An 11 year old with a camera

Jason has been a bit obsessed with photography in recent months and wants nothing more than a camera for Christmas. Here's to hoping he gets one because this is just a sampling of what I find on my memory card on a daily basis:




And then of course periodically I come across one like this:

Which could be related to one like this:


Uhhh, I think it's about time to start talking to the boy about all things grown up if you know what I mean.

Dumb lamp...that's right I said dumb!

Really, I couldn't make this stuff up if I tried.

Here lies Jack:


Jack fell asleep on the chair the other night, homeboy is still having trouble going to sleep in his own bed, monsters in the closet, noises that go bump in the night...ya'll get the picture. So he fell asleep on the chair. So I had to take a picture. So after I took the picture I had to turn out the lamp that is behind the chair because we were all going to bed. And then....and then...it happened. The foofy stuff on the lamp got completely tangled around my necklace. Uhhh, what now? Well, I still had the camera in my hand so what else could I do? I snapped a few self photogs and here is the result.




Oh, and as a side note. While all of this was taking place John was sitting at the computer 4 feet away with his back to me. I just couldn't bring myself to call for him to help. I mean really, what am I going to say? Honey! I'm in a battle with the lamp and the lamp is winning. Or Help! I'm being chocked by decorative ivy! That is soooo not sexy. So I silently snapped away with the camera and then spent 10 minutes trying to free myself from the lamp's evil clutches. All the while he had no idea what was happening. Told you I couldn't make this stuff up.

A lookie look around the house

Well, my friends. I survived the first wave of the battle that is my home when I have been on the bench for a week. Now let us commence phase 2: germ warfare. This is where the comeback gets tricky because as you can see germs and other such disgusting-ness can be harder to seek out and destroy. Here are some examples of my enemies:
Exhibit A:

Funny thing happens when the dishes don't get done twice a day like they usually are. You quickly run out of spoons and your kids figure out other ways to eat their applesauce.
Exhibit B:

Ummm...I really don't even want to know so we're gonna go ahead and move on.
Exhibit C:

Two! Count them two! Containers of Pringles that whoever ate these(and I know which one you are!) decided that the trash can was too far away...not to mention there is no eating in the living room...and you probably weren't supposed to be eating chips anyway which is why you attempted to hide them. I'm on to you man!
And Finally:

Lookie look! Another funky sock! Under the TV stand....where it can proceed to stink up our lovely abode undetected....germ warfare. This heavy stuff people, send in the calvary. No seriously....HELP!

Mmmmm so good

So we have all heard that attage about the way to a man's heart is through his stomach. Well ladies and gentlemen, may I submit to you that the way to their heart is through beer pot roast. Indeed, yes. Wanna give it a roll? Here is all that you will need:

First, a man. Here is mine(sorry you can't have mine, I have been attached to him since I was 16, I like him...a lot):


Followed by about 5 of these..any brand will do but just remember don't cook with what you wouldn't drink so please no Coors or Budweiser here...we can be more refined than that. These happen to be from Germany from one of John's trips...just don't tell him I used his good German beer for pot roast.


A crockpot...I think a pink crockpot(thank you Sheryl!) adds to the flavor of the meal somehow but you may choose any crock pot you like.


A box of this...comes with four packets, you will only need two.


And of course one of these:

Because what is a pot roast with the roast? Well, I guess it'd be pot...which I believe is illegal in all 50 states so I implore you not to make pot....but only pot roast so please ladies, don't forget the roast.

Put pot roast in said crock pot(wow, I'm just realizing there is a lot of pot in this pot roast in the crock pot) rub with the Good Seasonings on each side of the roast and then fill your crock pot up to the very top with beer. Put the lid on and walk away. Do not under any circumstances lift the lid at any time during it's 8-9 on high hour cooking time. As a friend once told me(hi Nancy!), if you're lookin you ain't cookin! Whip up some homemade mashed potatoes, use the beer as gravy for them and enjoy! (Just remember what I said about the no making pot thing....I ain't bailing you out of jail...okay fine..I'll bail you out...but only once!)

Oh, and furthermore..whichever one of my precious future daughter in laws happens to marry this child of mine, you will want to commit this recipie to memory because Punkie loves his pot roast!

Keepin it real

Now as many, many, many of you know I aspire to be June Cleaver. I need not no fancy job, no fancy office nor lunch dates with clients. I enjoy that my clients are about four feet tall and quite often smell funny. I love to cook, enjoy homemade rolls rising on top of the oven, and love to have fresh vacuum lines in my carpet. Well, apparently even June gets a nasty cold now and again...though they never showed that on TV....hmmmm, gonna have to ask the Beav about that. So John is top notch when it comes to kid wrangling when I am doing my best...unsuccessfully....to remain concious during daylight hours when I should be taking care of my kids. Homeboy will swoop in and get them to where they need to be, take them out to lunch...the works. When we are in good health he will take a few loads of laundry up to our room, put on a game and fold clothes. Yes, I know, he's cool. Now honey, this is the part where you look away.....are you gone? Okay, ladies...let's just keep it real. He can't do both kids AND housework at the same time....he has that male genetic inability to multitask. Yikes! Which means that everyday I am sick I know in the back of my mind the work load is building minute by minute.....waiting...taunting me if you will.....for my recovery so it can rear it's ugly head right in the middle of my kitchen. So here it is in all of it's dirty dish glory. 3 days sick and counting so here I go. I have popped a few motrin and I am diving in. If no one hears from me for a few days call the paramedics I may have been swallowed by the pile of dirty socks.

A Martin family record! Grrrrr.

I think I am incompetent. (That is different than incontinent...that would just be a whole other set of problems.) Jordan came home with 3, count them, 3 DEMERITS today. 3 demerits, 1 day. Really, could we get the kid a medal or something? Thus I have come to the conclusion we are most definitely unfit parents and someone should really be checking up on our parental abilities. Now here is where the real problem lies. This kid is funny. This kid is nothin but funny. He has an uncanny ability to make up funny dances, say funny things in funny voices, and find humor in everday life. Jordan is everybody's buddy. He is a rockstar of the 5th grade. Jordan loves people and people...well, the 11 and under crowd...love him. He funny, very, very funny. Now enter school. They don't think he is quite as comical as I do, nor do they apparently see the virtue of his comedy. And that is where east meets west, the rock becomes the hard place, the petal hits the metal, the.....uhhhh, I'm all out of analogies...but you see what I mean. So what to do with this boy of ours? All I can reason is that if we can get him through the 5th grade he may have a shot at this colorful world of ours beyond the confines of the playground fence. Good luck Punkie! We are right behind you all the way, you rock...I don't care what the dumb demerit says. (Just don't tell your teacher I said it was dumb...she'll give you another demerit, yikes!)

Dear Santa

Dear Santa,

Jack has asked me to tell you that in leiu of toys or other such lovelies, he would prefer 25 pairs of uniform pants this year. Yep, no new basketball, no new scooter, definitely no lego batman....uniform pants. He tears holes in the knees...much to my delight....not.... .at an average of a pair every two days. That's what the boy wants. And really, who are we to stand in the way of a boy and his dream? Meanwhile, if anyone needs me I will be at the local fabric store taking sewing lessons. Help!

Pass the Geritol

John and I stepped out to Christmas party #2 last night...it was a bit like being at a fraternity party at times I will confess...I haven't seen breasts flying around like that since the days of nursing twins. I truly was bracing myself; for there were a few cups that were about to overfloweth if you know what I mean. I had a tremendous urge to tackle a few of them and then proceed to stuff their 19 year old breasts back into their too tight dresses where they belong....would that be inappropriate? So while the young one's were running around playing a very funny game....(though it is of note to reference above information regarding tight dresses and misplaced anatomy that a game involving running was probably not their best choice.....errrr get my drift?....) they were probably feeling like this:

John and I felt a bit like this:

Pa and I found those young-ens to be entertain'......we gotta go take our pill now and lay down for da mornin nap cause we gotta get up and churn butter later...busy day.

Remember when?

Remember when we were kids the front of the Wheaties box had amazing athletes like


or



and

And how we would stare at those boxes and dream of one day becoming that star? That top notch of an athlete to land OUR picture on the front of the box? Now Honey Nut Cheerios is no Wheaties, this I know but come on! Juan Soler? Who the?! What the?!...... Really?!So Juan, my 11 year old read about you this morning...nay, looked at your picture this morning...because your description was in espanol...and from what we could discern you are a telemundo star and Jason and 10 friends could win a trip to see you in fabulous Las Vegas. Good for you Juan. We salute you and your great hair. Keep up the good work.

Can't turn my back for a minute!

When people gawk at us in stores or out in the neigborhood at the fact that we have four boys so close together I get the ineveitable, "Wow, you must be busy!" or, "I feel sorry for you!" or inevitably, "Are they all yours?" Well, I wouldn't say it's the busyness that keeps us on our toes because we are just so used to that...and I just find the feel sorry for me comment slightly insulting. What it would be is the noise. Four boys = noise, noise, noise and a bit more noise. Someone is always talking, someone is usually unhappy about something and someone is DEFINITELY always hungry which brings about more noise. They are amazing and we are so blessed to have them but here is just a small glimpse at what happens when I run to the store and daddy is trying to catch a few minutes of the Oregon State football game.

Yep, that's Jordan. Tied to the kitchen table by his brother with some wristbands, a valance and a pool stick. Busy? No. Loud? Yes. Feel sorry for me? No.How boring would it be to go to the store and not find one of your children tied to the table.

Goodbye little boy, Hello preteen

Well, it had to be something. My sweet boy has grown up and is beginning to assert himself. He doesn't yell, scream, slam doors, stomp or even roll his eyes at me...sometimes....but he wants his hair longer. -sigh- I knew this day would come but I just think boys look so cute like this:


And I hoped he would grow up to want hair like this:


But instead, it appears he wants hair like this:


Which, sorry Celine...love your music but could you get your son a haircut? A small trim perhaps?

So the battle lines have been drawn, thank goodness for private school with hair regulations! Though I must give him something; so every morning out the door we go as I smile politely and tell him he looks nice, all the while trying to quell the urge inside of me to chase him down the sidewalk with a brush and a can of hairspray.

My favorite Christmas tree

Though there has been some "interesting" discussion on my Facebook page as to my new favorite Christmas tree that is flocked and what exactly that means, I thought I would dispell any rumors that this is my favorite, FAVORITE Christmas tree for indeed it is not. And though I am married and can flock all I want, I wanted to share you with you a little diddy about my all time favorite tree.

Here it is:


When we were stationed at Scott and Hurrican Katrina hit I went with our church a couple of weeks before Christmas on a mission trip to Ocean Springs, MS to help two families rebuild. It was an amazing trip, one that I will not forget. I, being the world traveler...frequent flyer that I am....not...totally forgot two very important items: a toothbrush(because who wants help from someone with nasty ole teeth) and a pillow(because who wants help from a grouchy someone cause they didn't sleep well). So on our way I made a call to my totally cool dad and my equally awesome Mewissa who lived nearby. We arrived at the church we were staying at late that night and there I found not only a big comfy pillow, a brand new toothbrush, a basket full of snack and goodies, but also this Christmas tree. I just thought that was such an expression of love and I have cherished this Christmas tree ever since. It sits prominently year after year in the living room and everytime I look at it I am reminded of their love. So dad and mewissa, thanks again many years later. I still love it and I don't care what Uncle Doug says, you are too cool. Love ya!

Oh, and a little shout out to my husband, when I got home and went to get into the car it had flowers and dessert waiting for me and this sign was in the window.

Isn't he great? I heart him.

Naughtiness running amuck

Meet Jack.


Jack likes to talk.


A lot.

Jack also likes to find interesting ways to make his presence known.

Like this.


Or this.


Jack's talking also annoys his teacher.


A lot.

Meet Jack. Soon to spend his days in the principal's office if he doesn't stop talking.


A lot.