Who needs toys--

--when you have boxes...

...and bathubs?

Grocery Excursion

In the last (almost!) three years, I have learned more about the subtle nuances of shopping carts than I ever previously imagined: variances in cart types, quality of buckles, child's preference, how many children can fit in the cart, etc.

And in the last six months, my chaotic little duo has figured out how to climb out of each and every kind of shopping cart while Mommy is concentrating on other things, like which kind of cheese to purchase.

On a recent trip to our local grocery store, The Duo was at their most notorious. Within moments, Isaac was out of the cart. Madeline followed suit. They took off down the candy aisle while I chased them, brandishing a cucumber in my right hand.

I rounded the corner and found them. "Hiding" from Mommy, their faces buried in their hands. And giggling maniacally.

I choked back a belly laugh and silently whipped out my camera, taking the necessary pictures.

And then they got in trouble. Big Trouble.

Before I could grab them, though, they took off again.

Eventually they surrendered, and they were put back in the cart--but only with the promise of Smarties, which I fed to them slowly--one by one--until, at last, they consumed the last sugary candy as we exited the store.

Unhappiness

The older three kids walk to school in our new neighborhood.

Generally, they walk together, without me, and do just fine.

But once in a while, I walk with them--or, when the older two stay after school for an activity, I load up the twins and we walk to school to pick up Nathan.

Frequently, this is the scene when pick-up time comes around:
Madeline gets woken up from her nap to get put in the stroller. She is mad.

Isaac never napped, and he is overtired, and he gets buckled into the stroller. He is mad.

The wails and screams can be heard several blocks away. Two cars drive by and honk.

And I have discovered that buckling the twins in their stroller is, to them, a form of punishment. And a highly effective threat as a consequence for misbehavior.

Celebrations at Age Eight

I really don't know what has happened to my blog. The formatting has gone haywire and I'm not sure how to fix it. I'm sure it's simple, but I am technologically illiterate. My apologies!

Clara turned eight a couple of weeks ago. We had a quiet celebration at home, with a friend Halloween party to come shortly.

Clara was baptized last weekend. It was a simple, beautiful meeting. The Spirit was very strong.

We took some pictures outside afterward. The sun was really bright!

Brian's parents came from out West to be there.

That afternoon, the weather was infinitely perfect, so we went to a beautiful city park & waterfall area. We rented an eight-person bike "buggy" and had fun biking (while sweating profusely) around the gorgeous area.

Orchard Visit

Minnesota has numerous apple orchards for visiting.

Two weeks ago, we found a great one. Of course we forgot to take pictures of the apples, or the apple picking, or the greenhouse full of strawberries for the picking (whose selected strawberries I turned into jam a few days later).

But we did get a random photo of Isaac laying in a wagon.

And another random picture of a Cinderella scarecrow. (This orchard had over 100 different scarecrows.)

 And a few more random pictures.

Minnesota is beautiful right now, with the trees bathed in color and the leaves gently cascading off of them to crunch under our feet. It's been warmer than normal, too, and it seems almost a crime to stay indoors, with The Freeze imminently on its way. I admit, I miss Virginia's autumn glory, but Minnesota is a close second, and we are soaking up every minute of the lovely season.

Thought for the Day

Meet Choo Choo Dress

a.k.a. Tutu Dress.

Madeline wears Choo Choo Dress on top of everything: skirts, jeans, pajamas, other dress ups.

Madeline wants to wear (and often does wear) Choo Choo Dress everywhere: to the park, the grocery store, the gym, the library, the elementary school, the doctor's office (as seen below).

Madeline cries in wounded agony when Choo Choo Dress gets a (rare & unusual) washing.

Madeline requests Choo Choo Dress every three minutes when it is not on her little body.

I am not a big fan of Choo Choo Dress. It is ripped, stained, faded, and frayed. It causes undue angst.

But I am a fan of my toddler girl, and I know that all too soon, she--like her big sisters--will abandon Choo Choo Dress. 

When that day inevitably comes, I know I will long for my darling little girl to wear Choo Choo Dress again.

So I will ignore the strange looks from others as she twirls and prances down the grocery store's wide aisles, with Choo Choo Dress on over top of her coat. And pants. And snow pants.

Because toddler girlhood doesn't stay for very long, and while we have it, she gets to love it.

Mouse Slayer

When we first saw the basement of our 120-year-old rental home, nearly six months ago, I said, "This basement screams mice."

At the time, the current tenant assured me that she had not seen a single mouse while living here.

Well.

Last Tuesday, I happened across the first one. It was stuck to a trap, in the epicenter of the basement floor. After getting trapped in a dark corner, somehow it had hurled itself--while stuck to the trap--across the floor and into the center of the room.

I am sorry to say, I completely freaked out. I ran upstairs and grabbed the phone and called my husband. Maybe he can sneak home from the hospital, I thought to myself. Maybe he can scrub out of his case and come rescue me.

Wishful thinking.

Next I called my brave mother. I stood in my kitchen and experienced some serious stress. She told me to put on gloves. To get some bags. And to get rid of the little sucker.

Her suggestion left me in sheer terror.

She then suggested I cover it with a rag and ignore it.

I couldn't deal with that suggestion, either.

She remained on speaker phone--for moral support--while I bribed my five-year-old son. "Nathan, I will pay you a whole dollar if you will get rid of the mouse."

Solemnly, he agreed. He and I went down to the basement--my mom still on speakerphone--and he stared quietly at the rodent while I gave him counsel. "Nathan, take this rag. Go pick up the trap and put it and the mouse inside this bag. Then bring it to Mommy. Don't touch the mouse. Then we'll go give you a really hot bath."

He nodded, and clad in his too-small dinosaur PJs and unkempt hair, rag in hand, he took three steps toward the mouse.

And then the mouse moved. It's little black beady eyes glinted at us in the light.

Nathan and I both shrieked and retreated to the steps, where Nathan decided he didn't want that dollar after all.

My mom remained on speakerphone, all business, while I--shaking like a leaf--wafted the rag across the median space and on top of the offensive creature.

I called Brian again. He revealed the nasty truth: This was not the first mouse he has discovered whilst living here.

The news left me damaged.

The mouse remained under its rag, stuck to the trap, all day long, while I waited for Brian to arrive home. At some point it perished. Whenever I had to descend to the basement's catacombs, I used some comfort measure. I put on the iPod. I made Clara sing to me, from the steps. I called my mom again.

I was pathetic.

That night, I went to two stores and bought a whole load of traps.

Since that night, we have used up a number of those traps. Brian--blessed Brian--disposes of the traps as necessary.

On Saturday, I braved the basement and brought up a bag of pancake mix, only to discover that the bag was some mouse's meal. Hopefully it was that mouse's final meal before the mouse met it's end.

We are cohabiting with some nasty little creatures.

I am pathetic, I know, but I am truly traumatized.

Update--summer 2011: We caught a whole lot of mice during our year in this house. A whole lot--at least 30. Sometimes there were multiple mice on a trap (the record for this was four). Brian, my saintly husband, disposed of every last one of them. But I am permanently scarred.