My New Year's Resolutions

So I sat and thought about it this morning, and tried to come up with some interesting goals for myself. Things that would really make me stretch and grow and stuff. Then I decided that was lame, and it would be a lot more fun to create some resolutions for other people. So without further ado, here are some resolutions I have created for my family, and I hereby resolve to watch and see if they accomplish them.

HUSBAND:
1. Resolve to bring your wife Dove chocolate at least once a month. Preferably twelve times.
2. Resolve to create an awesome color-coded excel program that will track Madeline's vital statistics, such as number of times she spills juice on a newly mopped floor and average length of her self-imposed timeouts.
3. Resolve to conquer the world through hypnosis.
4. Resolve to stop waking your wife in the middle of the night, and then not remembering it in the morning. Emergencies only.
5. Resolve to actually watch something on you big screen television besides football. (March Madness qualifies.
6. Resolve to use subtle Harry Potter references at least twice a week.
7. Resolve to use your new search optimization skills to make the top google search results for "baloney" your facebook account, work website, and this blog, in that order.
8. Resolve to get in your antsy cleaning mode at least once a week, or whenever your wife is feeling particularly lazy.
9. Resolve to eat more green beans. We won't push the peas thing.
10. Resolve to not get any concussions. Ever.

DAUGHTER:
1. Resolve to start waking up at nine. And going to sleep at seven.
2. Resolve to use your new cleaning supplies on mom's kitchen floor daily. It's all your mess anyway.
3. Resolve to eat more chicken. Kids are supposed to like chicken.
4. Resolve to make "Yes" your new favorite word.
5. Resolve to create a secret club in nursery, with yourself as president, and use it to extra treats at snack time.
6. Resolve to quit begging food off of other people in sacrament meeting and just eat your own dratted goldfish.
7. Resolve to use your charming smile and good looks to get into a prestigious preschool, so that you might be in a position to care for your parents financially in their old age.
8. Resolve to make friends with someone besides your uncle Bryce, so that you won't shout his name over and over every time we get into the car.
9. Resolve to get fatter so all of your pants will fit.
10. Resolve to finish all the books you've started this year, such as Doctrines of Faith, Plato's Discourses, and the Bible. And read them this time, instead of tearing out the pages.

And thus concludes our grand plans for this year. Rest assured that we will be working tirelessly to make these resolutions fruitful. Or someone will, and I'll be sleeping. May you all have a very happy New Year. See you on the flip side.

The New Year Is Upon Us

Oh goodness. It is almost the end of the year. Being the brilliant person I am, I just realized this today. I don't like it. Mostly because I don't want it to be 2010. I can't handle a new decade right now. And 2010 is so awkward. It's the date they put in sic-fi movies when they want to put in hovering cars and robots and invading aliens. So we can't live in 2010. Not to mention I have no idea what to call it. I've had the same problem for the past ten years, but I cheated and always talked about the beginning of the century or the Millennium instead of the 0's or something else stupid sounding. But now I need a way to distinguish this decade from the last one, and I'm fresh out of ideas. Why can't we live in the nineties again?

I also don't want a new year to be here because I'm supposed to make up New Year's Resolutions. And I'm really bad at resolutions. I hate making them because I feel it's futile and over optimistic to try and make more than one or two changes at the same time. My habits are very resistant to change. Last year I cheated and made resolutions that weren't really resolutions, but rather affirmations of my lifestyle. That worked pretty well. But alas, it's not all that clever doing it two years in a row. So I'll have to come up with some other witty way to seem cool and really not do anything at all. I'll let you know how that lofty goal goes. Until then, I'm going to go enjoy the remaining time I have in a nice normal year with no home DNA testing, hover boards, or Big Brother computers.

No, we didn't get a new maid. Why do you ask?

So I've noticed a trend among Madeline's Christmas presents. Among other things, the last few days she's been enjoying:

-A new vacuum
-A deluxe cleaning set (mop, broom, bucket, gloves, sponges, etc.)
-A new kitchen
-A new baby stroller
-New princess dressups
-New cell phone

Seeing the common link? That's right. We're brainwashing our daughter to be the perfect Mormon housewife. Now Madeline's daily schedule is full of fun and excitement. She dresses up her baby doll, puts it in the stroller, and drags her around as she does her chores, which include whipping up culinary masterpieces and making the house shine spotlessly, all while chatting away on her phone. And after a long day of hard work (in high heels, I might add), she gets gussied up in her princess dress, jewelry and crown, and waits patiently (or not so patiently) to greet the man of the house as he comes home from his daily labors. I'm expecting the Feminist Club of America to report me for child abuse any day now. But I'm okay with that, because Madeline certainly didn't get all these girlie tendencies from yours truly. And I'm quite happy to abdicate these responsibilities to the rising generation. I love Christmas.

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.

Wow. Are you tired? I'm tired.

Christmas will do that to you, I guess. I could now regale you with a minute by minute replay of our day, and a breakdown of every gift we got and gave. Complete with pictures of feasting, revelry, and aforementioned gifts. But this is not that kind of blog. So I will only tell you about one. Alas, there is a story first. Did you really think I would break my newly instituted short blog rule just for Christmas? Here is the story:

Once upon a time I got pregnant. This was a happy thing, but, unfortunately, it caused my once delicate fingers to swell to immense proportions. As a result, I was forced to remove my beloved wedding ring and confine it to a box for the duration. Fast forward to a few months after our little mischief maker joined our ranks. I had lost some weight, and hoped my fingers had too. I retrieved my ring and despite the fact that it was still a bit tight, was determined to resume wearing it, lest any single men felt tempted to flirt with an overweight woman with a newborn.

Then one day, I realized that I was once again not wearing my ring. And I couldn't remember when I took it off. I felt sure I must have put it somewhere for safekeeping until it fit better. A frantic search of the obvious places yielded nothing. I thought I must have taken it off and put it in a pocket, a purse, or a bag. I wondered if I put it on a counter or sink and forgot to put it back on. But after many days of thorough searching in every box and cranny, there was still nothing. If you have ever lost your wedding ring, you will probably understand that there was a lot of tears. And guilt. And a lot of other not so pleasant feelings and sadness and what have you. It became a painful subject, naturally.

Two more moves followed my months of searching, and each time I looked through every box and drawer as we packed and unpacked. It was pretty clear that whatever safe spot I had chosen to hide my ring was a very secure location, in which the ring would remain until the Millennium. So I resigned myself to feeling stupid.

But.

My lovely husband knew I felt stupid. And sad. And guilty. And that I really wanted something to wear on my finger to show I did love him, even if I'm bad at keeping track of jewelry. So the blessed man got me a new ring for Christmas. A beautiful ring. Much less expensive than the first, which is practical, but let me tell you, just as priceless, if not more so. Because this ring is not just a symbol of our eternal commitment to be together, but our eternal commitment to overlook flaws like losing very important things and being supportive and giving your spouse another chance to do things right. Basically, a symbol of our imperfect selves trying to do better together. And reminding me it's the person who took the time to pick out a ring for you, not the ring itself. So I'm feeling pretty happy at the moment. And pretty unapologetic that this post is kind of sappy and not so sarcastic. Because sometimes you don't feel sarcastic, you feel happy. And sappy.

I think I was too caught up in the Christmas spirit.

It is Christmas Eve, and as promised, here I am not sleeping. This is, however, more due to Madeline not sleeping than my excitement. Just thought I should note that.

In other news, I had a strange life experience last night. We watched the Poinsettia Bowl, and I found myself rooting for the Utes. That's right, the Utes. The team in red. Our Arch Nemesis. And even enjoying that they were totally creaming the other guy. It was like living in a strange, parallel universe. But I couldn't help it, I swear. Hatred of the BCS and a desire to support our conference drove me to it. I promise I am now back on the band wagon, and such a thing shall never happen again. Maybe it's because it's Christmas, so I felt an inkling of holiday spirit staring at the red uniforms. And I must point out, it was only possible in the first place because I knew no matter the outcome, BYU pretty much officially had the better season, having won the Holy War and beat up on our own Pac 10 the night before. I think I am now rambling, trying to rationalize and ease my guilt. Maybe I'll go build a Snow Cougar in my BYU sweatshirt now.

Tomorrow! Tomorrow! I love ya, etc.

I feel like a little kid. Tomorrow is Christmas Eve. And I don't know if I'll be able to sleep tonight because I'm so excited. Tomorrow there will be cookies (Maple Bells!) and new pajamas and the nativity. My mother will be frantically wrapping presents all afternoon, and having us wrap presents in blank boxes while we try to guess who they're for. We'll have to crack the Christmas code my dad writes on the presents, because he can't just write To Cami or To Jessie. He'll write V4 and L19 and we have to guess what the numbers and letters mean. We'll watch my little brother watch Santa Claus land in random places in Greenland and Cuba on the internet. And if we're lucky, we'll have some random late night Christmas family activity that we won't decide on until tomorrow. Like a midnight movie or family concert around the piano, or, perhaps, a family Rock Band session. And then an argument about what time to wake up and open presents, which after all the drama, will probably be decided mostly by when Madeline wakes up. I love Christmas Eve. It's almost better than Christmas Day.

Maybe it's a cry for attention.

So we did exciting things this weekend. Of which this was the least exciting, but of the most importance to the blogging world. A year or two ago, I purchased some neon pink and black striped tights. Normally I would not buy such a thing, but I had a gift card to an all socks online store, so I said to myself: Live a little. Get the bright striped tights. They look exactly like this:

Unfortunately, I do not own stilettos like that. A tragedy. Anyway, I wanted to wear something Christmasy to church. But I had nothing Christmasy. So instead, I decided to wear my tights. Because I had never worn them before and they were begging for it. I realize, based on that picture, that this might seem highly scandalous. But bear in mind, I was wearing a very plain and not scandalous mid-calf black dress and nice boring black flats. Close toed. So I felt I was within my rights. Jessie had his doubts. I'm pretty sure he would have walked twenty feet in front of me on the way to church, except he was afraid if he did that, I might not cook him dinner for a week. So he endured it and only mentioned once or twice that he felt it would be wise to keep my bright pink tight wearing to a minimum. I told him I was a Christmas elf. Take that, holiday spirit

And speaking of my questionable fashion choices, this weekend we had our annual Lundstrom family Christmas party. And during our ever exciting white elephant exchange, I managed to snag one of these:

That's right. I am now the proud owner of a leopard print Snuggie. Again, not something I would ever buy for myself. But you can bet I'll steal one at a white elephant party. And be proud of myself for doing it. And at the first available opportunity, I'm going to proudly show it off. Go me.

Jessie thinks I'm all of a sudden an "extremist" in fashion. I'll let you be the judge. But hey, one life to live, seize the day, yada yada yada. I'm going to be warm this winter if it it kills me. Or if I have to wear neon stripes and leopard prints to do it.

Either Madeline or I is a glutton for punishment.

We have a problem at our house. It's called discipline. It seems very simple on the surface. When Madeline does something wrong, particularly something we've asked heruage not to do many times, she gets put on her timeout chair for a few minutes. At the end of a few minutes, she must explain to mom (in as eloquent language as she is capable of) what she did wrong, after which we give each other kisses and she can be on her way.

That's the the theoretical. In reality, it's a little more complicated. For starters, Madeline likes to put herself on timeout. If I walk in to see she's done something bad, before I can say anything, she'll raise her hands in surrender and yell, "Tine-Out!". Then she runs giggling to her chair and clamors up. She'll sit there smiling as proudly as if she were the Queen of England, and laughs every once in a while to remind me she's having a really good time. When she's decided it's been long enough, she puckers up her lips for a kiss. Then, when I let her down, she runs around pointing at herself and saying smilingly and matter of factly, "Naughty."

So basically Madeline does the whole ritual perfectly and compliantly, while mocking me the entire time and having the time of her life.

Are you allowed to punish a child for a successful timeout?

Some stuff I wrote.

We watched the finale of So You Think You can dance last night. Some guy won and ripped off his shirt and danced around the stage. I have to say, it was a lot cuter when Madeline did it during Elmo's world today.

Anyway. That was about all I had to say coming into this blog post, but I don't believe in writing short blog posts. Short blog posts are just facebook status updates masquerading as their cooler older siblings. I figure that if you're going to write nothing but one line blog entries and call yourself a blogger, you might as well go join Twitter and pretend people care about your every move. I should probably just go delete my Twitter account, since I haven't looked at it in over a month. I just don't see what service Twitter does for humanity. If someone could explain it to me, I will go Twitter it so everyone will know.

Speaking of overly popular websites, I decided Facebook is getting sneaky. Apparently, this new privacy thing, depending on how you look at it, a) allows you to micromanage exactly how much content each and every person you've ever known is allowed to see or b) allows Facebook to sneakily share everything you've ever put on facebook unless you go click through a hundred links and tell them that yes, when you mean you want things to be private, that means not letting random Hungarians access to pictures of your freshman year of college. I thought I was covered when I just clicked "Friends Only" on all of the boxes when Mark whatshisface sent me a message telling me he wanted to help me keep my information safe. But to make sure random applications that your friends add to punch you in the face with a llama doesn't have access to your birthday and address, you have to go change it manually. Ditto on all your photos. Just a heads up from a disgruntled customer, who will nonetheless continue like millions of others to continue to use Facebook no matter how much I think they are screwing things up because they own my soul.

Well, that's a respectable blog post length. So I now bid you farewell. And beg you to please leave your shirt on and not act like an idiot if you win a quarter million dollars. Thanks you.

Boy Howdy, I feel like I'm back in sophmore english.

Jessie's been after me since we got married to read a book called Cold Sassy Tree. It's a book his english teacher made him read over the summer in high school. He complained about having to read over summer vacation, until I told him I had the pleasure of reading Charles Dicken's Bleak House the summer before my sophmore year. Which, for those of you who were not blessed to experience it with me, is a really, really long book. So that pretty much blew Jessie's woes out of the water. Anyway, the reason he wanted me to read this book was mostly because one of the characters likes to say "Boy Howdy!". Jessie likes to say it too, and that's where he got it from. He'd go on and on about how I was missing out, and I should read it. So I finally checked it out from the library a few weeks ago. Jessie saw me reading it. I started asking him questions about the plot and the characters. He couldn't even remember any of the names. Actually, he wasn't even one hundred percent sure he was remembering the right book. Luckily for him, the main character does, indeed, like to use that exclamation. So for the sake of a dozen Boy Howdies, I am now nearly through a random book about a hormonal teenage boy from the post civil war south whose grandfather is also overly hormonal. What a great wife I am. At least I don't have to write any essays on the matter.

Brought to you by the resident neighborhood hermits.

So today I went shopping with my mom. One of the first things she says to me: "So I guess you had a really exciting day yesterday, huh?" I stared at her blankly. The most exciting thing that happened to me yesterday was getting to sleep in until 8 am because Madeline did. I'm not sure how she knew about this grand accomplishment. She sees me looking confused, and says, "Didn't a plane crash right by your house?"

Huh. Turns out a small plane did crash right by our house. About a hundred, hundred fifty yard away actually.

In my defense, the only time I left the house all day was to get the mail. But still. I'm sitting there thinking, I might have heard some sirens. Did I hear sirens? Was that yesterday? Or was that the day Madeline hit her head on the window? Wait. Which day did Madeline hit her head on the window?

I was curious to see if Jessie realized we had nearly been involved in an aviation disaster. The only thing he said about his drive home yesterday was that traffic was a bit heavier than usual. We picked him up for lunch, and I asked him, "Hey, how about that traffic yesterday? Did you by chance see, you know, a small plane crashed next to our house?"

Turns out he didn't see it. Either on the way home last night or on the way to work this morning. A coworker told him about it today. According to him, it was dark. Last night at least. I don't know what his excuse was this morning. For missing a small plane crashed into a hill by our house.

Please, dear readers, do me a favor. If a small meteor should strike our neighbor's house, or an earthquake should shut down the city, or you know, the end of the world comes, would someone please send me an e-mail? Or a text?

Thanks. Jessie and I like to be informed.

I'm dreaming of a red Christmas. And concussions.

It looks like Christmas now. Partly because of the snow. And partly because you walk into church and every female of every age is wearing red. Our nursery, which is something like 80% female, was full of frilly red dresses and bows. Next week Madeline is totally wearing green to beat the peer pressure. Yesterday, I am sorry to say, she was in red and white. But she looked really, really cute. So maybe it was justified.

Speaking of the little red monster, she likes to destroy things. Including wrapping paper, gift tags, ornaments, bibles, walls, clothes, and carpets. But the most fun this week was when she was running away from Jessie and ran right into the ledge on our bay windows. There was an instant bruise about the size of a large, thick Christmas cookie. It pretty much caused me to freak out and google concussions for a half hour. Eventually, after consulting both the internet and my mother, I decided she had no obvious signs of major damage. But to be safe, I woke up about three times that night to get Madeline up. Just to make sure she would wake up. She didn't like that very much. I considered it payback for doing the same thing to me for the first six months of her life. She's all good now, and her bangs pretty much hid the bruising so no one at church accused us of child abuse. They were too busy trying to see the girl under the huge fluffy red and white dress. I think I need to find me a dress like that. So I can keep up with the nursery fashions.

Chains and where they lead to.

Madeline and I got bored while suffering our convalescence this past week. So we did what anybody would do who has finally given in to listening to Christmas music all day every day on the radio. We made a Christmas countdown chain. Not being crafty, I had no colored paper, so we improvised by alternating printing paper and wrapping paper. It looks kind of festive. Jessie hung it above our stairs, just at the edge of Madeline's range. For the first day or two, she could grab the end and threaten to bring the whole project crashing down if she decided to suddenly develop Tarzan like instincts. But now it's safely out of her reach, unless she has some sort of freakish Christmas growth spurt. She never wants to help tear a link off at night, but she watches with interest as we do it. And she'll randomly stop playing and go "Oooh! Chain!" and point like it's the most interesting thing we've ever had in our house. Maybe it is. It's not very long. Somehow I remember Christmas chains being longer when I was younger. I must have been shorter. Or we started in October.

I was listening to the radio last night. The song "All I want for Christmas is a hippopotamus" came on. Have you heard that one? Sadly, I think I never had before last night. Once upon a time I really truly wanted a real hippopotamus to live in our backyard. I thought maybe it would give me rides. Even then, I knew it wasn't realistic though. No one gets a hippopotamus for Christmas. So I never put a live hippopotamus on my lists. I put books and jewelry and tetherballs. I was thinking about that as I looked at our Christmas chain today. I made my mom and Jessie a list, but when Madeline/Jessie pulls off the last chain, I won't be getting a live hippo. Sometimes, you just can't put things on your Christmas list.

Swine flu.....okay. Not. Just good old-fashioned illnesses for me.

Hi. How are you? I'm good. I just feel like it's been years since I blogged, because the last four days have been really awesome and really long. I started getting sick on Sunday, and after three days of wondering whether I had the flu or strep throat, I started to suspect it was the latter. So I sucked it up and went to the doctor. Who was very, very impressed with the size of my tonsils. And, in better news, gave me a prescription to blessed, strep killing drugs. I love strep throat. No really, I don't. But as a teenager, I'd always get a bad sore throat and get dragged to the doctor's for those annoying painful throat swabs that seem like the nurse is trying probe to China by way of your adenoids. And then the test would be negative, and they'd conclude it was an untreatable virus and send me on my way. So I'm really, really glad that if I'm going to be miserably sick, I could be clever enough to get an illness with a nice simple cure.

Thus far, it seems that Madeline and Jessie have been spared the whole strep throat experience. Knock on wood. But they have been subject to my lack of being interesting/lack of cleaning their living space. The only reason I got away with not doing the dishes for three days was by not cooking for three days. But they survived eating a chocolate shake for dinner. Poor babies. And tomorrow, I should be interesting/productive again. Bless you, amoxicillin.