Either write something worth reading or do something worth writing—Benjamin Franklin

Feeling the Spirit

Before I write what I actually intended to write I have to put a note in here that I'm changing Little's name on the blog. It occurred to me the other day that I should probably stop referring to him as "Little" or he is going to get a complex. We've had so many nicknames for him over the past years that he probably didn't know what his actual name was until recently (maybe that is why he refers to himself in third person all the time), but I think it is time to phase this one out. And I know it's obsessive, but I still don't want his actual name on a public blog, so from hence forth he will be known as E.

And without further ado... the funniness of E. 
He has been very interested in all things gospel related lately, specifically Joseph Smith, but as I was mentioning before some of the lessons get a little lost in translation. There is a particular story in his scripture book that tells of how Joseph was traveling with Bishop Whitney and they jumped from a wagon because the horses bolted. For some reason it stuck with him and he asks me to tell it over and over again. The other night he decided he would tell it to me instead, only his version went something like this: "Joseph Smith had horses. The horsey got scared and ran fast and Joseph jumped and Jesus jumped. The horsey was running away and Joseph helped Jesus feel better. Joseph likes Jesus and the horsey was scared to run. Joseph and Jesus broke a leg and Joseph gave Jesus a blessing to feel all better and the horsey ran away fast." I'm not sure how much he got out of the actual lesson, but at least he is trying, right? 

Just today we were changing Gigi's diaper (E was "helping" by standing on the stool next to her) and E announced, "I'm feeling the spirit for Gigi and mommy," bowed his head, and started mumbling into the changing table. It took me a couple of minutes and lots of questions to understand exactly what was going on, but it all became clear when I realized that the top rail of the changing table looks a bit like a microphone. He was bearing his testimony. He's very concerned when people speaking in church start crying, so we've had to talk at length about how people sometimes cry when they are feeling the Spirit. Perhaps I need to explain things a bit better. 

I am a medical miracle.

Mostly because that is the only explanation for the fact that I can still stand up and carry on a semiconscious conversation when for the last week I've gotten twelve hours of sleep cumulatively. Two hours a night is not enough sleep. On the plus side, things are a hundred times funnier when you are delirious. For example, when your three-year-old wakes you up in the middle of the night by "whistling"--which basically means he yells, "Woot! Wooo! Woot!" over and over again--and saying,"Mommy, come to me NOW!" you laugh rather than cry. Or when one or both of your children somehow choose the exact moment that your head hits the pillow to start crying and it makes you giggle (most of the time). Or when you finally do get to get back in bed and not only is your husband taking up the entire bed, he is wrapped in the sheets so tight that you have to pry them from his sleeping form or freeze to death trying, and you laugh so hard you almost cry.
Life is so much more entertaining when you don't sleep.
Life is also so much more entertaining when it is finals time. This I owe to Bryce being the craziest sleeper known to man and when he is stressed it is even better. We have had so many sleep conversations in the last few weeks that have ended with him announcing, "Ignore me. I think I'm asleep." There have been remarkable few instances of spousal abuse this time around though, so maybe we are making improvements.

Gigi is growing like a weed, despite the lack of sleep, and Little is possibly the sweetest big brother on the planet. He still throws a fit every time someone holds her or looks like they might try, but we're working on it. He loves to play with her and make her smile--which she does quite a bit these days. The other day he was snuggling on my lap while I fed her and he said, "Mommy, baby Gigi is certainly beautiful." He could not love her more. He has also attempted to climb up into her bed or the changing table to try to talk to her on several occasions. To the point that I finally dragged a stool into her room and showed him an easier way to get to her. All day long it is, "Baby Gigi wants this," or "Baby Gigi is unhappy, help her!" or "Baby Gigi woke up. Woot! I'm so excited!" How in the world did I get such sweet kids?

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