It's going to be legen...wait for it...DARY!

Lately, I've had a series of annoying age-related realizations.  I'll spare you the details, because they likely fall into the category of "TMI,"  but I won't spare you the effects of said realizations.  Because they are--like I said--LEGENDARY.

Here's the deal:  if I don't change something quick, my pancreas is going to blow out like an overworked tire and I'll end up turning into a Meegan-shaped pile of sugar long before Jamie graduates from high school.  This isn't good.  So, in a nutshell, I've decided that--against my own better judgement--I am going to run in some sort of K race on or around my birthday.

However, I hate commitments.  Also, I'm pretty sure that I look like this when I run:

To avoid all of that, I decided to make up my own event.  And so, I am proud to announce the...

First Annual 

Guy Fleegman Run for Your Life

(or walk.  whatever.  it's your life.)

Here's how it will work:

1.  Decide you're going to participate.
2.  Wake up on Sep. 22nd.
3.  Going for a run.  Or a walk.  You decide where and how far.

Now, it's been pointed out to me that one of the reasons people participate in these crazy things (when staying at home and eating donuts is so much more inviting) is for the t-shirt, so I added a few more instructions:

2a.  Get out your red shirt and a sharpie.  The shirt HAS to be red.  In the spirit of Crewman Number Six(es) everywhere.
2b.  Write, "First Annual Guy Fleegman Run For Your Life, 2012" on the front and "I'm the plucky comic relief" on the back.

Also, as it will be Brianna's 15th birthday (one of the age-related realizations that freaked me out), I added yet ANOTHER instruction.  I know, this is getting WAY too complicated, but here it is:

4.  Eat a piece of cake and think about how this is the last year that Monna and Casey don't have to worry about living with a teenage driver.

Guys!!!!!  This will be awesome!  There will be literally three or four of us, dressed in our awesome red shirts (for unity!), from all four corners of Utah running for our lives.

To indicate your participation, text or email me the phrase, "By Grabthar's hammer, I WILL RUN IT!"

And if you missed the link the first time, here it is again for your viewing pleasure:

click on the dang link, already!

The month in review

Just after Thanksgiving, I started interviewing for a house helper.  Several mischievous shelf-dwelling elves applied for the position, but I didn't think our boys needed any ideas.  Fortunately, this guy turned up and saved the day.  He is...the Alfred Family's Sneaky Snowman:

The weather has been unseasonably pleasant so far this winter...as long as by "pleasant," you mean "sunny," and don't care that the temperature never breaks thirty.  There hasn't been much snow, either--can I get a hallelujah?  It was causing Elijah much stress, though, so the snowman brought us a personal snow storm...

a million space bucks if you can figure out why Ethan dubbed these "Nerd Flakes"

The Sneaky Snowman also went all Highlander on the fridge snowman (there can be only one!) and left, in its place, a massive Christmas present, complete with ribbons and bows.  And, in what is clearly an example of going the second mile, he spared the boys from a long and painful death at the hands of their Evil Stepmother by cleaning their room (there was UNDERWEAR--dirty, of course--in the legos.  Seriously.  Boys.  The hamper is three feet away).

On Ethan's birthday, he made dessert sushi.  Ethan is a sushi FREAK.  Note:  the snowman reports that sushi is not as easy to make as it looks, even when the sticky rice is rice krispy treat.

Speaking of Ethan's birthday, most of you know he turned twelve this year.  This means, of course, that he has blown out the candles on twelve birthday cakes.  At this point, you'd think he would have the routine down.  Shockingly, not so much.  I set the cake down in front of him, and he blew out the candles before we could sing.  Facepalm.

I love that little space cadet.  He did SO well passing the sacrament--I was massively proud of him.  He didn't drop anything or whack anyone on the back of the head with a tray, which I consider a major victory for a kid who routinely walks into closed doors due to his poor situational awareness.

Anyhoo, the snowman wreaked pleasant havoc for the month.  I think he'll stick around until the new year, as the boys are missing the last few days of his awesomeness while they are at their mom's for Christmas.

Speaking of Christmas, it took awhile, but Gabriel finally got into the Christmas groove...about the time Jamie woke up and we opened her presents:

Not that Jamie really cared...she found the wrapping paper cast offs and the rest was history.

One of Jamie's gifts is a Baby Prison.  To me, it was the most awesome puzzle ever and I was about to put it together when Jon and Gabriel realized that for me to do the honors would be an threat to their manhood.

Are you ready for some awesomeness?  The Mirror Alfreds gave this to Gabriel.  I'm pretty sure it's intended to be a cape for HIM, but Gabriel seems to think that I'm supposed to wear it and chase him around whilst roaring like a dinosaur.  Either way, it's the cutest flipping cape EVER:

I don't know WHY Gabriel is scared to go in his tent...

His man-eating dinosaur tent.  Hmmm....when you put the facts together, it's not that startling.

And finally, I give you reason #132 why we freak out the neighbors:

Most voyeurs go for subtle.  Not us.  At our house, we're all, "We saw what you did last night, sickos, and we aren't going to hide it."

Merry Christmas.

Approximately 13,000 words for your reading pleasure

I'm so incredibly, insanely tired.

Gabriel has croup, which means I got ZERO sleep last night, but I DID get to bring home a cool elephant breathing mask from our early-morning stay at the hospitable IHC Instacare around the corner.

Which, in turn, means that odds are good that Jamie will soon have croup, because Gabriel, like so many others, has decided to have a "thing" this month. However, unlike you cool, hip, talented people doing NaNoWriMo, Gabriel is participating in the lesser-known SiGeShaMo (Sibling Germ Sharing Month).

So basically, I'm biding my time between sick kids. Let us pray...

In other news, I love the dollar store. Where else can five bucks get you a set of tires and a puppy? Nowhere. The dollar store rocks.

The dollar store is also responsible for the dramatic increase in ambient noise in our house. Cuz I bought a ping pong set. For a dollar. Clearly, we're dealing with high quality sporting equipment here. Which is probably for the best, as they will quickly either be lost (by one of our kidlets) or chewed to pieces (by one of our dogs. Or one of the boys. Who am I kidding? I'm a side of bacon away from living the cold weather version of Lord of the Flies.)

For your edification, here are some pictures of our mad Ping Pong skillz, as well as some important Alfred Family Ping Pong moves.  Feel free to use our moves in your next ping pong game.

The "Robyn:" to hit your opponent in the eye with the ball.  HARD.

The "Elijah:"  to play a ball that bounces off a person on the sidelines

The "Ethan:" to yell, "You've been SERVED!"  Repeatedly.

The "Meegan:"  to roll the ball down your chest before returning it.

In other news, I counted 5480 of these.  THREE FREAKING TIMES.  Because--apparently--I have poor listening comprehension.  Thank heavens Robyn and Jon took pity on me and helped out.

Five thousand four hundred and eighty.  Three times.  If I had a million dollars, I would have just GIVEN the school the 548 dollars.


Then again...if I had a million dollars, I'd buy you some art...a Picasso or a Garfunkel...

(SNERK)

OK, moving on from the Bare Naked Ladies...I've actually been making stuff from Pinterest.  You know, in between bouts of Gabriel not breathing and family ping pong tournaments (wherein I humiliate Robyn).

When Ethan saw this (it's in his room), he ran around the house freaking out because there was something wrong with his light switch.  This from the kid we sent to Harry Potter camp.  FACEPALM!

Gabriel already stripped Frosty of his buttons.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Why I like the name Jack, #132

 I dare you to name a dorky Jack.

(There are none.)

If God decides to mock me and I somehow end up with another kid, that child will be named Jack.

Even if it's a girl.

That is all.

I'll think of a clever name LATER!

Dear Fall Funk,


I really don't like you.  If it weren't for Winter Inversion, you'd be my least favorite seasonal event ever.  Take a lesson from Summer Fun .  Or even Spring Seasonal Allergies.  I hope I give you a complex, you big jerk.

Hugs,


Meegan

***And now for something completely different***

My friends are a motley crew.

And she's the GOOD influence in my life.  I'm doomed.

 Mollee and her Smurf-a-Day eating habit are nothing, though, when compared to my friend, April, who enticed me to join a cult.  "Come and eat dinner, spend time with the girls and get away for a few hours,"  she said. 

So I did.

And then I joined a cult.  And, let me tell you, I'm a Mormon...wait...a Latter Day Saint (GAH!).  Anyways, I know my cults.  I should have seen it coming.   Especially when she yelled, "You fool! You fell victim to one of the classic blunders - The most famous of which is "never get involved in a land war in Asia" - but only slightly less well-known is this: "Never go against a Sicilian when death is on the line"! Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! Ha ha ha..."

Except replace "Sicilian" with "Mormon."  And replace "death" with "bunco." 

But that's just semantics.  I'm pretty sure my (now) fellow cult members take bunco a lot more seriously than the threat of death.  I have never seen such intensity.  At least, not outside of Las Vegas. 

Imagine a table with four women hunkered down over it, rolling dice as though their lives depended on it.  Dice were prematurely grabbed.  Hands were slapped away.   Stuffed animals were thrown.  Tears were shed.  And tomorrow, they'll go back to their normal lives as moms and teachers and therapists and pretend that NOTHING HAPPENED and that they are PERFECTLY NORMAL, THANK YOU VERY MUCH. 

But I know the truth.  And I'm in trouble, because I just happened to agree to sub on the night they drew for hosting duties for the coming year, and got suckered into being a permanent member of the group.

April, you're a bad influence.  You were there when I pierced my ears.  And then when I finally succumbed to peer pressure and joined my first bunco group.

(dramatic reenactment:)

Me:  This is madness!

April:  Madness?  This is Bunco!

I guess I should be glad she didn't kick me into a well at that point...

***And now for something completely different***

Pictures of the cutest Two-th year old EVER:

We could have given him only the balloons and he would have been perfectly content.

But some of our friends got him bubbles, and that pretty much made his year.

 

 

A few days later was Jon's 36nd birthday.  Like I need a bad influence in my life.  I'm my own worst enemy.  I giggled for hours after this one, folks.  Because apparently, I"m easily amused.

 Some of Gabriel's gifts inspired the BEST.  FAMILY HOME EVENING ACTIVITY.  EVER.

Awwwwww, yeah.

Peace out.

Five things I didn't blog about due to the onset of Fall Funk

Hiya, my peeps.  Long time, no see.

After a pretty intense chastising from Mirror-Jon (yeah, Josh, I mean YOU!) regarding my dereliction of various duties, I've decided to drag myself out of my Fall Funk.  I've been wallowing in grief over the passing of summer long enough, and I've missed relating several seriously blog-worthy events.  So, in no particular order, I give you....

What Was Going on in Our House Whilst I Was Fighting an Overwhelming Urge to Crawl Back Into Bed, Eat Chocolate, and Watch Bones

1.  I pierced my ears.  Well, I didn't pierce my ears.  A friendly and helpful Claire's Boutique sales associate trained in the art/science of Ear Piercing was responsible for the actual piercings.  Her name was Jamie, which made me like her in spite of the fact that I was paying her a surprising amount of money to put holes in my ears.  As it turns out, the experience drove home the reality that I am, in fact, a walking Far Side character.  I've known for years that I have a bulging eye that is neither a thyroid problem nor a tumor, as Dr. Doom n' Gloom the Optometrist predicted,  but merely a freakishly bulging eye that doesn't affect my vision.  I guess he just wanted me to be self-conscious about it for the rest of my life.   (Thank you, Brian Regan.  You nailed it.)  Now, in addition to my bulging eye, it has ALSO been pointed out to me that my ears are excessively uneven AND one of them has a crease RIGHT WHERE THE PIERCING SHOULD BE.  Put all that together with my FrankenToes and it's amazing that I even go out in public. 

2.  USU football BITES.  They can't hold on to a lead to save their lives.  Or, as the joke goes, the USU football team goes to the dollar store.  What do they buy?  NOTHING, because they only have three quarters.  MWAH HA HA HA HA!

3.  Elijah's football team made it into the playoffs.  Now, this has been an ongoing blog-in-progress.   From the first day of practice when I astutely noted that the first thing that they teach the boys is How To Walk Like a Jock, I have loved  having Elijah on a football team.  After several years of pestering Jon about what the heck is going on, I can finally follow what's going on, more or less.  And, somehow, when the players are so little and enthusiastic, it's even more fun.  Especially when your kid manages NOT to break his leg.  That's always a bonus.

If you look closely, you can seen Elijah in the middle of the lump o' boys.  Or, we assume it's him, as there is no other boy with our last name on his team (we're the burgundy and gold team).  Having Elijah in football has actually brought out his awesomeness--I asked him if he wants to play again next year, and he does...but he's reluctant because the other boys swear and he doesn't like that.  I told him not to let the doofuses ruin his fun and to be the example.  Also, surprisingly, he tends to hold back.  When Jon and I were talking to him about this, he said he doesn't like turning on his "Hulk," because he's scared he won't be able to turn it off.  Seriously.  How awesome is this kid?  Very awesome.  AND he spontaneously started saving money for a mission.

4.  Conference Tacos. (In this section, names have been changed to protect the not-so-innocent.) If you are unaware, conference tacos are greasy Tacos of Joy that my mom only makes on conference Sundays.  After a few rounds of being the one in charge of making them, I know WHY she only makes them twice a year:  they suck to make.  Good to eat, a pain to make.  Literally a pain, this year, because I inadvertently bought Super Splattery Oil (TM) to fry them in, and actually had hot oil spatter INTO MY MOUTH.  Also, apparently I'm still functioning with my pregnancy-induced brainlessness, because I actually made Jon send a semi-snarky text to my friend and taco making minion, April, asking her why she was late to the taco making fiesta.  As it turned out, I told her the wrong time.  FACEPALM.  She graciously came anyways (and bearing PIE, no less), and made the cutest little taco hor d'oeuvres (thank you, google, for spelling help.  I was so far off on the spelling that spell check could only put up its proverbial hands in surrender).  Back on the ranch.  While April was busy salvaging remnants of tortillas and prettying them up, another taco making minion, who shall be referred to as Xobyn (the "X" is pronounced like an "R" in this instance)...well, Xobyn was busy making tacos that Picasso would have been proud of.  They.  Were.  Awesome.  That is, awesome as long as you don't mind toothpicks going through your soft palate, because I think towards the end, she was just shoving extra toothpicks in to make a statement, and that statement was, "Please write a blog about my mutant taco-making skillz."  In Xobyn's defense, yes, they tasted the same.  They just looked mean enough to eat you first, if you didn't hustle with the sour cream and beat them to the punch.



5.  Ethan and the Baritone.  Ethan decided he doesn't want to play the viola anymore, which means that, with the new addition of a viola to my personal strings collection, I'm a violin away from being a one-woman string quartet.  Anyhoo, instead of the viola, he's playing the baritone, which is basically a small tuba.  His reasoning for the change?  I quote, "Being in orchestra is DORKY."  I didn't have the heart to tell him about band stereotypes.  Regardless, he seems to enjoy it MUCH MORE, which makes it all worth it.  By "all," I am referring to the cow that seems to have taken up residence in our basement.  Also, the fact that he doesn't seem to understand why emptying your spit valve on the living room floor is gross.

Before I leave you, a few gratuitous family pictures.

First, check out Gabriel's budding Mad Football Skillz:

What's a family hike without a Sith Lord?

She sleeps better at two months than Gabriel does at two years.

Special thanks to Oma Alfred for the pictures!

Peace out, my peeps!

It's so much more glamorous in the movies

The boys finally got to live a dream:  to experience first hand what it was like to live the life of a knight in the Middle Ages.

For the last few days, we have had...

...a moat on the north side of the house.
...intermittent running water.
...sewage build up in the basement.

All we needed was to put one of the boys in stocks in the front yard and it would have been the Ultimate Medieval Experience.

I'm telling you, any day that starts with you bailing household bilge out of your basement and ends with the "plumber" (I use the term loosely) telling you that your only option for fixing the washing machine's drainage issues is to run a hose from it to the toilet is a day to blog about.  But I'm not going to discuss that much, except to say that the "plumber" had the audacity to put his magnet on our fridge.  Without asking.  Oh, yeah.  That sucker's in the trash.

Anyhoo, what I AM going to blog about is, believe it or not, less pleasant than sewage.  At least, it is for Jon.  How can I put this delicately?  Jon is...going to be "tutored" in a few weeks.

His pre-op appointment was on Wednesday.  Lucky Jon.  His urologist is apparently an IDIOT, because he told Jon to warn me that he (Jon) has to take it totally easy for two days after the surgery.

Question:  what kind of moron would actually tell his postpartum wife that he HAS to be lazy?  I imagine the conversation would go like this:

Husband:  The doctor says I have to take it easy after I'm tutored.

Wife:  (smacks husband)

Funny story:  Jon related this information to me while I was doing the dishes, which was perhaps not the best timing.  I didn't maim him, but any sympathy I may have been feeling for him due to the impending permanent detour of his "Special Men" went out the window when I realized that not once, but TWICE, I have pushed a human being out of my body.  And both times resulted in tearing in unmentionable places.  And, sure, I got a hospital stay out of it (ONE NIGHT!), but even then the nurses made sure I was awake every two hours for one reason or another.  There was NO talk of "ease taking."

In a nutshell, there is a huge difference between men and women when it comes to interpreting and implementing a doctor's advice for recovering from physical trauma.  A man will actually try to take it easy, up to and including breathing as little as possible.  A woman will forgo mopping the floor and folding laundry.

However, having said this, I am very grateful for my own personal husband, who is admittedly taking one for the team and will probably not take it as easy as my hormone-driven lunatic imaginings would have me believe.  Because that would require intravenous nourishment, and although he likes to talk tough about being a lazy bum, he is generally incredibly helpful and involved with the kids.  Even the infant ones.

******and now for something completely different********

Jon got  me a two-kid jogging stroller for my birthday, on the off chance that I actually take up jogging.  Or--more likely--sauntering.  While watching Jon assemble it, I was perusing the instruction manual, which was, surprisingly, more complex than:

1) Put the kid(s) in the stroller.
2)  Hold on to the handle.
3)  Run. 

One of the actual instructions was, and here I quote:

"Always fold or unfold the Jogging Stroller slowly and with caution...Children left in a folded stroller may incur serious injury or death.  Always remove children from the passenger compartment before folding and storing the Jogging Stroller."

To quote Brian Regan, I give up on this species.

Peace.

And now for something completely different....

If you haven't heard of pinterest.com yet...beware the following post.

You probably have.  I've never been trendy...I'm usually several years behind..in fact, I'm thinking about stealing my mom's t-shirt and cutting it into pieces to make a super rad cumberbund I heard about.

Anyhoo, on the off chance that you're less aware of your surroundings than I am (which would basically make you an amoeba), and you have HOURS of time to waste in the middle of the night, I highly recommend pinterest.com for your time-wasting needs.  It's like the internet on crack.  It's like someone--several someones, in fact--took the time to sort through all the garbage floating around on the interwebs and post only the cool stuff.

There is funny stuff:

"The biggest setback in feminism since the sandwich."

And there is serious stuff:

Then there's the pretty stuff:

Crud.  That's not the picture I meant to post.  (heh heh heh).  I meant, "Then there's the pretty stuff:"

And the crafty stuff:

And THERE ARE INSTRUCTIONS FOR HOW TO DO/MAKE IT.  I may finally have decent/styled hair.   At the very least, there is hope for Jamie.

Did I mention that there's funny stuff?

And food ideas!  Lots of food ideas!  With recipes!

People!  I have found the Relief Society Cheat Sheet!  And it helps pass the time whilst nursing!

And before I leave you, some pinterest wisdom (that was gleaned from icanhascheezburger):

Aren't we all.

Thanks, April, for bringing me out of the dark ages...

The War of the Wills

I think my children have made a pact to try to break my will.  If that doesn't work, they'll settle for inflicting as much pain as possible.  Yesterday, I shared in the following text exchange with Elise:

Me:  Dang Abrahamson climbing gene.  Gabers was on top of the freaking piano.

Elise:  Ahahaha!  Has he discovered your cupboards yet?

Me:  Oh yes.  He lurves the pantry, too.  Dang it.

Elise:  Well the pantry does have a built in ladder.  And food.  Gabers is my kinda kid.

Me:  Yeah, this behavior was so much cuter when it was Erin and Macey doing it.

Elise:  It's frustrating and yet convenient for lazy parents like me who like it when their 4 yo makes their own toast. :)

What this series of texts doesn't communicate is the twenty minutes AFTER finding Gabriel on top of the piano that I spent trying to find an alternate location for the piano bench that would prevent Gabriel from dragging the bench back into place and his subsequent use of the piano as a jungle gym.  I was unsuccessful, I might add.  There was a lot of Gabriel stomping around and yelling at me whilst dragging the bench back over to the piano.  I was to the point of considering asking the Mirror-Alfreds to store it for us (along with all of our chairs and other ladder-ish furniture), but that would have been inconvenient in the event of actual piano playing.  Or eating of dinner at the dining room table.  It was an epic battle in the War of the Wills.  And it was a draw.

I'm not a dummy, though.  I've figured out their strategy for breaking me.  It's a three-pronged plan designed to make me fold like origami.

Prong one:  sleep deprivation.  Gabriel takes the day shift, Jamie takes the night shift, and Ethan and Elijah pinch hit during the rare times that Gabriel accidentally falls asleep during nap time, which happens to coincide with their homework time (which is generally a battle in itself).  When he DOES fall asleep, it looks like this:

YOU try to sleep with those paws kicking you in the kidney.  You can't.  What is it with children and their innate ability to always be perpendicular to their parents' backs?  GAH.

Prong two:  physical torture.  Gabriel prefers straight forward hitting and stomping, while Jamie is more subtle.  I won't get into the details of her preferred method of torture, but I will say that it involves lactation and she's a lot like the miners in Galaxy Quest...you know, they're aren't MINORS, they're MINERS.  They look all cute and sweet and then they attack with brutal finality.  OOWIE OOWIE OOWIE OOWIE.

Prong three:  mind games.  I think Gabriel's been watching Shrek when I finally collapse from exhaustion, because he's taken to doing a mean Puss In Boots impersonation.  Witness:

He pulls out the cute eyes...and then he goes all Puss In Boots on me and performs some act of toddler terrorism.  Cruelly, the eyes totally hamstring me and my ability to fully utilize my naturally heartless nature.  I've said it before and I'll say it again...cuteness is their one survival  skill.

It's like I got dragged into a land war in Asia.  I'm not exactly losing, but I can't declare a solid victory, either, and most of the time I'm two steps away from unwittingly setting off a land mine.  The irony is, I'm not out to get them...I'm just trying to save them from the cruel forces of Gravity and Electricity.  Once again, I think I have to bow to the wisdom of my mother, who I swear is more awesome every passing day.  I need to...LET THE WOOKIEE WIN.  She used to mutter that to me a lot, and it used to bug the tar out of me...but I totally get it, now that I have my very own Wookiee named Gabriel.

In news unrelated to the ongoing War of the Wills,  Ethan and Elijah started school this week...

Happy-go-lucky Elijah, totally not stressed out about opening a locker.

"My stepmother is a total dork.  I hate her and her picture obsession.  She better not follow me to school!"

And now, I need to go retaliate to Gabriel's latest offensive:  Battle Silverware.  He thinks it belongs on the floor, I don't. 

Peace (I hope) out!