A Musing Mother

Insulting the Old Man

2012-02-08T11:55:00.002-07:00

"Hey dad! You shaved! You look like a baby with a smooth face...except for all that grey hair."

"Get out and go to school son."

Worldful Wednesday and the best friends

2012-02-01T06:00:00.004-07:00

I am asked the ages of my children. I tell them my oldest is sixteen and they give their condolences. I laugh at them because they don't know. This is the girl the other kids gravitate to because she is that wonderful. She's the kid that stays up late on my bed with me working on a crossword puzzle and laughing when her dad tries to casually kick me in a hint that he is trying to sleep. She's the kid who sat at the counter doing her precalculus while I talked to my spices during an organization spree. She "gets" it when I pick up a bottle and asks it, "Now where do you go?"

Contrary to this expression on her brother's face, they are best friends.

She has a lot of those best friends. And a few fans, too.

If I could, I would tell you how to raise them this good but it has nothing to do with me or my parenting skills. I take that back. It is probably her excellent coping skills to her mother that talks to her spices. It's just the way she is.

Getting Pranked

2012-01-31T06:00:00.000-07:00

Sometimes they fight. Sometimes they play. Sometimes they prank. This time they pranked. It went sort of like this beginning at dinner on Friday night:
I'm going to Tom's house after dinner.

Really. Do you want to rephrase that?
(Rolls her eyes) Can I go to Tom's house after dinner?
You're not dating Tom.
(Looking guilty) Other people are going to be there. (Pause) Erik.
Do you want me to drive or do you want to drive?
I don't care. Just decide fast while I go brush my teeth (And she disappears downstairs).
and are whispering. They're scheming. They laugh. Suddenly they grab their jackets and run outside.
I'm ready to go. Am I driving?
(Yawn) Yeah. Go ahead and drive.

Before I continue this tale, it is only fair to reveal that this brave, young woman is girlishly afraid of the dark. She runs to the car when she leaves at 6:00 a.m. and jumps in so the boogey man doesn't get her. I shudder to imagine how she'd be if she ever saw Sixth Sense and had to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night when the hair on the back of her neck starts to rise. Not that I know anything about being terrified in a dark bathroom or anything... Continuing onto the story.
(calmly walks out the door and runs like a maniac to the car, whipping open the door, jumping in, and locking the doors. Big sigh. She's safe.)
{Whispers from back seat} Want some candy, little girl?
(Screams in sheer terror and throws her keys at the whispering perpetrator in her car. Realizing it is her brother, she starts to cry and orders him out of the car. He laughs. He leaves. He comes inside and tells me all about it. Meanwhile, the 16 year old is still shaking, driving slowly and completely freaked out, driving on abandoned country roads to Tom's house.

She turns on the radio to calm her nerves.

She sings at the top of her lungs.

Her legs stop shaking but she's still freaked out by the time she pulls up to Tom's house.

She jumps out of the car and runs to the front door, knocking loudly and praying that whoever is inside will hurry and answer. Someone does. She enters and relaxes.
Meanwhile, back in the car - extricates herself from the floor in the backseat.
leaves the car and walks up to the door. Rings the doorbell. Tom answers.
"! There's a little you at the door!"
is confused. She kicked out . Then she sees .
: How did you get here? Where's Mom?
laughs. "Mom's not here. I was in the car the whole way. By the way, you sing off-key."
calls . In a shaky voice she says, "I had a stowaway. I was singing in the car. Loud. What do I do with it now?"
: "Play with it?"
: "!"
: "I'll come and pick it up in an hour or so."
: "Why in an hour?"
: "I want a really great blog post."

I feel a little guilty but it was the funniest thing the middle kids have ever done in tandem.
You're a good sport, .

Stories That Still Haunt Us, Part II

2012-01-27T03:08:00.000-07:00

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.

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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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

2012-01-26T06:00:00.000-07:00

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

2012-01-26T01:45:00.000-07:00

Some days are like that.

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

My Face

2012-01-23T06:00:00.000-07:00

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

2012-01-09T06:42:00.000-07:00

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.

Who blogs.
Who writes about her mammogram.
Her small cup size that won't hold a cell phone.
Her sagging places.
Her butt.
Her boobs.
Her butt and boobs some more.
Inappropriate thoughts and musings.

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

2012-01-05T07:08:00.000-07:00

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

2011-12-27T20:45:00.002-07:00

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

2011-12-20T09:36:00.000-07:00

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!

2011-12-14T01:32:00.001-07:00

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

2011-12-12T09:00:00.006-07:00

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

2011-12-07T09:51:00.000-07:00

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:

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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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?"
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

2011-12-05T09:00:00.000-07:00

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:

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.
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.
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.
Better yet, if you have room, don't de-decorate Christmas tree. Just store it then return it next year in its previous state.
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.).
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'.
Co-worker gifts: Take a plate of cookies or fudge and place a placard close by announcing these treats ARE their gift. Enjoy.
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.
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.
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.
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

2011-12-01T07:40:00.000-07:00

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

2011-11-29T08:06:00.000-07:00

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

2011-11-28T09:00:00.000-07:00

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.

Thanksgiving in Haiku

2011-11-23T18:25:00.001-07:00

We grow together
Choreographing life and
Leaning on the other when

It is too much to
Stand alone I need a rest
He holds me closely.

Yellowstone Park in
October with family
we laugh, hike, drive, play

Boating on Bear Lake
Hold on tight, the tube is light
Tumbling in the blue.

I have been born of
goodly parents who have seen
me through some rough times

They give me strength as
a child afraid of the storm
Their arms open wide

Imminent sorrow
Makes laughter that much sweeter
Laugh with me, my friend.

Goodbye, Dear Friend - Robert Williams

2011-11-20T01:28:00.003-07:00

My little tribute to my former colleague and dear friend, Robert Williams -

With ever a smile on his face, when asked how is was he'd often answer, "If I was any better, I'd be twins!"

Right now I wish he were - because then there would still be another of him to brighten this world.

May the next world be full of sheds to build, houses to shingle, friends to meet, people to touch, and lots and lots of rainbows.

Goodbye, dear friend. How I will miss you! I have loved you like a second father. You left happiness and peace in your wake wherever you would walk. You have taught me that, after every storm and after my tears have been shed, there will always be rainbows to remind me that better times are just ahead.

And I do hope the tears stop soon. I am seriously in danger of dehydration.

I could use a rainbow.

Lessons I've Learned

2011-11-17T11:50:00.000-07:00

Scott's in Portland this week so we've been adjusting to life with dad via telephone. Here are some lessons I've learned:

By leaving the children who chose to sleep with me, I saved them the long walk from their own beds to mine. I also saved ourselves a battle.
Even though Scott is not physically occupying his half the bed, the six year old still ends up on top of me.
The cat is unafraid to sleep on me.
Don't try to reason with a teenager. It's like talking to a wall.
When frustration of said teenager gets too high, tears are pooling in her belligerent eyes, her tone is beyond sassy and all I want to do is reach out and slap her, redirect self. Reach out and pull her to my lap and give her a great big hug. Keep hugging her until the tears are spent for both her and me.
The dog gets anxious when she doesn't have food. She will bark until I take food out to her bowl, pour out her old water and put in fresh water. Rather than rush to eat and drink, she will contentedly lay down in the sun in the grass.
Rice Chex can be substituted for Rice Krispies when making models of micro-organisms for a 6th grade science project, along with licorice for flagellum and toothpicks for paramecium.
Parent permission slips can be signed while driving.
Science fairs can save a child's science grade and can be a fun family activity.
My children are more capable than I give them credit.
My high school biology teacher still talks about me to his classes.
My neurosis is carefully maintained by a medication that renders me partially dead inside.
Skipping a day of said medication results in a cupboard that I have been stuffing all my emotions to fly open and having to deal with the grief of my mother's cancer.
Crying on my way to work about my mother's cancer is acceptable as long as I stop in time to dry my tears, freshen my face, and paste on a smile before walking in the doors to be the oh-so-very-competent-counselor.
News that former colleague is dying of cancer within the next couple of days opens cupboard all over again. Ugly crying is uncomfortable for everybody around and unprofessional.
Rice Chex slathered in butter and marshmallow will put sticky spots on quilt. Hide evidence of eating in bed before husband comes home.
It's nice to read in bed until midnight without disturbing anybody.
I don't sleep as well when husband is not in bed with me.
I sleep better when cat and kids are not in bed with me.
Rice Chex treats are acceptable breakfast meal.

The Wolf Spider, Polar Bear, Hippopotomus, and Shark

2011-11-10T12:30:00.000-07:00

My friend, Kari, found us a dance class. We bravely enrolled in the intermediate level because we (meaning me) are somewhat delusional. Still, it felt wonderful to move my body like that again. The feeling of copying choreography, moving to music, and wondering how I look so good doing these moves (I was directly behind the teacher so I saw her reflection in the mirror, not mine) felt divine. Then common life got in the way.

Dance class is held on Tuesday nights - 8:30 until 10:00. I've missed the past 6 dance classes due to the many demands of parenthood like going to the church for New Beginnings, teaching all the 12 and 13 year olds how to make Ciabatta bread, laundry, a school band thing, scouts, etc.

Then there's the uncommon demands I didn't see coming. The 11 year old has been hit with a dose of hormones the size of the Pacific Ocean and has given up his carefree, witty, and making-bodily-sounds self for an extra sensitive, alarmed, anxious, and somewhat depressed teen-ager. It is much, MUCH worse than when the girls hit puberty. Although I'll admit that puberty exacerbated one girl's OCD tendencies and she's been medicated every day since and I have NO regrets. He now feels guilty about every little action, deed and thought he has ever had that might be "wrong" and has been purging himself every waking moment at home. He spent three days telling me every misbehavior, passing thought, possible lie, and bad word he's considered. He's cried and talked and I've listened. After 3 days, I texted Scott: Help me. Scott took him out for some man time and I have no idea what they discussed but he felt better. Then he continued with his tirades. He has realized he is a carnal being. Girls are "hot" and he feels guilty about it.

The 14 year old is doing much better with grades and homework and anxiety, although she's still challenging at times. Yesterday I had to physically hold my hands behind my back so I didn't slap her when she yelled at me to "Shut it!" Puberty is still raging within her and I'm not always good at gauging how she might react when she doesn't get her way. Sometimes she's disappointed but accepting. Other times she would frighten Atilla the Hun. Like when she's hungry or tired which is most of the time as she has grown over two inches in the past four months.

The 16 year old is still hanging out with her non-boyfriend. She asked him to Sadie Hawkins and informed me it is a 1920's theme. Do I have a dress from the 1920's?

Dude. How old do you think I am?

Still, I took both girls to the fabric store for projects they will be starting this week in their sewing classes and came across some fabric that was polyester and had ruffles about every inch or two. Polyester means hemming is optional. Ruffles means I don't have to sew them on and they are all over the dress. Yes, dress. I bought a yard and then some and sewed this amazing (my unbiased opinion) dress that, when combined with a tie on the hips, gives the illusion of a drop waist flapper dress. I worked on it last night during dinner then while she was at Young Women's at the church. I am completely in love with the dress. Because I don't sew. Not really. But I thought up a simple pattern, cut a little inward for sleeves and sewed straight lines and it is a beauty. I can't rant and rave enough about it.

Today the 16 year old informed me that the group she is going with will be wearing matching T-shirts and accessories.

The 6 year old still charms me. He is exhausting at times but charming.

But amidst the 11 year old confessions, the tired and hungry Hun, and cleaning up fabric from the stunning dress, I slipped into my ratty cut-off yoga pants and a shirt that is passable as clean and left some of my children in midsentence to drive away to dance class.

And I danced.

I am behind at least 32 counts on 4 dances they have been learning but I refused to step to the side to watch. I moved. I grooved. I pirouetted. I hipped, I hopped. I popped. I tipped. I turned. I sweat. I danced.

Afterward Kari and I put on our shoes and walked outside. I started lamenting how hard parenting is. Kari is my analytical, pragmatic, and unflappable working mother friend. She informed me that she has one child with anxiety who is pulling out her eyebrows and eyelashes, one child so sullen and hostile, he is no longer allowed to speak, and a new diagnosis of ADHD for her third child.

Twenty minutes later, we had purged ourselves of our parenting challenges and agreed they are doozies. Still feeling a soft spot for her own six year old, she laughingly told me that he approached her earlier that night and hesitantly asked, "When you told us you would kick our asses, did you mean me, too?" After apologizing for her language, she assured him that he was included. Parenting even affects the calmest of women.

"No segue, here," I concluded, "but did you know that some animals eat their young?"

"Bastards," she mumbled. I think I saw a hint of envy in her eyes.

End of Daylight Saving Time

2011-11-08T17:07:00.000-07:00

I was surprised by how fast time flew today at work. I had a stack of things to do and I'd barely scratched the surface when I glanced up at the clock. I needed to hurry home if I wanted to be at the house by the time the kids got home. I locked my office door and passed a colleague bringing in her lunch. I walked past the faculty room and noticed a lot of people eating lunch. Odd at the hour I was leaving. Still, I didn't have much time to consider it. I ran out to my van and pulled out of the parking lot, quickly turning onto the road.

Fortunately, the state shrub of Utah is the orange construction cone which slowed me enough to think things through. I barely accomplished anything. Time seemed to fly. People were taking their lunch at 2:00 in the afternoon. I didn't trust the time on my cell phone. I couldn't remember if I'd changed the time on my car clock. I finally called Scott, the man who knows that when I call, I usually need him to put on his chain mail and shiny armor because I'm in need of help (locked the keys in the car, power's out and I can't open the garage hence, the house, I'm taking a child to the emergency room, etc.)

"What time is it?"

"What time is it?" he clarified.

"That's what I said. What time is it?"

"1:00. Why?" I could hear him smiling. I think he knew."

"Nothing. I'm just turning to go back to work. Avert your eyes. Nothing to see here. Nothing at all."

It was a new breed of walk-of-shame returning to work after telling everybody to have a great night.

I hate Daylight Saving Time.

Wordful Wednesday

2011-11-02T07:12:00.000-06:00

Favorites from Yellowstone

Especially the 4th pic.

Don't let his expression fool you -

He loves it.

The Mammogram

2011-10-26T12:10:00.000-06:00

It's been nearly four years so I figured it was time for my annual *cough* mammogram.

I was greeted by perky Tricia-I'll-be-helping-you-today in her pink scrubs. She led me to a barely curtained corner and instructed me to strip from the top up and handed me a thin cotton covering that will open in the front. "Shouldn't you offer to buy me a drink, first?" I asked. But she'd already left.

Once scantily clad, Tricia-I'll-be-helping-you-today sat me down on a cold, hard chair and verified basic information. Yes, my mother has had breast cancer. Yes, that is my name and birthdate. When she asked if I'd had any surgery on my breasts, I could only pull the thin cotton covering tightly across my chest and look at them sadly. "If I have, I'd never recommend the plastic surgeon." She had the grace to giggle nervously then verify, "So have you?"

Led to a room with a painful looking contraption, Tricia excitedly told me that the new technology is now digital(!). Does this mean you don't have to squish so hard? No, she answered wistfully. She then manhandled my right breast onto the shockingly cold plates and surprised me by teaching it new acrobatics. Rather than depressing myself by watching my previously perky and appealing feminine curves squish between the plates, I chose to concentrate on a spot on the industrial wallpaper and talk about anything else. Tricia wanted to talk about my mom's breast cancer. Mmmkay. Anything but that.

Repeat: Left side. Concentrate on industrial wallpaper. Talk about men's prostates, new radiology equipment, the lack of a heating pad on the cold plates (it damages the machine). And done.

Back to my semi-private curtained room, I regained my composure and pride as I slipped back into my clothes. I examined both of my girls who seemed no worse for the wear and walked out, passing another woman waiting for her turn, hunched over herself with both legs bouncing up and down. Tricia-I'll-be-helping-you-today, offered me truffles and a breast cancer awareness bracelet (October being breast cancer awareness month) and waved goodbye.

Before walking past the next victim, I quickly slipped the paperback I'd been reading into my shirt, spine poking outward and called behind my shoulder to Tricia, "So in 4-6 weeks I'll regain my shape?" I walked past the now terrified woman and mouthed, "Have fun."

Park in the Rearview Mirror

2011-10-25T07:26:00.000-06:00

After a long silence of driving my 11 year old made the discovery of the year.

"Did you know that "park" spelled backwards is "krap"?

Yellowstone Bear World

2011-10-24T00:00:00.000-06:00

While the masses of Utah school children headed south to Disneyland, the Taylor household went north.

This is the way a 6 year old spells Yellowstone with Quirkle tiles. That's Yelosdon.

I don't mind admitting it's a little tourist-y but not so much in October. Like I said, the masses were at Disneyland.

While we were making our children stick their heads into cut-out animal murals. But wait. There's more.

A petting zoo where, for the price of a quarter, you could buy pellets of food (I hope that's what it was) and be mauled by previously assumed wildlife.

After a good mauling, there is a drive through the "wild animal" sanctuary. This is where our first leg consisted of bison, deer, elk, and a few goats. I will spare you the pictures of the elk butts for another day and in a more natural atmosphere. For now, I will introduce you to Billy

The ever-so-helpful "park ranger," as designated by her bright red sweatshirt, informed me that one of the turns I took on the drive was for service vehicle access only. Although I am constantly at the beck and call of the service of the people in my household, my van does not qualify. I would have thanked Wendy, the park ranger, had a more pressing matter not come to my attention.

"Were you just talking to that buffalo?" I asked Wendy.

"He's a bison, actually," she unabashedly replied. "And his name is Billy."

"Does Billy talk back to you," I continued.

"Actually, Bridger and Bridgette are more interactive. They stand at the fence and wave at me sometimes."

I could only raise one eyebrow in question. "They're the grizzlies," she explained.

Of course. I think this girl might need to get out a little more.

With a more officious tone, Wendy informed us to keep our hands, feet and heads in the vehicle at all times. Keep the windows rolled up. Do not back up. Do not stop. This will prevent a bear from climbing on the vehicle which may result in vehicular or bodily harm. What Wendy neglected to explain is what happens when a bear wants to play chicken.

He's in the road. Do I stop? Wendy told me not to. Do I trust a girl who claims to have conversations with bison and grizzlies? What if this black bear doesn't move? What if he comes right for us?

And that's what happens when you play Chicken with a bear. Maybe next time he'll wave, too.

It Was Fun. And That's the Truth

2011-10-21T08:00:00.000-06:00

My parenting skills and style leave nothing to be desired. Unless you have a conscience and high standards, that is. But whatever.

My kids really wanted to go to the corn maze which sounds quite harmless except that what companies have done to corn mazes is what commercialism has done to Christmas. I knew it would be an exhausting endeavor. Still, I found a deal, dug up coupons and realized I really needed an extra 5 or 6 year old for babysitting purposes. I called my sister and begged her to give up her son to me on a Saturday afternoon. Done.

So with the kids in the van I drove over to pick up the cousin who, unfortunately, had just had a fight with his brother and was sulking. He didn't want to go. That simply was not an option. I needed him, sulking and all. His dad tried to brush me off. Fortunately, his mother, my sister, shares my parenting style and she drove up just in time. She picked up her son, pushed him into the van, closed the door and I locked it and drove away.

Because we're good like that.

One minute later she called to tell me that her husband disagreed with our style and I should bring the child home. I told her no and if Chad really wanted him, he'd have to find me. Call it Tough Love or call it Lazy Parenting but I know I'm not nearly as fun as a cousin. Chad couldn't track me down so I got to keep Caleb.

Once at the corn maze, I realized the daunting task at hand. I handed the older two a go-phone (the 5th one this year) with the strictest of orders to never lost sight of each other, handed them $20 and told them to eat and see you in three hours when we check in. Bye.

We spent a full hour on the jumping toys ("we" is a term I use loosely). They were holding hands, holding feet, and falling all over each other.

Most of our time was spent playing on bales of hay, crawling through tubes, going down slides, and playing on toys that are on the grounds year round and we only had one incident where Caleb didn't think he had to tell his aunt that he was wandering off. After ten frantic minutes, I saw him meandering back. I then tattooed both boys on their arms with a pen: If you find me, please call (***)-------. Next time I'll take a magic marker.

Eventually we did catch up with the older two but they had tickets to the haunted portions. Why does "haunted" always seem to equate to "bloody clown heads"? Continuing on that thought, why would anybody hire a clown for a child's birthday party? They're heads are creepy even attached to their bodies.

Remember Lily Tomlin's Edith Ann skit where she sits in a big chair and she's five and a half? I really wanted to buy myself a great big lollipop and sit in it like Edith Ann.

Overall, a really good time. Caleb had a good time despite the way the women in his life ganged up on him.

Justin Beiber Has Left the Building

2011-10-19T07:01:00.000-06:00

My Perfect Boyfriend

2011-10-17T07:35:00.000-06:00

My husband is great guy but my boyfriend has characteristics that he does not. Not that I'm comparing or anything (maybe a little) but my perfect boyfriend:

Reaches out to me while he's sleeping. He pets my hair and smiles.
In his semiconscious state, leans over and kisses me. He tells me that he loves me.
He expects nothing in return.
He is communicative. He tells me absolutely everything.
When he has a secret he will tell me anyway. Because he loves me too much to keep a secret from me.
He doesn't have discerning tastes. He'll eat a bowl of cereal for all three meals a day if I don't make him anything else.
He tells me I'm pretty every day. And he really believes it.
He spontaneously and joyfully jumps up suddenly to give me a hug. Multiple times a day.
He wants to spend every moment of every day with me. No part of his heart doesn't belong to me.
He loves everybody. Even though I'm his favorite. I can share.

Given, there are a couple of characteristics that might need a little work like:

Sometimes he pees the bed. And he's always in my bed.
He has a little bit of a potty mouth because he copies words he hears me say then tells me those are swear words. Thanks. I know.
He writes his "m" backwards and he skips 16 when he counts to 20.
He's messy. He's still learning how to clean.
Okay, maybe his heart has room to love Miss Robbins. Maybe it is a little bit broken because Miss Robbins got married last weekend.
And the cat. Yes, he does love the cat nearly as much as me. But I don't shed all over him. She does.

Still, I have to admit, my perfect little boyfriend, when his little quirks are outgrown and he gives up a little of his Oedipus Complex (I dread the day), he is going to make some little girl very, very happy.

Until that day - Ladies, eat your hearts out. He's all mine.

2011-10-14T06:00:00.001-06:00

Did anybody else notice this girl's sister in the background over her left shoulder?

My dad also pointed out to me that, in solidarity with my mother, and in anticipation of the negative effects of chemotherapy, he started shaving his head.

Sadly, nobody has even noticed.

Sorry, Dad.

The Teenagers

2011-10-12T06:54:00.004-06:00

I know I have four children but I haven't seen my 16 year old in a very long time. With band competition season in full swing, she is busier than I ever imagined. Saturday she had a competition then went to someone's house where she hung out with her friends. Scott had gone through his bedtime routine and was about to go to sleep when a tall and lanky teenager graced our bedroom door.

"What is that?" I asked.

"It's our daughter," Scott answered. She smiled at us and vaulted over the footboard, landing between us on our bed. Scott closed his eyes and played possum. The tall, beautiful 16 year old went into the detailed particulars of the competition and what everybody said until Scott announced it was time for bed and let's say a family prayer. For some reason this cracked us girls up and I sat up laughing which caused me to have a full glottal snort. This then only made us laugh harder.

"How many boys did you kiss tonight," Scott asked.

She rolled her eyes. "None."

"You like boys, don't you?" I asked.

"Of course I like boys! What kind of mother asks that? You're in a weird mood tonight. What was in your dinner tonight?"

"I don't know. We had Hibachi. I drank three glasses of red wine."

"She did not," Scott said.

"And then we smoked a doobie." I continued then cracked up all over again.

"Did not," Scott intoned, his eyes still closed.

"What's a doobie?" the 16 year old asked. This made me laugh harder and caused more snorts. She rolled her eyes.

"Go to bed," Scott suggested to both of us. The 16 year old didn't move. She just laughed. I leaned over the 16 year old and told Scott we were now going to make out and turn this into an awkward moment for her, kissing him with all the passion of great Aunt Betty. Scott shifted his weight, rolled over and farted. More laughing and snorting. Scott was still playing possum. I felt an elbow in my ribs and she pushed me clear, vaulted back over the footboard and she was gone.

"She's gone," I informed Scott. "What do you want to do?" I asked suggestively.

He didn't even turn over to face me. He farted again. I laughed and snorted.

We really need parenting.

Why I Lack a Toned Hard Body

2011-10-10T09:30:00.000-06:00

Our family has a yearly pass at the Rec. Center. I can go lift weights, walk ~~or run~~ the track, use any of the aerobic machines or take a class at any time. It also has a pool. I can swim laps or take the kids swimming which I have done exactly twice this year. Because I'm just so darn cute in my Speedo swimming suit and Mom shorts. I'm also extremely adverse to clorinated pee water. Or any pee water.

Scott uses the gym regularly. Of course he does. He also doesn't remember high school gym classes. My memory is stunningly (and kind of creepily) sharp and accurate. Here are the categories in the ladies department:

1. The freakin' beauty queen who can attempt any sport and do well without breaking a sweat. She also never loses the perfect hair no matter how hot and sweaty she is supposed to get.

These are today's aerobic and Zumba instructors. While I am redfaced and wearing cut off sweats with a free conference t-shirt, she is color coordinated. While jumping around spastically and impossibly, she is also smiling at herself in the mirror and shaking her hair to fall just so. She is also yelling encouraging words to the back row (where I would be) and never tiring. I hate her.

2. The more serious type girl who concentrates really, really hard and finds success in phys. ed. because of her amazing focus. She is not there to have a good time. No time for chit chat. She is going to get an A no matter what. She is also on the yearbook committee, Future Business Owners of America, and in every AP class offered.

This girl grows up to be a C.E.O. or a Nazi Mom. She ran me over while playing softball. I already know to keep out of her way. She yells a lot.

3. The girl who can passably catch a ball, throw a ball, hit a badminton birdie, set, bunt and spike a volleyball and get the basketball through the hoop at least 30% of the time. She's more social and good to have on your team. You'll have a good time but not look like a total dork because she'll pick up some of your slack.

These are women that survive in any setting. They adapt. They can hold their own. They're the ladies up the street.

4. The total dork is usually a little on the tall side and never quite adjusts to the sudden growth spurt. Worse, they are overweight and are able to get their enabling mothers to write a note excusing them from activity because they are having a period ~~three weeks out of every month.~~ The ones with mean moms find themselves tripping on the rubberized track and scraping their knees, get hit by their partner's racquets on a racquetball court, are run over in softball (particularly embarrassing when it's a teammate overtaking you on the bases), never make a basket and can bench press 40 lbs. on a good day. They also can't quite coordinate their arms and legs to do the aerobics routine and they certainly can't smile while attempting to do an aerobics routine.

These women grow up to be school counselors and mediocre mothers who NEVER write an excuse for their own daughters' gym classes. It's a rite of passage, people! I mean, if you are in this category, you might have that kind of attitude.

5. The stoners never show up for class. They are in the parking lot getting stoned.

They grow up to be... honestly, I don't know. I don't even know who they were in high school. They never bothered to show up for the humiliation of high school gym.

Keep these categories in mind the next time you show up to the gym. The grown-up gym. Although I have no empirical evidence, I feel confident that there will be an overabundance of the first three categories. Category #4 will show up once every couple of years. I've heard. Not that I'd know from experience. All I know is that I have exercise tapes and DVDs that I can, theoretically, access at any time. Someday I will. Someday I will be buff enough to show up at the gym.

Which one are you?

Where Can I Turn for Peace?

2011-10-01T20:27:00.001-06:00

It is 4:18 in the afternoon. For 45 minutes I had peace. The house was quiet. Yes, the pile of clean laundry cried to me but I ignored it. I then went for a doctor's appointment and came home shortly after some of my children trickled in. But at this very moment, there are no less than 12 children wandering around my house, looking in cupboards and my refrigerator. I'm fairly certain someone will end up in my underwear drawer. I'm not even certain I know who all the children are. One of my children planned a scavenger hunt without my knowledge. Now I know. Thanks for the heads-up, Kiddo.

I have also been on the phone nearly constantly. Try being on the phone and answering questions by your own children, yelling at someone else's child to stop playing the piano, asking what is going on. It surprises me I haven't blown a gasket. I'm surprised I'm sitting here so calmly typing this while other people's children wander around me.

Scott called. How is my day? I like that call. Everything's fine. It's still quiet.

The hospital called. My mammogram needs to be scheduled. I can barely plan for tomorrow. I'm looking for my rarely written in planner. I scheduled it, anyway. It will be balanced between the delicate time that I LOVE after I am finished with work and before the children come home. The woman asked me if I have implants. I laughed and told her she wouldn't ask that if she saw me.

The moment I hung up, my dad called. We talked Kindle-talk then cancer talk. Mom's starting chemo again. She's not a happy camper. He asked me to come over. I told him I'd come as soon as I could kick out all these children who were suddenly fighting among themselves. Probably in a couple of hours. Hung up.

Becky called. She wants money for Relief Society activity. We talked about high school band. Hung up.

MaKayla called. She wanted to talk to my oldest daughter who is at the high school until late tonight working on band. Hung up. That was 8 minutes ago.

Can I block all calls except from my family for a couple of hours? Can I make my house appear invisible so nobody comes over for a day? Can I have a few quiet hours with just my children and husband and no calls, knocks or ringing of the bell?

All I know is the children are yelling again. Some at each other. Even the dog is happy to be outside.

Lucky dog.

Grown Up Joy School

2011-09-29T12:54:00.000-06:00

I lived in a neighborhood that I knew I loved before I moved in. It was just a feeling I had and was ready to make the necessary sacrifices to live there. We already had friends nearby but that's not what drew us. We'd been looking for months and nothing felt just right. It was April 19, 1995 and I had just come home from the hospital with a brand new bundle of joy in my arms when Scott informed me he'd found our home. I reluctantly relinquished the baby and drove two miles north, walked into the entry and burst into tears. I was home. And my milk had come in. I was engorged and in pain.

When my oldest baby was three years old, another mother in the neighborhood approached me and asked if I wanted to join the "Joy School" group. Uh, oookaaay? What's Joy School? It's a cooperative pre-school that mothers take turns teaching. The curriculum is easy and predictably scheduled for 3 year olds. We, the mothers, also had to meet once a month to make plans, tweaks and whatever else. We met for lunch at someone's house and sent the kids outside to play while we connected. 13 years later I think of some of the ladies in this group as my dearest friends.

We all grew up and outgrew our homes. We moved on and away. Although I like many of the women in my neighborhood and we've lived in this house for 11 years, I've never felt as confident and close to the women as I did in my old neighborhood. It was a time when we let our guard down and became a support group. Our goal was singular - love each other and our children. There was no judgment. No rejection. No shunning. We were young, human mothers, women, and sisters who were doing the best we could. We used the relationships we built to gauge our rules, standards and defined our normal. We didn't pretend to be something we were not. At the same time, we were bettering ourselves and each other by having no pretenses, no cliques, and no gossip sessions. Apparently, even our cycles synchronized. Three of us had babies within the same week.

It was never meant to last forever but for that season in my life, they provided exactly what I needed.

I am amazed that I can now live in a neighborhood and still feel alone and isolated. I understood the feeling when I was growing up in a rural, unincorporated town. Geography prevented contact with others beyond church organized activities. But now I live among wonderful, beautiful women who struggle with parenting, homemaking, working, marriage, and a number of other difficulties I can't even imagine and they suffer alone.

So today I was having an internal struggle about my parenting style and reasonable rules. I felt bombarded by outside forces and couldn't seem to gather myself and my family in. I'd mandated that it be a "No Friend" day and took all kinds of crap from my children and the neighbor children. Could I really do that? I didn't know. Could I? Is there a rule book? Would I find the answer on the internet? Should I look?

I ended up in my bedroom, locking the door and praying for strength and help. During the quiet after the prayers, I remembered my Mom Friends. I really wished I had them again. I needed them to help me define myself and my boundaries. I needed validation and ideas.

As I thought these lonely thoughts, faces of women floated through my head. I do apologize to them (even though none of them but one knows who they are) that they were floating heads without bodies. I called the one that has a son my son plays with. Her first response was, "What did my son do?" I assured her it had nothing to do with any of her children then spilled my guts and asked for ideas. As expected, she's having similar struggles and came up with her ideas. She was a clear answer to my prayers. She gave me a starting point.

In such a busy life, the women I cherish in my neighborhood are ones I want to "do lunch" with but instead I settle for the little contact we have when our children are fighting or doorbell ditching. What I really miss is the scheduled hour and a half where we mothers proactively plan, discuss, and bond. We need each other desperately. But I then realized my renegade friends and I are already doing this kind of support group.

I am sorry for my friends who teach Sunday School on Sundays. I apologize to my husband who teaches gospel doctrine. My women friends and I lead busy lives. During this hour of church, it is not unusual for a group of us to be clustered about supporting one another, sharing our burdens, discussing our struggles, making plans for our families, and talking about going out to lunch someday.

It's our own version of Joy School.

Stupid Questions

2011-09-26T07:15:00.001-06:00

Whoever coined the phrase, "There is no such thing as a stupid question" was smoking something. Here are my two most irritating:

1. What are you reading?
2. What are you doing?

Now I'll put them in context:
1. I am reading a book or my Kindle. I am trying to stay in the story which means that I need to mentally block out what is happening around me.

What are you reading?

Clearly, I am no longer reading because my concentration is blown and I am answering the question. Now I am reading nothing.

2. I am on the computer when I am asked, "What are you doing?"

Seriously? You want to know what I am doing? This one irritates me because I am not merely paying my bills on Bill Pay. While my pages load I am also:

Checking my email
Responding to an email
Checking the children's grades
Now emailing a teacher
Checking ratings on a book
Forgetting my bank password so I look it up in my documents
Check my work email
Register for a conference
Writing a blog post.
Stalk my favorite blogs until my stalkees are creeped out.
Ordering the Deal of the Day
Paying my credit card
Putting a charge into dispute
Looking up my paycheck
Listening to music
Scheduling SEOP's for the kids.

How long would it take to answer that one inane question? I know the asker is not really interested in what I am doing but making conversation. How about asking me to quote an entire Shakespeare sonnet? Or better, tell me what it is you REALLY want. Those four words, formed in question form, will result in a ten minute explanation at which time I will lose my flow and lose track of 75% of what I was doing. The credit card will not get paid. My friends will not get stalked. I won't schedule SEOP's thus I will forget to even go to them. I still won't know how much tithing to pay because I don't know how much I earned this month. I still didn't contact the teacher to explain why my child was late or absent and excuse it thus resulting in a grade dock.

Am I goofing off? Probably. But only between page loads. Want to guarantee I won't order your Christmas presents? Ask me what I'm doing. Go ahead. Ask.

What are you doing?

Island of Misfit Toys

2011-09-23T06:00:00.002-06:00

Last night I had parent night at work. This is my shining moment where I stand up in front of all the parents that show up (usually under a handful but this year 31) and their students and give them a scintillating lecture of credits. It was awesome because the subject matter is so intriguing.

My turn over, I sat down and continued reading while someone else took a turn. Then we wrapped it up and herded them to the food. I heard someone call my name and a guy that looked familiar approached me. It was Matt, high school all-American in every sport, crushed on him BAD all through high school even though I was a year older than him, talked endlessly with my friends about his blue, blue eyes. He was standing in front of me, 28 years later. He still looked hunkadelicious, even without his Greg Brady perm.

I caught up with him again in the cafeteria where we talked a little more and tried to tie our social lives together with "have you heard what ever happened to..." but it fell flat. Finally he admitted, sheepishly, that the only people he really paid attention to during high school were the jocks and the cute girls.

I wasn't a jock.

Matt thought I was cute.

I'm still giggling.

*Disclaimer* Scott Taylor is the MOST hunkalicious of them all.

The Crossing Guard

2011-09-22T08:31:00.001-06:00

At school the children have been discussing community helpers. What that means is somewhat vague but the basic gist is that today they were to dress up as their favorite civil servant/community helper. Guess whose mother was at Lowe's last night looking for costume ideas? Guess whose mother, a geometrically and spatially challenged woman, worked until after 7:00 last night, went to Lowe's, and then had to challenge her brain with making a couple of octagons then cutting electrical tape into small squares and rectangles to form the words "STOP"?

Guess whose mom super glued her fingertips together?

Guess whose mom loves this little crossing guard?

Experimenting with new words.

2011-09-20T06:00:00.000-06:00

Did you have a good time playing with Caleb today?

Yeah.

What did you play?

Actually, we played with Caleb's sister, too. It's a lovely way to respect her.

It is a lovely way to respect her. Good job, bud.

Girl in a Whirl by Dr. Sue

2011-09-16T08:00:00.000-06:00

Look at me, look at me, look at me now!
You could do what I do if you only knew how.
I study the scriptures one hour each day,
I bake, I upholster, I scrub and I pray.
I always keep all the commandments completely.
I speak to my little ones gently and sweetly.
I help in their classrooms, I sew all they wear,
I drive them to practice, I cut all their hair.

I go to the temple at least once a week;
I change the car's tires and fix the sink's leak.
I'm taking a class on the teachings of Paul,
But that is not all, oh no, that is not all!

I play the piano and work on my talents;
My life is a wonder of fullness and balance.
I read to my children, I help all my neighbors,
I bless my community, too, with my labors.
Our family home evenings are always delightful;
The lessons I give are both fun and insightful.
I do genealogy faithfully, too
It's easy to do all the things that I do.

I have a home business to help make some money;
I always look beautifully groomed for my honey.
My visiting teaching is done the first day;
I exercise, and I cook menus gourmet.
I can garden produce each summer and fall,
But that is not all, oh no, that is not all!

It's easy," she said,
And then she dropped dead.

(Author unknown but she's dead anyway)

Parental Advice

2011-09-15T09:23:00.001-06:00

This week I am taking part in Mama Kat's Writer's Workshop. The prompts are:

1.) Locked out.
2.) Write about a time you wanted to disappear.
3.) An inappropriate time to laugh.
4.) A time you hurt a friends feelings.
5.) Advice to new mothers.

This is a repost. I wrote this in August. If you've already read it, go ahead and read it again. Tell me it's awe inspiring. If you want to insult me, go ahead but make sure I don't know where you live. I will egg your house. Because I'm petty that way.
______________________________________________

"Enjoy them while they're young."

That one sentence and snippet of advice I heard hundreds of times over the years set my teeth on edge. I wondered if the bestower of this nugget of knowledge understood how condescending she sounded. Or if she might be suffering from selective memory loss. Worst of all, the undertone was a message of doom. You think you have it hard now? Ha! Just wait. It was also implied that I wasn't enjoying my children which sounded like a judgment.

As a newer mother, I was trying to do right by my children. I took them to story time at the library, joined a cooperative preschool, breastfed long after they got teeth (biting really was sparse), worried about healthy food and positive discipline. I loved them, held them rocked them, sang to them, told them how beautiful, smart, wonderful people they were.

At the same time, I worked and juggled the child who would never take a bottle. I organized my hectic schedule around feeding time. Another pregnancy brought on another severe case of hyperemesis so I needed to know where the closest bathroom was located in a new building so I could throw up. When I went anyplace, even simply up the road to church, I packed a bag or two for all purposes. There were diapers, wipes, burp cloths, pacifiers, snacks, crayons, notebooks, a change of clothes for everybody, blankets, toys, shoes (who knew how I often a toddler would leave without shoes?), sippie cups and a stroller. Yet how many times would I get to a store after all this preparation and realize I'd forgotten my wallet?

I'd sit in the mall to take a breather with two children in a double stroller, one pre-schooler tired of walking, the hungry baby but I'm not a public nurser and we'd split a pretzel with cream cheese. For all intents and purposes, it looked idyllic to someone not in this stage. Someone, in fact many someones would stop to admire my beautiful children, offer a finger to my little ones to grab (I'd wonder if I'd brought the hand sanitizer) and they'd smile and say, "Enjoy them while they're young."

With great effort, I would smile and think, "Bite me." Did I mention that I was also severely sleep deprived?

I felt guilty, terribly, terribly guilty because somehow I was missing the secret these women already knew. This was supposed to be the best time. The easiest time. I love my children, there is no doubt about that but many, many days I would find that after packing everything I needed, running back into the house for this or that or the other, driving to work and realizing I forgot diapers or I'm out of wipes and continuing on, struggling up the steps with all the paraphernalia while urging the walking children to keep up because I'm already late for work, enduring the velcro arms and legs around my own legs, I would finally leave daycare, close the door and hear an audible sigh escape my lips.

Enjoy them while they're young. I'm trying to but what does that mean?!

It's many years later and I'm at another stage in life. My children are pursuing different interests and I'm driving them a lot more, breaking up arguments, settling hurt feelings, problem solving, explaining time constraints, wondering what I did wrong and overall feeling overwhelmed and thinking my children are ill-prepared for what comes next, whatever it might be. I'm terrified of the future where my son can't sew on a button, my daughter goes out with a boy who won't take no for an answer, another daughter might crash the car and get maimed or die, someone might push my baby down in the playground or a teacher might say something careless and I look back on those early years with fondness. Why? Because in hindsight, I realize that I survived them and I understand them. That doesn't make them any easier. I was just as neurotic then as I am now and I had fears that mirrored the next big thing but at least I know I enjoyed having small children when I didn't take them out. When I played on the floor, read books to them, nursed them, rocked them, or let them help me make cookies. I wasn't perfect, but I believe that, in the gaps of a hectic life, I enjoyed them.

The other day I was talking to a quiet, new teacher at our school. He's 30 and recently graduated from a local college in teaching. I was interrupted by a call from a daughter trying to schedule two fun things too close together without planning for transportation and time and I was trying to explain this glitch to her 13 year old brain in a non-frustrated manner. Very difficult. But she's only 13 as I reminded myself. I hung up and turned to the new teacher and asked if he has children.

"I do. They are 7, 3, and 10 months old," he said. My mouth nearly went off before I could stop myself from suggesting that he enjoy them while they're young. To me, they are at a manageable age. Because I did it. I survived it. Because right now I have four children that challenge me in ways I didn't anticipate. But we'll get through it together just like we did when we were younger.

"It's a lot of work, isn't it?" I said. He let out a breath he seemed to be holding and began a diatribe on how one child threw up all over the bed in the middle of the night, etc., etc., etc. "It gets better, doesn't it?" he asked me.

"Yes," I told him. "You'll enjoy them at different moments. But it's good."

Yes, it's good.

Fashion Vs. Function

2011-09-14T08:00:00.003-06:00

I have a quandary about fashion and function. I'm starting to understand why women wear clothes from their era instead of keeping more up to date clothing. It's not the fit. I've already proved that 110 lbs. at age 18 and 40 are both a size 6 for me. But 18 doesn't have a muffin top.

So my grandmother always bought her clothes at a store called Pikettes. It basically specialized in old lady clothes. That would be the double knit polyester colored pants with a seam down the front and a button-down, long-sleeve, polyester, flowered top that coordinated with said double knit pants. I'd not be caught dead in those clothes except for two occasions. 1) To work at McDonald's, although the shirt was the same color as the pants so not comfortable and 2) To please my grandmother. When my grandmother came to visit one time, she decided to gift me a pair of those polyester pants in pink. She insisted I try them on and I certainly was well-mannered enough to not disappoint an old lady. Diminutive in size, her waist was still larger than mine and the pants hung on my hips with the hem hitting about six inches above the ankle. She declared them perfect and insisted I wear them. I tried telling her my sister, Joey, would look much better in them and they'd fit her better, too. Joey was biting back the laughter. Grandma wouldn't bite. They were all mine.

On the other extreme, a woman needs to know what her body looks like. Midriffs were huge about 15 years ago. Admittedly, my midriff was acceptable during part of the time period. Meaning I didn't have a muffin top but I had gone through one pregnancy and had stretch marks. I saw a woman at the grocery store who had no concept of her own body and bared her belly with bright red stretch marks. Admirable to be that confident. Or sad to be that unaware.

My best friend from college is a belly dancer. She has fantastic midsection and lives in Hawaii in a 2 piece swimming suit. She tells me to come and see her and bring a bikini. Bwah! Yet another example of ignorance, bless her heart. She's self-aware. She has washboard abs. She is simply under the false assumption that I must have them, too. I wear a one piece tank suit with swimming shorts. No need to offend other beach combers.

Muffin-top or not (yes), I am glad the waist dropped on pants. I love having my pants hit me below the belly button. Of course, then there is the delicate balance of low waisted but not too low waisted - muffin top, remember. But now the waists are climbing up again. I simply can not bear to think about returning to restrictive fashion of wearing pants up to my rib cage. Not only that, my ribs have spread from carrying children. I'll be going a size bigger just for that adjustment.

But the bigger picture here is that I am willing to halt fashion time and find my own little Pikettes that specializes in semi-low riding pants and long t-shirts. I want to be a GAP ad for the next 40 years. But not a GAP ad that changes with the trends. The ads from two years ago. Could you imagine the horror of my grandchild when I hand her some used khakis and a t-shirt and tell her to try them on? Hopefully, she'll at least be polite enough to humor an old lady. If she laughs at me, I'll spank her mother.

Does Dr. Sholl's go with GAP?

My Muffintop - watch more funny videos

New Diagnosis

2011-09-09T15:37:00.001-06:00

It's not happy time.

My mother was diagnosed with stage 4 breast cancer nearly 9 years ago and went through aggressive chemotherapy and mastectomy. She beat cancer. Still, there's always the collective intake of breath every time she has a health issue, wondering if it has returned.

It has returned. Yesterday she had surgery to fuse discs in her spine and to add a plate. She was in the operating room for over 3 hours and it went well. A tumor is around the spine (not in the bone). Today, in fact right now she is in surgery again and having the tissue removed.

Cancer sucks.

Still, I have societal expectations to meet. No time to be upset and throw a pity party. I hate cancer. I love my mom. But I did what is expected of me. Got up, showered and dressed, took kids to school - okay, I'm totally lying about taking kids to school. Scott did because I'm perpetually late - drove to work. I listen to news radio on the way so I can get the news somehow. Naturally, September 11th is on everybody's mind. My fragile state was brought further to the surface but I punched it down like bread dough on hot day. Took the air right out of it. Pasted a smile on my face and walked into work. First thing the secretary asks me, "How's your mom?" I swallowed, blinked, stuttered and then burst into tears, running into the bathroom.

I'm such a girl.

I had a meeting first thing with colleagues and a brand spanking new school based therapist who doesn't know me at all. I sat down and placed a Kleenex box in front of me. She tried to make conversation but faltered when she saw my eyes and noticed the Kleenex. Should she ask? Should she pretend she doesn't notice? Poor kid. Finally, I let her off the hook. "I have a condition where I spontaneously burst into tears."

Cancer sucks

Wordful Wednesday - The Story of the Dress

2011-09-07T01:50:00.000-06:00

Since posting the picture of my amazing wedding dress, I have been asked over and over about it. Maybe people are simply stunned that I ever wore anything besides khakis and a t-shirt. Still, I have to agree. The dress was stunning. Frankly, the story to the dress is nothing short of ironic. So sit back, relax and grab a Diet Coke.

The dress was first my little sister's. She married the year before I did and did all the running around, comparison shopping and kept copious notes. It was awesome. She and I are of the same mind when it came to wedding dresses. Neither of us wanted to buy one but wanted the. Perfect. Dress. She found the Perfect Dress.

Within the year I was engaged. I started looking for a wedding gown. I remembered my sister's wedding gown but started closer to home. There was really nothing like that one so I broke down and begged her to help me track that dress down.

The dress belonged to a home business in a very small town in northern Utah. The home itself was in an unincorporated part of town. We drove two hours and arrived at a house that was probably built in the 1970s and had clearly had no upkeep since. The woman's daughter had taken over the business. She was high strung and spread thin with the business and raising a bunch of boys.

We described the dress to her and were then directed into the garage which had been converted into the shop. The orange shag carpet was covered in crumbs and some parts smashed down with sticky residue. In one corner sat an industrial sewing machine. Hanging all over the place were exquisite gowns that were clean and protected by a plastic covering. The juxtaposition was appalling, I must admit. My sister produced a picture of the dress and the lady realized it was a dress she had made for a tall bride and was not, in fact, a mermaid wedding dress. It was rented out. Come back later.

A few weeks later I made the trek back to the house. The dress had been returned and I had to show the picture again. The woman was flustered but started digging through the dresses, explaining that the bottom of the dress had been changed along with the train so it wasn't the same dress as my sister's and did I want her to rip it off so I could have the same? She produced the dress and I was smitten all over again especially with the changes to the bottom of the dress. She made me wash my hands before I touched anything even though my feet crunched as I took a step through the morass then I put it on.

This is where it gets really weird. While I'm standing in the dress, she finds where the alterations need to be made and suddenly wields a razor blade. She starts ripping it apart where she plans to take it in and I can't stop wincing. She's getting irritated with me because I have some weird phobia of razor blades slashing so close to my skin. She's also extremely distracted as her boys keep coming in and out of the shop for one emergency or another. I gathered that her boys were supposed to be taking a bath but there was a mouse in the tub. She left me with my arms above my head without a word to me and disappeared.

That's just about the time that the baby, Henry (I kid you not - the baby's name was Henry), crawled through the door wearing only a dirty t-shirt and crusted snot on his face. He looked up at me and smiled, then peed all over the carpet. His mother returned and stepped in the wet spot and called to her older boys to come and get Henry. I was ordered to take off the dress. I did, being careful to not drag it on the carpet at all. She then disappeared to the corner and sewed furiously.

This was repeated 3 times with her leaving to put out a proverbial fire and I was left either in the dress or sitting on the edge of a couch that didn't smell very good and I was pretty sure wasn't particularly clean.

You may be asking why I stayed through this. The place was filthy but she clearly thought highly enough of her work to keep the dresses clean. You must remember that I loved that dress nearly as much as I loved the man I was to marry. I could have had a different dress and still gotten married but the dress came in a close second place to Scott. It didn't occur to me to leave until the fourth time she left to yell at her kids.

I was sitting on the edge of that sofa, feeling awkward and insecure when movement caught my eye. The mouse entered the shop from the house, scampered towards me and stopped six feet in front of me. It then went up on its back legs and stared right at me. I didn't scream. In fact, I wasn't even surprised. I realized it was par for the course. Sitting there in the middle of all that filth, surrounded by expensive and exquisite wedding gowns with a mouse for an audience, I found the hilarity of it and started laughing. The mouse didn't find the humor and left before the home/business owner returned.

Two weeks later I picked up the intricately beaded, exactly fitted, meticulously clean wedding gown. The owner had previously admitted to me she was not going to be renting dresses much longer. Materials for my dress alone ran up to $1,000. She then asked for the rental fee of my exquisite dress. $90. No deposit.

Totally worth it.

On Being the Example

2011-09-05T07:45:00.002-06:00

Being the upstanding Mormon woman that I am, I do not swear. I do, however, have bad manners. Bad manners have been defined for me by a former bishop. Those are farm words. If you need a definition of swearing, email me. But I have bad manners on very rare occasions. Daily. Fortunately, my children have been educated on bad manners and swearing. They don't say either although one of my children must have watched too much television for awhile because he would suddenly exclaim, "Oh my G**!" That's swearing I don't do. Television or daycare. I've accused the daycare ladies when he let out a bout of bad manners, too. They had the decency to look guilty then would admit letting out a "d" word two weeks ago. I would give them a stern warning and giggle inside.

My oldest daughter lives and breathes band. She is not alone. Most band people take more art credit than is required and have to take core classes someplace else. That someplace else happens to be at the alternative high school where I work. To save on gas, I took another girl with the same love of band and dropped them off. When they were finished, I returned and made the mistake of going inside and ended up having an impromptu counselor meeting.

Eventually, the girls got bored and stole my car keys. We finished our meeting and I stepped outside. The car was missing. I yelled, "I can't believe this!" I had an audience. A few teenagers heard my authoritarian voice and jumped. "My car is missing!" One long haired boy walked warily towards me. I looked like a crazy middle aged woman yelling nonsense into the air. I waved the poor boy away. He looked frightened.

There was mad texting between the thief and myself. I demanded she come back. Right. Now. She gave vague answers. After volleying texts back and forth, I called to actually talk to her just as I saw the car slide into a parking spot. "Hello?" I heard.

"You little sh**," I answered. Then I heard a gasp and saw my daughter reach for the phone.

"Was I just talking to Emily?" I asked, panicking.

"Well, yeah. I'm driving." Duh.

"I just called her a little sh**."

"What?! Mom! I can't believe you said that! Now what is she going to think of you?"

That faux pas cost me a trip to the frozen yogurt shop in hopes that Emily would remember the cool treat instead of my bad manners when she recounts her day for her parents.

Later that night I recounted the story to my husband who laughed at my awkward social graces. He never swears and rarely exhibits bad manners. It was at this moment my 16 year old daughter pointed out the obvious. "How is it acceptable to call ME that word and not Emily?"

Right. Then there's that.

Way to kick me while I'm down, kid.

The Many Faces of E

2011-09-02T09:00:00.002-06:00

So I am enamored by this baby, it's true. But my sister recorded this on her ipod and I found I couldn't stop laughing at his expressions. Enjoy.

P.S. There is nothing in his mouth.

A Message of Hope and Taunting

2011-09-01T08:30:00.000-06:00

Sixteen years, three months later

We are finished with DAYCARE!

(Missing from picture is a certain 16 year old who later came home GLOWING and floating just a little bit. Her "not boyfriend" asked her to homecoming)

Back to my original thought - I now have days in a row when I don't worry about my children for six solid hours, nobody calls my cell phone to give me a play by play on a Zoodles game or tell me they are bored. Above all, I don't have to think about picking someone up from daycare or kindergarten in the middle of the day.

I know. You be jealous.

Turnabout is Fair Play

2011-08-30T09:16:00.000-06:00

Around my 16th birthday, my father walked in with his car keys dangling from a finger. "Let's go learn how to drive a stick shift," he announced. Although not well versed with shifting gears, I didn't tell him that I'd already had a couple of lessons by my older brother and his Rabbit and I'd driven my sister's orange Ford Fiesta a couple of times home from church. Clearly, I was going to out-perform on my "first" lesson.

We drove around the countryside; a community with an occasional stop sign and very little traffic. I popped the clutch too quickly and killed the engine, but overall I was doing a respectable job.

Not far from our home was a gulley. Not the little dip in the road but a 16 degree angled hill going down then up. It's a nice little hamlet for some local deer, raccoon, fox and a little stream. It was kind of like a roller coaster for the poor. If you opened your windows, closed your eyes, put your hands up the air, there was a very small similarity. This is where my dad directed me to drive. Down into the gulley which was a small rush of adrenaline then up to the other side. Halfway up he told me to stop. Then I got to practice popping the clutch and adding enough gas to start on a steep hill. I'm pretty sure I was stuck there for two days. Eventually we coasted backward to the bottom of the gulley so I could get the car going again.

And that is how I learned how to drive stick shift.

Ironically, we now live directly above one side of that same gulley. In fact, in order to reach our church on Sunday we have to through that gulley. Stopping on one side of the hill to teach my 16 year old how to start the car is no longer an option since the area has been built up so much since then. Still, last Sunday I found myself in the passenger seat in the car with the stick shift while my daughter drove us to church. Down the hill we went then up again quickly losing momentum. "You might want to add gas or you'll be really embarrassed soon," I told her. She did and we turned into the parking lot of the church.

Once in the parking lot, a couple of cars pulled in behind us. There was a great parking spot she missed which flustered her. She killed the car. She started it back up and bucked it. It died again. Repeat 6 times. On the 7th try I was no longer able to give direction. I was laughing too hard and covering my face. She finally pulled into a parking spot and I jumped out and nearly sprinted to the church doors.

"I was having a hard time because there were cars behind me," she panted as she tried to keep up.

"Of course," I replied. "But could you walk behind me about ten paces and pretend like we don't know each other? You may not have your dignity intact but I want to pretend like I have mine."

Instead she linked her arm with mine and we walked into the church together.

What I Found This Morning

2011-08-26T08:22:00.001-06:00

In the kitchen:

2 boxes of empty Capri Sun
1 box with one Capri Sun
1 empty box of Special K in the pantry
1 empty box of instant oatmeal in the drawer
1 gallon container of empty milk in the refrigerator

In the girls' bathroom:

2 empty bottles in the shower
No soap in the dispenser
Empty toilet paper roll with a full roll of paper on the counter
Cotton balls, tissues, empty toilet paper rolls almost in the garbage but really on the floor

Like sands through the hour glass, so are the days of my life...

Sunflowers and Perfection

2011-08-25T09:00:00.000-06:00

The sunflowers are definitely the crowning glory of the garden this year. It amazes me, actually. Out of dirt grew something I planted and it's 12 ft. high and has the circumference of a tree. I want to take credit for having such an amazing sunflower garden. In fact, if the Roma tomatoes turn red at the same time and I am busy canning, I want to take credit for that, too.

The truth is that I bought the sunflower seeds on a whim. I saw them and thought they'd be fun for the kids to watch grow. I planted them and left them alone. I let the sprinklers water them and planted them in the sun. When the bugs got really bad, I sprayed them a little bit when I was spraying the vegetables. That's it. And now I am deemed the Sunflower Queen.

So that started me thinking about how kids turn out. If I hover over them and try to control every little thing they do, will it really do any good? If I don't worry about the small stuff and they don't turn in their homework and don't develop excellent reading skills by the third grade will they really end up in prison by the age of 16? If I yell sometimes, make mistakes, and feed them candy after 9:00 at night will it really matter if it all ends up as a tell-all on a therapist's couch in the near future?

If I am the perfect mother who never raises her voice and enforces natural consequences and teaches my children to eat with their mouths closed and never make rude noises using their hands and armpits, am I really guaranteed that they will never fail? If I teach them to pray, study their scriptures, be kind to others, will they never experience disappointment and heartbreak?

Is there a chance that children come already encoded with who they are and just need fertile ground and an occasional watering? How does a mother judge success in mothering? With so many variables, how can a parent take credit for a child being a success story or blame for a child choosing to engage in illegal behavior? Can we really believe that we can control the way our child turns out? Can we really control every mitigating circumstance?

In the same garden as the sunflowers are my woeful cucumbers. I planted three plants. One came up. Same soil. Same sun. Same water. Wax beans were spotty but the good plants are great producers. Success or failure? What did I do to grow any of it?

My children have a home with parents that love them to pieces. Sometimes they know it, sometimes they don't. They have food to eat - both healthy and not so much. They also have parents who are imperfect (except for Mr. Taylor, that is) but who want them to be happy and strong, trying so hard to control the environment so that part will be nurtured and grow. Will it? I don't know. I have 18 short years to shove all my experience and wisdom into their little brains. Problem is, I'm still learning. They are my guinea pigs.

I'm just going to have to trust their encoding and variables I can't control. I'm going to have to trust their systems are wired to adapt and learn. Like the sunflowers, they will turn their faces to the Sun for nourishment and healing.

I also hope they are forgiving and see good intention.

*This post originally published in 2009. I have not grown sunflowers since. If you need squash or cucumbers, however, please feel free to leave your car unlocked on Sunday.*

Consider the Source

2011-08-19T06:51:00.000-06:00

It started with something so benign. The bar stools were old, ugly and cheap. They were the basic round 24" oak kind that had been customized by ten years of kids, chewing puppies, and they'd even been in a dance recital. So one date night at a furniture store yielded 3 new bar stools complete with an ergonomic design with backs and wipeapble seats. Stunning, they were. Truly stunning. Which then brought the attention to the rest of the kitchen and its outdated cabinetry and dining set.

The next chapter of this saga began with my admiring hand caressing (yes, caressing) my sister's banister and commenting on the color and wood. She informed me she'd stained right over the light finish to match the new additions and it was a piece. Of. Cake. "You could totally do your whole kitchen," she commented. She then encouraged me to try it on the inside of one cabinet first and handed me the remainder of her can of paint. I did and I didn't love the results.

Next chapter is passing remarks between husband and wife and how much the husband wants a new dining set now that we have barstools that are so classy. This quickly segues to Nancy waking up one morning and realizing she has a full day at home she didn't plan to have and thought of the conversation with her sister. Nancy then takes a chair outside, takes off the cushion which is ugly, worn and stained and uses purposeful stain for chair. My sister was right. Piece of Cake.

See? Ugly, huh.

Then I made a mistake. I used stripper on the table then realized I'd have to scrape off the whole top. That's when I realized now I was in triage mode. Bad place to be. Also, just then the telephone rang and my daughter informed the caller that I was unable to come to the phone because I was trying to put the top back on the stripper which left me shrieking, "Who IS that?!"

Day 2 had me taking the table apart (it's Ash and very heavy) and taking it outside. One side had been stripped and sanded. The other had not. Then I had to refinish with clear base coat, wait for it to dry, go to craft store and ask for pleather and received a blank look (plastic + leather?) and I was sweating and near tears before I had my epiphany.

I had taken advice from my sister that is not the "smart sister." I'm the "smart sister." This is not to be confused with the "common sense" sister who lives in Arizona. The sister who told me it would be a piece. Of. Cake is the "I can do anything" sister. And then she does. Want to do a triathlon? Sure. And she does. How about the Red Rock Relay? Why not? By the way, what's the Red Rock Relay? And she does (12 people on a team run 180 miles) How about a half marathon? Okay and, By-the-way-I'm-pregnant. Will you be the Young Women's president for the ward and be responsible for the well-being of all girls ages 12-18, plan camp, youth conference, and weekly activities along with huge projects that come up while pregnant, training for marathons then with four children? Of course!

I'm the book smart sister who thinks she can do anything but I really can start any project, get overwhelmed and don't finish sister. Which is why I married a husband who is a finisher. He's also a great planner and has to leave the house every time I get out the paint brushes and rollers because he knows he'll have some project to finish.

But my intents are always pure. Really.

So I bucked up, stopped calling my sister to curse at her. She is who she is. I accepted the fact that I might cry a little bit but I was going to finish what I started. I even cleaned up. Scott is so proud.

Total cost - $21.54.

Piece. Of. Cake.

Timer and a Tripod

2011-08-17T06:00:00.003-06:00

The most challenging aspect of Christmas if finding a picture of the family for a Christmas card. I stopped sending rubber stamped updates years ago since "snark" didn't go over as well as you'd think. Nobody wanted to know how many of the neighbor children I'd successfully taught to swear by simply watching me chase the dog through the streets, waving a leash.

They can boast about their enterprising "Scentsy" home business and their child who nearly was a Sterling Scholar but I can't tastefully mention my daughter's new dating life trickling because I keep asking the young men to return on Monday nights to teach a lesson for Family Home Evening on virtue?

Still, I can't quite give up the family picture but there is always the issue of an acceptable picture with all family members in the frame looking respectable. So I bought a mini-tripod and gave myself the one minute lesson on camera timers on our last weekend vacation to Mirror Lake.

Notice anybody missing?

Three kids not looking at the camera and the photographer is still missing.

All family members accounted for. Four of the six not looking at the camera.

5 seconds is not nearly enough.

Four kids. Two adults. All six looking at the camera with a pleasant expression.

Yes, I did climb onto that rock and balance myself in the allotted 5 second window.

On the other hand, if I were to write the Christmas card right now, I might mention all the positives we are accomplishing and they are many and varied!

Like...

11 year old boy is perfecting his attitude to line up with the dictionary's definition of "surly."

6 year old boy talks non-stop unless he's asleep.

13 year old girl is teaching me how easy I had it when her older sister hit her teenage years.

16 year old is trying to shield her friends and dates from meeting her mother.

The father of the family is practicing patience and long-suffering. Emphasis on long-suffering.

The mother is working tirelessly to mortify all members of the family.

There you go. My Christmas card in August.

Merry Christmas!

Four Thousand, Five Hundred Dollars Later

2011-08-15T06:00:00.000-06:00

Plus three years and a lot of floss and elastics, the butterfly has emerged!

Which is really to say, she's been emerging for the past three years. She just thinks that with her braces off she's suddenly beautiful.

In actuality, she's always been gorgeous. As of recently, she's become comfortable with her long limbs, sparkling personality, and thick hair. And then she got her braces off.

I will miss the little girl.

The Mother who Can Do it All

2011-08-09T03:18:00.000-06:00

Remember when you became a new mother and freaked out about every little germ that might enter your little one's environment? Or the way you wanted to protect the baby from all unpleasant sounds and negative stimuli? Did you play Mozart because you knew he'd grow up to be a genius? Sterilize all objects that might end up in his mouth?

Yeah. Me, too. For the first child. But may I present my sister and her fourth child:

No freaking out, here. It's just a BB gun but it does have a kick and it isn't a quiet shot.

Have you seen these hilarious little chairs that sits babies up?

I'm all about including all family members for meal time but I find my sister's exuberance to be nothing short of inspiring.

Meanwhile, up the street a block, my sister's attendance was required at a very well scripted play in a neighbor's driveway. The storyline, still a little fuzzy to me, included little 8 year old Hannah going off stage (behind the garage wall) and making sounds of screaming and grunting. She then emerged with the news that she's just given birth to a kitten. Yay for TLC cable station!

I want to move to my sister's neighborhood.

Cell Curse

2011-08-04T14:02:00.001-06:00

Thursday morning I drove to work with my oldest daughter, leaving the younger three at home.

11:02 - Arrive at work
11:10 - 11 year old boy call: "Mom, can I play with Parker?"
11:12 - 13 year old girl call: *Sob* "That's not fair! I'm stuck home babysitting! Who do you want to play with? "I don't know. Someone." Call "Someone" and call me back.
11: 25 - 11 year old: "I had to run out of the house because my S. was going to kill me."
"I was not going to kill you!" S is on the extension. "Mom, I came home to eat lunch." Great. Feed the 6 year old.
11:35 - I didn't answer.
11:36 - Ignore call
11:37 - What?! "Mom? Hi. I love you, Mom. Hey, Mom? J. ran out of the house because S. was going to kill him but then he came home and fed me. Bye, Mom."
11:42 - "Hi, Mom. How's work?"
11:46 - "Do you have anybody in your office?"
11:49 - "Mom? I'm going to Parker's house now."
11:55 - "I'm holding the cat and she loves me."
11:58 - "Can I make cookies?"
12:00 - "I couldn't find anybody to play with but I don't want to babysit.
12:06 - "Mom? S is sad but I'll make her happy again."
12:11 - "Where are the scissors?"
12:17 - "Have you seen my other shoe?"
12: 20 - "Hi, Mom. How's work?"
12:25 - Ignore call
12:32 - "Mom? Papa called and wants help taking stuff to the dump. Can I go? Will you get Jacob to come home so I can go?"
12:35 - 12:48 - Calling as many people in the neighborhood as I can to find my son.
12:49 - "Mom? Papa's here. Can I go play with my friends? I can cross the street by myself" No. "Yes! Just let me go play with my friends!" Give the telephone to your sister. (I can hear Papa in the background). "I can't find her. 'Bye, Mom"
1:02 - "Hi Mom, it's J." Good. You're home. You're babysitting. S is going with Papa to the dump. "What?! That's not fair!" Let me tell you what's not fair, young man. Life. Don't expect life to be fair. What's not fair is that I've been answering calls all morning that shouldn't have been made. What's not fair is that you have played every day with your friends while your sister has been babysitting. What's not fair is the dirty laundry and pee on the toilet...etc. etc."

1:06 - Email to husband:

After call #21 from home (I jest not), I turned off my damn cell phone.

Your turn.

The Blind Date

2011-08-02T09:12:00.000-06:00

Twenty years ago I agreed to one more blind date. Blind dates had become a staple to my life as everybody seemed to see me as a special "project." I agreed to the blind date because 1) my sort-of boyfriend had not yet come to see me even though I'd been back in the country for nearly a week after being gone all summer, 2) I knew I'd never give him my address so he'd never be able to stalk me and 3) I liked talking to him when he called.

We met for lunch at a Mongolian barbecue place and by the time he'd paid the bill I'd asked him out for the following night. He asked me where to pick me up. I told him I'd meet him there, again thwarting any stalking ideologies. No way would I be caught alone without an escape plan. What might this handsome man do to me?

Eventually he did get me alone and I had no escape plan so I told him about my sort of boyfriend whom I'd been kissing the night before (I didn't tell him that). My now former blind date evened the score and kissed me under the stars. He was my last blind date.

And now he knows where I live.

Navigating Motherhood while being so Stupid

2011-07-29T04:41:00.000-06:00

I haven't seen my oldest daughter for more than a few minutes in three days. I miss her and assumed she felt the same about me. I thought wrong.

Driving home from Massage Envy last night I got a frantic call from her. I was excited to talk to her. She's been at Band Camp this week and asked her how she is. "Great," she answered and then she burst into tears.

Turns out, I'm dropping the ball on my responsibilities. First of all, although we did drop her uniform off at the dry cleaners, we haven't picked it up and if she doesn't turn it in, a band mom will own her soul. I asked if she signed a contract and sealed with her own blood then pointed out that she's underage and she needs my permission for selling her own soul. This was not met with humor but with further sniffling and a muffled sob.

"We're out of tampons and you have to go to the store RIGHT NOW and get some more."

"We're not out of tampons. Did you look under my bathroom sink?" I countered.

"Yes. I took them all and there are only, like, 15."

Long pause.

"How often do you change your tampons?"

"Okay, maybe not right now but everything's crashing down right now and this is the WORST possible thing that could happen during band camp!" She wailed.

I went to Smith's Marketplace and loaded up on feminine protection. By the time I arrived home, she'd gone to bed.

This morning I picked up the band uniform at the dry cleaners. Driving through town towards the school, I passed the town bakery and stocked up on some of their specialty pastries in an effort to buy points from my 16 year old daughter. I knew she hasn't seen me for days and she must be incredibly grateful for my store run so she would not suffer further mortification so the donut was just the icing on the cake.

Pulling up by a canopy, I saw band moms who were sacrificing their days to feed all those hungry teenagers, organize uniforms and all the things that band moms do. They are exceptional women that I picture as stay-at-home-mothers with no other children to care for. I love them. They alleviate my guilt. One in particular organizes everything and sends emails to all the parents. She also has threatened to own my daughter's soul.

"Who do I give this uniform to?" I asked the two women sweating under a canopy. They looked a little befuddled. "Kathy is organizing the band uniforms but she's working today." Oh. She works. Damn. I took the uniform into the school where I found other uniforms organized by instrument in their black bags. Black bag! Hanging in the closet at home! I decided to take it back home and put it in the bag. I took it back outside where I met two more band moms who were organizing lunch with little children climbing all over the place. These women were really redefining my idea of "band mom" and taking away my own excuses.

But I still had the donut!

Walking out to the field, I waited until an appropriate break in the practice then took the pastry to my daughter, telling her she could pretend it was her trumpet while she practiced (and took bites). She looked at me like I was the stupidest woman in the world. And she was mortified.

"Mom! Not now! No food on the field! Go put it by my stuff in the school!" She hissed.

"I'll take it," her trumpet counterpart said softly. I'm considering switching teenagers.

I skulked off the football field and obediently placed the pastry on her bag in the band room. I realized that the rules have changed. With all the space on the football field, there was no room for me. I am supposed to be invisible. I am expected to enable, serve, and work in the background but I am supposed to never be seen or heard.

All those fantastic band moms who have jobs and small children and sacrifice perfect summer days while the weeds grow in their gardens are expected by their children to do what they do. There is no special respect or love for them except by their children's peers. These women are an embarrassment to their children. That said, keep the house stocked with feminine hygiene products and be prepared to drop everything at a moment's notice to take care of a ~~non~~ emergency.

There is no redemption for being a mother, either. No matter what you do, what you have done, what you have accomplished or your stellar I.Q. can save you. You are the stupidest, most embarrassing being to ever walk the face of the planet or onto the football field. You are not cool. You are not helpful. The best and easiest teenager in the world really does turn into a different creature altogether when in the company of other teenagers.

My pride is a little hurt, I admit. I mentioned it to the band moms and resisted the urge to proclaim my accomplishments. One mom seconded my feelings then proclaimed her own accomplishment of graduating magna cum laud from BYU and I had to physically bite my tongue so I wouldn't follow suit. Clearly, she understands my feelings.

For now I will be comforted that I am not alone and I will believe in my own intelligence and past and allow those to quietly define me. If not, I will be forced to believe I am embarrassing, stupid, and a failure for not anticipating all the possibilities of what could go wrong.

Bad mom.

Home to Real Life

2011-07-27T01:53:00.002-06:00

What I hate about returning from vacation is that I have to return to the person I was before I left. That responsible and surly person that kind of irritates me. The one that has to re-enter real life and make difficult decisions like should I shower today? Should I shave my legs today? I know, I know. I spent 7 days on a beach but I didn't care much whether I showered or shaved. Should I put on make-up to cover up that I haven't showered? Should I put on make-up if I do shower? My six year old told me I should shower because it's nice to be clean. I asked him if I smelled bad. He just reiterated that it's good to be clean and smell clean, too.

I get that you have to do damage control after a vacation. The lawn needed to be mowed. Dead spots needed water. Holes the dog dug needed dirt. When I say damage control, I mean I let SCOTT take care of all that. Of course, the pretty pot of pink petunias being dead was a bummer, I'll admit and I am actively working on and believing in the resurrection.

I spent a couple of hours unpacking and doing laundry. I went through the mail. Listened to the telephone messages. Okay, I lied about the messages. Again, I let Scott have that one, too because I'm so generous. By the way, Utah tax commission received our tax check but wanted to know where our return is. Gee, I thought we paid the accountant so we wouldn't have to worry about this kind of stuff. Silly me. Still, I planned on easing into real life. Too bad for me, the fates looked at me and said, "Uh-uh. Too relaxed. Too happy. She laughed too much past couple of days."

Another cruel reality was the delivery of our new bed bright and early on a Saturday morning. Who delivers a bed on a Saturday? And why so early? So Scott did the husbandly duty of waking me out of a dead sleep to inform me he needed to move the old bed out. Hello? Has he not met me? I am not. An early. Morning. Riser. Could he tell the Spring Air guys this? No. He has to wake me up at 10:00 A.M. and kick me out of bed! I know. For rude. I did buy an extra 7 minutes by rolling over in fetal position and claim I was saying my morning prayers. Which I did for all of 60 seconds I could muster and hoped Heavenly Father knew my heart was pure(ish).

The bed incident deserves at least two paragraphs. When I finally rolled out bed and blindly wandered somewhere in the house, Scott heaved and ho-ed that 200 lb. mattress up on end where it promptly collapsed like playdough. Then it was the onerous task of cleaning 10 years worth of crap under the bed. Dust bunnies aside (and they were plentiful and breeding well), Samantha's Sunday shoes showed up in a pair under there. Her cute little Mary Jane's from when she was 2 years old. Now she's 13. Also, the dryer is off the hook. We found 5 socks without matches and one pair. We also discovered where all of the missing pacifiers had gone. Even more useful, my Eurorail Pass with my awesomely nineties hair-don't, my student i.d. for hostels, and my student i.d. for BYU. Also included in the mix was a London Tube map on a coffee mug. Because I drink coffee every day. Kind of like how I went to summer school during elementary school and made 8 ashtrays for my dad who has never even picked up a cigarette in his life. Made with love if not common sense.

Between doing laundry and cleaning under the bed, I easily grossed $8.54. Without knowing the exchange rate I can only say that I also turned up German Marks, Swiss and French Francs, Spanish Pesetas, a few guilders, and English Pounds. I had no Austrian schillings as we had to pool our money to pull our suitcases out of storage. It was 12:03 a.m. so they charged us for another day. I also found a set of Russian nesting dolls. I have never been to Russia. Odd.

Neurotic Nancy is back, although not yet in full force. I joined the war in my gardens and won a couple of battles when I unearthed the pumpkins which are taking over most of the garden, cleared out the cucumbers and picked a zuke. The war is not over but I have seen some tomatoes and, with an Indian summer, I might get cantaloupe, beans, and carrots. The spaghetti squash lost. I wish I could play Taps on my daughter's trumpet.

I have a mortgage.
My American Express bill arrived.
I paid my Kohl's card.
I'm out of flour.
The dentist expects us this week.
My oldest needs new glasses.
My youngest peed his pants at church on Sunday.

But I can still remember my happy place since it was only a few days ago.
If I'm smiling at nothing in particular and not paying attention, it's because I've gone on a mini-vacation inside my head.

Like last year, I just feel the need to point out that this is not my son and I won't point out who he belongs to outright (Jene's) but his mother really should look into a proper fitting swimming suit as this is the second year in a row he flashed his cute little bum crack to everybody.

Family Reunion/Dysfunction

2011-07-25T11:45:00.000-06:00

In junior high my dad ate a carrot at my grandmother's house which resulted in the purchase of a 17 ft. SeaRay boat.

There is a segue. The carrot tore his esophagus which he didn't realize until much later when he started throwing up blood. After x-rays confirmed he had a torn esophagus and a spot on his lungs turned out to be a healed broken rib from a waterskiing accident years before, he spent a night thinking life over. He decided he wanted to live his life without regrets and, on the drive home from the hospital with my mom, he bought a boat.

My parents had spent years playing with the tender balance of making family memories without their children killing one another. Although apparent very early on, my parents were slow to realize my older sister and I absolutely could not share a bed at any time in our childhood. Disneyland trips were nearly overshadowed by blanket wars and drawing an imaginary line down the middle of the bed. The same imaginary line was drawn on car seats and even at the kitchen table. In my own defense, my sister really was a big, stupid meanie.

My blog. My opinion. My truth. My grown-up words.

There were the camping years where we piled into the station wagon and headed for the great outdoors and whined when we were cold or had to go to the bathroom which was definitely a scary hike outside. This kind of vacation was usually accompanied by a lecture of how we should be grateful we had a camper when my parents a) slept outside without a shelter, b) slept in an army tent or c) never had a family vacation because they were too poor. The story changed every time it was told so the truth is probably somewhere at the Hilton Hotel.

The camper disappeared before I hit puberty and my dad started taking us down the Colorado River in a raft where I clung for my dear life and prayed with all my might that I would not die that day. Then we had to sleep outside because the river guide forgot the tents. There was also one day I forgot to go to the "bathroom" before getting in the raft which was far, FAR worse than having to get up to go in the middle of the night.

My dad discovered Lake Powell in my adolescence. This morphed into more camping but without the camper and the tent was far too hot to sleep in so eventually the whole family crushed themselves onto a houseboat while dragging the new SeaRay. Our days were spent learning how to waterski which is not a pleasant experience. I became an expert on being a human torpedo and I drank enough water to cause a drought in California.

The expectation was that we all ski once in the morning (he started honking the horn at dawn) and once at sunset. Fortunately, we all figured it out, including my mom who started her waterskiing career at the age of 47. Unfortunately, we still mostly skiied under duress, threats and bribes. I earned my "Bullfrog Marina" T-shirt when I slalomed for the first time at the age of 16.

Nights were still filled with imaginary lines and blanket wars and gnats forming a cloud over our heads then committing suicide on our toothpaste we just squeezed onto our toothbrush. Very unsavory.

The opposite of Lake Powell is Bear Lake in northern Utah. Synonymous with Bear Lake is The Bear Lake Monster. The creature is based on stories handed down from generation to generation and differs with every telling. Best I can tell, it's a cross between The Loch Ness Monster, a great white shark, and a cow.

My first experience with Bear Lake was in 1975. Significantly, Steven Spielberg made his debut that same summer with the blockbuster, Jaws. I have never recovered.

Since that summer, my family has returned year after year to Bear Lake eventually buying a timeshare where my older sister and I, by then mature teenagers, fought for the covers, argued over space, called each other fat cows and pinched each others' thunder thighs at the most critical developmental stages of our self-esteem. Because we love each other very much, obviously. Above all else, we ski. It's a requirement.

This year my parents couldn't make it to Bear Lake. Regardless, one sister drove from Arizona and complained about the cold weather while we stood before her sweating, one sister brought her newborn baby and crammed the other three kids in a truck with her husband. My brother and his family came. My older sister and her husband brought the boat and he got to fight with her over the bed covers. We then crammed all 28 of us into two condos and allowed all the family dysfunction to flare.

It was awesome.

During the 7 days my siblings hated each other at least once. I hated them enough to want to pack up all the kids, toys, food, bedding, and hurt feelings and come home. I went to the van to cry in private at least once. Maybe twice.

My older sister is still a big, stupid meanie.

And yet...

I never laugh so hard, play so hard, and work my muscles so much than I do this week every year. We stay up too late playing dice or card games, call each other on our crap, make each other be real, laugh at our wipe-outs, sprained pinkies (mine), missed shots, bad hair, and overall company. When one of us is in the cold water, freaking out about the great white shark/Bear Lake Monster, we gaze into the spot right behind them then look horrified.

Every year I nostalgically don't want to leave and watch for my last view of the lake before we drive over the mountain. In the meantime, we are raising up the next generation of the neurotic and dysfunctional.

Although we may be failing in the "dysfunctional" department. And hating each other. They seem to enjoy each others' company far more than we did as children.

I'm not going to lie to you, though. It hurts. I can't express how much it hurts.

In the end, I come home happy, content, and quite glad I'm part of this crazy family.

And grateful for carrots.

Everybody Has a Story

2011-07-13T02:40:00.001-06:00

My friend, Todd, maintains that there are no ordinary people. Everybody has a story and, given a couple of hours and a few cameramen, he believes he can coax that story out and expose an extraordinary person pretending to be ordinary. He's gone so far as to bet his proverbial farm on the idea and now has his own show, The Story Trek. He picks a random person who gives him a random direction and a random house and he tries to get himself invited in so he can get the story. He has had some pretty incredible experiences in his travels.

I have wondered how he has gotten so lucky as to stumble into the home of a WWII veteran or an immigrant from Russia or a number of inspiring and incredible people. I finally decided it was simply good editing and he's a liar when he says it's all random. Meanwhile, I sit in my office and meet different people every day. Ordinary, average people like the ones next door. But I realized Todd might be onto something. People love to talk about themselves if you show interest. So while Todd is traveling across the country, tracking down intriguing people, intriguing and inspiring people are walking into my office on their own accord. They are inspiring and provide something I need that day.

Mr. D is from Haiti and the father of 6 children. He came with one of his sons to register for school. I wondered what brought him to Utah. It was the dream of a Ph.D. He attended BYU and needed a dissertation. After much research, he settled on the small task of organizing a non-profit organization that provided humanitarian aide. With Haiti's political tumult, it was impossible to breach the borders so he settled for the Dominican Republic. Every 6 months he takes time off his regular scheduled job and goes with a team of doctors, dentists, and other volunteers for ten days to serve the people of the DR.
I mentioned he has six children. One of his daughters is in medical school preparing to be a humanitarian physician. Another is still in high school and registered with her mother earlier this week. Mrs. D shared with me a small portion of the devastation wreaked in the earthquake. Her father still lives in Haiti. He could barely speak as he told her of the bodies littering the buildings, streets. The cries that rang in constant misery. Then the more horrifying sound of their silence. She estimates that 200 million have died as a result of the earthquake.
Lin's mother lived in a small village in Cambodia. Her father was a political leader. Her mother was an educated school teacher. They learned to blend into the background and pretend to be illiterate. Eventually the family had to leave Cambodia. By this time Lin's oldest sister was a year old. His mother carried the baby, keeping her as quiet as possible as they escaped Cambodia.
Today a grandmother tearfully shared the horrific accident that damaged her granddaughter's leg while she was standing on a sidewalk. The accident would have killed the girl if her friend had not grabbed her and pulled her away from the twisting metal. Both girls were 14 years old at the time. When the doctor conceded he would have to amputate a couple of toes, the granddaughter was distraught. Later, when the doctor conceded he would have to amputate the leg, her friends wailed. The granddaughter calmly accepted the news and comforted her friends. She found strength and lifted up others.
A mother needed help with her daughter's education. She was quarantined in a hospital with no white blood cells and fighting leukemia with the help of some deadly chemicals. Arrangements were made for a school official to drive to the hospital with a computer and testing material so she could finish her credits in time for graduation. She was cleared for graduation by her doctor but ordered to wear a mask. Mortifying as it was, she agreed. Partway through the graduation ceremony, there was a rustle. When parents looked down at their graduating children, they became somewhat indistinguishable. Every single graduate donned a hospital mask in silent support of their classmate.
Today I met a girl who is committed to graduating early and willing to attend summer school all day every day in order to provide for her brand new baby. Her daughter is 2 weeks old. I'll admit that I stole the baby for a few minutes from her grandmother just so I could smell her and kiss her tiny head. I do that kind of stuff.

So I'll keep my secret from Todd. I'm collecting stories and those stories are changing my life. I'm not hiring cameramen or spending days editing. I'm quietly cataloging the inspiration these people are providing me and weaving what I learn into my life. They are resilient, strong, full of faith and inspire me to be better. I am reminded that something bigger is at work and He is working for my good.

A little post script to this post is that everybody has a story. In order for some of these stories to be told and broadcast on cable television, certain losses had to occur a couple of decades ago. There was a high school football player who took a helmet to the side of his knee, blowing all dreams of a possible football future. He wallowed then grudgingly tried his hand at drama which eventually planted the idea of broadcast journalism leading to a career at a local news station where he dabbled with the idea of wearing people down until they talked. It worked. And now he has his own cable show.

Bathroom Rules

2011-07-08T13:57:00.003-06:00

Surprising new rules in the Taylor household regarding bathroom used exclusively by two teenage girls:

Before opening a new bottle of shampoo or conditioner, throw away the empty one or four in the shower.
Do not take anything out of my bathroom without first letting me know.
Emptying the garbage is an acceptable behavior.
Approximation regarding the bathroom garbage is not acceptable behavior. If the garbage is overflowing and said garbage keeps falling from garbage pile, refer to previous rule.
Towels really can be used more than once.
Two towels per shower (one for hair and one for body) is grounds for laundry duty.
20 minute showers may result in a parent throwing a large cup of cold water over shower curtain.
Lack of clean clothes due to the piles on the bathroom floor does not equate to my emergency.
Laundry baskets have been placed in bathroom. Those are for the dirty clothes and towels. If overflowing, pick it up and carry to laundry room.
Bucket in closet contains cleansers and brushes along with a rubber glove or two. That black ring around the toilet bowel? Figure it out.
It's called a broom. It's for sweeping up the spilled bath salts you will never use but insist on keeping.
This is an ongoing list of rules. Parents may add as the mood hits.

Please feel free to add your own rules, particularly the ones you never knew you would have to utter aloud.

The Purpose of a College Education

2011-07-05T06:00:00.001-06:00

My parents were fully convinced that I would be going away to college. Perhaps it was wishful thinking on their part or perhaps they knew I needed it far more than they did but I was solid in my resolve that change was bad. I had a choice of two colleges to attend in my backyard; Utah Technical College and BYU. The drawbacks were obvious. UTC was high school continued and BYU was, well, BYU. Not to mention my ACT scores were abysmal and I was only accepted on academic warning rather than welcomed with open arms. It hurt my pride.

Spring break of my senior year was the vacation my parents planned in advance. We headed south and made strategic stops at different colleges on our drive down. I had my own private tours and they seemed to be expecting me. Stubborn as I was, my steady refusal to leave home crumbled on my tour of Dixie College in St. George, Utah. Four months later found me standing in the red dust of St. George as my parents drove away, leaving me to an apartment full of strangers, and two new pans for cooking. As if I knew how.

Last week my friend, Jill, came to town. She lives in Montana and I've barely seen her since our graduation from Dixie College and my first year of Utah State. I surprised her by inviting myself into her parent's backyard last week then kidnapping her so I could get my groceries into the refrigerator. We spent four solid hours catching up on the past couple of decades, discussing life, death, happiness, marriage, kids and those subjects the middle aged women discuss. Our time at Dixie was silently an accepted history that didn't come up until the fourth hour. Somehow those memories are so sacred and juxtaposed to our current lives, disturbing them felt disrespectful. Eventually, though, curiosity won out.

We played a game I can only categorize as Did-That-Really-Happen? I remember experiences that were so bizarre that they simply could not be true. Certain that my memory was playing tricks on me, I brushed them aside. With Jill sitting with me, we bounced our memories off one another. Did some man try to break into our apartment one night and stand outside our windows? Did our friend, Rick, really drive back to check on us and find him halfway in our kitchen window? Did we really go tunnel running at Zion's National Park? Did Rob Smith really try to date both Heidi and me at the same time? Did I really go on 4 dates in one day/night? Did we really name my little yellow Toyota, Yoda? Did Jill name her puce colored car Beulah? Does Enterprise, Utah really exist? Did I put out a grease fire that bent the stove hood when it shot that high? Are you sure it was me that started it? Did we really not have a telephone at all that first year? Did we really just get bored one day and drive to Mesquite, pick up a couple of guys while we were driving the Arizona strip, then get in their car and join them as they drove to Vegas? Disneyland trip a couple of times by riding in a bus all night, playing all day then driving all night back home?

Did we stand up our dates that night we went to Vegas and try to make it up by making them dinner at our apartment, serving them a strawberry pie that I only noticed after I had my own piece in front of me that it had mold? And everybody ate it but me?

Yes to all of these activities and we did go rappelling, hiking through narrow canyons, and wore purple eye shadow. We kidnapped pillows and held them for ransom, threw spaghetti on the ceiling to see if it would stick (it does) had a food fight over by the fountain on campus and swapped ABC gum with Boyd every time we passed on campus.

I have determined that the real reason we go to college is to provide ourselves with witnesses to our own youth. My journals sit in a box in the storage room, a mere 20 feet from where I sit as I type this but I haven't opened them to cross-reference my memory. Instead I waited until Jill came to town to test out my version of the past. Because for just a few hours, I remembered the girls we were before we became women who worried about mortgages, children, the cost of gasoline, scheduling the orthodontist, worrying about an upcoming mammogram, and turning down the air conditioner for concern of the cost.

We were girls who threw caution to the wind and together figured out who we were.

The Rational, Sane Grown-Up

2011-06-29T06:00:00.005-06:00

I was still having tummy cramps on Monday and feeling pretty crummy. Summer leaves my maternal side much to be desired as I don't know where all four of my children are at any given time. I can usually give an approximate location for at least three, though. My own personal hygiene suffers as well. But that's quite another matter.

A gaggle of 11 year old boys in the neighborhood bought a pass to a mini amusement park. When I say mini, think Disneyland the size of a postage stamp. When a mother of one of the boys called to inform me of this decision, she also included that there was a special going on where I could get $10 off. I respond well to peer pressure and a good deal so I quickly bought the pass and he was set for the summer.

Monday the group went to the park and all were admitted except my son. Apparently, there were two passes and I bought the wrong one. He called me and I started to work the magic of figuring it all out while he waited for me. By the time I arrived, he'd been waiting for nearly an hour. He looked miserable. The other kids were going into laser tag and wouldn't be out for another half hour so I took him and his brother for a hamburger and ice cream then steered them toward the idea of going to see their cousins.

We arrived at my sister's house and I was starting to run down. My tummy hurt and I was beyond tired. Jene was just about to leave for Costco. "I'll stay here and watch the boys," I yawned. She left. I instructed the boys to be good and be quiet so the baby would stay asleep and then I crawled under a blanket on Jene's bed.

An hour later I could hear my sister talking on the telephone. She walked into her room and saw me. She backed out and closed the door behind her. I rolled over and tried to sleep again but I figured I might be needed and finally roused myself up. I found Jene who was talking to my sister in Arizona. She glanced up and said, "Okay. I'm going to talk to my other sister now," and hung up.

"Sorry about that. I just needed to talk to a sane, rational grown-up," she said.

"You knew I was here, right?" I asked.

"Of course. Why?"

"No reason."

I would have argued but I had just proved her point.

Sunday Flu

2011-06-28T01:26:00.000-06:00

Nancy: I do not feel well.

Scott: What's wrong?

Nancy: Well, TMI time, it's my lower gastrointestinal system.

Scott: Why don't you want to go to church?

Nancy: Myriad of reasons but I really am sick.

Scott: Okay.

At church, I feel sweat dripping down my back.

Nancy: I'm going home. I feel like crap.

Scott: You know I'm teaching Sunday school today. I could use some encouragement.

Nancy: Go get 'em, Tiger. 'Bye.

Next day - texting:

Scott: Holy crap! What did you give me! I feel awful!

Nancy: Why don't you want to go to work today?

Scott: Groan.

Nancy: Bad news. It's not a one day thing.

That's Right, Folks, He's 45!

2011-06-23T06:00:00.001-06:00

Even though the girls are gone to camp, Scott still chose to have a birthday. The boys and I celebrated without them.

We were sad.

I know it's hard to tell, but we missed them.

This year for his birthday, Scott had his right knee cut open and pre-arthritic growth cut out. That was yesterday. $10 says he'll try to play basketball next week. Because youth and skill are no match for old age and treachery. Guess which category he falls under. Go ahead. Guess.

Handsome bunch, aren't they? You can see where those darling boys get their good looks.

For the moment, I am the prettiest girl in the house.

Unless you like cats and dogs.

Wall Vs. Toe

2011-06-21T11:03:00.000-06:00

Girls Camp started today. I love my daughters dearly but I was excited about having them with other people for 5 days, expanding their spiritual awareness and growing emotionally and, I hoped, socially, as well. My 16 year old loves camp. She looks forward to it every year. My 13 year old - not so much. In fact, I had serious doubts she'd not sabotage her packing so she would have to come home at night. She was not looking forward to sleeping in a tent, girls stretched wall-to-wall. I could see her mind plotting ways to not have to go to camp for days. And then a miracle occurred. She suddenly got excited about going, packed her bags, shook out a sleeping bag, made a lunch and even made a sandwich for her sister.

It was like a Christmas miracle. In June.

The 16 year old thanked her sister for the sandwich as she was walking out of the bathroom after blowing her nose or something heroic like that. She then swung her outside foot around in an arc too large for the hall to accommodate and kicked the air return vent, caught her pinkie toe and immediately got hysterical. She insisted her toe was broken, sobbed and begged me to take her to the hospital right now.

Dramatic much?

Given, it was pointing a different direction like when you get a cramp and toes go all weird so I suggested she give it a little tug and straighten it out. I even offered to do it for her. This was not met well.

Finally, I told her I would be right back after I dropped off her sister and all their gear and we would address it then. Unbeknownst to her, I started asking known nurses from the gathered crowd for camp to come over and yank the toe back into place.

I know. Empathetic much?

My sister and I had traded boys the night before. She had my 11 year old. I had her 4 year old. I turned on the one eyed babysitter and instructed the 4 and 6 year old to obey the dog and not to budge and ran my hysterical daughter up the street to the pediatrician's office while using my overused Rook card to call Grandma and Papa to keep on eye on the wee ones. I strategically brought my bawling and hobbling daughter into the waiting area when I asked if we could just get someone to look at it. We got right in.

A physician's assistant walked in, looked at the toe, got all bug-eyed and told me to take her to the emergency room. He offered to splint it and give her Advil and left the room. Another physician's assistant came in and looked at it along with two more nurses. Wow. Great service.

I finally told the nice people that I really needed to get going. I'd been gone for a good 15 minutes and "Martha Speaks" had to be ending soon. There are laws, you know. I promised I'd take her to the nearest emergency room and ran past the house to make sure my Rook card had been used. The boys were missing and there were signs of Grandpa so I headed to the hospital.

Once at the hospital, my daughter was greeted by name (the P.A. had called ahead) and taken directly back to a curtained room. She was offered a *bed* and a pillow to scream into while a nurse shot her toe up with numbing stuff. Again, we had an attentive staff. Nurse after nurse came in to check on her toe then ask how she was feeling. Naturally, she performed her part well with waterworks.

X-rays were done and we returned to the curtained room. My sister called about this time and asked what I was up to. "Oh, I'm in the emergency room right now. Didn't you get my text? Oh. The doctor just came in. I gotta run." It didn't occur to me until an hour later how that might sound to a mother calling the woman who was supposed to be in charge of her son.

Two strokes and a heart attack later, the doctor returned again, pulled the toe and straightened it out. Just like I said. I'd feel vindicated except then he told me it was definitely broken then handed me a copy of the x-ray.

That's about the time I realized that all those nurses were not coming in for my daughter's sake, although one huge tip would be the girl who came in to say, "I heard I just had to come and see this toe... Oh." I also realized that I have, once again, earned my title of Mother-of-the-Year.

Need a babysitter? Want me to take care of your teenager for awhile? Keep walking.

Gloria Gaynor Was Right

2011-06-20T05:00:00.003-06:00

I may have neglected to let you know that my youngest child graduated from kindergarten. I am proud of both of us for surviving this year - He loved it very, very much. I survived one high schooler, one junior high schooler, one grade schooler, one kindergartener, and a job.

I'm not going to lie to you. It almost killed me.

I will miss the time with this sweet guy.

But we survived one girl's first year of high school

One girl's first year in junior high

One boy's first year of school

And I am ever so grateful for my 5th grade son who puts up with a lot in this family.

My sentiments, exactly.

Harry Potter, Scooby Doo and Cupcakes with Sprinkles

2011-06-15T10:42:00.000-06:00

First I stayed up too late reading. When I finally headed towards my bed, I stopped at my 11 year old son's room and manhandled him to stand up and gave him a gentle shove toward the bathroom. I'd even turned the light on for him.

Looked for 6 year old for a last potty break. I found him in my bed. He'd soaked his clothes, my sheet, mattress pad and my blankets. Thanks, Buddy. I went about the business of stripping him in the dark and standing him over the toilet to finish the job. The job was pretty darn near finished. Redressed him for bed and went in search of his brother who was completely M.I.A. He'd gotten lost on the way to the bathroom. He does this often. He'd wandered around the house sleepwalking until he either wakes up or finds a soft place to lay back down. I found him in his brother's room on the bed. Mandhandled him up again and guided him to the bathroom. Stood there so he didn't wander off again. He found his bed when he was finished.

My sleeping spot was wet. Still in the dark, I untucked the sheet and mattress pad. The bed was dry. Husband is still asleep so I rolled up the wet bedding to the middle of the bed and went in search of a dry blanket. In the dark.

Found a blanket, double checked on the boys. Two of them were snoring. I envied them.

Scott got up at 5:00 a.m. Six year old had returned the scene of the crime and was curled around my head, his head resting on top of mine. 7:05 a.m. found the six year old wide awake, sharing every single thought that crossed through his mind. Something about Harry Potter, Scooby Doo, a great big snake, and cupcakes with sprinkles.

And that, my dear, is why I have dark circles under my eyes.

Middle Age

2011-06-14T14:05:00.003-06:00

Every Fall I'd start the school year with expectations of the next big thing. Brand new notebooks completely empty and awaiting whatever I wrote in them, the emptiness craving the possibilities. New books that popped when I opened them that needed to be smelled. What? I'm a book smeller. I also loved the smell of brand new erasers.

My first college catalog was also rife with possibilities. Once again, new books, new paper, and finally a highlighter to use in said books. There was always something exciting just around the corner, waiting to be grabbed. An opportunity with my name written on it. Every date a new relationship. New classes represented new wisdom.

With my gown returned and a couple of degrees in hand, job offers were coming in fast and furious. It was the end of a recession and I had my pick. Once in a career, I joined professional organizations, held offices and enjoyed the new possibilities.

Marriage and the dreams of building my life with another person and all that would entail enticed me and fed my Cinderella issues.

Motherhood came and although I hated the physical aspect of it, I loved watching the new life move below my skin and dream of what was next. I lived my life for the next big thing. And there was always a big thing right around the corner.

The other day I realized that the next big thing right around the corner is no longer my dreams of becoming [fill in the blank]. I accomplished my educational goals. That was cool for a year or two. I married a great guy. That's still cool but a lot of work. I am a mother. Again, a lot of work. We own our home along with the bank. The pop of a new book's spine has been replaced by the pop of my own spine as I straighten up. I have no big plans that involve my own agenda. I am no longer waiting for my real life to begin. This is it.

Welcome to middle age.

I guess I never associated middle age with a life stage but with an actual age. The middle of your life, assuming I lived to be 90 years old. But really, it's the point where you realize the slope is different and the universe no longer spins on your own axis. Perhaps this is why midlife crises occur - a midlife man or woman craves validation for his or her own importance again.

On the other hand, the middle age woman is wiser than her 20 year old self. She is more introspective while being more service oriented. We crave a moment alone but that moment alone leads us to Costco to buy food for other people. At times I feel like I may have lost my essence and I don't know who I am because of the demands placed on me by my family and responsibilities. Other times I realize these are what truly define me...
...my education
...my traveling earlier in life
...my husband
...my children
...my friends
...my work
...my faith
...my family

It's not so bad to be middle aged with the experience of being knocked around, pushed down, pulled over and discovering the strength within myself to stand up again and again and define myself and redefine myself. It's not so bad to be me, a middle age woman, living the life that is. Possibilities are smaller and grieve their loss but I like the way the people and experiences around me have made me.

Commercialism

2011-06-10T08:00:00.000-06:00

I looked through my closet for a plain, white T-shirt. They are all differing shades of gray. As I held each one up for inspection, my 6 year son came in and saw my shirts spread out on the bed.

"Mom. You need Oxi-Clean."

"Where did you hear about Oxi-Clean?" I knew I didn't have anything stronger than Tide in my laundry room. And maybe a Tide pen.

"I saw it on T.V. You should ALWAYS believe what's on T.V."

Huh. I see I have my work cut out for me.

Pigeon Poo

2011-06-07T18:28:00.000-06:00

My dad came home one Sunday afternoon and announced, with a big smile, that my sister, Joey, and I were spending the summer in London! He paused for effect. He could not have picked a more unappreciative daughter to spring this one on. I had fully intended to spend the entire summer dating as many prospective husbands as I possibly could. In fact, one was sitting on the chair across from me when this announcement came.

Regardless of my reticence, my sister and I made all the preparations. This was a study abroad program which actually included a curriculum. We quickly brushed up on the British Isles history, took a test after finishing some assignments and worked on the cultural aspect. The passports were rushed and arrived a few days before departure, packed WAAAYYY too many clothes, forgot the umbrella but quickly acquired one within the first couple of hours and held our itineraries, transportation maps and tour info close by. We tried really, really hard to not look American because, apparently, that's a bad thing. But tennis shoes really ARE the most comfortable walking footwear.

After all the preparation, I thought we were pretty well armed to take on the world, or at least London. We were making sense of the tube stations and had stopped giggling whenever anybody asked us for a "fag." In fact, I was feeling downright arrogant one day when we exited the Leicester Square tube station and I felt something warm and drippy on my shoulder.

Pigeon poo.

Nowhere, in any guide book (or internet - had it existed in that year) was I warned of the hazards of pigeons. They were suddenly everywhere and I found myself much more cautious stepping out of the tube stations. I also walked further from the buildings than was necessary which put me in danger of being hit by a car driving on the wrong side of the road on a street that was clearly built for a carriage hundreds of years ago.

This was not all, of course. I found that when I blew my nose, my snot came out black because the air was so dirty since we were in a city. Yet another hazard I was not prepared to endure. Fortunately, germs haven't ever been my downfall. Being late has, however. Did you know that the subway doors close ON YOU if don't move in or out. It will close if your bags are out and you are in or the other way around. This can be quite unfortunate.

Basically, all of the preparation was for experience rather than to avoid the downfalls of living in London.

It's nearly 24 years later. I don't travel to London or even anyplace unless it is a store that ends in "co" or someplace involving a school. But I want to remember how much I prepared for my life. I sacrificed a few things and made the choices I made to be where I am today. I went to college and went to college some more. I learned and graduated then worked and learned some more. I was a very good girl and was virginal and pure. I prepared myself for supporting my family, put off getting married, waited to have children, helped put my husband through graduate school, read my scriptures daily, attended church services weekly, obeyed all the major commandments, taught my children righteous living at a young age and now I am in my forties, my children are growing, I'm still working and the epiphany hits.

Pigeons still poo.

It doesn't matter how much I prepared, planned, sacrificed, prayed. There are still hazards I didn't plan for and dangers I didn't see. There are circumstances I didn't imagine and no matter how much I worry, plan and pray, crap still happens.

I fight with my husband. My children make messes, both physical and metaphorical. There are bad grades, back talking, OCD, problems at work, frustration at never having a clean house, another set of sheets peed on, throw up to clean up, cement sinking, oil dripping, cancer diagnosis, face wrinkles, saggy butt and loose belly, posters to be made for school, dentist appointments to keep, stocking the house with food and necessities, and a million other ways to push a schedule off kilter that I can't foresee or plan. Because those pigeons will continue to poo and I can either become bitter because I believed the sales pitch that if I just [fill in the blank], life will be easier on me because [fill in the blank] makes me special or I take the risks of the unseen hazards and walk out of the tube station even though the pigeons are roosting on the ledge.

Because sometimes they'll hit me and sometimes they'll miss. And I'm going to still believe I'm special because I choose to take the gamble every day.

Wordful Wednesday - Late, As Usual

2011-06-01T09:53:00.000-06:00

Today I pulled in to the school drop off area 10 minutes late and stopped behind a white Suburban. While my son gave me all the last minute details that he just HAD to tell me before going into the school, I glanced at the license plate in front of me.

This was a woman I wanted to be friends with.

She came out of the school looking harried and hurried and I told her how much I loved her plates. A cloud passed over her eyes as she told me her husband gave them to her. She's still trying to figure out how to fit "micromanager" in 7 letters onto HIS plates.

I really want to be her best friend.

Oh Look! A Butterfly!

2011-05-31T11:08:00.000-06:00

I mean, obviously you shouldn't compare your children to mine. You'll just feel bad. But the talent just oozes in this kid. Someday you will see him on "So You Think You Can Dance."

Jazz Night

2011-05-26T11:41:00.000-06:00

"Tonight we have Jazz Night at the high school," my 16 year old informed us at dinner.

"Do we have to go?" the 11 year old boy wanted to know.

"It will be fun!" she continued, "there will be food and dancing."

"Dancing?!" I was suddenly very excited. I'd been perfecting new hip hop moves from an exercise DVD earlier that day.

The 16 year old suddenly looked horrified. "Not you! You may NOT dance!"

Mmmkay - but this may directly impact your grade, Missy.

We arrived and sat. The band director kept making motions for people to get up and dance. I finally left my family and joined the "cool table" closer to the band. I might add that this very well may just complete my bucket list. Had I made a bucket list when I was a teenager, no doubt it would have included going to Reo Speedwagon and Bon Jovi concerts, lose my virginity and sit at the "cool" table in the cafeteria.

Done. Done. Done. And done.

The cool table also included the husband of the band director who was given a "look" by Ms. Kaye. She then started a new song and grabbed his hand. And they danced. I pouted a little bit.

Eventually, they finished and Mr. Husband (formerly known as my bishop) invited me to dance. Hip hop? Alas, the Cha-Cha which I can only do when I talk to myself (slow, slow, quick, quick). I'm a great conversationalist, obviously. I lost my concentration when someone pointed at my performing daughter who was red faced and mortified. I tripped on the bishop's feet and gave up all pretense of grace.

She was ruined now. I went ahead and yelled out "HI, ALYSSA!" just to determine which child owned this mother and sat down.

Next time I'll get to do my hip hop routine.

16 year old and 6 year old dancing.

16 year old dancing with a random boy.

The Company I Keep

2011-05-25T06:00:00.000-06:00

There's a little Thai dig in a nearby town that serves the best Thai food I'd ever had. Given, I'm not exactly a Thai connoisseur. In fact, My best friend from college introduced me to Thai food a few years ago. I was immediately hooked and loved it immensely.

Every few months my dance friends and I get together for lunch or dinner, depending on who can watch the children. That's a rule. No children are allowed, although two babies have accompanied two of us on occasion. As soon as they could string a sentence together and dominate conversation, their invitations were revoked.

Kristy, Jennifer, Kari and I danced together for six years at Kristy's dance studio. Kristy and Jennifer are beautiful dancers. Kari and I worked harder to look graceful. The dance class was always in the middle of the week at the end of the day. Sometimes I was simply too tired to drive the 20 minutes, dance for an hour then drive 20 minutes home. But I kept doing it over and over and over again. I thought it was because I loved to dance. Which I do. However, since Kristy finished her basement and the studio was moved to a different location, our studio time was lost and dancing became a kitchen past time. I've tried a couple of different studios since then and I don't like dancing, anymore.

My dance friends and I now meet at a Thai place in a nearby town. It has the best Thai food I've ever tasted. We set up camp when we go to lunch. We order a dish, then claim the table for three hours at a time. We eat our Thai food and share our lives. We keep light (or not) conversation like adoption, reactive attachment disorder, anxiety and depression, husband's infidelity, divorce, single parenting, dating in our forties, rare skin disorders, an intellectually handicapped adult son, a child adopted through social services with serious RAD and oppositional defiance, surgeries for ourselves, our children, our husbands, the latest good book, new cottage industries, religious and spiritual struggles, personal, financial and family crises, other women who have entered our marriages and disrupted our family well-being, self-doubt, self confidence, graduations, our children's achievements, our own achievements, and on and on. No subject is taboo. When one is in crisis, the others listen and support.

One of my children had an appointment near this Thai restaurant and I found myself with 45 minutes alone and a hungry belly. I ran in and ordered a couple of boxes to go then waited for the appointment to end while eating in the car. I discovered that the food was good but not exceptional, like I'd always thought. I tried it a different time and took it to work with the same result.

I realized why I stopped dancing. As much as I love to dance, it wasn't the actual dancing that I craved. As much as I love these restaurants where I meet my friends, it isn't the food I need. The life I lead and the food I eat is much, much sweeter because of the company I keep.

Step it Up Or Else...

2011-05-23T07:00:00.000-06:00

My great, great grandfather David, came from France via Scotland as an indentured servant. He was 7 years old at the time. He grew up, left the family, fought in the Civil War (for the North) then moved West, planting his roots in very small county in Idaho where he married my great, great grandmother. They built a house and popped out my great grandfather, David, and then another son a couple of years later. Due to complications, my great, great grandmother died. The baby died a couple of weeks later.

David Sr. married another woman from Idaho within a few years and they had 5 children together. Once again, his wife died in childbirth and he was a single father of 6 children. He decided to hire help rather than marry again and so he did. Being married to David LaPray was apparently hazardous to your health.

After 12 years or so, he married one of his hired helpers, a pretty young thing that I will call Martha for lack of remembering her name. She had two or three children and survived both deliveries. She continued to cook, clean, do everybody's laundry, work the land, and take care of children's needs; not only her own couple but the six from the previous women.

David was into his fifties when he had an abscessed tooth. Someone came over and pulled it out with his pliers but, alas, great-great grandfather died from infection reaching his heart. Martha, still being a pretty young thing, did not have the option of expanding her education and getting a job, this being shortly after the Victorian age and the West had not yet been tamed. She made the decisions that she could not care for all of these children and told all but her own that they were on their own. David Jr. was already an adult and out of the house. The other 5 ranged from 17 years to 8 years old. They found a dilapidated shack on the property and made due. The older children went to school then worked to support the family.

Eventually Martha left Franklin County and traveled further north in Idaho. She hooked up some guy and bore another child out of wedlock. In Idaho. In the 1800's. Fortunately, she did not have to sew a scarlet "A" on her pinafores. She married someone else but it was not a good circumstance and left after bearing another child. A few years later, she was committed to an insane asylum and spent the rest of her life attempting to regain her independence. Her oldest son, by this time, had control over all of her assets and it appeared he was enjoying the checks from the government he received to care for her. He had no desire to give up this free money since she was independent and not living with him.

When I first read this account, I was so very grateful she was not a relative of mine. I couldn't believe she had kicked out 5 children to fend for themselves.

I am rethinking this analysis.

Facts:

16 year old is giving a talk in church on Sunday
11 year old is giving a talk in Primary on Sunday. He reminds me at 9:45.
13 year old wants a certain shirt washed and dried by the time church starts at 11:00. It is now 9:30.
6 year old NEEDS batteries for a toy.
I have not showered. There is no warm water because I started a load of laundry for the 13 year old.
I planned on crock pot roast
Homemade rolls.
At 10:00, husband informs me that he and the girls have to be at church at 10:15. Why did I use the precious warm water to wash a shirt that would not be ready in time for church?
16 year old is hogging the computer because, although she had all week to write her talk and swears she needed the computer last night for her talk (READ: EMAIL and FACEBOOK), she needs something else. She yells at me. I yell at her. Now I'm really, really worked up.
Start rolls, defrost roast, put in crock pot. Lament to self how ungrateful my children are. Do they think there are fairies that wash and fold their clothes? I wonder how, in good conscience, they can say, "There's nothing to eat around here" after I have just spent $175 at Costco. Do they ever wonder where the toothpaste, soap, shampoo, conditioner, razors, etc. come from?
Finish writing talk for 11 year old. He comes down to check up on me. I ask him to hook up the printer. He says he doesn't know how.

And that is when I started to cry. This, being the boy who is the most helpful and wanting to not cause problems. He quietly left me in peace and entertained his brother until I could pull myself together.

Dear Martha - I get it now.

Midlife Crisis

2011-05-18T08:04:00.000-06:00

I saw my friend, Colleen, on Friday. I used to run into her when I went to the rec. center. I stopped going a long time ago and asked her if she's still going.

"I haven't gone since I broke my collarbone."

Okay, I'll bite. "How did you break your collarbone?"

"I crashed my motorcycle when I went over a jump."

"You do know you're 50 years old, right?"

"Yeah. My midlife crisis make me do fun things. Want to see what I did for my 40th birthday?" She angled her leg so I could see her the tattoo on her ankle. A four inch image of Winnie the Pooh. "Aren't you due for a midlife crisis? What are you going to do?"

I've been wondering that one for awhile and told her so. I can't get a tattoo because my kids will automatically either judge me or view it as permission to get their own. The same goes with any extreme sport. I don't care about cars so I won't get a sports car. An affair is out. My choices are quite limited. "I guess I'll have to go someplace tropical and consume my first alcoholic drink," I finally concluded.

"Hawaii and your first Mai Thai?" she asked. The way she said it sounded so cheap. Can I help that I had an innocent youth?

Any ideas? Just a warning - I hate Vegas so don't even bother with that one.

No Segue...

2011-05-16T06:25:00.000-06:00

The other day my son was sent to the bathroom for a potty break at daycare. Sometimes he forgets he has to go and just plays and wiggles. We affectionately call it "the potty dance."

He returned with the update and solid advice to the daycare staff:

"No pee came out but you should really decorate the bathroom with Springtime decorations so I have something to look at while I'm waiting for my pee."

Huh. Usually I'm happy with a magazine or book. To each his own, I guess.

Still Ranting About Mother's Day

2011-05-13T06:02:00.011-06:00

Apparently, I'm still going on about Mother's Day. Pretty sure I'm PMS-ing but it makes for good posts since Neurotic Nancy simply can. Not. Shut. Up.

So my friend, Kaye, is the in my congregation. She's also this freakin' amazing woman who can't hold still. Between you and me, I think if she didn't have 456 things going on, she might have a panic attack. I think she's secretly neurotic which simply fills me with glee! Not that she'll have a panic attack, just that I'm not alone.

Back to Kaye - she is on the city council, chases her dogs, Lewis and Clark, around the neighborhood while they go exploring, and took on the huge job of band director at the local high school while the regular band director took a long vay-cay in Iraq. He called it a "tour" but whatever. So she put her heart and soul into a group of some sixty kids, one of which is my own trumpeter, does the killer summer band camp, parades, concerts, competitions and whatnot and THEN fenagles the governor to nominate her group of kids to be in the 4th of July parade in 2012 in Washington, D.C.

Yay! Jump up and down! She's so excited. But wait. She forgot that she's only killing herself to stave off her panic attacks (my words, not hers) for a year. Once G.I. Joe returns, she will have LOADS of free time. All she will have to do is care for her four high maintenance men, city council, and the 20 hours a week she spends doing boy scouts.

Meanwhile, Nancy is wondering how she is going to come up with $1200 for D.C. Then her other daughter tries out for color guard and makes it. She's going, too.

Oh, yeah, Kaye. I'm coming for you in every. Single. Fund. Raiser.

Is Kaye human? Does she have robotic parts? Did someone put a battery in her and only later discover it's Energizer? Nope. She's real. She hates Mother's Day, too. She wrote a blog post all about rebelling and skipping church, sleeping in, staying in her jammies, and allowing her husband to cook dinner while she played xbox or something.

Me? I'm the spiritual type. I went to church and felt completely uplifted.

Or...

A Musing Mother said...

Considered staying home but my girls were in the choir. They saved us a seat on the front row. I was 45 minutes late ON PURPOSE! Then my 16 year old asked me to PLEASE stop bringing electronic devices to her performances because it looks to her like I don't care. Then she started to CRY ABOUT IT! Because, dammit, I suck as a mother! She didn't say that part but I spent the rest of the day in just a ticked off mood. Absolutely no segue here, but did you know another Jr high is looking for a band director?

May 10, 2011 6:52 AM

A Musing Mother said...

Interesting how I can't bring a teeny, tiny ipod touch (with scriptures) or a Kindle to a performance because it says to the 16 year old, "I don't care about you," even after taking her prom dress shopping, buying her shoes, getting a boutiniere (sp), taking her to get her hair done and even stopped at the drugstore so she could have gum to clean her braces out after dinner. Speaking of dinner, I make it every night, drive them all wherever they need to go, give them clean clothes to wear every FRICKIN' DAY, juggle work, pick up crap all over the house, make holidays special (except Mother's Day), plan vacations, pack food, shop for all their needs and wants. . . Don't bring an ipod or kindle because it proves that I DON'T CARE?! Nancy might have issues. Nancy might need to go see the happy doctor again. Nancy has a huge guilt complex. Nancy is talking in third person. Nancy has hijacked Kaye's blog. I really do suck.

Kaye said...: You can hijack my blog anytime. My heck. . . I am still laughing! BTW. . . I look good in red, but I have a closet full of purple. See my dilemma? Anyway. I did not apply.

A Musing Mother said...

Nancy, who is still talking in third person because she is neurotic, is really a Caveman. She can sing the fight song with the clapping AND even do the cheer dance from 1983. Sometimes when Nancy is feeling sadistic, she makes students who claim to be from that high school attempt the fight song before she will post credit on their transcript.

And yet...

Different division. That's how I am coping. I look good in red. I look downright foxy in purple.

I'm sure you've already noticed that, though, haven't you?

May 10, 2011 10:40 PM

Next year I'm taking Kaye to Little America for brunch.

Prom Mom

2011-05-11T00:40:00.000-06:00

"Not to be rude or anything," Rachel said to my daughter a week before prom, "but have you warned Eric about your mom?"

She spent the next 7 days begging me to act normal.

Ideas for freaking out a prom date:

Find Grandma's old house dress. Secure pillows beneath it. Hairnet. Big glasses. Decorate house with doilies and hang afghan over sofa backs.
Go all Greg Brady on him. Hang beads in doorways, install disco lights and lava lamps. Dress in tie dye and bell bottoms. 'Fro hair. Tell him about Woodstock then stop, midsentence, and stare off in the distance like on a "trip."
Pioneer with bonnet. Discuss ancestors at length. Especially the ones who died a gruesome death coming across the plains. Show pictures of Peg Leg Whitney.
Same as above but include three "sister wives" to greet date in same garb.
Go Cougar route - tight sweater with deep V-neck, push-up bra to add cleavage, rat hair, short leopard print skirt, high heels. Pop gum gratuitously. Keep touching his arm and call him "Sugar."
No special dress, just lead him into the kitchen where the dad is polishing his new shotgun. Introduce to huntin' dog, Sunday. Tell him her name is Lucifer.

Any more ideas?

Race for the Cure - Susan G. Komen 2011

2011-05-10T14:43:00.002-06:00

*This is a post I wrote last year for the Susan G. Komen "Race for the Cure." It is held in Salt Lake City every year on the Saturday before Mother's Day. I don't have any pictures from this year's run, but here is my tribute to my mom, diagnosed with stage 4 breast cancer, already metastasized throughout her body on December 5, 2002 with a grim prognosis.

_______________________________________________

It all begins in the smallest place imaginable; a single cell. The message quietly encoded to tell the cell how to behave are all in order. When one cell dies, the proteins dictate how to turn a replacement cell on. The cells split and a perfect clone is achieved.

Except one.

One cell includes renegade codes. The one protein that includes the code to turn off the replicator is missing. The cells split, grow, split grow over and over again. Unkindly, the faulty cells grow in different directions, weaving tentacles throughout the tissue like an octopus on steroids, forming pathways of corruption for months, even years.

Eventually the host feels different. Some feel weak, others feel a lump, others suffer an injury. Time stands still as the patient hears heavy words and shock hits until reality sinks in.

You have cancer.

Surgery is scheduled to remove the cells, to dig into the tissue and find every last tentacle. Chemicals are poured into ports with measured steadiness and gloved hands. To touch the chemicals would mean serious damage to the nurse. Somehow the fast growing cells have to be killed without killing the host. The cells with codes for hair growth die.

Some do not survive the cancer or the cure.

Others do.

And they bring their posse

Sometimes it's a pretty big posse.

But it's also a pretty big group of survivors.

One more Mother's Day spent with my mom, the bravest woman I know.

A woman who didn't understand the doctor who said words like "terminal," "incurable," "metastasize."

All she heard was "miracle."

Confessions of an Imperfect Mother

2011-05-09T08:48:00.000-06:00

In honor of Mother's Day, I have decided to purge myself of my imperfections. Not that I plan on changing, I am simply confessing. You may need to take a shower afterward.

I hate going to church on Mother's Day. While the speakers beatify their mothers, I feel like an abysmal failure.
I spent yesterday angry at my children for evidencing my failure as a mother by not being more responsible, grateful, clean, having more common sense, taking ownership of themselves, their behaviors, and their stuff, loving, tolerating, or at least respecting other members in the household enough to leave the room when they feel they simply *must* pick a fight.
Much of the time I would rather spend time with my blog or a good book than with my children.
I worked 8 and half hours on Friday. That was the most peaceful day I've had in weeks. Maybe months.
There is not a clear path from the door to the bed in any child's bedroom. Every room contains a severe tripping hazard.
I am still stunned by sentences I feel obligated to utter like, Who peed in the garbage can? Did you brush your teeth? Did you brush your hair? (the girl is in jr. high), Stop picking at your lip until they bleed, go pee right now, Is that the same shirt you wore yesterday? And the day before? You swallowed what? And many, many other questions, statements that sound just silly coming from my mouth but I feel I must give them air.
I have left the dog at home to babysit the youngest child so I can take other children to school since he was 3 years old.
Two of my four children did NOT go to pre-school. At all. My schedule wouldn't allow it.
When my kindergarten boy decides to not go to kindergarten, I keep him home because it's too hard to fight him so early in the morning and quantity time is better than quality time.
I don't cook breakfast for my children every morning. Any morning. I keep a supply of bread for toast, cereal, frozen waffles, and minute oatmeal.
The above sentence is a lie. I always have bread. The other stuff is at 75% of the time.
I spend inordinate amounts of time in the bathroom because it's the only place I can go alone.
I have hidden in my closet with a small carton of Ben and Jerry's and a spoon. I stopped when my children found my hiding spot.
My youngest child has been sleeping in our bed for the last 6 years.
My husband is sexually frustrated.
I have checked an older child out of school to babysit a younger child so I can take another to a doctor's appointment.

Judge me. Validate yourselves based on my shortcomings. Cherish the fact that you are a better parent than I am. Feel validated that you're not the only one. Whatever.

I wonder if this is how it feels to go to confession.

Now I am going to go toast some bread for a boy and get him to school before he has to check in at the office.

Who's in Charge?

2011-05-06T06:28:00.000-06:00

"Dad, are we almost home?"

"Yes, we're almost home."

"That's good."

"Do you want to be home?"

"I want to be almost home so that if you crash the car and die I can walk home to Mom and she can take care of me the rest of my life. She's mostly in charge of me, you know."

"I love you, too, Bud."

"Thanks, Dad."

The Judgmental Educators

2011-05-04T06:00:00.002-06:00

In my younger years I had a lot of judgment to dole out. I sat above the crowd and looked down my nose at those parents who just didn't take their role seriously. I am now one of the crowd in the arena.

My 6 year old informed me he wasn't going to kindergarten. He wanted to stay home and play with me.

Okay.

He's my 4th child, my last and I do enjoy a few stolen hours, just the two of us.

I arrived at work later that day to be greeted by my colleagues who were in a quandary. For various reasons, they all planned on taking the day off on Friday. Could I possibly come all day that day instead of my usual half day. "Sure," I replied. "If I can't find someone to pick up my son, I'll do what I did today and just keep him with me all day."

Five women, including my two bosses, entered suspended animation. All action ceased. All eyes on the mutant mother.

"You seriously do that?" one judgmental colleague asked.

My dear, dear friend, Angela, quipped, "And it's not the first time she's done it this year, either." All mouths gaped just a little bit wider.

Thanks, Ange.

"And I suppose neither of you (pointing to the two women - both my bosses -that have children of various ages) have never checked a child out of school early to babysit for a half hour?" Expressions changed to horror. I was a complete freak of nature claiming to be an educator.

I panicked and went for broke. I unscrewed the cap of my Diet Coke, turned to leave the office and called out, "Thanks for the rum, Angela! You're right. It does make Diet Coke taste better!"

If I'm going down, I'm not going alone.

Signs I Might be Sleep Deprived

2011-05-02T06:00:00.000-06:00

Boy walks into my office and announces he wants to register for school and tells me his name. I recognize his last name and ask if he was a previous student. No, he informs me, but his sister was. He pulls out a picture of the two of them as kids sitting with their dad. His dad is FINE, I think. "He's single, too," the boy answers. Oh. My. Gosh. I said it out loud.
Make a phone call to a parent to discuss her daughter's attendance. She describes the family dynamics at this time. Her husband has terminal cancer and I lose my professional detachment. I end up trying to swallow the sobs. It's the ugly kind of cry.
While at school, run into a woman that works with my sister, also a school counselor. Grab my phone and show her a picture of the baby she had two weeks ago. He's still covered in slime and cute as a button. I'm a proud aunt. Next year's assistant principal is standing nearby and peeking over shoulder. Hand telephone to him to see. Realize the image is mostly baby Easton but a little bit of my sister's boob. Make screeching sound and hit my soon-to-be boss's hand whereas he drops my phone, the back pops off and the battery pops out. He looks up at me, stunned. "Tourette's!" I yell.
Interim assistant principal announces that some important people from the district are coming to school and we should be on our best behavior. "Go home," she whispers in my ear.

A Very Rare Breed

2011-04-29T08:00:00.014-06:00

Kindergarten teachers fascinate me. Certainly, there is the occasional oddball who doesn't like teaching kindergarten and finds the children quite bothersome, but then there are the teachers at my son's school. Ridiculously long, healthy, dark hair, always curled and/or flat ironed and never in a ponytail. Make-up, color-coordinated and professional clothing and that ridiculous smile that doesn't budge. They are unflappable, organized, and never get tired.

Nancy's response to a child standing on the table: "Get off the table. Get off the table. Right. Now. Get off the table or I'm going to call your mother!" As if I know his mother.

Ms. R.'s response to a child standing on the table: "Oh, Collin," in a disappointed voice. "What are tables for?" Collin never gets on the table again. She has 27 children in her class. Everything is organized, scheduled, and predictable. When a parent who is supposed to be helping in her class steps out of line, the children tell me her exactly how it's supposed to be. And those rules are specific.

Today the kindergarten teachers took on the ultimate job of herding cats: They took the children to the zoo. Feeling magnanimous, I took the day off work so I could spend the day with my son at the zoo. I thought it would be fun.

Being my usual punctual self, I showed up 10 minutes late as the children were being herded out to the buses. A list was shoved into my free hand and showed that I was in charge of four children along with a dad. We quickly divided to conquer and I now had my own son and his friend who looks to be about 4 years old. This came into play when the other kindergarten teacher (the one who doesn't always wear that ridiculous smile) approached me and told me I would have to drive in my own car to the zoo rather than ride the school bus because I had a younger child. I started standing up to leave the bus when another mother said, "No, that's a student!" I had to sit back down.

More and more children were filed and shoved into seats. Three and four to a seat was the rule. The same teacher began at the front of the bus and I noticed grown-ups getting off. By the time word trickled back, ten parents had exited and been asked to drive up separately so there would be room for the kids. I jumped up, grabbed my backpack and other paraphernalia, kissed my son and told him I'd meet him at the zoo and started to exit. Just then, 7 of the parents returned. Tragedy averted. We DID have room for all of us. I was so excited.

"Mom, have you ever been on a school bus before?" my son asked me.

"Nearly every day of my childhood," I sighed. "Except when I was chasing one to catch it."

"Like a dog?"

"Yeah, kind of like that."

Once at the zoo, I really enjoyed the time with my boy. I didn't realize his friend was into dramatics. He had helpful information about every animal on exhibit and his commentary was non-stop:

"That bird, the raven, flies for 2,000 miles without stopping."
"Did you know tigers have horns? They call them tusks."
"Hey! Guess what! That gorilla is so disgusting! He throws up, then eats his throw up then throws up again." (This one gathered a crowd of approximately 25 kindergarten boys from various schools).
"The peacock boy lays eggs!"
"This is a bobcat."

If you spell bobcat, T-I-G-E-R, he's right.

Eventually, he ran out of steam. Then he dragged his feet and stopped paying attention to the exhibits or to me. I went left. He went right. He wouldn't hold my hand. I didn't feel comfortable using my mean-mom voice on him like I do with my own children.

I passed those two kindergarten teachers on the way to the bus. I was dragging one child, carrying two backpacks, my hair was askew and I'd lost the map. Ms. R. and Ms. B. looked at me with matching big, brown eyes and perfect smiles and exclaimed, "Isn't this fun!"

It takes a special breed to make a kindergarten teacher. I salute them.

Don't Talk to Inanimate Objects You Don't Know

2011-04-25T06:00:00.003-06:00

"Wait a minute Dad, I need to buckle up Back Pack before we go!"

"Good idea, she needs to be safe."

"It's a HE dad. He needs to be safe."

"Oh, of course."

"His name is Gold, because gold is yellow like Back Pack."

"Makes sense." "Hello Gold, how are you today?"

"Um. Dad. He can't hear you. He's a backpack."

Sweet Sixteen and Mortified

2011-04-21T00:02:00.000-06:00

My oldest daughter turned 16 on Sunday.

When I told others this fact I was often greeted with a gasp and then, "How do you feel about that?!" I feel fine about it. Honestly, I stayed in what-do-I-need-to-accomplish mode. I thought about the birthday cake I ~~would bake from scratch~~ buy from Costco, birthday shopping and carrying out the second part of fulfilling my destiny. While others are floundering with the doctrinal questions of purpose of life, I have it all figured out. My first purpose is to give four children birth. Done. The second purpose is to mortify them all the days of my earthly existence. This has brought me a great deal of glee.

The reason I blog.

I've carefully considered the pros and cons of having another driver in the house. Not that we have an extra car but how nice it will be to send her to pick up a sibling from school when I'm not home or up the street to pick up sour cream from the store. Since she's still in training, however, I am constantly on call.

Ironically, it was Sunday morning, as I was reaching for my hypertension medication that I realized she was 16 and old enough to date. I dropped my pills and ran to my husband in a panic.

"Do you realize she's old enough to date?!" Yes, he had already considered this and was looking at the Cabella's ad in the Sunday paper.

Shotguns.

Later in the week I was at a Young Women activity at the church with my daughter. The theme focused on our heritage. How do we connect to our ancestors? Each mother took a turn to tell about her grandmother who taught her how to quilt or sew or cook and they held up a beautiful speciman. The talent oozed out of their pores. Tatting, hand quilting, knitting of intricate sweaters and dresses and I knew I was in the company of domestic goddesses. It would have been intimidating had I not been giddy for my turn to share my heritage.

I brought a binder with photos, genealogy charts, and typed stories. I was second to last and knew I could only share a portion of what characteristics my ancestors had passed onto me. I started with my grandmother's great grandmother, Henrietta, whose husband died shortly before she left Nauvoo with two young boys for the Salt Lake Valley. She travelled without a husband in the harsh elements.

Henrietta's surviving son, my ancestor, lost one arm during his teenage years. He learned Shoshone and became a pony express rider. He lost one of his legs in a logging accident and was never quite right after he recovered. My great, great, great, great grandfather consecutively married three Mary's. The first Mary appeared to a very distant cousin of mine in Australia in 1978 causing a domino effect that resulted in his wife being my friend on facebook. Oh, and she's his second cousin. Another distant grandmother committed suicide in an insane asylum.

Although these snippets seem random, there is a common thread. My ancestors, bless their hearts, are lunatics.

Of course, there's always a chance that it will or has skipped a generation which means my grandchildren might have a prayer.

Then again, who wants to date the daughter of a lunatic?

Want to date my daughter? Bring it on.

Easter Dresses

2011-04-18T07:00:00.002-06:00

Three of my four children are fairly certain there is no Easter bunny. The same three that are pretty sure about Santa Claus. I'm not saying one way or the other because Santa is kind of like a sacred relic in my mind and not Pagan. Regardless, the Easter bunny comes to our house every spring which, coincidentally, is the same day we celebrate the Savior's resurrection.

When I was the mother of one little girl, I went to the fabric store and picked out a pattern of a darling little Easter dress with pantaloons, buttons and a collar. All the big nuh-uh's. Hours and days later, the result was a blue checked dress with sunflowers that was sort of cute, too short, and very expensive. I was proud. It was a rite of passage and although not glorious, it was passable.

A year later I had two little girls and I made matching jumpers without buttons, zippers, or collars. Although adorable, I skimped on the pantaloons as well. Shortly after that I discovered Jolene's and I was finished with sewing dresses. I have been known to cover bumper pads in denim for an upcoming baby boy, sew straight lines for a baby blanket or ten and recently I grudgingly taught my oldest daughter how to piece a quilt together then add batting and a back. I am, by no means, a seamstress. In fact, if not for the occasional hem or repair, the sewing machine would be gathering dust a lot more.

Now the kids are older and dresses have been nudged aside for trendier skirts with shirts, I heaved a sigh of relief and the Easter bunny has been buying matching khaki pants and Sunday shirts for the boys and shorts and shirts for the girls. I don't even bother with skirts. If I can't dress them the same, I don't want to torture myself with taking them to store after store after store only to find the skirts too short or wrong size while the shirts baffle me simply because they already have an entire wardrobe.

This year dresses have made a comeback. The girls wanted me to take them dress shopping. At the mall. I can't even begin to elucidate my aversion to the mall which is very disturbing, really. I loved going to the mall. Not only as a child then a teenager, I went to the mall in my twenties when I was nursing a broken heart and simply wanted to be around people. As a young mother, I always kept a stroller then a double stroller in the car just in case I went to the mall. But to take two very different girls at very different sizes and stages to look at dresses makes me shudder.

Scott offered to take the girls dress shopping at a couple of nearby stores. I half-heartedly offered to go instead but I knew my opinions would show too plainly on my face and Scott took the girls shopping like trooper. I had boy time. We watched "Chuck" and I cut my 6 year old's hair while he wiggled and complained and made it miserable for both of us. I cleaned a couple of rooms, changed peed on sheets, did dishes and helped my 11 year old to bed after he threw up all over the bathroom floor, his clothes, and a few other places that I won't detail. I gagged, talked to myself, took a big breath and held it while I scrubbed up the recycled dinner.

After a few hours and no word from Scott and the girls, both boys asleep, I called to check up on their progress. "We went to Ross and didn't find anything so we ended up at the mall," my daughter informed me.

What a sad commentary it is to report that I think I got the easier parenting tonight by having to wrestle with a moppy blond head until we were both whining and cleaning up bodily fluids.

The mall. *Shudder*

Family Picture with the Self Timer

2011-04-15T06:00:00.000-06:00

Guess who is trying to get the timer on the camera to work. Where is the mom?

Not here...

Nope. She hasn't shown up yet...

Seriously. This is getting old.

Maybe we gave up a little too soon. Just call us the Dorky Bunch.

There it is! The whole family without the vlogging.

We're dorks. Sorry.

That's okay, girls. Go ahead and play on the cliffs. I'm still trying to work the timer on the camera.

Wordful Wednesday and Why My Legs are Sore Today

2011-04-13T10:34:00.000-06:00

Pardon the alabaster legs. Someone really needs a tan.

No segue and totally random, hypothetical question that has nothing, absolutely nothing to do with my life -

Is it ever appropriate to spank a 13 year old child when she is tired, cranky, and radiates unfocused anger while lashing out at anyone and everyone which ruins a family vacation? At least after the hour of 7:00 p.m. every night. I'd love to hear your thoughts and experience. Again, not that it is relevant to my life or anything... just an overall parental support question.

Namaste

2011-04-08T00:47:00.000-06:00

The gesture Namaste represents the belief that there is a Divine spark within each of us that is located in the heart chakra. The gesture is an acknowledgment of the soul in one by the soul in another. "Nama" means bow, "as" means I, and "te" means you. Therefore, Namaste literally means "bow me you" or "I bow to you." A system of exercises for attaining bodily or mental control and well-being

______________________________________________________

Fill the lungs with a deep inhale, bringing in energy, vitality and prana, the life force.....

... Go to the post office, pick up prescriptions at the drugstore...

As you exhale, feel the body releasing toxins, stress and any negativity that has accumulated, as it drains down into the ground.....

... needs her teeth cleaned. I should call the dentist...

Stay with this breath, focusing on the feeling of deep peace for ten deep inhalations and exhalations....

... bake a birthday cake - maybe buy donuts for his class...

Feel the subtle vibration of energy that runs through the body....

... how my dad's eyes are doing...

Become aware of the warmth and tingling of every cell.....

... pay the cell phone bill...

Feel the energy that is in the extended environment, out to infinity, in the entire cosmos, in every part of nature and in every living thing.....

... Does the cat have food? She'll throw up if I don't give her the expensive kind...

Bring all those energies together and feel them as one.....

... soccer game at 6:00...

Visualize all of that energy shining as brightly as a thousand suns.....

...spray the counter with 409 and start the dishwasher...

Bring the shining glow of bright energy over the crown of the head.....

... Japan and the tsunami...

Feel it starting to funnel down into your body from the top of your head, slowly going down into your face and neck, traveling down into the shoulders, down the arms, all the way down to the fingers.....

... rows of peas, beans, tomatoes...

Feel the healing energy and light going down into your chest and let that healing light fill your heart. Allow your heart to feel the magnificent healing, warmth and unconditional love....

... herb garden?...

Stay with this feeling of warmth and love for five deep slow breaths.....

... if Jene had her baby, yet...

Feel the healing light go down into your hips.....

...write a thank you note to Kari...

Feel it continue traveling down your legs all the way down to your toes.....

... needs to practice piano before Tuesday...

Your whole body is now filled with Divine Healing Light and Energy.....

... spaghetti sauce on sale at Smith's...

Allow that Healing Energy to completely fill all physical areas that need healing energy.....

... Ew! A spider!...

Feel it warming, healing and expanding through the areas......

...Call pest control...

Now bring your awareness to any emotional difficulties and allow the Divine Healing Light to bring peace and healing to any emotional issues or traumas.....

... so glad our taxes are done...

Bring your awareness to any intentions or desires that you may have.....

... only have 45 minutes before I have to leave if I want to be on time...

Hold the thoughts of those intentions or desires as you allow the Healing Energy to bring your deepest desires to life and your intentions into reality....

... wish that cat would shut up...

Feel your connection to Divine Energy and Light, and know that all is ONE.....

... who could be calling at this hour?

Stay with this deep, relaxing, peaceful feeling of bliss.

Namaste.

Pay Day

2011-04-06T04:00:00.003-06:00

I have discovered that epiphanies come at the most odd moments and locations. The newest location is our local WalMart. Which I hate, for the record but that fact is irrelevant for this post. I'm just reiterating my feelings.

Right in the aisle by the chocolate chips I ran into a couple of friends from my childhood. They grew up and got married to each other. I thought it was serendipitous because my oldest daughter and I were shopping for quilt supplies and Charlotte happens to be a master quilter. I tried the "divine intervention" route, trying to guilt her into renewing our friendship and drop on by my house the following day and help us with piecing this thing together but it was a no-go. Always worth a try.

As we stood there talking, me in my sweatshirt announcing the high school where I work, a stocker passed us a number of times. I had an inkling I knew the boy and, once I finished catching up with my friends, accosted him and asked him if I knew him from the high school where I work. Recognition dawned only after I was right in his face and it somewhat stunned me it took him as long as it did. At least he immediately remembered I was his counselor. I sometimes forget that my memory and another's memory is different.

I grabbed the slivered almonds I was after, signaled to my nearly 16 year old daughter and we walked away. Suddenly, this former student wanted to continue the conversation. He kept calling after me with comment after comment. Oh. Kay. Not that I claim any sort of social appropriateness but I can typically tell when the conversation is over. It was over. I kept glancing over my shoulder and smiling at him with a nod. Weird.

I turned the corner at the end of the aisle and nearly ran over my daughter. You know the one - 5'8", 104 lbs of solid bone and muscle, beautiful features. Great big "Duh" on my part and I started laughing. In fact, I almost turned around to call back to him. Offer to introduce him to my gorgeous daughter than run away laughing. Because I'm cruel like that. I live to mortify my children.

Walking out of the store, I watched the young men we passed. I asked her if she ever tired of being stared at. "No, not yet," she replied nonchalantly. I laughed and explained that I forget that I am invisible when she is at my side. She tried to soften the blow with some trite comment. The comment lost its punch because at the very moment she was saying it, we both observed a teenage boy walk directly in our (her) path and trip on his own feet.

"Did you not see that?" I asked.

"Yeah, that one was a little hard to miss." We continued a couple of polite steps before bursting to laughter. Then she said the words that nearly brought happy tears to my eyes. "You know, I really feel very satisfied with who I am right now. I like myself."

THAT is the currency of motherhood.

Show Stopper

2011-04-04T07:05:00.003-06:00

She wants to do color guard but doesn't know how to twirl a flag. I'll support any healthy hobby that doesn't require me to be Julie, the cruise director, and provide entertainment every waking moment. Love the child dearly but she was born with an Energizer battery and no "OFF" button.

The high school is holding workshops every Thursday at 4:00. Even though she's only 13, she really, really, really wants to learn how to be on color guard then dance with all the props on football fields. I'm not a tragic figure but in order for her to make these practices I am going to need to leave work a little early and break a few traffic laws. She called me at 3:10 just to remind me to leave early so she could get to the gym and be one of the lucky to secure a flag. I can't leave too early or it will raise eyebrows so I have it timed with little room for error.

I cut off conversations mid-sentence, leave my computer running, run in the hall (big no-no in a school), rush to daycare and carry the boy to pee as quickly as he can, pull him through the doors and put the van in DRIVE before he is properly seatbelted.

She calls again to see where I am. I assure her, I am on my way. I then break a few laws and the sound barrier. In construction. 21 minutes later I screech to a halt in the driveway and honk the horn.

She's. Not. Home.

She went out to play and didn't watch the clock. I tracked her down and pushed her in the van, drove her to the school, drove home and collapsed.

I know. I'm caring more than she is and epitomize the term helicopter mom. Whatever.

The older teenager approaches me. She wants to go hangout with her friends. I know her homework is finished. I know her room is not clean. I don't care. "Just be home by 5:20 to watch your brother. I'm going to a Nia class with my dance friends." She'll be here, she assures me.

5:20.

5:25.

5:30.

5:35. Now I am feeling a little bit like a tragic figure. I don't want to go running around the neighborhood to hunt her down. I'd specifically asked Scott to pick up her sister from the high school so I could go to this class. I finally remember that we're in the age of cell phones and call her. I'm mad. She's sullen. She comes home.

She has to stay after school and she'll call me when she's finished. Okay, I call to her as she hurries out the door. School ends and my dad comes over. We're having a wonderful visit and she calls to tell me to pick her up. You betcha, I tell her. I'll be there in a half hour. I'm talking to Papa.

She rants. She raves. She tirades. I hand the telephone to her sister while I finish my visit with my dad.

I'm wondering if I have my own apologies to make to my mother. I'll call her as soon as my children give me permission to leave the house on my own accord.

I'll let you know.

Texting and Synchronizing

2011-03-28T08:30:00.009-06:00

My daughter texted me in the middle of the school day.

Her: My period started. Can you come and get me?

Me: Mine, too! We're like twins! *SQUEEE*!

Her: Ha. Ha.

Me: Did you soil yourself?

Her: It's not visible.

Me: Then why do I need to come and get you?

Her: It feels weird.

Me: Welcome to my world.

Her:

Me: Where are you?

Her: In the bathroom.

Me: How long have you been there?

Her: 20 minutes.

Me: That's just plain sad.

Her: Can I call Grandma and tell her I'm sick?

Me: No, you can't lie to Grandma.

Jenn: Hey! When are we going to lunch?

Me: I'll be in town in two weeks! Will you be around?

Jenn: We'll be moving out of our house but let's do lunch and call it therapy. HA!

Her: Mom? Are you still there?

Me: Therapy it is! Are you bringing the Klonipin au de toilette?

Her: Why do I need therapy? What are you talking about?

Me: Oops. Sorry. I'll be there in 20 minutes.

A Musing Mother

Insulting the Old Man

Worldful Wednesday and the best friends

Getting Pranked

Stories That Still Haunt Us, Part II

Life Stories That Never Go Away

Wordful Wednesday

My Face

Hypocritically Speaking

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

The Most Dreaded Words

While We Were Out

Wordful Wednesday and Clever Much? Rarely!

Wonder Underwear

My Declining Quality of Life Because of Technology

Basic Survival Skills

Writer's Workshop

Relatives and Holidays

Happy Birthday/Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving in Haiku

Goodbye, Dear Friend - Robert Williams

Lessons I've Learned

The Wolf Spider, Polar Bear, Hippopotomus, and Shark

End of Daylight Saving Time

Wordful Wednesday

The Mammogram

Park in the Rearview Mirror

Yellowstone Bear World

It Was Fun. And That's the Truth

Justin Beiber Has Left the Building

My Perfect Boyfriend

The Teenagers

Why I Lack a Toned Hard Body

Where Can I Turn for Peace?

Grown Up Joy School

Stupid Questions

Island of Misfit Toys

The Crossing Guard

Experimenting with new words.

Girl in a Whirl by Dr. Sue

Parental Advice

Fashion Vs. Function

New Diagnosis

Wordful Wednesday - The Story of the Dress

On Being the Example

The Many Faces of E

A Message of Hope and Taunting

Turnabout is Fair Play

What I Found This Morning

Sunflowers and Perfection

Consider the Source

Timer and a Tripod

Four Thousand, Five Hundred Dollars Later

The Mother who Can Do it All

Cell Curse

The Blind Date

Navigating Motherhood while being so Stupid

Home to Real Life

Family Reunion/Dysfunction

Everybody Has a Story

Bathroom Rules

The Purpose of a College Education

The Rational, Sane Grown-Up

Sunday Flu

That's Right, Folks, He's 45!

Wall Vs. Toe

Gloria Gaynor Was Right

Harry Potter, Scooby Doo and Cupcakes with Sprinkles

Middle Age

Commercialism

Pigeon Poo

Wordful Wednesday - Late, As Usual

Oh Look! A Butterfly!

Jazz Night

The Company I Keep

Step it Up Or Else...

Midlife Crisis

No Segue...

Still Ranting About Mother's Day

Prom Mom

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