Into the Wild: Welcome to My World

Moved

2011-07-21T22:01:00.002-05:00

As per months of contemplation, I've finally moved the blog back to WordPress.

Woohoo!

Don't worry, the contest is still the same. Only instead of sending people to carolynnthedyer.blogspot.com, please send them to carolynnthedyer.wordpress.com.

And then come and join me yourself!

There's a new header, new layout, new ways to follow, and ALL the old posts. Come on, whatchya waitin' for? Click on over!

Riddle

2011-07-19T12:38:00.000-05:00

I've written a poem.

For this, I sincerely apologize.

In an attempt to make it up to you, I'm turning this into a game. Read the poem, make a guess as to what/who the Ode is written to (either via the comments or email), and everyone who is correct will be entered into a drawing for a totally awesome prize that I'll announce when I come back from vacation in Utah (read: I haven't found it yet, but I definitely will!). I promise this prize will not be child- or mommy-centric, so you won't have to be either to enjoy it.

Last day for guesses is July 31. One guess per poster, please! Want to earn extra guesses? Share this post via Twitter, Facebook, or any other social media platform, and post where you shared it along with your extra guess.

Please note, your guesses will have to be specific. Meaning a general guess such as "housework" (i.e. a category instead of a specific type of housework) will not count. Feel free to email with questions!

-------

Ode to ---------

Lofty goals that mothers make

Include not eating too much cake

And keeping you, my dear old friend

In check;

A goal to send me ‘round the bend.

For you, my soul, are always near

Always present, always clear;

With need for me to take the time

To wash

A pile a mile high.

Methinks, at least just once or twice,

That to be done would be so nice.

But then I think, What would I do

With me

If there was no you?

Fly to Paris, dance in Spain,

Maybe take some time rein

In my children, who like to scream

And cry

When’ere I try to keep you clean.

Not that they dislike, perhaps,

It’s just that washing and timely naps

Never seem to find a way

To coincide.

Alas, and curse the day.

My time with you is ever sweet

In torture and in triumph neat.

Water soothes the tortured soul

And reminds

That a shower-less week takes its toll.

I hate you when you’re dirty, true;

And love it when you’re clean, I do.

I know alone I’ll never be

Because

My children will dirty you just for me.

Monday Mantra

2011-07-18T14:22:00.001-05:00

You can't punch a migraine in the fact*, but you can be happy if you've a mind to.

*Please note this typo. It was brought on by the migraine. And I STILL can't punch the dumb thing in the fact.

Fireworks

2011-07-12T07:00:00.007-05:00

Everybody

enjoys

fireworks

in a

different way.

Here's hoping you enjoyed yours.

Monday Mantra

2011-07-11T08:41:00.002-05:00

Parent with laughter, and pray the rest comes out right.

Ruined

2011-07-05T06:30:00.002-05:00

I say things, and then suddenly become paranoid that I've ruined my children forever. And then I google it because google is the oracle, and inevitably some amazing guru of child-rearing has at some point said that you should never ever never EVER say/allow/do whatever I just said/allowed/did.

Alas, how my children suffer.

If I give them a treat, they’re inevitably instructed to "Eat it all up." I'm just trying to prevent a mess (Huh?! How DARE you try to be convenient at the expense of your children?!), but then I’m struck by The Guilt. Here I am, teaching them that they must consume every last sweetly-sticky bite of their treats. They’ll become gluttons, I tell you! What will their first Halloween out of the house be like?

No, those are lollypop sticks, not cigarettes. StrawBee totally knows better!

I must prevent such a crisis. So I try to counteract the candy thing by telling the girls to eat healthy so they can keep growing and get tall. However, Ladybug has latched onto this "tall" thing, and now I'm certain she's going to spend the rest of her life worrying about being tall enough. And since short genes are all she’s got, this is either going to end in extensive surgery or stilettos.

All the rage this summer.

I can’t have a child of mine growing up to be taller than me--*cough, hack*--excuse me, I meant; risking her health like that. So I told my beautiful girls that they are just that: Beautiful. Perfect in the way God made them. However they are, so long as their hearts are beautiful, they are beautiful.

Did you know that children have selective hearing?

“Beautiful” is all they got out of that one.

Which led to this:

Notice me NOT panicking here.

Way to keep it a non-issue, mom.

I thought I had at least 10 years before I heard this.

Lecture #321

She totally gets this, you know?

Because please beats paper, rock, AND scissors!

Eventually I thought to tell her that only grown up girls communicate with makeup. She, of course, retorted that she was grown up. I told her that when she was grown up to 14, THEN she could have makeup.

She was delighted. And now she reminds me every day that when she’s 14 she gets makeup.

Parenting: You just can’t win for losing.

Monday Mantra

2011-07-04T12:03:00.000-05:00

Fireworks make everything better.

And chocolate cake sure doesn't hurt.

And homemade ice cream.

And family you haven't seen in ages

And this is far too long for a mantra.

...Happy 4th!

Out of Context: II

2011-06-28T11:42:00.000-05:00

Way back at the end of April, I created this post out of a conversation I had with my brother (if you haven’t read it yet, do. Otherwise what follows will make absolutely no sense, instead of okay-I-get-it-but-you-must’ve-been-dropped-on-your-head-as-a-baby sense). I know you’re all hanging onto the edge of your seats (and hold tight, as it’s a long drop) to know how the conversation ended. And because I love nothing more than pandering to others to get attention, here you go:

Jay: Anyway, no.

What amazing trade show is happening in Las Vegas that you've probably never heard of?

Carolynn: Uh… "The AMAZING Trade Show That Carolynn Has Never Heard Of!"

Jay: I'm sure the internet would tell you if you asked.

But I'll give you a hint first.

N.A.B.

Carolynn: Hmm…. National… Arborist… Bacchanalia...

Ah, that was a good year.

Jay: I do like arborists, but they don't get me this excited.

Carolynn: National… American… Brainwashing...

On a positive note, drool makes a great skin softener.

Jay: Nope…another great organization, but not it.

Carolynn: National… Apple… Bath time...

Jay: Nope

Apples don't take baths silly...

Carolynn: They do if they're getting ready for bob-for-apples.

"Mr. Smith? The iLights are still on on your iCar. Can I use your iKey to turn them off?"

Jay: That's apples, not Apples.

This association is related to my job.

I keep thinking of joining.

Carolynn: National… Association… of BOOYA!!

You only wish you were this cool.

Recognition

2011-06-21T13:23:00.001-05:00

Dad Up: Verb. The act of stepping up to relieve the woman who has mommed-up to the point of impending spontaneous combustion; the saving of a super hero; sheer awesomeness.

Because being a man is only halfway there.

Monday Mantra

2011-06-20T08:38:00.000-05:00

Even if I fail, the trying makes me stronger.

Tailored

2011-06-14T19:48:00.001-05:00

Or, How I Almost Ruined My Mother’s Birthday

The Mother (AKA Giver of Life and Nana to my children) had a big birthday this month (I think she’s 19 now) and The Dad made some major plans to surprise her. He spent the build-up to the Big Day keeping secrets from everyone, and getting people to lie to The Mother. My job was to make her think that I, her oh-so-innocent eldest daughter, was planning something. And then to make her think it had gone horribly, terribly, irreparably wrong.

As you can imagine, I enjoyed it thoroughly.

Mustache twirling will cost you extra.

I executed my tasks perfectly and was able to start dressing for dinner out with a clear conscious, knowing I had completely freaked my mother into thinking we weren’t doing anything for her birthday.

My dressing was almost my undoing.

We all do things we shouldn’t do. Eat a little too much chocolate, sneak into work late, use the kids as an excuse to escape, blame the flying monkeys for the late payment. You know, normal stuff. And I don’t think I know many adults who aren’t guilty of, at least once, the Number One High Fashion Crime of Badness: Wearing Squeeze Clothes.

Squeeze Clothes: Noun. Clothing that once correctly fit a frame that has since changed but, by dint of sucking in and squeezing, can still fit onto said frame. See also: Fashion, Crime Against and Sister, Forget It.

Hm. Just cut off a few toes; who needs 'em?

Let me tell you a story: Way back in the land of High School, there was this strange ritual known as Prom. All of the little savages in High School looked forward to Prom, either as the High Point of All Important Things, or as a fun event to throw rocks at people. I, being a good little savage, desperately wanted to go. However, being a “if-a-boy-looks-at-me-sideways-I’m-going-to-die” sort of savage, I dreaded being asked.

So I avoided all the male savages with all my might. And was still very, very sad when I didn’t get asked to observe the strange ritual by any of them.

The Dad, surveying the mess of High School, felt very badly for me. Especially when I expressed, with tears flying everywhere, that all I wanted was to wear a Pretty Dress! His tender heart was mushed, and he gruffly declared that I should go forth, find a Pretty Dress, and join him for dinner the evening of Prom. (It was, by the way, the best Prom in all of savagery.)

Being of a practical frame of mind, I eschewed the more Prom-like glitter dresses and picked a formal gown that might actually get more than one night’s wear. It came with me to college, where I dreamed again and again that some dashing knight would sweep me off my feet while I was wearing it. I had it tailored to fit, just so I’d be ready when the horse pulled up.

It fit me very, very well.

So, back to getting dressed for The Mother’s dinner. And SCs.

The problem with SCs is that if the fabric is hardy enough, you still look just fine. Enter the Pretty Dress.

I swore that I was just going to try it on. After all, I’d had my third baby not 3-½ months earlier, and even getting it over my hips would be surprising. Then, after getting that out of my system, I’d put on a church dress and head out for the par-tay.

Not only did it fit over my hips, it was like a straight jacket for my baby pooch. That thing wasn’t even going to try and misbehave with all that fabric squeezing it in. Okay, so it doesn’t actually zip all the way up the back. Stick a safety pin in the zipper, cover it with the matching jacket.

Sha-ZAM!

Magically, I fit into my high school prom dress after 3 kids.

Just try and tell me you wouldn't have so worn that dress too.

So what if the safety pin popped the second I stooped down to get into the limo? Was I going to worry about such a little thing when I was in a wow-who’s-the-famous-person-riding-in-there limo for the first time in my life?

Ab-so-freakin’-lutely not.

The spots dancing in front of my eyes shortly after we ordered appetizers in the fanciest restaurant I’ve ever been to were a minor inconvenience for such a triumph. The shortness of breath could even be ignored. For a little while. If I concentrated.

Okay, so I gave in and unzipped my dress a little more. It was a cold night, I had my dress coat, and as far as anyone else knew I was a Pretty Dress NINJA, with super shape-changing abilities and a get-into-the-dress shimmy to bring down empires.

Dinner was fantastic. Conversation was great. Dress looked good.

Then came dessert. A mountain of oh-no-you-didn’t chocolate torte, piled even higher with the best minty ice cream you have ever tasted. I thought I had died and gone to dark chocolate heaven.

And that was just the first bite.

I knew that even though I was sharing with my sister, I’d never be able to finish my half. But when she said, “Oh, ugh, I couldn’t eat another bite! It’s all yours!” it was on. Me or the dessert. One of us wouldn’t survive.

The dessert won.

I took one more bite. One, teeny-weeny, chocolate-filled taste of decadent yumminess. It was exactly one too many. With that one bite, The Pretty Dress was suddenly, unquestioningly, and unforgivingly too tight.

Death is bad, and I saw it coming for me.

If you’ve never almost suffocated yourself, let me fill you in: Light headed. Dizzy. Seeing spots. Nauseated.

I bolted for the bathroom, hoping no one had noticed. Shimmied out of my control-top pantyhose (why did I think those were necessary with the belly straight jacket?!), unzipped my dress the rest of the way, and slunk back to the table, only to discover that I couldn’t sit down any longer; the final bite of chocolate torte was squishing the air right out of me.

The evening was over, and within sight of the finish line I was discovered—yeah, laying down in the back of the car, gasping for air on the way home kind of gave me away.

Kid Sister is glad Pretty Dress did me in. She was up to inherit.

And because I know you’re all frothing at the mouth with curiosity:
(Presumed) FAQs About Near-Death By Dress:

1. How do you feel about Pretty Dress not fitting? My body is no longer a child’s. It’s a woman’s. Thank goodness.

2. How were you able to laugh at yourself when you almost puked all over The Mother’s Super Important Birthday Dinner of Awesomeness? Very carefully. Laughing at yourself is great fun, but also suffocation-inducing given the circumstances at the time.

3. What did you learn from this experience? That other people look very, very funny when they’re worried you’re about to have a size-related nervous breakdown.

4. Was the chocolate torte worth it? Oh, even yesser!

Monday Mantra

2011-06-13T08:48:00.002-05:00

There is no such thing as "finished"--and that's okay.

Exhausted

2011-06-07T19:02:00.000-05:00

Mom Up: Verb. 1: to behave in the manner of a mom, e.g. continuing to work despite sudden illness or impending death from ebola, zombie apocalypse, or ingrown toenail. 2. ultimate call to action. 3. saving the world.

Family

2011-05-31T22:05:00.000-05:00

I love it when my family visits. It makes me feel all squishy and warm inside. Mushy, gooshy, ooshy happy. So happy that my brains have oozed out of my head and left me without a real blog post this week. For this I apologize, dear readers. But I do hope that you'll understand. And maybe go give your family an extra squeeze tonight to keep them close.

Monday Mantra

2011-05-30T09:14:00.003-05:00

Remembering is half the battle.

Donate

2011-05-24T21:10:00.000-05:00

You know how, when you were a kid, you'd hear things that wouldn't make much sense? Like when I ruined dinner and Ladybug asked me what happened; she became very concerned when I replied, "I killed it."

Whoa. Time to hide the meat cleaver.

Then there are colloquialisms such as "you've lost your voice." Kid Sister, when she was about Ladybug's age, was terrified of this one. She caught a head cold and when a lot of the congestion settled in her throat, my mother explained that she was losing her voice. Kid Sister decided this meant her voice had wandered off and was never coming back.

Oh, look. Carolynn does have some art skillz. Hello, grade school horizon line.

She laid in her bed at night, calling again and again, "Hellooooo? Helllllooooo?!?" in her sad, hoarse little voice.

Pitiful.

I had a difficult time with one of these sayings in particular. I always pictured it like this:

Mmmm! Nothing beats a fresh green salad.

Put your money where your mouth is?! That sounds so unsanitary!

I understood that the basic idea was that one was supposed to show that they weren't just blowing hot air when they claimed to believe in something, but I didn't really get it.

And then I grew up (about, oh, two months ago) and the light finally went on. This had nothing to do with eating your greens, and everything to do with making some kind of real commitment of resources to the causes you claim to believe in. Basically, a call to avoid hypocrisy.

I've always tried to teach my girls that how you love is more important than how you look. However, I did very little putting of money in my mouth to prove that. Actually, most of my spare change went straight into my clothes closet.

Let's be clear: There is everything right with wanting to present yourself with your best face. And from there on in my beliefs in fashion, presentation, self-worth, and beauty become very complex; ergo, we'll leave it at that for now, or this post is going to get seriously sidetracked. The point is, I wanted to teach my children that behavior and belief are more important than, say, your haircut, but I wasn't doing anything to show them that.

But now I've made a commitment to put my money where my mouth is.

For the next few years, I'll be growing my hair from its usual pixie cut to at least 12 inches in length so I can donate it to Locks of Love. I've always treasured my short haircuts; they make me feel like I can own any situation. They're like portable awesome, renewable by a simple trip to the stylist.

Today only, buy Awesome and get Supa Kool for half off!

I'm gonna have to learn to be awesome without it.

I'm gonna have to learn to take care of long hair, so I still present myself the way I want to.

I'm gonna have to actually spend money on shampoo.

But gosh darn it, I'm gonna get it done. My time, my effort, my attitude toward myself -- all those resources, I'm putting on the line for something I believe in. For someone else, maybe this isn't a big deal. For me, I'm kicking out the hypocrite in my life.

I'm putting my money where my mouth is.

If any of you would like to join me in a commitment to grow your hair for someone else in need (or any other goal for others), please post it below. If we get enough responses, I'd love to check in with everyone once a month. I'll create a post with pictures of my hair, and anyone who wants to share their progress can email me pictures to put up alongside mine.

Go eat your greens.

I've been saving this post for awhile, because the time just never seemed right. Now, however, it does. Take time out today to put your money where your mouth is, wherever that mouth happens to be. And if your mouth (or your heart) happens to be in the general vicinity of Joplin, Missouri, feel free to click here for an article on ways you can help.

Monday Mantra

2011-05-23T17:42:00.002-05:00

There is always someone who has less than you.

Click here to learn how you can help victims in Joplin, Missouri.

Sick

2011-05-17T19:04:00.001-05:00

This week has been a really interesting episode of Survivor: Motherhood around the Dyer household. In the wee hours of Wednesday morning, an insidious and evil germ-of-doom entered my unsuspecting body and started enacting its plot for hostile takeover. It started in my throat, then quickly spread both down and up. Our script this week went something like this:

Wednesday
Me: Uuurgh... throat hurts.

DB: Get some rest.

Me: Can't. Gotta do dishes and other stuff.

Thursday
Me: *Gravelly voice* Uuuuurrghh... *cough cough* Throat hurts.

DB: Get some rest!

Me: Can't. Behind on the laundry. You've got a test. Go study.

DB: ... Fine.

Friday
Me: *Man voice* Urrgghhh... *cough sniffle* Throat huuurts...

DB: Get some rest!!

Me: You have to study. And work. And we have kids. And a house. Dishes. Laundry. Bathrooms...

DB: ... Okay, fine. At least take it easy.

Me: Of course. I promise. Just don't look at my fingers, 'cause they're definitely crossed.

Saturday
Me: See previous days, all added together.

DB: Woman! Get back into bed!

Me: Can't. Dress rehearsal. Dad home from surgery. Gotta help.

DB: *Rolls eyes* Fine. Just make sure to invite me to your funeral.

Sunday
Me: Zzzzzzz....

DB: .... I am so not waking her up for church.

Me: Zzzzzzz....zzzzz....zzzz....zzz-- *cough hack cough cough* Trying to talk, but no voice.

DB: I'm sorry, what was that honey? You want to stay in bed all day until you absolutely have to get up for your performance? Good plan.

Me: *Evil glare* .... .... .... Zzzzzzz....

Monday
Me: *Gravelly voice* Ok. I'm not falling over any more. Back to work.

DB: *Facepalm* You still sound like a man! Give yourself a break!

Me: No talking, man person! Go study for your final!

DB: You need to rest!

Me: Gymnastics! Cleaning! Dinner! Children! Laundry and laundry and laundry! Go study!

DB: I hired a cleaning service. Go rest.

Me: ... I was on a roll. Trying to be a martyr here.

DB: Go rest.

Me: Sure, okay. Right after gymnastcis. And keeping the kids out of the house while the cleaning ladies come. And making dinner. And finishing that one thing...

DB: *Sigh*

Tuesday
Me: *Cough cough -- hack hack* Urrrgh... All right, gang. I give up. Daddy is officially finished with finals, so I am going to --

DB: *Cough cough*

Ladybug: *Hack hack*

StrawBee: *Cough hack*

The Captain: *Sniffle*

Me:

...At least I'm finally excused from the laundry.

Monday Mantra

2011-05-16T16:15:00.000-05:00

If I can sing with almost-bronchitis, I can do anything.

Finished

2011-05-10T10:02:00.001-05:00

Yes, world. I am officially finished.

Having babies, that is.

Why, do you ask? Is it too many late nights and early mornings? Too many days gone un-showered? Too many nights washing peed bed linens? Too many dollars at the grocery store?

No, nope, nah, and nay. It's this:

It's a hair.

A dark, curly hair.

A dark, curly chest hair.

That I found on my chest.

That's right. Apparently giving birth turns me into a man.

I was prepared for a lot of bodily changes from bearing children, and on the whole I accept them gladly.

Stretch marks? Got 'em.

Saggy belly? Check.

Saggy breasts? Double check.

Circles under the eyes? You mean that isn't mascara? ...Oh, I guess I would've had to have put some on first. Right.

Hormonal imbalances? I'm sorry, I can't answer that question until I've had some chocolate -- dark, with strawberries on the side.

Chest hair? Oh, su-- Wha huh wug???

I've noticed that with each birth, I've collected a few dark hairs in places that are generally considered the province of men. Hairs that were easily pluckable and, really, not all that strange (as you find once you get to know a girl well enough that she'll share these things. Why is it that we'll share all kind of weird details about pregnancy, labor, and delivery and not 'fess up to a few stray hairs?). These I have accepted.

But chest hair?

Uh, no.

If DB decides he wants another baby, he'd better bring up the topic by presenting me with a carte blanche gift certificate for laser hair removal.

Because at this rate, I'll be ushering in Planet of the Apes: Mom Edition before you know it.

That's right, work your sexy bad self.

Monday Mantra

2011-05-09T09:37:00.002-05:00

You can't find time, so make time instead.

Shortage

2011-05-03T13:23:00.000-05:00

My kid brother is out serving a two year mission for our church, and is having some difficulty adjusting to the fact that not everyone out there has a joyful heart. This is probably because he has a particularly soft, kind heart himself. However, I think one encounter is always one too many, and he's had several (dozen).

I worry about my girls meeting these people with less-than-joyful hearts. I admit (shamefacedly) that I harbor bitter memories of some encounters like the ones my brother is describing. Times when people just seem to ... explode from the absolute lack of happiness within themselves.

In seems that some people don't just have a case of a not-so-joyful heart; they actually have downright grumpy hearts. And since they have grumpy hearts, they feel this strange need to try and make sure everyone else has grumpy hearts too. It's kind of like when people listen to nasty music and feel the need to roll down the windows and pump up the volume. It's like they're all, "Oh, YEAH?!? You think I'm a MEAN person?! Well, I can make YOU feel bitter and cranky TOO!! So take THAT!!!"

Cranky people use a lot of punctuation. Don't they know there's a shortage?

And, you know, if they (or any of you, dear readers) feel the need to dump some of those extra exclamation marks somewhere, I'm always on the lookout for more punctuation. I take 'em and clean all the cranky off of 'em and sell 'em on eBay.

It's okay to be carting around some extra punctuation sometimes, you know? No one's going to be calm and period-like all the time. I kind of expect that anyone might need a break from sheer awesomeness on occasion. But to be that way to perfect strangers? Or to children? Or someone who's going out of their way to solve your problems? Yup, I've seen grumpy-hearted people dump buckets of precious "!!!" on people's heads in each of those situations, along with many other endangered marks (@#$%**, for example).

And there's more at stake here than endangered punctuation, dear to my heart though that topic is. Endangered hearts worry me more. Grumpy hearts are more contagious than Ebola. I understand that when you're miserable, you don't want to be alone. However, infecting everyone else's hearts really only isolates you more as everyone around you turns into a pack of snarling, snapping wolves, determined to bite as many people as possible.

Try taking your cranky "!!!" to someone you trust. A friend? A relative? God? A blank page?

Don't carry them around everywhere. They rot.

They stink.

They ruin you from the inside out.

Don't expect someone to walk up and yank your cankering wounds away from you. Share the burden and while it might not disappear, you'll find it easier to carry.

Don't let it destroy you.

I almost did, once. Long ago. I don't talk about it now -- I only mention it to give credibility to my urging.

Cranky hearts suck. Don't beat others over the head with them; just let them go.

And those of you who are naturally joyful hearted, like my brother, don't give up on the rest of us. You're a gift from God to someone struggling. You keep up a supply of happy, clean "!!!" for the rest of us.

We need you. We love you, and we love to hate you for being happier than us. But we learn to be better by watching you.

Happy "!!!" to you all.

Monday Mantra

2011-05-02T00:09:00.001-05:00

Don't think. Just do. And do and do and do and do. Until the fear is gone.

Out of Context

2011-04-26T19:35:00.002-05:00

When you hang around certain people a lot, you start getting way too comfortable when you talk to them. Girls night out, for example, can cover a host of topics ranging from diaper changing to job changing to husband changing. Even better are best friends, who have broken down most barriers between them, discussing such things as a zombie apocalypse and what the return of skinny jeans means for our derrieres.

By far the best, however, are conversations between siblings. Brothers and sisters have been with each other practically (or literally) their entire lives, so they have absolutely nothing to hide from each other. Having five siblings myself, I can attest to the fact that pretty much nothing is off limits in either personal details or just plain weirdness.

Actually, my family usually errs on the side of just plain weirdness. It's like we compete in staring contests of strangeness, trying to out-weird each other until someone cracks (up, that is). Our Facebook status exchanges, for example, are often interrupted by an outsider simply posting “What the cheese crud?! How did I miss this kumquat uprising you're talking about?”

Sometimes I wonder what pictures are conjured in the minds of others when they overhear (overread?) these discussions. I imagine they walk away thinking that either we’re insane, or our lives are more awesome than Lady Gaga’s. For your viewing pleasure, and because it was so darn fun, I have extrapolated what an innocent bystander might get out of an IM conversation I had with my brother Jay not long ago. Enjoy.

Jay: Guess why I am so excited today!

Go ahead, guess.

Carolynn: Um… you've got a new magical pet unicorn that breathes out gold dust.

Jay: Nope better than that.

Carolynn: Better that that?! It must be a magical pseudopod!

Unicorn is definitely less than Magical Pseudopod

Jay: Nope, not quite.

I'll give you a hint.

It involves Las Vegas.

Carolynn: You saw Elvis?!

Jay: NO! Though that would have been AWESOME!

It involves Apple!

Carolynn: You won the Bellagio in a thumb war with Steve Jobs?

Jay: Yeah…but I lost it in the next round.

Carolynn: Bummer

Jay: Jobs upgraded his thumb.

And yes, Mr. Jobs, I do expect to see this product soon--and some royalties.

Monday Mantra

2011-04-25T09:45:00.000-05:00

If you can't catch up*, do your best to keep from drowning.

*"Cleaning your house while your kids are still growing is like shoveling the walk before it stops snowing." -- Phyllis Diller

I Chew My Nails

2011-04-21T13:30:00.001-05:00

Yes, I do. It's a terrible, disgusting habit. I've done it for years.

It used to be that I chewed my nails to calm my nerves. It never worked. Just left me with raggedy, scary looking nails that I then felt like I had to hide. More anxiety. More chewed nails.

Seriously, I looked like a nervous little squirrel. Dashing back and forth, chewing on stuff. Ew.

Lets just say I never wasted money on manicures.

But about a month ago, I had this strange sensation while I was typing. Like someone was tapping back from the keyboard. I looked down and realized that -- shock -- I had fingernails! After years of fighting it, tricking myself, lecturing myself, and occasionally trying to gain some control over my nerves, for some reason I had just... stopped.

I'd like to say permanently.

I'd like to say that I do my nails nicely now, like I've always wanted to.

I'd like to say that my nails are long, elegant, and generally stylish like the rest of my ensemble.

(Actually, I'd like to say my ensemble is stylish in the first place. No, wait! Paint spatters and distressed jeans are totally in this year, right? Spit up isn't that far off, and my jeans are definitely in distress. I'm good.)

But I can't.

Because I started chewing them again.

I know. Yuck.

But yuck is better than leaving angry red gashes on my baby's head. And let's face it, nail clippers are an endangered species in this house.

The kids will be big eventually, and then I can grow my nails to my heart's content, without fear of scarring my child for life.

Although I guess if I get Butterfly again, she can always tell her friends in preschool that she's secretly a ninja-pirate who rides velociraptors to save the world from evil unicorns of doom. Scars are good for that kind of thing.

...Nah. I'll just keep chewing.

Giving Experience

2011-04-19T13:18:00.000-05:00

One of the major perks of being a Momma (and a parent in general) is being able to make things up as you go along. Sometimes this ends in sheer awesomeness, like your kitchen table being covered with a layer of whipped cream almost as thick as the layer that covers your very happy, very hyper children.

Other times, the awesomeness is more along the lines of establishing your own family traditions. I’m a huge sucker for that kind of thing (ask my parents, who had to deal with me pestering them over every major/minor holiday not being exactly the same as the year before) and our little fam already has a list as long as my arm of traditions. My newest favorite is “Jammie Parties” -- all five of us in our pajamas, making a treat, then watching a movie together all cuddled up in a huge pile of blankets. Often a blanket fort, come to that.

Then there are the times when you get to change things up because you’ve thought about it long and hard, and you really just think it will be best for your family. In some ways, it scares the heck out of me when I depart from how I grew up. It seems like such a grown-up thing to do, but when I look in the mirror I still see a kid, making things up as she goes along.

Side note: I still remember the day when I realized that adults don’t know much more than kids, they’re just better at bluffing their way through stuff. It was a terrifying moment, and cleared up a lot of the mystery about why politicians behave the way they do. They’re apparently just as clueless as the rest of us.

Point being, making up a funny story to get my kids in bed seems a lot less important than trying something new with parenting, but that’s where we are right now. Here’s the scoop: I’ve spent a lot of time (and I mean a LOT of time) cleaning up, and helping my kids clean up, mounds and mounds of toys. I frankly don’t know where they all came from. I don’t remember buying the majority of them. In fact, I think they’re like unmatched socks: They multiply if left unattended.

I’m tired of it. And not just in the “If I trip over one more small plastic thing I’m going to scream!” kind of way. Toys are well and good. I’m particularly fond of the ones that encourage group play (their play kitchen is a good example) or help develop imagination (Ladybug loves dress-up, and both girls are starting to play-act with dolls). Blocks are good for spatial ability, crayons are good for hand-eye coordination and artistic growth. But let’s face it, most toys are sheerly there to entertain the kids and keep them out of my hair.

I know, I know. I sound like a scary tiger mother, talking like every moment of my children’s lives has to be productive. That’s not my point -- kids should be kids, but every moment of their lives is productive, whether I like it or not. It’s productive in the way that children are absorbing information about their world, life, and themselves in every second of every day. They mimic what they see, they are formed by what they do. When StrawBee sits down with paper and markers, I don’t say to her, “Oh, I’m so glad to see you practicing your artistic abilities!”, I say “Thank you for playing nicely.” But the fact is inescapable: She’s learning about drawing.

This realization has made me take a long, hard look at the way my children spend their time. We already expose them only to educational TV, encourage them to play outside, feed them healthy foods, and do all those other things parents think they ought to do -- up to and including making sure they have “good” birthdays and holidays by buying them new toys.

We save up all year for Christmas, and in previous years have used the money to buy numerous small, inexpensive toys in an attempt to make our children happy. They love opening presents, they love new stuff (at least for the first day or so), so what could go wrong?

Well… a lot. They start having so much stuff that they don’t value what they have. They learn that if they break something, it’s okay; just wait for the next holiday and you’ll have more! They learn to just accumulate whatever stuff catches their attention, rather than thinking carefully and choosing to invest their precious spending money on things that will last or will have some kind of positive impact on their lives.

As I’ve said, though, they don’t need new toys. The toys are perfectly capable of increasing in number all on their own.

So then, what do you do?

Stop giving toys.

But then what do you give them?

Experiences.

DB and I have made a goal to stop looking at gift giving from the perspective of “What toys can we buy to reach the quota?” and to start looking at it instead as “What experience can we give them that will reach them in a positive way?”

Next month for StrawBee’s birthday, we’re not buying her any toys in the traditional sense. Instead, we’re going to use that money to take her to do something new (ice skating, for example) that we think she will enjoy. There will be a couple of packages for her to open (because, let’s face it, opening things is just sheer pleasure in itself and no one, least of all a two year old, should be deprived of that!), but they’ll be carefully selected to be things we know she’ll use more than once.

When Christmas rolls around, the kids can expect probably one toy each from us. They can expect the opportunity to give many of their “things” to children who have so much less than them. After that, they can expect that the rest of the Christmas money will go to “experience.” A new fish tank, for example, that they can learn to take care of. Maybe a train ride. Possibly a new puppy to train and love. Perhaps some swimming lessons, even if it’s just one or two. Even a trip to a museum or fair. A chance to try something new, different, and hands-on that will stay with them because they’ve learned a new skill.

Our children aren’t remotely sure who they are and what they like yet. Not because they’re children, really, but because they haven’t had a chance to try that many things yet. What better gift, then, than to gift them the opportunity to try many things so they can decide where their interests lie? What better opportunity than education and experience? What better lesson than that the most exciting, most “fun” you can have in life is to explore something new?

I know our children will ask for toys still, but I have confidence that soon they’ll be asking to try things, or re-do previous experiences, instead.

Maybe I’m wrong. I’m just making this up. I’ve made mistakes before.

All I know for sure is that while I could never recite to you all the toys I’ve received through the years, I remember the things we did. I remember the feeling of rising up in a hot air balloon until the hills dropped far, far away. I cherish the feeling of being special when my dad took me to riding lessons. I often relive my mother’s encouragement as she took the time to read my writing -- she was my first fan. I hold on to the activities we did as a family, that brought us together, taught us to be confident in the love we had for each other.

I’m making it up but … dare I say it? … this time, at least, I think I’m right.

Monday Mantra

2011-04-18T09:10:00.001-05:00

Adapt or die... Or at the very least, end up in the asylum.

Nap Time

2011-04-12T15:55:00.000-05:00

It's just like party time. Only quieter.

Monday Mantra

2011-04-11T13:02:00.002-05:00

Make good use of the sleep you got.

Drum roll, please...

2011-04-05T19:33:00.003-05:00

Ta da!

Today is the day we officially welcome our newest addition, Butterfly, to the "Into the Wild" staff.

Say hello, Butterfly:

Yo!

Now now, child. No need to look so concerned: Everyone here is ready to love you!

...Okay, no. My newest baby girl is not, in fact, Jean Luc Picard. She does, however, bear a startling resemblance to him on occasion.

Case in point:

Is that the only course of action?

Wesley, you concern me. Greatly.

This rather striking resemblance has lead to her re-christening as "The Captain." The poor child is supposed to be a Butterfly (ironic though the original naming was), and now everyone salutes when she's carried into the room.

Hum. On second thought, maybe Captain describes the utter, complete control she exerts over every person in the house. She can get StrawBee to part with her beloved blanket. She can keep Ladybug's focused attention for ten minutes at a time. And when she yells, Momma and Daddy jump.

Yup. Captain on deck.

Speaking of, I'm being summoned to mess by said Captain. Excuse me, but duty calls.

Monday Mantra

2011-04-04T18:41:00.000-05:00

Children are a blessing, even when they're just a blessed headache.

Monday Mantra

2011-03-28T21:03:00.002-05:00

Introducing a new weekly phenom: The Monday Mantra. A short, sweet, to-the-point summation of what a mother might need to remember for the upcoming week. This week's Monday Mantra:

I will not kill my husband, who is just trying to be helpful.

Tired

2011-03-22T19:59:00.000-05:00

I have to write this quickly, because my deadline is coming for me.

No, not the hungry baby.

Not the children who need to be played with.

Not the husband with whom I need to review finances.

Sleep. The one and only.

He avoided me for months, and now he's stalking me. Any time I sit down, I find myself facing the countdown before the inevitable head-nods begin.

In fact, I think I'm reaching the last moments of consciousness n---

Zzzzzzzz.......

Privacy

2011-03-15T20:59:00.000-05:00

It's just not what it used to be.

It's About Counter Surveillance

2011-03-08T21:23:00.000-06:00

After all these years, I finally understand why moms have eyes in the backs of their heads:

Counter surveillance.

It's about all we have to protect us from our children. And, frankly, I think it leaves us severely out-gunned because children have two major advantages.

First off, they outnumber us. They keep multiplying. Kind of like rabbits. Or ants. Because ants like to eat this kind of stuff:

And rabbits like to eat this kind of stuff:

And I can tell you right now that my kids aren't begging me for option number two come snack time.

Yeah, definitely like ants.

Kids multiply like ants and there is nothing in the world you can do to keep them from invading every space of your life and eating all the good food before you can get to it.

The more kids there are, the more able they are to pull this kind of stuff off. Now that there are three in my house, one can distract me (usually the immobile one, since she knows her sisters can cause more havoc if I'm occupied) while the other two dash in separate directions. Even if I manage to snatch one before she gets away, the other one is free to shut herself in my room and jump on my bed, not only disarraying my neatly made bed (hey, I heard that guffaw--it does get made! The fact that it's usually not until 30 minutes before bed time is irrelevant) but also dumping all the clean, freshly folded clothes onto the hardwood bedroom floor that did need sweeping, but now doesn't because clean clothes do a great job of picking up dirt and lint.

Even when DB's home there aren't enough hands to go around. You should see the mealtime carnage.

Outmanned, I tell you.

As for outgunned, that's the second major advantage the kids have. The eyes in the back of my head get dizzy from trying to keep up with their tactics.

The children have many super powers themselves, but by far the most potent and dreaded is the anti-sleep radar. This power is particularly pronounced in the larvae-staged children, such as Butterfly. She can't get up and sneak outside on her own, but she is more than capable of making sure I don't log more than 6 heavily interrupted hours of sleep per 24 hours in the day. Even when she seems to be so far under that a train coming through the living room wouldn't wake her, a mommy lying down on the couch sets off her radar and she is AWAKE and NOT HAPPY.

Ladybug and StrawBee like to get in on this, too. Just to make sure their new sister's radar is functioning properly, I suppose. The 3 a.m. feeding is like a circus, and a carefully timed one at that.

Butterfly, of course, wakes up first and whimpers gently, rapidly building to an un-ladylike roar, to get my attention. I wait for a moment because hope springs eternal and I want to be double sure that she really means it when she says she hungry. She does, of course, so we get up and get on with the feeding.

All is quiet for almost half an hour. Ladybug waits until Butterfly is almost asleep and I'm contemplating heading back to bed. Her radar picks up my sleepy thoughts, and she pops out of bed with exclamations of "I need to go POTTY!"

I hush her and tell her to go. She runs down the hall to the bathroom, turning on all the lights along the way and disrupting Butterfly's rest. She potties while I resettle the larvae, then emerges with a loud announcement that she can't get her pajamas back on. In attempting to help her wrestle them back on I unsettle the baby again. Ladybug gets sent scampering back to bed, and Butterfly demands I pay attention to her. While I'm distracted, Ladybug thumps her ladder around and/or turns on her bedroom light, possibly while yelling requests down the hall that I tuck her in.

Enter StrawBee, who was sleeping peacefully and who is now screeching and whining because Ladybug woke her up and she can't find her "bibi" and therefore will never sleep again. I hurriedly place the now complacent Butterfly back in bed, then run to the big girls' bedroom, scold Ladybug (who smirks), find the bibi, put them all back in bed, and turn off the lights.

At this point I get to climb back into bed, snuggling up with my super-soft blanket with a sigh of happiness.

This, of course, trips the anti-sleep radar.

You get the picture.

DB, I have to add, sleeps like a rock through all of this. This is, naturally, the arrangement we've made and it works well for us. His sleep means I get a bit of a lie-in come morning. However, in the small hours of the morning it's difficult to be happy with the decisions made while one was feeling rational and well-rested.

Fortunately for me, Butterfly isn't as anti-sleep as her sisters were, and often a pacifier will settle her again. Plus, once she gets to sleep, she usually stays that way for 4 or 5 hours. Not bad for someone who's been sleeping on a regular schedule for just 3 and a half weeks!

Still, anti-sleep is a major campaign in this house. How, I ask you, are the eyes at the back of my head supposed to do me any good if they're forever drifting closed in hopes of twenty winks?

Outmanned. Outgunned. Deep in the jungle and living on a ration of goldfish crackers and juice boxes.

Welcome to my world.

Stir Fry Brain

2011-03-01T15:47:00.000-06:00

I had forgotten how completely defunct my brain is when there's a baby in the house. Butterfly is a champion sleeper for her age, but even 7 hours of sleep does little to straighten out your thinker when that sleep is interrupted every 2 or 3 hours.

Which brings us to today.

I am determined to get back into my regular schedule this week. This means two things: Exercise and writing. I exercised last night; today is supposed to be a blog post. After how well I did with the first, I figured the second would be easy. I managed to forget, however, that playing with the Wii fit takes a lot fewer brain cells than inventing an entire blog post. I've been trying to think about this all day, but all I get out of my brain is a faint sizzling sound and the smell of over-cooked inspiration spontaneously combusting.

Ergo: I have a short slice of story to share with you. I've always loved this little squirt of writing but never shared it with anyone because it doesn't go anywhere--today, that seems appropriate. Enjoy.

A Story:

Agatha stopped her absent-minded crocheting all at once as a knot of yarn caught in her negligently made loop, breaking off her comments to Druce at the same time. The owl, taking advantage of her sudden silence, ruffled his feathers and clicked his beak disapprovingly. “I’ll say it again, Witch, those radishes are disappearing.”

“And what does it matter if they do?” Agatha gave one end of the butter-yellow yarn knot a tug, making the tangle worse.

Druce turned his back, ruffling his brown feathers, apparently with no answer. “They’re dangerous,” he finally hooted, glaring at her over his shoulder.

“Only to an unborn child,” answered Agatha serenely, her already wrinkled brow contracting into deeper furrows as she wrestled with the growing mess.

“Or any apprentice witch who doesn’t know what she’s doing.”

“Or any apprentice witch who doesn’t know what she’s doing,” Agatha concurred with a nod of her head, her gray-streaked black bun bouncing. She gave an experimental tug to one obscure yellow loop, and the knot fell apart. “But I’ve been using those rapunzels for years.”

The owl’s reflective eyes glared down at the loose yellow yarn, then up at the witch. “I think you cheated.”

Agatha clicked her tongue in laughing disgust, then stopped at the sound of tiny, scrabbling feet. “Minty…?” she inquired, and, indeed, a tiny gray nose poked up over the edge of Agatha’s side table, followed by Minty’s furry body.

“…trying to get your attention!” squeaked the mouse indignantly, her sides heaving as she puffed and panted. “But you were jabbering on with that owl.” Druce stirred, flaring his wings threateningly in the firelight, but Minty was too intent on her errand to goad him further. “Agatha, Raymond’s out in your garden.”

“Who who?” demanded Druce, settling back, appeased at the thought of news.

“Raymond,” repeated Minty shrilly. “That man that lives next door. His wife’s pregnant, you know.”

“Yes, dear,” Agatha agreed mildly, intervening before Druce could do more than click his beak. “Frightened of me, both of them, the poor ones.”

“Not frightened enough to keep that Raymond man from stealing your radishes!”

Druce and Agatha froze; Minty’s nose twitched as she eyed her audience with pleasure. “Well,” she conceded with a toss of her little mousy whiskers, “he’s actually frightened to death. But his wife – she wants them. He’ll do anything to stop her whining – I heard him say so.” The mouse paused, then started to groom her fur as she continued reflectively, “Well, more grumble so. But I guess it doesn’t really--,”

“Which radishes?” Agatha demanded, her voice tight. Minty looked up, her black eyes wide with surprise at the unusually interruption. “Which ones, Minty? Tell me.”

And Minty, who usually would put up a fight at a direct order – after all, she was a free mouse, not a house pet like that owl – answered meekly, “The ones nearest the willow tree, that I told you wouldn’t grow since the tree would take all the water.”

“The rapunzels,” snapped Druce, puffing up with indignation. “See here, Witch, didn’t I tell you there’d be trouble?”

But Agatha wasn’t listening. She was already out of her comfortable armchair and through the door of the small cottage, swinging her beaded black shawl around her plump shoulders as she disappeared into the misty night.

Both animals stared into the blackness that the door should have covered, only Agatha left too quickly to close it, and Druce muttered, “I warned her.”

“Warn a witch!” squealed Minty indignantly. “You’re only an owl!”

“Even witches make mistakes,” the owl muttered, turning his head away from her, then silently flying after his mistress. “Even witches like Agatha.”

Minty stood up on her round hind legs for just a moment, her glance flicking from the cold outside to the seat of the armchair – pulled up nicely to the fire and with an inviting mound of yellow yarn – then reluctantly lowered herself to all fours and scrambled out into the darkness.

Ta Da! The Birth!

2011-02-25T21:40:00.000-06:00

I would apologize profusely for not posting lately, but frankly I feel I have a good excuse. And I actually did start working on this particular post on Tuesday, but things just have a way of ... I dunno, happening around here the last few weeks.

So instead I'll apologize profusely for how looooong this birth story is. Some people expressed an interest in reading it, though, and I am just too tired to write a more succinct version when I have this written out for Butterfly's journal already.

I also apologize for the rather bi-polar shifts in tone. This was written in bits and pieces and at different stages of exhaustion.

Without further ado: The Birth.

It was Thursday, February 10th, and I had been having contractions on and off since the Friday before. Nothing very intense, mind you, but enough to be continually keeping Devin home from work for fear that if he drove the hour away he might not be able to get home to me in a timely manner. I had a regular check-up scheduled with my OB’s partner Dr. Kidder that day since, of course, my own doctor was out of town. I remember with surprising clarity when the first contraction came: It was one o’clock, we were in the process of dropping the older kids off at my folks’ house, and my mother had just asked if I had had any contractions that day. I answered, probably with clear disappointment, “Nope. Not really,” then had to immediately change it to, “Oh, well, there’s one now, anyway.”

It was the same sort of contraction that had been coming around to visit all week long, though, so I welcomed it warmly and then promptly ignored it and any succeeding contractions.

My appointment being around 2:30, we got to see the doctor around four. This OB seemed nice enough; younger than my doctor. But he laughed with good humor when I referred to myself as a birthing Jedi, so I was willing to give him a chance. He worked his way further into my good graces when I asked him about the possibility of getting a heplock if he were supervising my labor instead of an open IV and he replied with a shrug, “I don’t see why not. Women have been doing this for thousands of years and as long as nothing’s going wrong I see no reason to interfere.”

Ah, I though contentedly. A man after my own heart. Thank goodness. After all the time and effort I had put into picking an OB who wouldn’t fight me about being drug free, I would have been rather put out at having to throw down the gauntlet with some random guy who thought he was in charge of my body all the sudden.

Not that it mattered, I reminded myself, since labor still seemed a long way off. Which was why, as Dr. Kidder prepared to do a check, I requested that he go ahead and sweep my membranes.

“Well,” he replied evenly, “sure, if your body is ready for it. But you’ll have to be dilated a bit before we can go there.”

Since I hadn’t been dilated at all the last time I had been checked (Sunday), I prepared myself to hear that I was maybe a fingertip and sweeping the membranes was off the table. What I heard instead was, “Hm. You’re a 4 already.” There was an odd shuffling sensation and then, “I swept your membranes, but I doubt you needed it.”

Devin and I exchanged looks. I have a history of extremely fast labors upon reaching a four or a five--fast as in, the baby arrives within the hour. Ozark (where we live) and Springfield (where the hospital lives) are only 20 minutes from each other, but that suddenly sounded like a long way to travel. And as it happened, and against all likelihood, we had left the girls’ overnight bag with them and brought the hospital bag with us, mostly because we knew that if we didn’t bring it we would end up wanting it.

Given the evidence, we decided that hanging out in Springfield for a couple of hours wouldn’t do us any harm. We would go and get some dinner, walk the mall for a little while, and see where that put us.

First, though, we had to arrange a drop-off with my dad since, despite our planning, we had forgotten to leave the kids’ car seats with my parents. It was while we sat in a parking lot full of hardened chunks of road-blackened snow, waiting for my dad to show, that the contractions... well, I would say returned, except I’m not sure if they ever went away. It’s more like they started bouncing up and down a bit, maybe tentatively waving a hand in the air to try and get some more attention.

“Huh,” I told Devin. “Maybe this membrane thing really does work.” He asked me what I wanted to do at this point, and I replied that I was starving and the idea of nothing but ice chips and water for the next who-knew-how-long if I DID end up at the hospital was not appealing. Car seats duly handed over, we headed to Panera bread (complex carbs=helpful for labor; besides, who doesn’t love a bread bowl of cheesy broccoli soup?) and by the time Dev brought our food to the table, I was timing contractions with my cell phone.

We enjoyed our food, however, with minimum interruptions and, after texting with Beth, our doula, a few times, decided to head over to the hospital. We settled into triage around six, found I hadn’t progressed any, then sat back to wait. Beth joined us shortly after, and by the time 8 o’clock rolled around, the nurse announced that the doctor wanted to keep me despite the fact that I was still a four and around 70% effaced. She also added that the doctor would be in in about an hour to break my water. The look on her face when I replied that thanks all the same, I didn’t feel I was ready to have my water broken, I would much rather just walk around for awhile was priceless. Bless her heart. I was, frankly, a bit startled myself--I wasn’t quite sure that when it came down to it, I would be able to stand up for what I wanted. Who knew I could be so self-possessed?

Within half an hour, we had the doctor’s approval for walking, showering, the heplock, and he had apparently taken my decision about the water breaking with good grace and simply sent the message that if I changed my mind to just let him know.

By 9 o’clock, after the baby had been monitored for a bit and the heplock installed, we found I was dilated to a 6 but hadn’t effaced any further. We had a darling nurse named Annie now that we were actually on the L&D floor; this was a nurse who actually wants to train as a doula. This was great news, since people who think a doula is a grand sort of thing are generally on board with a drug-free labor. Annie was very helpful, sweet, informative, patient, and very excited to participate in something that apparently isn’t seen very often, according to her.

The next several hours were quite pleasant. Devin, Beth, and I spent time walking the halls and chatting, or else I sat on the yoga ball while one or the other of them gave me a massage. There was a never-ending flow of ice chips to be had, and Annie and Dr. Kidder pretty much left us to our own devices aside from the mandatory 20 minutes of monitoring per hour.

Around midnight, I decided to lie down for a few minutes and try to catch some sleep. Within moments of settling in comfortably, a new sensation set in: nausea, followed closely by the shakes.

“Transition,” said Beth with a knowing smile.

I smiled back from my new position on the yoga ball (does anyone else find it impossible to drop off when the threat of puke hangs over their head?), figuring that the nap could wait another six months or so; I was ready.

Despite, however, the renewed intensity of the contractions and the nausea (something brought swiftly under control by Beth with her lavender oils and massage), by one o’clock I still hadn’t effaced anymore and had been at a seven for a couple of hours. I was getting tired--not worn out from labor tired, but I-haven’t-been-up-this-late-in-ages tired--and Dr. Kidder wanted to see me.

While we were waiting for him, Annie explained that he was probably going to ask about breaking my water again and I ought to think about what I wanted to do. She told me that, in her opinion, the reason I hadn’t effaced anymore was because my bag of waters was still intact and that having my water broken at this point would probably do little but speed the process along by applying more pressure to my cervix. Dr. Kidder appeared, cheerful despite the hour, and made similar comments, then asked what I thought. He, the nurse, and Beth all volunteered to step out into the hallway while Dev and I made a decision. (So nice that everyone was so courteous! Usually my experience has been that the doctor tries to stare you down until you have an answer.) I told Devin that I felt my body was ready for this particular move, and that I was worried that if we didn’t get things moving along, I would be too sleepless to push when the time came. Since Devin’s philosophy is basically “her body=her decision,” we agreed quickly and brought everyone back in to let them know.

Shortly after Dr. Kidder broke my water, the tenor of my contractions changed again. They moved from politely requesting that I pay attention to jumping up and down, shouting, screaming, waving their arms, and otherwise generally making a nuisance of themselves.

It didn’t take long for this to become entirely unpleasant.

Devin swears I never raised my voice above a conversational tone--news to me! My body reflects my personality: When it gets excited about something, it throws itself in headfirst. It was so excited about these new, intense contractions that it came up with a new plan without even consulting me. Forget one contraction at a time, it decided. We’re is as tough as woodpecker lips. Carolynn would be insulted if she wasn’t throw multiple contractions at a time. As it is, the 30 second break we’re getting after the three or four contractions is probably pushing it.

Next time, I think I’ll get my body’s plan in writing ahead of time.

Sometime around two, my body got bored with the contraction thing and decided it was time to push. No no! exclaimed Nurse Annie and Dr. Kidder in chorus. You’re only 9. DON’T push!

I thought that was the silliest thing I had ever heard. Despite Dr. Kidder’s assurances that pushing now would lead to tears in my cervix, I was determined that I was going to push right then and nothing was going to stop me.

So, without telling anyone, I tried an experimental push. ...I had never known exactly where my cervix was before that moment, but the pain made a great little marker for me. I doubt I will ever forget again. I stopped pushing. I hadn’t done any damage (fortunately), but I also hadn’t finished dilating (which had, after all, been my goal).

Sigh.

My bored body kept insisting on pushing. I kept holding back. Dr. Kidder kept checking for that last little bit of cervix to get outta the way. I threw up a few times. Beth told me I was amazing. Devin risked life and limb to remind me to breathe, helping me stay calm and manage what I was experiencing.

Life was good.

Finally, just before 2:30 a.m., Dr. Kidder pronounced my cervix officially fully dilated.

Hallelujah.

So I pushed. And I pushed with a very clear purpose: Get the kid out. This had become my all-consuming purpose.

Oddly, what I remember most at that moment was the look on Beth’s face after the first push. I realized later that the giddy, awed look on her face was apparently there because I had gotten the baby almost all the way down with that first push.

No one told me when to push, or for how long. There was no counting. I just pushed when I felt like it, as long as I felt like it, and breathed like there was no tomorrow.

After six pushes, out she came.

She was so, so beautiful.

Covered in white vernix, already sucking on her fingers. They placed her on my chest and I realized I had done it.

Amazing.

She is perfect.

My body is She-Ra.

It was an intense, overwhelming, all-consuming, at times frightening, incredibly powerful experience.

Which, of course, begs the question: Will I do it again?

Frankly, I don’t know. But this is what I do know--everyone who told me that recovery is a zillion times faster with a drug-free birth was right. I was up and walking around pretty much as soon as everything was cleaned up. Aside from after-birth pains (monstrous menstrual cramps, essentially), my hospital stay and the days following were wonderfully uneventful in the pain department. So that was fantastic.

I also know that, so far, I’m not fighting PPD. I have in the past, and am so grateful that it seems I’m not going there again.

Most importantly, I know that this has forever changed my view of my body. When I got a good look at it for the first time after giving birth, I waited to feel the usual disgust with my post-baby belly hanging all over the place, with my face swollen with water retention. I waited for the urge to track down every last stretch mark and threaten it to go away. I waited, essentially, for my mind to start telling my body that while the baby thing was all well and good, it was time to start getting it together.

But you know what? I’ve given up waiting. It’s not coming. All I feel when I see my body is awe. I’ve tried for years to cultivate that attitude within myself, and it turns out that all I needed was 8.5 hours of drug-free labor to teach me to love my body.

I may have given Mary a gift by bringing her here, but she gave me a gift I can only hope to pass back to her as she grows.

So, was it worth it?

Oh. Yes.

A(nother) Pregnant Pause

2011-02-16T21:40:00.000-06:00

All good things are worth waiting for - at least I hope you guys feel this way about my wife's blog. She isn't here today or the few days before. She has gone and given birth to our new girl! She was 8 pounds 3 oz; 20 inches tall; and has not had jaundice unlike our other two girls. Momma is doing well and recovered quickly. Thanks for reading and I hope you have enjoyed these posts my wife does. She enjoyes doing them.

All the Single Ladies--

2011-01-19T11:37:00.000-06:00

I officially fall down in awe at the feet of all the single mothers (and fathers!) out there. DB was gone for a mere 12 days, and I'm only just barely recovering.

Yes, that's why I haven't blogged.

Pathetic, huh?

It gets worse. Logically speaking, I should have died while he was away. In the first place, I turned into the Wicked Witch of the West. I snapped at my kids, grumbled about the simplest chores, and generally griped about life in general. I was a dragon and anyone who dared cross me had better watch out for my flaming breath of doom. On the other hand, I became a delicate maiden in distress, drowning in my own tears at the slightest provocation and weeping without end for the loss of my one true love.

And, well, we all know that Wicked Witch + water = DEATH, right?

The only conclusion I can draw, then, is that I actually didn't blog because I was dead and only managed to keep the house together and the kids alive and fed through some strange sort of out-of-body experience.

Which leads me to the fact that I must, once again, be a zombie.

How else could I be writing this?

...Okay, obviously I'm still not completely recovered from my traumatic separation from DB.

Let's face it. I love my husband, and I lean on him. He is my friend, my confidant, and my maid service when it hurts too much to stand. Just being able to reach out and touch him is literally priceless to me. No matter how many fantastic gifts he brought back (and there were several, not to mention the spa day he talked his parents into sponsoring so I could have a mini-vacation while they were all gone) I would frankly rather have him. I didn't think it would be such a hard thing, being alone with the kiddies for awhile. After all, I do much of the housework, cooking, and childcare anyway while he's at work. It wouldn't be that much of a shift, minus the fact that I would have my smell-good bed warmer at night. I was right; it wasn't "that much."

It was huge.

Above all else, I just wanted him.

And I would much rather find out how indispensable he is while he takes a jaunt to Hawaii than after he was gone forever.

So thank you, Lord, for giving me the chance to be grateful for the relationship I have with my husband. I promise I'll try my best to remember it the next time I feel like force-feeding him his own foot (which does end up in his mouth on occasion) or whining because he just had to work yessssss-terday, so why did he agree to work todaaaaaaaaaay? I will even remember not to be vengeful and connive him into doing twice his share of the work because he got a vacation while I manned the front lines (which was, as a side note, my choice). I just love him, and I'm glad he's home.

Mary

2010-12-21T20:04:00.001-06:00

**Sorry, no funny post this week. I hope you'll enjoy these thoughts, and check back next week to find out what kind of mayhem is going to ensue around here once DB goes out of town the day after Christmas.**

Over the last two weekends, I have twice been privileged to sing in Christmas-related programs. And in both instances, at least one song focusing solely on Mary, the mother of Christ, was sung.

The first weekend, it was Breath of Heaven; the second, Gabriel's Message.

I don't really know how to put into words the totality of the experience, but I wanted to try. It's only as I've become a mother myself that I have considered her story with any degree of personal interest. This year in particular, though, as our family faces a lot of uncertainty and I find myself "great with child" right around the Christmas season, I've spent a lot of time contemplating Mary and her faith.

Gabriel's Message centers on the story of the Annunciation, or when Gabriel came to tell Mary of her impending pregnancy. In the version our choir performed (which is not, I should note, the same as the one I linked to here; I'm unfortunately unable to find the one we did sing for you), there was a particular focus on the phrase he uses to describe Mary: "Most highly favored Lady." The words are used to reassure her, to soothe her, so that she knows that these things--this unexpected pregnancy, which she will have to explain to all--are as God wills, and that they are a blessing. At that moment, Mary replies, "Be it unto me as it pleaseth God."

That reply is surely the most faithful, trusting, innocent, amazing reply that could ever have been made. I have to wonder if it had even crossed her mind yet all the trouble this was going to cause her and her fiance, Joseph. Did it even matter?

Her faith is blindingly, starkly pure here. It's the kind of faith that makes me quietly shake my head and think that I am eons from that kind of trust, particularly when it comes to turning my life upside down. But Mary had that faith, and she showed it.

Breath of Heaven is different. It's not based on any scriptural account, although I feel very strongly that it rightly captures at least some moments of Mary's life. This song comes after that first tide of overwhelming amazement at what has happened to her. The angel has come and gone, she is heavy with child, she is (quite literally, in fact) walking down the rough road. She is, I imagine, getting leg cramps and possibly heartburn, not sleeping well at night, and having to ask Joseph to stop the donkey every hour or so for a bathroom break. She has had to face up to her family, her neighbors, and her friends who have eyed her ever-increasing belly and wondered at her story. She is tired. She is frightened.

But she still has faith.

She goes to God in this song, explaining to Him everything in her heart. She doesn't hide her fears, her insecurities, or her wonders. She doesn't hide from Him that she desperately needs help. She even shares with Him her worries about being inadequate. But she isn't coming to Him to ask Him to take it all away, or to change it. She does not, herself, question if this should be happening to her.

Instead, she is simply approaching a Father whom she trusts to love her no matter what she is or what she fears and asking for His help. She is pleading for the assurance she knows that only He can give.

Seeing both sides of Mary's faith has really affected me this year. We all have the moments of spiritual high where we feel we can do anything. Having an angel appear in my room would probably convince me that I could walk all the way to China and then move mountains without breaking a sweat. I have been in that place where Mary was; the moment of surety.

Now our family has walked down the road some more. Things don't look the same from this far into the trip. It isn't what we expected. I have asked God several times to change it, to make it easier, to send me a horse-drawn cart (or a Ferrari) to get me the rest of the way to our destination. After the last two weeks, however, I want to be, once again, where Mary was. I want to be able to approach God in the way she is painted as doing in that song.

This is true faith: To know that whatever it looks like to us, God has seen the end from the beginning, and He knew what it would look like in the middle. We didn't.

Mary placed her trust in her Heavenly Father, knowing He would lead her to the end that she had already committed to, even if she couldn't see it.

Mary was astounding.

Her faith is why we have long since chosen to name one of our daughters after her. What greater gift could we want for our child than to know above all else that God loves her and will always do what is best for her?

Because isn't that what faith comes down to?

Mary is beautiful; and while this Christmas season is a celebration of her perfect Son, I know that come Christmas morning, watching my children rip into their presents, its her I will be thinking of.

Her, and the assurance that even a young mother like me doesn't have to be perfect and without fear always--just trusting, and willing. God will take care of the rest.

I love Sleep.

2010-12-14T20:28:00.000-06:00

This is how I feel about Sleep:

This is how Sleep feels about me:

Thanks to my rather dysfunction relationship with Sleep, I have come up with a new motto for my life: When you're dead on your feet, there's nothing for it but to dress up the corpse and hope nobody notices.

However, Mysanity is the child of Sleep and I, and Sleep keeps trying to keep Mysanity away from me.

Therefore I will drag Sleep back into my life as many times as necessary to ensure that Mysanity ends up in my complete custody.

No matter where you go, Sleep, I will find you. This stalker ain't ready to give up yet.

NaNoWriMo: Victorious.

2010-12-07T19:39:00.001-06:00

I am officially a first-time survivor of National Novel Writing Month.

Go me.

I thought I would come out of this with some seriously awesome lessons learned, and I have. The thing is I thought they would be lessons along this line:

MOM WAS WRONG

As it turns out, all good things happen after midnight.

or

SANITATION

It's not really as necessary as you think.

However, I can't really say I learned either of these things. I showered as often as I usually do (don't ask, it's not as often as it should be), the dishes stayed at a fairly manageable pile level, and the vast majority of my writing was done before two in the afternoon. Learn I did, though, and I thought I would share my favorite gems.

1. IT IS POSSIBLE (AND NECESSARY) TO TWIST YOUR OWN ARM

There was a lot of this going on during November, and I was surprised. Surely, I told myself, having not just myself, but also DB committed to my getting 2000 words a day in will give me the glorious freedom I need to WRITE WRITE WRITE as much as I want to!

It did.

But I didn't want to as much as I thought I would.

Turns out that even pursuing your dreams isn't all sunshine and roses. All those Hallmark movies lied to me. Who knew? I always had a fairly realistic idea of what motherhood would be like, so the hard work entailed in that particular dream weren't surprising. My utter lack of motivation to write on most days when I was trying to force 6 days a week out of myself was.

When I kept pushing through, however (thanks to DB the whip-holder on some days), I found that it could still be done. And the more often I pushed through with sheer grit, the more often I found myself having the days where I couldn't wait to get to my computer. I am becoming a self-arm-twising ninja thanks to NaNoWriMo!

2. COUNTING WORKS ON MORE THAN TODDLERS

When my children are not doing what they should be or are about to do something they oughtn't, they get a warning of the consequences to come. If they don't stop, I start counting to three. Generally speaking I never make it past two before said child backs down.

Turns out I operate the same way.

Set a timer for ten minutes of writing (a goal of good behavior), make it so it creates really super obnoxious noises if I don't write (warning of consequences), then flash really bright red lights at me if I'm not writing enough (count of three) before screaming at me with said obnoxious noise if I still don't write (PUNISHED!). This works seriously well. Fortunately for me, I didn't have to set up this entire gig; Dr. Wicked over at Write or Die has a program that does just this. With the threat of punishment hanging over my head, I was able to complete my daily writing alottment in 45 minutes to an hour.

I think I'm going to apply this wisdom to other jobs in my life. Need to cook dinner? 15 minutes on the egg timer! Dishes? 10 minutes! Vacuum? 5! Who wants to see if I can find my entire list of groceries in THREE MINUTES?!? Pregnant mommy at a dead run, kids plastered to the inside of the cart, innocent employees flying everywhere!

Watch out, WalMart. I have an egg timer and I'm not afraid to use it.

3. I HAVE TIME. LOTS OF IT.

Speaking of time, it turns out that there are a lot more hours in the day than I thought. I was under the impression that I would be killing myself, trying to add these 2,000 words. As it turns out, I have plenty of time. I just don't use it as wisely as I thought.

Being that I've always considered myself to be pretty darn good at time management, that was a hard one to admit. NaNo makes me think that it wouldn't hurt me to track my time for a week or so and see how I'm actually using it, to make sure it's really going somewhere I want it to. After all, it's not like I can get more minutes for my days out of the bank or something.

So, NaNo, thanks for the lessons, and for the novel. And for this really goofy video that I'm still laughing about.

It was a good November.

How a Baby Moves

2010-11-30T10:21:00.002-06:00

My children are delightful and (of course!) unique and special. I can only assume it will be the same with number three whenever she chooses to make her appearance (please not any time before February, Butterfly, thank you very much). And from what do I make my assumptions?

Baby dancing.

No, not that kind! Tsk.

I refer to the way in which babies move while in the womb (although the way they dance after is pretty darn funny too). Before having my second child, I assumed there was a fairly uniform two-step each baby performed. Not so, and may I present exhibits A, B, and C for your perusal:

THE STRETCHER: Ladybug

While in the womb, Ladybug liked nothing better than stretching out as far as she could go. But as she got longer and longer, this whole pushing boundaries thing became a problem. And a wrestling match. DB often laughed at me all through church as I say next to him, pressing valiantly on my belly and not gaining even a centimeter of give.

Ladybug has displayed these same tendencies in her everyday personality quirks. She likes to see exactly how far she can go, find that line, then stand there and not give any in one bit. It is officially her job to remind us of exactly how things are done--how we eat breakfast, how we pray, and she doesn't forget promises we make to her. She finds where she can be and sticks to it.

THE WASHING MACHINE: StrawBee

StrawBee's fav rave was circles. She liked to flip over and over and over and OVER. It was a lot like having a spin cycle going on in my belly. I wasn't supposed to be going on any carnival rides but I felt like I was on one most nights. It did something very uncomfortable to my guts (something about her little ankles catching on them over and over, I imagine) and created the oddest feeling of discombobulation.

From the moment of her birth StrawBee has never been one to sit still and let life happen to her. She is a mover and a shaker; a strong child who sees what she wants and goes to get it. This is a particularly effective personality to have as a second child, I like to think, because she has Ladybug to watch and learn from--and thus always a goal to strive for.

THE POPCORN BAG: Butterfly

I first started feeling this little firecracker moving around 11 weeks gestation (and for the uninitiated, that's about 8 weeks sooner than what's considered average). I heard many comments that this child must certainly be a boy for all of her activity, but unless something truly unusual happens between now and her birth I am quite sure this is not the case. She punches and kicks like a regular boxing champ; I've even wondered on occasion if I'm actually giving birth to a kangaroo. Ultrasounds can be so inconclusive, you know.

It'll be interesting to meet her in February. If nothing else, we know she's getting plenty of practice in so she'll be ready to stand up to the other two.

I love being pregnant, though. No really, I do. Something about feeling like you're being invaded by a small alien is really life-affirming. Not to mention frighteningly like having super powers. Trying to interpret the ways the child moves into what they might actually be like as a little person has got to be one of the best guessing games ever.

Has anyone else seen a correlation between baby movements and personality, or am I making these insightful connections on way too little sleep?

Playgrounds are Not for Wimps

2010-11-23T07:56:00.000-06:00

...Or pregnant women. Just to clarify that they're not the same thing.

Not always, anyway.

Moving on--

It was a fine day in October. DB had the morning off and had helped me take the kiddies to the doctor's office, and once the shots were over (brave girls!) Ladybug demanded "Go down swiiiiiide!"

Translation: Let's go to the park.

Given that we had all morning, we said sure. I expected to sit and watch the girls run in wild circles with their father like they usually do, but that day Ladybug decided that this was not an option.

"Mommy, 'tum on!" she shouted at me, gesturing wildly.

How do you say no to that?

Even if you are 6 months pregnant.

First was the slide.

I pulled my knees up to my chest, and inched down hand over hand. Ladybug clapped with glee when I thudded to the bottom. It took me several minutes to unbend completely as my back popped repeatedly.

Then there was a rock wall. Normally I'm pretty good at rock climbing--with a harness, ropes, and climbing shoes, that is. Oh, and minus the extra bottom/front-heavy weight.

I couldn't make it off the ground on that one. Swollen toes in slippery Halloween toe socks don't grip any better than shoes bought half a size too large in preparation for swollen feet. Ladybug settled with me shoving her up the rocks to the top before making me move on to the tunnel.

The tunnel was the greatest indignity. Mostly because it seemed like the easiest thing to do in the entire playground. To crawl through it: How hard is that? Um....almost as hard as putting jelly on the underside of your bread. Without flipping it over.

By the fourth time through the tunnel, I couldn't catch my breath and my knees popped every time I stood.

I had failed at the playground. I felt like I had a big, fat red "F" printed on my forehead.

Ladybug watched, crestfallen, as I walked away from the playground equipment. Thinking quickly, I looked to see if there wasn't something I could manage.

Then I had a brilliant idea. I would redeem myself on the swing. And it wouldn't just be a normal swinging experience--no, no; I was going to introduce my child to Superman swinging. I was going to do this while pregnant and thus earn the Most Epic Momma Ever award.

Without giving myself another moment to do something reasonable like think it through, I called for Ladybug's attention and dove onto the swing with abandon.

The first moments were fantastic. I was SuperMom and I knew Ladybug and StrawBee would be so impressed. I had no idea pregnant women could do this kind of thing!

Turns out they can't. .

...It was definitely epic, in that post-it-to-YouTube-because-you-FAIL kind of way.

DB, after ascertaining that I hadn't broken myself or the baby by being such a... well, I'll let you insert the appropriate epithet here, kindly suggested that I just stay where I was for a minute. Since I couldn't very well move I took him up on the offer. As it turns out, tanbark is really quite comfortable.

But eventually the bliss had to end. We had promised the kids ice cream after the park, and chocolate sauce did in fact sound better than more wood chips in my back. So off we went.

DB holding me up, and tanbark stuck to my backside.

Epic Mommyhood: Achieved.

How to be Pathetic: Practicing Pregnancy Helplessness

2010-11-16T12:49:00.001-06:00

Some women are so darn empowered these days that they actually have the gall to openly enjoy their pregnancies. This is a shame, leaving behind the golden age of ignorance in which pregnancy was viewed as a shameful, embarrassing medical condition. At this rate, people will soon have a respectful understanding of what being pregnant entails and actually treat pregnant women according to their real limitations!

Just. Terrible.

Being on my third pregnancy, I thought it might be useful to hand out some guidelines to the rising generation of first-timers. To make sure we can perpetuate the image of pathetic suffering people so often associate with pregnancy.

1. ALWAYS BEND, NEVER CROUCH.

Make sure to grunt. People will then feel awkward for you and do everything in their power to make themselves feel better about your condition. Mostly this includes picking stuff up for you, but I have heard of this awkwardness leading to free food, clothes, and trips to Europe!

2. EAT AS MANY GASTRICALLY INAPPROPRIATE FOODS AS POSSIBLE.

These include tomato based foods such as spaghetti (or anything else acidic), spicy food, chocolate, and lots and lots of soda pop. This will guarantee perpetual puking or horrendous heartburn, depending on the stage of pregnancy. And when people ask why you insist on eating these things, reply "The baby wants it."

3. PRACTICE BAD PREGNANCY POSTURE

Some waddle is unavoidable when you hit that last month, but this "look at me I'm dying" walk is a classic pregnancy posture that's adopted more out of tradition than necessity. Not only will it make you look tired and worn, guaranteeing plenty of help and sympathy, it also helps sustain that pregnancy backache people covet so.

4. LEARN TO SAY "THE DOCTOR SAYS I CAN'T"

Practice using pathetic faces and doe eyes, especially as relates to any medication that might help with the above conditions. Also, never question a medical professional, and never try to learn things for yourself. If you start sounding educated it ruins your credibility as a victim of an uncomfortable condition. In fact, don't try to converse with your medical provider at all. Regardless of what they say, just repeat over and over: "The doctor says I can't."

5. YOU ARE A VICTIM OF YOUR HORMONES.

Preach this constantly, no matter what the situation. If possible, burst into tears while trying to explain it.

Every. Single. Time.

I mean sure, you could probably exert some effort and keep the mood swings to a fairly tame minimum, but what good does that do you? Docile responses to such offensive questions as "How was your day?" never got anyone an extra box of chocolates for dessert.

6. NEVER, NEVER, NEVER GIVE AWAY THE TRUTH.

Which is that pregnancy is freaking amazing. And it comes with an awesome snack tray.

Awkwardness in a Can

2010-11-09T09:07:00.001-06:00

I hate it when I find myself trapped by an awkward conversation. Inevitably I find myself backed into the proverbial corner and unable to articulate anything more intelligent than "Er..."

If I can see the trap coming, I will find ways to cleverly sidestep it. Like a quick, heart-attack prone bunny rabbit I dodge the upcoming verbal onslaught like so:

Sometimes this just isn't possible. Either I've already mentioned that my cell phone battery is dead after being masticated by a teething toddler or (more likely) my brain just freezes. It's like the complete, sudden awkwardness shuts down all normal function and leaves me with nothing but blushing and stammering.

Even worse is when the awkwardness completely blindsides you, coming out of nowhere to make your life a misery. A particular conversation is emblazoned in my memory forever, so painful was my embarrassment and so suddenly was the trap sprung.

One moment, I was innocently submitting to a grilling by another woman about whether DB is good at "kissing butt," (as she put it) when he made mistakes. A stupid topic, but harmless enough. Still, I started trying to break away as the conversation appeared to be rapidly morphing into one of those "and men are" slam sessions. I failed. And then the conversation took a sudden, wildly inappropriate turn.

The trap slammed shut.

My brain shut down.

The worst part is that she, like so many of this sort, took my inability to respond as a sign of my complete lack of sophistication and cheerfully laughed in my face while I struggled.

I wish I could say I had a Kathleen Kelly breakthrough and zinged the other girl into oblivion.

Nope.

Some people just wield their social ineptness like a club, leaving blunt-force trauma to the psyche. Polite people (and I generally like to think I fall in that category) have no such weapons.

Until now.

Introducing: Awkwardness in a Can

Got problems with being backed into a verbal corner and left to writhe? Not anymore!

Spray the social neanderthal in the face and all the awkwardness they should be feeling will be amplified ten-fold and brought down on their pointy little heads. Feeling such awkwardness for the first time will turn your opponent into a quivering mass of patheticness, leaving you free to walk away and engage in more pleasant conversation.

This could change the structure of our entire society. Instead of those who ignore social rules dominating conversations and locking up the brains of polite people everywhere, polite people would rule! It would be like mace for the Everyman.

Heck, it might even be better than mace. Use it against all sorts of evil villains.

The bad guy will feel so awkward about assaulting you that he will apologize and leave.

Who knows, it could even lead to total reform. I know that much awkwardness would keep me hiding under the covers for a year or two.

So buy it. Use it. Free the world.

A Word Play

2010-11-02T08:22:00.001-05:00

I considered myself a tomboy when I was a kid. I made no forays into femininity until late high school. I assumed I would have a son first because I had no idea how to relate to girly girls. But God has a sense of humor, and here I am incubating girl number three.

Girls one and two, meanwhile, are into princesses.

This despite my best efforts to keep them far, FAR away from what I like to call "the Disney Princess Conspiracy"--that program designed to teach young girls that princesses get everything they want, and that they get it while wearing pink and sparkles. Not that I have anything against princesses who enrich and educate themselves all while accepting their immense social responsibility despite possible unpleasantness to themselves.

Anyway.

I do support that my girls, particularly Ladybug, call themselves princesses at the moment. I may take every opportunity to remind them that a real princess is kind, well-behaved, polite, and well-educated, but I will never deny that they are princesses. As a show of this support, I have drawn (and I use that term loosely) the following word play. Enjoy.

NaNoWriMo

2010-11-02T08:22:00.000-05:00

As many of you know, I am participating in NaNoWriMo this November. Seeing as this puts an extra strain on my time budget, this means adjustments had to be made. Don't worry, the blog is not dying for the month! Rather, I've written some posts in advance. What does this mean for you? Not much, except that these posts will probably actually be posted early on Tuesday instead of just before I go to bed. Because I won't be scrambling madly with the blog; I'll be scrambling madly with my novelling.

If you write at all, try WriMo out! If you don't write, you might try it anyway. Or else send care packages to my poor husband. If you are trying it out, good luck; may the force of much writing-ness be with you.

Double Header! (Translation: Two Posts in One)

2010-10-26T20:28:00.016-05:00

The Remodel

As you may have noticed, there have been some rather drastic changes around here. For one, the title of the blog has changed. For two, so has the entire style. I wanted to (briefly) explain the motivation for this.

This blog started as a way to keep myself in a lighthearted and humorous perspective of my life as a stay-at-home mother. As I've been looking back over the last several months of posts, though, I found less humor and more philosophy. Seeing as I spend plenty of time ruminating on how things should be in my life I think this is counter-productive. Instead, I'd like to focus on things that do happen and the joy (and laughs) I derive from them.

As a means to this end, I've decided to start adding cartoons.

They are not meant to be high-quality, just illustrative of what I'm thinking. So don't think you have to be impressed by the artwork!

Just preparing for this new take on my blog has changed my last week considerably. I found myself laughing at myself more and scolding my children less, and I'm very excited about that!

This is not to say that I will never get philosophical again. It's just that I've come to realize that sometimes motherhood needs less philosophical reflection and more sheer enjoyment.

And that's what I'll be focusing on from now on.

Please, PLEASE feel free to give me your reactions, however. I am really interested to hear what you think of all these changes.

Without further ado, to get us geared up for this, my first "new generation" post:

Momma... Has Left the Building

People who see me driving my car must think I'm crazy.

Especially when I'm taking StrawBee to her brand-new gymnastics class.

This is the only time that it's just the two of us in the car, which means it's the only time I can bust a move to children's CD seeing as Ladybug has decided that only one person is allowed to sing and/or dance in the car at a time.

For real.

But it really did just occur to me this week that my strong feelings on teaching young children about music, rhythm, and movement might just translate into "utter psycho" when viewed by my fellow drivers. These poor people get stuck next to me in traffic and probably have their cell phones open with 911 pre-dialed in case I jump out of my car and come after them.

I, for one, have never experienced such an encounter with myself. Despite that, I think I have a pretty good idea of how it goes for these people.

1. The Spotting

First, there's The Spotting: You see me, but don't really believe it. You can't hear my boisterous rendition of "Wheels On the Bus," or know that I'm waving my arm in a circle only because I can safely do just half of the wheels on said bus while driving. Of course, the whole attempting-to-look-over-my-shoulder-without-turning-around-to-see-if-she's-paying-attention only adds to A) The safety of my driving and B) To the look of utter insanity on my face.

2. The Realization

Next comes The Realization. Yes, that woman next to you is literally acting like a cry-baby. And from the perspective of you short little luxury sedan, all you can tell is that the soccer mom in the mini-van next to you has finally cracked. Her kids have made her so crazy she's not even capable of real tears anymore--just childish playacting with some sad hope that those outside of her see it as the desperate cry for help it really is.

3. The Hiding

Finally, there's The Hiding. After being stuck waiting for this train for five-plus minutes, you can tell she's just getting worse. She must be bi-polar. You sneaked one look and she was literally bouncing up and down in the seat. Then she was crying. For a while she clapped her hands and stomped her feet. Now she's throwing her arms in the air and shouting something that looks mysteriously like "HOORAY!!" over and over again.

Just hunker down as far as you can in your seat and studiously avoid eye contact. Start anxiously gazing down the tracks looking for the end of the train, occasionally darting glances in the direction of the mini-van to see if she's gotten out and started doing a rain dance in the middle of the street.

Rev your engine as soon as the end of the train is in sight, then zoom away as quickly as that manual-shifting piece of awesomeness that you spent the same amount of money on as that mom spent on diapers in the last year can move you away from the insanity.

Safe at last, and also reminded of why you'll never drive a minivan: They apparently induce utter insanity.

What I know, from safe inside my so-called "minivan" (I prefer to refer to my transport as a pregnant Ferrari, due date: Sometime after the year 2050) is that it's really what's in the backseat, not the car itself, that brings on such fits of disturbingly uninhibited behavior.

I think the drivers in those other cars would feel a lot better if only that could see my petite little angel-face staring at the back of my head and flailing arms. Then they would know that, at the very least, they aren't alone in thinking I have completely lost it.

Going Green

2010-10-20T21:53:00.000-05:00

**A note: As yesterday was my birthday, I gave myself the day off. That probably means I should've posted on Monday, but I was too busy bugging DB to find out what surprises he had in store for me to think of it. Sorry. By way of apology, I tried to make this post super cool. Which probably means I should apologize again. So... sorry.**

Going green is the catchphrase of the day, no denying it. And while I love the environment as much as the next human (hey, air--we breathe it, it's awesome) I have been feeling some guilt about not making any overt attempts at saving the world before it's reduced to dust and ashes. I mean sure, we buy at the local farmer's market, avoid using un-recyclables (except those darn diapers), and even bought an energy efficient furnace (although that was admittedly more for the green we keep in the bank than the green that grows in our yard), but that's about it.

Or so I thought.

The more I pondered it, the more I discovered that I (and many other mothers) are saving the world single-handedly! For example, how many mothers of young children take above two showers a week? I know for darn sure I don't. Those lovely children, always so eager to conserve, do everything in their power to make the decision simple: Do you want that extra half-hour of sleep, or do you want a shower? Because you're not getting it while they're up. So your choice is to A) Look and act like a zombie because 30 minutes of sleep is a lot more than it used to be or B) Smell like a zombie. Unless you remembered deodorant. Given that I still have to chase the small children no matter what I pick, I pick smelling like this...

...over acting like it.

It also occurred to me that as a mom, despite the dirty diapers, I overall create less waste. For one thing, I don't consume nearly as much in the way of clothes and makeup as I used to. Much as I love clothes (truly) I will probably wear what is in my wardrobe until it practically falls off, because every penny I find to spend on clothes goes to the ever-growing weeds I call my children. And I don't think buying all those clothes for the girls even counts because I obsess over taking excellent care of what they have so it can be passed down to the next girl. They end up looking like princesses, and I end up looking like a bag lady.

Princesses

Bag Lady

Being a mom also helps me forget things. I forget to run the dishwasher and I forget to buy those darn diapers and look! I just saved some water and some space in a landfill!

I do think I might have hit a high point in my going-green ways just last week, in fact. Depending on how you look at it, of course. About one o'clock in the afternoon I started hearing an odd noise like water was draining, rapidly, out from under the front bathroom. This was rather distressing as there had been no water running in that bathroom for an hour or so, and made more so by the fact that the furnace/water heater/water softener all live in the room underneath that bathroom. Given these facts, I felt it wise to go and make sure our basement was not rapidly turning into that indoor swimming pool Ladybug covets so.

Much to my relief it wasn't. But that draining sound wouldn't stop, so I decided to stick my head in the furnace room and see if my magic mommy powers now extended to suddenly understanding what was wrong with otherwise inexplicable machinery. It was dark in the little closet of a room, so I reached out to turn on the light--only to find the light switch already flipped up.

Ah ha! I thought. Now I can save the world and possibly some electricity!

So I flipped down the switch, and I was very proud of myself. Who knew how long this heinous waste had been going on?

But it was still dark, and the water was still draining. Since technomancy apparently doesn't fall under mommy magic and I was too scared of the bugs to go further in without the light on, I wisely decided to wait a few hours and see if the noise didn't decide to just go away on its own. But it apparently either had nothing better to do or just really liked me, because the next thing I knew it was after eight in the evening and it was still hanging out in my furnace room.

The girls were safely in bed and DB wasn't expected back from work until midnight. I donned my cape, grabbed my flashlight, and headed outside to see if I could find the water meter. It would be with the shutoff valve, I reasoned, and if the water was indeed still running the meter would indicate that this was so and I could shut the water off until DB the Technomancer came home and figured out if our crawl space was about to turn into a sinkhole.

Sinkhole = Bad

See my poor little house down in there?

None of my brilliant planning accounted for the fact that even with a flashlight, I can't see in the dark. I was starting to feel very green by now, particularly around the gills. Not able to find the shutoff valve, I finally called the calvary in: My little brother. He assured me that yes, indeed, the shutoff would be with the water meter, but that this was purely academic since I couldn't find either of them. However, being the generous soul he was, he could come out and look in the furnace room to see if the mysterious draining noise would be afraid of him and go away.

It was.

All he had to do was look at the water softener (the source of the noise, as it turns out) and it stopped dead in its tracks. I was completely stymied as far as figuring out what had just happened, but grateful anyway. I called DB at work to tell him this exciting news, and passed on the odd fact that the digital display on the water softener was blinking as if we had had a power outage and he would need to reprogram the darn thing.

"Hey, you know that light switch down there?" he interrupted me, changing the subject completely.

"Uh... yeah..." I replied, miffed at being cutoff mid-ramble. "It's useless. The bulb's burnt out. But the point is--"

"No, no," DB interrupted again, trying to sound patient. "That switch doesn't go to the lightbulb. It's the power to the water softener."

".... .... .... .... oh." Gulp. Oops. "I didn't know that!" (My most amazing defense, by the way. The one I always go back to when I know I'm a moron.)

"Yes. You did. I told you when we installed the softener."

"... ... ... ... ... ..... ......... oh." I looked up at my brother, who was listening to my half of the conversation with unabashed interest. "So... what you're saying is, when I went down earlier and turned off the light switch to save the world and maybe some electricity the softener was in the middle of a rinse and drain cycle and by turning the power off I shut down its ability to stop itself from endlessly dumping water straight through the filter and back into the public waste system?"

Deep breath from DB. "Yeah. That's about it."

Me:

Brother: "Oh, and Carolynn? Turning the switch off didn't really save any electricity. Since there was no bulb. Just so you know."

Me:

I'm still recovering from the shock. I've spent years turning off switches that lead to dead or missing bulbs, thinking I was amazingly, stupendously saving everyone from their gluttonous waste.

Despite the naysayers, however, I've decided that I really did save the world, if not electricity. After all, the city water system now has (at best guess) hundreds of gallons of perfectly clean water at their disposal. No treatment necessary! And I'll even pay them for the privileged of taking my perfectly clean, lead-free, better-quality-than-normal-city-water water off of my hands.

A lot.

Shucks. Just all in a day's work for a super green super mom like me.

I just can't.

2010-10-12T20:20:00.002-05:00

It's true. Sometimes, I just can't. Not a complaint. Not being pessimistic. Just stating the facts.

There are some things I can't do. And that's okay.

I have often struggled with admitting and even embracing this concept. I would (will) tell myself that if I just tried a little harder, I could make it work. I could earn the last few dollars, finish the last few chores, write that stellar paper, fit in one more activity.

But I can't.

And it really is okay, because there are plenty of things I can.

I can't get rid of this week-long headache, no matter what I do--I can push past it and take my kids out for an hour or two anyway.

I can't ignore the overwhelming exhaustion the headache causes when I co push past it--but I can take advantage of having a wonderfully supportive network of friends and a husband who insists that I go to bed early.

I can't get all of the housecleaning finished if I go to bed early or take that nap I want--but I can at least wash a few dishes and then accept that my house will be untidy for a bit longer. Or, harder still, I can accept help offered and let someone else do it.

I can't ignore my housework and then give time and attention to writing. Heck, I can't even talk straight half the time!--But I can flop out an attempt at a blog post, just because I promised myself I would write every Tuesday, garbage or not.

And I can't get rid of all my A-type, perfectionist tendencies because I would cease to be me--but I can learn to separate the golf balls from the rice (or the rocks from the sand, depending on the take you prefer).

I can't even make the internet work so I can post this, no matter how many nasty glares I use--But DB can (thanks babe!).

"I am only one, but I am one. I can't do everything, but I can do something.The something I ought to do, I can do. And by the grace of God, I will." --Edward Everett Hale

Yup. And for tonight, my something? It's sleeping. And by the grace of God (and my hubby) the kids will sleep too. Catch you on the other side o' dreamland.

But that's not how MY family does it!

2010-10-05T17:19:00.001-05:00

There is no one specific way to have a healthy, happy family and yet, somehow, the mashing of two adults into a coherent family unit often leads to one or both parties stomping their feet like the proverbial two year old and exclaiming, "No! MY way!"

We run into this same sort of thing just going forth into the world. I still remember when I was a sophomore at college and battling severe stress headaches almost daily. The doctors hadn't been able to find a medication that helped yet, and one of my concerned professors asked, "Have you tried any natural health remidies or seeing a naturopathic doctor?"

I was stymied; it hadn't even crossed my mind. I finally stammered "Uh... my family isn't really into that kind of thing," as if she had suggested the equivalent of seeing a witch doctor. She replied with a raised eyebrow, "I see. But how to you feel about it?"

Shock. You mean I had to decide for myself what I believed? You mean, my family's way isn't the only good way? Who knew!

Although I didn't follow her advice for that particular problem, it did open my mind to the possibility. I have since explored and adopted several "alternative medicine" techniques, including the birthing method I use. I wish I could go back and thank her for opening my mind to the possibilities, the most potent of which is that although my family is wonderful and raised me well, I still get to decide what it means to be me. Even if one or two (or six or seven) members of my family did think it was a little nutty to go with something named "hypno-birthing" when I had my second child. (And, you know, they all listened very patiently when I explained the whys and wherefores. If everyone had such supportive families, God would have a lot more reasons to smile.)

All of this acceptance that my way is not the only way does not, of course, preclude me from occasionally telling DB that his way is just plain wrong. Towel folding, for example. I hate the way he folds towels and if he doesn't fold them the way I showed him, I will actually refold them before putting them away. Silly, I know, but I guess at least I don't make him do it. Then of course there are questions over the "right" way to decorate for holidays, celebrate Christmas, have bedtime, clean the toilet, vacation, and on and on.

Fortunately for us, we have a very emotionally even-keel kind of relationship (read: DB refuses to react when I try to push buttons) and we usually work things out just fine.

One conversation we've had a few times revolves around breakfast. Very rarely while I was growing up did my folks make breakfast and we all eat together. Such things were reserved for Mother's Day or other special occasions. Since I had church scripture study at 6 a.m. all through high school and had to be out of the house by 5:45, this was eminently reasonable. Frankly, I enjoyed the peace of having the house to myself while I made my morning mug of hot cocoa.

Moreover, my mother made it very clear that making dinner for everyone was enough for her and we were plenty old enough to get our own breakfast, thank you very much. I completely agreed.

DB, on the other hand, grew up having hot breakfast with his family every morning all throughout his early school career. I realized this early in our marriage because when we go to visit his parents, they make breakfast many of the mornings we are there. I love the pampering, but I also quickly made it clear to DB that I didn't do that kind of thing, myself. It was too much work.

Please note that I had never actually tried it.

After a completely unrelated decision has shaken up our morning routine, however, I have found myself preparing breakfast for the family the last two days in a row. This is the first time in... well, probably since the kids were born that DB and I have gotten up at the same time. We had pancakes both days. I don't tend to eat much with everyone at the table because part of me still likes that mug of cocoa and the now pseudo-solitude of sitting at my desk checking my email, but I have found (much to my surprise) that I really enjoy making breakfast for everyone. Beyond the fact that breakfast is easy and hot breakfast food is something the kids will always eat (something that cannot be said for dinner), this extra effort on my part has made the mornings much smoother. Instead of DB struggling to get the kids ready on his own, or me desperately trying to convince the kids to eat quietly and neatly so I can sneak off for a few minutes of quiet, we work together almost seamlessly and everyone is ready in no time.

Better still, I actually get to see my husband in the morning for more than a sleepy "Love you, bye."

The feeling in the house has been much less frantic. We even remembered to have family prayer before DB took off today, something I don't think we've ever done.

We've been married 4-1/2 years, and DB has never questioned my statement that I "don't do breakfast." Maybe I'll still end up deciding I feel that way in the end, seeing as it's only been two days. It's hard getting up early when I've become used to dozing for an hour after waking. But so far, the benefits outweigh my slightly extra sleepiness.

So, here's to trying things from the "other," whether the other be a person, culture, or (gasp) your spouse's family. I guess giving an inch won't lead to us turning into a carbon copy of anyone just yet. Picking one thing here and one thing there--that's how we become individual.

No need to reinvent the wheel. Simply a need to decide how it best rolls for our family.

Oh, and by the way...

2010-09-28T19:19:00.000-05:00

At a friend's suggestion, I've revamped my old blog into a gathering place for the random recipes I come across/come up with that are favorites in our house. I'll try to remember to post here when I add any new recipes, but please feel free to check it out whenever you feel like it by going here. Enjoy!

Grown Up

2010-09-28T19:15:00.001-05:00

At least once or twice a year since I turned 18, I have found myself sighing with relief and saying to myself, "I'm all grown up. Phew! Thank heavens that's over." And you would think that with a husband, a home, two children, and one on the way, I'd actually have meant it the last time I said it.

So. Not. True.

I still remember the first time I realized I was "grown up." I was taking the garbage out to the dumpster in my apartment complex during my first semester at college. As I trotted along it suddenly dawned on me that I didn't have to go back to my apartment if I didn't want to. I could go out for ice cream and no one would A. Question me or B. Know the difference. Oh, I was such an adult! Then, within days, I was back on the phone with my parents, in tears, wishing Mommy would come out and hold my hand.

I still do wish that on occasion (Hi mom!).

Every time I think I'm "all grown up," something else happens to make me feel like a little kiddie all over again. Today, when I had to turn one of our two dogs over to the animal shelter (long story) I felt about five years old. I just didn't want to do it. It was scary. It was unpleasant. I wanted to make someone else (namely DB) do it for me. I get the same way about other things, like calling people I don't know or answering my voice mail or driving a long way alone. Why? I don't really know, except that those parts of me are just still working on that whole grown up thing.

What this has reminded me of, however, is that in the eternal perspective of things I still am nothing more than a child. Heavenly Father is so much wiser and more mature than I am, it's almost laughable to try and call myself an adult. My body might be, but my spirit--my heart--still has a lot to learn. It's a little disheartening at first pale to think I know so little after trying so hard. On the other hand, it's absolutely wonderful to know that God will always be there to hold my hand. No matter how "old" I get in this life, He will always be the grown up I can turn to.

Thank Heavens.

RAWR!!!

2010-09-21T18:05:00.000-05:00

The title sums it up. When I'm pregnant, I can be a beast. Not that I can't be a beast on other occasions; I just tend to be particularly good at it when I'm being invaded by an extremely small person.

I do like to think that with each pregnancy I've gotten a little better. A little less prone to sudden bouts of irritation, tears, menace, Godzilla-like destruction, etc, and a little more able reduce the ravings I'd like to shout out to a mere, "Oh. That's annoying."

A little.

All of this, of course, goes out the window if I don't feel well. Like today when I have an honest-to-goodness virus infesting my ever-increasing body (I can only imagine how inviting it must look to the little parasites, really), about all of my conversations with DB have gone like this:

Me: I love you! You're wonderful!

DB: *Happily* Thanks. But I really need to tell you X, Y, and Z.

Me: WHAT?

DB: *Warily* I know it's not what you wanted, but--

Me: RAWR!!! END of conversation!

Poor DB. The kids haven't gotten off easily either. While I have been completely unfazed by major spills, toys everywhere, and half-eaten meals, the lack of sharing was a major button today. Probably directly related to the fact that StrawBee had a full-blown meltdown every time there was a sharing-related problem. And hooboy, are her meltdowns a vision to behold. Still, I'm bigger than them, and thus have a proportionally larger ability to be both rational and even-tempered.

Right.

But DB generally does get the brunt of my bad behavior. I think I must believe, deep down inside, that he can handle it better than the kids (who might be scarred for life) or any of my other general acquaintance (who might run away and never come back). It's really amazing to me how he can just let my occasional outbursts roll off his back. Sometimes I think he's learned to find the whole thing secretly amusing. You know, as a matter of survival. And there is something funny about the whole performance. Oh, yes, because I left off the end of the earlier conversation. See, they start out like the above, then five to ten minutes later pick up again with this:

Me: *Tearful* DB, I am so sorry. I don't know what got into me.

DB: That's okay, honey.

Me: No, really! I mean it! I'm such a stinker!

DB: It's okay. You had a long day and you don't feel well.

Me: That's not a good excuse. I'll make it up to you, ok?

DB: If you think you need to, dear, but it's really okay.

Me: No, no. It's not! Um... dinner? Dessert? Back rub? Time to yourself? Board game?

...This goes on until I've pestered him into letting me "make it better."

Although, come to think of it, the guy has a pretty good racket going. Yeah, let her blow up for a few minutes... wait a few minutes more... play the patient hubby, then get whatever the heck I want! And the more hesitant he is to take up my overtures of niceness, the bigger the reward I offer. Up to and including a guy's night out with me preparing mounds of food and spiriting the children away to give him alone time.

Not that he doesn't deserve it.

But still.

I think DB and I might need to have a little chat. Rawr.

A Pregnant Pause

2010-09-14T15:29:00.003-05:00

Now that I'm working on my third baby, I think I finally understand this phrase. "A pregnant pause"; I always thought it just meant the pause was, shall we say, rather large. I no longer believe this is the case. Rather, it seems that it's called a pregnant pause because everything comes grinding to a complete, abrupt halt.
That's what has happened in my life for the last four-and-a-half months. House cleaning has fallen by the wayside, writing simply hasn't happened, and exercising? Well, don't mention it within a couple yards of me unless you brought my puke bowl with you! It seems that despite the myriad promises I have made to myself, those months have fallen into the black hole of the past with very little to show for it beyond my ever-increasing baby bump. Not that that isn't an accomplishment in and of itself, but really. I ought to be able to clean a bathroom at least once in a 120 day period.
The pregnant pause is only prolonged by that fact that one can tell oneself over and over again, "Well, as soon as I feel better I'll be at it again." But when does that happen? It's like a pregnant conversational pause: The longer you let it go on uninterrupted, the worse it gets. Finally there comes a point when I have to take pity on my darling husband and start pulling my weight again(okay, my weight and then some...!) and, as the walrus said, "The time has come." Just like being a mommy to small kiddies can't dictate my entire life, being pregnant can't either.
Of course, it helps that I'm not running for the bathroom every hour or so. Not to puke at least, anyway. I have just a short 20 weeks until I have another small dictator in my life. I'm thrilled to be adding to the crew, but I'd best enjoy (and employ) the freedom while I can.

"Mommy"

2010-08-10T19:43:00.001-05:00

Every time I make this mistake, I cringe. Still I found myself repeating the mistake, and as soon as the words were out of my mouth I regretted it. Here's the sitch:

Having just met a few new people this past Sunday, the inevitable questions revolving around where you're from and what you do popped up sooner than later. And, just like I always do, I kind of gave a half-shrug and murmured apologetically, "Oh, you know... I just stay home with my kids."

Did I really just demean myself and my children like that?

Again?

I think that's what really annoys me about this: I always sound that way when I answer that question. As if I've bought the fable that "just" raising my kids to be decent human beings isn't enough to make my life worthwhile, or to count as a contribution to society at large.

The funny thing is, being a Mommy really is like any other job. I have set hours (7 a.m. to 7 p.m.) with occasional late nights and overtime. I have a job title by which my subordinates (and co-workers) refer to me during work hours. I even have a benefits package. In fact, if I had to advertise for my job it would go something like this:

Job Title: Mommy

Job Description: General pillar of love and organization. This includes feeding, changing, bathing, dressing, laundry, dishes, floors, windows, etc, but these are only side duties. Of major importance are instilling in small children appropriate communication skills, confidence levels, and generally preparing these children for life, the universe, and everything.

Hours: Variable. Overtime is not only expected but required. It is also completely unpredictable, so be prepared to turn your plans upside-down at a moment's notice.

Experience/Skills Required: Ability to love deeply and still discipline. Organizational skills a must. Financial skills a bonus.

Compensation: Not deliverable immediately. Pay can be collected when children become adults and begin contributing in a positive way to society. You will have to share your pay with all of mankind, but this will not diminish its value.

Benefits: Health and life insurance of a non-traditional but still useful sort.

Similar Positions: See "Daddy"

...Yes, I think that would do quite nicely. I personally am most fond of the benefits. My health benefits for the weekend came in the form of laughing with Strawbee as she made up a new game. I know it added several years to my life, and probably lowered my blood pressure too. And life insurance? I can promise that having Ladybug spontaneously hug me and say, "I love you too, Mommy!" is enough to guarantee that I will not only keep living my life, but try to live it better everyday.

As I've mentioned before, I don't believe Mommy-hood should take over an entire person. It is a huge chunk of your being, your time, and your heart, but it is, in the end, a career from which we retire. Fortunately even after retirement there are plenty of young workers in need of advice and a bolster, so children will (I hope) never be completely out of my life. Heaven knows I lean heavily enough on the retirees myself!

But I also believe very strongly that this is not a profession for which I should apologize to others. It doesn't make me stupid. Or uninteresting. Badly educated. Lazy. A freeloader. Bored. These are all things I've heard more times than I care to count, but they simply aren't any more true of mommies in general than they are of lawyers, business professionals, secretaries, or bull riders in general.

People are what they make of themselves, and I don't think I'm going to allow myself to apologize for my chosen field of work again. I refuse to be a part of the devaluing of parenthood as legitimate work. I will not get embarrassed, or shrug, or fail to meet people in the eye. Just because I've heard a million times that I'm selling myself short by "just staying home" doesn't mean I have to buy it--or sell it.

The next time I hear "So, what do you do?" I will reply with a happy smile, "Oh, I love my job! I raise my kids. How about you?"

Adjustments

2010-06-08T14:16:00.000-05:00

We've had a lot of them since the summer began. Adjustments, I mean. First we adjusted to Dear Boy being out of school. Then we adjusted to Auntie J coming to visit. After that, we adjusted to Grammie and Grandpa coming from Utah to visit. Nap times, bedtimes, and healthy eating were all victims of said adjustments. Much crabbiness ensued.

All of that's over, however, and we're on to what (I hope) is the last major adjustment for a while: DB has a job.

I'm very, very excited about this.

The girls are very, very not.

They object (loudly and complainingly) to being allowed to wind up and wear out themselves to the point of complete meltdown (see previous adjustments), then being thrown back into what should be normal but really isn't. Daddy isn't around for all or even most of the day anymore. He's not getting them out of bed in the morning, he's not around to help with lunch, and he definitely won't be home when they get up from their afternoon nap.

Last week, when he started training, they barely noticed his absence--mostly due to the fact that Grammie and Grandpa were around to obligingly spoil them rotten. Today, though, Ladybug started asking for him first thing. When he unexpectedly came home for lunch, Strawbee wouldn't let him put her down. When he left again, Ladybug followed him outside and watched him drive away. When I called her back in, she said, "Daddy?"

I answered, "Sorry, baby, he has to go back to work. He'll be home for dinner." She just sort of collapsed in a little heap on the driveway, crying her little heart out, and wouldn't get up until I bribed her with a pacifier.

Poor kids.

Sigh.

...I actually started this post intending to talk about how the structure of life is so great--just because one day we get things wrong (forget to exercise, don't do laundry, yell at the kids) doesn't mean that tomorrow is a loss too. We always have a chance, every morning, to make it the kind of day we like.

But now I've depressed myself and I'm not sure how to segue. Abruptly, I suppose.

Point being, there are adjustments for me too, but they're more like second chances. I've had to rearrange my schedule (I actually have to get up first thing in the morning, for starters) and though it's a change when I don't really like change, it's also already helping me get back on the bandwagons. (Yes, plural. Exercising, cleaning schedule, budget, eating right, blogging, writing, learning: You name it, I fell off it in the last month.)

But I'm back. And so far today I'm doing great. I bet I'll do great tomorrow. And if I don't, there's always Thursday. Or Friday. Or ... well, you get the point.

Onward and upward.

Brag and Blog Friday!

2010-05-07T21:43:00.000-05:00

Woot, I remembered! Probably because I have something awesome to brag about.

OHS CHOIRS, YOU ROCK!!

Just came from their spring concert, and it was fabulous. My two youngest siblings are in the choirs so I tagged along for a listen, and boy was it worth it.

And even though neither of my sibs are in the freshman choirs, I wanted to add a special shout-out to those JV kids. They've learned so much and it was a real pleasure to listen to them.

Plus, I should shout-out to my littlest sib who had a solo with the women's choir. You go girl!

What most excellent things have happened in your week?

Just an Ordinary Day

2010-04-28T14:13:00.001-05:00

Today has been an ordinary day. I know you're dying to know what goes on around here all day when I'm not eating bon-bons or watching the pool boy work, so let me tell you about it.

I woke up at 7 a.m., when my children did. However, I pretended to be asleep so DB would get up with them. He complied. I slept until 8, but it was really a wasted effort; I ended up having a terrible nightmare while I slept, so I doubt I got much more rest.

When DB came to wake me up, I had already been awake for 5 minutes, listening to children screaming.

I got up and zoned on the couch for several minutes, trying to shake off sleep. Ladybug whined about TV. StrawBee tried to follow whoever was moving and got frustrated that she couldn't keep up. The dogs playfully jumped each other. DB tried to get us all moving.

Eventually, we bargained Ladybug into stopping with the whining and getting her hair combed in exchange for going to story time at the library. Suddenly all sunshine and roses, Ladybug was ready 15 minutes before me and waiting by the door with her backpack on, ready to go. StrawBee got tired enough to go down for her morning nap. I left DB, still in his pajamas and unshaven despite how much effort he had already put out, and took Ladybug to the library.

We got stuck behind a moving roadblock (you know, when the car in the right lane is going slow and the car who's passing it on the left is only going a teeny, tiny hair faster?) and ended up missing our turning (my bad) and thus made it to story time punctually by dint of me carrying Ladybug at something only slightly slower than a sprint through the parking lot and into the library.

Ladybug did great at story time. I texted with my mom and we agreed to meet at the mall, since my kiddies needed shoes and my mom needed to get out of her house. Ladybug and I drove to the mall despite Ladybug's repeated protests of "I go HOME." I called DB while I was driving, even while swearing to myself that I would never, ever drive while talking on the cell again, and missed him a good half dozen times, never thinking to leave a voice mail.

Ladybug decided the mall wasn't so bad when she saw her stroller. She happily climbed in and, even better, was very entertained by all the free food samples in the food court. Nana arrived and we headed off to look for shoes. I showed Ladybug her shoe choices and she wanted none of them, instead settling on either the neon pink canvas shoes with rhinestones and glitter or the pink shoe shaped like a pony. She ended up with brown tennis shoes with little pink hearts and some silver glitter, and was okay with that because she got to push the stroller and ride the escalator twice. I grabbed Ladybug some sandals for church, and then strolled her off to look at frogs while Nana finished her shopping. After several minutes of following Ladybug around while she kept a tight grip on the sides of her pants to keep herself from touching the frog tanks, Nana met up with us again and we went to lunch.

We all felt like eating Chinese food, so back to the food court we went. Ladybug wanted juice, so a huge bottle of red powerade was purchased. She ate her chicken and noodles while Nana and I talked. Then Ladybug, who had been occasionally doing the potty dance but refusing to do anything while on the potty, suddenly screamed at the top of her lungs: "POTTY!! POTTY!!"

I helped her down from her chair and, after watching her waddle a few steps, scooped her up and made a mad dash for the bathroom. About halfway there my arm, the one supporting her bum, became uncomfortably warm and moist. My only comment: "Don't pee any more, baby, okay?"

She did listen. We made it to the potty and she finished her business, leaving me with a half naked child and a soaked pair of toddler-sized underwear and a useless pair of equally soaked toddler pants. Oh, and no diaper bag. It was at home. I'd even left my purse back with Nana in the food court. The phone starts ringing with DB's ringtone. I ignore it. I thank the good Lord that layering is currently in style and take off my over shirt. A minute later, Ladybug is wearing a sarong-underwear-skirt thing that's bound to be all the rage next season and parading back out of the stall to wash her hands. The automatic dryer spooks her and she refuses to dry said hands, so we head back to our table.

I sit down only to get a text message. DB. Wants me to pick up some carpet cleaner on the way home. The dogs were fighting and managed to smear poop all into the carpet. This begs the question: Our home is mostly floored with tile and hardwood. Why would they pick the one teeny room of carpet to get into a fight? Anyway, I tell DB if he wants to be on time for class I won't be able to pick up the cleaner. DB tells me that, on second look, there's already some carpet cleaner stashed under the sink. He'll have the poop gone by the time I get home.

Ladybug is ready to go. We thank Nana for lunch, pile into the car, and drive home. I only get frustrated with slow drivers once, when they almost make me miss my turning for a second time.

We arrive home with 15 minutes to spare before DB has to leave. StrawBee is waiting for us at the door, wearing a different outfit than when we left because she managed to make a disaster of the other onsie.

And we're home.

Ladybug still prancing in her makeshift bottom-covering.

Ha.

Since then, I've put some real clothes on Ladybug and put both of them down for a nap. However, I hear StrawBee calling--probably she has her afternoon poopy diaper.

Just another ordinary day.

One of these days...

2010-04-21T14:25:00.000-05:00

Ever have a day where you find yourself brimming with motivation to actually accomplish something? And so, like a happy little busy beaver, you dive into your daily schedule, all the while telling yourself that you have a list of things you really want to do and, by golly, they'll get done!

And then, when the time comes, you say "Well, I'm so motivated I can afford to take a little break to do something inane for a bit." So you do. You enjoy it, you finish, and you say, "It's time to do those things that I really wanted to do today!"

...And then the kids wake up early from their naps.

Totally there.

Home School

2010-04-14T12:26:00.000-05:00

I am a student by nature. Listening, reading, writing--these are all things that come to me naturally and that I enjoy. I happen to be one of the lucky few whose brains work exactly the way the public school system prefers. My study habits are almost impeccable. It took me years to learn all of that.

I've been wondering lately, though, how long it will take me to lose it.

I'm surrounded by people in school right now. 4 of my 5 siblings (plus some spouses, thrown in for good measure) are in school, my husband is in school, my best friend teaches school (and she's about to return for a master's), and ... I miss it.

I find myself eying DB's pile of projects and notes with envy. I read Facebook updates about final projects and exams and wonder how I would do taking those same tests.

For a short while, I toyed with the idea of returning to school myself this fall, or possibly the spring after. I soon discarded the idea as selfish since (for the moment) all it would do is put an additional strain on our time and finances without any appreciable improvement of our lives.

And then it occurred to me: Why do I have to be in school, anyway?

Now, it is a fact of life that American children often leave school under the impression that "real learning" can only happen in school. They are not taught to learn on their own; in fact, they learn that learning is a chore to be avoided unless it's going to get your a tangible "something" (think pay raise) in return. We feel as though here's something magical about classrooms and we won't be able to "really learn" under any other circumstances.

This is true, to a certain extent. A community of learners guided by a leader with more experience provides opportunity for growth that doesn't occur in any other way.

But why should that always have to happen in a classroom?

For that matter, why shouldn't I be able to learn without that ideal setting?

I almost believed what I had accidentally learned in school. I almost didn't think beyond the possibility of guided learning. I almost told myself that I would just have to wait to learn until DB was established and we could really afford to send me back to school.

But then it occurred to me: There's nothing wrong with my brain. I have access to several libraries, both physical and virtual. Failing that, there's always Amazon.com for books. Why shouldn't my learning outside of the classroom be just as valid, even if there wasn't a shiny piece of paper waiting at the end?

I was studying to be a teacher, anyway, so why shouldn't I teach myself?

Of course, the hardest thing about this project will be the discipline required. That's where I might trip and fall. My motivation at school was always out-doing others in order to impress my teachers (I know: Pathetic, right?). I never missed a deadline. I never failed a test (okay, except that one spelling test in fifth grade--I swear, Ms. Cohn, it'll never happen again!). What will I do without someone else's schedule and criteria to meet?

Short answer: I have no idea.

But I have a thirst to learn that I don't plan on waiting to sate. Now is as good a time as any. Starting May 1st, school will be in. My first two courses will be biology and music history. At the same time, I plan to have an ongoing literature study, finishing at least one book every month or six weeks and producing at least a short, slightly thoughtful paper on it. And hey, any suggestions for good books, fiction or non, to go with literature, biology, or music history are more than welcome! And you are more than welcome to join me in my little experiment--find a subject. Buy a book. Learn something.

Do it for yourself, not for the grade.

Learning didn't end with school. School is just a springboard--a place to acquire skills to help guide your learning for the rest of your life. Graduation wasn't finishing; it was moving on to the next level. And I'm ready to keep on going.

Brag and Blog Friday!

2010-04-09T17:24:00.000-05:00

This week, I'm gonna go ahead and toot my own horn. I've been pretty harsh with myself lately, and I realized this week that criticizing myself was so not even remotely productive. So, I decided to just go ahead and start DOING something (no duh, right?)

And, for once, I actually did.

The last couple days have been very productive, and I'm glad. I feel better about my life (and myself) when I do more than sit and stare at my kids. Being the age my children are, they like Mama to be right where they are at every moment, so finding projects and having the patience to keep stopping and starting when I get interrupted is hard. Fortunately, I have a very supportive husband and Someone with patience to share.

Go us.

What do you have to brag about this week?

I live!

2010-04-07T16:15:00.000-05:00

After a (longer than I'd like) hiatus, I'm back. For some reason, blogger decided it didn't want me posting. Possibly because it felt I had nothing important to say. And I didn't. I still don't. But I just wanted to put this out there:

Why oh why does my two-year-old daughter suddenly want to be a baby?

Okay, okay--don't tell me. I've heard it all before. "She's jealous." "It's a stage." "Perfectly normal." Yes, yes. I know.

That doesn't relieve the frustration, and it also doesn't help me solve the problem.

Actually, what I'm seriously considering is telling her that if she wants to be a baby, she can be one. Meaning diapers, two naps a day, no cows milk, no sugar treats, no gymnastics class, no bike riding, etc. I really don't think she'd be able to stand it.

The problem is, neither would I.

I suppose it all depends on how desperate I get. After she came crawling up to me and babbled at me for several minutes straight, refusing to use her hard-earned words, I admit I'm pretty mystified. We've tried giving her extra attention. We've tried giving her less. We've tried correcting. We've tried ignoring. We've tried bribing. We've tried reasoning. Nothing seems to work for more than a day or two.

Maybe the problem is we're not consistent enough. Which then makes me wonder: Where on earth did Ladybug learn to be so consistent if I can't seem to manage it?

Or possibly, now that the issue seems to have reached its peak, it really will blow over.

...Wow, totally deja vu. I've dreamed writing this post before. Now that I think of it, I remember waking up that day and telling DB how I had such a strange dream that Ladybug was acting like an infant even though she was a toddler.

Too bad I can't remember how the dream ended. Maybe the Lord will share that part of it with me again when I sleep tonight. Maybe a little angel will come down and ding the child on the head, like the one that used to visit Bill Cosby when he was home sick as a kid.

Oops, well, I'm out of time. StrawBee has found the bookshelves and one of my favorite books. Till next time!

Spring Break

2010-03-25T09:32:00.001-05:00

...It's a break from everything.

I pretend we don't have to worry about money

or school

or responsibilities.

We're just homeowners trying to make the yard look nice

and parents just playing with their kids

and two people amazingly in love with all the time in the world to give each other.

I wish Spring Break

lasted a month or two.

But it's just a week.

Which is probably for the best--

so that we remember to be grateful

for the time to just be us.

The Performance Life

2010-03-16T13:16:00.000-05:00

That's what my blog should've been titled this weekend. I didn't do much that was child- or home-related, but I did get up in front of a lot of people. Between the 3 times I was front and center and the once I was in a small group, I think I was seen by somewhere around 1,000 unique individuals. Ish.

My local church women's group (Relief Society) held a retreat down in Branson (AKA America's Live Entertainment Capitol) this Friday and Saturday. Branson is home to dozens of live performance theaters--family-friendly entertainment that's usually run by, well, families (Osmonds, anyone?). The Dutton family owns a theater on "The Strip" and generously allowed our fearless leaders (who deserve awards for their mad planning skills) to use said theater, plus sound, lighting, tech guy, and stage props, for the speakers and performers this weekend.

I sang three times.

Two of those times were solos.

Lights, makeup, real mics, and me--front and center.

I was a nervous wreck.

I loved it.

I loved the feel of the stage. I loved the nervous jitters moments before walking into the spotlight. I loved the feel of the microphone in my hand. I loved the sound of my voice over high-quality speakers. I loved hearing that I "looked so poised!" I loved being recognized as I went to workshops later. I ADORED the attention and compliments. I was particularly fond of being mistaken for being a professional performer by a professional performer.

I have a serious problem with being attention-seeking. Can you tell?

It's fascinating to me, in a detached sort of way, to observe myself when I perform. I turn into something else. Into a presence rather than a person. I love that feeling, and I know it.

It's hard to let go of.

This was my first opportunity of this kind on this scale. It stirs in me the desire to pursue performance--a desire I've put down many times. And why do I put it down? Because I know myself. I know I have the potential to become so obsessed with a certain thing, I lose everything else about myself. I worry that by allowing myself to become really dedicated to anything--be it music, writing, teaching, my husband, my kids, myself, the Gospel--I'll become obsessive. For me, it's like Marianne Williamson said: "Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest feat is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us."

It's about balance. If I give myself to one thing at the cost of others...well, that's no good!

But by not giving myself passionately to these things, I feel I'm losing something. I want to give myself to all of these good things with equal passion; however, I find that any time I attempt to become more passionate about one, the others fall behind.

There's got to be an answer somewhere. Heavenly Father created these desires and lights within me for a purpose, and He wouldn't create me so I could fail.

But He would create me so I had to make a choice.

Years ago, I chose family life. A home. Children. Homemaking.

Do decisions have to be re-made? Are we given opportunities to modify as we grow? Or are we simply tested again, to make sure we really meant it the first time?

The balance. There has to be one--somewhere. I've just got to keep going until I find it.

Daylight Savings

2010-03-16T13:09:00.001-05:00

This is me last week, pre-daylight savings: Good morning, world! I'm so ready for a new day to get on with all the STUFF I want to do!

This is me post-daylight savings: Zzzzzzzzz... *Snort* Huh? Wha? Oooohh...zzzzzzZZZzzzzz...

Everyone keeps talking about how hard the time change is on the kids.

Honestly, I'm more worried about me.

The kids will sleep if they're tired. For as long as they want. They'll be awake when they're not tired anymore. For as long as they can handle. And sometimes they'll be awake when they're tired. For as long as they want. And what can I do about it?

Nothing.

Okay, not entirely true. I can put them in bed. I can ignore their cries (Christi's favorite this days is neither "Mama!" nor "Daddy!" but "pottyyyyyyy!!"--works every time). I can...

Ugh. No, I can't. Because then I feel like a bad Mama, punishing her children for a time change they can't control. So until our natural rhythm of sleep catches up with them--which it will, I keep telling myself, if I just stick with our normal routine--I'm stuck in the nasty twilight-zone of weird sleep patterns that daylight savings causes twice a year.

I may have to move to Arizona.

Brag and Blog Friday!

2010-03-12T10:13:00.000-06:00

I had to get on top of things early today, as I won't be around for most of the afternoon. DB and I have a lunch date, then I'm headed down to Branson with my mom for a women's retreat (which would be a lot more relaxing if I weren't performing, I might add).

Anyway, on to business.

I have a couple of great brags this week! First off, we were notified this week that Dear Boy made the Dean's List last semester. I'm so proud of his ability to do well in school with three (oops, I mean two) little girls running around distracting him.

Secondly, my youngest brother (AKA Doc Boy), who is a senior in high school, is performing in the play Once Upon a Mattress this week. I haven't been able to see it yet, but I've heard nothing but rave reviews. Besides, he really put himself out there to get on stage. Oh, and learn how to put makeup on. I've never been so proud.

Who can you brag on this week?

Four Weeks

2010-03-09T14:03:00.001-06:00

It's been four weeks since I had my oh-so-lovely overnight stay in the cardiac unit at St. John's hospital. Just like my four years of marriage, it seems like both a really short and a really long time--four weeks! Wow! Amazing! Sheesh!

Is anything really different?

25 years old. In a cardiac unit. Ridiculous.

But it scared me.

Yup.

The final diagnosis actually had very little to do with my heart. The doctor very seriously informed that I was slightly dehydrated (should I have confessed I was deliberately drinking less because the nurses wanted to measure my pee and I didn't want to deal with that? Probably) and physically exhausted. My heart's function seemed slightly compromised for someone my age, but was otherwise unaffected. His conclusion: I need to sleep more.

Suuuuuure.

Most of the mothers of small children I've mentioned this to laughed outright. Honestly, I almost did laugh. I know I at least smirked. He seemed a little miffed that I wasn't taking him seriously.

But I was.

(And, I should mention, so was Dear Boy, who has been treating me not unlike Ladybug in his enforcement of my bedtime since then. However, as he balanced this by offering to buy me anything I wanted to for Valentine's Day, I'm okay with that.)

My body does this occasionally, I should note. I tend to overdo in the stress department (trust me, I wasn't overdoing it physically), and my body finds a way to throw on the brakes whether I like it or not. Once it was serious stomach issues; once it was migraines. This time it was faking a heart attack.

This time it got my attention.

I, Carolynn the Dyer REFUSE to go back on that cardiac ward if there is any way I can prevent it. Stress kicks my butt, and I'm tired of it. I'm going to kick ITs butt for a change.

I will exercise. I will eat right. Heck, I'll even sleep. I will take care of this beautiful body--it's the only one I've got, for heaven's sake. Isn't it worth an hour of sweat a day and buying some more fresh produce?

I laid in the bed at the hospital and watched the inside of my eyelids for most of the dark-time of my one night stay. It's hard to sleep when you have eight leads taped to your body (I still have marks from that) and your roommate keeps moaning out how poorly she feels (and I sincerely hope she feels better). I kept thinking, What if this really had been a heart attack? What if I have a weak heart, like my grandparents on both sides? Will my children have to come visit me in the hospital before they're teenagers? Will I leave my husband behind young to marry someone else (not a good sharer over here)? Will my heart limit my activities forever? Am I really willing to let stress run my life?

No.

No, because I won't let it.

I won't let my kids have a couch potato for a mother.

I also won't let them turn me into a basket case.

I will improve my heart's function.

I will live my life while it's happening, not by regretting its passing.

I will love my body enough to take care of it--all of it--the way it deserves to be cared for.

I will remember those cardiac monitor machines every time I want to skip out of my workout, and then I will do my workout and smash those machines to pieces.

I will be healthy.

I will be low-stress.

I started four weeks ago.

And I'm happier already.

Brag and Blog Friday!

2010-03-05T18:18:00.001-06:00

And the calvary's here--late, as usual.

Okay, I'm not the calvary, but I am ready for Brag and Blog! I love being able to talk about how cool my life is once a week. Awesome.

This week's brag is on my mom, who has recently decided to lose some weight (though if you ask me, she looks fabulous!) and has done a GREAT job eating well and working out all this week. She inspires me to take care of myself, which is really helpful since that chocolate cake in the kitchen inspires me in the opposite direction.

Way to go, My Mom!

Who can you brag on this week?

He looked harmless enough...!

2010-03-04T13:43:00.000-06:00

Dear Boy and I were blessed to celebrate our 4th wedding anniversary yesterday. It was perfect. Literally. In every way. I couldn't have asked for DB to more thoughtful, romantic, sweet, and basically... himself.

This morning I'm asking myself, as I often do, how the heck did someone as spastic as me get so lucky? What did I ever do to earn such a fabulous guy?

Answer: Nothing.

In fact, the first time I met DB (briefly and in passing), I immediately rejected him as "not my type," which is basically the gentle way of saying, "ForGET it."

He was the exact opposite of what I'd dreamed of. I always loved blonds; his hair is almost black. I wanted a tall guy; he's barely 5'8". I drooled over outgoing, show-offy, brilliantly social types; DB prefers a night at home reading a book. I preferred guys with the gift of gab (as if we needed two in this house, ha ha); DB takes his time over every single thing he says, and often chooses to say nothing at all.

But all of those things I thought I didn't want are exactly why we ended up together. And not because I had some brilliant flash of insight and realized I'd been wrong the whole time.

No, no--it was because I had written him off as harmless.

I figured that he was so not what I wanted, I didn't have to think about it. So I didn't. I didn't think about it when he started calling every day at lunch looking for his sister, even though I told him several times I was the only one home at lunch. I didn't look at him suspiciously when he offered to buy me lunch since mine looked particularly unappetizing. I didn't squirm with worry that he liked me when he hung out for hours talking to me while waiting for his sister to come back.

Then one day, all at once, as we were sitting on the couch watching a movie (at DB's insistence and with me being as thoughtless as usual), I realized that it would be so awesome if he chose that moment to put his arm around me. For a moment, I was blown away by the thought. We were just friends, right? But then again, look at the evidence. Maybe he thought I was hot. Maybe he even had a smidgen of liking for me. Was it possible?

I spent the next half hour in an agony of anxiety about what to do about this. Should I lean back and let him? Did he want to? Maybe I should just hunch over, make him really put himself out there if he wanted to. Wait, no. I was probably totally misreading him. Maybe I needed to run to the bathroom and then come back and sit further away from him. Or closer. Or maybe not. Or I could lean back. Hold it, didn't I already reject that one? Shoot. Now what?

Fortunately, DB is not so complex. All my nervous fidgeting told him I wasn't averse to the idea, so he put his arm around me.

I snuggled in.

And that was it.

I was more than halfway in love with him already and didn't even know it. He had listened, talked, hung out, and basically courted me for several weeks without me even noticing. It didn't take much after that for me to be so totally head over heels in love with him that his simple "As you wish" (yes, he really did say that--does say that--to me) was enough to put me floating several feet off the ground for the rest of the day.

All because, well, he looked harmless enough.

So, here's to the sneak attack. And to my darling hubby, without whom I would've long since gone insane. We've been through losses, pregnancies, infants, moving, school, money trouble, remodeling, depression, car trips, potty training, and a million other everyday miracles together. I know we're in for several million more. And don't worry about me not thinking twice about you before; I'll think about you forever now.

Brag and Blog Friday!

2010-02-26T14:57:00.000-06:00

It's that time again, folks! I had intended to include a real post today, too, but my new computer is taking up a lot more of my time than I intended. I'll have to introduce you to him sometime; he's a fun little timewaster.

Anyhow, on to Brag and Blog!

My brag this week is for my youngest sister who was recently featured in a magazine article (which I don't have a link to) and a video (which I do have a link to). She and her friends made a tremendous effort to reach out and touch the community, and they succeeded!

What fabulousity has gone on in your life this week?

Oh, the possibilities...

2010-02-23T11:13:00.000-06:00

It's amazing how life has a way of both giving and taking away at the same time.

This week, for example, I finally got up the guts to commit to a daily schedule for my work time (AKA the girls' nap time). I hemmed and hawed a long time before making myself the promise, because I knew if I made it and didn't keep it, I'd have to despise myself. And really, who needs more of that in their lives? I want this commitment to be strong, steady, passionate--and I want it to last longer than a week. Oh work schedule, I love you! I promise to cherish you for always, to not fritter my time away eating my Valentine's chocolate and playing Facebook games. In return, I hope you'll always remind me that I DO have something specific to do, and thus stave off all nap attacks and attempts at laziness.

You will?!

Ah, bliss.

Unfortunately, the family laptop heard of this new commitment and apparently took offense. In protest, it went to its room and pouted, refusing to come out.

In other words, it died.

We've sent the laptop off to a behavioral specialist, but he tells us it might be cheaper to just get a whole new laptop than correct this one. We're waiting with bated breath to hear the final diagnosis in the next few days. Until then, I'm in computer limbo. Dear Boy must have access to the computer in order to take his 4 online classes, so I (with heavy heart) allowed him to take my beautiful iMac down into the basement den for schoolwork. The den is a fortress of manhood; I rarely breach its precincts. I'm there now, and it smells vaguely like musty cologne--a mix of wet towels (thanks, laundry room) and recently-showered man beast.

Dear Boy will be back in 5 minutes to resume his homework. Ah yes, the crux! I get 30 minutes a day (my own decision) to accomplish everything I usually spend several hours lallygagging around on the computer to finish.

Did I mention that my new work schedule is terribly computer-heavy? Well, if I didn't, I am now.

Dang.

That probably means that until further notice, all of my blog posts will be whipped out in ten minutes just like this one, with no editing and only a cursory spell check (spelling--pefect; usage? Maybe not so much.). However painful the roadblocks, you can't bail on a potentially perfect relationship after only 24 hours. So, my dear Schedule, fear not, for I shall not abandon thee! Come rain or sleet or snow...

Oh, wrong vow.

Point being, I will make this work. And my 30 minutes just ended. So until next time--

A Mom's Day... Off?

2010-02-11T10:20:00.000-06:00

So apparently I made a mistake a little while ago. I was slightly sick, but still pushing through watching the kids, cleaning the house, pulling out leftovers for dinner, and all those other good things that just won't wait. Dear Boy tried to help, but since he's a full-time student I really feel like I shouldn't accept his help too much--he needs to study.

Anyhow, I remember complaining (mildly, I like to think) about not getting a day off to be sick. Dear Boy looked appropriately apologetic and continued with his school work, and so I mused out loud, "The only way a mom can get a real day off is if she's in the hospital, huh?"

I was joking. I swear I was. But apparently, someone took me seriously.

That's right--I'm in the hospital. And frankly, after the last 14 hours, I'll take screaming kids over a day off any day!

Dear Boy brought me into the ER last night because I was having severe difficulties breathing. My vitals all checked out fine, I just couldn't seem to catch my breath. Never have I received such prompt treatment at a hospital! Turns out, they suspected a pulmonary emoblism. I had just assumed it was pneumonia.

It was neither.

In fact, we still don't know what the problem is. It started Monday and just got worse until last night (although I feel much better now--ready to go home, in fact, if they'd just finish their tests and let me out!). They have me up on the cardiac floor, which seems ludicrous both at my age and with my vital signs and CAT scan results. And no, I'm not upset at the precautions; I really get it. Chest pain + shortness of breath + no answers = assume it's a heart problem. Kind of like innocent until proven guilty. I really appreciate the nurses and doctors and what they're trying to do for me. Everyone is being so kind.

But I miss my babies.

And I'm tired of needles.

In fact, I'm just tired period. I always figured hospitals would be a great place to rest and recuperate; not even close, as it turns out. They came up to offer me food at 1 a.m. (because I wouldn't be allowed to eat after 4, so it was quite thoughtful) and, thinking I was finished for the night, I tried to go to sleep. Apparently, "finished for the night" doesn't exist in the hospital. My night went thus:
1:30: Blood draw.
2:00: Guy from pulmonary in to listen to my lungs.
4:30: Nurse's aid in to check vital signs.
5:30: Nurse in to check on me.
6:30: Nutritionist in to give me the menu of food I'm not allowed to eat until later.
7:30: Another blood draw.
And that doesn't include checks on my roommate. Sigh.

Point being, I learned my lesson. No more hospital vacations for this Mama! Let my kids mow me into the ground on their worst days: At least when they wake me up at night, it's not with needle in hand.

She did it!

2010-02-10T13:28:00.000-06:00

I am so proud at this moment, I could burst my buttons (assuming, of course, I had buttons and was capable of a deep breath; more on that later)! Miss StrawBee, the infant light of my life, has made huge leap forward. She crawled!

And she did it all. on. her. own.

After weeks of trying to "help" her crawl (which included some pretty ingenious schemes if I do say so myself--thanks to my family, particularly, for working with her), the child finally decided to take things into her own hands.

And just like that, she had it.

One moment she was scooting across the floor, the next, I thought I saw her crawling. Might've been a trick of the light. I hauled myself up off the couch so I could spy on her as she made her way into the kitchen. My eyes were not deceiving me.

My little StrawBee. She crawled.

I should've known it would be like this; that it would come all at once. Her birth was that way. Her rolling was that way. Her scooting was that way. Her new syllables were that way (oh, yes that was fun too. One day we were discussing with her occupational therapist the concern that she only had one consonant sound--mmmm--and she should have around three. We were considering physical therapy. Two days later, after dinner, I was trying to scoop her up off the floor and she took off, screeching "DA BA BA DA DA DA BA!" Three consonants: Check.). And now, her crawling.

I think it's (almost perfectly) safe to say that StrawBee is no longer behind her age group. She decided to crawl, and she decided it before the 9 month mark. (Gotta love those milemarshmellows, huh?)

I'm so proud, it's making my eyes water.

My baby.

Brag and Blog Friday!

2010-02-05T11:49:00.000-06:00

Yay for Brag and Blog!! What do you have to brag about this week?

I'd like to brag on Ladybug, who has been extremely well-behaved this week despite (as it turns out) having an extremely nasty ear infection. For a two year old, that's quite an accomplishment. Good job, baby.

Share!

Freak Out

2010-02-05T11:23:00.000-06:00

All right, I'm coming clean.

Again.

I'm a control freak.

Seems like every few months I have to make this cathartic little announcement in order to function in a life that absolutely does NOT allow for controlling everything.

I've long been known as "The Plotter" amongst my friends. There's nothing I like better than planning some huge things and having it come off perfectly (i.e. surprise parties, dinners for 50+, etc). This is a good use of my controlling-type skills because while I might go a little crazy in the planning phases, things do tend to com off beautifully. And if they don't, I have no one to blame but myself.

There's also nothing I like better than planning out every minute of every day with my two beautiful girls and my Dear Boy.

I think you can guess how good a use of my skills that is.

Just this morning, I had plans to sleep in after a very disrupted night's rest before calling the doctor's office, taking the girls in, bringing them home for lunch, and spending naptime doing something important like hanging my last few pictures in the new house. When the phone rang at 6 a.m., however, I knew it had to be the bus barn calling Dear Boy to come in and drive that morning and that if it was, all my plans would be ruined. As DB jumped out of bed to get the phone before it woke the (finally sleeping) kiddies, I prayed I was wrong. I told God quite plainly that He had no right to do this to me, I WAS sleeping in, and that had BETTER not be the bus barn because, gosh darn it, I wouldn't stand for it!

It was. And I did.

But not until after I moaned and pouted and guilted DB into calling back to see if anyone else could come. They couldn't.

Thank goodness.

See, I needed this kick in the pants. After I dragged myself out of bed and started moving, I realized how childish I was being. DB deserved some extra sleep, too. The kids were sick--it's not like they were plotting against me (though it did feel like it). I realized that, frankly, if I wanted to insist on being a sour puss about this whole thing I could and then everyone would be miserable.

I've been behaving this way for a week or two now: Trying to force everything to go my way. Suddenly, though, I feel like a huge weight has been lifted off my chest. I can't control it; it's not in my hands. The best I can do is adapt to the cards I'm given and, let's face it, it's a lot easier to do that than it is to be in charge, once you humble yourself.

So I thank God today for crying babies and early morning phone calls. One of these days I'll learn to separate useful controlling with useless controlling. Until then He, at least, has enough patience to put up with me and wait.

Thank God.

Parenthood's a Punk

2010-01-31T11:25:00.000-06:00

A few weeks ago, I began feeling like I really had this two kid thing down. Routines were going nicely, Ladybug was being extremely well-behaved, StrawBee was sleeping longer, and Dear Boy and I had more time for each other than we had had in a while. I began thinking, "Man, this isn't nearly as hard as I would've thought." I'd also been reading MckMama's blog and telling myself, "Hey, maybe I could do that. Many small children all in a row would be fun!" I was surprised and impressed with my ability to handle my small brood, and just generally cheerfully pleased with my life.

Parenthood, however, is a punk.

Within a few days, all of my smug self-satisfaction lay in pieces around my feet. Ladybug had shown a sudden penchant for picking on her sister and pitching screaming fits 10 times a day. StrawBee caught a nasty cold and wasn't (still isn't) sleeping at night. Dear Boy tried to help me with the suddenly out-of-control kiddies and fell behind at school, forcing him to turn all of our "us" time into "DB and studying" time.

I exerienced a 180 in my attitude towards my children and the possibility of more. (More?! Are you kidding?! I'm ready to sell these ones to the highest bidder!) I looked in the mirror and realized that for the first time since LadyBug had been born, I was happy with my non-pregnant body (I always love my pregnant body--post-partum not so much; an attitude I'm working on) and thinking maybe I don't really want to stretch it out again.

Fascinating, isn't it, how just a few days can completely change one's outlook? Fortunately I've learned not to take any outlook changes that occur on less than 4 hours of sleep seriously. While frustrated, out-of-sorts, and exhausted, I keep telling myself that just as the calm couldn't last forever, neither can the craziness.

Right?

Brag and Blog Friday!

2010-01-29T11:21:00.001-06:00

And it's here again! Your chance to talk about what you (or your loved ones... or your enemies, I suppose, for that matter) have been up to that's absolutely amazing. Let me know what you've been up to, or leave a link to your blog post discussing the same thing!

My brag this week is on a dear friend of mine whose current moniker is The Half-Mad Housewife (that's H. H. for short). She's started a new blog this week and though she hasn't gotten any full posts up yet, I am VERY excited. Her dry sense of humor and clever insights are exactly the kind of thing I want to read in a blog. Check out her blog here!

Way to go, H. H. And tell T. N. O. that I'm so glad he managed to think of such a clever nickname for himself. =)

Flirting

2010-01-27T13:33:00.000-06:00

...with my husband.

Dear Boy and I have a game going. The objective: To see who can render the other completely speechless. The rules: Making the other speechless with anger doesn't count.

Darn. And that was my specialty. (Just kidding, really. DB doesn't get angry. And no, I'm not kidding about that.)

I was winning, and doing a fine job of it, too. Being of a literary bent, shocking one-liners tend to come to me a little more easily. DB gets some good ones, but only if I shut my mouth long enough for them to come out. And since I usually suffer from diarrhea of the mouth (i.e. I cannot hold my tongue to save my life), this doesn't often happen.

Yesterday, however, he won a great victory. In the midst of our regular banter, I asked him jokingly if he needed to go take a cold shower. He just laughed and didn't have an answer (score for me!), then wandered off.

"Hey, where're you going?" I called after him. He didn't answer. So, being the curious girl I am, I followed him.

Only to find him standing in the shower. Sopping wet. Completely clothed. And freezing.

I think I snorted because he looked at me, his eyes innocently wide, started to step out of the shower, inquiring kindly, "Would you like a nice, cold hug?"

I completely lost it and laughed for 5 minutes without stopping (while running from his nice cold hug, I might add). I'm still giggling now.

He won that round, but he better watch out. The stakes are getting higher and I smell some (harmless) pranks in his future if I can't re-secure my lead. Any suggestions are welcome, bwa ha ha...

...with pregnancy.

No, this isn't an announcement (sorry, Mom!). Just slightly philosophical drivel.

I took a pregnancy test this morning, for myriad reasons. We weren't looking for a positive right at the moment. Frankly, with the two kids, the new house, the missionaries moving in, Devin's school, and my attempts at business, we've got our hands full enough!

So why, then, was I disappointed not to get that positive? Because I thought I would? Because we've had problems getting those positives in the past? Because I'm insane?

Probably in the morning, when I'm weighing myself again, I'll be grateful. At the moment, I just want to curl up and... blog.

...with disaster.

Ladybug has been a real challenge the last ten days. It's like she realized, all at once, that StrawBee really isn't going to go away. Suddenly, she's been hitting, pushing, and generally tormenting her sister as well as screaming, kicking, pouting, and generally tormenting her parents. In desperation, we've instituted The Stamp Book. Ladybug can earn up to three stamps a day through good behavior. If she earns three stamps by the end of dinner, she can have a cupcake.

Since this new system seemed to be going reasonably well, I chose to take her with me to Walmart this morning to buy ice cream, cookies, hot cocoa, and candy for my latest church and family projects (happy wedding cake, David!). Obviously a dangerous plan. Despite all temptations, however, Ladybug did amazingly well at the store and earned herself her first stamp for the day!

It wasn't until we got to Nana's house to drop off a few things that it went downhill.

First of all, I had to use the lady's room (remember the pregnancy test?). I decided to lock her out because, on occasion, I have a sudden urge for privacy. She took serious offense at such a thing and immediately stormed into Nana's room to pull out all the wrapping paper she could find and walk all over it.

You can imagine I wasn't too happy with her when I found out what she'd been up to. I told her (in a fairly reasonable way, I thought) that this was unacceptable and she needed to leave Nana's room. She did, and I re-rolled the wrapping paper.

This completed, I tried to find her. It took me a couple minutes. She had closed herself in my mom's office closet and was trying to scale the shelves to get at the treat jar. When she saw me standing there, she stared at the ground and refused to move. I told her absolutely no more sweets (being slightly less reasonable, I admit) and moved her myself.

She didn't want to come with me to the car (no surprise there, I guess), but did follow me to the living room. So I went out to move the car into the garage, leaving her happily pulling a bunch of toys out.

When I returned, she had closed herself in that closet again.

When she saw me, she bolted. I followed her at a leisurely pace, as I found my patience was wearing thin (have mercy; this all happened in about 5 minutes). When I came out to the garage, it was to find that she had not only beaten me to the car, but had climbed into the driver's seat and was trying to put on the seat belt. We've been telling her for a long time she can't get into the front seat because "everyone needs their own seat and their own seat belt." Apparently she thought this meant that if she put her seat belt on, she was good to drive.

If it hadn't terrified me, I would've laughed.

Instead, I hauled her bodily out of the seat, placed her in her car seat, buckled her in, and got myself in, all while scolding her in one looooooong breath.

The drama continued through lunch, but DB was there to spell me. And, actually, when it was naptime she went down like an angel.

Sigh.

There has got to be a better way to handle these situations. But until I figure out what it is, I'm just going to repeat my mantra: You're going to miss this.

Really. I will.

Brag and Blog Friday!

2010-01-22T12:09:00.000-06:00

Ah... Another week, another brag!

Today's brag is actually one myself: For two weeks straight, I have managed to go to bed every night (okay, minus one) with the house clean. All the floors picked up. Dishes rinsed or the washer. Clothes not laid all over the foot of my bed.

I am so proud.

Dear Boy has done his share too, I would like to note. However, since I'm the one who compulsively insists on having the house clean I figure it's only fair I straighten up before bed.

Next goal: Learn not to mind the mess during the day.

What do you have to brag about this week, for yourself or someone else? Post a comment telling me about it, or share a link to your blog. Happy bragging!