Wes was fine today, until we got back from running together (by that, of course, I mean I ran and he slept in the stroller). From about four o’clock on he wouldn’t do anything I wanted him to do. If I wanted him to play quietly so I could do something that contributes to my sanity, such as eat dinner or take a shower, he wouldn’t. He wasn’t screaming or anything, just being fussy and noisy.

The most blissful moment of my night was when I finished giving him his last bottle around 8 p.m. and he lay peacefully in my lap, staring up at me with big, glassy, tired-looking eyes. This lasted for about five minutes, him just looking up at me, until his lids finally got heavy and blinked a few times, and then he was out. FINALLY!

So THEN I got to eat dinner and do the one fun thing I had told myself I’d get to do tonight–make cookies. Only here’s how it went.

While the oven preheated I rolled the cookie dough in cinnamon and sugar (for snickerdoodles) and put them on the baking sheet. When the oven was halfway to 375 degrees I started to notice the air was getting rather smoky, and it smelled like smoke, too. I turned around and saw a thick haze of smoke right above the oven. I opened its door and smoke poured out. I shut it fast, but not before noticing some nice charred remnants of last night’s frozen pizza burning bright orange on the oven’s floor. I didn’t want to set off the smoke alarm (especially since the baby had JUST gone down to sleep), so I turned the vent on high and quickly ran around opening windows and the back door. Between the vent blaring on high speed and the book on CD I was listening to (Princess Mia, by Meg Cabot) turned up at top volume so I could hear it over the vent, it’s probably lucky the smoke alarm didn’t go off, because I likely would have blown an eardrum from all the noise. The open windows and door helped, though; soon the smoke levels diminished, and my cookies were baking merrily away in the oven.

I was just shaking my head at all the hassle I’d gone through for the sake of a batch of cookies when I noticed a strange, loud buzzing sound above me. I looked up and saw the hugest moth EVER frantically banging its head against the kitchen light fixture. This guy was two or three inches long, with a very pretty wing design that I would have admired had I observed it in its natural habitat outdoors and not in my kitchen at 9:30 at night when I’m trying miserably to make a batch of cookies. Normally I solicit John for all insect-related incidents, but he was working late and I was on my own. I had the good sense to turn off the kitchen light so the moth would quit banging against it, which it did, but then it flew frenetically all over everywhere in the dark, and I had to try to track it down with my hastily rolled-up newspaper, praying I’d smack the thing before it buzzed its way into my bowl of cookie dough. The moth finally settled against a window screen. I grabbed a dustpan and slapped it over the moth, which captured it, then slid a JCPenny ad between the moth and the screen to create a little trap. I carefully but quickly carried the moth to the back door, which I had closed as soon as I had seen the moth inside. As I was about to open it again, the moth escaped its trap and took refuge in the light fixture near the back door.

And then . . . I’m not sure what happened, exactly. Maybe the moth singed itself on the hot light as it tried to hide in the fixture. Or maybe I was a little more aggressive with the dustpan than I had thought. Because the moth didn’t move anymore after that. The three-inch guy is lying peacefully in our light fixture. And I’m not sure what to do about that.

So that’s how I ended up with a dead moth in my light fixture and a plate full of cookies. But at least Wes never woke up.

UPDATE, two hours later: I was in bed, trying to drift off to sleep when I heard that familiar fanatical flapping sound again. It was the moth, back from the dead! Or, I guess, it never was dead, but was maybe good at playing dead? Or maybe I had just tired it out from chasing it all around the kitchen. In any case, it was back. John is still at work, so I was still on my own to get rid of this guy for once and for all. This time it was me, the moth, and a giant issue of Allure magazine having a showdown in the hallway outside Wesley’s bedroom. I didn’t want to wake the baby with all my whapping, and I actually didn’t want to hurt the moth, but it’s nearly midnight and I was getting desperate. Let’s just say that the Allure magazine did the trick, at least to stun the moth well enough that I could take it downstairs and dump it out our back door. Who says fashion magazines are useless?

Last night John and I were watching a 20/20 report of weather myths that included a segment on lightning safety. I couldn’t help but remember the time John was nearly struck by lightning.

(Aside: John would title this post differently, of course. Last night I reminded him of when he was nearly struck by lightening and he just laughed saying, “I wasn’t nearly struck by lightning. It struck clear across the street!” Well, I’m writing this post and I say that lightning striking across the street from you means you were nearly struck by lightning, so I’ll title my post however I want.)

We were living in Provo and had just gotten home from dinner or someplace. It was dark and windy and looked stormy, although it wasn’t raining. As we walked from our car to the front door John said he thought he’d go for a walk. I said, “Suit yourself,” and off he went while I headed inside.

Once inside our condo I put my stuff down on the counter, checked our messages, and turned to head back into the living room. As I did I heard a loud boom and saw an enormous flash of light through the dining room window. It was brilliantly bright. I figured lightning must have hit a house or tree nearby, and I thought, “Wow! How amazing that I happened to turn just in time to see that!”

Not thirty seconds later John came back inside.

“That was a short walk,” I said. I noticed he seemed a little more excited than usual, which was due to the fact that he had nearly been struck by lightning and Could. Have. Been. Dead.

He had been walking around our block and was partway down 500 East when the lightning hit. It struck the tree diagonally across the street from where John was standing, maybe thirty-five feet away.

I think I was more shook up by it than he was. (How can guys get so excited by stuff like that when all the wife can think is, “Thank goodness I’m not a widow, thank goodness I’m not a widow…”?)

The next day we walked around the corner and saw the damage. The tree had been blown to smithereens with only a jagged stump left.

Moral: Don’t walk around the block in a lightning storm. Not even if it there is no lightning but could be. Especially if you’re married and your wife isn’t ready to be a widow yet. Do like the report on 20/20 said and stay home or in your car, but don’t hide under the tallest tree or on top of the Empire State Building or anyplace else prone to lightning. Otherwise you could end up like that jagged stump of a tree.

1. Instead of getting current top-40 songs stuck in your head, you find yourself humming the most popular tune in your own house–the one on the Fisher Price musical caterpillar: “Five little ladybugs meet for lunch, five little ladybugs munch and crunch. One, two, three, four, FIVE!”

2. When you get undressed at night you discover a used burp cloth between your t-shirt and sweater layers.

3. You can do anything one-handed.

4. When you’re shopping alone and you hear a baby cry you look around for your own baby, even though you know he’s at home with Dad.

5. Another person can throw up on you, pee on you, and sneeze in your face, and it doesn’t even faze you.

6. Sometimes you call another adult for no reason other than to talk to another adult.

7. Diaper coupons are equivalent to gold.

8. It feels weird to drive the car by yourself with no one in the backseat.

9. Showering is as luxurious as visiting a day spa in terms of being alone and smelling nice afterward.

10. You shop for a stroller with the same intensity as you would a new car, and look for all the same features: maximum storage capacity, best maneuverability, most cup holders.

John and I were married in the Nauvoo Temple on the first day it opened in 2002. I got caught up in some memories of it today while I was writing a letter to the Hancock County Clerk’s office in Carthage, IL, to request copies of our marriage certificate.

When we were preparing to get married, the letter we received from temple officials told us we needed to acquire a marriage license from the county courthouse in Carthage. We got an idea of how small Carthage is when the letter gave no address for the courthouse but directed us to “look for the largest building in the center of town.”

We were a little nervous we wouldn’t find it, but the letter’s directions were exactly on. Carthage is pretty compact (it’s so small that on Google Maps you can’t zoom in close enough to see residential street names–not even when the distance legend is in increments of 2000 feet). The courthouse would have been hard to miss unless we were blind.

Today when I was making calls and filling out paperwork to get copies of our marriage certificate the city’s smallness was reiterated when I saw that the P0 box for the county clerk’s office is PO Box 39 (have you ever seen such a low box number?), and again when I called the courthouse to ask a question. There was no automated menu; I got to talk to a real person right away!

Sometimes smaller is better, don’t you think?

Since Wes was born I’ve been having two recurring dreams. It’s strange, but I don’t remember having any recurring dreams before he came. (Technically, I’m not sure I can call these dreams “recurring,” since the scenes aren’t always identical, but the themes are always similar.)

1. I’m back in high school and everything is going wrong.

This is my most frequent dream, and I HATE it. Which amazes me, because I LOVED high school! The premise is usually that I’ve already graduated from high school, but for some reason I have to go back because I didn’t finish something. I always have trouble finding the classroom, I’m usually running late, I NEVER have my homework done, and I’m always stressing about passing my history class because I realize that the whole semester has gone and I haven’t gotten past reading chapter one. I’m just worrying, worrying, worrying and feeling like I’m so behind and failing. A common feeling is panic.

Does this mean that I’m anxious and insecure about something in real life? I wish I could figure that out so I can stamp out these dreams. I dislike waking up and feeling so unsettled.

(The funny thing is, even though I’m back in school, in my dream I’m always aware that I’m a mom. Sometimes the baby is there with me, and other kids are holding him for me in class. The baby shows up in a lot of my dreams now.)

2. I’m trying to get to London but it never works out.

This one doesn’t come up as often, but it’s just as annoying. The premise is that I’m on my way to London but, for various reasons, I never get there. Something usually goes wrong and I always wake up before I arrive. In real life, it’s been six years since I’ve been to England and I desperately want to go back. Is that why I keep dreaming about it? Do I just need to up and cross the pond to feel better?

Any dream doctors out there who can help me out? Or have you had recurring dreams yourself?

Today I had a meeting with the social security office to see about getting Wesley social security disability income. Wesley passed with flying colors. Turns out that Down syndrome qualifies him automatically.

His parents, however, didn’t pass. Turns out that good things like having cars paid off, working towards owning your own home, investing money in stocks and bonds, having 401K accounts, and earning more than minimum wage–things that the government wants every American to achieve–makes it impossible for Wes to receive disability income. He has to wait until either 1) John’s company flops and we end up on the streets or 2) he turns 18 and is suddenly suppposed to be self-sufficient.

One of my friends told me recently how her friend’s dad was trying to put her through college by working two jobs but was still struggling to make ends meet. So he sought help from the government. The government official told him there was nothing available to help him unless he made less money. The official’s advice? Quit both jobs and go on welfare. Now how’s that for working toward the American dream?