Stories That Still Haunt Us, Part II

Just reading over a few others' stories that still have the emotional impact of when they happened or maybe more so since we've built them up in our minds, I am prepared to purge a few more nuggets.

1. My dear mother really never learned that her children were not safe at home alone. She made us a dinner then left for some function. My baby sister was strapped securely in her high chair and cranky. Then suddenly she was not cranky but happy. Then the smell hit us. None of us were prepared to change a dirty diaper but it was much worse than that. She had diarrhea. The oldest siblings were my brother, age 14 and my sister, age 12. Mike desperately pleaded Suzy to clean it up. He swore that if he tried, he'd throw up. He drew the short stick. He threw up. Suzy cleaned up both. Joey and I quietly left the dinner table to play possum.
2. In the first year of marriage, my husband and I went out to eat at Chili's. There was a wait so I killed time by talking to a baby. The mother offered for me to hold her and I politely did. I held her up by her armpits above my head where she promptly threw up all of the green baby food she had just consumed. 
3. My first dance recital when I was 5 included all of the cute little dancers with taffeta polka dot skirts and matching hair bows, lining up to go on stage. Surprisingly (not), something shiny caught my attention and the entire class went on stage without me. When I realized I was left behind, I ran on stage to catch up. In tap shoes. I fell down on my bottom. I still have nightmares of the audience laughing at me.
4. When Suzy was in the second grade, she contracted bacterial spinal meningitis. She spent many days in the hospital and children were not allowed. I was in the first grade and Joey was no more than 4. We waited downstairs on uncomfortable chairs or a bench. Joey got sleepy and fell asleep on my shoulder. I held as still as I could so she could sleep. Unfortunately, a gaggle of pink ladies caught a peek and started grabbing all the Lois', Delores, Ethel, and Erlene's to see the adorable seen. They made such a ruckus that Joey woke up. They then tried to pose us to recreate the moment. Joey was awake and I was already working out my cramps. They should have had their Kodak cameras with cube flashes. Duh.
5. My dad took my brother and I on a river raft trip down the Colorado River. It was a peaceful first day. The second day we hit the dreaded "Skull" rapid. I remember little besides the raft folding in half and me in the middle gasping for air. My dad had magically left the raft along with the oar that hit him in the head, knocking him unconscious. We picked him up within 30 seconds. Because our family consist of slow learners, we did again two years later. Because we're stupid like that. Two years after that, my dad excitedly informed me we'd be running the Colorado down the Grand Canyon. I'd grown a backbone by then. I told him to have fun with that.
6. On the subject of running rivers, we took a one day tour down the Snake River one summer while we were at Yellowstone Park. Worst. Three. Hours. Of. My. Life. NEVER get into a raft if you have to pee. 'Nuff said.
7. For some reason we just needed to be around water and camped at Lake Powell the first few years of going there. One morning we got up and I couldn't find my shoes. They were finally located in a shallow part of the lake, all chewed up. I don't EVEN want to know what was out there.
8. Frozen water was also used as punishment recreation. Ski school all winter tortured me. When Joey was finally old enough to start, three children had already gone through so explanations seemed unnecessary. They were not. We boarded the ski lift and rode up to midway. Apparently, we forgot to clarify the meaning of midway. That means you get off halfway up the mountain. My poor sister, having never skiied in her life, looked down at us with a panicked expression as she continued to the top. 
9. My husband and I had a difficult time adjusting to sharing a bed. It seemed one or the other of us was getting kicked, kneed, or smacked in the course of the night. This had nothing to do with intimate moments. One Sunday morning as we were talking in bed, he grabbed an ice cube out of glass of water and flung it to drop down my pajamas. He severely misjudged the distance of his hand and my face and gave me a black eye. Later that day we went to see my parents. My mother greeted us and noticed my shiner. She asked what happened to my eye. "I, uh," casting a frightened look at Scott then suddenly looked down at the ground, "I fell down," I finished. Oddly, Scott was not amused but mortified.
10. When I was pre-pubescent, I developed a strong middle child syndrome. I was ignored and disliked. Very victimized, of course. On more than one occasion, I would pack up a bag and run away. To the barn. It was hot. Sometimes I'd be gone for an hour or more, planning on the ways I would make the barn my new home, train the mice to be helpers like in Cinderella and we'd be very happy. Eventually I got bored, convinced myself that my family had learned their lesson and return home. Nobody ever realized I had been gone.

Life Stories That Never Go Away

You know those life stories that just never die? No matter how old you get or where you go or who you’re with…SOMEONE brings them back up?

These are my top ten life stories.


1.  I cut my sister's cute red locks when my mom was in the shower. I was 4, she was 2. I thought it was a darling haircut. Yet I hid under the table when my mother got out of the shower and found the pile of hair and my sister's jagged 'do. Maybe not so cute?


2. While I was at school, my sister cut my doll's hair.


3. When I was 10, I accidentally cut my littlest sister's ear. One ear is still smaller than the other. Lesson is that I can't be trusted with scissors. Or to babysit. Sorry, Jene.


4. My sister and I used to twist our swings together until we were completely stuck, laughing so hard and couldn't get to the bathroom. We always peed our pants.


5. We had a cat whose body never grew past kitten size but his head did. He would collapse on the cement with his enormous head. We wondered if he'd finally died. Poke him, he didn't move. We'd dig a grave and he'd open his eyes and struggle to stand up. His name was "Wee Tiger." I don't miss that cat. He was creepy.

6. We used to play church basketball on Thursdays after school. When my mom wasn't home, I'd drive the 1963 Ford truck that couldn't pass inspection. We stuffed four girls in the seat of that truck while I jokingly spun donuts in the parking lot. One corner I took led to screaming and two less girls in the truck. I had dumped my sister and a friend out on the asphalt. They were yelling and bleeding. I can't believe this sister still speaks to me. She does have lovely hair, though.

7. At Back-to-School night, the kindergarten teacher stood up and gave her opening speech and included the phrase, "I pull kid's hair." (This was the seventies). My dad quickly retorted, "I sue teachers." Mrs. Cobley paled and sat down. My sister was essentially ignored that year.

8. At my first high school stag dance, I ended up holding hands with a boy I liked that was a senior. My older sister called me a bad name, yelled that she couldn't believe I was holding hands with HIM since he had smoked pot then left me in the parking lot alone at midnight. She went home and went to bed. I didn't get home until 2:00 a.m. It took me that long to find a way home. I was mortified and traumatized.

Two years ago, this same sister remarked that she ran into a guy she went to high school with that knows me. She couldn't remember his name. Was it Dean someone? My first and most traumatic high school experience and she didn't even remember any of it.

9. This only happened a year ago but I can't see it disappearing into oblivion. The sisters were together in Arizona killing time before a movie. I was talking to my daughter at home when the sisters were going into a store. They told me to call them when I was finished. I started patting my pockets and panicked. "I forgot my phone!" I yelled at them. My youngest sister looked puzzled and held up her hand to her ear. I pulled my own hand from my ear, surprised to see my phone. My daughter, on the other end, was trying to explain my stupidity.

10. The first time my sister sluffed school is the day I showed up to visit her from college. I walked into her Drama class and asked if I could speak to her. "She's not here," the teacher replied. "Weird. She left for school today." Again. How is this sister still speaking to me?

I have more but telling all my secrets leaves me vulnerable to retaliation by family members. I am REALLY hoping they stopped reading my blog. I think they have. I hope they have. Maybe?

Wordful Wednesday

Some days are like that.

And the only camera I could find was on my phone.

My Face

You thought I died, didn't you? I'm still around, stirring up trouble wherever I go. Lately I've been bugging the crap out of my 8th grade daughter who simply can't understand why I don't believe C grades are acceptable. All my harping, checking, and offering to type papers has done nothing to motivate her. I was ticked that I took her to two plays so she can turn in an outside performance review. The first one was too late. The second one, already typed, she turned in two days too late. She got half credit. Her grade overall? C. All my lecturing slid right off her back. Her retorts included that she wanted to be a "well-rounded person" and not "all about good grades."

She tried out for a special year long drama class. She practiced for hours doing her monologue. She was good. I mean really good. She went early to school and auditioned. The list of lucky classmates was posted. All her friends were included. She was not. She was disappointed. We went together to ask the teacher why she didn't make it. In order to be considered, she had to have either an A or a B in the first Drama class. She took the news stoically and we drove home. She cried quietly. She really wanted to be in that class. She didn't need another lecture right then. I took her to Kneaders and gave her a hug.

I also want to go and yell at her teacher about clearly stating the minimum requirements so sweet little girls don't put their heart and soul into a monologue, hoping to get into a class. On the other hand, for once I don't have to play the bad guy. I can be the supportive, loving mother who gives her daughter a hug, tells her she's a great kid and I'm sorry she didn't get in. I don't have to connect the dots for her. If the lesson transfers to other classes, great. If not, too bad. I love that kid.

The other night at dinner, I could feel her scrutinizing my face. After a few seconds, she announced, "Mom, I like your face." What a random and wonderful sentence to hear. In hindsight, though, what better way for a child to let a mother know that she is familiar with your features? She knows you and has a history of interactions with you that seeks out your face above the rest. It is my face she looks for when her heart hurts. It is my face attached to my arms that she wants to be surrounded by.

That night as I brushed my teeth I looked at my face. Instead of seeing the aging skin, smile and frown lines alike, the maverick hair or the tiny scar on my cheek, I saw the face of my mother. Not the physical face but the familiarity her face brings. It is comforting to know that I am providing that service to my children simply by existing. No matter how old my mother gets or how bald the chemo makes her, it is still her face I seek when I need comfort and home. She is still beautiful to me because she epitomizes safety.

I don't remember what my mother taught me through words. I remember that she was there. I remember feeling safe. Maybe I'll just stop lecturing and BE.

Hypocritically Speaking

Social networking is still a mystery to me and so much of it pointless. For instance, what is Twitter used for? How does one use it? I mean, I get the basic concept; Write something really important in a limited amount of space like a haiku. But then what? Will somebody reply? Comment? Heckle?

Don't get me wrong, I have a Twitter account. I know nothing beyond the fact that I linked it to my book blog so it shows up on Twitter when I write a review. My objective is to score free books. Yet the few times I've tried to really figure out Twitter, I am a few beats behind. I see that someone wrote something that I can't NOT comment, "That's what she said!" The intent is to look clever and witty. After proudly punching <enter> I realize it's 3 months old.

Scratch "clever" and "witty."

Then there's Facebook. It is a voyeuristic heaven. My first month with it was a giant black hole. I was so excited to connect to EVERY. SINGLE. PERSON. from my entire history of life, catch up, post pictures, boast a bit but then I started seeing the madness of it all. Some of these people were sitting right at the computer at all times, watching for someone to log on then making inane conversation. Okay, Janet-who-who-never-talked-to-me-after-the-6th-grade now wants to tell me all about her current beau and her 5 grandchildren while trashing her first three husbands.

I can't deny the draw of being a voyeur. I can not. I looked at the pictures of my former classmates and LOVED that they had gotten fat, wrinkled, old, or whatever. Because at the time I found FB, I was unnaturally thin and posted a lot of pictures of myself with my pre-schooler even though I was in my early forties.

I'm a late bloomer, you know.

I gasped when I found that the reason the ever so popular Fred never had a girlfriend is that he was gay. Not only that, but he's now politically actively gay. He marches in all the parades and posts comment after comment after comment after comment about the injustices of gays. Steve and Christine, the cute young couple from college, grew up to be Christian-bashing atheists growing pot in their basement. And reposting article after article after article that illustrated their stance as atheists and the stupidity of Christians. I personally think they are simply anti-establishment. They want to be special.


I knew the political stance of 30 people I barely know. I knew the bladder capacity of at least 10. I realized that, although I had over 300 "friends," about 15 of them were boring me to tears. I tired of Fred's rants, as did Alan, another former classmate who got in a Facebook fight. Fred de-friended him. Lanae was always having a fight with her (fourth) husband and starting the day with, "Last night I wanted to kill myself," or "That was so hard!" which resulted in 40 people asking her what's wrong.

It was like high school all over again.

Facebook lost its sparkle and I didn't even order a yearbook to commemorate my short attention span. I couldn't believe people actually posted such personal information on a public domain. STRANGERS might see it, you know? I posted, of course. Rarely, but I posted things like:

In solidarity with my mother who has just started chemotherapy, my dad has started to shave his head. Sorry I didn't notice, Dad.


Today a mother of a student asked if I have any grandchildren. I even tried to look indignant when I told her I'm too young. I'm 29 years old, People! 29! 29!


My 6 year old has been talking nonstop for the past four hours. Two more hours to go. Just keep nodding my head and agreeing with him every few minutes. I'm such a good, attentive mother. Raise your hand if you want to be like me when you grow up!


Anybody have pointers on how to effectively use the "bra"cket to carry around your cell phone? My husband kept texting me and making me giggle when it vibrated and then it kept slipping out, eventually making it into the hands of my shady colleague who probably called Australia before she called me to let me know she'd found it.


Two rounds of laser tag today kicked my butt. Speaking of butt, it's going to be sore from all that crouching, running, and jumping out to the Mission Impossible theme song. Oh, and screaming like a little girl whenever I got shot.
Great fun!

The photo they never want made public.
I do not respect those wishes, obviously.

What happens at a fathers and sons campout STAYS at a fathers and sons campout.

My daughter got asked to prom. Her friend asked her, in all seriousness, if she'd warned her date about her mom yet. I'm conflicted. Am I offended or complimented?

I am declaring war on Legos.

Given, those are 95% of my status updates in the past year plus. I post, on average, once every 6-8 weeks. I have my little life and existence that consists of my home, the people in my home, work, and my Costco trips. Overall, I like to fly under the radar. And yet...

How nice it is for me to sit on my high horse and tsk all those over sharing people in the masses. I proudly boast that I rarely get on facebook. I don't talk about the fight my husband and I had last night or the latest test result from a doctor. Few people in my face-to-face (or facebook) life even know my alternate personality, A Musing Mother. Which is a shame, really. I am much funnier now than when I was 16.

I am a private person.

1. Who blogs. 
2. Who writes about her mammogram. 
3. Her small cup size that won't hold a cell phone.
4. Her sagging places. 
5. Her butt. 
6. Her boobs. 
7. Her butt and boobs some more. 
8. Inappropriate thoughts and musings.

I don't think I need to point out the irony of my illusional high horse.

We survived New Year's Eve and New Year's Day. It was surprisingly pleasant, considering the amount of chaos in the home. The older teenagers congregated an hour earlier where I had domestically warmed Costco meatballs soaked in Teriyaki sauce via slow cooker, set out a relish tray (Costco), and left chips and chocolate open for free grazing. Unfortunately, the teens were either not hungry or too nervous being in the presence of the opposite sex. We still have 4 and a half bags of chips which is odd since we started with only 4 and a mess of meatballs.

Anyway, the big kids went downstairs when the younger teens started showing up. These were all girls and they still didn't eat my meatballs and chips. Nor would they touch the nutritious and delicious relish tray.

Our own boys made themselves scarce; the 11 year old and his gang had an impromptu party at a neighbor's house (thanks for telling me, young man! Ever heard of the telephone?!) and the 6 year old found the houseful of teenagers far too stimulating and went to sleep on the sofa at 8:00. What the houseful of strangers did for the rest of the evening was none of my business. Scott and I (along with the asleep child) went to our room. Exiled. And so our new life of being unremarkable and boring continues. I just never thought this would be me.

Funny thing is that I really don't mind it. I planned on being fun for the rest of my life but I don't mind that I'm boring. There were moments before I was exiled that I forgot that I was the mother and made remarks and provided commentary for the teenagers in my kitchen that I thought were hilariously clever and witty. I was reminded by their blank stares followed by a question mark appearing above their heads that they are a different generation. I don't belong as a peer.

I have discovered that I'm really more of a teenager person. Babies are cute and cuddly and I love to watch them laugh or hear them babble. Pre-schoolers are full of wonder and say funny things. Then they turn into kids which are generally dirty, needy, and need so much input and guidance. They're a lot of work and it isn't so cute when they burp or fart. But then one day they turn into teenagers who think abstractly and make witty comments and entertain me. They take but they also give back a little and rise to expectations. They become self-aware and want to shower so they smell good. They want to comb their hair every single day and sometimes they even want to brush their teeth. They don't throw temper tantrums in public as often but if they do, you can walk away without fear of having them kidnapped.  And they're funny. Oh, so very funny. Yet it's still so hard to recognize that I'm not "one of them." Because I just was.

Not only that, but there are expectations of me, too. I'm supposed to set boundaries and enforce them but I've already been doing that for years and I'm tired. Haven't I done enough? If my 16 year old doesn't know my expectations by now then she's extremely dim witted. But she's not. She's highly intelligent, an awful lot of fun and I feel so conflicted when she tells me that her *not* boyfriend held her hand or kissed her on the head and I get excited for her and then I remember that I'm the mother and the expectation is that I have the morality talk with her.

Whatever.

I will just have to live with the dissonance of my split lives. The fun Nancy that butts into her children's parties and the Mom Nancy that carries her guilt for all her children's possible neuroses, knowing that I could have prevented some of them had I only given the morality lecture one more time. Although maybe by giving my kids a little credit, their own guilt won't manifest itself until they are well into their forties and enjoy a neurotic-free young adulthood.

I can't win, can I? At least the kids were happy on New Year's Eve. And I was deeply satisfied (although still neurotic) to see them all happy. And I didn't give a single lecture. It was so nice.

The Most Dreaded Words

 Everybody knows that Christmas is about keeping the Santa Secret and pleasing your children. Therefore, the most dreaded words are uttered on Christmas Eve.

"I changed my mind, I want a [pony, scooter, bike, Red Rider BB gun]"

A close second place winner is, "Can I have a New Year's Eve party?"

Then, "Me, too?"

While We Were Out

Two kids had parties or lateovers on Saturday. Two kids - the imaginative ones - were home alone. I received a call from the 14 year old who sweetly asked me if she could give me an early Christmas present and when would I be home.

Here's what she had to offer. I'd opened the present 2 minutes before so I'd already enjoyed the gift.

Wordful Wednesday and Clever Much? Rarely!

Sometimes my brilliance blinds me! Speaking of brilliance, before we continue this discussion, if you are my mother in law, stop reading. Walk away. At least until after Christmas.

Seriously. My own mother doesn't read my blog. I think it has something to do with words like "socially awkward" and "mortifying." She knows me. She doesn't have to read about me. She can just pretend like I turned out normal.

Anyway, if the mother-in-law has exited the website, check out what she's getting for Christmas!

TADA!

I'd like to give a special shout out to the internet and whatever site I was cruising through last week for planting this idea into my head. Usually not this creative and I definitely don't know where I got the energy to take the kids out for pictures. Or go to Walmart for the frame. And Robert's for the mat. Costco for the pictures. 

Yeah, I painted the frame, too.

So not my style.

Anymore.

I also ordered a canvas print for my husband but I can't remember which picture I used so he'll be surprised as will I. Please note the little one on the right and how happy he looks. I didn't do that, by the way. He fell down and hurt his palm. That's what he told me through the tears.

Ever notice that when a crying child is saying "palm," you hear "bum" and can't stop laughing? That may be why he looks sad and a little mad.

Coincidentally, why are bums so funny?

Fortunately,, we did get a few close shots of him before he fell on his "palm."

This isn't one of them but it might be what will be hanging on our wall 20" x 30" for the next ten years.

Although I'm really hoping I ordered other one.

What do you think?

Wonder Underwear

I have a muffin top. I swallow pride to make that statement but I sunk to a new low earlier this week when I realized I am four years from having a colonoscopy, based on AMA recommendations. I don't love my muffin top, although I believe it should be worn like a badge of honor. According to my source (Chicktionary, Lefler), muffin tops are defined as such:

Muffin tops, noun: Irresistibly attractive yet widely misunderstood "dunes of delight" that can be found nestled above the waistbands of virtually every woman of healthy weight in the continental United States. (At least, the ones you would want to be friends with.) The presence of muffin tops has been positively correlated with such attributes as superior intellect, exquisite fashion sensibility, and shiny, manageable hair. Named for the portion of a muffin that bulges over the top of a muffin pan during baking, it is said that some muffin tops actually do emit the aroma of freshly baked bread.

 Still, I'm following the social norm of watching Hollywood middle aged women age by kicking and screaming and picked up a few ideas short of the extremes like tummy tuck, liposuction or limiting my carbs. Spanx has crossed my mind and I even saw a package of one kind or another at a boutique shop and gasped at the price tag. $50 could buy me roughly 3 and a half pairs of "Mom Jeans" from a clearance rack. Although that would hide my muffin top, I have faith that zippers are getting longer than Brittany Spears 2 inch pair of pants 15 years ago. I don't want Mom Jeans, yet. Well, maybe a little bit.

What I found was a wonder camisole at Costco. It roughly squishes the muffin top and/or redistributes the excess resulting in a much smoother muffin top, rather than the muffin top that spills over the top of my bottoms. This came in handy one Sunday when the shirt I chose to wear with a skirt was too tight to be worn without a girdle wonder underwear.

Putting this piece of clothing on my body required the basic skills of wiggling into a sports bra then tugging the bottom part over the offending body area. The perks consist of the fact that, once pulled down, the garment does not roll and stays securely in place, slightly limiting my lung capacity (note: not as much as a whale boned  lined corset of which I am grateful). Also, unlike the sports bra, the uniboob was less noticeable as the upper part of the camisole was not triple reinforced like the bottom part.

Once my acrobatics of wiggling into my camisole was complete and I finished dressing, my family went to church. Sometime during church, I looked over at my 17 year old. She looked very tired. Not surprising since she came home from her band (last) competition at 3:30 that morning. I leaned over and mentioned she'd either been crying or she was very tired. She answered me by bursting into tears. Well, then. I took her home where she joined me in my bedroom with a box of tissues, blanket and her sweet self while lamenting the end of her meaningful life (marching band season).

Since we were home, I figured I could get comfortable. Crossing my arms, I grabbed the bottom part of my shirt and pulled it off myself, inside out, throwing it on the bed. The teenager continued talking, crying, and lamenting.

Next up was the wonder camisole. I crossed my arms again, grabbed the bottom of the camisole and pulled it upward. It rolled up at this point and got stuck under my boobs. This required a few more acrobatics than I was used to. I pulled, tugged, stretched and succeeded to move the roll of fabric under my armpits and neck. More wiggling resulted in a few scant inches progress but my arms were now stuck over my head and my mouth was covered. The teenager was still talking and crying.

I threw myself on the bed and tried to use the friction to pull it further up. No luck. I tried wiggling it back down so I could breathe through my nose. Again, no luck. Finally, I had to interrupt the emotional tirade. I was stuck, my arms over my head, laying on the bed I muffled out, "I need help."

With all of her muscle, she grabbed the offending camisole and pulled while I tried to slip out of the clothing and onto the floor from the bed. It was ungraceful, humiliating, and should have been caught on tape. On the upside, my muffin top is back and I will wear it proudly under my bulky sweaters until springtime. Then I don't know what I'll do. Be assured then, by the presence of my dunes of delight, that my superior intellect, beauty, and shiny, manageable hair marks me as one of the Chosen Ones. And you want to be my friend.

How's your Muffin Top? Don't have one?  Ahhh. You're not Chosen.  Bummer for you.

My Declining Quality of Life Because of Technology

A couple of days ago, my dad came over to my house just as a new gadget arrived at my doorstep. It's a thingermabobber I can attach to my television and stream Netflix without a Wii (which is downstairs) and Pandora and other crap. My dad sat comfortably on my sofa and watched me attach the HDMI cable (which I already had since it didn't come with the cable, of course) to the television and gadget, plugged it in then programmed the gadget via ONE MORE REMOTE and my computer.

When I finished, I stepped back and said to my dad, "Do you remember when you walked over to the television, turned it on, turned a knob and chose the channel (out of 6 options) and sat down to watch TV?" That was it.

He told me he remembered when his parents first bought a radio that was the size of my big leather chair. They turned it on for the first time and heard President Franklin D. Roosevelt announcing the bombing of Pearl Harbor and calling it "a day that will live in infamy." My six year old father went and hid under the table. His dad became one of the men checking for lights showing through the blackout curtains at night, most likely saving the town of Weston, Idaho (population 425, including cattle) from the Japanese obliterating it.

Ironic that I write this on the 70th anniversary of that day and completely coincidental.

Still, this conversation replayed itself this morning as I was looking for the Ipod charger. I have become a slave to my gadgets and spend an inordinate amount of time serving them. Here are my frustrations that take up my time:

1. Looking for chargers. Every camera in our home requires a different charger. For reasons unknown to me, they each disappear when that particular battery dies. They also show up when another camera is needed to be charged.
2. Looking for chargers, Part II: Ipod and Kindle. Never did find the Ipod charger. Ordered new Kindle charger from Amazon. When it arrived, I found another charger. Coincidentally, I ordered a new charger for my camera. When it showed up, so did my old charger.
3. While I have been typing this, my son has been asking me to turn on Netflix. We tracked down three of the four remotes to accomplish this and I have been fiddling with the correct settings for ten minutes. Can someone please pass the VHS tape and player? Usually, I can figure that one out. Until then, I have four remotes sitting in the cracks of the sofas. 
4. My husband's big pet peeve and I admit we have a problem with this. The telephone rings and none of the cordless phones are in their cradle. I have crawled under daughter's beds, run around the house in a panic, all in an effort to find one telephone. I have seriously considered buying an old corded phone with a very long cord. In our first house, the cord was so long and the house was so small, we could take it into every room upstairs and even downstairs to half the rooms.
5. My GPS in the van lacks some of the newer roads. My "newer", I mean the ones built in the last 5 years. Also, my internal GPS and good sense is better than the GPS in my van which, last year as I drove to my uncle's funeral, it told me to turn where there was no road, recalculated then told me to turn on a dirt road. I was so stupid to do what it said. I got to the funeral on time but the car looked worse for the wear.
6. My texting skills are abysmal. I even have a keyboard. It would be quicker to make the telephone call rather than texting something that, when automatically completed, reads sexually and inappropriately. Confusing to my children. Exciting for my husband.
7. So I'm supposed to put my music onto an Ipod or MP3 player. No idea how to do it. I exercise without music. It's not nearly as much fun.
8. Back to my new gadget - I had set it to Pandora before I turned off the TV. My son turned on the TV a few hours later and was greeted with the current artist's album cover; a woman in red underwear with a clear shot down her bra. He was disturbed. He's afraid he might have looked twice. Now he believes he's going to Hell. May have something to do with the way I reacted when he showed me. I have said, "Whatthehell?"
9. My cell phone contract is up this month. I sat in a conference next to my boss for 7 and half hours yesterday. I don't want to turn off my phone in case my kids need me but T-Mobile called me SIX TIMES in TWO HOURS to offer me a new smart phone with a new contract.

I'm certain there are more ways technology has ruined my life but I have to return to it. The telephone keeps ringing and I keep looking for it. I did find the Ipod charger. And I feel compelled to check my email.

Basic Survival Skills

A friend of mine commented that she doesn't know how I do what I do; work, have four children, read, blog, dance, keep house, keep everybody in clean underwear, etc. I started thinking about this decided it is high time we, women crack open the myth that we can do everything and still maintain a semblance of sanity and your next door neighbor, who you are comparing yourself to, isn't doing it all, either.

So I've compiled a list that sums up a few ideas of how to survive as a working mother. Actually, I think it applies to any mother, working outside the home or not. The bottom line is 1) Lower your expectations and 2) Simplify. I don't do all of these but they are wonderful thoughts and ideas. Here are a few:

1. Use Costco. Orange chicken cooks up in under 15 minutes then add rice and a side of green beans. Truth? I cook up orange chicken and figure the orange is the fruit/vegetable and the breading is the grain. Dinner? Done. 
2. Buy in bulk. If something is on sale, buy as much as you can. I have a couple of cases of cream of chicken soup and black beans in my cold storage. I have over 100 lbs. of bread flour. I will use all of it.  But I don't have to go to the store any time soon for those items. I also buy toilet paper at Costco, soap of all functions, and chocolate chips whenever it goes on sale. You know. The staples.
3. Pre-lit Christmas tree. Besides the fact that I haven't said a swear word while putting the Christmas tree  up the past few Christmases is 'nuff said.
4. Better yet, if you have room, don't de-decorate Christmas tree. Just store it then return it next year in its previous state.
5. Give cash. Tacky, I know. But how many candles or body lotion can a girl collect before she regifts them? (Answer: I've been regifting them for years. Please. No more.).
6. Neighbor gifts: Don't give. It spirals out of control. If you give to the Jones', you have to give to the Smiths and if you give to the Smiths, you have to give to the Taylors. We'll take the gift and regift it to someone else, anyway. I'm just sayin'.
7. Co-worker gifts: Take a plate of cookies or fudge and place a placard close by announcing these treats ARE their gift. Enjoy.
8. Accept a certain amount of chaos. I can't keep my house spotless with six people living in it. Not only that, right after school is homework time. Books, paper, etc. are strewn throughout the common areas. Not a good time to clean the house. I'm raising kids, not trying to be featured in a magazine.
9. School lunches are a blessing. Judge me for wasting so much money on food saturated in fat and high calories, but have you seen my kids? They have no chance at obesity. Few countries offer school lunches. I consider myself very, very lucky. My kids consider themselves very, very lucky when they take a sandwich to school.
10. Not everything needs to be made from scratch. My mother made everything from scratch. She ground her own wheat, made bread, canned food from her garden and trees, sewed all of our clothes, grew our own cows. My children beg me to make bread. My spaghetti sauce is unmatched. I've gone through stages of making my own soap, dipping candles, making homemade pasta and a number of other skills that are nice to know. But not necessary. We live in a different world than our parents and grandparents did. I don't hang my sheets out to dry or squeeze out the excess water with a hand wringer.
11. Stop comparing yourself to your neighbor. We see a snapshot in time of their life and assume things. Wise man say, "ASSUME makes an ASS out of U and ME."

What do YOU do to make life easier?

Writer's Workshop

Tell us the story of how your pet came to be a member of your family.

I know, I know, I posted it before but I think it bears reminding ourselves that stupid dogs make us swear.

No, that isn't what the message is (although they do) but hang in there. It will get better.

How Sunday, whose birthday happens to be today, joined our crew:

I have been thinking about an experience all day and feel that I need to share it. For what purpose and for whom, I don't know, but it's been on my mind. Perhaps it was remembering while driving to work this morning or maybe it was the conversation I had with an old friend later today as she shared with me her very real and difficult struggles.

Five years ago, our old dog, Maggie, died of old age. It was a sad day for all of us. We cried until our eyes were swollen. We planned on getting another dog after an appropriate grieving period. Instead, our lives were turned upside down with events we couldn't control. We went through a very, very dark time where things went from really bad to worse. When we didn't think it could get worse, it did. We seemed to be literally hanging on for dear life. Prayers were more sincere and desperate. Answers trickled into our hearts but nothing concrete seemed to happen. That October, we found ourselves watching conference with hungry souls as Elder Wirthlin delivered his talk entitled, "Sunday Will Come." It was as if he was speaking directly to us. The premise was that Christ was crucified on Friday. All who followed Christ were devastated as they watched with horror the events unfold. But in a short time, Sunday morning came and Jesus Christ was resurrected.

"Each of us will have our own Fridays—those days when the universe itself seems shattered and the shards of our world lie littered about us in pieces. We all will experience those broken times when it seems we can never be put together again. We will all have our Fridays.
But I testify to you in the name of the One who conquered death—Sunday will come. In the darkness of our sorrow, Sunday will come.
No matter our desperation, no matter our grief, Sunday will come. In this life or the next, Sunday will come. "

We continued prodding through life. We continued celebrating the great victory of getting out of bed every morning and surviving until bedtime that night. Our journey continued and life improved incrementally. We saw blessings and answers to prayers along the way and we continued on knowing that "Sunday would come."

March came. Husband and oldest son stole sneaky looks at each other and disappeared for an hour. When they came home, they looked like they were going to explode with happiness. A little yellow lab followed them into the house. Getting a dog was not the answer to solving our problems and it seemed like an inopportune time. On the other hand, I could not look at those puppy dog eyes (the boys', not the dog's) and tell them to take her back. We discussed dog names. There was Goldie, Lucky, Stupid (that might have been my idea), and finally my husband looked at me and said, "What about Sunday?"

Things continued to get better slowly over the next year and a half but at that moment, in one corner of the world, Sunday had come.

Relatives and Holidays

I'm addicted to "The Middle." It's a sitcom on Wednesday nights where a middle age couple in a middle income socio-economic status in the middle of the country are living ordinary lives. By ordinary, I mean my life. I swear there are cameras in my house recording my quirky self and quirky family.

Honestly, it just makes me feel not quite so weird.

Hopefully, in comparison, my blog makes you feel better about yourself, too.

Some members of my family read my blog. This makes me very careful about what I post. Some family members believe that my blog, like her little sister, is not worth her time or attention and would not deign to validate the blog nor her sister's opinion or, really, reason for living.

This is not a pity party or a gripe where I need validation. This is simply an introduction to what we will refer to in years gone by as the Great Gravy Debacle of '11.

Also, if you happen to catch the Thanksgiving "Middle" you'll understand. And if you did not but have an older sister, you'll understand. If, perchance, you believe you know the persons mentioned in this story (a story I completely made up, of course), let's not bring their attention to my blog.

I don't want to get beat up.

Where's the Gravy?

Setting: Thanksgiving Dinner. Nancy is getting a plate of food for her 6 year old son. 

Suzy, where's the gravy?

I don't know. It was just here.

I notice a bowl of nice turkey gravy on another counter. Never mind. It's over here.

You can't have that gravy! First you have to eat the gravy in the other thingie.

Where's the other gravy?

I don't know. You'll have to find it then you can have gravy. She smirked then.

I don't think so. I'll just have some of THIS gravy.

She snatches up the bowl of gravy and hugs it to her chest. No! You can't have this gravy! Find the other gravy!

Fine. I'll go without gravy. I walk past her and give the plate to Jaxon. Without gravy.

Now Suzy is alarmed and raises her voice. Everybody! Stop what you are doing right now! Look for a small container of gravy!

Dave enters the arena and picks up the bowl of gravy Suzy has put down. Here's the gravy. Everybody keep eating!

No! Dave! We have to find the other gravy! We can't eat that gravy until the other gravy is gone!

Kelsey opens the microwave and points. You mean THIS gravy?

Yes! That is the gravy. Everybody pour from THIS gravy. Jene's eyes are permanently spazzing while she is rolling them.

Suzy pours lumpy, gloppy gravy on Alyssa's potatoes. It looks disgusting and it goes everywhere. Where's another gravy boat? Mom?! Where's your gravy boat. I need it. Yeah, Suzy. It's the gravy boat. Not the gravy.

My hairless, cancer ridden mother starts to get up. Mom! Don't get up! Don't worry about it. It's just gravy! (That was me).

And THAT is the Gravy Debacle of '11.

Any debacles on your end?

Happy Birthday/Thanksgiving

The perks of having your birthday on a holiday is that it's an afterthought. It's put in parenthesis.

Happy Thanksgiving!
(And, oh, yes. It's Nancy's birthday)


Really bugged me when I was kid because I wanted to be queen for a day! Like that ever really happens. Now, I worked it to my advantage. There was no big party with streamers. I begged off a cake made by my husband. With all those pies, who would eat cake? The result was a couple of duets singing "Happy Birthday" in a few corners of my parents house as we were getting ready to leave.

The payoff was that, without a cake, I picked out the candles closest to my real age from the cupboard. We lit them, sang, I blew them out and opened presents.

AND - I got to sit at the grown-up table this year!  Yay!

I mean, I sat with the grown ups and the baby!

He left quite a mess in his wake but I didn't have to clean it up.

It was my birthday, after all.