Sunday, September 30, 2012

W. O. M. A. N.

Andrea threw up this morning forty minutes before church.  It was suppose to be my second Sunday conducting in Primary, and I was determined to get it right this time.  Two weeks ago I butchered my first time conducting and had to hide in the Primary closet for some hormonal tears.  Being a girl is awesome.

I told Paul the other day that I never wanted to be a man.  I like that my sensitive parts are tucked away deep in my belly and not exposed for the occasional fetal-position inducing injury men so commonly demonstrate in comedy films and during impromptu football games.  I also like how. . . um. . . spontaneous my emotions are.  How boring would life be if you always went to the grocery store knowing you would never tear up at the sight of a toddler potty seat?  Life would be complete drudgery if it weren't for some sudden sobs for Eugene Fitzherburt at the end of Tangled.

But I think my favorite part of being a girl is my attention to detail.  If I ask Paul to clean the kitchen he will stand in front of the sink and stair blankly into the mass of dirty dishes.  I have learned to be more specific.  Please load the dishwasher.  There.  Now he looks less ruffled.  Wipe the counters please?  He's so sexy wielding a dish cloth.  Empty the dish drainer hand wash the knives and large pots wipe out the microwave remove burners from stove wipe down stove don't forget the knobs for the oven and the side of the fridge.  I can see in his eyes that he's shutting down, he eventually abandons the task completely.  He had it easy though.  I didn't even mention the floors.

Most of the time it's easier if I handle these tasks myself and when he occasionally pitches in I ignore the things he missed because I'm blinded by gratitude and love.  And probably tears too.  Spontaneous.

A few months ago I noticed some of these qualities manifesting themselves in Andrea.  One of her favorite pastimes is helping unload the dishwasher.  Her little hands want to touch every clean dish and hand them to mommy to put away as she declares herself my helper.  Sometimes she insists of having her hands cleaned during meal, and she almost always wants to wipe off her tray while proclaiming, "Messy!"  On Monday while Paul and I snuggled on the couch watching an action show, Andrea continuously pointed out how messy the explosions were.  That's my girl.

Yesterday while I spent the day at my parent's house working on a paper for school.  Daddy got her up in the morning, fed her all her meals, and put her down for the nap.  She started to notice late in the evening that Daddy doesn't do things the same as Mommy, and she took a video to show me how messy things became, specifically in regards to my unmade bed.

video

Paul.  Busted. By. A. Toddler.
That's my girl. *Sniff* Spontaneous!

Monday, September 17, 2012

That awkward moment

I really enjoy my classes so far.  There is too much reading, but my teachers are all darling, and the subjects are making me think, which I love.  But I am occasionally reminded that I am not a typical college student.  I don't hang out with other college students and didn't live in the college scene pre-marriage, so I'm not exactly fluent in college cool.

Not to mention my bestious friend is 15.

So naturally when my Pre-1500 A.D. History classmate wondered aloud why we weren't attacking Canada for oil my first thought was. . . well. . . Justin Bieber.  Unfortunately, the thought spilled from my mouth, and I audibly heard every head in the class turn in my direction.  The palpable silence could have been cut with a knife until one blessed girl piped up, "I didn't know Justin Beiber was from Canada."  Chuckles of polite laughter broke through the awkward moment and the boy in front of me gave me an alien look.

"I have a 15 year old sister. . ." I muttered.

Of course, this boy was already learning about my weirdness.  He corrected my quiz earlier, and when asked the topic of the chapter we were assigned I answered:  As the Europeans domesticated animals, they were introduced to animal diseases.  They built up immunities to these infections and virus.  When founding the Americas, they introduced the indigenous people to these diseases and without hundreds of years of genetic immunities nearly 90% were eradicated.  Apparently, the quick answer was farming, which was also the name of the chapter.  I did read the chapter, just not the heading. . . so he gave me the point because I clearly demonstrated some comprehension, if not in a more roundabout way.

I, in turn, corrected his paper.  He wrote farming which earned him full credit.  However, in the confusion of trying to explain my odd answer, I missed how many points the quiz was worth.  I wrote a smiley face on the top of his and passed it up.  As the teacher collected the papers he looked down at my neighbor's and then up at me.  I tried not to focus on his lazy eye while he wondered aloud, "So, do smiley faces mean four points now?"  I felt blood rush to my cheeks as more awkward chuckles resonated throughout the room.

I'm so glad I held back from making a Star Trek comment during our discussion of Indian Regimes because I don't think the class could have thought me any weirder.  And I'd hate to prove them wrong.

Monday, September 10, 2012

Daddy's girl

Every morning as Paul gets ready Andrea acts as his helper.  She picks out his socks and his shoes, but most importantly, she picks out his tie.  In fact, she picks the same blue and purple tie every day. On Thursday she was helping me put some clothes away in my closet.  While I sorted and folded she became particularly preoccupied with Paul's tie rack.  She picked out her favorite, wrapped her arms around it, and gave it snuggles.  "Ahhh!  Daddy's tie!"  She exclaimed.

On Friday, Andrea and I were talking about marriage.  She was looking at pictures of me and Paul on our wedding day, and I was describing the flowers and the weather and how happy we were.  She looked up at me with a twinkle of new understanding in her eyes and said, "Mommy Daddy maaweed?"

I nodding my head. "Yes, Mommy and Daddy are married."

"Oh," she replied. "Mommy Daddy maaweed.  Daddy Annie maaweed?"

I started laughing and explained that Daddy and Annie weren't married because Daddy was already married to Mommy.  She kept insisting that Daddy and Annie were married, and I just kept laughing. . . until I realized she never suggested that she and I were married.  How rude.

I explained to Andrea that she was Daddy's daughter.  She seemed to like that idea because she repeated it 2,541 times.  "Daughter! Daughter! Daughter! Daughter! Daughter! Daughter! Daughter! Daughter! Daughter! Daughter! Daughter! Annie daughter! Annie daughter!"


I love how much she loves him and how desperately she wants to be involved in his daily activities.  I can't think of a more beautiful sight than watching her snuggle on his lap while he reads to her.  He makes her giggle by making silly faces, and he teaches her new words like "calculator" and "angry birdie."  She calls him by his first name when she calls him in for prayers. "Paaaawww!"  And when he doesn't answer she reminds me he's at work.

But after she's put to bed and the house is quiet, he's mine.  I'll always be his number one.

Monday, September 3, 2012

First day of school

Day one of school proved to be overwhelming.  Sunday Andrea started showing some suspicious symptoms so Paul kept her out of the nursery and took her home early.  By the time I got home she was feverish and miserable.  She woke up from her nap screaming and threw up when I went to check on her.  Waterfalls of snot poured from her nostrils and her sniffs to relieve the constant dripping sent the mucus down her throat, upsetting her stomach.  What a great start to such a pivotal week.

I asked Paul for a priesthood blessing.  I was told to be comforted and was promised I could accomplish what I've set out to do.  Andrea's fever broke the next morning but the snoterfalls did not.  Monday night was my second night on the couch listening to my daughter's sick moans and coughs.  Naturally, I also started to show symptoms, and Andrea decided to skip some afternoon naps.  Tuesday evening as I drove to school, I tried hard to stay awake.  The setting sun streamed into my car at eye level, and squinting only proved to be a reminder of how desperately my eyes wanted to close.  I turned on some loud music and began to sing as robustly as I could muster.

Sitting at a stop light belting One Thing by One Direction, I realized that with my broken A/C and rolled down windows the car beside me (also with rolled down windows) could hear every off-pitch note.  Not to mention they could see my snoterfalls and I suspect a few rogue mustache hairs.  Great.

But upon arriving to class I realized how amazing my philosophy teacher was.  He told us we wouldn't write any papers, our tests would be open note-open book, and the weekly quizzes are impossible to fail if you've done the reading.  I left class on a scholastic high until approached the end of the sidewalk and faced the parking lot.  In my delirium on the drive to school I forgot to pay attention to where I put my car. . .

I called Paul and talked to him for about fifteen minutes before I realized how bad my situation was.  I told him if I wasn't home by ten o'clock he needed to call the police.  I hung up my phone and tried to focus as I walked down each row of cars scanning for my little white clunker.  I could feel drips threatening to rain from my nose and my eyes.  I was going to die in that parking lot of old age looking for my car.  Then I realized if I waited long enough all of the cars would go home but one.  I wondered how long that would take because I was out of tissues, and the vast concrete wasteland was lacking some emergency foliage. . . if you know what I mean.

As the hours minutes passed, the parking lot began to empty, and (as if illuminate by the heavens) my car came into view.  I had already passed it FOUR rows of cars ago!  I think it's safe to assume I meticulously counted the exact coordinates of my vehicle on day two and three.