New Year's Rockin' Eve

I'm married and I don't drink alcohol, so New Year's Eve celebrations of late have been a little bit anticlimactic (no champagne in Times Square, no kissing a stranger at the stroke of midnight). This has especially been the case after having children. Sure, I can get up with a baby 10 times in the middle of the night if said baby screams loudly enough, but ask me to stay up past 10 p.m. and forget it. I always have good intentions of toasting the New Year at midnight, but after a few hors d'oeuvres and a glass of sparkling cider, I'm usually sacked out on the couch. Trying to liven things up, my husband and I actually went to Las Vegas a few years ago, thinking that traveling would force us to literally get out of the house for New Year's Eve.

We stayed with my sister-in-law in a nearby suburb and had every intention of heading to the Las Vegas Strip to ring in the new year. But I was pregnant at the time, and after dinner I got very, very sleepy. I just wanted to sit for a minute. Then I got to thinking about all the people who would be crowding The Strip, and how parking is always a nightmare, and that it probably wasn't even safe to be driving with all the drunken drivers out and about, and wouldn't it be nicer to just stay home and watch a movie? I was asleep an hour later.
I come from a family of 11 children and on New Year's Eve, we would all go bang on pots and pans and shout "Happy New Year" to the cul de sac as soon as it got dark. I'm sure our neighbors rolled their eyes at us. But I think my parents had it right. Who needs to stay up until midnight to celebrate? The New Year isn't going anywhere. It will still be there when I wake up, refreshed after my preferred 10 hours of sleep and ready to get a good jump on 2009.
-- Elyssa Andrus

From the Daily Herald, Dec. 31, 2008.

The Diagnosis

The diagnosis: Of all the TV dramas airing this season, my favorite is FOX's "House." The show stars British actor Hugh Laurie as a misanthropic genius with a knack for diagnosing complex medical mysteries. Each episode, Dr. Gregory House writes the patient's puzzling symptoms on a whiteboard and consults his team of specialists, always identifying the disease just in time to save the patient from imminent death. I'm a hypochondriac by nature, and watching "House" has introduced me to a host of obscure illnesses I had never considered. A pulled back muscle or upset stomach has changed from a minor annoyance to a sign of imminent demise. Maybe I have some sort of heavy-metal poisoning, maybe I have an infection eating away at my brain. I probably need an MRI, PET scan and brain biopsy, STAT.

My dad is an emergency room doctor in Arizona. I am cheap and impatient, so I never go to the primary-care physician mandated by my insurance. I just call him instead and run through my laundry list of symptoms.

Because he works in an emergency room, he's rarely impressed with anything except heart attacks and bullet wounds. When one of his 11 children has a health complaint, he rolls his eyes and prescribes "rest." If the child whines loudly enough for several consecutive days, he might recommend the allergy medication Benadryl. It has the very appealing quality of making the user sleepy and, therefore, quiet.

But I call him anyway. In the spirit of cooperation (this is the cue for all doctors to groan), I always Google my symptoms before dialing. That way, I can lead him in the right direction, away from amyloidosis and toward Monkey Pox, for example.

The only problem is that my physician is not engaged or curious like Dr. House. My dad never lists my symptoms on the whiteboard; he refuses to consult his team. He just sighs and pretends to have another call, muttering in parting: "There is nothing wrong with you. You clearly need rest. And some Benadryl."

If only Dr. House were available for a second opinion.
-- Elyssa Andrus

More Family Pictures

We got family pictures taken a few weeks (months!) ago, and I'm finally getting around to posting a few. Here's how it went:


Tyler refused to make direct eye contact with the photographer.

Josh hid in the bushes.

Elyssa and Dave managed to hold still just fine.

Tyler stuck his tongue out.

Josh beat up Dave. (I really love this one because it represents their relationship so well.)

That's about how pictures go at our house. At the end, the only person not crying was Dave. Josh knocked over the photographer's million-dollar lighting equipment, but luckily he only bent the (cheap!) tripod. Still, I love to look at all the photos. Some of the other ones are a permanent part of the blog.

Feeling Hot, Hot, Hot

A few years ago, I taught in the communications department at Brigham Young University. My time there was brief and unremarkable, but it landed me on the Web site Ratemyprofessors.com. Ratemyprofessors.com is, apparently, a high-tech way for students to spread the word about pushover teachers. And, boy, was I one. Well, I was hardcore about two things: attendance and deadlines. Beyond that, I was a creampuff, easily manipulated and always willing to get sidetracked from a grammar discussion by the mention of Britney Spears.
Oddly enough, my ratings reflect an average easiness and helpfulness. The only area where I have a perfect score is "Hotness." I felt really good about myself when I first checked the Web site, until I realized I could trace nearly all the comments to immediate family members. I appreciate their loyalty, just as I am sure I'll appreciate their support when I finally get braces. ("Those metal brackets really complement your eyes!" "Great job matching your rubber bands to your handbag!")
The one comment on the Web site that sounds decidedly unlike family is this: "She is hot but inside is a mean person." The sentence composition makes me think of the only student I ever failed. This is a student who, after I had multiple discussions with her about not accepting late work, sent me a text message saying she wasn't going to turn in her paper on time. Her boyfriend had dumped her; she was "broken."
I'm painfully slow at texting, so I didn't write back to ask if "broken" literally meant her fingers couldn't type the simple assignment that was due. She didn't come to class much after that, and either promptly forgot about me or -- as I suppose -- vented her frustration online.
The saddest part is I don't even care that someone believes inside me lives a mean person. I just look at myself in the mirror, see the wrinkles, the crooked teeth, the doughy stomach, and remind myself that no matter how bad it gets, I have this: Somewhere in cyberspace, a mad, anonymous student thinks I am hot.
-- Elyssa Andrus

This article orginally appeared in the Daily Herald on Oct. 22, 2008. Reprinted with permission.

Me and My Sugar Baby

These are old but are Halloween related, so I thought I'd post them to go along with the article below.


Josh as Bob the Builder for Halloween 2007.

Also Halloween 2007: A very pregnant Elyssa, Liz, Mykin and Nesha.

At Pumpkinland 2007: Josh, Kylee, Matson, Bryce and Jenna.

Before trick-or-treating: Alex, Jenna, Josh, Jason.

After trick-or-treating (I think): Josh and Maxon.

Halloween is more than a month away, but I've already been thinking about it for weeks. Some people love the magic of Christmas or the romance of Valentine's Day. Those are great holidays, to be sure, but trimming trees and buying pink teddy bears is a lot of work. Which is why Halloween is my kind of celebration. All you have to do is throw on a costume and go door to door begging for candy. What could be better than that?

Having children has only increased my enthusiasm for Halloween. When my oldest son was a mere 4 months old, I dressed him up as a tiny frog and took him a' knocking. He couldn't hold his candy sack, he couldn't say "treat," and his tricks were limited to drooling and crying. (I think the frog costume was itchy.) After an hour, he was screaming hysterically and way past ready to go home. But that didn't stop me from continuing to hit the neighbors up for goodies. I got some appalled looks from more responsible parents, but I'm not above a little humiliation when miniature 3 Musketeers are involved. (Certainly no one believed that the infant was going to eat the candy, but how are you going to say "no" to a crazed mother waving a baby frog in your face?)


Now that I have a 3-year-old who can hold his own bag and scamper from house to house, I am in the clear. He can do the dirty work for me. After he goes to sleep on Halloween night, I'll pry the candy bag from his sticky little hands and "organize" it for him.

I'll make sure he's collected enough candy so that I can skim my cut off the top without him ever noticing. Never mind how dark it is on Halloween night, or how much the temperature drops. I'll stay out with my son until the bitter end, until we've knocked every door in our neighborhood and within walking distance. That's just the kind of committed mother I am. At least when Tootsie Rolls are involved.

-- Elyssa Andrus

This article originally ran in the Daily Herald on Sept. 24, 2008.

Riot of Passage (Sorry, Dad)

There’s nothing like the first day of school. When I was a child, my parents would walk me to my new classroom each year to help me get settled. It was a fun tradition, one that made me feel comforted and loved. The problem, however, is that the hand-holding never really stopped.

I guess my parents did lay off during my junior high and high school years. But when I started college at Brigham Young University in 1995, they went right back into kindergarten mode. They drove up with me from Arizona, helped me move into my dorm, and then waved goodbye to the other parents who – politely and appropriately – left their children behind.

My parents just stayed. Did you know that, before they were demolished, Deseret Towers used to have rooms that they would rent out to campus visitors? My parents stayed in the dorms – my dorm – for days, wallowing in nostalgia and self-pity. As any selfish teenager would do, I stayed busy and pretended not to know them. That got a little trickier when my dad insisted on attending my first day of classes with me.

My dad’s really not the type of person who blends into a crowd. There he was, 6-feet, 5-inches tall, 44 years old, wearing a fanny pack (his must-have traveling accessory), sitting on the front row of the lecture hall with his mortified freshman daughter. He had a hard time staying quiet, too, “whispering” commentary during Biology 130 and “softly” correcting my religion teacher’s explanation of the Greek symbol the caduceus. (Yes, 13 years later, I remember the details. It was that traumatic.)

In fairness to him, I was his oldest child. And I was moving more than 300 miles away. Did he sense, back then, that his family was never going to be the same? That I would marry a Provo boy who, try as he might, simply couldn’t cut the apron strings (to his snowmobile!) and planned to live in Utah forever? That I was never coming back?

One of my dad’s favorite sayings is: “You can’t escape genetics.” Now that I have children of my own, I see my first day of college in a more sympathetic light. I can’t imagine saying goodbye to my baby. In fact, I won’t.

I truly plan to get a PhD before my oldest starts college so that – should he choose to study anywhere outside of Utah County – I can simply go with him. Maybe I’ll even teach one of his classes. Because the only thing more horrifying on your first day of college than your dad wearing a fanny pack and sitting on the front row is this: Your mom wearing a Britney Spears T-shirt, standing at the lectern.

-- Elyssa Andrus

A shortened version of this column appeared in the Daily Herald on page B1 on Aug. 27. Reprinted with permission.

Yuba Lake Part Two

These are pictures from our second Yuba Lake trip this summer. I think Trent and Noelle DeGroot, who also came, were asleep in their new camper or something, which is why I don't have pictures of them.



Tyler loves sand.

Dave and Elyssa.

Josh in the water.

Jenna Higbee.

Jen, Steve and Mindy Marx.

Jon and Kimberly Jonas.

After Yuba. Tyler ate an entire thing of licorice.

Tyler loves the sand, part 2.

Addie Jonas.

Jason and Preston Higbee.


Ben, Matson and Mykin Higbee.