All right, blog land. I have 947 things to do before my kids get off of the bus in an hour but I would be derelict if I didn't take the time to post this.

My pal Brittany posted a very similar blog last month and I've thought about it ever since. I've thought how wonderful it is that God sees fit to bestow miracles upon us as we obey Him.

Lots of things happened to bring us to a very bad place yesterday morning. I won't chronicle all of them, suffice it to say that Moe's check had finally become available in the checking account (thanks, long weekend!) and I paid all of our bills. It was a good bill-paying, too, because we actually had money left over, which is always nice. Then, just to be safe, I checked the other check register (yeah, I have two, but I use one almost exclusively) just to make sure that I hadn't missed anything. I had. I figured it all out and we were in the hole ninety some-odd dollars and pay day isn't for another ten days. Frick. We had no cash on hand; no money socked away, nothing for a rainy day. Additionally, I had paid all of my bills online and you can't take that stuff back.

Note: Yeah, we're still stupid and we're still learning. This is embarrassing to write but it gets better, I promise. Don't judge.

Anyway, distraught does not quite cover how I felt all day yesterday. My diabetes is out of whack, therefore my insulin is out of whack and insulin is a hormone so therefore my hormones have been, you guessed it, out of whack. It's been stressful. On top of all the crazy emotions that I've been fighting every day, I behaved like a complete idiot last week, did some stupid crap, said some even stupider crap and in the process learned that honesty really isn't the best policy when you're dealing with personal opinions of another person's behavior. Did you know that not everyone likes to hear what other people think about them? Yeah, shocker. I'm an idiot, but at least I've learned that lesson. It's been a tough lesson to learn and the situation is not fully resolved. I fear that in my idiocy I have forever closed a door on some relationships that I cherish.

So, let's sum up what we've got so far, shall we?

• Emotions: out of whack
• Hormones: out of whack
• Judgment: out of whack
• Finances: out of whack
• Personal relationships: out of whack
• Life: pretty stinking whacktacular

Yeah. I'm not trying to blame hormones or what-not for my behavior; I take full responsibility. I'm just pointing out that things have been, uh, whacky around here.

This brings me to yesterday. Financial ruin, checks will soon start bouncing like a twelve-year-old at a bar and there's not a thing to be done about it.

Then I remembered the $100 in cash that I had set aside for tithing. Hmm. I talked with Moe. We could always use the $100 in the bank account and pay the tithing later. But we have been taught that we pay our tithing first, even if we don't feel we have the money and then trust in God to take care of us. We prayed for quite a while and I'm a little ashamed at how hard it was to make the decision. But once we knew, we knew. That wasn't our money to use. We had set it aside for tithing and using it for anything other than tithing would be disobedience.

Once the decision was made, it really didn't lessen my stress level. I was trying to have faith that all would work out, but I just couldn't figure out how. I talked with a friend about it and she suggested calling my Relief Society president. I hesitated, knowing that she would go to the bishop. I was already embarrassed enough at the situation and I didn't want to go running to the church to bail us out of a hole that we had dug ourselves. I finally called the RS president, if only because she always asks me why I never call her when things go wrong. She said that she would call the bishop, ask his opinion and then get back with me.

She called back a few minutes later and said that the bishop thought that we should put the tithing money into our checking account as it would be too late by the time he was able to do anything for us. Then we could talk with him on Sunday and figure out how to handle the issue of the tithing. I was still on the phone with the RS president as I sat down at the computer to check the bank account before I headed into town to deposit the money. There was a deposit of $100 in our account that neither I nor my husband had made. The checks that we had written and forgotten about hadn't cleared yet so there were no overdraft fees and that $100 deposit made it so that once everything had cleared we would still be in the black. We would have less than $10, but there wouldn't any overdraft fees. I told the RS president who got a little choked up. I was too stunned to cry (which will shock you if you know me at all).

I went through the evening feeling buoyed on a cloud of obedience and blessings. All I could think was "Wow."

Today came and I settled down to the task of trying to figure out a way to get a little bit of cash to get us through until the next pay day. The mystery deposit solved the immediate crisis, but there was still the matter of needing money to pay for gasoline and other necessities for the next several days.

To make a long story short(er), I received orders for two quilts this afternoon and one of the women paid me $60 in advance.

After Moe and I had made the decision not to use our tithing money to save our bacon, I tried to relax and have faith but I just could not see any way that we were going to get the money. I knew that things would work out, even if "work out" meant that we would end up with six overdraft fees that would eat up the next pay check but I would survive. That doesn't sound like the most pleasant way for things to work out, but again, I had faith that God would provide.

Provide he did, and in a most spectacular and obvious way. I think He wanted to make sure that I saw His hand in it. I did, and thanks.

Now the thought that is niggling at the corners of my brain is this: Why do we ever choose anything but the way we know to be right? If God has promised, he will come through.

I am proof.

I'm Busted

A Quick and Incomplete Summary of the Current Goings-On in the House of Bennett

As you may have read, I have chickens. (That sounds funny if you read that like some sort of terminal disease - "Did you hear? She has Chickens." "Oh, no! Once that gets into the blood stream they don't usually make it past a month.") Ahem. I decided that if I was going to feed and clean up after the critters that I might as well make it interesting, so this spring we bought Araucanas, a breed of chicken which lays colored eggs. For reals.

My family has waited in wild anticipation for the colored eggs to appear, and they finally did. But they were brown. Brown. If I had wanted brown eggs, I would have bought any number of other breeds of chickens that lay plain ol' brown eggs. I was schnookered. But then, wonder of wonders, look what we found:

In the upper left is an egg laid by one of our two Leghorns, which are a year older and therefore lay bigger eggs than the newbies. In the bottom right is an egg laid by the only chicken who read the manual. Colored eggs, girls, blue and green and sometimes lavender.

On a side note, the brown egg to the immediate right of the white egg had two yolks. I was frying a bunch of eggs for my nieces and nephews for breakfast and we were admiring how cute they were, the widdo biddy teeny fwied eggs, and then we were like "Whoa! Two yolks! Sweet!" We also wondered if the green egg would be lime-flavored. It wasn't. It was mint.

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Adam's newest thing whenever he is angry with me or has to do something that he doesn't want to do is to yell, "You're busted!" At first, because he's three and doesn't speak all that clearly, I thought that he was calling me a bastard. And I was like, "Wha...?" How do you even know that word? I have a couple of bad words that I say occasionally, but that's not one of my favorites. Then I realized that he watches Phineas and Ferb. A lot. So, now I get to hear "You're busted!" several times a day, followed by the tinier and more mangled version of the same phrase exclaimed by Jack. Because anything Adam does, Jack does also.

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I am totally the world's worst mother. Mike left Sunday night to spend several days with his grandmother and before he departed, he left me with this admonition: "I'm out of bird seed. Can you make some egg mash for my bird while I'm gone?" Yep. I can. Nope, I didn't. I figured that I was headed to the store the next day to buy more bird seed and that the little bugger could wait one day for his food. Obviously, he couldn't, as I found him dead in his cage half an hour before I left for the store. I haven't told Mike yet. How do you tell a ten-year-old kid that you starved his pet to death? After you had promised to feed it? I was sorely tempted to buy a new bird that matched the old one, but I can't bring myself to lie to the kid. As Moe told me, how can we expect our kids to tell the truth if we lie to them? So when he gets home tomorrow, I will put on my big girl panties and tell him. I hope he still likes me after that.

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There is another vote in my favor of Worst Mom Ever as yesterday was a tough day. The boys played Dueling Diapers, as I have not yet had the courage to begin potty-training. Jack would poop, then minutes later Adam would, then Jack, etc. Three times each, for a total of six nasty, nasty diapers. Jack bit me so hard that it brought tears to my eyes and I couldn't get my finger out of his mouth. He'd stuck a bolt in his mouth and I was attempting to retrieve it. He laughed as I struggled to get my finger out of his mouth. A few chickens got out and I had to rescue them from the dog, wearing only a nightshirt. A short nightshirt. It occurred to me only as I was walking into the house that there may have been farm hands around. If there were and they saw me, I'm sure they got a show, and I don't just mean me running barefoot after my deaf dog, yelling at him (yeah, he's deaf and I was yelling), and assuredly flashing everyone who cared to look. You're welcome. As mentioned above, I killed Mike's bird. Throughout the day there were many screams of "You're busted!" and the old standby, "NNNOOOOO!" because simply saying it isn't enough. It must be screamed until the voice cracks. It was a rough day. My nerves were fried. Then Noel walked into the house with an armful of carrots freshly pulled from the garden and deposited them on the counter I had just washed. "Look at all the carrots I picked, Mom!" I hung my head, thinking that I was now going to have to pull off the tops, wash the carrots and the counter and find something to do with them so that they didn't go to waste. She saw my reaction and started to cry. She'd been trying to be helpful. I. Suck.

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On the bright side, my flowers are all doing wonderfully as there are no goats to eat them this year. One of my sunflowers is over ten feet tall. I'm going to take pictures as soon as it blooms. It will be wicked awesome.

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I'm working on several sewing projects right now including capes and jammies for my small terrors and a quilt and some new baby stuff for a friend who's due really soon.

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Adam has become very protective of Jack. If anyone is harassing Jack (read: changing his diaper, dressing him, wiping his nose) and Jack is unhappy about it, Adam will yell, "Leave my bludder alone!" while glowering menacingly over the offender.

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We have adopted two stray cats, Edward and Babs, or as Jack says Eddard and Bob. They are friendly and the mousingest cats I've ever seen, which is great. As my good pal says, we live in the middle of a field surrounded by mouse food. We've got lots o' mice. We also have a pair of Great Horned Owls living in the tree in our front yard, which is really cool yet also kind of scary as I read that they occasionally attack humans. Super.

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The natives are beginning to stir. Adam just plunked his sippy cup in front of me on the desk and demanded "More milk!" The kid really needs some manners. So I'd better go. I most definitely do not want to be busted.

Hello, My Name Is...

A couple of weeks ago, my good bloggy pal That Girl did a getting-to-know-you blog and encouraged her readers to do the same. So I am. Even though I have approximately 2.7 readers and 98% of them know me personally. So without further ado, ME.

I have five older brothers and sisters and I don't know any of them as well as I would like to. I probably love each and every one of them more than they think I do.

My dad died ten and-a-half years ago and I still have moments when I think "I should call Dad and ask what he thinks about this..." and then I cry.

Oldies music (real oldies, not eighties music, kids) makes me think of my dad.

I just found out that I am in fact older than most of my girl pals when I thought that I was younger. Not quite sure what that means...

I swear a lot more than I should, sometimes in front of my kids.

I love my husband more than I ever thought loving someone was possible. He makes me laugh every single day and I love being on his arm. You should all be jealous, because he is awesome.

I use the word "awesome" a lot.

I almost never eat leftovers. They gross me out.

I am terribly shy and don't like meeting people, even though I am aware that most people mistake my shyness for haughtiness. It's always a delight when someone is finally able to get past my prickly exterior and find out that I'm sorta like a burned marshmallow: not all that appealing on the outside but warm, soft and awesome on the inside.

I am easily annoyed by small, repetitive sounds. Squeaking rocking chairs, clicking pens, smacking gum; all have caused me to leave the room.

As you may have gathered from the last statement, I do my best to avoid confrontations. I pick my fights carefully, but when something has my dander up high enough you will hear about it. It just takes a while to get me to that point.

I have this insane idea that I look completely different than I did in school so whenever I see someone that I haven't seen in ten years or more, I pretend that I don't know them so that I don't look stupid when I say "Hi!" and they don't know who I am. Yes, I see the irony.

I love animals and have had more pets than I can even count.

I have four kids, am a stay-at-home-mom and never ever wish to have a "real" job again.

My kids alternately delight, astound, infuriate and amuse me each and every day.

When I was little, I loved Indiana Jones and I aspired to marry him, be known as Indiana Julie and have wonderful adventures with him.

I worry every day that my children will need to have therapy because of the fact that I am their mother. Really.

I have recently developed a crush on the country of Scotland and all things Celtic. It's pretty lame, but I am enamored. Thank you, Diana Gabaldon.

I love SpongeBob. I could watch it all day and I get really excited when an episode comes on that I've never seen.

I have a supremely over-active sense of guilt. I feel guilty about nearly everything. If there are any lonely, orphaned feelings of guilt out there, I will gather them to me and make them my own.

I hate shopping, especially clothes shopping. I haven't purchased clothing for myself in at least a year, maybe two. I always spend more than I need to because my shopping philosophy is "Get in, get the stuff, and get out. Quickly."

There you have it, in a nut shell, or a turtle shell, or a bomb shell, or whatever kind of shell you like.

I'm a Whiner

This post is about potty training and everything that goes along with it. You have been warned.

I have two sets of two kids. The Big Kids are 20 months apart. Five years later, we had the first of the Little Kids who are 16 months apart.

The Big Kids were nightmares to potty train. We were first time parents, reading all the materials, talking with the pediatrician, watching for all of the signs that said that our son was ready. We started when he was two. It didn't take. We tried again at three and he was finally fully potty trained sometime after his fourth birthday. I potty trained that kid for almost two years. We started with his sister when she was almost three years old. She is now eight and a half and is just barely, barely, dry during most days. She still has some days when she will have an accident and she wets the bed every. single. night. We have seen the pediatrician, counselors, a urologist; everyone says she will grow out of it. The way I see it, I potty trained her for nearly six years. Six years, people. Six years of washing multiple pairs of undies and pants per day. You can only imagine the smell.

Now the Little Kids are potty training age. One just turned three and the other will be two in a few months. Occasionally I'll set them on the potty and occasionally they'll go, but for the most part I ignore the fact that I should be working with them. I've heard it all.

Don't wait too long.

Don't start too early.

You have to be consistent.

Mine trained themselves.

Just wait until they're ready.

This weekend, we visited relatives across the state; a drive of about three hours. On the way home, we took our time, seeing the sites and stopping for lots of breaks. We were on the home stretch, the last hour of the trip when little Jack piped up. "Out!"

"You can't get out of your seat, buddy."

"Out!"

"I'm sorry. I know that you want out but we're not home yet."

A few moments of silence, then, "I poopy."

"You're poopy?"

"Uh-huh. A change a bum."

This seemed highly suspect to me, so I asked big brother Mike to give him a sniff. The verdict?

"He smells fresh."

The little smarty pants was just looking for an excuse to get out of his seat, which I thought was very sweet, endearing and sneaky.

I was sharing this story with my best pal and she said "That kid asks to have his bum changed? He needs to be potty trained!"

She is so right. I'm just prolonging the arrival of that most dreaded parenting landmark: potty training.

The point was further hammered home when, ten minutes ago, my three-year-old walked up to me, informed me that he was poopy and then asked me to change his diaper.

I really need to work on potty training, but my heart is not in it. I wish there was a camp you could send your kids away to and they would come home potty trained.

I need to just put on my big girl panties, put them in big boy underpants and do it, but I don't want to. (Imagine that last bit in the whiniest voice you can imagine, because that's how I say it.) I know that we'll save a bunch of money if we don't have to buy diapers or wipes. Yeah, I'm not green. I guess I'll also be doing my environmental part. Plus it's just ridiculous to have kids that old not potty trained.

I just don't want to!

Exactly How Much...

...is a butt-load of sand?


Is that a metric or imperial measurement?


Who cares? That is one happy kid.

My Son the Feminist

I was weeding in my flower bed this evening and admiring a particularly stunning pansy. I pointed it out to Mike and said, "Look at this! The color combinations, the symmetry, there isn't a man on this planet who can create beauty as well as God does."

He agreed, thought for a moment and then asked, "What about a woman? Do you think there's a woman who could make something as beautiful as what God makes?"

My son is awesome.

Credit Card Case

I carry a lot of cards. A lot. Debit card, driver's license, insurance card for every family member (seriously), library cards, rewards cards for every freaking store in a thirty mile radius. Lots of cards. I can never find a wallet that will fit all of my cards. I finally found one of those hard shell cases that fit all of my cards (hooray!) and I've loved it for a couple of years.

Today that case bit the dust. (boo!)

So I decided to make a new one. Behold:




I made it up as I went along, so it's a little rough. I used striped fabric, which enhanced the crooked stitching. I also didn't give myself enough extra room so each pocket is a little tighter than I'd like it to be. There are two pockets behind each of the card pockets that could be used for receipts or cash. I originally wanted to include a pocket on the outside for my phone, but I had to cut, re-cut, sew, pick out seams and re-sew so many times that I just said "Forget it!"

Maybe if I make another one it will have a phone pocket. And I won't use striped fabric.