This Just In!

George has found his first word! I know he is behind the times, but he has an phalanx of sisters to do his bidding on the slightest whimper. Why waste energy communicating? Anyway, the First Word: George recognizes - and uses appropriately - "hot". Not "mommy" or "daddy" or "ball". Maybe it's the danger junkie aspect of his personality?

He's turning into a ham, and a bit of a drama king. (hmmm, wonder where that came from?)

He also still has a bad habit of biting. Don't those chompers look dangerous? Oh, they are.

I swear, he is going to need therapy in his adult years, because in his infancy, no one wanted to snuggle with him for fear of the little half-moon bruises he gives out so freely. It's not as bad as it has been, I admit, now mostly when he's tired.


Oh, and he's teething fiercely right now. It usually rears its ugly head at 3 o'clock in the morning, so he's tired A LOT. So are we.

Also, Mark grew his beard out for hunting season, for the first time in four years. George loves it when his daddy gobbles on his neck with those tickley, prickly whiskers! The beard goes away this weekend. Maybe there will be pictures.

Lucy isn't in this picture because she's too tall to fit under Gabba's chin, and Hyrum wanted a "totem pole" photo.

Hyrum helped me set up Gift Creation Central in his room, and is helping tremendously. Also, we put up the Christmas tree for FHE this week - sorry, Mom, the kids didn't want to wait until the 15th, as is tradition *sniff sniff* - and it has become the center and catalyst of all the make-believe going on in the House of Phogles. George pillages everything he can reach, which is a lot, because he is learning about moving furniture...

And the girls are using the ornaments for characters in their games. We find ourselves with three (3) gorgeous angels for the top of the tree this year. Two are too heavy, so they have become decorations for the mantle. But the girls take all three - bar stool to get the one off the top of the tree - plus some angel ornaments, and they play the newly-invented "angel game". It's been non-stop angel action for three days. It adds a new dimension to the Christmas season when you get to decorate (and redecorate) the Christmas tree every day...and the ornaments double as action figures!

Musings on Eliza

Tonight did not run according to plan. It wasn't a bad night. But when Mark walked in the door at the end of the day, I had just barely succeeded in dragging Gabriella into the kitchen to begin the dreaded Dishes Duty, so that I could then begin preparations for the Supper Hour. Mark needed to eat and go again, as it was City Council tonight, so timing was crucial, and my timing was off.

But he smiled and kissed me, and scooped up the George who was being needy and clingy, and went off into the house to hang out with kids. City Council never happened. Mark stayed, which wasn't what we'd planned. The kids wallowed on him happily, an element often missing from our lives of late. We had fajitas for dinner - also not part of the plan. We stayed up late (-er than 9 p.m.) reading in our new family book (Pillage by Obert Skye, if you are looking for a new, good read). And after scriptures and prayers and stories, everyone said good-night and wandered out of the living room to their various beds. Except Eliza. She stood by me and whispered in my ear, "I'm still hungry, Mommy."


Hmmmm. Dinner was all tidied up and put away. Not a lot of snacky stuff in the house, as we are gearing up for Thanksgiving. I didn't' particularly want to get up and go to the kitchen to find a solution, as Yvette was asleep on me. What could I give her that she could get herself?? She already had an idea: "Can I have just one cracker?" Sounded like a livable solution. I granted permission.

And as I sat in the living room, pondering the best way to transport Yvette to her bed, I looked up and could see my brown-eyed 'Liza sitting on the footstool in the kitchen, eating her cracker(s). I was struck by how small she looked. I mean, she really is small, even for her age. I've always called her my Scrawny Tawney 'Liza, although she has protested this nickname of late. I found myself turning to see her better. I watched as she played airplane with her cracker, circling it around for landing in her mouth, and then chewing with exaggerated emphasis. (I know she's not the only imaginative child in the world, but she is certainly the most quirky one in my family.) I found myself trying to memorize that moment. She will not always be my Scrawny Tawney. She will not always be uninhibited in her expressions and goofiness. She will not always be that small girl, curled up on the kitchen footstool. Some moments you can't save with a camera. I want to save this one in my heart.

OK, but I have to go to bed now. Seminary tomorrow, and the alarm clock is unforgiving. G'night.

And Then She Was Ten

My Gabriella is ten years old today.

Poor thing, she is also miserably sick. She's been sick for days, but has patently refused medicine (because she's Gabba, and if it doesn't taste amazing, it's not worthy of her taste buds...) unless Mark and I really lean on her. I warned her that if she didn't eat better and take her medicine, she was going to be sick for her birthday. And I was right. We've now have to postpone her party until the weekend.

We would have postponed it anyway, because the original party plan called for sleeping bags, girl talk, hot chocolate and clear skies to watch the Leonid meteor shower that's going on as we speak (it peaks today, even!). But it's all cloudy and rainy-nasty-cold out there, so now I have to throw together an actual party, since the one being hosted by Heaven is, well, on the other side of the clouds.
So, Happy Birthday, Gabriella. Now take your medicine, darnit!

Thank You, Kelli, Thank You!

because of you, my life is now complete. Thank you for sharing this with me, I never knew what I was missing. Happy Stuffing!

"The Turkey Shot Out of the Oven"

by Jack Prelutsky

The turkey shot out of the oven
and rocketed into the air,
it knocked every plate off the table
and partly demolished a chair.

It ricocheted into a corner
and burst with deafening boom,
then splattered all over the kitchen,
completely obscuring the room.

It stuck to the walls and the windows,
it totally coated the floor,
there was turkey attached to the ceiling,
where there’d never been turkey before.

It blanketed every appliance,
it smeared every saucer and bowl,
there wasn’t a way I could stop it,
that turkey was out of control.

I scraped and I scrubbed with displeasure,
and thought with chagrin as I mopped,
that I’d never again stuff a turkey
with popcorn that hadn’t been popped

Random Eliza

It's snowing outside right now. I left for Seminary at 6:15 this morning in rain/sleet. When we were done and pulling out of the parking lot, it was nothing but snow. And it hasn't stopped. I checked the weather: rain/snow/sleet/cloudy for the foreseeable future.

So, of course, the first actionable choice my children make this morning is to run outside and bring in bowls of snow, pour orange juice on it and eat it. I tolerated this behavior. I put my foot down when they were poised to do this in their pajamas, however. Because I'm the Mom: killer of fun.

After resigning themselves to my slavish requirements, and getting dressed ("Yes, change your underwear, yes, shoes and socks"...I'm so harsh), it was time to break out the gloves and hats and snow pants and boots and scarves and go out to wallow in the snow and throw it at each other.

Hyrum had on his coat - that was a little big last year but works perfectly this season - and was digging around to find his gloves. But when he found them, he couldn't get his hands in them. {sigh} Also, he doesn't fit his boots. Can't borrow mine anymore, because they are too small for him now, as well. So, he put on Mark's boots. "They're a little small, Mom, but they'll work."

Wow. I need to get over how huge this kid is, deal with it, and move on. But the shell-shock (and the sticker shock!) just keep hitting me.

He was happy to report, however, that his snow pants still fit (but only just). I was happy about that, too!

Anyway, Hyrum and Lucy and Eliza and Gabba were talking in the kitchen as they outfitting themselves for the cold, wet fun they were about to have. Hyrum said something witty about having "snow-veralls" instead of "overalls". Eliza didn't hear him properly (probably muffled by the knit cap, coat hood and fleece scarf she was entangled in), and thought he said "snot-veralls", which she repeated for clarification. "Gross!" Hyrum responded. "Yeah," Eliza agreed, "because then they would be made out of sewer water."

And thus we see, Eliza is still who she has always been, and she continues to sound more like a Cub Scout than a Little Princess.

And I'm thinking, "SOUP" for lunch!

Yvette Geography

[setting: Amber is in the kitchen, making dinner. Yvette is sitting on the counter, in her customary position as overseer and inquisitor.]

Yvette: (pulling out a placemat with the solar system on it) What is this?

Amber: That is Jupiter

Yvette: Oh. So we went to Jupiter when we saw the snakes and the monkeys?

Amber: (momentary mental confusion, then makes the connection) No, that was Omaha, the zoo in Omaha.

Yvette: Oh. (pause) So we live in a zoo?


Yup. I think we do.


This is Yvette playing on the computer. My three-year-old knows how to work an internet browser, how to navigate and point-and-click, and even find a bookmarked site on the drop-down menu. Something about it feels normal, and something feels not quite right. I think she's getting a little attached. Being told "no" can bring on a tantrum that registers on the Richter scale. And exiting graciously after the timer has gone off is not the norm. But we're working on it. It is important to her that "I not a brat, Mommy," and I capitalize on that.

Here she is, playing on Starfall. Thank you to Rosie for tipping me off to it all those months ago. Yvette is very keen that she get her computer time. Without variation, she goes to Starfall - she calls it "the chicken game". She is getting very adept.

Priesthood Power

On the first Monday of October, my firstborn son, Hyrum, turned twelve. I was not taken by surprise. This was something we had been discussing and planning about for weeks and weeks, scheduling interviews and ordinations and massive family shindigs and what-have-you. That's not to say I was not introspective about the occasion. I really was.

I catch myself staring at Hyrum, watching him play with his sisters and his friends, reading his books, doing his chores, watching how his face moves when he is telling me about some idea, or a topic that animates him. And he has morphed before my very eyes, from child to young man. It has been both natural and surreal for me. Of course he is twelve. What else could he be after all these years and milestones? He has been taller than me for months now, and his shoes are one size bigger than his father's.

But, seriously, can he actually be twelve? Has it actually been that long? No way that cherubic, unsophisticated little kid is on the cusp of Young Manhood. But he really is. So, he was interviewed by our Branch President, and found worthy to be ordained to the Aaronic Priesthood, to the office of a Deacon.

We started telling family and friends back in July (or June?) that this was coming, because we wanted as much of our extended family to come for this moment as possible. The idea of packing the congregation with our Kith & Kin was particularly striking to Hyrum. He often hears Mark and I speak with others about the attendance at Church, and our transformation from tenacious Twig to robust Branch, and nearness to full Ward status. So it rapidly became important to him to be the force for much Sacrament Meeting Attendance good.

Hyrum was ordained on October 11th, and our wonderful family turned out in force. As a fabulous surprise, the rest hymn during Sacrament Meeting was a number performed by all the priesthood holders there. Every man and young man went up to the front of the Chapel. There was not enough room for them on the stand and in the choir seats, so they spilled out to stand at the front of the pews. Those who were visiting for Hyrum's ordination were up there, too. Together, they sang "Ye Elders of Israel". Hyrum just beamed and beamed and beamed. It was an awesome site, in the true meaning of the word.

And when, during the 3rd hour block, it was time for the actual ordination, Hyrum sat surrounded by his father, his grandpa, six of his eighteen uncles, and men in our Branch who he counts as friends and mentors. Mark gave a powerful blessing. I wish I had been taking notes. It was uncharacteristic that I was not, but I was so intent on the moment, I was not documenting it (that, and keeping George quiet).

After Church, we invited all the fam and a slew of friends over for a barbecue. The house was packed to the gunwales, and everyone had a grand time visiting and eating and playing and eating some more. Hyrum wolfed down his food and evaporated with his friends, not to be heard from until dessert was served. Yup, he is definitely twelve.

It was a wonderful day. After everyone had said their last goodbyes and taken their potluck dishes with them, Mark and I put the house in order in record-breaking time. Then we called Hyrum and the girls to the living room to talk the day over just a bit. It wasn't until that moment that we thought we should have had the girls in the room for Hyrum's ordination. And I was a little sad when I realized they could have been there, and should have been there. That would have been a bonding, uniting experience for our little phogles family amalgamation.

So Mark told them about what happened, and I mentioned one or two things said in the blessing (which I am horrified to not be able to remember!), and we gave Hyrum a moment to share his thoughts and feelings about the experience. And it was almost over before I realized I had nary a photograph to mark the entire happy occasion. This would never do. All the uncles had gone home already. But I needed at least one picture of my two priesthood holding men in their Sunday shirts and ties. So I asked Hyrum to run upstairs and put on his birthday tie - the eagle one his uncle Wilson had given him.


He got distracted (yes, twelve for sure), and by the time I got him back down, Mark had taken of his tie. The very cliche it is what it is ran through my head, and I just grabbed the camera and took these shots of my men. George was there, clinging to their suit pants, so Mark swooped him up and added him to the moment. I get all whimsical and misty when I look at these pictures. Them there is my menfolk.

Notice, if you will, in this picture, that George is exploring his nostril. He does that. A lot. George really likes the noise it makes, to squish his fingers in and out, and try to jabber through his blocked nasal passageway. I have yet to capture the double-barrel finger pose with the camera, but I will not give up. I need not repeat the family nose-picking joke.

Hyrum was pretty sick the weekend following his ordination, so he missed his first opportunity to pass the Sacrament. He was sick for days, just sleeping and sleeping and reading. And subsisting on toast and herbal teas. He actually ended up losing enough weight that he went down a complete pants size. So, the following Sunday, when he stood up with the Deacons to pass, he truly was different. The baby fat is gone. The little boy is gone. He looks taller. He is certainly more thoughtful, even solemn at times.

And today, I was called out again during 3rd hour, to be there when he was set apart to be the 2nd Counselor in the Deacon Quorum presidency. Neither Mark nor I knew he had been called. Oh my goodness. My son has a calling.

Anyway, I sure do love these three handsome Galbraith men!

Mark, go wash George's hands, please.

Please Pet Our Friends

I couldn't finish up the story of the Pumpkin Farm if I didn't include this little blurb about the petting barn. If the corn wagon wasn't enough to make my children want to move in and stay forever, the petting barn sure was. Chickens, rabbits, piglets, guinea pigs, all there for the petting and the adoration. What more wonderful things could life have to offer?

Lucy adoring the rabbit

Gabriella taking her turn in adoration; she is the most rabid and persistent in pursuit of a pet.

Yvette, who was dismayed to learn that the bunny didn't have a name, yet.

But the piglets were squeal-worthy, pun intended

...Although, I don't think Lucy shared Yvy's enthusiasm.

And you should know that our visit to the Pumpkin Farm ended on the usual note.

Pick A Winner

Last year, I swore on the guts of my jack-o-lantern that I would plant pumpkins so I wouldn't have to buy pumpkins this year. Yup, I had big plans. Pumpkins in October are pricey (especially eight at a time!). Seed packets in April are cheap. That was the Master Plan.


Whatever. The three seed packets I purchased - to ensure I wasn't shelling out the cash for the privilege of hacking up large selections of produce, only to watch them slowly deflate on the front porch as I procrastinate their disposal - are still in my kitchen. I ended up paying for c) all of the above.


When it became painfully obvious that these were my circumstances, I started casting about for a way to make the most of it. We had to have pumpkins to carve (or it was going to be me that was eviscerated). Obviously, we were going to have the privilege of paying for them ... again.

So, why not find a place to get the pumpkins (besides the Grocery store!) where getting pumpkins became an experience, not just a means to an end. This thought, along with the state of affairs that encouraged it, rattled around in my head for weeks prior to the actual Pumpkin Purchasing Season.

So, I was thrilled to see a sign not-so-far-from-town advertising a Pumpkin Farm that had kid-friendly activities + pumpkin-picking options. This was it! The answer to my anxieties. I made Plans. But not an Appointment. Which is important, because if I don't get my Plan(s) on the calendar, or in Mark's planner, it's as good as Never Going to Happen.

After all, we couldn't get the pumpkins too early, or they would be mush when we went to carve them. And we couldn't carve them until the Monday before Halloween, for Family Home Evening. Because that's tradition. Seriously, I was never so bound by traditions until I was the mother of children-who-must-have-order-in-their-Universe that remembered them.

Not everyone picked out their own pumpkin, mostly the girls were more interested in the activities, but we got a cart full of pumpkin-carving awesomeness.

But miraculously, we had a Saturday sans pressing obligations, exactly one week before Halloween. The morning was sunny and bright and warmish. It was a perfect day for picking pumpkins. Tragically, we dawdled. So by the time we actually loaded up and headed out, it had clouded over.

the barrel ride was Yvette's favorite thing

...until she discovered the animals!

Also, it was a lot longer of a drive than we had anticipated (which is OK, because we are really enjoying our current Van Book, #5 in the Leven Thumps series), and by the time we got to the Pumpkin Farm, it had started to drizzle. Mark was frustrated, but I was determined to NOT waste this memory-building family experience.

blooming little girls

So I grabbed the camera and hustled the phoglets out of the van and into the drizzle, and we sallied forth, in search of kid-friendly activities and the perfect pumpkin.

Hyrum and Lucy at the rain-gutter Rubber Duckies race

George and I at the very abbreviated hay bale maze (observe the raindrop on the camera lens).

Mark as the photo-op scarecrow

Yvette as the photo-op scarecrow

They had these splendid all-terrain tricycles...very cool!

Go, Eliza, go!

I think, after the actual pumpkin choosing, the corn wagon was the most popular attraction. Maybe because it had a roof on it, and we were out of the rain?

corn wagon!

It was this: an old fashioned wagon box, filled 1/3 full with harvest corn. Not the mild-mannered popcorn variety, mind you. These were honking huge kernels. And the children simply climbed up in, and had a blast.


All variety of "sandbox" toys were provided, most improvised canisters and farm feed pans and the like. We phogles must have rattled around in the corn wagon for half an hour.

The kids would have stayed until dark, if we'd let them. Which, I admit, I was sorely tempted to do. Everyone - including the formerly grumpy Mark - was enjoying the corny fun.


But Dinner and Bath Night were still on the Itinerary, so it was not to be. And Hyrum - even though he was trying hard to be a good sport - was starting to feel miserable, so I felt like he needed to be taken home and put to bed

I found more than one kernel of corn on George's person when I stripped him down for his bath.

It was like a glorious sand box or dirt pile, only without the dirty, sandy part. Have you ever let your run your fingers through a container of grain, like rice or lentils or wheat? There's something very soothing and almost hypnotic about it.

Now imagine being seven (or five, or twelve, or whatever), and being able to play in it with your entire body. And not having to care if you spill anything. Or dump it on your sister. Because, it was, after all, bath night. Get as dirty as you want!

Don't let Gabba's face fool you, she was dishing it, too.

We got some great pumpkins, but this entire corn wagon concept was the true winner.