2. I got a new passport last week. With my new name. (But now all the old stamps are gone.)
3. I set a new personal bowling record last week - 168! Yesssssss.
And now my name shows up on the "Lane Record" screen for Lane 3 at the Ute Lanes.
4. A friend's mom called me "domestic" on Saturday. Ha! Should I have told her that we had no cheese grater for 7 months?
5. We now have a cheese grater. Nothing else can really do what a cheese grater does, you know?
6. General Conference is this weekend. And I will be in Arizona for it. (I hope.)
7. Dann and Brian won!!!
For three years now, every time I've seen a pair of adorable or sexy shoes - flats or heels - I've thought,
What's that? Oh yeah, I talk about whatever I want to here. (I love that.)
Well. If you've been reading this for very long -or if you know me- you should know that I detest television in almost all of its forms.
But then we discovered HGTV.
It started with Property Virgins and My First Place because, obviously, we relate to them the most. Then we moved on to Unsellables and Deserving Design, Carter Can, $250,000 Challenge, Dear Genevieve ... pretty much whatever happens to be on the network at any given time. I saw ads for Design Star and decided to record it, so we could watch the episodes sometime during the week. (Why are the best shows always on Sundays? Hate that.)
The DVR didn't work at first, so we only caught the last two challenges of Design Star. But, oh! How we loved it! And how we love Antonio!
Pretty much he's the man - maybe because he is also a man's man - and his hosting is so REAL. He is so vastly different from anything we've seen on HGTV, now I'm wondering how we didn't see it before. He laughs, he cries, he makes jokes, and most importantly, he makes beautiful rooms.
The Antonio Project already has at least two enthusiastic fans.
Every time a child acts out in our presence (mostly when they disobey, talk back or throw tantrums), he tells me “Our kids won’t do that. Our kids are going to be AFRAID of me. They will be glad when I leave the house.”
He is ridiculous, yes, I tell him at least once a day.
But we all know this: every Sunday night around 8:00, between twenty and fifty teenagers (yes, fifty) come to sing at the Eddington home.
Personally, I think it started that fateful day I made Matt sing Sally DeFord's Because He Lives while I played. Our ward choir was working on the piece, and I couldn't get enough of it.
A tradition was born.
Matt and I started putting together groups for musical numbers, quartets and octets, mainly because we kept getting asked to. Then I tried to convince all participants to make it a regular thing, to come sing at my house after the Institute fireside. I was determined to make singing cool in this little town of sports. So I made treats to entice, and encouraged all with undeveloped talents.
(At that point, I was pretty desperate.)
Well, it worked.
And naturally the drama ensued. You can't get a group of high schoolers together without having the relationship problems!
My piano skills improved along with everyone's singing skills; I was immensely pleased. Slice was one of my projects in the beginning (although I was afraid to call and invite him because his mother always answered the phone), and he became the Old Faithful of the group. First to come, last to leave. He says it's because he loved my family so much.
When I left for college, the torch was passed to Matt. His friends came and then Kiana's came, now Emily's and even Braden's come to "Sunday Night Singing." There may have also been a blanket invitation by the bishop at one time or another ...
We've gone from treats to no treats, the old house to the new, a capella hymns to Soft Rain, from Mom or me playing to Kiana, Christmas caroling to firesides, missionary meetings to an entire concert complete with parts of Handel's Messiah. There were even times when my family was out of town and the singers came anyway. One year my dad bought hymnbooks for everyone, and gave them out as Christmas presents.
Over time, we've turned out some pretty good singers!
It gets to be a real pain for the family sometimes, having to clean up before and after, worrying about parking and treats and chairs and dogs and noise and music. Fortunately the neighbors are very understanding. Still, it HAS been quite a sacrifice.
My dad always says sacrifice is giving up one thing for something thing even better.
The dog was tiny, emaciated, half-wild with fear. He wouldn't come out from his hiding place except to eat the food we took him; then he'd slink out with his massive tan ears flattened, tail between his legs, ready to jump at any sudden movement. Everything about him showed that he had been badly abused.
Slowly but surely, the poor thing is warming up to us. Now he runs to greet us when we pull up, and occasionally follows us around the field until we leave again. He seems to especially love Sam. (And Slice seems to especially love him.)
Dobby's turning into an adorable dog with a great personality. So glad we saved his life.
Today we went out to change water: Mom, Dad, Slice and I. We pushed the wheel line all the way to the top of the field before we noticed one of the llamas was acting strangely. She wasn't grazing with the others -odd enough in itself- and Slice saw she had something sticking out of her. It took a minute to realize that it was a leg.
We called Dad over just as she took off. Normally the llamas won't let us anywhere near them, but we could see how much pain she was in as she stopped every few steps with a contraction. As soon as we got her holding still, I went for her neck and Dad grabbed at the foot. She pulled (pushed?) as hard as she could while he pulled the other direction. Nothing. She was on her knees with the effort. I stroked her neck and talked to her.
It didn't look like the baby was alive. We had no idea how long that foot had been sticking out, but it wasn't moving at all ... and it definitely didn't look good. It was a front foot, we realized eventually. Dad had to reach in and find the other one; he and Slice pulled together, looking for the head. It took a LONG time to come.
When it finally came, it all came, and a sticky black mess fell to the ground. It was dead.
The mama must have known, because she sank to the ground, exhausted, not even looking to see. It was several minutes before she got up and sniffed the baby, her own baby, her 11-month inhabitant.
We gave her some time to mourn, found softer dirt to dig a grave. (Mom left.)
Slice dug a hole, and we went back to get the baby. The mother was standing over it, humming -that's what llamas do to their babies - and she wasn't about to let us take it. She almost charged Slice, actually. So we gave her some more time.
Dobby came out and followed us down the field to the wheel line motor. While the men worked, he pranced around, pouncing on unsuspecting creatures and prowling through the tall weeds. I watched the mother llama standing sentinel over her dead baby. An hour later, we left her there.
I can't get that picture out of my head.
That was the first birth I've watched, strangely enough. It reminded me all too well of my own losses and those of my loved ones ... oh, how my heart ached for that mother.
When we got back home I crashed on the bed; two hours later, I awoke with a sore throat and that familiar lethargic feeling.
It's been a hard day.
He never let her forget that she was his Queen.
Perhaps the best tribute to this great man and his wonderful wife is the one I could never give.
On their 50th wedding anniversary, my grandparents had a special temple session. Every One of their eleven children, and nearly all of their spouses, were in attendance for the occasion.
Now that is true love.
I have no preference when it comes to Miracle Whip and Mayo. I can't even tell a difference between them. Truly.
I think every student in the nation should have heard that speech yesterday.
I love BYU. A lot. Even when the sports teams lose, and I have to listen to snarky comments from my in-laws. (Oh wait. I have to listen to those even when they WIN.)
I find it completely absurd that people will ask couples point-blank about their "family plans." Isn't that private? Like, is there anything more private than that? I know we're all curious, but when they ask those questions, do they want to hear the real answers?
(I was actually hoping you would cheat.)
According to my Dashboard, this is my 200th post!
Unfortunately, at least 15 of those posts are drafts, never to see the light of the public eye.
Today I'm wishing I was in Milan with Angie
Shopping at the ultra-fashionable stores,
walking through the 15th-century castle and napping in the park behind it.
I would love to see Da Vinci's Last Supper again,
'Course, only an hour's train ride away, there is a beautiful little town built around a beautiful lake.
First of all, I'm so impressed with people who dedicate that kind of time to running, something I have a hard time doing at all, and especially in public so that other people can see. If/When I exercise, I avoid human contact at all costs. Strange but true.
Second, they are competing. Emily shaved two minutes off her time from the meet last weekend - which is amazing - and if you recall, when I was her age, I couldn't run. Period.
A strange thing happened as I watched the runners go past once, twice, and then push on to the end. Parents, teammates and coaches cheered them on from all sides; I joined them as I snapped pics of Audrey and my sweet Em.
I started crying.
The emotion came out of nowhere, really, and I had to check myself to keep the tears from coming. You know, the quick-blink, hard-swallow drill that holds the weeping at bay. I had to do it for almost an hour straight ... Or else I would have been bawling right there on the sidelines.
This happened to me once before, at the one track meet of my life. It was the 2007 State Meet at BYU's outdoor track, and I was there to watch my brother Alex compete. Oh my heavens, I couldn't believe the emotions that boiled up as I watched those kids race toward the finish line.
Isn't that the strangest thing?
Finally, after swallowing and taking pictures and walking around a little, I told my mom that I was having a hard time not crying."Oh, me too," she said. "These things get me every time. I'm so glad I'm not the only one!"
Mystery solved. It's genetics.