I'm ungrateful. There, I said it.

When you give a Mexican senora some watermelon, she'll want to bake you a cake. Now before you get up in arms, she really is a Mexican, from TJ who speaks espanol -if you didn't say that with Peggy Hill's accent then back it up and do it right- therefore I am trying to be politically correct and loving at the same time, and throw in a little Laura Numeroff for adventure's sake (mouse/cookie).

So here is what happened. A friend from Jason's workplace needs a little help finishing the legalization process of his wife and their children. Jason and his buddies rise to the occasion, which entails finding an apartment, loaning money (not ours of course, as we are broke), and helping to furnish the apartment (our couches aren't nice enough so they were left here unfortunately. Fortunately). So all that we are left to do is to take a little something to them on Monday for FHE- no they are not LDS but who doesn't want some treats, watermelon being one of them.

Two weeks later, or perhaps one ( I suffer from crazy mama brain) they call to see if they can stop by. Sure. Si! They come in with two cakes in boxes and a betta in a vase, with the plant, in all his Siamese glory. The cakes she made herself. Turns out she was some sort of a baker in her previous world-and these cakes are beautiful. I am amazed. So grateful- gracias-one word I know I got right. Anyway, after they leave, and the cakes, slightly less beautiful now, are put into the fridge I face the fish issue. The friend had told the kids that in a pinch he will give the fish pinches of bread; so Reno did. Then Levi did,  but pulled off sacrament size pieces instead. So I've got this fish bowl full of bread and I decide I can't face the fish. I put it off til today and when the kids were primed, they cleaned the rocks and such with much zeal and screaming about spraying each other with the hose and all manner of mayhem. No one was injured I am happy to report.

So then we have the fish in his bowl-no water conditioner to add to the tap I might add. The kids want to feed him again, but I decide that he can wait til we get real fish food. Jason and Reno went at about ten tonight so that he won't starve. The whole time they were gone I was researching these horrid little creatures. Turns out if they don't have at least five gallons, a filter, a heater, hiding spots, and an owner that speaks in zen like tones they will die a painful, ammonia poisoned death. Good thing we have toilets cuz Finn is out of luck (that isn't really his name, but it suits me now). Seriously, these things come from rice paddies. Rice paddies. And you are telling me I have to filter and change and test his water? Where is a goldfish when you need one? I am so not doing this. Reno keeps talking about getting him an aquarium so Finn will be happy, and getting him some friends. I say look boy, you are in the wrong family for all that business, and the Willdens have too many kids to take you in.

Anyway, I feel really bad knowing that I am contributing to the loss of this little fish's life. But not bad enough to fix it. It will be years before Reno can handle the responsibility of an aquarium. When Jason got home from Wal*Mart he said that this was the worst possible gift ever. Now that's an overstatement, but I feel that it is a gift that will keep plaguing us parents--the kids could not be happier. Livy calls it her feees. So you know, the speech therapy potential is there. But really I am disgruntled and not grateful, but quite grateful to have been thought of and remembered so kindly. Ya pickin up what I'm putting down? I give him about two weeks before Livy decides to take her feees outside to show the chickens. Really, its only a matter of time.

What? Clinging to some scraps?

Once for a brief time we owned a mini-van. It was well understood by everyone who was anyone to me that it was Jason's van. He loved the space (we had only three children then) and the smooth ride-whatever. I still to this day cannot reconcile myself to the fact that I am multiplying and replenishing my way back into one-but like a Mormon Van this time. This is our nickname for the big massive 10, 12 or (gulp) 15 passenger monsters. See I am too cool to drive a van. In fact I am to cool to be a mom of such a large family. Now back when I had three, four, and yes probably even five I was still pretty darn hip. Now with six and a huge, repeat huge belly, I'm neither trendy nor cool. This is hard for me. Even though there are women in our ward my age, they can still be posh cuz they are on their first child. No one is posh when they have seven. I don't even have the energy to try anymore.  I'm not really putting myself down, I am just realizing that I have lost the battle and need move on. Cute high heels? Maybe last year, but this year girls I'll be chasing my Irish twins through the halls at church and mama can move faster in flats. Same with shorter skirts-no one can squat/sit down easily without showing their delicates off so its long skirts as well-another sworn enemy I must relinquish. The list goes on-dangling earrings are too easily ripped out so I stick to my fabulous post Brighton earrings my mother got me for my birthday two years ago and as she didn't get me anything this year yet, here is a hint mom. Make-up? If I get time. Legs shaved? No one will see under the long skirt so its a toss up. Plucked eyebrows? When I find the tweezers the bug catchers took from me a few weeks, er, months ago. It is actually easier to embrace the whole large family motherhood role than fight it anymore. (Perhaps after I have this baby and can sleep normally again I'll change my mind-but then he'll be hungry and so plucking and shaving-probably not)

And finally, the thing that prompts this post. When I had Reno I bought a bag that was trendy, and hip. It was not a diaper bag because I was not one of those Winnie the Pooh toting girls. With each consequent child I bought a bag/purse that said, I'm a mom but ya know, like a trendy one. With Levi and Livy I had small Ariat bags that were/are awesome-but they are purses. I used one for each of them and then eventually I just carried one. When Lliam was born I used one purse/diaper bag as the others were 18 months and 2 1/2 so they all fit in one. Now Sundays are the real problem. My Sunday church Mary Poppins-y bag is a monster. It is heavy laden with books, coloring supplies, all the diaper bag type stuff, snacks, toys--everything I can possibly think of to keep a 2 and 3 year old quiet during Sacrament meeting and the baby happy-quiet is only achieved when he is asleep. It is no wonder that this poor bag's strap broke-but he died with his boots on and that is all we can ask from him. So after two weeks of carrying him with only one strap (who am I? My former self would die of mortification) I went to Target tonight to pick out my next purse/work tote thing.

As I looked and looked through the fancy leatherish looking bags none of them looked like me anymore. I would have felt silly buying a pseudo-sophisticated bag and then filling it with formula and bottles. On a very skeptical whim I checked the diaper bag section after I had grabbed wipes and there it was. A bag that can actually be cleaned. I really almost bought it for that reason alone. Imagine my surprise when I got home and there are four huge pockets inside to fit all of my categories of things. I am so smitten with my diaper bag. And when I walk into church tomorrow with my life altering bag slung on the shoulder of whatever child is close to me when we get out of the Yukon XL with a jumper seat so as not to necessitate our family buying a Mormon Van yet, no one will notice the bag. Because no one cares. Because no one knew I was hanging on to some scraps of vanity leftover from my youth. They all see me as I am, which is fine. I am happy with who I am, now that I am taking a moment to take inventory. So from now on I am embracing the fact that I carry a diaper bag; it no longer has to be a bad word. But in the interest of full disclosure, I am still not down with a Mormon Van. So you know, baby steps. 

*When I googled images of these vans and this bad boy came up I will be honest and say that my pride did not totally rebel. Very hip for a Mormon Van.*

*The title for the post is a line that Elaine uses on George. If you didn't get that, you don't get it. Its fine.*

La-A is sounding better and better

Just  quick note. Lliam was almost a Finn. We backed out the day he was born because he was a breech baby, just like daddy. So he became Jason Lliam after Jason William. So Reno and the rest start batting around Finn for this one and I let it ride because I like the name. Then I find out tonight that Tori Spelling just named her new baby Finn, and she is a celebrity of some importance-not sure since we don't have a t.v. Anyway, my stomach turned that people would think that we got the name from her. Usually it wouldn't bother me but you know its just too out there and too recent and too much. So back to the drawing board-although Jason and I have not even discussed possibilities yet-we're too busy with the half dozen we've hatched to count the one still cooking. And there's a mixed metaphor to end the day with.

I'm back ...

That is a shoe in the background. That is me in the bonnet. Those are my children. The artist got a bit overzealous in number but he captured the spirit and essence of our life here. I'm grateful he chose this scene of me feeding them, and not the one that followed. It was a dark moment for us all.