His and Hers

This is what Paul and God grew this summer, right next to what me and God grew this summer. Though clearly what he grew had way more exposure to the sun than what I grew. Sun exposure or not, they're both beautiful if you ask me.

This baby could be here any day now. I am officially one week away from my due date. There is progress for sure, but not necessarily the progress that says she'll be here tonight, it's the progress that says, Don't worry brain, I've still got this thing under control. Yes, she'll come but don't hold your breath. It's that kind of progress. Which is manageable most days and then other days you about go out of your mind because the "progress" makes you pack the hosiptal bag and then the "progress" leaves you with nothing to do but worry about all the stuff you still don't know. And you think to yourself, I had nine months to prepare for this day, why do I feel like I have no clue what to expect!?! So you do what every rational woman has done, I'm sure, since the dawn of time.

You cry.

Maybe you had days like that? If you didn't than neither do I. I am just saying it wouldn't surprise me if that's how a different woman might react. But not me. I am way above being overwhelmed by something as routine as child birth.

or not...



And that's Josh eating what Paul and God grew.

Ruger. It's the dog's name.

"If you so much as set foot downtown, you will be sorry. I am in a prayer circle with the DA. I am a member of the NRA and I am always packin'."

"Whatchu packin'? .22? Little Saturday Night Special?"
"Yep. And it shoots just fine every other day of the week too."

-Blindside

A little .22 Ruger.

We named the dog after it.

The future dog, that is.

That is IF we ever have a dog, its name will be Ruger.

The trouble is, I don't really like dogs.

The smell, the hair, the....well I can think of a few more things I don't like about them, but lets keep this polite. The point is, RUGER is perhaps the coolest name for a dog EVER.
It reminds me of the fact that Paul wanted to name our first daughter Baretta. In similar fashion.

That idea was dismissed.

Immediately.

But it's a funny idea.

And FAR better/more appropriate than some of the other names my sweet Paul has come up with...
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An entire shooting excursion was planned this morning around this puppy right here.

My dad lent it to Paul for his birthday. He was happier than a dog at the duck pond.

Funny thing is, at 9:30 this morning, I got a phone call from the other side of the lake with a dissapointed confession that it had been left at home. I glanced up at the top shelf of the closet, and there it sat in all its weighty-ness.

I saved the day by driving it clear to the other side of the lake, where the motly crew met me at the car door with great enthusiasm. The entire way there I wondered how the conversation would go if I got pulled over.

Um, yes officer, I was speeding. You see, my husband needs this handgun I have sitting here on the front seat.
......
What does he need it for? Officer, com'mon. It's a Glock. Just SAYING it makes a man feel powerful. YOU know that.
......
Thank you officer, I knew you'd understand. I'm sure your wife would run out the door to bring you yours too.
......
Why yes, officer, I am. 37 weeks and 1 day. Just waiting to pop.
.......
I probably won't but I'm sure her daddy will teach her to shoot just as soon as he can.
......
You have a wonderful day too.

Upon arrival, I encountered "The Spread."

1 Rifle.

3 Shotguns.

2 Pistols.

As the hero of the day, I was honored with the first shot from the Glock.

I look like I am trying to shoot it and hide from it at the same time.

I am.


But I got more comfortable as the morning progressed.

Isn't he hott?

Happy Birthday, Paul. From me, my dad, AND Ruger, our future dog.

Maybe.

But whether he actually becomes a member of the family or not, his name is RUGER.

P.S. Does it surprise anyone that this is Paul's most recent, favorite song?

P.P.S. My mother would like it made perfectly clear that my dad purchased both a Ruger (though not the one featured here) AND the Glock for her. Which is a funny story that maybe she will grace us with on her blog one day.

The Education of Herrick Men

There's something wonderful about the 4th of July in Provo. Here, it is an EVENT. Everyone MAKES something of it. There is so much to do and even if you just do the bare minimum (which was my style this year,) it is grand. And because I am married to a Herrick, it was also (as it is every year since I became a Herrick) an adventure in fire.

But first, Gracie and I were very patriotic together.


We need to teach Daddy to take magnificent pictures of us.... The whole mirror thing is sub-par unless you learn how to make it look artistic.

The evening of the 3rd started out with Ice-cream Sundays, then we packed Josh's Stroller tighter than a Sherpa's burden, and walked to our very most perfect firework watching spot. The spot where the ground shakes and noise deafens and the soul soars with glory.

And reverence. Experienced by the very old and the very, very young.



But of course, I forgot the part where we were anything BUT reverent. The part where other mothers found it imperative to warn their children about behaving like us. You see my brother-in-law, Rob, got this great idea that sparklers could be held and enjoyed from one's mouth.


At which point I leaned over to my sister-in-law Alli and whispered, "Do you see what I have to teach my boys NOT to do one day." She laughed until she realized her boy Josh was already being educated.... and she knew her task at hand.

And then to no-one's surprise, Paul joined his brother Rob. Of course. They're Herricks.

Not a second later did a women whose boys were also being "educated" by the Herrick Men voice her opinion in a line that I'm SURE was intended more for the Men than her sons said, "Don't you ever, EVER, EVER do THAT. EVER."

And that became the catch-phrase of the weekend. Everything those Herrick Men did that maybe they shouldn't have was proceeded by the words, "Don't you ever, EVER, EVER do THAT. EVER" and then they did it.


Like on Sunday, when we embraced once again, the yearly tradition of lighting our own fireworks.

Herrick style.

Because it's not enough to just buy a whole bunch of gun powder encased as a toy and just light it.

No no.

This is an opportunity for Herrick Men (and I should not exclude my own brother, Blake) to pull out their MacGyver skills. To properly enjoy the holiday, they must make all sorts of tripods to strap the fireworks to, and then they must create make-shift fuses so that one firework lights the next firework in a chain reaction meant to compete with the Stadium of Fire itself. It gets to be a pretty hefty looking contraption. Very impressive.


Except for the small detail that it has never...actually worked...at least not in the way they hope.


This year, there was even a slight emphasis on FIRE rather than WORKS.

But every year the brothers try and every year they get a little better. Which means every year the wives worry a little more if this will be the year that an appendage is lost or at least very badly burned. Suffice it to say---I am full of thoughts like "Please Father---don't let anything bad happen. I know they are being ridiculous, but PLEASE."

And I secretly wonder to myself, as the mother of Future Herrick Men, how many times will they hear ME say, "Don't you ever, EVER, EVER do THAT. EVER," only for it to become a catch-phrase as they run off with their dad and uncles?

But I wouldn't trade those Herrick Men for all the Rules in the World. Especially not my favorite one.