The Nutcracker

Warning: This post is fraught with public admissions of mistreatment to my parents, confessions of bad behavior, and general attitude problems. Just to warn you. My image may be knocked down a few pegs here. I can handle it though.

When I was about 14 years old I became the devil incarnate. Really. It's true. I was a beastly teenager and I am so scared for the karma that is undoubtedly mine to come in the next 4-5 years. But still, I'm pretty sure that whatever teenage Abigail has at the ready, it will be nothing compared to what I put my parents through at the same age. Evil makes me sound like a spring day when trying to describe my behavior.

Well, it was during this time that my parents wanted to try out a new Christmas tradition. They bought 6 tickets to the Nutcracker for all of us to go to together. It had to be expensive, I'm sure. It had to be a bargaining session between my parents, I'm sure of as well (my dad and dancing? Ummm. No.). It was a sacrifice to say the least.

When we got there I remember all the velvet everywhere. The giant nutcrackers in the entry to welcome us. Everything was so pretty. We climbed up flights and flights of stairs to our seats and got settled. After that it only took a few minutes for me to begin to ruin everything. I think I even set an Olympic record. A tall guy ended up sitting right in front of me, and so I threw a fit. I was the little bear in the bed and made everyone roll over until someone fell out and then I wrecked the entire evening. I'm sure I thrashed around in my seat so much that even people who weren't my family members began getting annoyed. I've never thought of that before now!! I probably owe an apology to total strangers as well!!

Dear total strangers,

If you went to the Nutcracker about 18 years ago, and were unfortunate enough to have to sit behind, next to, or in front of a family of 6 with a teenage girl who had blonde hair down to her waist who was acting like a total ingrate, I sincerely apologize. I would try to make it up to you, but apparently my behavior was so bad that it made "ballet" a swear word, and I probably won't be able to remedy that. Just know that my parents were totally disappointed and cannot be held responsible.

Sincerely,

The recovered bratty girl

The ride home from the event was icy, to say the least. Never, never, never, never again would we even think about repeating any event of the kind. Back at home I had a direct line to Satan himself. He called me up on the Devil phone and said "Wow. Nice work. I'm totally impressed. I wouldn't have even gone that far. Kudos to you, Christmas wrecker".

So now, 18 years later and with kids of my own, it is ironic that Jeb's work can get tickets for the event. We've managed to go 2 years in a row; the first year with Abigail and her friend, this year just me and my girls. It's really a lovely event and I enjoy it immensely. The dressing up, the elegant setting, the music. Really lovely. Both years we have invited my parents to come along with us (well, really just my mom. Remember? My dad and dancing? Ain't happening), but they just smirk a little and politely decline. I ask them if it's because of the fact that it is ballet, or the fact that it is ballet with me next to them. They always say they just aren't interested in the production, but I'm pretty sure that if I managed to get them into the theatre they would have a terrible flash back and begin to hyperventilate and paramedics would have to be called. That would be a new story for a new crop of strangers, though, wouldn't it?

I think it was right after Christmas that year that I began to reform, thank heavens. My parents managed to survive. But little did we know what was waiting in the wings - my sister Tracy was about to hit 14. Oh. The. Humanity.

My girls were much better behaved than I ever was. Abigail is taken right from the lifting of the curtain. Leah just had to be reassured that there were actually people in the bear and mice costumes, and that they weren't really real. Then came the only other 2 questions:

"Do all the boys wear girl shoes?"

and

"Are the boys wearing tights, or pants?"

My Persistence Has Paid Off

It has only taken 14 years of training, but I finally have Jeb right where I want him - scared to death. It happened after one too many pregnant hormonal freak outs over one too many items of clothing shrunk in one too many loads of laundry that aren't meant for the dryer. That's right. He committed the unforgivable offense of actually drying the clothes that were in the washing machine. How dare he!!

I get that he was trying to help, really I do. I just can't bring that understanding to the bulge in my belly that is cooking up all the crazy lady hormones in my head. That would take reason and rational thinking; 2 things that are among the first to go out the window when I am with child.

We both knew this would happen. I'm always hopeful that this pregnancy will be the one that won't bring out the psycho-crazy-head-spinning-pea-soup-shooting mom, but I'm always found powerless in the face of gestational hormones. When we told my side of the family that we were bringing the number of grand kids up to 7, my sister in law reminded me that she comes from a family of 5. She mentioned that her mom had to stop at 5 because they almost lost her in the delivery of that baby. My brother said "Don't tell her that!", but it didn't bother me one bit. I told them that really the only person who risked any injury to life or limb with this pregnancy was Jeb. If either of us wasn't going to make it through, it was absolutely my poor husband who would suffer at the hands of his mood swinging wife.

All of us could feel it brewing. The soundtrack of our house was starting to intensify, and all our hearts were beginning to beat a little bit faster and faster every day. It was just one bad moment when his good Samaritan efforts, with an unfortunate and unintended outcome, launched me over the edge. Poor guy. It's good he was far away from home when he called to check in on me. Even with that space I'm pretty sure I did mange to do some kind of damage through the phone. He hung up completely deflated. On the other hand, he would be in the hospital if it weren't for the distance from our house to his office.

To try to avoid this mistake in the future, he decided to make a simple sign for me to put on the washer when there are items in the load that shouldn't be dried.

See? Scared to death. Now, what should I do with this new found power? I could use it for evil, if I wanted to, right? I'll be thinking on that while he's driving to the gas station in the bitter cold to get me that drink I demanded before I burst into tears. Poor, poor man.

The Jazz Game

In looking for excitement while the kids are off track, we were lucky enough to attend a Jazz game. The kids had a lot of fun. Leah began covering her ears about a block away from the Delta Center, and didn't uncover them until we were in the car on the way home.







What? I know, I know. It's called the Energy Solutions Arena. But, my parents taught me that once you get used to a name, that name can never be changed. That is why my dad still calls it Grand Central (which then changed to Fred Meyer, and now doesn't even exist, but not in our house) and why my mom still shops at Pic 'N Save (which then changed to McFrugals, and then to Big Lots). Plus, ESA is lame, and Delta Center is just easier to say.

Anyway...


Hudson was in heaven. He has a thing for sports, you know. Football on TV captivates him and brings out the Hakka Dance in addition to his intimidating growl and the bearing of his teeth. So a real live basketball game was his idea of nirvana.

It was a fun outing. We had good enough seats for the kids, which is all that matters. They were also given calendars and programs as we entered the doors, so right from the start it was a success; and a success for mom and dad since those counted as souvenirs and we didn't have to go and get something from the tables. Perfect ending to a great activity.

Abigail's Secret Project

I am not into Reflection contests. It's just one more thing on the homework checklist that I don't want to have to put any effort into if it is not required - along with anything else that ends in the word "Fair". But this year, Abigail was all about it. She saw that there was a category for photography and just like her talented father, she has been bitten by the photography bug. For the past 4 years or so she has asked for some type of camera for Christmas, birthdays, and any other event that would warrant a gift. So when photography was a category that she could enter, she knew that she wanted to participate in the madness that is Reflections.

I was fine with that idea. She can run around and take kookie pictures of whatever. That's groovy. But when she told me the theme and what she wanted to use as her subject to convey said theme, that's when my heart swelled to the point of turning me into weepy mom.

The theme - "Beauty Is...."

The subject she thought would be the best - Grandma.

So, we arranged for her to follow grandma around for a few activities, but always on the low down. Abigail was set on making her project a surprise. She documented one of mom's treatments, grandma playing with Hudson while jam was cooling, and a few other outings where grandma put up with a camera in her face like paparazzi.

Sweet, sweet girl. She thinks my mom going through her cancer treatments is beauty. I've thought so during this whole ordeal, I just didn't know that Abigail had caught onto it as well. I am always amazed at the depth of my little girl. Some kids would cower at the sight of their grandma in the hospital (I have one who did), grandma losing hair, and grandma not feeling so well sometimes. But Abigail sees only the strength, grace, and beauty that has come out of these things. Oh, I love that girl. She's developed more traits from grandma than mom, that's for sure.

Here's the finished work and the pictures that Abigail took herself. Even though she didn't move on in the competition, I still think it was the best entry there.

She cropped me out of this one, thank goodness.

Leah Boo

Leah and I have shared some magic this year. It was the year she and I were 3 together. She was 3 and I was 3, too. Or 3-2. Or 32. Whatever. She was 3 and I was 3, too. This birthday magic started when Abigail was 5 and Papa was 5, too. Perfectly planned, if you ask me. But Leah decided to move on. She left me in the 3, too dust. Now she is 4 and I am just back to plain old 32. Not as much fun at all.

She's been very excited for her birthday. 4 is a party year for us. 4 also means that she is finally old enough for school, when school starts next fall for her. Bummer. I try to get them all to stop having birthdays at 3, but so far none of the kids have been takers on that. We had her party at our local aquarium with a few of her favorite friends. I think we all had a pretty good time.

Leah is my sweetheart. If you didn't know, she is the reason the sun comes up every day. I love her blond hair, big brown eyes, and chubby little cheeks. She sure does give me a run for my money, boy howdy. She is the reason why child proof doorknobs were invented. But, even though she is usually the reason behind my most frustrating days, she is also always the one to pull me out of them.

My Leah favorites from this year:

- She still wants to wear skirts every day. No matter how cold it is outside, she is in a skirt with ballet flats. Almost exclusively pink skirts and pink shirts. Her closet looks like it has been hosed down with pepto bismal (extra credit if you can place that movie quote).

- Whenever she goes to her friend's house, which is usually right across the street, or across the street and 2 houses down, she rides her bike. With every 7 or 8 pedals I hear "Love you, Mom!", another 7 or 8 pedals and again I hear her little Lullaby League munchkin voice yelling "Love you, Mom!", over and over again until she gets to her friend's house.

- She says to me "I can count by 10s. Want to see?" "Sure" I say. "10" she says. And then with a shrug of her shoulders says "See? It's easy."

- Leah mysteriously stopped sucking her finger sometime in this past year. I noticed it when, after a day of manicures, her polish was lasting. I asked her "Do you suck your finger anymore?" She said "Yeah, sometimes". I said "Really? Because I don't see you do it anymore. Do you only do that when you go to sleep?" She replied "No. I only do that on Thursdays and Fridays now".

- Leah asked Abigail to help her write her letter to Santa. Abigail wrote down everything Leah instructed. I then got the report:

Abigail: She asked Santa for ponies.

Leah: 'Cause I like 'em!

A: She would like Littlest Pet Shops.

L: 'Cause I like 'em!

A: She asked for Barbies.

L: 'Cause I like 'em!

I love my Boo. She is a wonderful warm ray of sunshine. I wish we could stay 3 and 3, too together for oh so much longer.

Utah Vs. BYU

Doesn't Jeb look a little scared at the prospect of taking Abigail to the rivalry game? Or maybe he's just scared of Utah.




Jeb and Abigail decided to brave the BYU vs. Utah game together this year. In the past we have thought that rivalry games are no place for small children. But, with it being at BYU this year, and having her dad at her side, we figured that Provo was probably a safer place for Abigail and Jeb than my parent's house.


Unfortunately for me, Abigail is a die hard cougar. I manage to keep them in my Utah fold until they are old enough for Jeb to start taking them to games. Apparently, I lack the excitement, Cougar dogs, and churros that the stadium offers, since once they begin attending the games there, their loyalty goes with them. I'll have to work on that.


Harrison is still with me, though. Really he is with any team that will get him a toy. He's easy that way. I'll take what I can get. Leah is deathly afraid of Cosmo, so she's still in my camp as well. Hudson has no choice in the matter whatsoever. He doesn't get to chose what he wears, and can't voice a complaint, so red it is for him.


The small Ute fans and I went to watch the game at my parent's house. It was fun. We had painted red hair, red snacks, and the game on full blast. Even our socks were red. Too bad the team didn't have our enthusiasm. Now Abigail and Jeb have bragging rights for an entire year. They are good sports, though. Abigail just called up grandma and papa and said "Go Cougars!". To which my dad replied "No way! Utah rules and Cougars drool!" Excellent comeback, dad. Abigail thought it was funny. If only the quarterback of the winning team had as much grace in winning as Abigail does. She's a good sport. Even if she does live with a classless mother. Watch out for next year!! We'll be on a rampage!!

The victor. Go Cougs, I guess.

Abigail and Grandma and Papa

Lucky little Abigail has been spoooooiiiiillled by Grandma and Papa lately. She has wanted to do a secret "project" that involved grandma (more about that another time), and so my mom has had a cute little shadow in the shape of Abigail for a few activities. First, Abigail was lucky enough to accompany Grandma to a treatment at the Huntsman one Saturday morning. While my mom was being infused, Abigail was taught the fine art of counted cross stitch. I remember being taught the fine art of counted cross stitch when I was about her age, too. Abigail and I both had the most wonderful teacher. We are both so blessed.

Next, my munchkin asked Grandma if she would teach her how to make jam. She had to ask grandma since this activity usually involves a stove, and so as a rule does not involve me. I have lost touch with stoves and ovens more and more with every baby that comes into our family. We currently barely even exchange Christmas cards. If you could just reheat jam in the microwave, then Abigail would have asked mom to teach her, but since there definitely is a stove involved, Grandma was just the right teacher.

The plan was that I was going to just drop Abigail off and then leave. I ran in to do some paperwork which ended up taking the same amount of time as the jam. This did not meet Abigail's approval. Oh, well. It was just the two of them jamming, and we ended up with 9 jars of strawberry jam for our house, and NOT ONE JAR left for Papa, which made our jam that much sweeter.

Next, Abigail was able to take Grandpa for 9 holes one Saturday afternoon. You would think that Papa would have taken Abigail, but with the way she spanked him on the course, it was absolutely Abigail who took Papa. She had a blast and can't wait for another go. Maybe this time she will drive the cart? Look out, Stonebridge. I think she and Papa have a few secrets from that trip, since every time we drive by Abigail looks at all the geese on the green and gets a devilish grin on her face. I wonder what she and Papa did to those geese. I guess that's a mystery that was left on the fairways of Stonebridge, and between just Abigail and Papa.

She is a lucky, lucky sweet little girl.

Off Track

We made it through another 9 weeks of school. Hallelujah. Now starts our Christmas off track. It really is the most wonderful time of the year. I get to love, mug, and chew on my monkeys every day at any time clear through the New Year. They have no choice in the matter. We are going to be sleeping in as late as possible, and then stay in our pajamas all day long. My mattress will finally feel comfortable with the perfect number of 4 lumps in it instead of the 2 that have been there by themselves for weeks. If you are looking for any of us, that's right where we'll be. All of us glued together wherever we go. All 4 of them beside each other, and right with me. I love it.

This off track brings even more happiness to me because I have the Santa Factor. If I want these crazies to do what I ask, all I have to do is remind them of that Jolly Old Elf watching, and boy do they move. It's done miracles in the past, and I hope it still works this year. I'm afraid that they have realized the strength in their numbers, though, and the threat of the naughty list is losing its hold on them. They know that if they don't do what it takes to be in Santa's good graces, at least our neighbors Grace and Brynn have had their names etched on the good list for life. My guys think that if they just wait until Santa shows up to the Christensen's house, they can totally take that bowl full of jelly, no problem. If this is the case, I won't be celebrating this off track with my 4 Christmas angels; it will be more like the 4 horsemen of the Apocalypse that I'm dealing with. Let's hope for a happy vacation from school for all of us. If not, I'll just be munching on their 4 pairs of chewy cheeks from the depths of the time out room.

Super Sister

Harrison came from school today scratched, bleeding, and understandably upset. "Look" he said as he unveiled his elbow. "I'm bleeding". After kissing, consoling, and band-aiding, I asked what had happened. Turns out his friend was bugging him the whole walk home from school. This guy was grabbing Harrison's backpack and pushing him and pulling him with it until Harrison finally bit the dust, sacrificing his elbow to protect his handsome little face.

Then Abigail came walking in the door. "Harrison's friend pulled him down on the way home from school". "I know", I said "but he's better now". Abigail then took off her jacket to reveal her cape. "I grabbed that kid by his backpack and got right in his face and yelled at him that he better never touch my brother ever again. I told him to knock it off right then."

Excellent. Our training has paid off. She stood up for and protected her brother. Nice. We watch out for each other around here, I tell you what. You mess with one Brammer, you get us all. And that should strike fear into the heart of any contender, considering how many of us there are.

Super Abigail to the rescue. Our hero. I love her more than any super power would permit.

It's Official

Although the test came back positive months ago, and I have been rudely waking up the bottom of the toilet very early every morning for weeks and weeks, I didn't officially become pregnant until today.

Today I broke out the maternity clothes.

There is one problem with me and maternity clothes. It seems that whenever I'm not expecting, the maternity clothes are cute, fashionable, and cheap. They actually look like something a real person would wear, and in the daylight even. Whenever I am pregnant, however, the maternity clothes turn into big (and I mean BIG) rolls of fabric that some poor 2nd grade class tried to make into a pop-up tent or a big duffel bag to haul the soccer balls out to recess, but failed miserably. They then use these massive failures as the selections for my entire maternity wardrobe. In fact, the uglier the maternity clothes, the more convinced my sisters are that I'm pregnant, even before we have announced it. They'll pull out one of the hideous selections from the rack and say "oh, you're totally pregnant". And low and behold, I am!! I dislike maternity clothes, intensely.

As soon as I begin wearing my maternity clothes, I end the "doesn't my little bulging belly make me feel feminine" feeling, and just feel like a big beer bellied cow. A big cow trying to cover her beer belly with a giant turquoise flowery poncho with sleeves. Usually puffy sleeves. Ugh.

Jeb has even ventured into the way too expensive, uppity, snobbish maternity stores, that usually don't allow us to enter, to see if he can find something that could be considered marginally attractive. He would have paid whatever the price to make me feel better about my homely appearance. He came out empty handed. If, however, we went into those same stores right after I have had a baby, we would stand there open jawed at all the lovely choices.

It has to be some kind of curse. That or a terrible, terrible, extremely mean joke. One more thing to put on my list of why these kids owe me big time. "We had to drive to the hospital in the worst snow storm of the century when I was in labor with you! And then, when we got there, my labor lasted for 197 hours! And the anesthesiologist was busy for 196 1/2 of those hours! And, to top it all off, I had to wear the ugliest clothes you can imagine once my waist disappeared!!" Oh, they will pay, these kids. They will pay.

I Love Boring

No, not Jeb. Although I do, and he is.

The older I get (and some days that feels so very old), the more I appreciate the same old, same old of boring life. Change is not good, exciting is not so exciting, and predictability is the dream.

At mom's appointment today, boring was the answer. All the test results were reported as "stable, stable, no growth, and stable". Those words have never sounded so wonderful. This means our boring old plans of a normal, traditional, exactly the same as last year's holiday. We can plan out the rest of the year with nothing but hope and happiness for the future. Can there be a better blessing than that of knowing exactly what to expect? I can't think of one right now.

Mom does still have to go every 3 weeks for maintenance drugs. Although, they are taking out the bone strengthener. I told you that one was useless, didn't I? Her powers dwarf any old medicinal strengthener. Sometimes those medical people underestimate her. Me, though? Never. I've seen her tackle 9:00 church meetings on Sunday mornings with 3 girls in curlers. I've seen her do an entire birthday party with only a microwave at her disposal (it was a lemon cake, thank you, and it was delicious). I've seen her do Thanksgiving dinner for what felt like a thousand people, and she was wonderful. Just like she will be this Thanksgiving. See? The same old, same old is fantastic.

Good job, mom.

Another Round of Testing for Mom

Hi, all.

Mom's scheduled to have another big day of testing tomorrow, Tuesday the 17th. She has been off of chemo since the end of June, and has been doing so well! These tests are to see if her lungs have been following her good example.

If you could please keep her in your thoughts and prayers, just to give those cute little lungs of hers that extra bump of encouragement they need to keep the tumors at bay. And while you're at it, maybe whisper a word of encouragement for the CT workers who have to hear it from my sainted (but still German blooded) mother for making her drink the pre-CT smoothie. Those poor people just don't get paid enough for that.

We'll have the results hopefully by Wednesday. I'll keep you posted.


Love,

Robyn

Certifiable

I love April. It's one of the best months. It's actually the official start of all the good months, in my opinion. There is a lot to love about April. For your consideration, in chronological order:

- It's the first full month of Spring. Winter doesn't have even one day of April in its bitter frozen hands.

- April holds the best holiday EVAH - Easter. Easter totally has Halloween and Christmas beat around the block and back again. It's got them beat from here until next Tuesday. It's got them beat like the coug's at homecoming. You get the idea.

- April 5th is due to bring the 5th baby Brammer to our crazy, padded walled, straight jacket outfitted family. The day after Easter!!! We couldn't have planned it better.

- April 22nd is Earth Day. Now, I'm no Al Gore or anything, but (and Jeb knew this before he proposed) I am a hippie at heart. If I had been born in a different time period, it would have been yours truly you are always seeing doing the crazy-arms-out-spinning-dance with my long hair and long dress in all the Woodstock video clips. Earth day is groovy and far out.

- April 30th is the loveliest, most fabulous, and all around most remarkable woman's birthday. My sweet mom, of course.


So now you can see why when the weather starts to turn colder, and the leaves begin to change, all my little budding heart can think of is April. Especially this April when our family will finally be complete. I can't wait.

The Spinach Pizza

Jeb was gone on a trip from early Thursday morning to very late Sunday night. You know what they say about when dad is away, right? No, not the kids will play, but the kids (and mom) will not clean the house, do the laundry or dishes, or even get out of their pajamas for almost the entire time he is gone. Aaaah. Feels good.


Until we realize that we only have a matter of hours to make it look like we were productive every minute that he was gone.


So, Sunday night, we start the race to see who can clean up the most and the fastest. We also added a new parameter to the game - who can do it with the least amount of attitude. Thanks, Abigail for that new slant!!! The prize at the end of this race was pizza. Not just any pizza, though. Our favorite garlic chicken Alfredo pizza with cheese bread sticks. Aaaah, again. Feels so good.

We completed the race with only a handful of warnings ("Why are you walking around with nothing in your hands?" and the old "One more, Abigail, and you will lose the attitude category"). The pizza was ordered. Unfortunately, our lovely neighborhood pizza man reports that he no longer has our most prized pie. The closest they have is a spinach Alfredo pizza that he can put chicken on (and no. You cannot take the spinach off. It is mixed in with the sauce. We asked, thank you). I figure it is worth the spinach to get the rest of the deliciousness and go ahead and place the order, cheese bread included.

We interrupt this post to address the fact that we are ordering pizza on a Sunday. Yes, we know it is wrong. Yes we felt bad that somebody was working on a Sunday for us. Yes, we will probably not do this again for a long, long time. But, it was this or starving, angry children who would then cry All. Night. Long. about how they had to clean AND THEN have to have Ramen noodles for dinner. There would be no way I could have enlisted the 4 days worth of needed help with only Ramens to offer up. No way. Back to the regularly scheduled post.

Once the pizza arrives at our house, the kids are all worn out but excited. I unveil our lovely dinner only to hear silence in the room. "The green stuff is just spinach. It's cooked and covered in sauce and you won't be able to taste it. Besides, spinach is super healthy for you." I say to the 4 disgusted faces surrounding the table. Harrison is the only one to voice a reply. He says "when I look at the pizza, it makes my eyes want to cry" and then he stars rubbing his eyes and begins the sniffling.

Hudson's response was classic. I got lots of this...

And then even more of this...

I finally convinced everyone to just try a little, teeny bite and see if they could even tell the difference. I promise them loads of strength and growth potential with every leafy bite. Once they do, they are pleasantly surprised. And surprisingly, after waiting just a little while with no alternative for Hudson, he begins to eat it up. Spinach Success.

I didn't even have to reward (bribe, coerce, whatever) them with any kind of sugary dessert, either. Hallelujah for that.

Buster Blue Eyes

Here is an update on our sweet screamer, Hudson.

He is a crazy monkey. He and Leah are learning to get along better every day that their older siblings are gone. Which is good, since they were really getting on each other's nerves.

Hudson runs everywhere. It's funny to watch him since he runs so funny. I'm not sure what it is, but he doesn't quite get his arms into the motion. He looks just like those old clips of Babe Ruth running the bases that kind of look like they are on fast forward, but they really aren't. He just has short legs and his arms are a little wacky.

When he eats, he still eats just like he did when he was tiny. He sticks his tongue all the way out to get a bite. He does this for everything. Want a drink? Out comes the tongue. Want a bite of peaches? He opens wide and unfurls the welcome mat.

My favorite thing about him is his hair. I will NOT cut it. I refuse. I have never had a curly haired baby before, and I'm going to enjoy it as long as I can. When we do his hair, it looks really great and I am justified in my refusal to let any cutting instrument anywhere near his lovely locks.

But most of the time, we don't do his hair. This is when his dad screams for the barber. I understand, since he looks like this more days than not.

We sure love our Doc Hudson. He is too, too much fun. His squeals, growls, funny faces, and oh so nice leg hugs make our day. Now, if I can just get him to say mom, I'd like him that much more.