The Cinnamon Raisin Bagel Incident

Long ago, when our marriage could be measured in months easier than years, we were broke. Not in a wow this really needs fixed way, more like a can groceries be considered optional this week? way. Broke enough that fancy bagels, or even regular bagels for that matter, were a delicacy. My sweet new husband decided to treat me and picked up beautiful cinnamon raisin bagels after an early morning shift at UPS. Unfortunately I despise raisins; from the texture to the taste to the thought of poor grapes losing all their god-given moisture to become shriveled shells of themselves. Yuck!

They may actually be my least favorite food, but somehow the subject had yet to come up.

We've laughed about the cinnamon raisin bagel incident for years. It represented everything we still had to learn about each other and the surprises still left to find in our relationship.

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Peter still likes to bring home small surprises for me. He often picks something up when he's out, although after the cinnamon raisin bagel incident, he buys things he already knows I like. Which is why he was struck last week when he passed a case of Cherry Vanilla Diet Dr. Pepper. Knowing my preference for DDP and my love of vanilla flavoring, he immediately picked it up to surprise me. But there was a major flaw, however, as this gift was Cherry Vanilla Diet Dr. Pepper.

You see, three days before I was messing around with my "about me" section on this very blog. Trying to be silly, I had started with the most trivial information I could think up about myself. This is what I'd written:

"The most important thing you could know about me is that I hate the taste of cherries. Not cherries themselves, just the taste of them as a flavoring. This is due to years of cherry flavored medicine, which eventually led to my association of the flavor with nastiness. "

His timing was perfect, it was the cinnamon bagel incident all over again.

(Although I found the vanilla flavoring mellows the cherry taste, allowing me to enjoy my treat. Still I couldn't get over the rather hilarious timing.)

Have you ever inadvertently given your loved ones a failure of a gift?

Proclamation of Ban Lift and Reinstatement

In the Year of Our Lord Two Thousand and Eleven, We, the Benevolent and Tyrannical Rulers of this Realm, did proclaim a moratorium on our longstanding Ban on Chewing and Bubble Gum within the Borders of Our Home.

Unfortunately, despite multiple allegiances sworn toward Proper Gum Disposal by the Citizens of this Realm, our subjects celebrated the lift of this oppressive Ban by leaving saliva infused gum everywhere.

With great wailing, gnashing of teeth, and use of ice to eliminate matted gum from new carpet, We, the Beloved and Feared Rulers of this Realm, have reinstated the Ban. Probably forever.

To avoid Confusion or Protestations of Ignorance, the following is a list of things We, the Wise and Unreasonable Rulers of this Realm, have prohibited within our Home's Borders:

Chewing Gum

Bubble Gum

Songs sung by Boy Bands and/or over-hyped celebrities of certain children TV stations.

Playdough and all derivatives

Rated "M" video games

Non-Washable markers

Neon clothing

Books based on TV shows or toys (With the exception of Phineas and Ferb)

Scooters

Socks worn with Sandals

Cauliflower

As of this morning, after investigating a Horrendous Smell in the vicinity of The Girls' Room, We, the Exacerbated and Exhausted Rulers of this Realm, are considering the addition of Nail Polish Remover to The List. We will interrogate the Perpetrators and make our decision forthwith. (Creating Fear in the Subjects and demanding a Room Cleaning might be sufficient)

Two Types of Green in this World

I posted this a couple years ago, but it honor of gas prices once again making me cry, shrink rays not yet invented, and Earth Day being celebrated today, I thought I would repost it.

I have an announcement: I have decided to go green. You see I like green. I think it is very important. Only the green I’m talking about comes in paper form. You know the kind you might find in a wallet or bank; although not a lot of banks anymore (stupid lending practices), or, for that matter, wallets (stupid spending practices). Don’t get me wrong, I love our environment. The moon would be fun to visit, but who would want to live there? Plus, I’m all about clean air and water. And I’m sure you all realize that SUV’s caused the extinction of the dinosaurs and the Kyoto treaty wasn’t signed during the Little Ice Age of the 1600’s.

But my green helps with other important things in life, like eating or buying iTunes songs. Lucky for the over the top, crazy environmentalists (you know the ones fighting for the rights of one species of roach or flying in private jets all over the world to environmental conferences), my green happens to correspond with theirs this time.

You see, funny thing about 6 kids, they TAKE UP A LOT OF ROOM. Which is why I drive a huge, gas guzzling, 9-seat Suburban. With the rising gas prices, I am having major green anxiety. Did you know most gas stations have a maximum amount you can buy per purchase? I do. In fact for certain parts of last summer I hit that limit EVERY week. I think it would have been less painful to actually give the station an arm and a leg.

Nowadays, $75 dollars seems to buy about 5 gallons of gas. With my Suburban’s mileage, I estimate that is enough to drive the 3 miles directly home and almost make it back to the station (on fumes, of course). So I have decided I need to find a way to save on my gas budget (which is closely approaching my house payment in size). Here are my ideas thus far:

1- Shrink the children with a shrink ray so they fit in the backseat of a car. This idea was perfect, until I found out shrink rays are hard to find. Did you know that “Honey I Shrunk the Kids” ISN’T a documentary?!? I know, I know, I was shocked, too.

2- Bungee cord one child on top of a minivan. I was in the middle of trying to decide between bungeeing a seat up there or just hooking the cords directly around them when I remembered how our window broke in our 1st house in PA- it involved bungee cords and near eye loss. And a lot of parental yelling. I decided I didn’t want to risk losing my voice (or eye) so I had to retire this idea.

3- Walk. Pioneers did it, why not? I was trying to estimate the size I needed to make my handcart. By the time you added everything I take with me in the Suburban (6 kids, water bottles, snacks, diapers, toys, extra clothes, missing shoes, candy wrappers, old french fries, the kitchen sink, etc.) I found my handcart would need to be, well, suburban size. I tried pushing the suburban. Not so great.

4- Combine outings for fewer trips. Hello, I actually tried this one after the oldest kids started school. Did you know that taking 2 kids to 6 stops is as exhausting as taking 6 kids to 2? And they said I would never need to use 1st grade math skills in real life.

5- Have my husband take the Suburban to work while the kids are in school so I can drive the Audi with my preschoolers. He told me he would get back to me on that one. . .

6- Convert my SUV to run on natural gas, or maybe milk, or uneaten french fries residing under car seats. My kids can come close to producing enough natural gas but not quite (only way to get it yet), milk is nearly as expensive as gas (don’t get me started on my exploding grocery budget), and the science just isn’t there yet for french fries (although I’ve heard some interesting things about used fast-food oil).

7- Buy a transporter. Star Trek isn’t real either? Science-FICTION?!? Totally not fair.

Well I am about out of ideas, plus I just found out that I could only sell my SUV for about $3.67 anyway (apparently no one else wants to spend a fortune on the drive to the supermarket either). I guess I’ll resort to sobbing miserably every time the gas gauge approaches “empty”. It’s not easy being green. Or losing green to my Big Red Suburban. And I think science should start researching shrink rays, transporters, and french fry cars. That would be great.

>Join me next week when I discuss how I am trying to conserve water. Family baths anyone? We can wash the dishes at the same time!

That time I gave my eyes an accidental overdose

I'm rather fond of my eyeballs. Sure, they require super strong lenses to see past the end of my nose. And they did once got a serious tissue-destroying infection that caused me severe light sensitivity and pirate looking eye patches. Oh, and allergies once caused the white part to swell like a blister. But I can't complain about what my eyes have done to me, as I once almost killed them.

What? I never told you how I almost accidentally murdered my own two eyeballs? Well, I can fix that right now.

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It's all the fault of the TSA. Or is it the terrorists? Whomever you choose to blame for the "only 3 ounce liquids on an airplane" rule. We were travelling to Texas for my brothers wedding. (Maybe it is his fault for getting married and making me travel by plane?) Wanting to see more than the end of my nose, I brought my travel-sized contact solution and case. At the time we lived in North Carolina and by the time we traveled to the airport 2.5 hours away and then flew to El Paso with all six kids, we were a little tired. I dug through the luggage, took out my now-glued-to-my-eyes contacts, washed my face, and went to bed.

Something I've done a thousand times, right? Not the travel to El Paso part. The take out my contacts after a long day part. In the morning I completed the ritual by reinstalling my contacts. There was the not-unusual burning the first blink or two, and then... and then ...

The burning seemed to intensify? Ouch! It hurt so badly! When I ran back to the bathroom to take out the trecherous contacts I realized what I had done.

You see, ever since the allergic eyeball swelling incident, I have been very good at using allergy eye drops. Nothing like Frankenstein eyes to learn that lesson. But, the normal small bottle of eye drops was almost the exact size and shape as the contact solution bottle. In my exhaustion the night before, I had grabbed the wrong bottle. I had soaked my sight-giving, water absorbent pieces of plastic in allergy eye drops all night. And then worn them on my equally absorbent eyeballs for 5 minutes. (What can I say, I'm a little slow to respond. I kept thinking the burn would just go away. If I'd realized what was causing it earlier, I would have acted sooner.)

I had just given my eyeballs a major overdose, and they were MAD at me.

You might be asking what three months worth of eye drops absorbed in 5 minutes feels like? Well, my pupils completely overtook my irises. If I didn't know better, I would think it went past my irises. My eyes went from hazel to pure black for over a day. Light became my enemy.

The next day or so, I was the idiot rocking sunglasses indoors. Over my normal glasses (which were held together with tape and wire). It was a beautiful way to meet everyone coming in for the wedding. Luckily, by the time the actual wedding came, I was able to put contacts back in, but I still couldn't handle bright light. Good thing we weren't in the middle of the desert. Oh yeah, we were. I could at least pull off my sunglasses for short amounts of time, long enough to not look dorky in the wedding photos. More dorky than normal that is. It's been a few years for my overworked mind to forget, but I think I did okay in the temple without the sunglasses, too. That would be something I'd remember, right?

On the plus side, I had no itching or redness in my eyes the entire time. My eyes may have never been so black, but they had never been so white, either.

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So the next time your packing all your 3-ounce-or-less liquids for a trip on the airplane, remember to be careful. All those bottles may  look alike, but they are definitely not the same thing.

Strangle enough I also learned about under/over exposure on my camera this trip, too
Carlsbad Caverns and White Sands.

A Zombie in my Graveyard of Mothering Theories

I've written before about my Graveyard of Mothering Theories where all unwanted good ideas go after their short-lived and spectacularly failed lives. Ideas like never feeding kids preservatives or letting them watch TV. Or the theory that I would never yell. Then there are the sundry ideas guaranteed to make chores desirable, homework doable before due, or washing with soap standard. Most of these theories are killed so thoroughly they sensibly stay buried in their graves.

But there is one idea that just won't die!  No matter how often it's veracity is destroyed and it is sent again to the Graveyard, it comes back in rotten, zombified form to try again. Obviously it has already eaten away at my brain.  Why else would I listen to it over and over and over again?  After nearly FOURTEEN years of failure, I still think it will work this time.

What is this zomberific, evil idea that refuses to die?  If my kids stay up late the night before, they will sleep in the next morning.  It never, ever works, and yet . . .

Every weekend, school holiday, or snow day as bedtime approaches, I think to myself, "I'll just let them stay up late now so they'll sleep in late tomorrow."

The problem is it makes sense! Logically, when one stays up late they'll want to, need to, try to sleep in the next morning. The law of conservation of sleep. Of course, if logic mixed with kids they wouldn't whine when their mother is already irritable or try to wear sandals in knee-deep snow.

The worst part is that the kids are then grouchy the entire next day. And, since it isn't a school day, I'm the one stuck with them and their cantankerousness! I'm telling you this zombified mothering theory is downright SCARY.

This is why last week, on a Monday without school, I could be found with 6 ornery children at the McDonald's playland. (Thinking taking them out of the house would make them magically less grouchy- another theory that just won't die.) If I looked like I was ignoring my children please don't judge too harshly. I had, after all, just become a little more brain dead from attack of the undead parenting theories.

What about you? Have a great parenting idea that just won't die, no matter how often it is disproved?

It was the best place to run out of gas. Also the most humiliating,

It would be humiliating, if it weren't so ridiculous.

It all started when Peter's friend had an emergency and asked him to take over a pick up at the Bishops' Storehouse. Peter, quite fond of his friend, readily agreed. I, quite fond of my husband sleeping instead of driving after an all night shift, volunteered to do it instead.

Luckily, a friend had already requested a playdate with 3 of my children and, hearing the two left in the car crying, volunteered to take them, too. So, with my oldest left at home, I was driving my brand new and improved* Suburban alone for the 75 minute drive to the storehouse.

*Did I mention we took it to get a tune up after the drive shaft was repaired? On this first substantial drive after picking it up, I realized they somehow broke my speedometer; now it jerks back and forth in a 5 mph swing. Also, the brakes aren't working properly anymore. So "brand new and improved" really means "I can't believe I'm stuck with you until after we close on the house."

The drive there went without a glitch and the car was loaded with the needed food. On the way home, however, I found myself thinking, "Do not fall asleep. You are not tired. Do not ..." Chanting, by the way, is not the best way to keep awake. Instead I decided to stop at a gas station/rest stop to get a soda. As an afterthought, I picked up a candy bar and as an after-afterthought upgraded it to kingsize.

Walking back to the car, I noticed a wild rooster eating crumbs from the parking lot. He eyed my candy bar, I think, with jealousy. I jumped into the Suburban and started the engine.

It started and instantly died. No amount of revving would get it to turn over again.

My first thought is that the battery somehow died so I unplugged my phone, the GPS, and the XM radio (wonder why I was worried about the battery), but it did no good. Then I remembered how the last time the battery died it was really out of gas.*

*You see the gas gauge has been broken since we bought that car. At 1/4 tank it either has 1/4 tank or it is running on fumes. It was not until that moment that I remembered the gauge had been on 1/4 full when I left the house that day. Something you think should make a bigger impression on me, distracted and tired or not.

I sat in the car for a moment to savor the ridiculous fact that I had run out of gas, at a gas station, where I stopped not to buy gas, but to buy a soda. Silently praying the fumes would expand just enough to take me to the pump, I tried about 10 more times. Because surely trying over and over will fix the problem.

It did not.

So I walked back to the front of the station and bought myself one of those gas containers. The cashier regarded me curiously. After all, why would I be buying an I-ran-out-of-gas container when I am obviously already at the gas station? And if I walked here, why would I purchase a soda and candy bar before taking care of business? "My gas gauge is broken," I mutter as explanation, my eyes properly lowered in shame.

Speaking of shame, there is nothing quite like the walk of shame to the gas pump. Standing there carless while customers filling their car-attached tanks try not to notice. Their own gas pumps suddenly become far too interesting to look my direction, but I can almost hear them thinking, "There but for the grace of God (and attention to the gas gauge)..."

The rooster who taunted me.

I had plenty of time to ponder the inner thoughts of my fellow gas buyers as my first gas container was broken. After a couple minute trying to fish out the spout, I went back to the cashier and begged leniency. She replaced the offending container and I took the walk of shame again, buying my 2 gallons and taking it back to the Suburban. My only break was that the parking lot I choose was in back and had no witnesses expect the wild rooster, who I know was laughing at me the whole time. I should have shared my chocolate the first time.

Finally, the gas added to the tank, I was able to start the car and pull up to the pump.

My credit card was denied. "Please see cashier inside"

Something about using my card 4 times in a half hour triggered suspicion. I had to see that cashier one more time and explain again. Luckily, as a participant in nearly every step of my story, she understood what happened and let me use my card. "Gas gauge," I squeaked one last time as I left the store.

Finally I was on my way. I guess I'm lucky I stopped for that soda. Although the chocolate is what really calmed my smarting ego. At least I no longer felt tired at all; I recommend humiliating yourself if you ever feel sleepy at the wheel.

The story of my birth

I decided to make my debut in this world a year or so after my parents met, nine months after they married, and precisely on my due date.

Labor began while my parents and my dad's best friend were in the middle of watching Charlie's Angels, which is extremely rude behavior before the age of DVR's or even VCR's.  How much more polite to come earlier, when my mother ran around the house several times vainly hoping to entice me? Obviously, my vague distaste for exercise existed even in the womb.

Despite her earlier attempts to jump-start labor, after only one major contraction my mother changed her mind entirely about that whole "delivering a child" thing. It obviously was not for her and she simply was not going to do it. My father, despite knowledge of my mother's fierce determination in most things, still realized the flaw in her argument and persuaded her to go to the hospital anyway; his persuasion taking the form of enlisting his friend's help in carrying her to the car.

I was born in rural, rural Arkansas in 1976 which  meant a few things. First of all, I would never like to wear shoes (true story) and would feel compelled to shop at WalMart (who shares its beginning in rural Arkansas).  Also, they didn't go into all those new-fangled things like epidurals or allowing the father's presence in the birth room. No, they still used laughing gas and made the father pace outside. As they wheeled my mother away, she grabbed my father's hand and left him with immortal words of wisdom: "Honey, I forgot to iron your shirts." I think they still used laughing gas just to give the husband teasing ammunition for the rest of eternity.

The rest of my birth is sort of unreliable as my mother was a little bit high and my father was not there.  I can assume that it actually happened. Pretty sure I wasn't dropped, even if that would explain a lot. It couldn't have been too horrid, either, as my mother did it 5 more times without any medication or epidural.  My siblings can thank me for their existence later.


Now anyone who has ever said, "What's in a name?" has never been through child naming negotiations. Sorry Shakespeare, but apparently there is a lot in a name. My parents were no different. My father, the driving force behind "Charlotte", made solemn vows to never abbreviate my name to "Char", a nickname my mother did not appreciate. I can't be certain what threats were made, but they must have been severe as the nickname was never used. On rare occasions when people insist my name needs shortening, I have gone by Charlie. I'm sure this is some cosmic commentary on interrupting Charlie's Angels with my birth.



I would like to preemptively apologize to my mother for the preceding story. Obviously I can only go on what I've been told about my birth and, re-reading it, it must be my father who told me. Why else the knowledge of what was on TV and the good-humored teasing of my mother? Any inaccuracies can be blamed on waiting until late to write this so I couldn't call and double check facts and/or my own faulty memory . I was born under the influence of laughing gas, after all.

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.

Goldilocks and the Bears are a Bunch of Liars

Lately my 4-year-old has been asking me to read stories "the kind that aren't in a book." Which means he wants me to tell him a fairy tale. Good thing I went through a Brother's Grimm stage when I was young. Also, good thing I can edit out the nightmare inducing parts. I mean have you ever read the original fairy tales? Gruesome doesn't even begin to describe them.

But I digress. I meant to tell you my epiphany after a rather riveting rendition of Goldilocks and the Three Bears the other day.

"This story is in no way based in reality!"

Aren't you shocked by my insightfulness? You might think the talking bears living in a nice forest cottage gave it away. Or perhaps the adorable blond criminal smart enough to break into a house but stupid enough to only steal porridge then take a nap.  At the very least that Goldilocks was quick enough to escape three angry bears and strong enough to survive a two story drop out a window. 

No, it was much more obvious a tip off. Goldilocks finds Baby Bear's porridge/chair/bed most inviting. No way! It is a universal law of motherhood that all children are irresistibly drawn to the possessions of the mother.

CASE #1
If given three bowls of porridge, no matter how wonderfully spiced and temperatured the other two are, everyone will want the mother's portion. At my home I could make everyone a gourmet meal specifically tailored to their likes and, as soon as I sit down with my peanut butter sandwich, everyone will want said sandwich. (Everyone who knows me knows this is completely hypothetical as "gourmet meal" and "specifically tailored" are not in my repertoire of cooking skills.)

CASE #2:
Look at the chairs, too. Is there a favorite Mother spot that isn't instantly coveted by every member of the household? Even if it is the bathroom? Totally unrealistic that Goldilocks would find Baby Bear's chair "Just right."

CASE #3:
The only believable part of the story is the chosen bed. I think it is clear that the "just right" bed would be the one most recently washed and made by Mother Bear. That could easily be any of the three beds.

CONCLUSION:
So why is this story propagated? One might think it is to teach proper behavior for visiting or some other rot, but I think it is lying propaganda made to trick mothers into thinking they can own something and people will actually leave it alone. Don't be taken in by this trickery. It is your bowl that will be empty, your chair broken, your housework undone. The guilty party won't even bother to jump out the window when they're done.

Now, to calm your sensitivities, Matthew likes to retell the stories immediately after I tell them. He thinks it's funny to change around the details, and I have to agree with him:

My Convolutedly Complex Road to Simplicity in Day to Day Life

With six children under the age of thirteen, I am always looking for simple ways of doing things. The flaw to this philosophy, of course, is obvious: "With six children." You see, my path to simplicity is, well, complicated.

I first began thinking about this as I was scratching my kids' names into their new toothbrushes. You heard me correctly; I was scratching their names with a thumbtack into the more expensive, vibrating toothbrushes I refuse to buy more than once a month. It is the only way to know, after the first or, if I'm lucky, second time of using them whose is the only one properly rinsed and put away.

See the simple solution for brushing teeth? See the complexity? Scratching because permanent marker wears off too quickly. Vibrating toothbrushes because regular ones require more parental involvement to properly brush than I can give every single night. Just memorizing the colors I assign would only work if I had any brain cells left after 6 pregnancies. Without the scratched evidence, I would have six kids claiming they specifically remember putting their toothbrush away. Unlike King Solomon's solution, none of them care if I cut the thing in half either. Although, King Solomon couldn't have insisted the mothers share the lone baby until the end of the month when it would be replaced, so maybe I do have it easier?

Of course, the complexity of that simple solution is nothing compared to "the System for Rotation of Seat Assignments in the Suburban with Contingencies for Only One Parent and the Resulting Empty Front Seat and/or the Taking of Two Cars with Resulting Opportunity to Drive in Dad's Car." Actually, over the summer I had another kid turn twelve and the last kid leave the 5 point harness car seat for a booster and have yet to revise the system. Chaos has ensued, but I need a refresher course in linear algebra before I can figure out the new system.  Still more simple than the brawl of letting them sit where ever they feel like.  Because they all feel like sitting in the exact same spot.  Which spot doesn't matter; if one wants it, they all want it.

Even making lunch involves a mountain of complexity.  And a mountain of food, six kids eat A LOT!  Take making the sandwiches.   Who currently prefers mayo over Miracle Whip?  Who will freak out if the mustard is forgotten?  If it isn't left off?  Whole wheat or white bread?  Maybe they prefer instead peanut butter and jelly (or is it honey, or fluff)?  Get an answer wrong and simple lunch turns into wasted bread and punishment for whining.  Far more simple to remember the preferences before I make them then deal with the consequences of making them all the same. 

Now at least  you know the information my few remaining brain cells contain.  No wonder there is no room for toothbrush colors.

If these things aren't enough to convince you of my ingeniously complex ideas to simplify my life, there's always my systems for wrapping Christmas presents* or hiding Easter Eggs.  It takes roughly 1000 more hours of prep time, but prevents headaches and/or meltdowns on the actual day.  Of and it is easier for the kids, too.

So if it looks like I have my household running smoothly (after you get your eyesight checked) I can assure you the behind the scenes of any simplicity is a system so convoluted it makes quantum theory look like child's play.  It is simple, really, having a large family is complicated. Make sense?  I didn't think so.

*I CAN'T BELIEVE I'VE NEVER POSTED MY SYSTEM FOR WRAPPING CHRISTMAS PRESENTS. IT IS THE MOST COMPLEXLY SIMPLE SOLUTION I'VE EVER COME UP WITH. LET'S SAY I'VE INVENTED THE WAY TO HAVE EQUAL NUMBERS OF PRESENTS WITH EQUAL MONEY SPENT ON PRESENTS AND WRAP THEM SO EVERY CATEGORY OF PRESENT HAS IT'S OWN WRAPPING PAPER AND EVERY CHILD HAS ONE OF EVERY SORT OF WRAPPING PAPER. IT SOUNDS MORE COMPLICATED THAN IT IS. ACTUALLY, NO, IT DOESN'T.

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.

Misadventures of flying home

In case anyone didn't notice, we were on an extended vacation the last few weeks.  Because nothing says Rest and Relaxation like cross country flights, 9 hour drives (twice), baptisms, weddings, limited internet, and 2.5 weeks without your own bed and pillow. 

Tempting the travel gods' wrath

Obviously we were filled with patience and brimming with excitement as we prepared to fly home.  The night before was spent packing our suitcases and heading to bed early.  Or it would have been, if my husband and I had two brain cells left to rub together.  The night before was spent staying up all night trying to beat each other's high scores on various iPhone games. I think we angered the travel gods.

The morning was spent frantically packing bags, cursing iPhone apps, and putting bets on how many things we would accidentally leave behind.  Then we met Peter's sisters at a Mexican restaurant as a final goodbye lunch.  Yes, we chose Mexican before a FIVE HOUR flight home.  To ensure maximum stomach illness, my husband requested his food come "a little bit spicier" than the menu listed.  Did you hear me?  A LITTLE BIT SPICIER at an authentic MEXICAN RESTAURANT.  He ate two bites and spent the rest of the time trying to put out the fire burning a hole in his tongue and stomach.

Now we have gaseous children, semi-ill husband and a slight case of running behind.  Perfect preparation for flight.


How to get on a Terrorist Watch List

Luckily, the rental car handoff went well, as did checking the bag of 30+ golf clubs.

**What?  You don't travel with 5 sets of clubs stuffed into one travel golf bag?  Afraid of the adventure?  Especially if you brought the clubs to take the kids golfing and ran out of time?**

Anyway, we made it through security like pros.  Well, more like incompetent professional terrorists.  You see someone left a water bottle in his backpack.  (I won't name names, Joseph, so you're safe.) We thought we were getting off easy until the security worker dragged over one of our 6 roller carry on suitcases.

"Did you know there were two golf clubs in this bag?"

"Is that a problem?" You see we couldn't fit all the clubs in the bag, so we packed two of the younger kids' clubs in their roller suitcase.  Boston didn't care flying out, but Utah cared flying back.

And yes, it was a problem.  Golf clubs are a weapon, people.  Okay, fine, it made sense, but it's not like that is listed on the prohibited items list or anything. (Just checked, it is.  Don't try pool cues or ski poles either.)

The situation was made worse when yet another worker brought over yet another bag and told us it was riddled with evil liquids.  You see, in our attempt at savvy, we had bought most of our liquid type toiletries while out in Utah.  Our attempt to be frugal led us to try to bring them back with us.

"I'll just put it in the garment bag, since we're checking it," my husband offered as we frantically packed that morning.

"Good idea!"  I agreed.

How did neither of us realize we were checking the clubs not the garment bag?  Remember the lack of brain cells I mentioned?  Or maybe the travel gods were playing with our heads.

Now the {relievingly nice and understanding} worker is unpacking the bags to remove all the weapons we tried to sneak through, putting them into one bag we can check.  She even reminded Peter to grab a credit card to pay for said bag.  As Peter backtracked to luggage check in, I dragged his carry-on, my carry-on, and five kids to the gate.  Ethan's handle wouldn't extend so he was dragging his overly heavy bag a few feet behind me with his 3 year old brother behind him, valiantly trying to carry his booster seat without falling over from his overly heavy backpack.

It was a picture of tenderness ... especially the part where I told them all to get over it and hurry up, I wasn't waiting.

Sanitation Smanitation, That's What I Say

Finally at the gate, there were no chairs available so we, um, gently placed our suitcases and backpacks down.  Peter caught up and we began our preboarding drugging.  If you have ever had several children puke on you during a patch of rough air, you would understand the importance of this ritual.   What?!? Dramamine makes kids sleep?  I had no idea.

My five year old took one look at the Dramamine pill and declared it would make him barf.

"No, it will make you NOT barf."

Let me explain that he has taken this pill 3 times in the last year (this being our 4th flight) without any trouble.  Mind over reason; he puked ALL OVER THE FLOOR.  At least we know he only ate chips and salsa at the restaurant (and chewed well).

Despite the queasiness of the Peter's over-spiced stomach, he drew the chore of cleaning up the floor while I ran to the bathroom to clean up the boy.  You see I had my hand under his mouth to catch the said pill and not waste it, so I needed some major hand washing.


Good thing I packed wipes in one of the backpacks.  Bad thing I could not for the life of me find said wipes.  Three hours into the flight they magically appeared in the first bag I checked.  I suspect the travel gods were just poking fun at me by then.


The flight home was uneventful.  No one seemed to notice the odd smells left off by the, um, kids' gaseous digestive system.  Actually, they were extremely well behaved and the plane landed early.  The only sad part was when I dropped my brand new bag of Reese's Pieces on the floor, they all spilled out (ALL!), and I couldn't bring myself to eat them as I had just seen the quality work done cleaning up barf in the airport.


 A Parting Gift?

Two hour drive home was equally non-eventful.  Despite my trepidation, the car battery was still working.  We even found out there was a shuttle to the parking lot.  Something that would have been nice to know when we flew out and made the mile trek to the right terminal.


We pulled up to the house.  It was still standing, although an apparent growth spurt of the lawn and bushes made it look abandoned.


At three in the morning, with weary children, we walked into the house...


It was covered in spider webs.  Like all over the doorways and hallways and floor to couch to light fixture.  It was like wading through a haunted house to get to the beds.  We quickly brushed most of them aside and I spent the next day disinfecting and killing spiders.  And now I know: hell hath no fury like Charlotte's Web.  

Still better than driving.  I hope those travel gods are happy.

I Learn the Truth about the Extent of Male Conversations

I was teasing my husband the other day for his choice in television stations. In a huge deviation from normal, he wasn't watching news, business, sports, or HGTV. (Don't tell him I included that last one!) Instead I kept finding the station turned to Current TV.

He explained that their Rotten Tomatoes Show is too entertaining to miss. "After all that's all men really  talk about when they get together is movies."

I, of course, balked. "All you ever talk about? Let's be real."

He insisted that the majority of male conversations revolve around laughing at movies, quoting movies, describing parts of movies, etc. He even, when I pointed out that they must talk about hot girls sometimes, counterpointed that they talked about hot girls from the movies.

I rolled my eyes and added this to the list of Things-That-Show-My-Husband-Is-Full-Of-It and continued on my day.

It was, after all, an eventful day. We were throwing Ryan's birthday party and, since he turned twelve and in keeping with tradition, he was having a friend party. Later that evening we found ourselves packed in the Suburban with seven boys, ranging from 9 to 14, headed to Monster Minigolf. Over pizza later in the party, I was discussing the dynamics of the boys (who all knew Ryan but didn't necessarily know each other) and how much easier it was than a group of girls in the same situation.

"I mean 20 minutes in the car there and 20 minutes back and all they did was tell Yo' Momma jokes* and quoted..."

{Que goofy I-told-you-so smile from husband}

"...oh, I see. You mean you weren't kidding with the whole extent of male conversations thing."

"Nope."

I hate it when he's right and I'm wrong.  It throws the world out of balance.


* First of all, there was a rule that anyone telling a Yo' Momma joke to Ryan would be thrown from the car while it was still moving.

* Secondly, yo' momma's so dumb she told a Yo' Momma joke to her son.  (That one is my personal favorite.)

Help Me I'm Melting

I would like to apologize to the East Coast.  Apparently Mother Nature did not appreciate my post about perfect New England summers.  Between writing and publishing my last post, I have simultaneously melted, roasted, and had my hair expand to the size of Pluto's moon.  New England has disguised itself temporarily (I hope) as North Carolina.

Only in North Carolina I had central air conditioning.  Here I have a teeny tiny window unit that I've never turned on and looks weak enough to only cool off a closet.

I had been bragging about not using air conditioning for my third straight summer, but that streak is over!  Today we hung sheets up in the house to limit the square footage that poor air conditioner must cool off and flipped it on.  It has dropped the temperature in the living room from "I've died and ended up in hell" to "I've died and been reincarnated as a turkey in the oven."  We're hoping to hit "Maybe I still do want to live" by the end of the night.

Now we are all sitting in the living room wearing various degrees of clothing.  That is all you need, or should want, to know on that matter.  But, because I never know when to stop, at least 7/8 of us are in underwear only. 

So if you're looking for a good sweat lodge, come on over.  Just bring a towel to mop up the 8 puddles of family members you'll find inside.

If it doesn't drop down away from 100 degrees soon (that is 37 degrees for you Celsius people) I'm might consider moving to Antarctica.  Or trying to fit my bed inside our stand up freezer.  Or consider an all popsicle diet.  Or try to stop rambling (but I can't because it is too HOT to think coherently).

I might have to break up with playlands

Well it finally happened for me.  About 100 days after everyone else in the country finishes their school year, my kids finally started summer vacation.  I was trying to find the best way to celebrate, but couldn't chose between hiding in my closet or curling in the fetal position on my bed.  So instead, I took my elementary kids out of class early and brought them to McDonald's for lunch.  Yeah, I really was that tired of packing lunches and that ready to not send in more lunch money.

Now McDonald's and I have enjoyed a mutually beneficial relationship for many years.  They not only provide me with extra padding around the middle and backside, they are also my sanity keeper on days when I need a break (especially rain days).  I think McDonald's Playlands may be the greatest invention since earplugs or duct tape.  It may qualify for the single greatest reason all my children and sanity survive summers.

In return for these lovely benefits, I provide them with astronomical sums of money.

Our relationship was so strong, it survived the my childen's discovery that McD's sells more than dollar sandwiches and even has options with cheap toys included.  It later survived half the kids graduating from Happy Meals to Arm-and-Leg-Costing Meals.  It (barely) survived fries cooked in non-hydrogenated fat. It even made it through that rough patch where they got my order wrong every single time I went for an entire six months.   But it may not survive my children's discovery of a height limit sign for the Playland.

How can I get a moment alone in the middle of a chaotic summer day when half my kids no longer fit on the Playland?  "Can I have your iPhone? " asked in triplicate is not my idea of fun.  Neither is a chanted rendition of "When are we going home, I'm bored."  I can't very well pretend the kids aren't mine when they are draped all over me, feigning death from lack of sliding.

I just paid tens of dollars for a moment's peace and now I get nothing.  Well, I still get the extra padding, but I could get that in the drive through without unnecessarily burning calories by walking inside!

So my summer plans have been dashed.  I'm going to go with my original plan of alternating between the closet and the fetal position with short breaks for chocolate.  Better make sure I've stocked up on extra earplugs and duct tape.  If some kids don't survive the summer, I'm blaming McDonalds.

You Can't Go Home Again. Not Without Directions.

You know that saying, "You can't go home again"?  I always thought it was a statement about the difficulty of returning to a place of strong memories when you are not the same person you were when the memories were made.  But it turns out that in my case I can't go home again because I wouldn't be able to find it.

The conference I went to last weekend was held about three (four?) blocks from the house I lived in during high school.  The hotel I stayed in was on my old street.  Sure my street used to end only a 1/2 block from my house, but how hard could it be?  It's still the same road, just extended, right?

(Um, also the road technically isn't the same name as when I lived there, but I knew it was the same street.)

Of course, my old high school is now a movie theater, the new high school is where the local polygamous house once stood, and the rarely used train tracks down the street are now a major monorail.  But, all this happened while my parents still lived there, so I was okay with the changes. Or so I thought.

Silly me. I really thought I could find my way without much effort. 


I got lost. I somehow ended up pretty far east in the valley and when I finally thought I was headed west on my old street, I was a mere four turns away from actually being on the right street.  While aimlessly finding my way , I remembered I'd accidentally picked up travel sized mousse instead of travel sized hairspray.  The local Walmart was just around the corner from my old house, so I could just stop and pick up the right stuff. 

Unfortunately, the local Walmart is now a strip mall full of trendy eating places.

It took me 45 minutes to find another Walmart (Is that even possible?  I thought there was a law that there must be one within 5 minutes of every spot in the USA.)  I ended up at one on a street that didn't exist when I lived there.  In fact it might have been in a town that didn't exist when I lived there.  I later learned my problem was going the wrong way out of the parking lot.  The nearest store was actually where the old sand dunes once existed.

Why didn't I think of that?

I then got lost trying to find my hometown street again so I could check into the hotel.  Like 30-minutes-trying-to-get-to-the-right-road-again lost.

The next morning I woke up craving nothing more than a donut and hot chocolate. So I called my mom and asked her for the nearest Krispy Kreme.  After getting lost AGAIN, I found the spot.  It's now a Sweet Tomato.  Turns out the nearest KK is now 45 minutes away.  So I decided to go to Panera.  Or would have if the closest wasn't in Colorado.

Declaring defeat and calling my mother AGAIN for directions to Albertsons (I knew where it used to be, but this town likes to move things around), I passed a Starbucks.  At the old sand dunes by Walmart. 

With my drink and pastry in hand, I only got lost one more time trying to get to the convention center.  Oh, and once more the next day trying to get there again.  Oh, and one more time trying to get to the freeway after it was over.  That one took me a while to get out of.

So yes, I really can't go home again.  Or maybe I'll take my GPS with me next time.

That fickle thing called Memory

I forgot my children had dentist appointments last Monday. Four of them. In a row. Technically I didn't forget as much as I thought it was next Monday.

My husband says he remembers telling me when he got the reminder post cards, when he got the reminder phone call, and when he went to the dentist last Thursday and was told they had appointments. I, of course, have no memory of any of these conversations and he was out of town the day of the appointments. I can't really blame him (although I would really like to) because I did have it written on my calendar and do remember, when coordinating piano lesson times last week, mentioning there were dentist appointments set for that Monday.

(Please, please do NOT tell my husband as I am still willing to fight the "well you should have let the answering machine pick up when you saw it was the dentist calling, then I could have heard the reminder call" fight.

Husband, who gets an email of this blog: I am making up the piano thing to make you look less guilty.

Every one else: *wink* *wink*)


So anyway, I am positively, absolutely, 50% sure I had a memory before I had kids. I always say each pregnancy and infant related sleep loss kills about 20% of brain cells. After five kids I was at full brain deadness. The 6th put me in a memory debt so deep Dave Ramsey couldn't dig me out.

I once knew, and could use, a multitude of physics formulas. I struggle now to remember words with multiple syllables. Case in point? The other day I googled "crazy person suit with long sleeves" to help me remember the term "strait jacket." Not only do I love the example because it doesn't actually fit the case I was pointing, but because of the irony of what I was looking up.

You want to know the hardest things for me to remember? My kids names. Or at least the correct name of the child I'm calling. "Elise, Ryan, Joseph, Matthew, um, whichever one of you is 9 years old, come here right now!" If I ever blank on your name, just be glad I remember I still know you at all. Seriously, I blanked my own husband's name the other day. ("You now, the guy I've been married to for 14 years, the name is on the tip of my tongue." - This does not make a good impression on people for some reason.)

So. Was I talking about something?  I kind of remember.  Something about appointments?  Oh yes, I was writing about how my husband can't seem to remember to tell me the dentist called to remind us of appointments.  I swear, What's-His-Name's memory is so bad.

Right?

Right?!?

RIGHT??

(If only I could remember where I hid some chocolate.)

Lump of coal for Mother's Day?

I am a good mother...

My kids always eat healthy:

They're well groomed when we go to the store

(both in hair and shoes):

I provide only wholesome, educational entertainment:

I take pride when they follow my example:

I always provide adequate supervision:

Their chores are age appropriate:

I only provide well put together outfits:

They always have the best birthday cakes:

I would never make my sick child go to a party because I spent 500,000 hours making costumes:

I stay well rested so I can give the kids the energy and attenetion they need:

And the house is always spotless:

And that is why I was given a couple of lumps of coal for Mother's Day

(although they went through a few million years of pressure before I got them):

Happy Mother's Day!

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?