."

Long pause.

"Why are you going there?"

"To dress up in pioneer clothes and celebrate."

It sounds strange at first, I admit. But Mormons will do whatever we can to teach our children about sacrifice. Even if we have to reenact it.

Granted, it was not snowing, our children were not starving, we trekked on a nicely graveled road, and I had on some pretty sweet hiking shoes.But it is better than sitting at home and watching tv.

My mom and my mom's husband are serving a mission there, so are two of my aunts and uncles, and so my whole family and some of my extended family decided to come visit and try our hand at being pioneers.

We camped for three nights,

crossed the river three times,

and ate lots of jerky and liquorish.

Scott brought his hammock (of course)

and tied it up to the only two trees in the entire state.

We bonded with family:

My sister Korinne, noticing the huge praying mantis on my blouse.

My husband, brothers, brother in law, my mom and a nice African man my mom adopted on her last mission to South Africa.

But the biggest event for my family came on the last day.

When Latter-day Saint kids are baptized they are usually baptized in a font inside a church building. The water is warm and clean.

But when the pioneers were baptized they didn't have fonts. They were baptized anywhere they could immerse themselves in water, and sometimes they were so excited about getting baptized and joining the church that they wouldn't even wait for summer to come but would go out in the winter and break the ice.

(Sophie and Syrena, testing the water a few days before they are to be baptized.)

Luckily we didn't have to break any ice. But there was a snake. Before the baptism several people spied it, but no one dared tell the girls (or ME!) about it until the baptisms were over. One nephew said it was Lucifer, coming to make trouble.

Naomi and cousin Quinn

You know, there are lots of ways I could teach my kids about the sacrifices of the pioneers.

Google, for instance.

But when they experience the vastness of the prairie and see the endless sky, they understand the hopeless predicament these poor pioneers were in. And when they touch the water with their own fingertips they can imagine what it would be like to carry their little sister across an icy river. And when they hear the howling outside their tent at night they can be grateful they are only coyotes and not wolves.

I have not yet mentioned that the reason why this spot is so special to Latter-Day Saints is not just because it was a place of suffering,

but because it was a place of rescue.

You could say that my girls were rescued there, too.

Wimbledon Through the Eyes of a Non-Tennis Player

2011-06-23T01:50:00.000-07:00

When I was in college I started dating a tennis player. I had never dated any kind of athlete before, since my crowd was made up of singers, artists, poets, writers, and musicians. I wasn’t completely ignorant of sports, though. I knew they existed. I knew there were such things as points and goals and fouls and coaches. I knew they always began with the National Anthem.

I was at a point in my life when I had had enough of dating dramatic actors and depressed saxophone players. I had never actually even known anyone you could officially title “an athlete.” Tennis was an especially mystifying sport, and this new boy with his rock hard abs and cocky swagger intrigued me from the very beginning.

He came from a home where tennis rackets were as plentiful as spoons. He had bragged a little about some of the state championships he’d won and even his siblings admitted he was the most die-hard tennis player of the five brothers and one sister.

That is why when he invited me one weekend to watch him play in the annual 4^th of July tennis tournament in his hometown I eagerly came along. I wanted to see if this he was actually as good as he seemed.

I sat on bleachers outside the courts, next to his 14-year-old brother who was clearly amused by my vast ignorance of tennis. But he was nice and patiently answered my questions and kept me updated on the score. As the tournament progressed I began to see that my date really did excel at this sport. I smiled. I stood a little taller. I flipped my hair back. If anyone asked me who I was I didn’t bother with my name. I just pointed out to the court and said, “I’m his date.”

But the best was yet to come.

During one match my date jogged up to the chain link fence and said to his little brother in tennis language, “Watch this. I’m going to “ace” him on the next serve.”

“What is an ace?” I asked loudly, not wanting to be left out.

Whispering, (because that is what you are supposed to do when you watch tennis) the little brother said with full confidence, “Just watch.”

I peered wide-eyed through the fence as my date prepared for his serve by bouncing the ball a few times and then casting a piercing stare across the net. Then he tossed the ball up in the air, at the same time bending his knees and pulling back his racket. Time stopped for just a moment as he waited for the ball to change direction and make its decent. Then, when the ball was in the perfect spot, he whipped his racket out from behind him and pounded it against the ball, hurling the ball across the court. Before his opponent had a chance to even wet his lips the ball crossed over the net, hit the corner of the service box and shot passed him, rattling the fence. Without his opponent even touching the ball, my date had scored.

Then he turned, pointed his racket straight at me and said, “That is an ace.”

And that is when I knew I’d marry him.

It is a fortunate thing that playing tennis is not a prerequisite for marrying into the Dyreng family. I luckily didn’t have to become any more athletic for him to like me. But it did quickly become clear to me that if I married this man, and wanted to stay married to him, I would have to learn to watch tennis for hours on end, give up the remote on Grand Slam weekends and learn how to understand tennis’s perplexing scoring system, which for me is up there with advanced algebra. But my love for Scott knows no bounds (or fouls or faults or penalties) and so I patiently watched and learned and kept score. I had no idea that Scott’s passion for tennis would have some pretty fun dividends down the road.

Fast forward ten years. I have observed hundreds of hours of tennis matches. I know how to keep score and can even keep track of a tie-breaker. I know the names of all the major tennis stars. I know so much about tennis now I am like a fountain of endless tennis trivia (which I will share with you from here on out).

As for playing tennis, if you watched me play tennis the first thing that would come to your mind would probably be, “Hm. She must be an artist or something.”

Scott is still as fit as ever, running, biking and playing tennis when he can. Unfortunately sometimes he has to work. But work has its benefits, too, and last year he was handed a wonderful opportunity.

He happened to be invited to a business conference to London at the same time as a certain famous tennis tournament called Wimbledon.

Interesting Tennis Fact: It is Wimbledon, not Wimbleton.

On a whim he bought a small tent for 9 pounds and decided wait in “the queue” and camp out for tickets. He did and he loved it and he vowed next year he wouldn’t go alone.

So when he was invited back again for the same London business conference he brought along me, and his mom, and most importantly his tennis-loving father, Doug.

Scott took care of everything. He bought the tickets, he packed the tents, packed the sleeping bags, he booked the hotel for the nights we would not be camping out. All I had to do was get a babysitter for our four kids and figure out what to do with Jimmer. (He’s still alive, in case you are wondering. The poison can only be administered in small doses over a long period of time.) It was the easiest vacation I ever departed on.

We spent the first four days touring London, having a jolly good time. My only complaint was that I had the Harry Potter theme song running through my head for four days straight.

We cast a lot of concerned glances up at the grey skies, though, with diverging worries: Scott and his dad were hoping that our day at Wimbledon wouldn’t get rained out, and me and Scott’s mom were hoping we wouldn’t have to camp at Wimbledon in the pouring rain. (I was glad Valerie was with me, since she also sold her soul to tennis years ago. We have a mutual understanding of what it is like to be married to men who love sports. As Scott's sister likes to say, “love” means nothing to a tennis player.)

The day came. Scott’s plan was to ride the tube to Wimbledon, get there about 2 pm and set up our tent in the queue. His goal was to get there early enough that we would get Center Court tickets because Center Court was the only show court that had a retractable roof in case of rain. That way if it rained we would still be able to watch tennis when all of the other 14 or so courts would be closed. Plus, Center Court was where they put all the big stars.

Interesting Tennis Fact: There are three types of tennis courts: hard court, clay court and grass court. You can’t play on any tennis court in the rain; puddles form on hard courts, clay gets muddy and grass gets ripped up. When this happens balls don’t bounce. After it rains you have to wait forever for the court to dry out before you can play again. At Wimbledon, the moment it starts to rain they pull a huge tarp over the lawn to protect the grass. It takes them anywhere from 22 to 28 seconds to do this.

We finally made it to the big lawn where we were to “queue up.” They told us where to put our tents; snug up against the tent of the people who arrived right before us.I could tell Scott was relieved to finally be in line, and from the looks of it we were near the front, but we still wouldn’t know if we’d get Center Court tickets for a few more hours. Before too long the queue had spread out behind us, too, in a long colorful row of neat tents full of people smoking, drinking beer, throwing tennis balls to each other and speaking dozens of different languages. Believe me, we were totally at home. :)

True, this was not our norm, especially for Doug and Val, but let me add here, that the tennis crowd is a refined group of sports enthusiasts. I would seriously hesitate, for instance, to sleep all night in a queue for a hockey game or even a basketball game. But tennis is different. It is a sport that is synonymous with respectability. The officials (called “stewards”) making sure we were behaving were mainly retired old gentlemen, dressed in suits and ties, strolling the queue with umbrellas.

Free pastries were passed out along with coupons for free strawberries and cream. Unlike most sports, tennis appeals to your inner lady or gentleman and not your inner animal. When football is on tv the commercials are full of beer and scantily clad women, but tennis is sponsored by companies like Mercedes Benz and Rolex. Game of tennis is built on the tradition of sportsmanship and fairplay and decency. The whole sport can be summed up in the word “proper.”

Interesting Tennis Fact: Tennis ball cans are sealed to keep the balls “fresh.” Once a tennis ball is about a week old it is dead, and doesn’t bounce as well. For tournaments they always start with a fresh can of balls and change balls after every 8 games. Not every 8 matches. Not every 8 sets. Every 8 games. That means very little to you unless you understand tennis, though. Think of it this way: for every match the players will go through about 8 cans of tennis balls.

So we had no problems enjoying the company of our international compatriots and British middle class as we discussed the low-lying grey clouds and munched Pringles and chocolate chip biscuits. We also spent hours playing card games with Scott’s parents (of which I lost almost every round. That is what you get when you marry into a competitive family). Scott’s only but often uttered complaint was that he wished he were in a hammock instead of a tent. (We can’t have it all, darling.)

Finally a steward came with a stack of queue cards and to Scotty’s relief we were in the top five hundred (top two hundred, actually, thanks to Scott’s eagerness), guaranteeing us a seat at Center Court. Now, even if it rained, his dreams of seeing the best tennis players in the world with his dad were about to come true.

Just look at Scott's grin. That makes me happy.

After a night of little sleep we woke to the sound of tent poles being folded up. The sun was blinking over the horizon (the sun rises at 4:30 am there) and people were everywhere, gathering their things, dropping off the big bulky items in a storage facility, and trying to make themselves look decent enough to be on international television. Before long, mass confusion had now organized it self into a “proper” queue. Now it was time to stand.

and stand

and stand,

and every now and then we'd walk.

We stood in line, inching forward for the next three hours. Finally we reached the gates at Wimbledon, and at 12:30 we were let into the grounds. We had been in the Wimbledon queue for 22 hours. (Round of applause to Doug and Valerie!)

We enjoyed a nice lunch, standing around a very nice garbage can/table, since all the tables in the inn were full. Then it was off to Center Court.

Interesting Tennis Fact: at the Wimbledon courts, even the “show” courts that are often televised, there are no sponsors’ posters for you to oogle at during the game. There is nothing to distract you. That is because Wimbledon is not about what they can sell you or what kind of advertising will catch your eye. At Wimbledon it is all about the tradition, the glory and the game of tennis. And that is also why they charge a ba-jillion dollars for tickets.

I have to admit even Valerie and I got a little giddy as we walked into the stadium. There it was: the dark green seats, the emerald-colored lawn, mowed to perfection, the ball kids standing at attention like little soldiers. It was just like we had seen it for all the years of our married lives, broadcasted on tv. Except now we were here! And we didn’t even play tennis! Ah, the irony of it all.

All around us were more wealthy spectators who didn’t have to camp because they had the means to buy the 800 pound (that is approx. $1000) tickets to this event and looked markedly more fresh and glamorous. There were many people sitting in the royal box, including Diana Ross who came specifically to enjoy Serena Williams play (of “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough” fame for all you athletes).

I asked Doug and Scott if they would stand in line with Val and I for 22 hours to watch….say…Oprah (I can’t think of anything I’d stand in line for, particularly not Oprah, but I couldn’t think of any other example). I got no response. Perhaps that is because that would be their ultimate nightmare or perhaps it was because Serena Williams had stepped on to the court. Boisterous—but polite—cheers erupted from around the stadium. Serena and her opponent warmed up for a moment or two. Then a hush fell over the court. It was time to begin.

Our well-earned seats were excellent. We were six rows from the court, and from where I sat I could see straight down the base line. (I had a perfect view of the base line judge who shoutedFAULT! each time Serena foot-faulted on her serve. Luckily she didn’t threaten to “CRAM TH[AT] beep-beep BALL DOWN [HIS] beep-beep THROAT,” though.)

One of the most interesting things about tennis is that it is a quiet game. You are not allowed to talk or make noise or clap or shout or whistle until after a point is made. An unexpected exhale at an excellent shot or an involuntary gasp at a close call is allowed, but for the most part, the disciplined audience is pin-drop silent. So silent you can hear the sound of the ball kids’ sneakers as they scamper across the lawn. So silent you can hear the clicking of a camera three rows away. So silent that the chair umpire looks at me when I chew my mint.

Interesting Tennis Fact: Most tournaments let the athletes where whatever color they want, but at Wimbledon the athletes can only wear white.

It was glorious watching Serena and Aravane Rezai play in their Wimbledon whites. Standing back, and looking at the entire scene, they are the only ones dressed in white—the officials and ball kids, security guards, audience are all in darker colors. Their white skirts against the dark green back drop of the stadium and the lighter green of the lawn almost made them seem like angels. Very big, strong, and tank-like, but still like angels.

Doug and Scott in heaven.

Serena beat Rezai soundly (though she cried afterwards into her towel. Rough year, I hear.) Then we watched Roger Federer stroll out onto the court, waiving his hand like Julius Caesar. Everyone went (politely) wild.

Watching Federer play is like watching a magician. Instead of simply reacting to the other person’s shot he calculates the speed and direction of the ball as it is coming towards him and then with his racket he deflects it back, making it twirl and dance, hitting just the right angle at just the right speed to the very place where it will inflict the most wonder. If Apollo played tennis he would look just like Roger Federer. If Michelangelo’s David could move he would move like Roger Federer. To give you an idea of how famous he his, his name didn’t even come up on my computer’s spell check. That is fame, brothers and sisters, even if you yourself don’t know who in the heck he is.

During breaks Val and I went out for strawberries and cream.

more tennis (this is Djokovic),

more strawberries and cream.

Last on the schedule for Center Court was Maria Sharapova whose Amazonian grunts used to intimidate her opponent are comical when watching TV, but are down right terrifying in person. She even frightened even me. She is one scaaaaaary woman.

All in all, we saw four of the most famous tennis stars in the world wipe the first round clean as they ascend to Wimbledon glory. It is hard not to be intimidated by these gods of tennis and wonder to yourself if I had not applied my self more at something could I have been as great? But just when I get these thoughts that people like Roger Federer and Serena Williams are beyond human I look down at their feet and remember that their socks smell just as bad as anyone else’s. Or worse.

Maria Sharapova's feet

So we came, we saw, we ate our strawberries and cream and we left. We arrived at our hotel bearing sunburns, blood shot eyes and massive headaches. But we had a glorious time, and I highly recommend the experience to anyone….even if you don’t know anything about tennis. But if you can’t get there, there will be more Wimbledon drama you can watch on your telly for another week and a half before the championships are over.

The moral of the story is: marry an interesting person with an interesting hobby and you’ll never be bored.

Cheerio!

My Mother-Talent

2011-05-28T10:03:00.000-07:00

There are lots of different ways to be a good mother. Some mothers get down on the floor and play with their kids. Some mothers keep a perfectly clean house, somehow teaching their children to always take their shoes off at the door and eat sitting down at the table. Some mothers teach their kids to be bilingual. Some mothers are ultra crafty or take photos of their kids that are so cute they look like little Pottery Barn models. Some mothers know the secret to getting kids to eat anything they cook. And then there are the sporty mothers who can teach their kids to do cartwheels and shoot basketballs.

Every mother has her special thing—lets call it a “mother-talent”—that make her kids idolize her; something that really makes her know that she is a good mother; something that gives her that reassuring feeling that even though she might make some mistakes there is at least one thing that will bring everything back to balance again. And someday, when her kids look back on their childhood and they write their memoir they’ll say, “my mother and I always did this, and it was our special thing.”

But I am not the kind of mom that gets on the floor and plays with her kids. I don’t keep a clean house. My kids prefer whole wheat Ritz crackers over anything I cook. I don’t teach my kids other languages and contrary to what I try to make you believe, I am only semi-crafty. My kids are much cuter in real life than in the photos I take of them, and anyone who knows me knows I am most definitely not the sporty type.

No, those are not my special mother-talents. And I am okay with that, because I know that there is more than one way to be an excellent mom. I have another mother-talent that I love, and I would never trade it for anything. My special mother-talent is reading.

In the eight years that I have been a mother I think I have read at least a thousand picture books, most of them twice. I have also read dozens of chapter books outloud. We listen to books on tape in the car, and my daughters and I all love to write our own stories to share with each other, illustrations and all.

Reading to my kids is my therapy. It is one thing I can do with my kids where I know there will be no fighting and we will all have a good time. We go to the library once a week and always check out as many books as the library allows, and if I smile and bat my eyes sometimes they will let me check out more.

Then we come home, we sit on the couch and stack the books next to us in a big tower and I read until I’m hoarse. Don’t call me while I’m reading to my kids, because I don’t answer the phone. It is our very favorite thing to do together.

Since this pastime is a big part of my life, I definitely have some opinions about good childrens lit, and since I have opinions that makes me an expert, right? J And now that summer is here, I wanted to share my vast knowledge with you. Okay, not my vast knowledge, but maybe this will give you a short-cut to weeding through all the not-so-great books at the library so you can find the ones that are really worth the trip.

I am of the opinion that for every Caldecott-winning book there are about 200 other great books out there that never got an award but are still just as fantastic. Also, since I sit on the couch reading picture book after picture book I crave books that have some adult appeal. And, being an artist myself, I am a sucker for breathtaking illustrations.

But first, here are some books I always steer clear of:

Picture books written by celebrities. The illustrations are usually good (because the publisher pairs the celeb up with a PROFESSIONAL ARTIST), but the story isn’t.

Books that are trying to push agendas or beliefs not in sync with your family’s beliefs. Sometimes you can tell by the title what you are getting into, but other times you just find out later at home. These go on my black list.

Books that smell like urine. There is a bit of roulette when it comes to checking out library books. Usually the smelly books really are the best stories, and that is why some little kid was dragging it around to all parts of the house. Unfortunately, those books seldom get weeded out of the stacks because no one wants to go back to the librarian and say, “hi, we checked out this book and it smells like toilet water. But I promise it wasn’t our toilet water.” If you don’t want the credit for the smell, just put a sticky note over the bar code that says, “this book smells bad,” before you drop it in the book drop and when the librarian goes to check it in she will see the note and incinerate the book (usually with her eyes if she’s like some librarians I’ve encountered) and order a new one. That way you and your family can still hold your heads up in public and the rest of us don’t have to check out the book you ruined. J

By the way, if you find the above book at Chapel Hill Library and you smell something bad, I promise it wasn't my family's fault. Good story, though.

Picture books that have more than 100 words on a page. Too tedious.

Picture books that have less than 3 worlds on a page. Not worth it. These might be good for young kids, but they take up too much room in your library bag to bring home. Read them at the library and leave them there. The exception to this is “worldless” picture books, which are different.

Now that we have those out of the way, here is a running list I’ve kept over the past two years of my very favorite library books. I’ve tried to choose books that you may not have heard before. I hope you and your kids find them as delightful as we did.

For laughing out loud:

Press Here by Henre Tullet (my vote for best book ever!)

Piggy and Elephant easy reader series, by Mo Williams

Knuffle Bunny books by Mo Williams

“Wordless” picture books:

Rainstorm by Barbara Lehman

Boy, Dog, Frog series by Mercer Meyer

Other great books:

Library Lion by Michelle Knudsen

Crictor by Tomi Ungerer

The Knight and the Dragon by Tomie de Paola

Little House on the Prairie Picture books by Laura Ingalls Wilder, illus. Renee Graef

Hurry Hurry Mary Dear by N M Bodecker

While You Are Sleeping by Alxis Deacon

The Rough Faced Girl by Rafe Martin

And the Dish Ran Away With the Spoon by Janet Stevens

Heckity Peg by Don and Audrey Wood

Birds by Kevin Henke

Baby Brains by Simon Jaes

The Tale of Tricky Fox by Jim Aylesworth

Mary’s Penny by Tanya Landma

Rapunzel’s Revenge by Shannon Hale (for tweens)

Just Like A Baby by Rebecca Bond

I have more, but I’ll save those for future posts. I can’t have you checking out all my favorites at once.

Last word:

My friend has a “Mommy and Me Bookclub” that I think is such a great idea. You should check it out.

I’ll start posting our Mermaid Crafts on our Mermaid Treehouse website in two weeks. Hurray for summer!

The Perfect Pet: Epilogue

2011-05-16T18:03:00.000-07:00

This story is 95% true.

Of course I didn’t send Jimmer to Australia. I also fibbed a little about how long it’s been since I’ve had zits.

Okay, maybe 75% of the story is true. I didn’t have a dream about Jimmer using my computer, nor did I give Scott mace as a present. Oh yeah, and the message in the dog food--that also wasn’t true.

So my story is 50% true. Jimmer really did bite Sophie (that is where the whole idea for this story began) and he really would (and still does) stare at me for hours on end without blinking. It is also true that he beheaded the brunette magnet doll, but he did the same thing to the blond and the redhead.

Writing about Scott is really fun, since I didn’t have to fabricate many of the things he said. His quotes about getting Jimmer a mate, his frustration that there is not a dog channel, his admiration for Jimmer’s unique appearance, his delight in Jimmer’s intelligence, etc, etc, etc…these were all things he really said. Most of these I wrote down, word for word in my story, taking liberties only with the context. I read every installment to Scott before I hit the “publish” button.

I did not intentionally put a moral in my story, but looking back, I guess you could say the moral is this: things are never as bad as they seem.

As for Jimmer, he mellowed out quite a bit during the course of this story. Eventually, he stopped leaping up on me and the kids (as much), stopped nipping (as much), learned to calm himself down, and learned a bunch of pretty cool tricks. For instance, I taught Jimmer to fetch the newspaper.

Here is a video on how I did it (7 minutes long): http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=syftSzQtA0Y

Here is the short version (2 minutes long): http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HVb1Vtlt5jo

I also taught Jimmer to pick up his “road kill” toys in the yard. I have to admit, he is very smart and very trainable.

There are also some benefits of having a dog that I had never expected. Like meeting new people, for example. In the past three years I’ve walked our neighborhood dozens of times, seeing the same neighbors over and over and giving the same polite smile and wave. But now that I have a dog with me I am suddenly someone of interest. People now stop me to ask about my dog, its breed, his age….and when I tell them his name is Jimmer that begins a whole new conversation and before I know it we’ve laughed together, cried together, talked about the First Vision and I’ve invited them to be baptized. (Here’s a tip, Mormon friends: Name your dog after Book of Mormon characters and/or presidential hopefuls and you are bound to end up talking about the church. I can just see it…. “King Noah” the bull dog, “Mitt” the dachshund.) A dog is a natural conversation piece. I have to admit it is a little fun. To really tell you the truth, more I wrote this story the more I liked Jimmer. Which, at last, makes my story 25 % true.

The final word:

As you might imagine, there are a couple of little readers in my own home that were following this story, and when the final chapter was published there was quite an uproar. They wasted no time in telling me that my ending was unacceptable and that it needed to be rewritten. Ah, critics! But since these critics are near and dear to my heart I will change the ending, just for them. So here is the “real” ending to the Perfect Pet:

Halfway to Australia Jimmer realized two things: 1. that he never wanted to eat peanut butter again for the rest of his life and 2. that he must somehow get back to North Carolina. He knew that he would never be happy without Scott and the dear little Dyrengs. So after breaking out of his crate he found his way to the cabin and charmed the flight attendants into letting him into the cockpit. Once there he hypnotized the pilots and made them turn the plane around. They landed safely back at Raleigh where Jimmer then took a taxi back home and was smiling on our doorstep the next morning, much to the happiness and jubilation of everyone in our family, even me who grasped Jimmer around the neck and cried out, Jimmer, I’m sorry! You’re the best dog in the world!

And they all lived happily every after.

The Perfect Pet: A Cautionary Tale, Part 10 of 10

2011-05-14T19:18:00.000-07:00

“You are going to absolutely love Australia.” I said as I packed Jimmer’s crate full of wonderful things to eat for his journey. Danny, Jimmer and I were all sitting in the kitchen. “There are kangaroos, and koala bears, and crocodiles…and they are always having barbeques and walkabouts.” Jimmer watched me with interest, his ears perked up and his stubby tail batted against the floor. “Australians are hilarious, too. They say things like, ‘that’s not a knife, THIS is a knife!’” And I laughed so hard tears came out of my eyes. Jimmer barked happily, so I quoted more lines from Australian movies. This was the most fun I’ve had in months.

His crate was now packed full of bones, chew toys, rawhides, dog food…I even included a huge jar of Costco peanut butter, without the lid.

“Okay, hop in, Jimmer! Don’t eat all the food at once, now.”

Jimmer bounded in and I locked the crate. I wrapped it with several layers of brown paper and lots of packing tape, making sure to poke plenty of air holes. Danny watched all of this with a perplexed look on his face. He looked up at me with his big liquid eyes. “Da?” he said, patting the box.

“Yes, Danny, the dog is going on a trip!” I said.

I wrote TO ANYWHERE IN AUSTRAILIA with a big red marker. I stood back and looked at it for a moment, wondering if I should add anything else.

Oh yes—THIS SIDE UP, with arrows. Then I lugged Jimmer to the car and went back to get Danny. We were off to the post office.

*****

“Does this parcel contain anything fragile, liquid, perishable or potentially hazardous?” The postal woman asked.

Let’s see, I thought. Fragile? Yes. Liquid? Yes. Perishable? Eventually. Potentially hazardous? Definitely.

“All of the above.” I said. The woman slapped all kinds of placard-looking stickers and stamps on the package.

“Da?” said Danny, pointing to the box. He was in a baby carrier on my back, looking over my shoulder.

“What about insurance?” asked the woman.

“No.”

“Delivery confirmation?”

“No, thank you.”

“All right then, it comes to $100.00, please.”

I gulped. But was my peace of mind worth it? Yes, it was. I handed over my card.

“Da! Da!” said Danny with both arms outstretched toward the box.

“Cute baby.” She said. She handed back my card and slapped on a couple more stickers and stamps. Then she said, “Hugo, will you give me a hand with this box?” A big man came out of the back and picked up the box.

“DA!” cried Danny, panicking.

Hugo took the box away. I turned around and walked out of the post office pretending not to notice my son who was arching his body back toward the counter and screaming, “DA! DA! DAAAAAAAAAA!”

*****

On the drive home I reasoned with myself. Had I done the right thing? Of course I did. I did it out of compassion for Jimmer. He was suffering. He wanted to go to Australia. I could see it in his eyes. Jimmer will be happier there. He’ll find some Australian farm where he can chase chickens and sheep—do what he was bred to do. I took a deep breath. It is all for the best. There was no other choice. Okay, there was another choice, but I get queasy around blood.

By the time we got home Danny was calm again. I knew it wouldn’t take long before he’d forget. The girls would eventually get over it, too. But what was I to do about Scott? The thought of Scott’s reaction made my stomach churn. And what was I going to tell him?

Surely not the truth.

*****

I cleaned out the laundry room where Jimmer’s crate had been. I wiped the muddy paw prints off my kitchen floor. I threw the rest of the dog food in the garbage, and I had just burned Jimmer’s chew toys in the fire pit and was washing my hands when I heard Scott’s car pull up in the drive way. My body went numb. He was home earlier than usual.

Through the windows I saw him walk into the back yard. “Jimmer!” he called, “Jiiiiiiii-mmer!”

What was I going to tell him? That Jimmer ran away? That he had been stolen? That he had contracted a disease and I had to bury him quickly in the back yard before he contaminated anyone? There seemed to be nothing I could come up with that sounded believable.

Outside Scott was holding a Frisbee, looking around, still calling out to Jimmer.

Meanwhile I stood at the kitchen sink like a zombie. I could feel the black sludge of Misery filling my body. Invisible chains were wrapping around my ankles and wrists like Scrooge’s friend Jacob Marley. What a wretched, wretched person I am! He must never find out the truth or he’ll never forgive me!

Scott was standing on the porch, the sun was shining in his hair making him look like Angel Gabriel. I had just sent away Angel Gabriel’s dog. I am a bad, bad person.

I slowly dried my hands and walked outside.

“Hi Scott.” I said, doing my best to control my natural instinct to run berserk down the driveway and never come back.

“Hi Chelsea.” He said. “Where’s Jimmer?”

Yes. Where is Jimmer? Probably somewhere over the Atlantic, by now, I guessed.

I took a deep breath. “Jimmer is…gone.” I said.

Now, when someone tells your pet is “gone” it is different than if someone tells you a person is “gone.” When a person is “gone” it usually means they are “gone to the store” or “gone fishing.” Not so with pets. Gone is gone. Gone is done. Gone is forever.

Scott knew this, so when he looked at me his eyebrow twitched. “Gone?” he asked. “What...what do you mean?”

I felt weak. I can’t take this. This is too much. Please, Earth swallow me! Please Lightning, strike me down! Please Birds, peck my eyes out!

I gripped the side of the house to steady myself. There was really only one thing to say.

“Scott.” I said. “I sent Jimmer away.”

There. I said it. It was the truth. I know it was not the complete truth, but that was as far as I could go at the moment. At least I was able to admit that I was to blame. Baby steps.

Scott just looked at me for a long time. The corner of his mouth trembled a little and then he looked down at the Frisbee in his hands. The Frisbee that would never touch Jimmers lips again. He sniffed. I just knew that Scott’s heart was breaking. I had sent my husband’s best friend to Australia. I am the worst wife in the world.

Scott heaved a sigh. “Let’s sit down.” He said calmly. He sat down on the steps and looked up at me. I wiped a tear from my eye and sat down beside him.

“I know it hasn’t been easy for you to have Jimmer around.”

I didn’t say anything. I am wretched. I have no right to speak.

“You have a lot of things to worry about here at home, and throwing a dog in the mix must be stressful.”

I sniffed.

“But…it’s okay.” He said.

“What?” I asked.

He put his arm around me. “It’s okay.”

I was astonished. You mean you don’t want a divorce? I didn’t say that, though.

“He’s just a dog, Chelsea. He was fun to have around, but at the end of the day, he is just a dog.”

Tears poured out of my eyes and I hid my face in my hands. “You really are Angel Gabriel!” I tried to say, but it just came out in sobs. Scott patted my back.

“I’m so sorry.” I said when I was able to speak. “I just couldn’t handle it anymore.” The truth again. Oh, the truth feels so good.

“It’s okay.” He said. “I just hope the kids will be okay with it.”

“Yeah,” I sniffed.

We were silent for a while. Then Scott said, “Hey, did we get a package today? I ordered a flag for the boy scouts.”

“Ah…a flag?” I asked.

“The boy scouts are doing a culture merit badge and they’ve decided to have an Australia night. I’m supposed to provide decorations, so I ordered a flag.”

“R-r-really?”

“Yes. Did it come?”

I nodded as my mind slowly worked this out.

Scott leaned back and stretched his legs, crossing his ankles.

“Hey, and I found out something interesting today," he said.

“What’s that?” I asked, still disturbed about the flag.

“Did you know that Australian Shepherds aren’t really from Australia?”

What?!

“Yeah. They were actually bred here in America, but they are called Australian shepherds because they used them to herd Australian sheep off boats and the name stuck. They aren’t Australian at all.”

“They aren’t Australian at all.” I repeated.

“Nope.”

Silence.

“Hey Chelsea.”

My head was buried in my hands.

“Chelsea?”

“What?” I mumbled.

“Do you want to play Frisbee?”

THE END Click here for the Epilogue

The Perfect Pet: A Cautionary Tale, Part 9 of 10

2011-05-13T11:08:00.000-07:00

By the time Easter rolled around we’d had Jimmer for five months, but it seemed like generations. So long, in fact, that I’d forgotten what normal life was like. The pungent smell of dog food that at first made me sick was now odorless. I no longer scowled at the bite marks on the door frame near his kennel, I didn't mind that Jimmer’s chew toys were constantly strewn out in our backyard like carrion, and my son who used to only drink bottled water now drank regularly out of Jimmer’s water bowl.

This is, perhaps, the reason Danny came down with "acute tonsillitis" one week after these photos were taken.

Three months ago I would have thought this standard of living was unacceptable, but now it had become my new norm.

There once was a time when Scott would come home from work and walk right into the kitchen to see me and Dan. Now he walks straight from his car to the backyard and plays endless rounds of Frisbee with Jimmer, while his only son stands inside at the window wailing, “Da-Da-Da!”

Not only that, but sometimes I’d get these weird thoughts that Scott didn’t like me anymore. That maybe my hair just wasn’t shaggy enough or that I wasn’t athletic enough. Maybe if I exercised more…. or maybe if I spent more time out doors…. or maybe if I could catch a Frisbee with my teeth.

My greatest fear was that someday Scott would come home from work and I would be in a corner, gnawing on a bone, as loony as a border collie, and Jimmer would be cooking dinner. Perhaps it was only a matter of time.

On one particularly low day, I decided to re-visit the website entitled DO NOT BUY AN AUSTRAILIAN SHEPHERD to wallow in my buyers remorse. I read through it again, shaking my head and weeping from time to time. There was a list of reasons to not buy Aussies, only now that I was an experienced Aussie owner I thought it was woefully incomplete. Next to “Aussies are dirty, Aussies are obnoxious,” I could add: “Aussies know witch craft, Aussies break up marriages, and Aussies have the ability to steal your soul.”

While I was in this state of despair there was a knock at the door. I dried my eyes and answered it. It was the mailman, who handed me a package.

“Thanks.” I said and he left.

It was one of those unrippable plastic bag packages. The label said it was from Amazon.com. By moving it around I could feel that inside was something bendable and soft, like clothing or a small blanket, but I couldn’t remember ordering anything like that.

I took the package to the kitchen and got my scissors. Carefully, I cut one end of the package open and looked inside. Dark blue fabric. Ah, yes, I thought. It must be fabric for one of Scott’s hammocks. He was always ordering nylon rope, synthetic fabrics and carabineers on the internet. Then I noticed there were white stars printed in the fabric. That is unusual, I thought. Scott doesn’t usually use fabric with prints on it. Curious, I pulled the fabric out of the package and unfolded it. When I realized what it really was, my stomach did a flip-flop.

It wasn’t fabric for Scott’s hammocks. It was a huge Australian flag.

At first I was angry. Where did Jimmer get the money? He probably used my credit card, the little bandit. And why would a dog need an Australian flag? Jimmer hadn’t seemed like the patriotic type to me.

And that is when it dawned on me. Had I been wrong all of this time? How could I have been so blind? I draped the flag over my arm and took it outside.

With the sound of the door opening, Jimmer came bounding out of the shadows of the backyard, expecting a treat. He slowed down when he saw me.

“Its okay,” I said gently. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

He sat a safe distance away from me anyway.

“Do you recognize this?” I said, holding up the blue flag with the stars and the Union Jack in the corner.

He came closer and sniffed it. He sat down and cocked his head.

“Did you order it?” I asked, trying to not sound accusatory.

He said nothing. Apparently our dog telepathy wasn’t working today. But he did paw at the flag and then look up at me with sad-looking eyes. That was a good enough “yes” for me. I can’t believe we’d spent all of this time together, and I never understood until now what he was trying to tell me. Jimmer wasn't trying to take over my mind. He was just homesick.

I folded up the flag and crouched down so we could see eye to eye.

“Jimmer, are you thinking of your ancestors? Do you miss your homeland?”

Jimmer gave a pitiful whine. He lay down, put his nose into his paws, and rolled his eyes up to look at me. I thought I saw a tear.

It was then that I got the most brilliant idea I’ve ever had in my entire life. An idea that would bring me back from the brink of insanity. An idea that would restore my family to its original glory. An idea that would solve all of my problems. I pressed my face into the Australian flag and kissed it. Click here for Part 10

****

The thrilling conclusion of THE PERFECT PET will be posted on SUNDAY NIGHT.

The Perfect Pet: A Cautionary Tale, Part 8 of 10

2011-05-11T16:00:00.000-07:00

Most little boys want to be like Jimmer when they grow up. Danny does, too. Only not the Jimmer you're thinking of.

*****

“What is this?” Scott asked one evening. He picked up a small wrapped package that I put on his pillow.

“Just a present.” I said.

“What for?” he asked.

“Just because.” I smiled. Actually it was the first step in my “Protect Turkeyboy At All Costs” plan. Though Jimmer had proclaimed himself to be Scott’s Best Friend Forever, I had a hunch that his intentions were not what they seemed. It was up to me to keep my husband safe. Especially since Scott was completely clueless about Jimmer’s mystical powers. Scott spent hours throwing Frisbees to Jimmer, proving that Jimmer had already wiped out Scott’s ability to detect the passage of time.

Scott opened the package.

“A can of mace?” he said, his eyebrows raised. “What is this for?”

I shrugged. “You know…just in case.” Just in case Jimmer decides to go for your jugular, darling.

I pointed out that it came with a nifty little clip that could hook on to his belt loop.

“That way you can take it with you whenever you go outside.” I said.

“Gee…ah…thanks, Chelsea.” He said.

The second part of my plan was harder to carry out: making sure that Scott and Jimmer were never alone together. When I was able to, I would sit outside and watch them play. When Scott wasn’t looking I would narrow my eyes at Jimmer and make the ASL sign for I’m watching you.

You might think this was time consuming and tedious, and it was, but I worked hard to get such an extraordinary spouse, and I wasn’t going to let Jimmer take my husband without a fight. Plus, I had to hang around just to make sure Scott didn’t forget who I was.

One afternoon I was sitting on the back porch steps, chaperoning Scott and his best friend as they frolicked together in the yard. While I watched I reminisced about my pre-dog life and ate chocolate to calm my nerves.

Scott was training Jimmer with the Frisbee, hopeful that Jimmer would someday become the world’s most amazing Frisbee champion. It was hard to tell who was having more fun, the man or the dog. I heaved a sigh when I noticed Scott wasn’t wearing the little bottle of mace I gave him. Well, it is a good thing I’m out here, I thought.

When Jimmer was too tired to run anymore, Scott came and sat by me on the steps. Jimmer squeezed in between us, panting.

“Down,” said Scott. Jimmer instantly flopped to the ground and leaned against me.

“This dog is so smart. He has totally exceeded all of my expectations for dog intelligence.”

“Mine, too.” I answered.

“He already knows five commands, can fetch balls, and catch Frisbees in mid-air. And he’s only 5 months old!”

I did have to admit it was pretty amazing. And ironic. Our son Danny was 18-months-old and he still hadn’t walked yet. (Not only that, but his vocabulary consisted only of “DA!” which, with only a slight change in intensity, meant both “dad” and “dog.”)

I reached down to give Jimmer a pet (I try to pet Jimmer at least three times a day, just for appearances) and as I ran my fingers through his thick coat, thinking how it would make a lovely bathroom rug, Scott said, “He’s so soft, isn’t he? And he always seems so clean. It is like the dirt just doesn’t stick to his coat.”

I nodded and took a bite of chocolate.

“He’s such a good-looking dog, too. Just look at his eyes…you see the see black all around them?”

Yes. I thought. It makes him look like a bank robber. Jimmer looked up at me and his white teeth gleamed. No…he’s too smart to be a bank robber, I thought. More like a terrorist.

“I think he looks like Zorro.” Continued Scott. “You know, I was flipping through the channels last night and I can’t believe there aren’t any dog channels.” He was clearly perturbed about this. He scratched behind Jimmer’s ears and Jimmer gazed at him devotedly. Then after a while he said, “Don’t you think it would be fun to get Jimmer a mate and then they could have a litter of puppies?”

I almost choked.

He smiled, “And I could quit my job at Duke and we could be full-time trainers and breeders.”

I started to cry.

“I’m just kidding, Chelsea.” Scott said, clearly remorseful. “Its okay, I won’t quit my job.” He probably would have put his arm around me, too, if the dog hadn’t been in the way.

After I pulled myself together he asked, “Hey, by the way, why do you put numbers up above Jimmer’s food bowl?”

A few weeks ago I had taken down the dog stew recipe (which Scott didn’t find humorous) and replaced it every day with a different index card. Each card had a number on it, in descending order.

“Well,” I said, “If he’s so smart he ought to know his numbers, right?” I smiled pleasantly. Jimmer looked up at me, narrowing his eyes. He could smell my lie. Actually, the numbers are a countdown. I want Jimmer to know how many days he has left before he is neutered.

“See? You are coming around, Chels. I’m glad you’ve been such a good sport, putting up with having a dog. Isn’t she, Jimmer?”

I got up and left. But not before I gave Jimmer the rest of my chocolate. Click here for Part 9

Here are some videos of Jimmer taking over Scott’s mind. I mean playing frisbee. Enjoy.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aM2Q2IbfGWQ&feature=related

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wxX_4b3DB-w&feature=related

SPECIAL NOTE:

Maybe you noticed, but Blogger was down the day after this was posted (5/13/11). The Blogger-people-in-the-sky-took off this post --Perfect Pet #8. Later they put it back, but when they did, all the wonderful comments, especially Angie Kelly's fabulous remark about Scott saying "bad throw" every time Jimmer missed the frisbee, had disappeared.

So I'm very sorry the comments are gone. Comments are pretty special to us bloggers and it is a tragic loss.

I would say blame Blogger, but it is because of Blogger that I've even able to have a blog, so I choose forgiveness instead.

--chelsea, posted 5/13/11

The Perfect Pet: A Cautionary Tale, Part 7 of 10

2011-05-08T17:49:00.000-07:00

“We feel sorry that anyone in the dog community who could live with dogs and not experience a warm, mutual connection.” My Smart Puppy pg 5

The electric fence drastically improved my mental health. Now instead of having Jimmer in the kitchen with me all day, I could just leave him outside. It was like someone had just released a vice that had been squeezing my brain like an orange juicer. Ahhh….there is nothing like a good fence.

Jimmer seemed happier and more content, too (if you don’t count the first couple zaps). Now I could put his food outside the door and he’d come and eat up and then go off and play in the back yard. He’d tackle his toys and dig in the sandbox and splash in the baby pool…and we could see all of his movements from our back windows. It was actually kind of fun. Like owning my own zoo.

Little did I know that Jimmer was just working out a new strategy to terrorize me.

One busy morning as the kids were getting ready for school, I opened the back door and set Jimmer’s food bowl outside. The back door is right by our breakfast nook where we eat most of our meals, and Jimmer usually likes to sit out there, making sad faces while we eat. But today he busily gobbled up his food and left. After I served breakfast to my family I noticed Jimmer was gone, so I went out to retrieve his dish. I was surprised to see bits of kibble scattered around the bottom of the bowl. That’s funny, I thought. Jimmer usually cleans his plate. I wonder why he didn’t eat it all? Then I noticed something odd. The little bits of puppy chow looked as if they were in lines. No, not lines. Letters. I could feel the orange juicer clamp onto my head again. Jimmer had spelled something.

I slowly walked back in the house, examining the contents of the bowl while my family finished their breakfast. I carefully tilted the bowl this way and that, trying make out the letters. There was an I and an A and an M. I AM… I am what? What was Jimmer trying to tell me? I was looking at the next few letters when suddenly one of my kids stood up and knocked into me, bumping the bowl just enough to obliterate the words.

“Ahk!” I exclaimed, looking desperately at the scattered dog food in Jimmer’s dish. “The message! It’s gone!”

Everyone at the table looked at me.

“What message, Chelsea?” Scott said slowly.

“Here! In the bowl! There were letters! Jimmer was trying to tell me something!” I said. Scott’s gaze went back and forth from my face to Jimmer’s bowl. I knew I must have looked crazy, but at that moment I didn’t care. It was vital to me that someone else believe me.

“There was a message…” I said, the pitch of my voice getting higher and more desperate, “in the bowl…”

Scott pushed out his chair and stood up. He took his plate and fork with him and set them in the sink. Then he put his arm around me.

“Are you stressed out?” he said in the kind, quiet voice people use when they are speaking to someone who is about to jump off a bridge.

“I have no future.” I murmured, still staring into the bowl.

“You know what you need?” He said. His voice was confident, self-assured, optimistic. He gently took the bowl from my hands.

“What?” I asked.

“You need to take a nice long walk.”

“I do?”

“And after that you need to take a nice long bath.”

“Yes.” I said, nodding slowly.

“And after that you need to take a nice long nap.”

I nodded. “Yes.” I blinked and looked up at him, slowly coming out of my trance. That was it. He was so right. I just needed to take a break from life. I was just too stressed. I needed to relax. Oh, what a wonderful husband I have!

I started putting away breakfast. Scott rounded up the kids and herded them out the door for school. I was feeling better, but in my mind I could still see the wobbly dog-food letters; brown against the white ceramic dish. I AM… I AM….I AM HIS B…. What was it? I AM HIS BFF. Yes, that was it. That was what it said! Now what did that mean? I am his beef?

The car keys jingled as Scott snagged them from the hook. He came over to give me another hug.

“Thanks for breakfast.” he said. “I love you, Jimmer.”

I looked at him.

“Oh, sorry.” He chuckled, “I meant Chelsea." He swung his coat over his shoulder. "See ya!”

The door closed.

The house was quiet.

But somewhere in the backyard I could hear a dog laughing.

Scott + Jimmer = BFF

Click here for Part 8

The Perfect Pet: A Cautionary Tale, Part 6 of 10

2011-05-05T18:59:00.000-07:00

“Raising a puppy can sometimes be stressful.” --The Puppy Whisperer, pg 83

You've probably figured out by now that I am not a “dog person.”

But by the time we’d had Jimmer for four months everyone else was in love with him. Our neighbors—every one of them a dog owner—adored him, and watched him longingly, remembering their own dog’s sweet puppy days (their dogs are all close to 100 in dog years). Our girls thought he was the best dog ever and wrote songs about him. He got fan mail from Scott’s grandma and my mom even sent a package all the way across the country filled with chew toys, balls and rawhide strips. And just in case you thought I was exaggerating:

the package

the loot

I couldn’t get away from him. He was there in the house with me all day. Sometimes I would take my younger two children to the park, just so I didn't have to think about him for a while. But invariably while we were out we’d see another dog and then I’d remember the devil voodoo dog waiting for me at home.

Then one night I had the most terrible experience. (Stop reading now if you are easily disturbed.)

It was a dark and stormy night. I awoke to thunder rattling the windows and rain pouring outside like someone had decided to dump the ocean over our house. My clock said 2 am. I couldn’t sleep so I decided to get up and make myself some warm milk.

Without waking Scott, I got up and opened the bedroom door. Thunder crashed, lightning flashed, and a strange glow was coming from the kitchen.

I have desk in my kitchen where I keep my laptop, and I could see that the laptop was open. Why was it glowing? Did I leave it on?

Thunder crashed. Lightning flashed.

Then I saw it. Someone--or something--was sitting in my chair, using my computer. My heart started beating in my throat as I eased my way closer. Please tell me it isn’t…

But it was. There, sitting at my desk was Jimmer, typing something on my laptop. I rubbed my eyes to make sure I was seeing things correctly. I walked closer, inching towards him as stealthily as I could. What was he doing? What was he looking at? I had to see! Thunder crashed! Lightning flashed!

Soon I was right up behind him, and I could almost see the screen, but his head and ears were blocking my view. Then, his ear twitched and I froze in place like a statue. Slowly he turned the swivel chair around to face me.

He was wearing my glasses.

And my apron.

“G’day, Mate.” He said.

That is when I woke up screaming.

Scott was awake in a second. “What is it? What is it?” He asked.

“Its Jimmer! Its Jimmer!” I shouted.

“What? What happened? Is he sick? Is he hurt?”

“No!”

“What is it then?”

“I—I—“

“Yes?”

“I—,” I took a deep breath. “I--can’t tell you.”

“What do you mean, you can’t tell me? I’m your husband. You tell me everything.”

No, I thought, not everything. Not that I think our dog is more intelligent than I am. Not that Jimmer is psychologically destroying me. Not that I think you spend more time with Jimmer than me and I’M YOUR WIFE. I didn’t say any of these things. But I did make Scott get out of bed and make sure that Jimmer was locked in his den.

When he came back he said, “Jimmer is just fine. He was just sleeping away in the crate. Don’t worry, Chelsea. Nothing bad is going to happen to our dog.”

I rolled over and tried to close my eyes. If only something bad would happen to him.

After that I couldn’t go to sleep for a long time. This dog was overtaking my life. Not only was I unable to get away from him during the day, but now he was part of my nights, too.

I kept remembering Jimmer’s threat to me that he was so smart that he didn’t have to “resort to the tactics of lower breeds.” Why couldn’t we have gotten a dumb dog that would have just messed on the carpet or chewed up the couch if he was upset? Why did we have to get a dog that knew how to destroy me from the inside out? And the worst part was, how was I supposed to get help? Who would believe me? Everyone would think I was crazy. And maybe I was.

But then I remembered one happy thing. Tomorrow the dog fence would be installed.

And it was electric. Click here for Part 7

The Perfect Pet: A Cautionary Tale, Part 5 of 10

2011-05-04T07:38:00.001-07:00

"While a dog’s breed contributes to his temperament, breed alone cannot be used to predict whether a puppy will grow up to be a danger to his community." --The Puppy Whisperer, pg 25

Syrena and Jimmer

The next morning I woke with a headache. I haven’t had a headache for two years. I looked in the mirror and I had a bunch of zits. I haven’t had zits for 15 years. My throat was sore, my eyes were red and my scalp itched. I felt awful all morning.

Later I tethered Jimmer on the back porch so I could clean his den. Inside I found one of my daughter's magnetic dolls that she plays with on the fridge. I sighed. Naomi will be so disappointed. It had once been the doll that had dark brown hair, and now it was decapitated. I was about to throw it in the garbage when suddenly I stopped. Wait a minute, I thought.

I have dark brown hair. There are three other dolls on the fridge, one with red, one blond and one black hair. Why did he decide to chew off the head of the brown-haired doll? I went back to Jimmer’s crate to retrieve the head. I took it to the bathroom and held it up to the mirror. I looked at my face, then at the doll’s face. A chill went down my spine. The teeth marks in the dolls face were exactly in the same places as the zits on my face.

Jimmer knew voodoo!

As you can imagine, this was a little unnerving. I worried all day about what to do. And all this time I still had to feed Jimmer and take him out to the bathroom. I did my best to not speak to him or make eye contact just in case he decided to put a hex on me.

Finally I talked reason to myself. This is silly. Dogs can't do stuff like that. My imagination is running away with me.

The next day I saw an article about a man who is trying to convince people of the benefits of dog meat. It is in the Wall Street Journal if you want to read it, and here is the link.

In the article the author included a recipe:

Stewed Dog, Wedding Style

First, kill a medium-sized dog, then burn off the fur over a hot fire. Carefully remove the skin while still warm and set aside for later (may be used in other recipes). Cut meat into 1" cubes. Marinate meat in mixture of vinegar, peppercorn, salt, and garlic for 2 hours. Fry meat in oil using a large wok over an open fire, then add onions and chopped pineapple and sauté until tender. Pour in tomato sauce and boiling water, add green pepper, bay leaf, and Tabasco. Cover and simmer over warm coals until meat is tender. Blend in purée of dog's liver and cook for additional 5–7 minutes.

I cut the recipe out and taped it above Jimmer's food bowl.

P.S. If you try it, let me know how it tastes. Click here for Part 6

The Perfect Pet: A Cautionary Tale, Part 4 of 10

2011-05-01T19:40:00.001-07:00

“Dogs are able to ‘read’ even the most subtle human behaviors…

through our body language, smells and breathing patterns.” ---The Puppy Whisperer, pg 83

Jimmer spends most of his time being tethered up in the kitchen. That means we spend a lot of time together. Usually he gnaws on his chew toys, but one day--soon after our telepathic conversation--he just sat there, watching me. I would be pouring cereal and turn around to get the milk and he would be sitting in front of the fridge, watching me.

I would be cooking on the stove and drop something on the ground, and when I bent down to pick it up I would notice him, watching me.

I would be at the kitchen table, writing a letter and suddenly look over at him, and he’d be watching me like the Great Sphinx,

and his unblinking eyes would be fixated to mine like he was trying to burn holes straight through my pupils and out the back of my head.

He’s just trying to intimidate me, I thought. I decided he needed to be shown who was master. I grabbed the leash and took Jimmer outside.

From the moment I hooked the leash to his collar he yanked on it with his teeth, pulling me down the driveway. I told him to sit and he just looked at me and cocked his head, as if I was speaking Portuguese. “Sit.” I said. “Sit. SIT.” He grabbed the leash again and tugged at it. “Stop it. Give that back. Let go!” Finally I gave up and walked Jimmer back home. (Or you could say Jimmer pulled me back home.) We’d made it to the mailbox and back.

So now we were back to the kitchen again, with me cooking and Jimmer staring. I couldn’t put him outside because we didn’t have the fence installed yet, and couldn’t put him in the crate because he would whine incessantly. I tried to ignore him, but it is hard to ignore anything that that stares, especially if it has sharp teeth.

If this was what having a dog was like, I didn’t want it. Scott wasn’t with Jimmer all day like I was. He doesn’t understand what it is like to live with an animal like this. It was driving me crazy, and my husband needed to know. It was time for good ol' Scottyboy and I to have a talk.

Now, I’ve been married for ten years now, and I know that men don’t pick up on subtle hints, so I decided I would just be straightforward and communicate with him as clearly as I could. As I do with all important conversations that might affect my marriage I rehearsed it first in my head:

“Scott,” I would say, “Jimmer is trying to hypnotize me. I want you to take him to the shelter. Preferably one in a different state. Today.” I repeated that to myself over and over to be sure I would get it right when the time came.

*****

“Scott,” I said to my husband when he came home from work. He bent down to greet Jimmer who was bounding around his knees with the kind of pandemonial euphoric excitement that you only see in lottery winners and people who are being rescued from a deserted islands. “Scott,” I began again, “I want to talk to you about Jim—“

“Just a minute.” He said. “Jimmer wants to do some tricks.” Scott fished some dog treats out of a jar on the counter while Jimmer was still bouncing around like a ping pong ball.

“Sit.” Scott commanded. Jimmer instantly sat. Scott gave him a treat.

“Down.” Jimmer lay down. Another treat.

“Roll over.” Jimmer rolled over. Treat.

“Up. Stay. Sit. Down. Roll over. Up. Jump! Spin!” Jimmer performed every command with the precision of a West Point cadet. I felt at any moment he might salute.

“Good boy!” Scott proclaimed, squatting down and showering Jimmer with treats and pets. Scott looked up at me. “Isn’t he brilliant? I am amazed at how smart this dog is. We are so lucky to have a dog like this, isn’t that right, Jimmer? Oh yeah, Chelsea, did you want to talk to me about something?”

I opened my mouth. What was I supposed to say? Jimmer was sitting between Scott’s legs, panting and smiling up at me like Ryan Seacrest. I closed my mouth.

“Never mind.” I said. I turned and started dinner.

Here is a photo of Scott bathing Jimmer. I am taking the photograph.

Notice when he looks at me his eyes glow red.

You see it, too, don't you? Click here for Part 5

The Perfect Pet: A Cautionary Tale, Part 3 of 10

2011-04-29T18:01:00.000-07:00

“Every interaction you have with your puppy teaches him something. There is no “small” interaction.” --My Smart Puppy, pg. 3

Weeks passed. I was intensely motivated to successfully house train Jimmer, since the only way I could be at ease was to make him a good, obedient dog around my children. All the while I day-dreamed of ways Jimmer could accidentally pass on to that great dog park in the sky. [Animal rights activists, please close your eyes for the next two paragraphs.]

What if he happened to be let outside at the same time the garbage truck rolled by? What if he got tangled up and strangled in his tether? What if someone accidentally mixed chocolate chips in with his dog food? A lot of chocolate chips?

I admit I wasn’t as careful with him as I ought to have been. I didn’t take plastic bags away from him when he started chewing on them or stop him from eating the bits of playdough that fell under the table (which he later threw up all over my kitchen floor in seven long, drawn-out heaves). I would never actually try to harm Jimmer on purpose. (I did have my marriage to think about, you know.) But I wasn’t going to stop him if he found a way to end his life on his own.

Then one day, as I was cleaning the kitchen and Jimmer was tethered nearby I heard something. It sounded like my name. I turned and saw Jimmer looking at me.

For one small moment I could read his thoughts. He said:

Why do you hate me?

The question was simple enough. We lived with each other 12-7, he had a right to know the truth.

I don’t hate you, I answered back. I just resent you. You are not a priority to me.

All I want is love and attention, he replied, cocking his head and letting out a whine.

I reserve my love and attention for family members, I responded.

I am a family member.

No you aren’t. You are a dog.

I am adorable. He said.

That doesn’t change the fact that you are a dog, I answered back. I will feed you, clean up after you and put up with you. From time to time I will pet you. But I cannot love you.

How can you say that? Everyone loves puppies. What kind of person are you?

I am a mother.

He was silent for a while and then he finally said, I see how it is.

I nodded. Yes. So you’d better behave.

Who says? I’ll do whatever I bloody well please. (I forgot to mention he had an Australian accent.)

Not in my house, I said.

Watch me.

What are you going to do? Run circles around me? Howl? Bite me? Remember, buddy, I control your food.

Ha! He smurked, I’m a herding dog. I’m much too smart to resort to the tactics of lower breeds.

I narrowed my eyes. What do you mean by that? I asked.

Then, all of the sudden the moment was gone, and there I was, standing in my kitchen, glaring at my stupid dog.

Who knows what really transpired between me and Jimmer during those few seconds, but after that moment one thing was certain: our enmity for each other was mutual. Click here for Part 4

The Perfect Pet: A Cautionary Tale, Part 2 of 10

2011-04-27T18:55:00.000-07:00

“As wonderful as those moments are when you feel all warm and happy inside watching your puppy chew her toy, slide across the kitchen floor, and pounce on your shoelaces, there are the other times…” --The Puppy Whisperer, pg 4

Within days we taught Jimmer to “sit,” “lay down” and “go to your crate.” He was smart as a whip. Every 2-3 hours I put on his leash and ran him out to the predesignated potty area we prepared for him in the back yard. At night Scott and I took shifts taking Jimmer out to his “spot,” even in the pouring rain. This was quite miraculous since Scott seldom got up with our own babies. One day I came home to witness yet another miracle: Scott bathing Jimmer.

It was around this time--week two--that my relationship with Jimmer began to change. Perhaps it started with the article I found on the internet titled DO NOT BUY AN AUSTRIALIAN SHEPHERD or it could have been the teeth marks on the special stool my father had made for me before he died. But my opinion of Jimmer really started spiral downward when he started nipping.

He nipped a lot. Jimmer pulled on my pant legs and the girls’ dresses, sometimes ripping them. He even caught a hold of my seven-year-old’s arm and wouldn’t let go and drew blood. When I confronted Scott about it he said Jimmer just made an honest mistake and thought she was a chew toy. A chew toy?? Sophie was upset at first but proudly showed her battle wounds to her 2^nd grade class the next day.

(Here is a photo of my kids and the neighbor's kids with Jimmer. The neighbors kids are smart; they wear helmets around dogs.)

I knew that nipping was a normal part of a puppy’s development, but watching my children getting bit made me feel uneasy. Granted, he didn’t seem to be intentionally hurting the kids; it was all in play. But every time he nipped for a piece of food in the girls’ hands and bit their little fingers or jumped up on them with his mouth open towards their face my apprehension grew.

The dog is teething, said the vet.

It is normal, said my friends.

He’ll grow out of it, say the books.

Yes, yes, I reassured myself. Nipping is just an instinct. But you know what? I have an instinct, too. It is called a maternal instinct. And every time he made one of my kids cry, a strange, hot feeling started to bubble up inside my chest like a volcano.

At first, the awareness of this primal urge thrilled me. I had often wondered how far I would go to protect my children from harm, and now I knew I really could throw myself in front of the gaping jaws of animal to save them. I really could! This was quite a rush. I got another rush thinking of my children’s superiority to this animal. That dog was nothing compared to them. His life meant nothing to me compared to there’s. If he harmed them he might as well go find a farm and walk right into a moving combine because once I got a hold of him I would rip him to pieces with my teeth like a grizzly bear until there was nothing left but little bits of silky fur and his multicolor eyes, rolling around like two cheap marbles.

My resentment for Jimmer grew. Daily. Hourly. Minutely. I didn’t enjoy having violent feelings of aggression on a day-to-day basis. I had worked very hard my entire life to be a very mellow and composed person. But just the thought of that dog made me sprout horns and fangs and flames started shooting from my ears. I said things to that dog I would never say to any other living thing, in a tone I would only use for rapists and murders.

The fact that Jimmer was going to be a part of my future was sinking in. A future with Jimmer meant a future of having the smell of dog food constantly permeating throughout my kitchen. A future of trying to juggle four little kids along with a four-legged animal. A future of ripped hems and muddy foot prints and dog hairs on my black pants and greasy jerky treats in my pocket. Not to mention a future of having to regulate my maternal instinct which went nuclear every time Jimmer got close enough to sniff baby Danny. This already was quite exhausting.

And then there are the trips to the vet….

For all you non-dog owners (bless you….may you remain as you are), puppies require a series of vaccines and boosters, just like people. Then you also have to get them spayed/neutered. All of this means that I had to take Jimmer (along with my preschooler and my one-year-old) to the vet almost every month in the first six months. Not only that, but each visit costs an average of $100.00. That is a lot of money. Money that could be used for a lot of other important things. Like shoes.

About the third time we were at the vet, he asked if I wanted him to implant a microchip in Jimmer just in case he was ever lost. I said no. If Jimmer gets lost I want him to stay lost.

What about a tag for his collar? They asked me. I thought I probably ought to do that, I reasoned. If he does get lost it will be good for his new owner to know Jimmer’s name. They asked me for my phone number to put on the reverse side of the tag. I gave it to them, but changed one digit.

That night I talked to Scott.

Me: I’m not so sure Jimmer is right for our family. He's a lot of work. Plus he jumps on the girls a lot and he's nipping all the time--I don’t even dare put the baby near him.

Scott: Oh, he’ll grow out of it. Remember, he’s just a puppy.

Me: True. But what if this continues, and instead of being a puppy jumping up and biting our kids, he’s a big dog jumping up and biting our kids?

Scott: Jimmer is too smart for that.

Jimmer’s too smart for that. Words that would later haunt me.

TO BE CONTINUED....Click here for Part 3

The Perfect Pet, part 1 of 10

2011-04-24T19:53:00.000-07:00

The Perfect Pet: A Cautionary Tale

—Written in serial form—

By Chelsea Dyreng

Several months ago my husband brought home our family’s new dog. He was an eight-week-old Australian Shepherd. It was January and the 2010-2011 college basketball season was in full swing, so of course we named him Jimmer.

We have four young children, and we thought this would be the perfect time to get a puppy. We’d spent the month before researching the different breeds, trying to decide what type of dog would best compliment our family. We wanted a fairly active dog, a medium sized dog, and a dog that looked unique. Most of all, we wanted a SMART dog. Australian Shepherds fit all of our criteria and before long we found a breeder who had a puppy available, and we took the whole family out to see him.

He was adorable. We couldn’t take him away from his mom until he was 8 weeks old, but the breeder promised to post photos of him on her website, updating them every week. Scott and I each added hundreds of hits to her site as we salivated over our puppy’s cuteness.

As the day of our puppy’s arrival inched closer, we were determined to be prepared. Scott bought three dog training books and a DVD. We called our brothers and sisters with news of our upcoming family member and received mixed reviews. Scott’s brother and my mother were thrilled. But when I told my older brother about getting a dog his comment was, “I think that is a very poor decision,” as if I had just told him I was running off with a Hell’s Angel.

When I called my sister, her reaction was the following: “You want to get a DOG?”

“Yes,” I responded, “But not just any dog, we are going to get a SMART dog.”

After which all I could hear were five minutes of hysterical laughter.

But he would be smart. Jimmer would be the smartest dog ever. The very fact that he was named Jimmer destined him for greatness. He would be agile and fast, yet he would sit when commanded. He would jump up to retrieve balls, but never jump up on people. He would be able to distinguish between friend or foe and bark accordingly. My husband and I fantasized about having him catch not one, but several Frisbees in succession, about having him balance things on his nose and perhaps leading us across busy intersections, in case either of us should suddenly go blind.

So it was, late in January, with those great expectations that we welcomed Jimmer into our home.

Scott brought him around the back of the house and one of the girls caught sight of him through the window and squealed. In a moment all three raced outside and surrounded the puppy, crouching down and whispering, just like we’d taught them. Jimmer was adorably shy and bashful and wove in and out of Scott’s legs, glancing up at him every now and then for reassurance. He was perhaps the most beautiful dog I’d ever seen. His merle coat was grey and dappled with chocolate-colored splotches. He was as fluffy as a polar bear with a snow white fur collar around his shoulders and a white blaze down the center of his face. His eyes were exquisite; they were half green and half blue. Click here to see more photos of him when he was little.

It didn’t take long before he felt aquatinted enough to jump around and mouth our hands. His little stubby tail wagged feverously as I ruffled his thick coat. His fur was the softest thing I’ve ever felt, like I was running my fingers through waves of silk. He seemed to be everything we’d hoped for.

He was a perfect dog. The perfect pet to go with my perfect family.

TO BE CONTINUTED…..Click here for Part 2

Tornadoes

2011-04-19T06:33:00.000-07:00

A friend of mine (Tara) asked me in the last blog post if we were doing okay in light of the recent and bizarre herd of tornadoes that swept through the entire central part of North Carolina.

Well, we are doing fine. We live in Hillsborough which the tornadoes grazed on either side but thankfully left us alone. During the action I was driving my kids to ice skating lessons and looked up at the sky. "Look at those clouds, girls! They are moving so fast!" I said. Little did I know that to the east and to the west they were moving A LOT faster.

Here is a picture of a Lowes store in a city near us.

Can you imagine being in a Lowes store during a tornado? With hammers, nails, 2x4s, lawnmowers, toilets flying all around? Here is the story of how the managers saved the people inside: http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=135498048

I have heard several Carolina natives say these tornadoes were worse than anything they've ever seen before in North Carolina....including hurricanes.

I guess it could have been worse, though. Naomi keeps telling people that North Carolina was hit by a bunch of volcanos.

Once a Grandpa, Always a Grandpa

2011-04-16T08:28:00.000-07:00

I haven't been posting much because I am working on a *TOP SECRET* project that will be revealed on my blog soon. In the meantime, I just wanted to share with you this special photo of Naomi.

Naomi is in a stage where she gets really scared at night. I told her she didn't need to worry because my dad (grandkids called him "Big Dad") is an angel and he is alwasy watching over her. I found this framed picture of my dad and put it in her room and told her she could look at it when she was scared. About two weeks ago I found Big Dad in her bed and I took this photo. Since then, she's slept with Big Dad every night. When she's really scared she'll come down stairs to our bedroom, bringing her blanket, her bear and....Big Dad. During the day she sets Big Dad up while she is playing so he can watch her play.

My dad died 8 years ago this June, long before Naomi was born. She has no memories of him. I've always been sad that my kids never knew my dad. But in a way, I guess Naomi will have memories of Big Dad.

(By the way, I wouldnt' tell Naomi stories about angels watching over her if I didn't believe they really did.)

I'm published!

2011-03-04T08:13:00.000-08:00

Check out my poem HEY NONNY.

Hey Nonny is a sunny little forum created by four smart, witty women who also happen to be pretty good writers. One of them is my good friend Melissa Maxwell, whom some of you know.

Every Friday they have a guest feature, and this Friday they were kind enough to publish one of my poems.

I hope you enjoy it!

Read this

2011-03-03T18:03:00.000-08:00

This is a blog entry of a woman who wrote to Runner's World about a nude photo in the magazine. You should read their response to her letter.

Check it out:

http://johnsonclanupdates.blogspot.com/2011/03/because-i-want-whole-world-to-know.html

The Nightly Ritual

2011-02-07T17:45:00.000-08:00

Mom, how long do I have to stay at the table?

Okay, I'll take a bite.

Eww! That was terrible!

Okay, maybe it isn't sooo bad....

....now can I go?

Wait a minute....you mean I have to eat the carrots, too?

How many carrots?

What did you put in this carrot?

I can't believe I'm doing this. This is the hardest thing I have EVER done.

Give me a moment.

bhis bwat bwood bweenough?

I'm outta here!!!

Jimmer (the dog)

2011-01-30T16:49:00.000-08:00

Meet Jimmer, the newest member of our family.

He is a miniature Australian Shepherd. This breed is known for being very smart, very active and very cool-looking. (Note the blue-green eyes and speckled coat.) The breeder also said that they don't smell as much as other dogs, are very good with children, can leap buildings in a single bound, kill peeping Toms with gamma rays that shoot out of their eyes. (In other words, she is a sales woman first, breeder second.)

But it is a fact that Australian Shephards are natural "herders."

I am hoping this comes in handy when it is time for everyone to get in the van for church.

It has been a fun weekend! I let you know when I want to give him back.

Tea [actually white grape juice], anyone?

2010-12-31T18:44:00.000-08:00

Click here to view the best princess party ever!

(Planned and organized by Sophie and Syrena.)

Short and Sassy

2010-12-30T21:11:00.000-08:00

Last week Sophie drew a line across her neck.

She said that she wanted me to cut her hair to that line.

So before she could change her mind...

...we did it!

NOW can you tell who is who?

One Year

2010-11-15T18:13:00.000-08:00

Our little Danny boy was born a year ago this month. Hard to believe time goes by so fast.

You finish the story...

2010-10-22T18:33:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time I was hiking in the woods when I came upon a baby boy...

Thinking of writing a ya novel?

2010-10-19T20:22:00.001-07:00

This is the best blog post I've seen in a long time. Check it out:

http://jbsorensen.blogspot.com/2010/09/how-to-write-best-selling-ya-novel.html

A Gift For You, CH 1

2010-10-11T16:56:00.000-07:00

48 hours ago we were members of the Chapel Hill First Ward. Yesterday it was announced in church that the ward boundries in our stake are being redrawn and about 16 or so families are getting cut out of the CH1 ward. We are one of those families, and we will be joining the Burlington 3 ward with a bunch of other Durham Stake refugees until a building is built in our area.

I thought about my wonderful friends that I wouldn't get to see as much any more. Then I remembered something that President Monson (that is the prophet of the LDS church) said in his talk last week at General Conference.

I wrapped some presents and displayed them on the table on a cake stand for the girls to see when they got home.

When they asked "Are those for us? Can we open them? What is inside?" I just shrugged my shoulders. This drove Naomi nearly bonkers.

I kept them on the table for dinner, so everyone could look at them and salivate.

Then, for Family Night I spread a big paper on the table, under the cake stand.

We thought about all the people in our ward who made a difference in our lives.
I gave everyone a few minutes to write down as many names as they could.

Then I directed their attention to the presents on the cake stand and asked them two questions:

1. How would you feel if I told you you could open up these presents right now? [exclaimations of joyous insanity]

2. How would you feel if I told you that there is something very special for each of you in those boxes but I will never let you open them, and that I am just going to keep them myself. [boos/hisses]

Then I had Sophie read a quote from Presdient Monson's talk last week:

A grateful heart, then, comes through expressing gratitude to our Heavenly Father for His blessings and to those around us for all that they bring into our lives. This requires conscious effort—at least until we have truly learned and cultivated an attitude of gratitude. Often we feel grateful and intend to express our thanks but forget to do so or just don’t get around to it. Someone has said that “feeling gratitude and not expressing it is like wrapping a present and not giving it.”¹²

^{I asked them each to pick one name on their list and "give a gift" to them by thanking them with a note. Then we addressed them.}

Then they got to open the gifts!

(Which were thank you notes from me to them. Yes, a little anticlimactic, but at least they didn't show it.)

I will miss you, Kramers, Dorrances, Hansens, Peets, Nelsons, Empeys, Stanleys, Austins, Prietos, Street, Parcell, Neal-Ewings, Molnars, and all of my other dear friends of the Chapel Hill First Ward.

I will miss you,

Scott will miss you,

and the girls will all miss you.

(Dan, maybe not so much.)

As Joseph Smith used to say, "Friends at [chapel hill] first are friends at last."

See No Evil, Hear No Evil, Speak No Evil

2010-10-04T17:44:00.000-07:00

The motivating factor for everything I do in my life is to somehow teach my children to make good choices. Although right now I have power over virtually every aspect of their lives, my power (especially with Sophie and Syrena) is fizzling. But if I can teach them now to see things for what they really are, and to give them tools to use when they are in trouble, they will make choices that will open doors for them and bring happiness into their lives. Sounds easy.

As you can tell, from my last few posts, my kids are CAH-RAY-ZEE about Harry Potter. They make potions on the back porch, "fly" around on brooms, and Syrena wears my old glasses all the time, pretending she is Moaning Myrtle. We had the missionaries over for dinner last week, and my kids and the missionaries spent the entire dinner talking about Harry Potter. BOTH elders knew everything there was to know about Harry and totally charmed my kids. I realized that those elders were of "the Harry Potter generation"--those lucky kids who got to grow up along with Harry.

One reason why I love the Harry Potter books is that they go right along with my motherly agenda of teaching my kids how to thwart evil influences. And J.K. does it so effectively.

The other day Sophie was making "Hogwarts" letters for everyone in the family. In the first Harry Potter book it mentions that the letters were "sealed with the Hogwarts coat of arms." Being a smart figure-it-out-for-yourself kind of gal, on the envelope she drew a jacket surrounded by a group of severed arms.

Well, we talked about what a "coat of arms" really is, and then I got one of those brilliant ideas that you know only comes from heaven. Lets make our own Dyreng Family Coat of Arms! (minus the severed arms.)

So using the Hogwart's coat of arms as a reference, for family night we brainstormed our own version and came up with this:

Lest you think that we had a delightful evening discussing what makes our family wonderful and how we are going to preserve our children's purity forever, let me just tell you that Danny was screaming, Sophie and Syrena kept pulling out their books to read and Naomi insisted on climbing on my head. When the torture was finally over, the girls all decided to make their own coat of arms. Syrena's motto at the bottom of hers was "Stay Away From Dementors."

So you've made it to the bottom of this post which is amazing because I never read blog posts this long, but I did want to mention one more thing. Having the desire to lenthen their childhood as long as I can I've told them that they have to wait to read the 4th Harry Potter book. ("But don't worry, you can read the 1st, 2nd and 3rd books as many times as you want!") They moan and groan...I tell them I was 25 when I read the forth book! For some reason that doesn't stop the eyes from rolling. But I still have some power over them, and I will wield it while I still can.

Too Much of A Good Thing

2010-10-03T11:14:00.000-07:00

Last week I discovered this written on the wall. In pen.

2010-09-23T19:18:00.000-07:00

We are at the beach. There is sun, waves, sand and shells.

And what do my kids want to do?

This is what Harry Potter does to kids.

Licorice to Die For

2010-09-05T17:24:00.000-07:00

When we first moved to North Carolina 7 years ago we couldn't find anything but red licorice in the stores. But slowly, over the years, these southern supermarkets started stocking chocolate licorice, and then, in some select stores, black Twizzlers. But black "Nibs" were still no where to be found. However, yesterday in Target I found some!
I wanted to save them for a Labor Day road trip, but I knew that if Scott saw them, the Nibs would be history. So I put them on the counter with this note:

(I had to keep them on the counter so I would remember them for the road trip. I could have hid them, but I would have forgotten about them. In case you're wondering.)

Sophie (above in the cute crown made by her cousin) saw the note an was perplexed.

"Mom," she asked, "if you eat these you will die?"
"I put that note there for Daddy." I said.
"If Daddy eats these he will die?"
"Yes," I said, "But not because they are poisoned."
"Why will he die if he eats them?"
"Because I will kill him."
"You'll kill him!?"
"No, I won't really kill him. I just put the note there so he knows that I will be really, really mad if he eats them. I'll be mad, and he'll be 'dead.' Do you understand?"
"Okay--I've got it now," she said.
A couple minutes later I passed by the counter and saw another note attatched to the Nibs:

I think for Scott's sake Sophie just wanted to clarify.

Peach Poem

2010-08-29T16:12:00.000-07:00

written Febrary 2010

Oh how I long for an August peach
The kind that are so ripe
You can cut it with a butter knife
and it smells like a sunset
and tastes like the Garden of Eden
So good that I think about it
even now
in Febrary.

I will miss you, August.

The Perfect Ending

2010-08-25T05:11:00.000-07:00

After three summers of trying to teach Sophie and Syrena to ride a bike,

and many tears, bruises, scratches and hunched backs,

yesterday SUCCESS was achieved by all.

Could there be a more perfect ending to a wonderful summer?

Disguise

2010-08-05T19:24:00.000-07:00

Who are these mysterious people and why are they dressed like this? Find out HERE.

Planetarium Day

2010-08-04T07:02:00.000-07:00

Yesterday we visited the Morehead Planetarium at UNC. They have a new digital projector and the shows are A-MA-ZING. The best one for kids is the

The show is based on the "Magic Treehouse Books" which my kids are CRAZY about. They are written by Mary Pope Osborn. Ms. Osborn is an alumnus of the University of North Carolina and she and her husband put together this show especially for the planetarium. It is really worth seeing. Even adults will enjoy it.

Here is the old projector in the middle of the room. They haven't converted all of their shows to the digital equipment yet, so that why it is still there.

This is what is written on the wall above the planetarium door:

I hope they leave those words there forever, because I love to read them. Could there be any better way to describe the heavens?

The giant sundial outside the planetarium:
Then we went to the Coker Gardens to eat lunch and play hide and seek.

Seven is Heaven

2010-08-01T19:20:00.000-07:00

Yesterday we celebrated Sophie and Syrena's birthday (they turned 7 today) and we threw a cowgirl party for them.

As the cowgirls and cowboy arrived they each colored and cut out their own mustang--

--and added it to the stampede.

Then they all went looking for "horses in the hay." (I hid little horse figurines in the hay.)

Then it was time for cake!

We always have two cakes and sing the birthday song twice, of course. Since Sophie is ten minutes older we start with her.

Then Syrena:

(By the way, thanks, Metta, once again for the great cake recipe. We've done it three years now!)

I think everyone had a great time.

Thanks for celebrating with us, ya'll!

Going Anywhere Soon?

2010-07-23T18:59:00.000-07:00

We've been across the country three times in the last four months. Danny who is 8 mos. old has already flown on 13 different flights. Over the last seven years we have flown our family on at least 40 flights.During these trips I've come across some ways to make traveling a little easier, and, lucky you, I'm going to share my secrets.

First of all, the best way to travel with a baby is for him to be nursing. However, if he isn't nursing this is the next best thing:

I LOVE these. I found them at a Las Vegas Target, and they are PERFECT for traveling and church. I like them a lot better than those snack cups/formula dispensers that can sometimes open and spill, and take up a lot of space in your bag. When you're on an airplane it is all about being efficient and unburdened.

Here are some other tips on how to travel with kids:

Don’t take markers. By the end of the plane ride your clothes will have streaks, most of the lids will be gone and the kids will look like Native Americans ready for war.
It is uncomfortable, but when you have to take kids to the bathroom use the bathroom on the plane instead of the airport. This helps break up the monotomy of the plane ride, and it also helps you make a quick getaway if you have a connecting flight that you have to catch.
If you can’t get on a plane for whatever reason (they overbooked it, the plane is delayed, etc.) ask if they will get you on another flight. They will, but they won’t unless you ask them.
When renting a car, they will tell you that the spouse can’t drive it unless you pay extra, but the contract almost always says the spouse can drive the vehicle, so trust the contract, not the people at the counter.
Bring an iPod if you have one. There are a lot of things kids can do on iPods besides watching movies, too. There are all kinds of cool kid apps.
ALWAYS ALWAYS ALWAYS make sure you have your iPod before you leave the plane. I didn’t.
Bring a sippy cup for the flight attendant to put the kids’ drinks in…the plastic cups with huge ice cubes are so precarious, and it isn’t fun having a lap wet with o.j. for five hours.
Make puppets out of the motion sickness bags, but make sure you look in the bag before sticking your hand in...
Bring lots of wipes, but not in a wipe box, because that is heavy. Just use medium sized plastic freezer bag.
Once the kids are big enough, make them carry their own things in roller suitcases. It is heavenly.
If your family is split up on the plane write "mail" to each other and deliver it when the seat belt sign is off.
I've never had a problem with my kids' ears hurting on planes. I've sat by people who will actually ask me, "You have something for him/her to suck on, right? So his ears won't hurt?" and they look at me like this is the first time I've taken a baby on a flight. I've never had a problem.

Do you have some good travel tips to share? I want to hear them!

How to Build A Log Cabin

2010-07-07T12:36:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time a man named Jerry went into a forest and cut down some trees.

He put the trees on a big truck and took them to a special spot on the side of a mountain.

There, he dumped them.

and he started to build. First he built the foundation.

Then he started to add the logs, one by one.

He had some help, but he did most things by himself.

After many months he had a nice cabin that would keep his family warm

and where his kids would have a happy childhood,

and a place that they could visit when they got older

and remember how much they loved their dad.

The Only Bad Thing About Living In North Carolina

2010-06-21T19:11:00.000-07:00

Chiggars.

Here's to Our Man

2010-06-19T20:23:00.000-07:00

We love you, Scotty, Happy Fathers Day!

Mermaid Treehouse

2010-06-17T19:18:00.000-07:00

The girls are back at home, which means we are all being crafty again. Check out our craft blog at the mermaidtreehouse.blogspot.com

No Permission Needed

2010-05-19T18:33:00.000-07:00

People ask to hold my baby

People ask to rock him

People ask to touch my baby

But no one asks to kiss him.

People ask to tend my baby

People ask to sooth him

People even ask to change my baby

But no on ever asks to kiss him.

No one ever asks, but I know they all do--

I see them kiss his head, his cheeks, his neck;

It is possible to hold a smiling baby

and not sneak a peck?

I know that when they hold my baby,

And are lost in baby rapture,

They're remembering long-ago-babies

And memories they long to capture.

So no one stops to ask me

or thinks I'd make a fuss

for kissing there's no permission needed--

little babies belong to all of us.

Syrena Hood

2010-05-16T11:51:00.000-07:00

This week Syrena decided she wants to be Robin Hood.

I introduced the movie Robin Hood (Disney version) to them this week,

and as it often turns out,

they've become a little obsessed.

So Syrena created a Robin Hood costume complete with hat and quiver. I helped a little with the bow. (Sophie is Maid Marian and Naomi is that little rabbit named Skippy.)

This has nothing to do with Russell Crowe's new movie.

(I prefer the charming cartoon fox over sweaty Russell Crowe anyway.)

Yesterday Scott got out his bow to show Syrena what a REAL archer looks like.

...Mmm, mm...

So has anyone seen the new movie? Is it worth it to pay a babysitter and go?

My Mom

2010-05-07T18:54:00.000-07:00

Not many people know that my mom raised horses (I think this one is "Cookie") and that on Christmas day her house burned down and the only thing she was able to save was her new saddle.

Not many people know that when my parents were engaged my dad got sick and the wedding was cancelled, but my mom waited a whole year for him to get better so they could get married.

Not many people know that my mom used to bleach part of her bangs.

Not many people know that my mom sewed fur on to her coats to make them look more expensive.

Or that every time she had a child she almost died.

(There are seven of us.)

Not many people know that my mom and dad shared a passion for traveling and avocados.

Not many people know that my mom can make a tree grow anywhere.

She singlehandedly created several small forests.

Not many people know that my mom had an amazing collection of really cool pants.

Most people don't know that my mom has a degree in nutrition.

Not many people know that my mom loves getting her photo taken in her bathing suit.

Not many people know that my mom decided when she was a girl that she wanted to be a member of the church, even though no one else in her family was interested.

Not many people know I'm her favorite child.

(Ha, ha. Just kidding, guys.)

Happy Mothers Day, Mom.

Paul and Shelly's wedding

2010-05-06T18:27:00.000-07:00

Last week we went to Manti to attend the wedding of Scott's youngest brother, Paul. I remember when I was two feet taller than Paul. Fast forward ten years and now, after a mission to Jamaica and a deployment to Iraq, he towers over me.We are excited to add another sister-in-law to the Dyreng family. As Scott put it, now we are just one donut short of a dozen.

Paul and Shelly were married in the Manti temple.

Here are some highlights from the special day:

My sisters-in-law: Michelle, Erin, me, and Holly (Scott's sister)

Scott getting Danny spiffy-ed up.

My sister-in-law Erin and I with our matching dresses.

Danny and Uncle Brad

Beautiful Shelly and my niece, Abby. (I was experimenting with my camera...trying to get it to only have the pink show in the photos....)

Bride and Groom

MOM GET ME OUT OF HERE!

(Notice how nicely the "pink" function on my camera picked up the desperation in Danny's bloodshot eyes.)

The power--I mean flower girls: Abby, Molly, Naomi, Whitney, Syrena and Sophie

Cousin Naomi and Cousin Molly become friends.

Congrats, Paul and Shelly!

This is what it is like to be Danny Dyreng

2010-04-24T10:52:00.000-07:00

Ode to a 5-month-old

2010-04-18T17:13:00.000-07:00

You,

my 14 lb treasure,

are Love personified.

The only thing

that brings me more joy

than watching you, is

watching others

watch you.

I know what they feel when you smile at them

because I feel it, too. It is as if you are saying:

you are so lovely

I love to look at you

I love your smile, your eyes--

You make me laugh!

I adore you! Shall I go on?

I need you.

You matter.

I love every thing about you.

You are irreplaceable,

priceless,

matchless,

enchanting.

What if all of us could see ourselves--

and each other--

the way a baby sees us?

Anything You Can Do

2010-04-12T19:42:00.000-07:00

This is how Scott and I argue.

Veni Vidi Vici

2010-04-02T14:34:00.000-07:00

Here we are, ready to begin our adventure.

Notice that only one person is smiling.

We hike one mile in to our camp sight.

The girls had to carry their own sleeping bags, and they were not allowed to bring toys.

Note the stowaway.

Our campsite. It kind of looks like we are camping on a parking lot, but that is actually a tent site, meant for a nice big tent. We, however, are hammock people. Scott made all of these hammocks himself, and he can string each one up in less than five minutes. We looked quite festive against the grey background, don't you think?

Syrena's hammock

Sophie's hammock

Naomi's hammock

Danny's hammock

Actually, this isn't really Danny's hammock. This is my hammock. Danny slept the first third of the night in the little tent, the second third of the night with me in my hammock and the last part of the night back in the tent. Perhaps that gives you an idea of how much sleep I got.

Scott checking the score. Of what game? It doesn't matter, all that matters is that somewhere in the world there is a game and he can check the score.

Double-decker hammocks. Sophie and Syrena probably slept the best out of all of us. They just curled up in their hammocks and snored the rest of the night.

Naomi, however, had a harder time sleeping. She woke up more than Danny did. And guess who had to answer her call? I'll give you a big hint: it wasn't me. Yes, Turkeyboy got less sleep than anyone else.

This is what morning looks like in a hammock. Dawn at last!

Danny wakes, to the delight of his adoring fans.
My hiking shadow. It looks like I super-glued my baby to me.

Going back home.

This was our first "backpacking" trip as a family. We had some challenging moments, but I think that it was a success. If success means we made some great memories for our kids, than we achieved our objective.

Veni, vidi, vici.

Trial Run

2010-04-01T08:08:00.000-07:00

Last night Scott set up the hammocks in the backyard to see if the girls would be able to stick it out all night. This was in preparation for our mini backpacking trip we are taking them on tonight. Scott made each girl their own hammock (pink, blue, and lavendar) and set them up double-decker in the trees. I wondered if they'd be able to actually fall asleep, but before Scott even had his PJs on they were snoring away, cozy as caterpillers in their cocoons .

Tonight might be a different story, though, for we will have our wild card: Danny.

To be continued....

2010-03-26T18:40:00.000-07:00

The First Day of Spring

2010-03-20T17:56:00.000-07:00

Usually on Saturday mornings I make my kids do jobs.

But today was so wonderful that we skipped jobs and went to Eno River State Park.

We walked across a super shakey foot bridge,

Posed for a romantic photo,

Hung out in Scott's hammock,

And played with moss and sticks.

Much better than doing jobs.

Spring, I'm so glad you're here.

Oh, Happiness

2010-03-16T20:08:00.001-07:00

This makes me happy all over.

Have I ever mentioned that I used to be a pretty decent trumpet player?

OK Go - This Too Shall Pass from OK Go on Vimeo.

A Child's Perspective

2010-03-09T18:59:00.000-08:00

Every now and then my kids will find the camera and start clicking away. Sometimes I don't find until much later what they've been doing with the camera.

Toys are a favorite subject matter. Here we have some romantic embraces.

More random toys....

For some reason there are lots and LOTS of photos of the top of Danny's head.

Unusual angles of furniture
Unusual angles of siblings
not sure what is going on here
watching mommy do her work (usually I don't get in the photos unless Danny is with me). By the way, do you like my tail?And every now and then they take some keepers. Here is one Naomi took of me and Danny before church:

Last Night

2010-02-26T05:28:00.000-08:00

9:45 Naomi coughs and cries, I give her some honey for her cough.

10:00 Scott and I get in bed.

10:30 Naomi cries. Scott gets out of bed to talk to her.

10:45 Naomi cries. I get out of bed to give her some medicine.

11:10 Naomi comes down to our room. Scott talks to her.

11:20 I take her back upstairs.

11:30 We sleep.

2:00 Naomi cries and comes in our room again and I make a bed for her on the ground.

3:30 Danny wakes up. I feed him.

4:30 I hear Sophie and Syrena's alarm clock go off. I go upstairs. Syrena is reading a book and Sophie is getting out of bed to put her clothes on. I say what-are-you-doing-get- back-in-bed-it-is-the-middle-of-the-night!

6:00 Scott wakes up

6:45 I wake up, ready to conquer the day

All I can say is that no one threw up or wet the bed so in the end it was a pretty good night.

The Hundred Dollar Brick

2010-02-02T13:35:00.000-08:00

I love libraries. When we first moved to Hillsborough I asked the realtor about the library. She paused and said it was "quaint." However, soon after we moved, Orange County started building a new library.

They invited anyone who donated $100 dollars to get a brick engraved with a message or a name on it. If I hadn't just recieved $100 from Scott's grandma I probably wouldn't have thought twice about it. I usually use "grandma money" for clothes or furniture, but I decided this time I would be a little more creative and get something that would last.

Now in addition to getting our books at the new library the girls run to find "their" brick.

So here is our $100 brick, and it is worth every penny.

Syrena's film

2010-01-04T11:30:00.000-08:00

Some times the girls get a hold of the camera when I am busy and they start taking photos and filming things. I don't find out until later what they've been doing.

This is a really cute video Syrena took that I just barely discovered. I had no idea when she took it, but I am glad she did.

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I guess we'll keep him

2009-12-31T06:38:00.000-08:00

Sophie took this photo of Danny this morning. It just had to be shared.

Oh No!

2009-11-19T07:54:00.000-08:00

Yesterday we took Danny to the doctor for his first check up. Scott and Naomi and I were waiting in the waiting room when the nurse came in and said, "Danielle?"

Scott and I looked at each other in horror. We hadn't thought of this.

Before I could remember to temper my voice I said a little too sharply, "His name is DAN-iel."

For the rest of the day Scott and I worried about this. We spent nine months searching for a name; a name that would be easy to pronouce, a name that sounded good with Dyreng, a name that wouldn't get him made fun of at recess, only to find out he is going to be mistaken for a GIRL for the rest of his life!

Something had to be done.

So I called Dan Mudrick, a guy in our ward, and asked if he had had any problems with this. He laughed and said that the only people who called him "Danielle" were people who spoke French. He said, "The problem isn't the name, it is the nurse."

Well, that made us feel better.

Scott also told this experience to one of his co workers who lives in Boston and she emailed him back and said,"It is a well known fact that southerners can't read."

So his name will stay the way it is.

For now.

From the Land of the Living Dead

2009-11-15T18:26:00.000-08:00

It has been three days now since I gave birth and I still can't do much except sit around on pillows. But I have climbed the fourteen steep steps to the computer to announce that the Turkeyboy's Girls blog will now change its name to Turkeyboys' Girls.

(If you didn't notice a difference that is because I just moved the apostrophe over one letter. This sweet little trick was my friend Charith's idea so that I don't have to change the name of my blog. Thanks, Charbear, you are a genius!)

But an even more important name is this one: Daniel Morgan.

Thanks to everyone who has helped my family in the last few days. We are so grateful.

Turkeyboy's Boy

2009-11-13T14:23:00.000-08:00

He's here. 6lbs 13oz. 7:53 AM. No name yet. More to come later . . . .

Countdown

2009-11-07T17:26:00.000-08:00

Today I mentioned something about "my big belly" to the girls and Syrena said, "I don't think your belly is big, Mom."
"You don't?" I asked, wondering if my daughter had gone blind.
"No," she said.
"Don't you remember when my tummy was flat?" I asked.
Slight pause.

"No, I don't."

So what I learned from this conversation is that I have been pregnant for as long as my children can remember.

That is a long time.

Luckily, I am a big believer in fortune cookie fortunes and this is what I got today:

Did you catch that little word "soon"?

15 days until D-Day, baby.

Catching Up

2009-11-01T17:20:00.000-08:00

It has been a while since I've posted anything, so I thought I would send you all the highlights of the last few months....

Quick trip to the beach....

The older girls took swimming lessons while Naomi played with this hunk in the baby pool...

Last minute trip to "Zion." This is the Salt Lake Temple.

The only healthy thing to eat at the NC State Fair
Syrena and Sophie on the Ferris Wheel at the NC state fair (they told me I wasn't allowed on the Ferris wheel because I was pregnant...I got on anyway. Come on! It is a Ferris Wheel!)

Birthday Witch and her birthday cake

Carved pumpkins

The Witch

The Vampire Bat

The Vampire Girl

And we have three weeks (or less) until Turkeyboy Jr. arrives.

Which means it might be a long time before I make another post. :)

Until then--

Turkeyboy Loves His Girl

2009-10-01T21:05:00.000-07:00

Hey Turkeyboy's #1 Girl,

I hijacked your blog just to say that you are the best wife in the whole world.

Love,

Turkeyboy

Cousin Confession

2009-08-18T06:36:00.000-07:00

This morning as was listening to my kids tell each other knock-knock jokes that don't make sense, I remembered a family reunion that I went to as a child a long time ago. It was held at Gran's home (A-frame house, I think) and one of the adults told all the kids that we would be able to share a joke at the family gathering that afternoon. I didn't know any jokes, but fortunately I passed by a room where Candice was telling some other cousins a joke she was planning on doing. I still remember it. It went like this:

Knock knock
Who's there?
Banana.
Knock knock
Who's there?
Banana.
Knock knock
Who's there?
Orange.
Orange who?
Orange you glad I stopped saying banana?

I thought the joke was the most hilarious thing I'd ever heard. So when it was my turn to tell a joke at the reunion, that is the one I told. They must have started youngest to oldest or something, because I got to go before Candice and I totally got the scoop on her.

I just wanted to tell you, Candice that I am sorry, and I hope you forgive me. I will never copy one of your knock knock jokes again.

Mission Accomplished!

2009-08-08T11:08:00.000-07:00

All summer long the girls and I have been preparing for their August birthday party. (See preparations here.) The day finally came, and as you can tell by how late my post is, it has taken me a week to recover.

But I believe it was a success. No one cried or threw up, no one fell out of the treehouse, no one was hit with the pinata bat, my girls remained polite, and with a few promptings remembered to say "thank you."

Really the worst thing that happened was Naomi smashing cake into the neighbor boy's hair.

She must like him.

Here are the highlights:

Spell the word "birthday" with playdough.

The "Redneck Ice Cream Sandwich Torte" cakes, thank you Metta.

Syrena wishing for world peace.

Sophie wishing for "every toy ever made."

The girls had everyone say a password before they could go up into the tree house.

Here are all the birthday go-ers leaning precariously on the railing of the treehouse.

Pinata frenzi!

So all's well that ends well. Thank you to all the great kids who came to our party. We love you so much and we are so glad you could celebrate with us!