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.

A little bit of this, a little bit of that

It turns out I am still alive and the house is now spider free.  Well, mostly spider free.

We are nearly finished with our recovery from vacation.  The suitcases are back in the closet and the laundry is done, although it still needs folded and put away.  I have resorted to Melatonin to switch the kids back to East Coast time.  Apparently letting them stay up past midnight in Utah every single night was a bad idea.

Anyway,while I was gone, I had a guest post go up at Or So She Says about beginning tips for making birthday cakes.  Today I have another post there on making mini tote bags.  I even have a nifty new button for my side bar! Head on over and enjoy!

Also, as of yesterday afternoon, Ryan is home from the Boy Scout National Jamboree (which really deserves a post on its own).  I am trying to convince him, with limited success, he is old enough to put his stuff away.  In case you were calculating the math in your head, yes, Ryan was gone at the jamboree while we were on vacation.  Like I said, another post all it's own.

The great news is that we still have three whole weeks of summer left to enjoy before school starts.  The sad news is that when you add in the doctor appointments, school shopping, dentist appointments, and fixing mixed up internal clocks, I'm left with about 2 hours of summer left to enjoy before school starts.

I thought I'd take a minute to let everyone know how my parents are doing after their motorcycle accident a few months ago.  I've appreciated all the emails and inquiries about their recovery, but wanted to wait till I saw them with my very own eyeballs before I said anything.  They are doing well.  Their road rash is almost entirely gone (SEE MY MOM'S ARM IN RIGHT OF PICTURE) and the bones are healing nicely.  My dad lost a bit of weight through it all and has to check his oxygen levels often, but he is still telling silly puns and has the same teasing smile.  His wrist will never be the same (CAN YOU SEE THE CAST HE HAS ON NOW?), especially since they x-rayed it wrong and let him leave the hospital without a much needed cast.

They do, however, tire much more easily than I've ever seen.  Some things broken in an accident like that don't ever heal perfectly.  I'm just glad they're here to tire!

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.

The Keeper of Bad Days

{I have very limited internet access for the next several days so I am unable to do a lot of posting or commenting on your posts.  I will be back soon, but until then, I hope you enjoy one of my older posts.  It helps explain why we need a vacation!}

It’s getting late and I am tired. My husband’s shift in the Emergency Department ended a couple hours ago and I expected him long before now. A day off school means the children have had all day to chip away at my patience and sanity; I’ve counted down for the moment I get a break, or at least acknowledgment from someone who doesn’t call me Mom. Frustration builds as minutes multiply and by the time the front door opens, I’ve had the argument a thousand times in my mind: “What have you been doing?” or perhaps “You knew the kids were home today, how could you be so inconsiderate?“ maybe even a “Don’t you even care how difficult my days can be?”

But as he walks in, I see his troubled face and I swallow the angry words already half formed in my mouth. Instead I replace them with, “How was your day?” The world has weighed so heavily on him today, I worry the couch frame may break as he collapses into it. As the children crawl and chatter over him, he tells me about his day. There was an attempted suicide and his failed effort to reverse what was done. Followed by another attempt, half successful, leaving a body alive, a brain dead and a face half missing. He must call far away relatives to offer terrible choices: permanent life support or organ donation. Finally he sees an irritated family waiting for simple test results for their mildly ill child.

“They had waited a long time and I didn’t want them to be lost in the shift change, so I stayed till the results came back. By that time the hospital was nearly ready to take the man up for organ harvest so I stayed with him and, as I was leaving, his grieving sister called desperate she had made the wrong choice. I comforted her the best I could.”

As I listen to his day I remember something his colleague once told me, “I never say I’m having a bad day. I’ve seen thousands of truly bad days and to call mine bad would be disrespectful.” I see a glimpse of those bad days now reflected in my husband’s tired eyes. I can’t even begin to understand the memories my husband owns: the child he spent a fruitless extra hour trying to revive only to face notifying her still hopeful mother, telling a young father of three his wife’s stroke has left him a widow, child abuse leading to 3rd degree burns.

My husband sees bad days every day. He sees some of the worst humanity has to offer: suicides, assaults, attempted murders, child abuse. He also sees everyone’s worst nightmares: severed limbs, car accidents, strokes, psychological breaks, sudden and unexpected deaths mixed with long mourned ones. All this is a part of my husband’s existence.

I can imagine him, despite a long and difficult day, consoling a stranger over the phone, with the image of her brother’s wounds still fresh in his mind. I see him reluctant to leave that man alone his last minutes of life. Still willing to go the extra mile for a family visibly frustrated with their long wait and unaware its unfortunate reason. I see him hugging our children tighter and longer than normal, patient despite his exhaustion. He tells me he is sorry to come home so late, but I know that’s a lie. He doesn’t regret his actions today. As I see him, compassionate and kind despite the constant barrage of tragedy, I suddenly realize I’m not sorry for it either.

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.)

A 12-year-old Boy's Birthday Party

Throwing a twelve-year-old's party is not the same as an eight-year-old's. Especially when that twelve-year-old is a boy. For some reason the thought of pin the tale on anything wasn't appealing to him. I didn't even try suggesting crafts.

After weeks of prodding and disappointment over a *slight* overestimating of my cake making abilities (a stand up 3D version of Super Smash Brothers is not something I could do), he finally decided on a golf cake.  Well, he wanted the clubs and the ball and it was the least I could do after denying him his first option.

Instead of a big couple hour party, he opted for a sleep over with just a few friends.


We started the night with Monster Mingolf. I think we hit a record for most balls hit out of play in one round.

Then it was home for pizza and beach. They would have stayed out in the water longer, if they didn't have to share the water with jellyfish.

And then video games and more video games and finally threats if they didn't stop playing video games and go to bed.

Most of the evening we had the cake out and ready, but only a couple boys ate a piece. When I woke up the next morning, however, the entire thing was GONE. As was most of the 4 large pizzas. Sleep was no match for the bottomless stomachs of boys!

They interrupted their morning playing of games long enough to scarf down some pancakes and then the party was over.

I'm pretty sure they all had fun. Repeated calls of "That game is sick!" is a good sign, right?

I mistook my boys for mops

A few months back, I convinced my boys they wanted to grow their hair a little longer.  If you ask me why, I'll tell you it's because all the tween boys are wearing it like that nowadays and I wanted them to fit in, but in reality it had more to do with the lack of desire to drag them to the barbers.

Unfortunately there was a slight flaw in my plan: longer hair requires some necessities, if it isn't to to look like it's sprouting from a parentless urchin.  Things like washing it more than once a quarter, being willing to brush it, and not minding hair product.  Do you know how many of those things these lovely boys of mine were willing to do?  None. Zero.  Nadda.

I bought them gel and showed them how to put it in, three weeks later they were willing to swear they had never heard of gel, didn't know what it looked like, and couldn't tell me where it had disappeared.  Careless, awesome curls were a rarity and always the result of embarrassing Mom-can-still-tackle-me episodes. Instead my boys sprouted fluffy, bulbous knobs around their heads.

Basically, I had two tweenagers with mops as heads.

Did I tell you about the time I noticed one of them had enough grease in his hair to cook some fries?  When I asked how this was possible (he had come down from his shower with wet hair every morning), he replied he had not been using shampoo.  For over a month ... maybe even two months!  Why would you wet down your hair every day without washing it?  Unless a shrug and shake of the head is some deep answer that went over my head, there was no good answer to that question.

Basically, I had two tweenagers with dirty mops as heads.

What about the time (or times) I looked over at church and realized neither boy had even tried to brush their hair in the morning and both sported bed heads, complete with flattened down parts and peaks on the other side?

Basically, I had two tweenagers with dirty, tangled mops as heads.

And that is why, when one mentioned he wanted a shorter hair cut for summer and his brother showed similar interest, I practically killed myself running for the razor.  Their hair was so bad I was willing to risk cutting it myself before they changed their minds.


My boys have normal looking human heads again. But I suppose I will have to find the real mop again the next time I need to clean up a spill.

Someday they will actually care about how they look, right? Right?!?

(I don't have good before/after pictures so I'm posting some of all the kids.  Without too much effort I'm sure you'll be able to pick out the two that went from dirty, tangled mops to normal.)

My Evil Plan is Working -or- Children's Summer Rewards Plan

Bwah-ha-ha.

What?  You can't tell my you don't spend hours in the shower coming up with schemes to trick your kids into being perfect angels?  I mean, of course, hours cumulatively accrued over several days of showers.  Even I have not found a way to hide in the bathroom for hours at a time.

Surely you too sit up in bed, wide awake, when new evil plans strike?  Jump with joy at the excuse to use spreadsheets?  Just know that this time you've discovered the holy grail of reward systems that will make the kids beg you to do their chores, never think of fighting, and keep a spotless room.

It can't be just me, because that would make me odd.  Almost as odd as falling in love with a laminator or keeping stacks of failed job charts lying around to remember all your other brilliant ideas that were really more like semi-burned out ones.  But let's not go there.

So anyway, I've been trying to perfect my *Put Beads in a Jar as a Source of Rewards* technique since I introduced it- and shortly thereafter abandoned it- almost a year ago.  Mixing in an idea spurred from the ever brilliant Momza, I think I may have finally succeeded.  (The post I am referring to seems to have disappeared or I would link to it- *updated- Momza found the post for me- I told you she is brilliant- so now it is all properly linked)

How can I be so sure it is working you ask?  Let me show you how I measure my success thus far:

•  My children were fighting today over who "got" to take out the garbage.
• Kids are begging me to assign them chores in the morning 
• The mention of special, extra chores are met with cheers.  
• I went several days without the kids asking to use the TV or computer 
• I have yet to hear, "I'm bored." 

I.Am.Not.Kidding.


So anyway, that's how I've spent my first week and a half of summer.  I'll see you later.

o_0

0_o

o_0

What?

You want to know what I've done?  Oh, all right. Just because I love you.

The Actual Plan

I printed out a couple pages of requirements with assigned value.  For instance, getting chore and bedroom finished before breakfast are each worth a certain amount (3 and 2 marbles respectively).  Reading a book to Matthew is worth a marble (max of 2/day).  Brushing teeth, sorting socks, unloading dishwasher- all assigned value.

Then there is the list of Costs.  These are things I don't want to happen and cost them marbles.  Things like yelling(-2), not completing chores(-5), leaving our shoes(-1), etc.

Finally there is the list of Options, or things for which they can exchange their marbles and are working toward.

Each child has a jar with their own color of marbles.

More on How Well it is Working:

I'm telling you it is the best plan EVER.  Some kids watch TV or eat snacks every day.  Others are super savers, waiting for the money.  They all only lose marbles a couple times before they really start trying to remember the rules.  They are learning about budgeting and moderation, that work equals pay, that delayed gratification is worth waiting for.

This morning we decided to get the ice cream treat they'd saved for, only one child (the one who had a couple fits yesterday and lost too many marbles) was short SIX marbles.  He never did a chore so quickly.  Not to mention the joy at being offered an extra chore for the lacking numbers.

I repeat, JOY for GETTING to do an EXTRA chore.

Also, Matthew has been read a dozen books a day.  The girls room is working on a record for number of days clean.  The TV is staying off most of the time without any complaints.  I'm hoping I can keep it up, because I'm liking my summer plan so far.

Here is a list of my current award chart, although remember it is still a work in progress.

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).

A Summer Evening at our House

New England may freeze you in the winter and procrastinate spring longer than necessary, but every summer I realize why people live here.

Oh, the summers!

One evening last week all eight of us seemed unwilling to abandon the late afternoon sunlight for its artificial replacement. After dining on Dad grilled burgers on our picnic table and inaugurating our new fire pit appropriately with s’mores, we all lingered in the backyard. Sitting in the rocking chair enjoying a book, I paused to check on the family.

My oldest daughter relaxed in the hammock, her teenage limbs stretching comfortably, and my youngest child snuggled next to her as they giggling their way through a picture book. My other daughter practiced her golf swing with occasional direction from her father. He watched her as he sat in my neighboring rocking chair, the three other boys piled on his lap showing him the intricacies of their newest favorite game on my phone.

The weather hovered in the mid seventies, the lingering smell of slowly dying fire permeated the yard, and the ever faithful ocean breeze, carrying the gentle sounds of waves, left a slight taste of salt as I breathed it. As the light waned, I flipped on the balcony lights to augment the light of bug-preventing candles distributed through the yard, and continued listening to the joyful murmur of my family as I read my book.

Content.

Peaceful.

Happy.

Oh, the summers!

When I think of my happy place, it's filled with memories like these. There is swimming in North Carolina and catching fire flies in Missouri; summer evenings spread over the years. The situations change and the children grow, but the feeling builds on itself. The joy now mixes with the joy of yesteryear and I keep them all to ponder in my heart.

Oh, the summers!

If you don’t see much of me in the next couple months, I’d like for you to think of me experiencing memories like these. But, if it makes you feel better, you can picture me taking all the kids grocery shopping and then hiding in the closet with a jumbo sized bag of chocolate candy (because that is also a part of my summer experience)!