Landmarks

A friend recently came to visit us here in Fairyland. As I am a directional direction giver (ie head north for 5 miles, then turn East on Fairyland Road), she suggested I use landmarks, which is better suited to some people (like my husband). So, here goes.

If you want to come visit me and you're coming from the Deep South, you need to head towards the greatest concentration of trailer parks in the state. Don't stop, just keep passing them. Up on your left, you'll see a house (not a trailer) with a dump truck out front and the lower portion of the house is missing. Slow down slightly and bank right or you just might be the next car to skid out of control and land in their basement.

Continue past the last grocery store and gas station you're going to see for a good 30 miles. On your right, you'll see a wagon selling Hot Boiled Peanuts. Take the next right and head up the mountain. Shortly past the small cinderblock structure oddly being overrun by a giant forest of bamboo, the road will merge with another highway from the left. Continue up the mountain.

In another couple of miles, you'll pass a lookout spot, where, if it is a weekend evening, you should see a great number of cars. You can stop, make some friends and smoke some pot, or have a beer on the edge of a large rock overlooking a steep crevice.

If it is instead a Saturday morning, be careful of the bikers slowly huffing and puffing their way up the switchbacks. Roll down your window and holler: Keep it up! You've got just 10 miles of vertical incline until you hit the continental divide! That should keep their spirits up.

Once you've gone about 10 miles on this winding mountain road, you're HISRadio Gospel Rock and the Delilah Show will turn to static. You'll have to pop in a cd or listen to NPR for a while.

In another 4 miles, you'll come to the continental divide. Turn right here. If you start going downhill suddenly, you've gone too far.

In about 3 miles, you'll pass what looks like a wrecking yard, but upon closer examination you'll find there are a couple of trailers and a large chicken pen amidst all those inoperable vehicles and appliances. Keep going.

In another mile, there will be a lovely mountaintop view off to your right. Don't look too long or you'll go over the guardrail and down a vertical incline to your death.

Watch out for the herd of deer. Oh, and the skunks. And of course the flock of wild turkeys.

Just when you think you've come to the end of the world and must have gone too far, you'll see a driveway on your left. Then another, followed by several quaint signs that seem to be singing to you successively: Slow Down. You Move To Fast. At Gotta Make. You'll see another steep, narrow driveway on your left. That's our driveway. Ours is the house at the top with half white vinyl siding, half gray, rotting, wasp-infested siding. And there's a canoe out front named Moby.

Welcome.

Poop Happens

I've been changing diapers every day of my life now for nearly six years. That is an absurd amount of time dealing with poop that I'll never, ever get back.

I've dealt with poop of many colors, consistencies and textures in all it's glorious forms and fragrance. Tonight however, I was pushed clean over the edge.

I've been trying, to no avail, to potty-train my youngest child, in hopes of never having to do diaper duty again. After this evening, I'm happy to change diapers for a bit longer. My eldest child, long potty trained, enjoys various activities whilst doing his business. Though maddening, I can't necessarily fault him for this as I've been known to take longer than necessary doing my thing because it's about the only reading time I get anymore. He sings, he talks, and unfortunately he wiggles. Tonight I hear:

Mom, I have a clean up problem.

A what? How did you . . .? Matt! Ethan needs you!

Oh good heavens, what have we here? Somehow he managed to get poop all over the toilet seat, down the side of the bowl and on the bottom of his feet. Then he proceeded to step on his pants and the rug before his father stopped him. Yes, his father. I wimped out and called in the reinforcements. You see, I'd changed three poops on the three year old in the space of three hours today and was not prepared for what I saw when I walked in that bathroom. So, I turned around, walked out, and sent in his father. Had I not done so, I would simply have lost it. Besides, Matt's leaving for 8 days and needed something to remember his son by.

Hot Topics

Amidst these perilous times of economic crisis, bank failures, job loss, war and more, there is an even greater threat looming: Millions of Americans are not prepared for the impending switch to HDTV!!

But, never fear, Congress is on it. The switch has been postponed.

Because we'd hate for anyone not to be able to watch TV.

Bwest Milk

I went into Motherhood Maternity for the first time in over three years. No, I'm not making an announcement, it's just that I so rarely go to the mall and unfortunately I had to go. And I was walking along, wishing they'd actually put a mall map somewhere near the entrances (but I suppose that would prevent you from wandering past all the stores you didn't intend to go to that day), and I noticed, like a beacon in the distance, a Motherhood Maternity.

Why was I so excited? I'll tell you. Several years ago, when I was pregnant and my upper half was swollen and tender, I discovered the benefits of wearing a minimal support sleep bra. I also discovered that Motherhood Maternity makes an awesome sleep bra. Technically a nursing bra because of its wrapped, easy pull down design, but it makes a great plain old sleep bra I bought a couple with each of my pregnancies, and the are now embarrassingly in shreds because well, I have officially entered old-ladydom; I wear a bra to bed--and not a red and black lace variety. I keep saying I should really go to Motherhood Maternity, but never actually work up the gumption to make a special trip.

Well, there I was, and the bras were on sale! Yay! Bra shopping however has a tendency to open some deep wounds. I was trying on the bras in the fitting room and Elliot picks up the fake tummy apparatus they provide. Mom, what's this? It's squishy! It's a pretend tummy, of course. I had to pick past all the strange bondage style snap, clip, and hook nursing bras and had terrible lactation nazi and breast pump flashbacks.

This leads me to a question that of late has been nagging at me. You see, a bunch of moms got all riled up on a certain social network of late because a picture of one of them breast feeding was deemed inappropriate to the site. So, a bunch of them protested by posting pics of them breastfeeding, insisting that because it is a natural thing, no one should feel uncomfortable about it. I could list several natural behaviors that would make me uncomfortable to witness. But that is beside the point.

My question is really regarding the continued breastfeeding of a child well past the age of one. From what I understand, the nutrient benefit of breastfeeding begins to decrease at about 6 months and by one year, there is little to no nutritional benefit. Now, I get the whole breast feeding thing and that it shouldn't be something deemed inappropriate and relegated to cowering in bathrooms and so forth (though I believe it behooves a mother to be discreet). I also understand that there is an emotional factor to the whole process (though how that can overcome the sheer physical, emotional, and practical pain in the rear of breastfeeding is beyond me, I realize that this is due to personal experience and preference).

What I don't understand is this; if the nutritional benefit is gone by age one, then why do women continue to breastfeed? Is it not because of the bonding and positive emotional connection that occurs? So, why therefore is it still okay to breastfeed a child over the age of one in public? It would certainly not be appropriate for your husband to curl up and find pleasure and positive emotional connection with you in public in such a manner. Why is it okay for a child? Isn't this the time when we can teach them (and ourselves for that matter) the boundary between appropriate and inappropriate public displays of affection? Or am I missing something? Is there more to breastfeeding a two-year-old than displaying affection (oh and perhaps that age old dilemma of actually saying no to your child)?

This all reminds me of the deleted scene from Baby Mama where the fruity birth instructor begins a class on bweastfeeding. Her child of about 9 years interrupts the class and asks Mother may I pwease have some bweastmilk? and she obliges. Eeewww! It is my opinion that if they can ask for it, they're too old (actually, it is my opinion that teeth pretty much signals the end, but that's not politically correct of me, so I won't say it.) Just my twenty-two cents.

Confessions of St. Jen the Martyr

I have sinned. It's been um, quite some time since my last confession. I think it's been since my days as a missionary-in-training, but I'll go into that later.

This past Sunday, I did not attend church. I know this may not be considered a sin in some circles, but in Mormon circles, it would be considered a sin of omission rather than commission. However, this past Sunday, my lack of church attendance was neither.

You see, church was snowed out on Sunday. I believe my sin lies in the happiness I felt when I got the call, oh and in the prayers I said prior to the call (Please let them cancel church! I really don't want to drive in this, but more so, I don't want to teach music to the children today and I have a lot of other things to do.) I had planned to take the kids to visit cousins later today and was torn between concern about driving in the snow and having extra time to pack while the snow melts away (hopefully). All in all, despite my sinful desires, church was canceled, the boys played in the snow while it melted away and I packed. Forgive me.

Perfect, the snow had melted and we were set to hit the road 3 hours earlier than planned. And we did. But, I was sooooo tired from staying up tooooo late. I began struggling to stay awake while driving. Elliot was asleep, Ethan was not. I pulled off at a gas station, on the Sabbath, bribed my elder son to stay in the vehicle with his sleeping brother while I ran in and purchased a Coke.

Now, technically Coca-Cola is not a direct violation of my religious law of health. I would say that it does not however fall under the general counsel of consuming things that are good for the body, but more likely falls under the group of addictive drugs I am counseled not to consume. Forgive me.

However, child neglect (as in leaving a 5-year-old watching a 2-year-old alone in a vehicle) is probably a sin, or at least a bad idea. We were at a gas station where I could see out the window and I did leave it locked, so that helps a little. Forgive me.

And then there's the whole sabbath day purchase to be considered. I really do my best to keep the sabbath day holy, which, in my book, generally includes avoiding doing business on Sunday. Forgive me.

And then, as a direct result of bribing my child with soda pop (purchased on the Sabbath), just 15 minutes before our arrival, he had an imminent need of a restroom. So I pulled off at the nearest establishment that wasn't a scary gas station; a sandwich shop. Of course we were the only people in the restaurant as we hurried back to the bathroom and as restrooms are for customers only I felt compelled to buy my children some chips. Forgive me.

All in all it was a decent Sunday, if a bit rough around the edges. I'll go into the missionary confessions in another post. I promise.

Of Bobby Pins and Thongs

I was once advised to lose a little time on myself (loosely translated from the Italian). The intent was to suggest that I spend some time applying make-up, doing my hair and the like (blah, blah, and more blah). But, on occasion, I get a hankerin' to apply some make up and spend more than 3 minutes on my hair. This usually occurs in the dead of winter (because seriously, in 90 degrees, 100% humidity, why bother?). Lately, I've been attempting to do something slightly different with my hair (seeing as I've had mostly the same series of hairdos for the past decade--short to shoulder length depending on how long I've avoided a haircut). So, as I stood in front of the mirror the other day, I began to ponder bobby pins.

I am reasonably experienced stage manager. There is a certain aspects of stage management and back stage jobs in particular that I really like; namely that these roles are precisely behind the scenes. Your job is to support the production and not be seen. This is why I find it so tacky when someone decides it is a good idea to pull the stage crew out on stage during a curtain call to take a bow. I mean sure, in middle school you can let it slide because well, back stage necessarily goes to those who didn't get cast. But by the time you're working on the Ya-Yas at the BYU (Do they still have The Young Ambassadors?), one should assume that someone choosing to work backstage does not need some sort of self-esteem boost, but actually prefers not to be in the spotlight.

This takes me to my point; bobby pins, bra straps and thong underwear. All of these items, like backstage personnel, are designed for a specific support role and should remain out of the limelight. So, when I spend way too much time adjusting my bobby pins so they cannot be seen, and when I give nearly the same look of revulsion to intentionally exposed bobby pins as to intentionally exposed underwear, you will understand.

I know we're sort of past the whole thong hanging out of the pants trend, but I've recently noticed a trend of sheer tops being worn over nothing but an undergarment and I'm concerned of the resurgence of a similar trend. I don't know if you are aware, but the original purpose of the thong was not to be sexy (because really, what is sexy about butt floss?), but to avoid unsightly pantylines. Don't pretend you haven't noticed unsightly pantylines. I know you have. And the purpose of a bra is to keep your boobs from bouncing and sagging in an unsightly manner. Again, not inherently sexy. I concede that avoiding pantylines and sagging boobs can enhance sex appeal, but this is a byproduct, not the direct purpose. I digress. My point is, underwear is intended to be under there.

Likewise, and returning to the impetus for this post (standing at the mirror adjusting bobby pins), bobby pins should not be visible. I know you've seen metalhead syndrome. This has nothing to do with leggings, big hair and loud music. It manifests itself in excessive exposed metal being worn in the hair (you know, barrets, pins, clips and more, all at once). Let us consider the barrett, particularly pretty, fancy barretts. These are the stars of the show. They are intended to be seen. Even some clips and small, plain barretts can have their place in supporting roles. But, the bobby pin is strictly backstage, folks. This is why they come in shades ranging from black to blond--to match your hair. They really don't want to be seen, I promise. That is why they chose a career as a bobby pin instead of a fancy barrett or a hair ribbon.

Alright. That about sums it up. These are the things I think about on the rare occasion I spend a few minutes in front of the mirror. I mean, you gotta think about something don't you? Really, what could be more mind numbing than primping?

Flowers

The other day I bought a newspaper. I live in the South. Around here brides to be post enormous photos of them in full bridal regalia in the Sunday paper. A bit odd, but entertaining. In this issue there was a pretty, but exceptionally large picture of an exceptionally large bride holding an exceptionally large bouquet of roses.

Remembering my own wedding day in my size 24 gown, I held the paper up for my husband to see and asked: Is this what I looked like on our wedding day?

And he of course responded:

No, dear . . . . (pause for comic timing) . . . you had different flowers.

Nice.

And very, very funny.


Disclaimer: You must realize the relationship I have with my husband. He married me at 250 pounds and my weight has never been his issue, and we are completely on the same page here. I had a roommate once, thin and fit, who liked to respond to any random comment with Is that a fat joke? It was hilarious, and has become an oft-repeated joke in our home and is even funnier given the fact that I am, well, fat. Hence, because weight is a non-issue between us, we are free to joke about it.

In My Defense

A Case for Leniency in Two Acts
Since I declined my chance to appear in court, I feel compelled to present my case here. Sorry, it's long, but it was cathartic.

Act One
A couple of weeks ago I was driving home, having dropped Ethan at school. I am generally not in too much of a hurry on the way home. If I speed, I do it on the way to school, though I've attempted to curb that, reasoning that Ethan being late is better than a car wreck or a speeding ticket.

On this day, however, I'd left Elliot home asleep with Matt, who needed to be to work shortly, therefore, I was feeling rushed, though not compelled to risk life or limb. As I began my ascent up the narrow mountain road, I encountered a vehicle traveling consistently 5 - 10 mph below the posted speed limit. I settled in for a long drive. Then I noticed the vehicle behind me, plastered to my bumper. Just where exactly, did she want me to go?

So, I backed off some more, reluctant to be a sandwich, and we all continued up the mountain; Slow-Joe, minivan-me and Impatience McSpeedy Pants.

We came to a "slow vehicle turn-out" and I hoped that Slow-Joe would pullover and let us all free. No luck. I considered pulling out and letting Speedy zoom up on Joe's bumper for a change, but then I noticed the three or four other vehicles unfortunate enough to be caught behind us in the caravan. As I didn't feel like either having my bumper clipped by Speedy as I tried to turn out, nor waiting there for the entire caravan to pass, I continued up the mountain.

Next we came to the first of two or three very brief passing zones. Do I try and pass? Do I risk my bumper and search for a place to pull over? Do I hunker down and hope Speedy tries to pass us both in the 30 odd yards of passing zone? Point moot, oncoming traffic in passing lane.

Tired of Impatience trying repeatedly to make me into a hood ornament, I was ready for the next passing zone. It is precisely 2.5 tenths of a mile, bordered at both ends by a blind curve. I rounded the curve, saw the left lane was clear of traffic, signaled, made sure Speedy was not attempting a similar maneuver and moved into the left lane.

At this moment two or three things happened all at once. First, Impatience McSpeedy Pants zoomed in to fill in the air pocket I'd vacated. Secondly, a vehicle appeared around the bend at the far end of the left lane and third (I solemnly believe this, though cannot verify it) Joe, given a sudden straight-away, sped up.

My options were really but one. I could not abort the pass as my spot was taken. I could not take my time to complete the pass as there was a vehicle approaching me head-on. So, I sped up, cleared Slow-Joe, signalled, and moved back into the right lane. Had I not done so, I'm convinced I would have at a best, not completed the pass within the passing zone, and at worst, have hit the oncoming vehicle head on.

It was at this moment I got a clearer view of the vehicle, now passing me, in the left lane. It happened to be a state trooper. Oh, and he was pulling over and turning around. My heart began racing, had I completed the pass within the tiny passing zone? I think so. I checked my speed. I was going about 5 below the speed limit myself at this point, so I sped up. Slow Joe and Impatience and their entourage were some distance behind me and the officer was bringing up the rear of the caravan.

Then I saw lights. The officer carefully passed each of the 4 or 5 vehicles, then came up behind me, now some distance ahead of the pack, but going the speed limit. Could he possibly want to pull me over? Yes, he could.

I pulled off the road.

Yes, Officer?

Do you know why I pulled you over?

Um, no.

Well, I clocked you at 70 mph while passing that vehicle.

I did not realize I was going that fast (I was busy trying to avoid a head-on collision--next time I'll be sure to check my speedometer before I save my life and yours).

I tried to explain the situation I was in and he suggested I should have waited for Speedy to pass us all and he would have pulled her over. He also admitted two other things. First of all, that he doesn't pull people over unless they're going 15 over the speed limit, so had I topped my pass off at 69 instead of 70, he would not have pulled me over (I asked him this directly--like I said, next time I'll check my speedometer whilst avoiding death) and secondly, that the passing zone was not in a good place. (Thank you Captain Obvious, but I hate to mention the fact that there IS a legal passing zone there unfortunately and so if it is impossible to execute a pass legally in that passing zone, why am I getting the citation?)

He kindly wrote me up for 64 (just 9 over the limit instead of 15, assuring me that it therefore wouldn't affect my insurance rates), and handed me a ticket for $15, oh and $126 in court fees. Yes, you read correctly: nine miles over the speed limit equals $136 in Transylvania County (One, One morrre expensive teecket, ha, ha, ha, ha!).

I returned home rather riled up as you can imagine. I called the courthouse to ask if I just paid it if I'd still be charged the ubiquitous Court Fees. (Yes, of course). And if I went to court, wasting everyone's time, and somehow got the ticket overturned, would I still be charged the court fees? (No, because only at that point would I have involved the court--makes perfect sense to me.) I was determined therefore to fight the ticket. I felt I had a pretty good case to make and it'd be a good exercise at least.

Act Two
Time passes, as does anger. Still a bit riled about the whole thing, I'd gained some perspective over the next few weeks. I'd come to realize a few things. First, though my insurance company would not assure me that my rates would not go up as a result, I felt confident that this minor infraction would probably be overlooked and anyway, it probably wouldn't hit the books before my renewal in a few short weeks. So, I'd have at least a year grace. Secondly, my husband was going to be out of town on the assigned court date, so I would have to arrange a babysitter for Elliot, and someone to pick up Ethan from the bus stop on a Friday afternoon.

Lastly, I did some math. Assuming it didn't affect my rates, I could go and spend 3-5 hours dealing with this in the lovely confines of a county court house with a slight chance of coming back with my $136. But, more than likely, I would end up spending 3-5 hours and $136 and paying a babysitter and enduring a great deal of stress and frustration. By my calculations, it would take me about 6 hours of work to pay the fine, time which I could put in at my leisure, and I could spend that afternoon relatively stress free, playing with my children.

Denumoux
Elliot and I went and paid $136 to Transylvania County earlier this week (Ha-ha-ha-ha!). We got to walk through the metal detectors behind some prisoners and their escorts. He got to check out the paddy-wagon and police cars in the parking lot and I got a reassurance of the fact that I did not indeed want to spend an afternoon there. Though it still galls me to no end that I paid it with no argument. I suppose that's what they bank on (ha-ha-ha-ha!). And, I suppose, if I consider all the times I've driven like a banshee to school, racing the tardy bell without getting a ticket, $136 is pocket change. I'll keep telling myself that.

So, if you find yourself driving behind a slow moving vehicle up a narrow, winding mountain road, cursing Slow-Jane and Tammy McTailgater under your breath, remember minivan-me and think twice before passing.

Nightmare

Many years ago, shortly after the birth of my first child, I was plumb exhausted--all the time. Now, I'm not generally a deep sleeper, as evidenced by the fact that nighttime feeding/changing/nightmare duty has always fallen to me (by the time I woke Matt up sufficiently to take care of things, I could have it done and been back in bed). Well, I must have been so exhausted from general lack of sleep that one evening I fell deeply asleep, asleep enough to dream, which is an extremely rare occurrence in my life.

This particular night, I began to dream that I needed to go to the bathroom (you can see where this is going). I dreamed an urgent need to find a toilet and the blessed relief when I came upon one. And then, the further, ultimate relief when I um, relieved myself.

Then suddenly, I realized I wasn't dreaming. Oh, I was dreaming about the toilet, just not about the peeing. I woke up--mid-stream. I panicked and shot out of bed, heading for real bathroom. I did not however, have the presence of mind, nor the muscle tone, to pause the stream. So, not only did I pee the bed, I also peed the floor all the way between the bed and the toilet. Nice.

I was absolutely horrified. I believe I started to cry as I began to clean up the mess.

I can't believe I peed the bed!! I'm a grown woman! I quietly sobbed to myself, hoping and not hoping that Matt would wake up and help or make fun of me. He did--wake up, groggily of course.

What's wrong?

I peed the bed.

Oh, are you okay?

Yes. Just don't tell anyone!

Okay. Do you need help?

No.

Okay. . . . snore.

I finished cleaning and went back to bed, still crying. I woke up the next morning laughing hysterically. I can't believe I peed the bed!! And promptly called my friends and family to laugh over the whole incident. I don't know that they were nearly as amused (I was obviously still a bit hormonal), but I certainly was entertained.

Special Tickle

In one of my son's Bob the Builder books, Bob gives his cat Pilchard a special tickle under the chin. Hmmm, and I always assumed Bob was having an illicit affair with Wendy.

Recently we purchased a new cat toy. It is a little ball and feather on a string at the end of a stick. My soon-to-be-three-year-old son has trouble with the hard C sound at the beginning of his words. It's generally very cute when he says he'd like to ride in our tar or asks pweeze tan I tome with you? But it's very humorous, if a bit disturbing to hear him tell you he would like to tickle the titty with the new toy, or in reference to a scratch on my hand he asks if my titty scwatched me.

I suppose it's better than my friend's child who says F in place of Tr when loudly announcing the presence of a Truck on the highway.

Let Us Mourn

I've said farewell to my share of adorable babytalk. I strongly believe in talking to children like adults and avoiding saying to them things like "do you want your ba-ba?" (Sometimes I just can't help myself though and repeat their words back to them. This is generally met with a blank stare of the why are you speaking so strangely? variety).

This belief of course means that sooner rather than later, these terribly cute words must depart. I still fondly recall our move from Cowowado to Sout Carodina and Ethan's blanket inexplicably named Dewey.

There was also the brief period Elliot referred to himeslf as Ot. But I have to say one of my favorites has been Elliot calling his brother Eenah. I've sadly watched his father patiently coax him in the pronunciatin of th, and the first time Eenah became Eessan. Still, all was not lost. More often than not, Eenah was still Eenah, and Eeessan was merely present for coaching.

No longer. Tonight we witnessed Elliot, of his own accord (perhaps encouraged by a brother tired of answering to Eenah) repeatedly saying Eessan. I was horrified. For weeks I've intended to record him saying Eenah, but, as per usual, have failed miserably. So this evening, under much duress, and with much counter-coaching, I managed to get a short clip. It went something like this:

Elliot, what's your brother's name?

Eeessan!

Good job! :( What did you use to call him?

Eeessan!

No, before that. Did you call him Eenah?

No, Eessan!

Will you say Eenah for me?

Eessan!

Say: Not Eenah! Eessan!

Not Eenah! Eessan!

Good Job!

It was terribly contrived, but somewhat successful. I at least have it recorded.

Hot Cross Buns

This morning was a bit chilly when I took Ethan to school. Normally I scoff at vehicle extras such as cd changers, power doors and windows and the very silly seat warmers. I mean really, I'm riding around in the car and suddenly I feel as if I've wet my pants--nope, someone just flipped the seat warmer switch (probably a small child who begins to frantically press buttons once released from his car seat on his way out of the car).

But this morning I thought I'm cold, I neglected to properly warm up the car and we're running too late to wait, so perhaps I'll use the silly seat warmer. So I did.

About halfway to school my nether regions were very toasty. Yet, my fingers were still nearly numb. I'm alternating driving with one hand while the free hand seeks warmth under my rear end. Really, who's idea was this?

I mean, who sat around and thought let's warm up everyone's butt! This region of my body is generally already the warmest given my generous layer of insulating blubber from knees to bust. But even on folk without such a gift of warmth, is your rear end really what you need warmed?

When I rule the world, I will put truly useful extras in vehicles such as a STEERING WHEEL WARMER, thank you. Oh and child proof seat belts that will not come unlatched while the vehicle is moving, and perhaps even a retractable wall--like they have in police cars, but soundproof instead of bulletproof and instead of running behind the front seat, it would come up between the seats in the back preventing the occupants from hitting, kicking, biting, or throwing things at the other. On second thought, let's put one up behind the drivers' seat as well--thick and absolutely sound proof.

In the spirit of Hot Cross Buns, I must share with you my favorite recipe title EVER. It was from a ward cookbook created in my old ward some yeas ago: Bishop Keller's Husky Buns. I've never tried the recipe, but I always smile when I leaf through the pages of the book.

Primary Colors

Clara is the computer that calls me from my son's school. She's very helpful--most of the time. Sometimes she calls at 5 am to tell me that County-Schools-are-under-a-two-hour-weather-delay and other important pieces of information.

I'm always a little nervous when she calls because my caller id doesn't recognize Clara and just informs me that I'm receiving a phone call from a toll free number. I've been known to ignore Clara before, and I felt a little bad afterward.

Today Clara's call was intended to be reassuring, though I hardly found it to be so. I reluctantly answered the toll-free call this afternoon and Clara announced:

Your student's school has been placed in a Code Yellow alert. There is no cause for alarm. Thank you.

Well, now I'm alarmed Clara, thank you too. Could you possibly give me any further information, such as why are they under alert, and what the heck does Code Yellow mean anyway?

So I promptly located my student handbook and was reassured by the following:

It is necessary from time to time to lock and secure the campus to ensure the security of all staff and students. Our school will follow two procedures. In case of Code Yellow, students and staff should do the following:

1) Go into the classroom or nearest secure room and lock the door
2) Make sure that all exterior doors and windows are closed and locked.
3) Remain in the secure location until the all-clear announcement is given

Teachers and students are to continue with normal classroom activities and should not be alarmed during a Code Yellow. [Of course not, who would be alarmed in such a situation?] In case of a severe emergency, Code Red will be used to communicate the presence of an immediate threat to the school. [I suppose this is where you should become alarmed] In this procedure, students should report immediately to the nearest secure room and follow the directions of the staff member in charge.

So of course after reading the handbook, my mind was much eased and I remained unalarmed as instructed.

Having received no further enlightening phone calls from Clara, I assumed my child would arrive home with some more information. I picked him up at the bus stop and immediately checked his folder--no letter of explanation. I then tried casually to discuss the days events with my kindergartener.

So, anything exciting happen at school today?

No.

Did you have any kind of drill?

No.

Did they close the doors on your classroom?

They just made an announcement to lock our door, but we just stayed inside and had class.

Proper Code Yellow procedure I see. I'm sure glad Clara called, otherwise I would not have known not to become alarmed.