What? French Horn Edition

Ryan with his new pet

Some kids bring puppies or kittens home, begging parents to let them stay. Not my kid, though; my kid came home with a French horn.

Apparently my 7th grader, randomly and without warning, wandered into the band room last week and asked to join. Even though we are moving in three months, the teacher let him join, let him chose an instrument, and let him bring a loaner home. Since he already has chorus for his music option, he is taking band lessons after school.

He is already in piano lessons. He has never played a French horn before. I’m not exactly sure how he knew it existed.

Nevertheless, we are now the proud guardian of a more-than-slightly-used French horn.

I don’t know if I should be proud- he does love music and takes initiative; confused- why French horn, why now?; or just plain scared- how much more noise can my poor ears take? At least I now know my Random Gene has been passed onto my children.

(I hope this doesn’t give any other family members an idea. I still won’t let them keep a pet.)

What weird things have your kids/husband come home with, leaving you scratching your head?

I woke up on the wrong side of the bed, but only literally

Today I literally woke up on the wrong side of the bed. Peter is out of town and in an act of insanity, or perhaps sheer exhaustion, when I fell into bed last night it was on his side. I woke to the alarm buzzing, and as I rolled out of bed to hit the snooze button, I hit the other half of the bed instead. Similar to attempting to climb one more step in the dark only to find you've reached the top, my stomach lurched as my preconception revolted.

I just hope my literal miscalculation does not translate into it's well known figurative counterpart.

Also, I keep my alarm on the dresser so that I must get out of bed to shut it off, and yet I always use the snooze button (more than once). One would think I would adjust the alarm to the actual time I get up.

I have no idea why I don't, even though I've realized the inconsistancy.

But this morning I only pressed snooze once.  Well, technically twice, but the second time I remembered I planned on making my inaugural attempt at German Pancakes, so I got up anyway.  My goal is to make sure the kids eat breakfast every morning and that it is something other than cereal or, sometimes, a slice of bread thrust into their hand as they are running to the bus stop.  I don't mean something other than that everyday, only half the days.

To do it everyday I would be forced to confront my 2-3 snooze habit more often.  Baby steps.

The thing I have to remind myself about baby steps is that babies may take small steps towards their goal, and they may be quite wobbly, but they sure do take a lot of them, quickly, and get up when they fall.  I think I misuse the term baby steps to mean "I'm too lazy/unmotivated to actually plan on achieving my goal."

But maybe not, as I have managed to make muffins and German pancakes this week and cereal has replaced bus-running-bread-thrusting breakfast the rest of the time (mostly).

The other thing I need to remind myself about baby steps is that I haven't seen What About Bob in years and it might be on the movies-you're-a-loser-if-you-don't-show-your-children-before-they-grow-up list.  I'm not sure about that, though, as I am a pop culture moron. 

I have crossed Indiana Jones, Ghostbusters, Star Wars, and Sound of Music off that list, though.  Baby steps.

Now I am off to finish prepping for preschool, as it is my turn to host.  We are learning about the letter M so I bought M&M's and we're making M monsters.  Later, I'm making a 3D elephant cake to celebrate Joseph's birthday early as Peter will be out of town again next week. Oh, and I found out yesterday that today is only a half day at school, so the kids will be home around lunch.  Maybe a trip to the library this afternoon is in order? 

I should really try to not wake up on the wrong side of the bed anymore; it shorts out my randomness filter.

The only thing to fear is fear itself ... and escalators

I've managed to keep it a secret for many years, but a couple weeks ago I was forced to reveal a phobia I've held onto since childhood. After 15 years together, I finally admitted to my husband my deep and abounding fear . . . of escalators.

Don't judge me. Can't you see the evil emanating from escalators with their mechanized movement and unnaturally quick and effort free ability to move from floor to floor? I'll show you pictorial proof.



Can't you see it now?

I'm pretty sure the whole thing started from the horror stories my parents told me a child. "If you wait 1/4 second too long to step off, the escalator will suck you down and eat your leg, then you will be sent directly to hell where you will be forced to balance on erratically height shifting surfaces for the rest of eternity" *  At least I think that is what they taught me; I'm sure my mind didn't escalate the warning over time.

But really, someone coordinationally challenged like myself has a lot to fear from that moving staircase of terror. Step on the line and suddenly you're stuck with only half a footing. Let's be honest, I struggle to keep balance with all of a footing on a stationary stairway. I mean I have never on my life been able to catch the timing of double dutch ropes and I'm expected to step with both feet between two evenly spaced lines?

As a grown up I've learned to live with my eccentric fears, I ride escalators all the time with only a momentary pause to gather my strength, double check the speed of the escalator, take a deep breath, and take the leap of faith. My stomach only slightly lurches every time that flat pathway pops up into stairs beneath my feat. After years of practice, I can now step off at the end with only a slight exaggeration.

Watching my kids ride sans my help, however, has intensified my deepest escalator related fears. Lately, for some odd reason, my 13 and 12-year-olds have decided they don't want to hold my hand on the mall escalator. Who am I kidding? Even my 3-year-old insists he doesn't need my help.  As I call out to remember to step off before the belt attempts to eat their toes, they often pretend I'm some crazy stranger. 

They are going to give me a heart attack, stepping on those things without so much as "one, two, three, STEP."

By the way, my husband found this heartfelt confession hilarious. Complete with chuckle and eye roll.  He found it nearly as funny as when I told him I'm afraid of getting prostate cancer or looking like a tourist (while touring someplace on vacation) or that I fear a serial killer might one day sneak in, wait in our closet, then kill us while we're sleeping.

Strangely enough he's scared of having cold water dumped on him in the middle of a shower. Of course, his fears are grounded in reality...






*Technically as a child I remember hearing about a man at the store where my father worked did have his legs amputated (or were they crushed?) while fixing an escalator.  Or something like that.  So my parents did tell me some form of terror story about escalators.

My life needs a narrator

The other day I had an epiphany.  Before you get too excited let me warn you: I'm a frequent epiphanier.  For unexplained reasons, the rate seems to increase sharply with lack of sleep, during showers, or when cleaning too long without listening to something in the background.  Some might think there is some sort of explanation for this that involves words like "lunacy" or "one strange woman", but I prefer to keep things mysterious.

So, back to this particular epiphany.  I realized that there is something missing in my life that, the addition of which, would make things so much easier.  I need a narrator.  Yep, that's right I need a voice over providing commentary throughout the day.  I'd prefer a large booming radio announcer sort of voice, speaking with gusto to some unknown audience.  


Wait!  Unroll your eyeballs and let me explain.  Think about how much easier it would be to have some omniscient narration keeping track of my life!  The next time I declare I want  to take the whole family on a 5K run, a voice could remind me, "And those were her famous last words"  before I leave the house.

What about using the restroom?  As I try to sneak a couple minutes in the narrator could be saying something like, "Meanwhile, down in the living room, the boys decided it was time to visit the neighbors ... in their underwear."

While making dinner I could get the heads up, "If only she knew her husband won't be home till late and the kids won't touch the food, she could save time and just provide chocolate chip cookies for dinner" or while headed to the store, "How long will it take before Charlotte remembers her wallet is not in her purse, but is still sitting by the computer?" 

Speaking of which maybe the next time my keys/remote/shoes/library books decide to wander off, it would be nice to have the narrator wonder aloud, "Will she ever think to look in {insert most bizarre place I will find keys/remote/shoes/library books this time}?.".

The more I think about it the more I think my life may never be complete without a narrator to help me out.   I'm still working out the details- whether or not other people should be able to hear my narrator, if I'm allowed to speak to him, and how comfortable the straight jacket will be (does it come in colors?).

I can't be the only one who would benefit from some life narration.  What would your narrator sound like and what would he/she/it be saying?
 

Seriously, what are they thinking? -or- A humiliating store design

Sometimes I wonder what companies must be thinking when they design their stores.  There are the stores that like to rearrange their product every other week so I am stuck wondering where they've put the toilet paper this time.  Then there are stores who think the candy aisle should be tucked several rows back, right next to cosmetics (so  I can be reminded what all chocolate does to my skin and waistline before I buy it).

But the other day I saw the strangest, cruelest, most bizarre store design ever conceived.   In the midst of cluelessness or madness, maybe both, a department store placed the preteen boys' clothes section directly across from woman's lingerie.  Nothing like a young man, just realizing cooties is a disease worth catching, already uncomfortable to be out shopping with his mommy, to arrive in the area of the store set aside for his clothes and be faced with row after row of over-the-shoulder-boulder-holders, mysteriously silky, lacy, multicolored underpants, and blank faced mannequins showing off various designs of sexiness.

Don't get me wrong, I enjoy embarrassing my tweenage boys as well as the next mom, but making their face blush so deep blood vessels burst while trying to simultaneously avert their eyes and stare just seems a little too cruel.  Here they're expecting to spend the afternoon bored out of their mind, trying to find clothes comfortable to wear 638 days in a row without washing, and instead they are forced to think about the curves of the opposite sex and all the ways girls go about covering, altering, showing off those curves.  With their moms standing next to them!  Boys shouldn't be reminded their moms are female until well after puberty, if ever.

Not to mention the distraction element.  Poor mothers trying to buy their sons some clothes.  "Do you want boxers or briefs?"  "Honey, are you listening to me?"  "If you keep looking at your feet while you walk you're going to run into that ... Ouch!  Did you bump your head?"

I truly felt bad for those boys.  Who thought this was a good idea?  Anyone?  But that isn't the worst part!  Imagine being the adult woman, at the store trying to decide how much support is just right, looking up to see her sons' friend shopping a few steps away.  "Why hello! Yes, I am Junior's mother standing here holding up two bras and debating their usefulness.  I'm sure we'll both appreciate the mental picture you'll have of me every time you come over to play with my son."  I will NEVER be buying my underthings there!  Ever. 

I'm still in shock over that store design.  Why not put the prophylactics next to video game controllers (one could argue they serve the same purpose for some men)?  Or maybe feminine hygiene should be stocked across from action figures?  Seriously, what are they thinking?

The Sock Monster and the ONE child it DOESN'T visit

The lack of matching socks irritated me.  As I rummaged the house for 2 (near) matching socks my 3 year-old could wear (preferably not pink), my irritation finally surpassed my cheapness and I decided new socks needed a place on my shopping list.

Somehow I ended up shopping in the morning, dragging my afternoon kindergartner and preschooler with me.  Normally I would rather sit through 6 episodes of Caillou than grocery shop before the afternoon bus comes, but the decided lack of food and corresponding growling tummies convinced me otherwise.  Plus, I had lunch plans in the afternoon.  (My cheapness does not extend to going out to lunch with friends, my waistline feels gypped).

Once arriving at the sock department, I remembered my oldest boys were also suffering from lack of enough socks, the Sock Eating Monster obviously seeing boys' socks as the ultimate treat.  Unlike my younger two boys, though, the prepubescent ones have ultra smelly feet and are not above reusing socks if none are immediately available.  So I added a package of their size to the cart (one gets the gray heals, the other the black- only one package per size needed*.  I'm not kidding about my love of being cheap).

Then I remembered my oldest daughter had a propensity for borrowing my socks when hers run out.  So I added some of her socks to the cart. I'm not great at sharing.  Ten minutes in the sock department is every child's dream; my boys were in heaven.  Not. So. Much.  Pent up boredom was nearing "Can you believe that mother can't control her kids" level, so we hurried through the rest of the grocery list and left

 {Yes, I shop at a grocery store that has a sock department.  Yes, it is the store you immediately think of that my kids like to call tram-laW.  Remember how I mentioned once or twice my fondness for not spending money?}

When the kids arrived home that afternoon, it was a mini-Christmas.  Please don't note how pathetic it is that my kids are thrilled to get enough socks to last the week.  As I handed out the packages, threatening them to not feed the Sock Monster, my 7 year old daughter waited.  Finally she asked, "Where are my new socks?"

"... Um..."

"...Well..."

"You have tons of socks.  You don't really need anymore. I didn't buy you any."

I didn't mean to buy socks for only 5/6th of my children.  Until she said something, I hadn't even realized I'd done it.  The sock Monster must not have a taste for her socks, she has a TON.  That is the reason, in fact, her brothers often sported pink lined socks.

The look on her face, though.  I might as well as stamped "unfavored" on her forehead.  "But she doesn't need socks!" my cheapness begged.  "But she feels left out!"  my mom sense retorted.

Turns out I forgot to pick up a new flash drive my son needed for a project the next day (the Sock Monster also has a strong appetite for school supplies), and so I found myself back at the store that night.

While there I picked up a package of socks for my 7 year-old.

I'm a sucker.



Epilogue: This happened about a month ago.  Since that time the Sock Monster has managed to eat most of the boys' socks.  Again.  They are now borrowing from their sister at least once a week.  Again.  Good thing I bought her those extra socks.







* I may buy them their own sock color, but that is in no way a promise that they wear their socks that way.  I can't even get them to not share underwear.  I just use bleach and pray it is enough.

So how about you, have you ever accidentally left a child out?  Doe the Sock Monster visit you, too?  Do you turn a blind eye to siblings sharing underwear and socks?  Have a teenage daughter with your shoe size who likes to share your socks and shoes?

My love, my passion, my iPhone

This is a story of true love. Where two soulmates meet and find everlasting happiness.  And like all true loves stories (I'm sure the movies would never misrepresent this), the girl initially spurned her eventual love.  He was too flashy and too trendy.  He was everything she wasn't looking for.  In fact, it was her husband that introduced them and forced them into a relationship.

In other words, when my husband went to pick up my phone with our new provider, I left explicit instructions for a phone with long battery, good antenna, and NOTHING ELSE.  He brought me home the iPhone.  I was mad ... and then I turned it on.  I've been in love ever since.

{Note- For his work he had a pretty fancy blackberry and felt bad that his tech heavy phone was better than his tech savvy wife's phone.  He knew I would love it if I could get over my distaste for spending money and so he bought it.   He was, of course, right.}

Let me give you a glimpse into our relationship.  Last Tuesday we went to the zoo.  In that day we used my phone to google (another tender love of mine) the following:

• Difference between Highway and Freeway

(Highway is any road connecting towns and states, Freeway is a highway without stop signals and crossing traffic and with limited access points on and off)

• Oligarchy

(A type of government where the power to rule is held be a limited, elite group.  Peter was right when he made that guess.)

• Why are some flamingos not pink?

(The pink color is due to chemicals in the food they eat.  Zoo flamingos are sometimes fed coloring agents to help mimic wild flamingos color, but are usually a paler pink)

• Difference between cocoon and chrysalis

(cocoon = moth, chrysalis= butterfly.  My 2nd grader schooled us all with that tidbit.  Google proved her brother wrong!)

• Where did the symbol for female come from?

(Most people think it is a contraction of the Greek symbols for Venus)

In addition to using google on the internet...

• we looked up price houses of a town we were driving through (realtor.com app). Houses outside of NYC are as expensive as we thought.

• I beat a couple sudoku puzzles (sudoku daily app)

• We found and rented a movie to pick up on the way home (redbox app).

• We found out why the actress playing the mother in Where the Wild Things Are looked familiar (iDbM app).  She is also the mom in the Lightening Thief.

• I found out my sister came within 100 points of beating my Tetris Friends score on Facebook. (facebook app and email function)

• We found out the etymology of the words male, female, man, and woman (browsing Wikipedia while searching the female sign thing).  I will hereafter refer to men as werman and women as wyfman, or maybe not.

How can you not love a phone like that?


Also, how can you not love a road trip with so many random and curious questions?

I only give you snapshots

A quick snapshot of my life

As I stand at the stove stirring dinner, the late afternoon sunlight flooding the kitchen, and I smile at my children's activities: 

• Elise creates a picture. The digits of pi meander across her page in changing colors and shapes so they look like a slice of pie.  
• Ryan is deep into composing another song, he just finished "Life in the ER" and is now making "Afternoon Computer Time". 
• Ethan dances around the house with the black foam cylinders he reclaimed from the outside garbage can, calling out all the things he is going to make with them.  
• Kirsti fills out a reading log.  She is reading Sea of Monsters, not too shabby for the second grade.
• Joseph and Matthew giggle as they play a game of catch with a bouncy ball.

This snapshot of my children is perfect, beautiful. They are creative, intelligent, wonderful.

It is a true portrait.

But let's shift the camera and take another picture, within moments of the first.

I dump a jar of spagehetti sauce into a pan, surrounded by a kitchen I didn't have time to clean today (and possibly yesterday).

• Elise has left a huge mess of papers and pens all over the table, right before dinner (again).
• Ryan bangs on the piano, the careful set notes now replaced by nonsensical (and loud) noise.
• A villainous laugh escapes from Ethan as he swings his foam cylinder and chases a screaming Kirsti.
• Joseph and Matthew have decided to see which they can break faster with balls: their noses, their legs, or my ceramic pots.

This is another snapshot of my children.  Exasperating, loud, messy.

It is a true portrait.

The Moral?

Funny thing about life...

It isn't a snapshot; a portrayal of life at any given moment can never give the whole story.  Two incompatible portraits, both true.  I wouldn't be lying if I showed you either one.


Some people only display one sort of life's snapshots for others.  Although it is all I see of them, I know better than to assume it is the only type they ever see.

_________________

My beautiful blogger today is East of Eden (her pseudonym and blog name).  I met her of Mormon Mommy Blogs and added her as a friend on twitter (@theatomicmom).  From her love of history to her conservative politics to her adjustment to becoming a stay at home mother, I relate to her very well.  One of those people you meet who seem to be eerily like yourself, just living a very different life somewhere else.

Just call me Chicken Little.

I hope I don't induce wide spread panic, but I feel it my responsibility to warn you:  

I wouldn't be sounding this alarm unless I held unrefutable proof.   (You might want to sit down to prevent swooning in your distress.)

You see, yesterday I went to put on a shirt retrieved from the back of my closet . . . and I couldn't button it.  It woudn't even reach in the middle.  Not only that, the pants I put on were much tighter than they used to be.  I came to the only obvious conclusion: Our entire world is shrinking around me.  My clothing has simply gotten smaller than it used to be.

I have more proof!  This shrinking world phenomena explains another oddity in my life.  You see somehow a couple hours of each day have disappeared.  There just used to be more time! Until my realization yesterday, I couldn't figure out why.  But now I know: a shrunken world!  Its decreased size has obviously resulted in faster rotation and shorter days.* 

In other completely unrelated news, I've decided to spend less time sitting in front of the computer.

I decided this on my way to spend a couple hours, well, sitting and eating at Panera Bread with my friends.  I'm sure that should help.  No really.


* My geekiness feels a need to explain a little more:  Think of an ice figure skater pulling in her arms while spinning, her rotation speeds up.  It is called conservation of angular momentum.  If you didn't know of my overly odd love of physics before, I guess you do now.  Yes, I spent time finding a web site to explain this even though no one cares.  You're welcome.

______________

Today's beautiful blogger is Nobody from Nobody Called Today. Not only does she have one of my most favorite online names ever (just think of the jokes), she has mastered the art of funny and kid speak.  The antics she writes about with her 3 kids make my children seem almost tame, and that, my friends, is hard to do.


Talk about a shrinking world, we used to be in the same Primary (aka Children's Sunday School) at church when my mother was the chorister.  When I asked my parents if they remembered her, it turns out my father was also their family's home teacher.  Go figure.

Going Against the Cowlick

Last week I went to get my haircut.  It hadn't been that long since my last cut, only 10 months or so.  After all nothing says adventurous like seeing how many "awkward phases" your hair can go through before you finally relent.  I have really thick hair so thick that I was forced to totally sit out the banana clip fad in elementary school, so as my hair grows, it also expands.  And eventually the awkwardness reaches a point where I can either put it in a ponytail or join a freak show. 

Every time I broke another hair elastic, I would grumble that next time I would go short enough to not deal with hair accessories for a while.  After I finally ran out of elastics, I found a style I liked and called the hairstylist.  In case you're wondering, short hair carries a known risk for me.  Let me show you.

... Run upstairs to search for that picture.  Realize the light is out and run down for new bulb.  Dig through the pile of pictures, realize it is in a scrapbook downstairs, run down, find it and scan.  Wait a minute, why would I want to publish this photo of me?  Who am I kidding, I tell stories about losing my skirt in public and publish photos of myself wearing aluminum hats and making faces.  I must enjoy public humiliation.  

Look closer at picture and realize it isn't as bad as I remember.  Was that really only 10 years ago?  Wow, I was young...

So yes, short was risky, but the hope of less work and forced hair appointments won out and I gave it a shot.  After asking if I realized the picture I gave her was a lot shorter than my normal cut, the stylist cut away.

Then she styled it for me,

and she switched my part.

You see I have a cowlick right at the frontiest part of my hairline.  Which has always meant my hair parts backwards from the majority of people.  Most people go right and my hair has always stubbornly gone left.  But the stylist blew it dry opposite from normal.  And it actually stayed!  I was really surprised it looked decent  (even if I looked transposed) and didn't jump back to the left side.

That night my hair migrated back into the normal direction, but a quick brush and spray in the morning brought it back.  So far I've lived with my opposite part for 4 days and am actually getting better at making it go that way.  And that got me thinking, how often do I accept something as inherent and unchangeable about myself when really all it takes is a little extra work to change?

Maybe I don't have to be so timid in social situations.  Maybe I don't have to procrastinate things I get nervous about.  Maybe all I need is a little tweak in my attitude (one most people wouldn't even notice) to change my outlook.  Maybe I've been relying on my personality cowlicks a little to often.


Of course I offer no promise on keeping my hair opposite the cowlick.  I am rather lazy when it comes to my hair.  But I have learned that feeling a little off kilter for a few days won't kill me.  And that I can get used to things pretty fast.  And that I should never assume a hair stylist will notice a huge cowlick right on the hairline.  Better to point those things out.

Sometimes I am a Fairytale

Sometimes I am

the dragon.

Angry and irritated.

Looking to bite off your head

If you look at me wrong.

Fire breathing, untouchable,

Growling.

Sometimes I am

the knight.

Loyal and brave.

Ready to take on the world

As nothing can stop my progress

Righting wrongs, building my kingdom,

Strong.

Sometimes I am

the damsel

Distressed and frightened.

Trapped in an inescapable place

Looking for an escape.

Struggling, hoping,

Waiting.

Sometimes I am

the wizard.

Wise and magical.

Coming up with solutions

That take the kingdom by surprise.

Thinking, experimenting,

Creating.

Sometimes I am

the fairy.

Chaotic and flighty.

Flitting from place to place

Leaving everything half done.

Quick, fun,

Busy.

I am

my fairytale

In the kingdom of my home.

I play all the roles.

Making memories

To become legends later.

Finding joy in my tale.

 What fairytale roles do you find yourself playing from time to time?

 ____________________

I was thrilled to receive the Happy 101 Blogger Award from Linda of Bar Mitzvahzilla.   Her blog is an absolute joy to read, and I am glad we met each other in cyberworld.

As odd as it may seem, I enjoy in my hectic life where I get to play so many roles.  It is fun sometimes even to be the dragon.  After all, without the hard times, the wonderful ones wouldn't feel so grand.

As part of the award I get to pass it along to another blogger who I brings happiness to my blogging experience.  I  choose Amber of Making the Moments Count.  If you ever wondered what my life was like a decade ago, I swear reading her blog is like looking back in time.  (Except, I'm pretty sure I wasn't as articulate or entertaining. )   I love reading her insights into life.

My Dream Husband, Freudian Style

I have a dream husband. I'm not talking about the flesh and blood man currently sitting on the couch arguing with the television. He may or may not be dreamy. No, I'm talking about his imagined counterpart I meet from time to time in my dreams. That dream husband.

Surely you know what I mean? I enter Dream Land happy and content with my marriage, but somewhere between finding a missing classroom and rearranging furniture, I have a run in with Mr. Dream Husband. He proceeds to do something so horrid and unacceptable that I become instantly angry/offended/sobbingly sad. The reasons behind the emotion often remains hazy, but from my reaction I know they're terrible (the ones I do remember I would never share for your public Jungian* interpretations.)

I've screamed, I've raged, I've cried in frustration. And then I wake up, still seething. I remember the first time I met this dream husband, I was steaming all morning long. Poor real life guy couldn't figure what he'd done wrong. All these years later, I still wake up from time to time in the middle of an argument with dream husband, but I've learned to not take it out on poor flesh and blood laying next to me. I punch a pillow instead.

Do you ever wake up mad at someone because of what they did in your dream?

* I know that I put Freud in my title and then referenced Jung. Really, I thought the title was funny but Freud's ideas a little bizarre. I've read Jung's Man and His Symbols so I relate to his ideas on dream interpretations better.

A Few of of Tricks of the Trade

You can’t be a mother very long without learning some tricks of the trade. Some things I wish had been more clearly stated in the owner’s manual (You’ve been doing things without an owner’s manual?!?) while others I’d rather I didn’t know so well. Here are just a few:

If I ever feeling a bit lonely and neglected (Ha!) all I need do is go to the bathroom or make an important phone call. All kids come standard with built in Mom-would-rather-not-be-interrupted-at-the-moment detectors. I will instantly become so popular that my children can’t wait another second before demanding my immediate attention. If those two things don't cross the threshold of detection, I can pull out the big guns by sneaking a treat from the pantry or sitting to read a book. Interrupting guilty pleasures, after all, is the Holy Grail of children's interruptions. If, however, I'm desperate for time alone, I just tell the kiddos it’s time for chores, bed, or homework.

I am an expert at getting rid of my kids' precious life works (aka busy work they bring home by the tree load daily).  I like to hide my children’s priceless treasures under the junk mail in the garbage can. For good measure I sometimes add any moldy contents I find in the fridge (although if discovered afterwards this is a huge backfire resulting in extra nastiness sitting on my counter until I can resneak it into the garbage). I find a practiced “You found that in the garbage? That’s horrible!” soothes the hurt feelings while still being truthful.

Breathing deeply through my mouth while chanting “it is only a natural bodily function” has gotten me through many a nasty situation. So have plastic gloves and the ability to clean while staring at the ceiling.

Some things are always in short supply and I’ve learned stock up when I find them on sale: crayons, chocolate, socks, patience, toilet paper, chocolate, computer paper, light bulbs and chocolate. This list is obviously noninclusive.  I didn't list, for instance, ice cream or sanity.

After fighting the battle to get the kids to clean their own rooms, I only check under beds and in closets if I am willing to fight the entire battle again. Or I’m missing a library book.

And that, my friends, is why I earn the big bucks when it comes to parenting.

____________________________

This post is in response to being awarded an authentic mom award from my sister, whose post was absolutely hilarious.  Click on the link to read it.  She was kind enough to write about me, “She has 6 kids.....enough said. But if I had to go on, I would mention that she does more traditions with her kids than anyone I know and is willing to give up things that she wants in order to make her kids happy“.


You can’t get any more authentic than sneaking garbage, cleaning up unspeakably disgusting messes, and pretending you don’t know how kids clean bedrooms, right?

The rules were that I had to state 5 things that made me an authentic mother and then pass it on to 5 other authentic moms. I am truly terrible at passing these things along, so I guess I will open it up to anyone wanting to explore what makes them an real life mother.  Feel free to contribute.

Yes, I Really AM That Weird. Thanks For Asking.

Many mornings I try to convince myself that 5 more minutes of sleep will make the difference between a perfect day and a day in the life of grouchzilla.  So I hit snooze, but since I can't actually get back to sleep, I use my half conscious brain power to develop the best blog ideas ever.  I'm thinking most of the really good ideas are in the half I routinely forget before waking, because the ones I do remember don't usually look so good when fully awake.

Anyway, the other morning I was thinking some of my strange quirks might be fun to share with the entire world.  I not only (generally) remembered the the quirks later in the day, but it still sounded like a good idea.  Then Christine from Thoughts of a Lite Mocha Mom awarded me a Kreative Blogger Award.  The acceptance of which involves telling you things you may not know about me.

Convergence of half formed thoughts and opportunity can only lead to success, right (especially if it involves randomness, my regular state of mind)?  I enjoyed Christine's post, and am flattered she wanted to learn more about me.

So, are you dying to know all the deep secrets of my life?  Here goes:

(1)

I am a conversation jumper.  I think it perfectly normal to go from "Did you hear about that new species of birds in Britain?"  to "I prefer chocolate pie over banana." without any inbetween sentences.  The worst part is that in my head I've made the 1000 steps to connect the two ideas and have no idea the leap of sense everyone else has to make.

My husband finds this quite humorous and sometimes asks me to play connect the dots and explain the logic jump.  I married him because he was the first person who could follow an extended conversation with me.  Also, he was cute.

On a related note, I begin conversations from time to time with "What do you think about that?"  and end conversations mid-sentence, getting so distracted trying to find the right word that I enter a whole new thought process.

(2)

I have an unusual love for commas and, despite what it may look like, always take many out before I post.  Commas are not my favorite punctuation, though; I love semicolons best.

(3)

I have an unusual fear of looking like a tourist.  This really makes taking pictures on vacation as a . . . tourist . . . quite difficult and is why I have no pictures of my trip in September into New York to see Wicked.  I'm not sure, but I think this came from living in central Pennsylvania and feeling bad when the tourists would gawk over the Amish (not to mention downplaying my own desire to do the same). 

(4)

For Christmas I asked for and received a Shark Steam Mop and a king sized electric blanket.  I love these new toys way more than any self respecting 33 year old woman should.

(5)

For a long time I thought that Jack Nicholas was a famous actor who also played professional golf.  This speaks volumes to my (lack of) pop culture savviness.

(6)

My husband owns more shoes than I do.  He is also more likely to come home with a new outfit.  I am the frugal one and he is the spender.  So when women complain about their husbands stingy budgets, I daydream about what our life could be like.  You know, tiny house eating rice and beans in perpetuity.  Sounds lovely, right? (By "our life" I mean my husband as a penny pincher and mine not "our life" as the friend's husband and mine, that would just be creepy.)

(7)

Do you ever wake up in the morning and are surprised when you open your eyes because you are not laying in the position you thought you were (like you thought you facing the edge of the bed but were really on the opposite side)?  When I wake up that way, I shut my eyes and try to trick my proprioception into thinking it again.  That's right I try to talk my body into thinking I'm in a different spot on the bed than I know actually am.

  ____________

And those are seven things you probably didn't know about me and might rather you didn't know now.  I also have a bizarre phobia about asking people to do things, a sort of fear of rejection (Bonus!  You get 8 things about me).  So if you'd like to take the chance to tell people about yourself, go ahead.  If you want to help make me feel less weird, but hate memes, you can tell me some odd fact about yourself in the comments.  If you do a post, I'll link to you.  Here are the rules:

The rules for accepting this award are:
1. Thank the person giving the award
2. Copy the award to your blog
3. Place a link to their blog
4. Name 7 things people don't know about you
5. Nominate 7 bloggers
6. Place a link to those bloggers
7. Leave a comment letting those bloggers know about the award

No Longer a Young Mother of Young Children

I foolishly thought, when I stopped having children, my family was done growing.  But my family is growing: taller, heavier, louder.  It was painfully apparent during Christmas break that my kids are taking up a lot more space than their younger selves.  We long outgrew cuddling on a couch and now we can't even squish onto two couches; we can barely crowd into one room!  What would have once been a rough house game in the middle of the carpet now spreads across the entire house, even at times spilling outside.  Silly giggles are replaced by hearty laughter and playful taunts.  We are already developing long-lasting inside jokes, the sort that carry into adulthood and make family reunions complete. 

I have lost my "young mother of young children" status.  This year my oldest has left Primary and my youngest has entered.  I am actually sitting through entire Sacrament meetings again.  I'm even able to pay attention to speakers!  Each week as I observe my family spread down the aisle (each with their differing levels of attentiveness), I am forced to admit that my kids are getting older.   As I look in the mirror I am forced to admit the same about myself.  Just when did that wrinkle go from seen-when-smiling to permanently-there?

I must admit I woke up the other day in a panic.  Years of parenting have been spent.  What if I'm wrong?  What if I should have been a helicopter parent after all or I have a fatal blind spot allowing major problems to fester for years unseen?  If I've been very slightly off course for YEARS how far off will I have dragged my children?  By the time I notice could it be too late to correct?  HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO NOTICE ANYWAY?

Then I remember.  The Lord sent me my children and it is my calling to be their mother.  I have done the best I can, I continue to do so.  After all, I can only offer my best and trust the Lord will magnify it to be enough.  I will continue to pray for guidance and try to do better.  And I will continue to watch in amazement as my family grows in ways I never imagined.

And I will use that recently bought eye serum every night, too.  Just because I've lost my young mother status, doesn't mean I have to have too many wrinkles, right?

Normal? Don't Waste Time With That Fallacy

The other day I pulled out the good hot chocolate.  Stuff that requires milk instead of water, may cost more than drinking shaved gold, and must be how heaven tastes.  I keep it hidden from my children so it doesn't get wasted on their less cultured palates (it might kill me to see it congeled and forgotten on the cupboard like I regularly find the other hot chocolate).  So when my oldest son asked to have a cup, it was a big deal to allow him 4 tablespoons from my hoard.  And when I saw the teapot heating up as my oldest daughter pulled out a packet of Swiss Miss, I felt rather gracious informing her of my temporary generosity.
"That's okay, Mom, I like this kind just as well,"  was followed with a reflective "I know that's not normal, but I don't mind not being normal all the time."  Those are words of comfort to the mother of a near teenager.  I have noticed lately that many people, even at my age, are still battling the idea of Normal.

Normal.  There are three lifestyles I've noticed that are based around it. 

1. There are those who spend their whole lives on a quest to achieve Normal with all goals centered around reaching that blessed state.  Differences sprout embarrassment or self castigation and are often hidden in shame.  If only I {whatever} like everyone else, then I would be happy, productive, liked.  If Normal is crafty, so must I be (even if I hate crafts, I just pretend).
2. Then there are those so frightened of Normal they spend their lives running or hiding from it.  They think if match up to Normal too often, they will cease to exist as an individual.  They spend their whole life making sure they don't like Normal.  If Normal is crafty, I'm not interested in crafty.  I won't even try.   (I must admit that there was a time when this described me and I didn't do things merely because it was Normal or popular with women my age.  It wasn't until I overcame my fear of Normal that I found I liked scrapbooking and baking bread)
   
3. With similar fear, but stronger reactions, are the fighters.  Somehow they see normal as an evil that must be eradicated, with shame and superiority as favorite weapons.   Normal is wrong and they seem bent on proving it.  Normal is mundane, small minded, ignorant, and low class.  They are different and that somehow makes them better than Normal. If crafty is Normal then those who like it should be ridiculed, I have too refined taste for such things.
   

What none of these people seem to understand is that Normal is really quite imaginary.  There are certainly norms and things many people have in common, but nobody typifies everything.  The longer I live the more I see how little anyone has in common with Normal.  Actually, a lot of conceptions on Normal depend on where you live.  I may be Normal with my 6 kids in Utah but I am odd here.  And it doesn't matter to me if I live where it is Normal or not, I enjoy my large family.  If you still think that everyone else is Normal and you're the odd one out, you need to look a little harder.  Besides, if you spend your time seeking, fighting, or hiding from Normal your going to miss how fun it is to be you! 

Don't be scared of not being Normal.  Hate chocolate?  Embrace that fact.  Prefer odd hair colors?  Why not!  But don't be scared of Normal either.  Like to scrapbook?  Read Twilight?  Prefer McDonalds?  Don't let a fear of Normal get in the way of liking what you like.  And if you find a knee jerk reaction to Normal is to argue or feel superior?  You need to reevaluate.  There are norms that should be argued, but there are norms that have good reasons, too.

So I say be who you are and throw Normal out the door.  It is when you stop worrying about Normal that you see how illusive a concept it is.  I hope my daughter keeps wanting to be herself.  I hope she continues to not mind Abnormalities and that she doesn't shun something merely because it's Normal.  I hope she knows that the only thing completely Normal is the lack of Normal.  I hope she can embrace that fact wholeheartedly.  (And I hope she continues to prefer the cheap hot chocolate so I can enjoy my expensive stuff in peace).

My Theory of Sleep Deprivation & Chirstmas Ideas

It is once again that time of year. The time where I wake up and realize Christmas is only a few weeks away and I have six kids and I had promised myself I would start Christmas preparation months ago. It is quite unfortunate that this realization always comes just after late nights of  Halloween prep compounded by the evil time switch of daylight savings. Because I am sleep deprived. Not enough to appear overly grumpy (ha ha!), but enough to definitely impair my judgement.

I hold that this is the reason I decide that playing Santa to 6 kids isn't enough stress in my life. It's inadequate rest that makes creating all homemade decorations sound lovely. Staying up late to order on Amazon is directly related to the inspiration of cooking five hundred thousand cookies for neighbors and friends. (If I had pushed my bedtime another hour I might have decided to hand quilt them all blankets!)

It is a vicious cycle. A night of stitching individualized book marks leads to a (too early) morning and an idea to bake every Christmas pastry known to humankind. Welcoming the next new day at its earliest beginning, still brushing glazes on bread, will definitely mean choosing to go with hand quilled snowflakes. And as the paper rolling winds into another all nighter, my sleep deprived ideas are fueled into even wilder ideas.

So far this year I have kept my ideas to a minimum. Except the crayon holders, Christmas banners, painted ornaments, and husband's coworker gift. Did I mention my dearest husband is enabler to my lack of sleep creativity?

So if I seem a little distracted, perhaps snoozing in the middle of conversations or forgetting little things like my name or pants, please excuse me. At least there will be enough cookies, decorations, and hand sewn gifts to last a lifetime (or at least till next November).

Can You Just Forget You Know That?

I know in my last post I talked about how wonderful it is to have more independent children, but there are some things I would rather they hadn’t learned:

• Chicken nuggets at fast food places can come with sauces.
  
• Fast food places also offer children’s meals and they come with toys.
  
• We have unlimited text and, despite their lack of cell phone ownership, they can use mine.
  
• IPhones have game apps.
  
• I’m a sucker for math oriented games and books. When asked for, they’ll usually get them.
  
• Our CD player has a repeat song feature.
  
• Chances are high I won’t notice if they wear the same shirt twice. Definitely won’t notice underwear.
  
• As long as they’re being quiet, they can stay up late. I won’t check until I’m going to bed.
  
• I won’t wake up if someone sneaks into my bed.
  
• When I'm in the middle of a book (or blog post) I'm not really paying close attention to what they're doing. 
  
• Forgiveness is easier to obtain than permission (especially in the kitchen).
  
• I can’t tell if they throw something in their packed school lunch away or eat it.
  
• They can DVR shows. Press record twice and get the entire season.
  
• The existence of the Disney Channel, Full House re-runs, and What Not to Wear.
  

Do you have knowledge you wish your kids would just forget?

I Will Not Be Adopting Monkeys Anytime Soon

Sometimes I wonder if I'm normal.  OK, honestly I have no delusions of being normal, but I wonder just how odd I am.  The other day I watched a show called "My Monkey Baby."  It was about people who adopt monkeys and treat them as their children.  One of the reasons given was how much they missed feeling needed in the way only small baby or toddler needs.  The hunger for absolute dependency. 

Granted, my ideas of normal shouldn't be formed by people who get angry when their monkeys are referred to as monkeys, but, still, I have heard that sentiment before.  I wonder if I am alone in feeling relief as my children grow independent: when I put up my crib for the last time I was excited, I smile as I give away clothes finally too small for me to keep as hand-me-downs, I love sending my children to school and watching them perform tasks for themselves I once had to do.  As each stage ends I leave it behind without remorse, regret or longing.  Not that I didn't find joy in my toddlers, just that I am completely okay with being finished with that stage.  Granted, I have been dealing with the terrible twos for a dozen years, so I may be suffering from over kill.

Last week I had book club at my house and decided to attempt balancing out my fireplace with some pots.  It wasn't till after everything was in place that I realized I had reached yet another milestone.  The pots were on the floor.  After years of keeping everything higher than a toddler can reach (with or without a chair), I can finally use my floor space again.  It was a happy thought.

Moms Say the Darndest Things

Things that have actually come out of my mouth:

• "You can not go outside until you've played that video game!"

• "Broccoli? Are you sure you don't want fries as your side?"

• "That's it! You're grounded from reading."

• "Stop doing those dishes!"

• "Put those away, we're not reading scriptures right now."

• "Are you sure you're really feeling OK? Your not faking well to go to school again are you?"

• "Get down here, you are going to watch this TV show!"

• "I better not see you doing your homework."

• "Please tell me the underwear you're wearing on your head came out of the clean laundry pile."

• "Next time why don't you let me clean up your puke."

Ever hear something come out of your mouth and can't believe you actually said it (and/or wonder how such a phrase could possibly be necessary?) Life sure can be weird sometimes.