No, not dead. Not even maimed.

Yes, yes, yes. We're still alive. If this blog is pretty much your only source of Shea news, you're in sorry shape. (That is why I own a phone. Blogs are all about time wasting.)

I hardly know where to begin. Scott began his real-life career more than a little while back -- when Avie was just a few weeks old. That's right, he's a real-life transportation engineer! He loves driving his sporty, brand new work truck around, and gets a special thrill as he throws on his emergency lights and drives "off road" to observe construction progress. I can't say I'm thrilled we worked so hard to get a master's degree just so he can wear a steel-toed boots and a hard hat, but he assures me it's a white hard hat. That means he's a white-collar worker, he says. It's a pretty good life for a man's man, and I know more about transportation engineering than I ever thought I'd care to.

He's actually still working at the Home Depot. This means he's spent the last 8 months usually working at least 60 hours a week, and often tops off a little over 70. It's pretty painful, I won't lie. I always knew I married an optimistic man -- someone's got to balance me out, right? -- but I really don't know how he does it. He spent much of the year leaving at 6 am and not arriving home until 10 pm. We get this little half-hour window to throw food at his face before he takes off for the Depot, and he is positively lively. Energetic beyond reason. So, apparently, when I said it was painful, I meant for me.


I really miss adults. In the absence of real conversations with people my height, I've had time to perfect the art of preparing homemade broth, cultured vegetables, and other forays into healthy cooking. Then there's sugar-free living, cloth diapering, and Book of Mormon storytelling. Not so much decluttering, but I keep trying. At any rate, I've cut down on my bon-bon eating considerably.

Avie is getting big. Well, older. Big might not describe her for quite a while yet. She is our delight, and I just don't know how I'll ever cope with her growing up on me. The first year of a child's life is simultaneously the quickest and the slowest of a parent's life, meaning some days do feel really long; some night do feel endless; every month does feel like a blink. She is a dream. She radiates the sweetest smile and giggle and happily shares it with the world. That little soul is the embodiment of contentment, and considering what a tough time we had with her pregnancy, I consider it a special gift from a loving Father in Heaven. Like a small assurance that he took care of her when, for all my efforts, I couldn't.


Betsy is our singer, our reader, our cook, and our singer. She is thoroughly two-and-a-half; always unexpected. Usually, it's a delightful kind of unexpectedness that creeps from her mouth. Sometimes it's an unexpected misery with considerable volume. Some of our most recent surprises include these:

(Betsy) "N-O, N-O, N-O, N-O..."
(Momma) "What are you spelling, honey?
(Betsy) "Daddy."

(Momma) "King Noah did not go to church. He didn't share. He didn't believe in Heavenly Father."
(Betsy) "Him need a time out."

...Well, I'd love to wait and post once I can find pictures on our old computer's hard drive (buried somewhere in the depths of our new computer) but I'm just not that handy. I really do set a new year's goal to write in here more often, and get back in the habit of reading the blogs of those I love so hopefully you'll see more of me on here in the future. Assuming there's anyone left who reads this. (Let me know you're out there, won't you?)