Spencer Vs. CFA

He won. He is now a certified, level-one financial analyst. Too bad there are three levels. Let round two begin.

Hormonal and Pregnant Meltdown #11

I'll spare you 1 through 10, but I will post on the latest of what I like to call "emotional pregnancy moments."

We sold our motorcycle. And along with it, our youth.

The electric-blue Honda Shadow that was our same vintage, 1984. We've known/seen three people die this past year on motorbikes—one of them a friend's husband, leaving her with two kids. We'd sell ours when we got pregnant, we said, like rational human beings. And then wham—it became symbolic. The first of many things we did when we were fun, before children.

It was a sad day. Ashamed to say it was lip-quiver crying.

Wherein We Take Every Next Adult Step Possible in Span of Six Months

So, in the dirth of posting in the last several months, we've managed to:

Buy a car. And of course, we went for the one that has the most important spec: maximum potential for ridicule from Jace. Every time he sees it, he sings out the South Park refrain: "I'm gaaaaaaay." But so far we are loving our little Prius—especially Spencer. He loves all that data. Data, data, data. And I love that I just drove to Sacramento and back for well under $100  in gas. We've already put almost 20,000 miles on, and Spence already incurred damage to the body, which officially breaks in a new car; he hit "some kind of low-flying, turkey-sized bird" on I-15, putting a crack in the front bumper. Watch out for those turkeys.

Buy a house. And not one from this century! Or from last century! No, our little home was built in 1899! A pioneer gem in none other than American Fork. We love it—except for the lack of a garage. Apparently cars hadn't been invented when our house was constructed. The entire inside was completely redone a few years ago. What can I say, we are suckers for old houses. AND Walter Payton lives next door.


Get pregnant. And it's a girl! Due in September. . . . Frankly, this may very well ruin our fall Hawaii plans—but here we are, and we are excited. I should clarify: Spencer is ecstatic. I mostly feel ill-prepared, exhausted, and pukey. And tired of sticking myself with needles. I have to take two shots a day, book ending my evening slumber—what has become the best part of every day—with injections of blood thinners. Because of the blood thinners, an epidural may not be an option—possible risk of paralysis and all. Sunday is the halfway mark. Only 20 more weeks, then the real fun begins, right? We're having a grandparent showdown on what her name should be: Tana says Kenna, after her mom; Grandpa Jack says Goldie, after his mom. Will it be Kenna, Goldie, or other? Stay tuned . . .

The Baby Needs Treats!

Breckon, 5, monitored my food consumption in Sacramento, ensuring the baby in my tummy got cheesecake, ice cream, and brownies. It was serious, scolding business: "The baby needs treats!"

Other weekend highlights:

Driving straight to Breckon's baseball practice when we got to Cali and having him defect from drills to run and jump into my arms. Best feeling ever.

Watching Madison's spring-break morning routine every morning, wherein she plays T Swift's Red album start to finish in her boombox while doing freeform gymnastic dance in the living room.

Seeing Breckon experience Star Wars for the first time. Episode IV. For his birthday. With dad. He was in pure bliss. It brought a flood of Star Wars, Rambo, and Rocky memories back from my childhood. People wonder why I've never seen Poppins or Sound of Music. The answer: three brothers. Subsequently, Breckon and I have named my unborn child Baby Bobafet.

Hearing Breckon read at
a 12th-grade reading level. And starting each morning off with him reading the Star Wars dictionary to me in bed.

Brynn. That hair. That belly. And her asking Jen, out of the blue, "Mom, when am I going to have a baby in my belly?"

Heartbreak in Provo

I drove six hours to make it back from Thanksgiving in Idaho in time for the elite eight BYU–UNC game hosted on the Cougars' home turf. I got the best seat in the house: half field, between the two teams. Yep, this play happened right in front of my face.

North Carolina played some of the most phenomenal soccer I've ever seen. It was one of the those games where the undeserving team almost won: BYU missed two gimmes, pretty much their only two real chances of the night. North Carolina, with its six starters who play for national development teams and one who played for New Zealand in the Olympics, out-shot BYU a billion to 10. In the end, the better team won, but it was sad to see the season end, and to miss out on a work trip to San Diego for the final four, where I was hoping to ask Kayla Varner (pictured's) boyfriend, Bryce Harper, to sign the Nationals hat Spence is getting for Christmas. Shucks.

Tacoma vs. Tree

Woke up to this Saturday morning: Provo's first snowfall, and a little surprise that got me out of cleaning the chapel with the Young Women.

 My little truck, which I will drive until the day it dies, sustained the injury. Just another dent to add more character, this time in the roof:

No other damage. We punched the roof back up and she's still running like a dream. Landlord's homeowner's insurance may cover it . . . but given the other dents, including the last one—which, through insurance reimbursement, funded my trip to Italy—I'm not sure we'll fix it.

Character and all, I still get people stopping me in parking lots and on the street and at all the auto-body repair places asking me if I'd sell it. No, I'm taking this one to its grave.

Poor Rom Rom

If you're feeling a little sad (this one's for you, G) post-Tuesday, try watching this piece that we started on Tuesday morning and churned out and sent yesterday. My colleague and co-conspirator on this said his wife "found it soothing."

And if you vote blue and don't need to be soothed, watch it for the butt-chin! Best I've come across, for sure.




 Nothing like a little all-nighter to make you feel like a real journalist again.