Adventures with Sunny

You know how it is with most experiences--you head into them with excitement and enthusiasm, only to discover quite soon thereafter that things aren't quite as good as you had hoped. (As examples I can offer: High School, possessing a driver's license, owning any pet that sheds, drools, shreds, or requires feeding, and motherhood--which is very nice on the whole, but a whole bag of dried beans some days.) And with each new experience, you think, "Hey, this will be fabulous, and it will always be wonderful and exciting, and I will love every minute of it!" And then reality hits. Every time.

Except for this time. Because having Sunny in our family is fabulous every day. Seriously--who knew it would be so great to have a person in the home who can carry on an intelligent, non-argumentative, non-fourth-grade humor conversation? Who knew how amazingly refreshing it would be to have someone here who is willing to take a bath without protracted negotiations? How amazing is it to have someone polite and kind and positive around this place? This is soooooo much better than I imagined it. Thank you Sunny and parents--you have made my month.

One of the not-quite-fringe benefits is that we now have an excuse--no, a responsibility!--to explore the state and its wonders, even though we've pretty much sat on our tushes for the previous several years, procrastinating the heck out of in-state travel. ("The Grand Canyon? It's been there for millions of years--it ain't going anywhere soon. We'll catch it later.")

So, now we go places. (And since I was raised in a family that thought monthly road trips were essential to salvation, this is what I've always thought family life was supposed to be like.)

We've gone canoeing up on the Rim:

We've visited Montezuma Castle:

(Side note: there are a LOT of German tourists at Montezuma Castle. A Lot. I would like to take this moment to inform all those tourists that not all Americans are stupid hicks. Some of us even speak civilized languages other than our own. And if you're going to be so rude as to make fun of the American mom who has spent all her money on taking care of her children, and thus has none left over for trendy or even acceptable clothes, and thus must wear stripey pink pants that no clown would be seen in

BECAUSE THOSE ARE HER ONLY PAIR OF PANTS!!!!!,

then for heaven's sake, don't compare her to a tacky chameleon--because she understands you and will give you the glare of your life, you snobby, stupid, snooty assumer.) (BTW, I don't think your t-shirt was all that tasteful, either. So there.)

We visited--and thoroughly enjoyed--Montezuma Well:

And we even survived the traffic coming home. Thanks, Sunny!

This goes out to . . .

Do you remember the '80s? Seriously? Wow, you must be as old as I am. Sorry about that.

Anyway, the '80s were big on dedication nights on the radio. (If you don't remember the '80s, a radio is an old-fashioned device for getting music to your ears. Sort of like an MP3 player, but with an electrical cord, and the programming was done for you by guys in loud plaid suits and with no discernible taste. Just a little archeo-techno info for your more enlightened generation.) Dedication nights were entire evenings set aside so those bold/crazy enough to call in could proclaim their love/lust publicly and forever immortalize the object of their love/stalking in one song--thereby ruining certain classic tunes for those who found themselves dedicated to by someone they couldn't stand in the first place, "totally loved forever" but then later broke up with, or eventually had to get a restraining order against. (Il Roberto has a great story about dedication nights up at Ricks College [of Beauty and Automotive Repair]--sorry, private joke! Ask him sometime about it. Just be prepared to groan.) I used to listen to those dedications--knowing full well nobody ever was going to be daft enough to put themselves on the radio to dedicate "Forever Young" to me. (It seemed like a tragedy then, but now it's a major relief. How times and perceptions change.)

Amazingly (and completely unnecessarily), the '80s are making a MAJOR resurgence--hideous clothes everywhere!--so I thought I'd bring back the art of the dedication, but update it a bit for the digital generation. Thus, my dedications are not lame songs on an archaic analog technology, but fabulous full-color videos on your computer screen.

Enjoy!

For el Jefe:




For Maya:



For Gina:



For Kate:

What are you doing at 10:14 p.m.? Are you heating milk to make yogurt? 'Cause I am, and if you are, too, we could be buddies in lunacy.

I've been waiting now for an eternity, it seems. It takes a while for the milk to reach 180 degrees--45 minutes so far, because I really hate it when the milk scorches, so I do this s-l-o-o-o-o-w-l-y--and then it takes a double eternity for it to cool to 115 degrees before I can add the culture. (Hey, if something has to be 115 degrees before it can have culture, then the Beautiful Desert Southwest is the best-cultured place on earth! Just a little desert humor for you there. Very little.) So I'm looking at a long sit here in front of the computer while the seconds tick by.

I wasn't planning on doing the eternity thing tonight. I was planning to read a little--some thing nice and literarily murderous, nothing too serious--but then I read something that struck the fear of breakfast into me: the weekly meal menu.

Somehow I had developed the insane notion that making blueberry coffee cake--and, yes, I know I will have to explain to my kids, again, that this particular carb-fest does not violate the Word of Wisdom. It just shatters the hope for balanced blood sugar.--for our morning meal tomorrow. Great idea. As long as someone else does the baking. But when I ask if there are any volunteers to take on the task, only the crickets respond. So it's me mixing up the batter and greasing the pans. And stupid me, I chose a recipe that sounded yummy. Which wouldn't be too bad, except that I'm sure most of the yumminess is due to the inclusion of sour cream in the batter. And--I'm sure I've mentioned this before--I'm cheap. And sour cream is expensive. So I substitute plain yogurt for sour cream. And I'm too cheap to buy yogurt. So here I sit, waiting for the stupid milk to come down off its frigid high horse and just warm up a little, darn it! Cause and effect really stinks at this moment.

Sigh. 175 degrees. Five more to go.

Whew--the first semi-week of school is nearly over. (And, boy, doesn't that sentence reveal how much of a wimp I am? Whining after only two days of school. How do I survive whole months? That, friends, is the ultimate mystery of the universe!) We've made it through multiple Meet-the-Teachers (kids in three different schools!!!!!!!!), a multi-day high school registration experience (a BIG Thank You to the helpful staff at, dare I admit it?, Mesa High), and the truly frightening thrill of sending my teeny-tiny kindergartner off to school in a big yellow school bus. Again I say with complete sincerity, "Whew!"

And have I mentioned that it has been a little warm lately--just to add to the overall experience?

I've had a lot on my plate lately (can't seem to kick that anxiety eating habit. Some day they'll make me into one of those scare-you-straight PSAs: "This is you. This is you on anxiety-induced nachos. Any questions?"), but what keeps coming to me--in the moments when I can take a second to actually think lucidly--is that courage is a rare and wonderful thing. I saw it in the child who thinks she's in charge, who was determined to ride the bus--the only one on at the first stop. She was one weensy morsel of humanity in all that diesel-powered empty space headed into the unknown. Her mom, sad to say, was not nearly so courageous and spent most of the day praying no one messed with her daughter, 'cause then she'd have to go all momma-bear on someone, and I've never had to do that before.

Another one of the people who has the ability to ignore the fear is our foreign exchange student, Sunny. How many of you would have been willing to leave your home country and language for a full school year in high school, to travel half-way round the globe to live with a family you'd never met, to go to a school where no one understands what you're saying when you stub your toe, where you know no one? Strange place. Strange food. Strange(r than some) family. There's no way I could have done it: it takes guts, and I break a cold sweat just contemplating calling people I know on the phone. But this sweetie dared to leave everything normal behind, with only two suitcases of familiarity in tow. She took a chance on adventure and experience--she risked a lot with no guarantee of anything. Plus, she does it with a smile! Wow. I am totally bowled over. (And she hasn't even cried over the fact that we live in God's own toaster oven. Guts, I tell you)

She's amazing. And when I grow up I want to be like her.

Announcements: New Arrival to the Kydd Family!!!!!!!

(No, I did not have a baby, am not pregnant, and do not intend to be without an act of God.)

The Kydd Family--of which I am a founding member--is pleased to announce the imminent arrival--next Saturday, to be exact--of a healthy, happy fifteen-year-old girl. We're welcoming an exchange student into our home. Friends, as a way to expand one's family, this is definitely the way to do it--no stretch marks, no morning sickness, no colic, no teething. The hard work has already been done. And we are the lucky people who get to share the next year of her life. Yeah! ! !

In preparation for the exciting event, our house has been turned topsy turvy. Well, strictly speaking, that isn't quite true. Our house was already semi-topsy turvy as we prepared to change every bedroom and 2/3 of the bathrooms. And then we found out we were going to be able to host a student, and we accelerated into renovation warp mode.

[The rest of this post is mostly for Sunny, our new short-term daughter. If you aren't her, go ahead and read if you're interested. If not, check back later as the continuing--I hope!--story of my existence unfolds.]

Sorry, Sunny. Since I am totally technologically inept, and no matter how hard I tried I was unable to paste the following photos into an email, I had to post them this way. (Seriously, I'm going to learn as much from you as you will from us!) I apologize for being a complete numskull when it comes to anything with a power cord.

Here's what your room looked like before:

Totally and irredeemably brown. Ick. And it was Robert's office, which meant it had his stuff on the walls. I did NOT decorate this room.

One month--and a lot of paint--later:

So much nicer, no?

Also, the desk:

And the closet:

So much better--cool, crisp, BLUE!!!!!, and cheerful.

Aren't you excited to come? We're excited to have you!

Please excuse the possible jerkiness of this post. I'm writing it between bouts of "Bedtime Tag", which is a delightful game played by the parents of nearly-two-year-olds-who-can-climb-out-of their-cribs and the nearly-two-year-olds themselves. The rules are simple: immediately after Mommy or Daddy (parents are allowed to take turns in the initial stages of play. Eventually, one parent will dominate play while the other enjoys an extended penalty [for the other parent] phase known as "Just resting my eyes, Honey!") place the toddler/opposing team into bed with the pacifier, blankie, and twenty-three books (all of which contain the toddler-soothing words "bed", "night", "moo" and "dark"), the toddler climbs out of the bed/parental goal zone, and scampers for the couch-toy box-kitchen-bathroom-living room-hallway/child goal zone. The toddler scores one point for every 60 seconds he remains out of bed. Parents score one point for every 60 seconds the toddler remains in bed.

Current score: 34-36 (Slight advantage currently to the parents because the child is almost imperceptively wearing down, although I suspect the ten-minute nap he took in the car three hours ago will soon emerge as the decisive factor in his ultimate victory.)

Kids: gotta love them. The alternative is a rapid descent into chocolate-assisted madness. (It would be much more rapid without the chocolate.)

For example:

I grew up being told that Sunday was a day of rest, of spiritual rejuvenation--a time for meditation and spiritual contemplation. I believed this until I had children. In reality, for moms at least, it is a slow torture conducted in full view of the ward--depending on where you sit. As exhibit "A" I offer the following discussion, quoted verbatim, "enjoyed" only this afternoon.

Mom: (singing sacrament hymn, considering the role of music in creating an atmosphere conducive to the Spirit) La, La, La

Child (the one with the mischievous grin): Hey, Mom. Mom. Hey. Do you have a wipe?

Mom: (absently, but compassionately) Sure, honey, let me just pull one out for you. La. La. La.

Reaches into extra-large-grande-size, Super Mommy Bag of All that Can Be Carried Without Large Animal Assistance.

Mom: Here you go, Sweetie. La. La. La. (Pause after chorus and consideration, having been attempting to focus on the hymn and its spiritual conducive-ness, and thus not having actually looked at the child yet. But sensing, somehow, that all is not quite as it should be. Perhaps.) Why do you need a wipe, anyway?

Child: Well . . .

Mommy: (in--and I'm extremely proud of this--incredibly restrained pianissimo shriek) AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAACCCCCCCCCCCKKKKKKKKK!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Why is there blood all over your face and hands!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

And that, dear friends, is why the one with the mischievous grin took the sacrament this afternoon with a blood-soaked wet wipe stuck half-way up his nose. Dangling, I might add, over his mouth, thus requiring a rather odd head toss maneuver to drink the water. Also, eliciting smirks and fascinated/horrified stares from the priests, speakers, bishopric, and member of the Stake Presidency.

And you wonder why my temple recommend interviews take so long.

110 days to go--110 days to go! In only three and one-half (ish) months the Beautiful Desert Southwest will be free of the annual sweat-fest known as Summer. If I had enough energy, and enough construction paper, I'd make one of those wonderful Elementary school-inspired paper chains and cut off a ring every day from now until Halloween. (Which, incidentally is the typical cut-off day for heat around here. It's called a "cut-off day" because that's the day you'd be willing to cut off you own head if the thermometer didn't announce the arrival of something dramatically colder.)



50 days down. 110 to go. We can endure this, folks. Somehow we will survive.



On a positive note, extreme temperatures lead to creative thinking. I've discovered that aprons are THE accessory for the summer. Not for bar-b-cue-ing (because that would require being
OUTSIDE IN THE MIND-MELTING HEAT, STANDING NEAR A CHARCOAL-FED FIRE!!!!!!!!!!,
which is, obviously the last thing I want this time of year. More heat is not the solution to any problem I can currently think of), but because the bib, if you cinch the waist ties tight enough (breathing is overrated at this point in the summer, anyway), makes a wonderful place to stash one's polar-gel pack. (Note: when running those errands that cannot be delayed until sometime around November 1st, there is a wonderful invention called a bra which will perform roughly the same cold-source retaining service. There may be a few side effects, but really--who complains about frost bite at this time of year? I think I'd welcome a little hypothermia right about now.)



Continuing that theme, gel-packs are my little summer survival tip du jour. I sleep cuddled up to them the way my husband wishes I would with him. (Sorry Honey, not this season. I have a heat-ache.) I sit on one when working at the computer. For some reason, that one doesn't last so long, though. I may soon resort to duct-taping them to my thighs before I walk the boys to their piano lessons. (Ha! All you skinny people could never get away with that little trick. But on me, a couple or twenty extra bulges--no one will notice. Fat can be our friend.) If they ever need a spokes model for polar-gel packs, I am theirs for the asking. (Wide-angle lens required.)


So, now that we've had our obligatory digression and some seasonal moaning, how about some cool and refreshing thoughts for your summer day?



See, here in the Beautiful Desert Southwest, climactic conditions aren't always as predictable as they might seem. Yes, you can basically depend on it being HOT in the Summer, and cool in the "Winter", and humid in August. But every now and then, we get thrown for a loop. This tends to happen mostly on my son's birthday. Seriously. This year we had a rain storm so fierce we lost power in our neighborhood. (Birthday candles--they're not just for cake anymore!) We slogged through foot-deep puddles on our way to buy him his birthday gift. (It also rained--less dramatically,thank goodness!--on the day he was born. Looking back, that seems like a sign. Of what I'm not quite sure.) But on his fourth birthday we had the mother of all Freak Desert-area Weather Occurrences. A picture will illustrate this better than any words:





That, friends, is the birthday boy in front of the snowman he made in my cousin's front yard. In the Desert Southwest. (Which was particularly beautiful that evening). His little hands were frozen--who carries gloves in the desert?--that's why his face is not as cheerful as one would expect of someone who has just participated in a miracle.


What I wouldn't do for another one right about now.