Stop Screaming I'm Driving!

The Hummus Among Us

2012-01-28T09:54:00.000-08:00

It was most definitely a rare treat, being at the grocery store stocking up for the week with only one child. And I was relishing every live long moment of the experience. Pausing while selecting cantaloupe, having enough time and attention span to pick out just the right one. Actually reading the price label on the tomatoes. Finding the best deal on bagged salad, and that elusive block of muenster cheese that I needed to go with the wine I'd be drinking later on that night with my best girlfriend in the world.

All without the distractions of, shall we say, a certain little dictator named Katie.

Not that I don't love spending time with my children, because as much as I kid about their ways and never having enough time to myself, they are pretty awesome. But when you remove one child from the equation (and more so when you remove two) the parenting experience changes...drastically.

Shopping with my 12-year-old is almost like having no children at all - plus he likes to push the cart and doesn't run into senior citizens.

Which leads me to the section of the grocery store known as the "refrigerated and prepared foods" department.

In other words, hummusville.

While I know that making hummus from scratch requires little or no skill - just a reliable food processor or a lot of pent up anger and a very fine tool with which to smash chickpeas into a smooth paste - I prefer to buy mine ready-made.

Have you been in hummusville lately?

Like most delicious and necessary items in the grocery store, hummus is available in an endless amount of varieties and sizes.

Who knew?

As tempting as it was to buy the largest tub with the sundried tomatoes layered on top, all I was really after was a healthy alternative to ranch dressing for my kids to dip their carrot sticks in, and sundried tomato anything is really not their thing...or my husbands. In fact, sundried tomato anything is so far from being his thing and so much a part of things I find irresistible that he will tease that if it has lemon, vanilla, cinnamon or sundried tomatoes in the ingredients, I will eat it...no matter what it is. The it in question could be a steaming heap of cow dung, but if sprinkled with a little sundried tomatoes, I'd have a hard time keeping my fork off it.

So now that you understand how much I really love sundried tomatoes and I'd have bought a whole GALLON of the sundried tomato hummus had I had the opportunity, you can understand my displeasure upon finding only a tag with the words sundried tomato hummus on it, below an empty spot on the shelf where the goodness should have been. I hung my head in disappointment, held back the tears.

There was garlic hummus, traditional hummus, hummus with ingredients I'd never heard of. There was hummus in large containers and small containers and containers in between. Hummus. Hummus. Hummus.

How on earth would I choose?

Garlic? Maybe, but what if the kids run around with garlic breath all week thinking they can scare away the entire cast of the Twilight movies?

Big, super-sized container? Maybe, but what if we don't eat it all and then it goes to waste? Or, what if they leave it out on the picnic table accidentally and the dog gets ahold of it and then has accidents all over the house (on the carpet) and I have to clean it up in the middle of the night like that one time he ate the raw egg?

As I stood there, pondering the effects of each variety of hummus available, it suddenly dawned on me, like a neon light flashing "OPEN" in the middle of nowhere or that funny lady in the commercials standing outside the department store the morning of a huge sale opening and closing her hands rapidly saying, "OPEN OPEN OPEN," I'd just get the traditional, in a size I knew would make sense.

Problem solved.

But do you know how long I stood there, trapped in some kind of alternate hummus universe actually thinking?

A long time.

Thing is, I love - rather, appreciate - that we live where there are so many choices available to us. No better place is this more evident than down a supermarket's aisles, with rows upon rows of everything under the sun available in fat free! light! jumbo! reduced! low carb! high fiber! single serve! economy pack!

But sometimes, all I want is a little hummus. Enough for my kids to dip their carrot sticks in all week without an added flavor that nobody but me would love (although guessing from it's lack of being on the shelf, that stuff is pretty tasty).

I realized that having my kids in the grocery store with me - tagging along begging for candy and squirt guns - keeps me from standing in one place, pondering pondering pondering, why it is there are so many kinds of hummus.

Because don't I have better things to do with my time?

*Originally posted in 2009

Cupcake

2012-01-26T11:25:00.001-08:00

Local Cupcake

That husband of mine, he knows me well...

Thank you, Oven Monkey Bakery

Good For Your Heart Lemon Tart

2012-01-24T15:09:00.000-08:00

Don't let the looks of this thing fool you, it's really incredibly easy. And if you're feeling like I am - kinda run down, kinda tired, kinda uninspired and in need of a long winter's nap when it isn't even winter yet*- well, this may be the tart for you!

I'm not kidding.

It will make you feel like summer.

Next thing you know you'll be running around in your tankini with your sunglasses on and a bottle of Hawaiian Tropic in your hand (and your neighbors will all think you've lost your mind).

Well, maybe.

Good for your Heart Lemon Tart

3 large eggs
1/3 cup fresh lemon juice (2-3 lemons)
3/4 cup sugar
4 TBsp unsalted butter, room temp, cut in small pieces
1 TBsp lemon zest

for pastry crust:

1 1/2 cup all-purpose flour
1/8 tsp salt
1/2 cup unsalted butter
1/4 cup sugar
1 large egg

Lemon curd: In a stainless steel bowl placed over a saucepan of simmering water, whisk together the eggs, sugar, and lemon juice until blended. Cook, whisking or stirring constantly (to prevent it from curdling), until the mixture becomes pale in color and quite thick (like a hollandaise sauce or sour cream). This will take about 10 minutes. Remove from heat and immediately pour through a fine strainer to remove any lumps. Cut the butter into small pieces and whisk into the mixture until the butter has melted. Add the lemon zest, cover, and let cool to room temperature before filling the pastry crust. Put in the refrigerator, covered with plastic wrap to avoid getting a film on top of the gorgeous curd you just slaved over.

Try with all of your might not to dip your finger in there and sample. I won't tell if you do.

Now, it's time to make the pastry crust.

Mix the dry ingredients together in a separate bowl. In a mixer, beat the butter until smooth. Add the sugar and egg until well blended, then slowly add the dry ingredients. Form the dough into a ball and cover in plastic wrap, flattening slightly until it resembles a disc. Or a spaceship. Whichever you prefer. Chill for about 30 minutes.

Take dough out of refrigerator and turn out onto a lightly floured surface. Roll it out to about a 12 inch circle. Don't worry if it doesn't look perfect - pastry dough never looks perfect but believe me, nobody will notice when they're devouring the finished product!

Place the pastry into a tart pan and press the dough up the sides so that a nice "lip" is formed on the outer edge. Prick the bottom of the pastry with a fork several times and bake in a 400 degree oven until just slightly golden brown. You do not want to overbake this bad boy because you want it to be delicate and flaky.

After the pastry has cooled, spread it with that tantalizing lemon curd you made earlier (if there's any left). You can get super fancy and make designs with it or even pipe sweetened whipped cream around the edges. I like to keep mine simple and just spread it in there and then top with fresh raspberries. Oh yes. Yum.

And if that doesn't cheer you up, I don't know what will!

*Originally posted in October, 2010

Just. Because.

2012-01-12T16:37:00.001-08:00

They kinda make me smile.

Not My Turn

2012-01-09T08:00:00.000-08:00

Written on January 6, 2011 - it has a happy ending...

I'm writing because I have to. In one hour I will be in the car, on my way yet again to the Comprehensive Breast Center and I won't be able to write. I won't be able to think. I'll function on auto pilot, letting the valet park our car, checking in like everybody else does and sitting in the crowded waiting room trying to keep my husband calm as we both wait for them to call my name.

Then I'll go back into the little room resembling a locker room, except with really ugly "shirts" that all patients wear. They look like the material on the couch of a really old RV, with teal ties to secure them shut. I'd like to have a few words with whoever chose this pattern and thought, "Hey, what a wonderful thing for a woman to sit around in while waiting for her mammogram."

I'd rather be naked.

Ok, maybe not.

Last time I was there 2 weeks ago, a woman paced like an angry cat waiting to be called back for her ultrasound after they "found something" on her mammogram. I sat there, with my locker key springing up and down from my wrist, pretending to read Coastal Living as I tried with all my might to will good thoughts in her direction as she walked back and forth, back and forth. They finally called her name and I forced a smile in her direction, although I know she never saw it, as she exited the room.

I so don't want to be that woman today.

Obviously, I have to go back. Obviously, I'm petrified. I've been fighting with myself all week since getting the call that there had "been changes" in my left breast and I needed to come back in for "further testing."

I resisted the urge to google, for about a day. Dense breast tissue. Abnormal mammogram following a hysterectomy. What causes dense breast tissue? Mom had breast cancer, should I be worried? Abnormal mammogram at age 38.

I highly recommend not googling anything more intense than how to bake a mayonnaise chocolate cake or how to remove grass stains from baseball pants.

I go back and forth in my mind between telling myself that everything is fine, only a few abnormal mammograms actually end up being cancer and I have no reason to worry. I figure that positive thoughts are they only way to occupy the days between getting the call and getting more information. I mean, why waste all of my time worrying and stressing out, right? But then I start worrying even more because if I don't worry, I'll surely have cancer and then what will I do?

Does it have to be like this everytime I get an abnormal mammogram? Is it going to be like this for the rest of my life?

I had a few minor breast issues before, but they never ever have called me back for MORE TESTING.

And that is exactly what I'm so freaked out about. The more. The call. The lack of an envelope in my mailbox telling me "all tests were normal, please come back and see us in a year." That is what is making this week of waiting hard. That is what is causing the fear and the crushing feeling that my time could and may very well be limited. I can't help myself. What else am I supposed to do?

In the past year and a half, my mother and THREE friends have all been diagnosed with breast cancer. My mom finished radiation and has been doing great following her lumpectomy in July 2010. My friends have all had double mastectomies. They are all under 45.

Will I be as strong as they have been? Will I need to be? Am I making no sense at all and worrying over absolutely nothing?

I have no idea.

But I'd like to be surprised with the news that my worrying was for nothing.

Because I'm not sure I could fight like they did. I'm not sure I could do what they're doing. Every month I stand up in front of the Relay For Life crowd here in my hometown and encourage our teams to fundraise and educate themselves about cancer prevention. How am I going to do that if I have cancer too? And if I don't have cancer, how come I got off this time while so many others don't?

It could drive a person crazy, this type of thinking.

I just want to be wrong.

I want to have warded off cancer. I don't want it to be my turn. I don't want to be 1 in 8. I want to be brave enough to face each future mammogram thinking only about the fact that Aflac will give me a check for getting this necessary test done and not one little bit about the fact that it could be me. I could have cancer. And then I hate myself because I feel like I'm asking too much, I'm being selfish.

So for today, for right now, since I have to leave here in 20 minutes (yes, it took me a long time to get this out via my keyboard), I'd like to have worried for nothing, selfish as that may be.

And some crazy part of me thinks that by writing this, I will have accomplished that.

*Turns out, hysterectomies (even if they DO leave your ovaries) can cause some pretty major hormone fluctuations (which I kind of assumed, given oh, the HOT FLASHES, MOODINESS, IRRITABILITY, INSOMNIA and WEIGHT GAIN) that can also cause breast changes as well, which is exactly what landed me back at the Comprehensive Breast Center.

While I now understand why they needed to take a closer look at my breast, I also received a very stark reminder of why it is so, so, so important to have these tests done regularly and early, especially if you have a family history.

And I also know that next year, when they keep me longer to take a closer look, I won't be so scared because this is me. This is my normal, and that's nothing to be afraid of.

It's Only Monday

2011-12-20T16:06:00.000-08:00

I smoothed her creased forehead, her arms practically strangling my neck during the nightly ritual of putting her to bed. I don't mind the not being able to breathe momentarily while she clings to me, just one more hug mama. But it's the breaking away that becomes so difficult, especially during this time of year when all I can think about is getting them all to bed so I can bake and wrap and do all the things that busy people everywhere are doing to get ready for the holidays, which seems like an endless (but fulfilling when you collapse to bed after midnight 10 days in a row) chore.

I love Christmas.

I love the closeness we all feel, even if sometimes I get a tad bit claustrophobic from the togetherness. I love the tree, lit up, glowing in the window while the outside blankets itself in frost for the night. I love the stockings hanging over the fire, the candles lit and a few kiddos playing a board game on the floor. I love the cookies and the treats and the libations. I love it all.

But I'd be lying if I said it was easy.

No matter how much I plan ahead, how prepared I think I am or how ready the house looks, I am a complete mess during this time of year. How do I get it all done? How do I keep my kids from fighting everyday? How do I make sure I didn't forget anyone on my list? How do I keep my sanity?

Nighttime has and always will be my soft place to land. I pry her fingers from my neck one by one, reminding her that yes she does really have almost 2 whole weeks of Christmas vacation left and yes it's only Monday, I promise. I sprinkle her forehead with no less than 10 sprinkles for sweet dreams, refresh her ice water and tuck her and her monkey in under the soft comforter. Then and only then is it time to get to work on the things that seem impossible to do during the day.

And it's like this every day until Christmas. The constant busy.

While I feel incredibly blessed to have wonderful family and friends to share holiday memories with, I wish there was a way I could not make it all feel so...so...much. I wish I knew how to give myself peace, everyday, so I could pass that along to my kids, instead of the frenzied mess of a mom I feel like. And it's only Monday...

An Open Letter to THOSE PARENTS

2011-12-16T09:55:00.000-08:00

For all you parents who are brave enough to drive your small children to school everywhere, this one's for you.

Dear Crazy Parent (usually a Mom, but I don't want to stereotype) in the Drop-Off Loop at the Elementary School,

GET A CLUE.

Parking loops are not a new-fangled thing. In fact, they have existed for a very long time and should be no surprise to anyone when they encounter them in a school parking lot. Unlike the round-about, there are no complex set of rules or multiple lanes going several directions to confuse you. There are just a few guidelines, and they are very simple.

You go in.

Your child gets out of your car.

You go out.

See? Simple.

NOT ROCKET SCIENCE.

This does not mean stop your car in the middle of the line, go around to the other side, unbuckle your 4th grader, give them a lecture and a kiss on the head, pat their bottom as you stand there (car door ajar) waving, fighting back a lone tear watching them walk to the doors until their entire body is inside the school while the cars in line behind you begin to back up into the street.

The school has about 4 helpers out there in brightly colored vests seeing to it that the children get inside the school, I'm pretty sure that nothing is going to happen to your kid in the 10 yards from your car door to the school. But I guess you can't be too careful...

Do not stop your car after you've just ejected your child out the sunroof to talk to a girlfriend you haven't seen since yesterday after the morning spinning class when you met for a grande quadruple iced caramel mocha americano. Making it an americano doesn't make it healthier, by the way.

Do not gun up one of the center parking lanes and try to cut in line. This is an elementary school for goodness sakes! If you're in that much of a hurry please just stop on the corner and push your child out of your car. Then you can be on your merry little way.

(I don't suggest that anyone actually DO that last one)

And one more thing, if you are being particularly impatient and decide to go into the center parking area to walk your child in, please LOOK BOTH WAYS before crossing the line of cars who ARE actually following the rules. Nobody likes to see that much blood that early in the morning if you happen to get hit by a car. Besides, that would scare the children.

So you see, like I said before, NOT ROCKET SCIENCE.

Happy Holidays,
A Concerned Parent

PS. If you have any problem understanding the rules, please just send your child on the bus and save us all the headache and exasperation.

I heart Oslo

2011-12-05T16:37:00.000-08:00

After cleaning up the kitchen, running the dishwasher for a 2nd time because that's what happens when you cook a big Sunday dinner, I sat. The kids were all sleeping, the dog was quietly snoring, dreaming of chasing something. The cat had decided to grace us with her presence, something she does every night around ten when the house becomes hers.

The fire in the fireplace warmed the room as we decompressed after the busy weekend.

Nights are my favorite.

My husband thinks I'm nuts but this time, when everything is done, is my time (well, and the cats too, but don't tell her I said that). It's like the world is on hold and I can breathe because nothing else is going to happen for at least six or even seven hours if I'm lucky.

Sunday nights are our TV night. Until last week we would engage in a 3-show marathon that went like this: The Walking Dead, Homeland and Dexter. Last night, it was only a 2-show night because The Walking Dead is on break until February. There are only 2 more weeks of Homeland and Dexter so who knows what we'll do for fun on Sunday nights after that?

I'm sure we'll figure it out.

If you've been watching Homeland on Showtime (and a'hem, why wouldn't you????) you know it's a CIA/espionage/political thriller. We really enjoy it. I joked with my Aunt (who also watches) over Thanksgiving that it reminds me a little of her when I watch it because once upon a time, long, long ago, she was in the CIA.

But she can't talk about it.

Don't even ask her.

I'm serious.

Anyway, the main character is a CIA agent played by Claire Danes and yadda yadda yadda...it's obviously got us hooked.

I sat with the bulk of the Sunday paper on my lap, sifting through the holiday ads, making piles of those I really wanted to look at later and those that were just going straight to the recycle bin. Brett sat plucking as quietly as he could at his new guitar (thank you eBay). Suddenly, a bomb went off in a park.

On the TV, not in my living room.

But I may as well have been.

I clutched the flimsy advertisements, stacking them into a neat pile, looking away from the screen. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't swallow. I'm sure I appeared completely normal on the outside, but on the inside I was a mess.

When we came home from our trip to Denmark in July, I tried to compartmentalize everything that had happend when we visited Oslo. First, I had to explain it to my children. We didn't want my parents trying to tell them that their mom and dad were fine, but these are the facts about what happened because really, what kid needs to hear that while their parents are still half a world away? Then, I tried to understand it. I tried to learn about it. I tried to understand the events in a way that would make sense to me. I told the story to friends. I told the story to family.

We shared that day in Oslo with our loved ones hoping that by retelling it, we would give it less power over us. At least that is what I was trying to do.

Turns out, that doesn't always work.

I remember in the first few weeks home, I read a beautiful article written by a young man who had a connection to the Utoya event that immediatley followed the Oslo bombing. He wrote that the bomber, Anders, could not take anything away from him or the people of Norway. He was stong and brave and full of hope. I took strength from his words. I felt peace when I read them. I felt happy that in the wake of violence, light still existed.

And I wonder, and I hope as I go through this day of incredible emotion and sorrow for the experience that we had on that day, the day my husband took my hand after the people started running towards us in downtown Oslo after the explosion, looked at me and said "Nice, easy jog back to the boat, here we go." I wonder how those other people are feeling, those who experienced much more than we had. Those who lost so much more, not just a few hours of a vacation abroad.

I hope they're doing okay.

Teenage Wisdom

2011-12-01T14:00:00.000-08:00

A hockey puck makes an excellent drain stopper for your bathtub.

A frisbee does not.

~ McRae, age 14

And so, the mystery of why I kept finding a hockey puck in the kids bathtub has been solved.

She

2011-11-30T16:19:00.000-08:00

After many, many years of trying she had finally learned how to whistle properly.

I can't even type the word properly without smiling because really, is there a proper way to whistle? I suppose so. And I would suppose the notes escaping my daughters pursed lips don't resemble anything even remotely close to proper whistling - but that matters not.

When she began this newly acquired trick a few months ago, she was so so proud.

"Check it out mom, I'm whistling!" She would shout while running past me in the kitchen. Up until then, all whistling was done by inhalation only, so I suppose the magic of finally doing it while exhaling was quite exhilarating for her.

A few hours later, still whistling.

The next day, still whistling.

A week later, still whistling.

My husband and I exchanged many a glance, widening our eyes and chuckling just a teeny tiny bit (quietly so nobody could hear us) and we wondered if it would ever stop.

Of course, there was no whistling allowed at the dinner table.

And no whistling past bedtime.

No whistling in school and no whistling during homework.

But other than that, the air in our home (and outside of it for that matter) was filled with the sounds of a whistling 2nd grader. Whistling while she played with her paper dolls. Whistling while she brushed her teeth (she's a talented one, that she is). Whistling while drawing. Whistling while Wii-ing (that's a verb, right). Whistling. Whistling. Whistling.

So much so that I became rather immune to it.

And then I didn't realize that the whistling had actually become a little bit less, until it did.

A few hours ago she grabbed a brightly colored glass from the dishwasher as her older brother was emptying it. She held it up in front of her left eye and peered at me through it's purple-hued bottom, grinning. I thought she was going to laugh. Instead, she whistled.

And I remembered that I kind of missed that sound.

Whistling, in the car

#804

2011-11-24T00:46:00.000-08:00

Sometimes when I'm feeling all gushy and nostalgic, or searching for those feelings, I'll go back and read old posts; which, much to my surprise, there are exactly eight hundred and three of!

And you people wonder why I don't write as much as I used to?

I've already said everything there is to say!

But ah, that is not the way life is. I may think I have already exhausted every known subject regarding mothering on the face of the planet, but I would be so so wrong. Because really, I've probably only just begun. Life twists and turns and pulls and it's never over at the end of the show when the fat lady sings, oh no, that is when all the fun begins.

And so.

Here I am with TWO teenaged boys and a brand-new eight-year-old daughter.

She was two-years-old when I started writing online. Practically her entire existence has been documented in this vast, voyeuristic, viral world called blogging...which kind of freaks me out just a little bit. To put it in perspective, she was still potty training when I began sharing our lives with The Internet.

And now she talks about getting her ears pierced - which, by the way, she will have to wait another four years for. I may have shared her bathroom accomplishments with the entire world, but I won't let her get her ears pierced before she's twelve. Exactly what kind of mother do you think I am?

Don't answer that.

I have written probably no less than twenty posts about what I lovingly have referred to (IN THE PAST) as "the loud." The loud is what my boys are; my loud, goofy, wrestling one another like he's an alligator boys. For some strange reason, I thought this state of being would only be temporary, certainly not an existence that would span years. Boy was I wrong. Just today, while they were wrestling a la alligator style, one of them sprained his TOE.

Seriously.

I had just about had it come 9pm, when all I wanted was a little (just a bit) peace and quiet so that I could bake my Thanksgiving pies without all that negativity and shooting arrows from my eyeballs karma infecting the delicious desserts we would be consuming tomorrow. It really wasn't so much to ask, at least I didn't think so.

But he who shall remain nameless (okay, my husband...I'm not fooling anyone) disagreed and wanted to spend more quality time with the kids.

Quality time? Are you kidding me. These are the same offspring who no less than 3 hours ago were snorting and running around the house like those hoofed animals in that last Hannibal Lector movie...

But he and I don't always see eye to eye on these issues.

And so a compromise was negotiated and a later bedtime was achieved. I took this opportunity to fold more laundry and sulk in our office because it was the only place in the house not occupied by teenagers or American Girl paraphernalia. As I carefully matched socks and placed t-shirts on top of their respective piles, I dreamed of a 3,000 square foot house with a man cave so many levels below me that I would never, ever see them. I relished in my fantasy as I unloaded the dryer and inhaled the clean scent of the warm towels (incidentally, nothing, and I mean NOTHING, compares to the instant gratification of completing - which means from washer to put away - a load of laundry...or 12), folding each one in threes and readying them for their spot in the linen closet. A big house...lots of room...no kids or husband in sight...

And then the buzzer on one of the pies I had in the oven rang and I realized something.

I would miss them.

And for that, my friends, I am truly grateful.

Are you there Chocolate? It's me, Carrie

2011-11-22T16:34:00.000-08:00

Published in November, 2008. History is repeating itself...

We're already in full holiday swing over here at Casa de Screaming, which brings much joy, happiness and juggling to our already busy schedules.

But it's all worth it, right? The togetherness, the gatherings, the seeing of folk you haven't seen since last winter. Looking out over a crowded kitchen at the happy faces working together to whisk some gravy, stir some ham sauce, or assemble a salad and I can tell you that yes, it is definitely worth it. Even though the thought of getting up in the morning to do it all over again with a different group of people is overwhelming, I'd rather live this full, bursting life than none at all.

As long as there is wine*.

Over the weekend, at the first of our Thanksgiving celebrations, I was talking with a few other moms about raising kids. We discussed the differences in parenting older children versus younger children.

(For the record, I am of the school of thought that parenting, in general, is HARD, no matter what age. I think the challenges just change as kids move from one stage to the next and so you have to adjust accordingly. Potty training to prom dates - while one stage may be more your cup of tea than the other, they both have the potential to be difficult. Thus, upping the ante that if you're experiencing either during the holidays, your chances of becoming an alcoholic by the New Year are increased twofold*.)

We also talked about books. None of them had read any of the Twilight series, so I could not discuss my love for the teenage, angsty, vampire novels and the aftermath of the opening weekend of the movie. One of the moms, when I asked her if she had read any good books lately, answered, "Do Disney books count?"

It's okay, I love her anyway.

Which reminds me, I'm in need of a good book. Any suggestions?

We came home that night just in time to throw the sticky children into bed, put the left over turkey in the refrigerator and watch the first half hour of SNL. Is it me, or is SNL not as funny now that the election is over?

Only to face another bouncy house filled, cake, ice cream, presents, happy kids followed by another family dinner day. Which was perfectly fine by me, in retrospect, because I would need to draw strength from sitting and watching the sunset with my mom the next day when I got an email from a certain Someone Who Shall Remain Unnamed's (aka SWSRU) teacher saying his/her science grade had fallen below a passing mark.

Darn those automatic parental emails!

(Which I totally love.)

So yes, the news that SWSRU's grade has been down graded from a B to an F did not exactly make my day. Further investigating and emailing revealed that there was a missing assignment, a parent signature, of all things, which we had indeed signed, pulling his grade down. All this coming from a child (despite the fact that he/she claims to be mature) who is fully capable of pulling an A in science from his back pocket, left ear or whatever.

Point is, the kid is smart. Scary smart. This should not be happening. So we, as the parents, have to question and second guess and stare into his/her big brown eyes and wonder if he/she is doing everything he/she can to succeed in school, or if there is some form of "the messing around" happening that we should know about.

The good news is that all the kids who have "issues" at school are sent to the Vice Principal, who happens to be the father of a girl in Katie's preschool class. So far, he has no idea who SWSRU is, which means that he/she is staying out of trouble.

But oh, the worry!

Which is why I'm thinking about chocolate when I should be thinking about making pies for Thursday. I'm also hoping that if I drink enough egg nog* I'll forget all about it. And if that doesn't work, maybe watching another sunset will.

Unfortunately, this is one of those rough patches in parenting an older child that I'd, quite frankly, like to skip. I'd take potty training over this any day.

So, yes, read any good books lately?

*Not that I'd know from personal experience. All references to alcohol in this post are purely for dramatic effect.

Why I Will Never be a High School Football Coach

2011-11-14T15:28:00.000-08:00

Not because I don't know the rules of football by heart or even because sometimes I accuse the referees of calling "travelling" (wrong sport), but because I love my son too much.

During one of the first football games of his 9th grade year - the first time he'd played school ball - his previous coach (who also has a son on the team) approached me and said that he was so pleased to see McRae playing. "That kid plays with so much heart," he told me.

I ignored the moisture welling up in the bottom of my eyes and smiled, trying not to think about how worried I was that he wouldn't get as much play time as the bigger kids on the team, simply due to his size not his ability, and continued to watch the game.

As he stood there suited up on the sideline, he moved with the coaches and players, watching every play, congratulating teammates on things they did well and cheering for his team. He slapped helmets and patted butts just like you see the NFL players do. He got in for a few plays and executed them beautifully. He was always ON.

Repeat for the next 2 months, at every game.

He felt the defeats, of which there were only a few, and celebrated the wins along with his team. After every single game, his dad and I told him how much we enjoyed watching him and his team play and we pushed down our frustration with seeing only a handful of players out on the field for the majority of the game over and over again. We knew he noticed it too, but any parent with a kid in sports knows that these are not the things you focus on. Your only focus is to support, support, support.

It's the coaches job to coach.

So we let them.

The thing about it is, although we don't question the coaches tactics or their plays or their decisions, football is a team sport. Everyone should get to play for more than a few plays per game...especially if they have never missed a practice and show a good attitude and eagerness to improve. And those exceptional players? They need a break sometimes. We are talking about growing kids here, not fully developed adults - you push their bodies now, they will pay later. And trust me, there is a ton of research backing this up.

Of course I support safely growing a young player who shows exceptional abilities too...but not at the expense of the rest of the kids on the team or his health. Let that exceptional kid shine, but let others get a chance too. Yes, I know, I'm not there for every minute of every practice and I've already admitted I know only enough about football to follow the game without being completely confused (most of the time), but I also know how it feels to wait for your turn, and to never get it. I know how it feels to want something, and never get it. I know how it feels to be overlooked. And I know how it feels when a few people are given the chances over and over again, while the rest of us watch from the sidelines.

It doesn't feel good.

But we sign a code of conduct when we let our kids play in organized sports...and we set good examples by following that code by not questioning the coaches. That code? It sometimes feels more like a gag order.

These boys are young. Most of them are 14 years old. Do you remember being 14? Do you remember all of the turmoil, growing, learning and maturing that happens when you are 14?

Sometimes I think the coaches don't remember. I'm not trying to belittle their job because there is no way that I could do it. But at the end of the last game of their season, when our head coach stood there and pumped up the boys, preparing them for 10th grade football and thanking them for being excellent players, students and kids he was saying all of the right things until...

"I'm sorry that all of you couldn't play as much as you would have liked...sometimes it just works out that way. That's why we had that special game for you to play against XYZ team, so that you could play too and feel what it's like."

It was all fine until then. I'm not the only parent who wanted to morph into mama bear mode and release a can of you-know-what on our coach, even though he is a perfectly nice man. And I also know that a lot of the boys kneeling there, on the grass beaming up at their coach with respect and admiration, felt like it was a slap in the face too.

How about you just let them play next time?

So yes, no. You won't find me on the other end of the clipboard, calling the shots, making the playbooks and choosing who gets to go out on the field and when.

Not a chance.

That's why I think I love baseball more than football, everyone gets a turn at bat.

Tucked Away

2011-11-06T12:33:00.000-08:00

In honor of her "BIRTH" day:

The other day, someone asked me about Katie's birth.

"Oh, it was certainly not without drama, that's for sure!" I said with a little laugh, hoping I would not have to elaborate.

"But what happened after she was born? You know, when you had to go back to the hospital?" she asked.

It was as if a scar - say, the one on my left knee from the time I skidded across the library parking lot on my brand new bike in Girdwood, Alaska, when I was 10 years old. The one that left a pale, gray scar where a piece of gravel never did make its way out. It was as if a well-healed and long-forgotten wound had been opened, made fresh again with the memories that I'd tucked away because I wanted to forget them.

Things happen for a reason.

We were lucky that we even had a chance to bring Katie into this world, although at the time it was impossible to process that. Her birth came on the eve of an ultrasound to "check the size of the baby." Next thing I knew terms I did not understand were being discussed, instructions were relayed and reservations in the labor and delivery unit at the nearby hospital were cemented. Phone calls and arrangements were handled by family, because that's what families do. They handle things.

And just after 9 o'clock that night, after a cooler arrived with the special blood I'd need to get through the c-section, that little girl, my little girl, entered this world and she was perfect, absolutely perfect, not a thing out of place, not a blemish nor anything wrong with her, despite the fears.

And I'm glad I didn't know. I'm glad I didn't find out that I had mutant blood with an antigen that attacks the unborn and worsens with each pregnancy. I'm glad I didn't know. I'm thankful that the doctors didn't find this with my first pregnancy because the risks of carrying another baby after knowing would have been too great and I would have chosen against it.

I would have never had Wyatt and Katie.

They say things happen for a reason.

When I left the hospital after my mandatory 3-day stay, I had feet the size of loaves of bread. "Fred Flintstone feet," we called them. They were actually really comical in appearance. I couldn't even get them into slippers...so swollen were they. My discharge nurse was a "floater," unfamiliar with the practices of discharging patients, unfamiliar with much of anything to do with obstetrics but she discharged me nonetheless. Sent me home with my baby and my Fred Flintstone feet and said congratulations! Enjoy your baby and make sure you rest.

That was a Sunday.

I was back in the hospital on Tuesday morning. Blood pressure you would not believe, plans to be hooked up to a little thing called magnesium to keep it under control, to keep me from "stroking out." Postpartum eclapmsia. Three cases at this particular hospital in one month! More than they'd ever seen, all different, all presenting uniquely. Mine, thank God, was the least worrisome, only swelling in extremities, unlike my fellow sufferers (one of whom was a friend) who had swelling in the trunk area and the other in her brain, the worst kind of all.

Special meetings were held for the doctors. Katie went to her first official check up with the pediatrician without me. I lay hooked up to the magnesium, in a fog, sweating whatever toxin is released from blood pressure that causes your nurse to come in and check your reflexes every 20 minutes before giving you another sleeping pill and doing it all over again...for five days.

Five days.

Fog. Blur. I don't remember much of the during. All I know is that she was there with me. They were there with me. My mom brushed my hair and tried to assure me that the boys were fine. Brett kept me calm. Katie kept me there. She sustained me. She, in her brand new - because she was our first girl and certainly would not need her brother's old hand-me-down sleepers but new, pink ones of her own, sleepers with the little bows and the teeny tiny flowers, she kept me.

And I tucked this memory away because - because I fear I don't have much of it. I don't own that memory like I do the days after my other children were born. It is unclear, messy, hazy. I don't have it.

But, I am certain of one thing.

That feeling, the one of being safe, being protected, being kept, I do have that. When I inhale all that is her, when I snuggle in close, so close I don't want to let her go even though I know I should. When she tip toes into my bed at night and I'm not upset but rather glad to see her because it was as if I wasn't really able to sleep without her right there by my side anyway. When she tucks her toes under my knee, to keep them warm. When she makes sure I am watching, as she does something really important and spectacular, like hit a baseball off a tee...

I am certain of all that.

And then I know, I haven't really tucked those memories away for good, they are right here with me - when I look at her, or the boys, and I realize that yes, everything does happen for a reason, and I haven't tucked anything away after all.

*Originally posted in March, 2009.

The Loo

2011-10-21T16:55:00.000-07:00

Girls love bathrooms.

That is what I have decided.

When I'm standing in the check-out line at Costco, or the grocery store or wherever (it doesn't really matter, insert anything into this place and it will be the same outcome), 9 times out of 10 Katie says she needs to use the restroom.

Now, I am aware of the whole have-your-children-use-the-bathroom-before-you-leave-the-house method, and I do use it regularly. However, it doesn't seem to matter - and we're not talking about a kid who has some kind of medical condition which requires constant bathroom use here, we're talking about a kid who loves bathrooms.

Maybe it's the cinnamon scented air freshener?

Maybe it's the rows and rows of shiny steel doors?

Maybe it's the soap dispensers, or the gigantic rolls of toilet paper?

Maybe it's the (gasp) seat covers?

Whatever it is, that girl of mine, the one who definitely does not have a weak bladder, almost always has to explore the bathroom whenever we are out.

What's a mother to do? As much as I don't mind not being the one to load every single item that has managed to find its way into my Costco cart (I just got my rebate check for the year, don't judge) onto to the conveyor belt, I definitely dislike using public bathrooms a lot more. A lot more.

But my daughter? Not her. It's like she's on an adventure. Every single time. Maybe she has a side job as a secret bathroom reviewer?

Now there's an idea! Companies could actually pay her to go into their bathrooms and rate them. . . wait a minute, that means I'd have to go with her. Never mind, scratch that idea.

Point is, the girl is obsessed. She is an equal opportunity bathroom obsess-or too. It doesn't matter if the bathroom is small and tucked away in the back room of a hole in the wall restaurant, she's going to want to check it out. It doesn't matter if the bathroom is at the top of a high staircase, or a port-a-potty at the baseball field, she'll want to see it. It doesn't matter if it's the Taj Mahal of bathrooms complete with a gold toilet, she'll decide it's time to use it and if that bathroom happens to be out of seat covers...she's going to notice.

Maybe it's some kind of mechanism, that all of our children are fitted with right before entry into this world, which permits them to love the one thing their mother dislikes. In my case, public bathrooms.

Maybe she's put on this planet to teach me a lesson.

Well, of course she is. If colic weren't the ultimate lesson in testing my patience, than certainly this bathroom obsession of hers is the next best thing because there is only so much "honey don't touch that, Katie don't peek under the stalls, come on and hurry up and wash your hands," that I can take.

Back to my original thought: girls love bathrooms.

All of them except for me.

*Reposted from 2009 - and nothing has changed a bit! That girl still loves the loo...

This Boy

2011-10-17T11:40:00.001-07:00

Today he turns 13.

I'm going to not talk about that fact that by him turning 13, it means that we now have 2 teenagers in the house, BOY TEENAGERS - which means that I will have to acquire more funds than a Saudi Prince in order to keep them fed. It means that you cannot even wrap your brain around the sheer quantity of flatulence jokes and locker room talk that takes place in my living room on any given day. It also means that I do more laundry than you, but I'm not going to talk about any of that stuff.

I am going to talk about this boy.

This boy.

This boy is the best boy.

From the moment I saw him for the very first time, I was mesmerized by my little big baby. He was born by the rules, he was perfect. The doctor delivered him, stretched a tiny hat over his round head and handed him to me where I greeted him with tearful joy. We stayed like that for what seemed like hours. When we took off his hat to give him his first bath and saw something on his head that we could not comprehend, that suffocating mother fear that something was wrong with my baby was the only thing I could hear in the room. I couldn't hear the nurse. I couldn't hear my husband. All I knew was that he needed to be ok. This needed to be alright. And I knew that I loved this little big guy, more than I ever thought I could.

When the doctor explained the next day that what he had on the top of his head was called an ectodermal defect, and that it was nothing more, I began to breathe again. It would heal and he would be ok. And we would wait and see what to do about it down the line.

Poor baby, I thought. It just isn't fair.

When he was 4, he had surgery to have what had turned into a rather large scar on the top of his head removed at Children's Hospital. He was so brave, braver than any adult facing surgery. He clutched his favorite stuffed dog as the anesthesiologist guided him under and we kissed him goodbye. When it was all over, he ate his Popsicles, drank his 7-up and couldn't wait to get home.

He never once complained, this boy.

You know, as a parent, you think "Ok, this child has been through something most kids will never have to face," and you tell yourself that the rest of his life will be a joyride compared to this because what 4-year-old has to have surgery?

And then, life happens.

From the moment he became a big brother, I knew his sister had nothing to worry about. His heart is large and his kindness is endless. I remember how he used to worry when she'd cry.

And oh, she cried a lot.

He'd ask me, "Mama, is she ok?" And I'd look at him tiredly and say that yes, she was going to be okay. We'd do this over and over again, day in and day out, everyday it seemed of his first year being the big brother while his big brother didn't seem to be bothered by it at all.

Wyatt lost his front tooth while playing with his buddy. Not his baby tooth, his brand-new permanent tooth that was just growing in. And when I say "lost" I mean lost, as in the entire tooth fell out into his little hand, root and all.

After more dental procedures than I have ever had in my entire life and 2 years of trips to a special endodontist and several root canals, he kept that tooth, but barely. And again, I found myself saying, "Enough."

And so on and so on and scooby dooby dooby.

Then came the tummy troubles. endoscopies, colonoscopies and a restrictive diet that eliminated all sugars, even the kind in fruit. No fruit! How could this child still be smiling?

And yet, he still was, this boy. Smiling and laughing and being a normal everyday kid, except he isn't a normal everyday kid, he's Wyatt. And his resolve is stronger than anyone I know.

This boy. During the 3rd grade Wyatt asked the student council at his school to contribute to a childrens home in Africa. He'd already raised over $500 on his own and they matched it! This boy, who'd already been through so much himself, he did that.

When I was in the 3rd grade, I was mostly concerned with my Strawberry Shortcake doll collection, not thinking about orphans in Africa. Granted, technology has made our world smaller in many ways since my childhood, but really, how many 10 year-olds do you know who have done something that incredible, all on their own?

Wyatt continued in this vein, with every passing year. It's like his heart just grew bigger and bigger and bigger.

I just got off the telephone with a really nice lady at the health department. I recognized her voice right away from the extensive conversations I had with her 3 years ago when my husband was part of an e.coli outbreak. Again, I grabbed my marked up calendar and went through the dates with her. Who was he with? Was anyone else coughing? Where did he go? But this time, she was asking about Wyatt.

This boy has whooping cough.

It's his birthday.

Since he was vaccinated, he is not as sick as he could be. And if you saw him and he was not coughing, you wouldn't even guess that he was sick. But he is. And it's serious. Now that we have a correct diagnosis, he has to be quarantined for a week while the antibiotics do their job. Our entire family has to be treated as well as those who have been in close contact with him. Our friends have to watch and be aware of symptoms. It's not fun and again I find myself thinking, "Enough."

Enough for this boy.

Enough.

It's this boys birthday and my wish for him is that it's done. Enough. He's already the kindest person in any room at any time. His care and love for others is evident. He gives with all that he is without asking for anything in return. He deserves a year off. A year with nothing but happiness. Just a year, is that so much to ask?

“Promise me you'll always remember: You're braver than you believe, and stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think."
-Christopher Robin to Pooh

S.O.S.

2011-09-23T10:03:00.000-07:00

Folks, I have a real honest-to-goodness dilemma and I desperately need your help.

I woke up the other morning and this was in my house!

This!

A teenager.

A football player.

A Freshmen in high school.

I swear, I closed my eyes to catch a few winks, as any tired mother finds herself doing from time to time when the coffee pot has grown empty and the dust bunnies are under control, and when I woke up, there he was, in all of his teenagerdness glory.

Send grocery money.

ASAP.

Most of All, I Just Love You

2011-09-14T10:34:00.001-07:00

Dear Husband,

It's the day before our 15th wedding anniversary and time again to tell you how much I appreciate everything you do.

It's the little things, like reminding the boys not to pee all over the toilet seat and to stop making farting noises with their armpits when I've had a hard day; because lord knows, when I remind them all they hear is that parent on the Charlie Brown cartoons, "Wah wah wah wah waaaa wah."

Thank you for sweeping the moss of the roof, so that I don't hear the crows playing with it in the mornings I'm trying to sleep in. Thank you for always eating the dinner I make, even if I am experimenting with potato chip casserole and it tastes like melted plastic bags. You sat there and quietly waited for everyone else's response before we all threw our hands in the air and decided take-out pizza would be a much better idea.

Thank you for being a super dad to our boys and our girl. Thank you for taking them on bike rides when I'm not feeling up to it. Thank you for making their lunches so I don't have to get up and do it at o'dark thirty. Thank you for believing in them. Thank you for going with me to parenting presentations even though we've been doing this for a few years. Thank you for tucking them in at night.

Thank you for putting up with me for yet another year, a challenging year in which a doctor shot hormones into my hip in hopes of making me feel better and one of the side effects was a forced chemical menopause.

That was fun.

I know I was a crazy person. I know I still am. And we'll have to do it all over again, but at least this time we know what to expect, right? We know that I will (and that's a promise) cry at the mere mention of anything even remotely sad or happy or funny. We know that I'll have night sweats and hot flashes and that my head may indeed spin around Linda Blair style at any given moment. But still, you are always by my side, laughing at (WITH) me.

And for that, I love you.

Thank you for being so motivated to get things done, and for not taking it personally when I bit your head off for beating me to the task of making coleslaw the other night. I really did want to make it, you could have waited 5 minutes. But thank you, anyway.

Thank you for letting me get a cat. And isn't it funny how you have a pet name for her and you are so obviously her favorite? Sorry, couldn't help myself.

And last but not least, thank you for your smile. I know that I look pretty funny with my zebra-print sleep mask in the mornings, especially when I'm facing your side of the bed and you can't tell if I'm awake or not, but thank you for not laughing so loud, just smiling quietly and thanking god you have a wife as hot as me and my zebra-print sleeping mask. Really. I really do appreciate that.

At least it's not a c-pap machine.

Tomorrow we celebrate a milestone, 15 years on the 15th. Thank you for being with me all day tomorrow, even though I will be in surgery and you will be playing cribbage with my Dad waiting for me to wake up. Thank you for being home with our kids tomorrow night and assuring them that I'm fine, even though my heart will be breaking that I can't be with you. I promise I will make it up to you, in Swedish Fish.

Most of all, I just love you.

Happy Anniversary Baby.

Love,
Your Wife

Letting Go, How 9/11 Changed our Lives Forever

2011-09-11T11:50:00.000-07:00

I've written this a thousand times in my head but every time I've sat down at my computer to write it out, I'm unable to say what I need to say.

It's been 65 days.

I'm never going to be able to tell our story in a way that people will understand. I'm never going to understand how, 10 years later, the anniversary of 9/11 paired with being the wife of a firefighter has brought up such raw emotion each day leading up to today. I'm never going to fully comprehend how what we experienced in Norway 65 days ago relates to 9/11.

All I know is that it does.

It all does.

We live on the west coast. A continent away from the attacks that took place on 9/11, but as any firefighter will tell you, those were his brothers racing towards the burning buildings. Those were his brothers pulling people out. Those were his brothers being crushed when the towers fell. Those are his brothers still dealing with the physical effects and emotional scars of what happened on September 11, 2001, every single day.

When you're married to a firefighter, you don't get to "forget." You don't get to "move on." Much like the military is a family, the firefighter family spans age, race and gender and unites us all no matter where in the world we may be. Every man is your husband, father, uncle, friend or son. Every tragedy could have been him.

If Seattle had been the target of an attack, my husbands department would have been one of the neighboring departments called in and I could be in the same exact situation as those who lost loved ones in NYC, DC or Pennsylvania.

So when my children turned their heads to me and asked, "Could that happen to Daddy?" I had to answer as truthfully as I knew how, "Yes, but it won't."

This is what it's like for a firefighter family.

--------------------------------------------------------------------

Sailing into Oslo that morning, we knew immediately this place reminded us of home in the Pacific Northwest. It was green and hilly, a stark contrast to the flatness and lack of evergreens in Denmark. We felt an instant ease and familiarity although we had never been there and didn't understand the language. It felt right.

It had been raining heavily off and on that Friday, but that hadn't stopped us from seeing the city. The first thing we did after leaving the ship that morning was to take a 2 hour bus tour of the city, Holmenkollen and Vigeland Gardens. We figured that since we truly would be on our own, without our Copenhagen family to act as tour guides, it would be a great way to get an overview of Oslo and acquaint us with some local facts and maybe even some insider tips on how to do the city. We were really excited.

The bus left the City Hall and wound its way through the narrow cobblestone streets that make up a lot of the surface in Oslo. We drove by the parliamentary buildings, famous museums and the government buildings which flanked a large parklike space of land.

We did the touristy thing, following our tour guide and her little golden flag around at each stop. She shared stories of Norway and we were grateful for her chipper execution despite the pouring rain. When the bus dropped us back off at City Hall, we felt prepared to tackle what little bit of Oslo we could see in the time we had.

After waiting out the rain in City Hall, touring the incredible rooms and reading everything we came in contact with, we braved the rain to find a cozy spot for lunch. We nourished ourselves with a delicious fritatta and even more delicious coffee before going souvenir shopping and eventually finding our way back to the waterfront and the Nobel Peace Center, which was a priority on our "Things to see in Oslo" list.

There, we inhaled the messages of peace, non-violence and humanity that seemed to shout from every square millimeter of space in that building. We gazed upon the faces of Nobel Peace recipients and felt humbled. We sent an email home from an interactive exhibit about Nansen.

That's how my mom knew where we were when she heard the news that morning.

When we walked out of the Nobel Peace Center in downtown Oslo on July 22nd, we had about an hour before we had to be back to our ship to Copenhagen. It was "that time of day," the time of day we'd grown accustomed to (in a very short time mind you) to having a little pre-dinner snack of pastry or soft ice. We looked to our left, back towards City Hall and the downtown area that we'd already seen much of. We looked to our right, a meandering walkway along the harbor flanked by retail shops on one side and what looked like ice cream kiosks on the water side. We knew which way to go.

No sooner than had we begun walking to the right, we heard a loud noise.

Noise.

I don't know how to articulate what that deafening noise sounded like. It wasn't a gun. It wasn't a firework. It didn't sound like a canon, although we heard from the myriad of voices in different languages surrounding us, someone saying "canon." We checked our watches, thinking maybe this was a customary Oslo thing to do at this time of day on a Friday, but nothing made sense.

What we did know, was to get moving.

We could see a giant cloud of smoke, ash and debris from where we were standing. Little bits of unknown. I kept thinking it must have been an accident, something went wrong somewhere or maybe it was a gas explosion.

Brett knew that it wasn't.

Things you know when something unexpected happens in a place where you are unfamiliar and you have zero access to information: you want to be anywhere other than here and you would give anything for a cell phone.

We had no phone, nothing. We relied on observing what those around us were doing, staying together and listening to our instincts.

Instinct told me to get out of there.

Instinct told Brett to get out of there, and to see if anyone needed help (the firefighter instinct, the instinct that makes him such a wonderful husband, father and person, the instinct that I love).

We decided that everyone seemed calm enough to turn left into the city streets from the relative safety of the waterfront to see if we could help. We passed people pressed into doorways, speaking in different languages. "Terrorista" and "bomba" were words we understood. We passed a mother on a cell phone, holding the hand of a young daughter, a stricken look on her face that all was not right. We passed a mother with a buggy, running the opposite direction from the way we were walking. We kept walking. But nobody seemed to be panicking too much.

We were almost to the open area where the government buildings stood when we saw them.

A half a block away, so many people, running towards us. A mob. Running away from something.

Brett grabbed my hand, looked at me, and said, "Nice, easy jog back to the boat. Here we go."

I stood for what seemed like a moment but was probably only a tiny sliver of a second, willing the tears not to come out of my eyes, willing myself to stop thinking I'd never see my children again, willing myself to hold it together and I ran with my husband back towards the waterfront.

I never looked back.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

When people say they don't understand what the big deal is about 9/11, and that we are giving too much attention to the anniversary, I want to slink into my skin and become invisible.

We've always honored this day as a firefighter family, by doing things that we thought were meaningful. A moment of silence at the dinner table, telling our children our memories of that day or by going somewhere peaceful, away from it all. We know turning off the media is important. We know bombarding them with images is harmful. But we also know that we are American, and like it or not, this is OUR history. We share this history with everyone.

It's been incredibly hard for us this year. The combination of being in the fire service for my husband coupled with the terrorist attack in Oslo that is now a part of our shared history, has taken it's toll and I don't know how to fix it other than to write it out and finally try to take a step towards letting go.

It's all I know.

To tell, to write, to share.

Yesterday, Brett and the kids spent all day working on a new flagpole for our front yard. It's BIG. When he called for me to come take a look at it, I was overwhelmed. There were my 3 children, holding up the flagpole so Dad could get it's position just right before putting the finishing touches on it and pouring the concrete which will keep it in place.

It has a shiny fire nozzle on top and two 2011 dollar coins pressed into it's base, along with my daughters initials since she wasn't born when we raised the flagpole at our first house.

This morning at 5:46am, we got up, bleary-eyed and full of sleep, to raise the flag.

The kids helping with the placement of the flagpole, 9/10/11

It's not much, but hopefully it will be enough to help us remember and to let go of the terrorist experiences that have become a part of our story, our history, us.

The Anti-Back to School

2011-09-07T10:30:00.001-07:00

How many years have I been doing this BACK TO SCHOOL gig?

10.

10 years of loading up on crayons, glue sticks, pencils, scissors and enough pink pearl erasers to pad a jail cell. No, really.

When my oldest (who is now a FRESHMAN) started kindergarten, I was elated to be part of the pack of parents who swarmed the back to school section at Target with the enthusiasm of hungry hyenas. I was happy to participate in the pushing and the shoving for the last remaining box of 24 Crayola crayons or the only cool lunch box left in the store.

Buying school supplies was a rite of passage, a turning point in motherhood that can only be described as an intense feeling of pride when I made it out alive and with every item checked off the teacher's wish list.

I would give myself a theoretical pat on the back and head to the nearest Starbucks to reward myself with a triple iced vanilla latte before heading home and labeling every single thing "MB" with a black Sharpie.

Those were the days of instant gratification. Cause and Effect. The days when you could actually see the rewards of your labors mere moments after completing them, instead of months down the line when the long division finally kicked in. Those were the days when all it took to make my kids happy was a brand new pencil sharpener. And today? I find myself arguing with a 14 year-old in the store over a ruler.

A ruler!

I can't even count how many rulers this child has had in his short life but I do know one thing, it wasn't on "the list." You see, I'm a strict follower of "the list," and if you want something that isn't on it, there is going to be a discussion at the very least, especially if it is a 5 dollar ruler. I mean really, FIVE WHOLE DOLLARS for a ruler? I have 3 kids. I'm not spending FIFTEEN DOLLARS on rulers, even if they argue with me that we have to buy the expensive one because the plastic one will just break, mom.

Anyway, I suppose I deserve it, waiting until the very last minute to get the school supplies, but I'm still not paying that much for a ruler.

And it's probably important to note that even though they're older and more helpful in a lot of ways, like taking out the trash cans and programming my cell phone when I can't figure it out, taking 3 kids school supply shopping the night before school is not really a wonderful idea.

When they were little, I would have never waited this long to go out and actually purchase the school supplies, but this year I viewed it as an adventure - yes, we'll wait until there is hardly any selection left in the stores, dad is at the firestation and you all have been arguing all day with one another and then and only then, will we go and get our school supplies! Sounds like a great plan, no?

When will I ever learn?

Regardless, I did manage to prepare one child for school the proper way, by taking the obligatory First Day of School photo. I'll just bask in her enthusiasm and try to avoid the snarls from the oldest even though he ended up with the $5 ruler because in the end, they're worth it, right?

Happy Back to School everyone, bring on the lattes.

Good

2011-08-24T14:21:00.001-07:00

Good is:

Your husband turning a fan on you while you cook and stir risotto in a 100 degree kitchen

Finding the perfect gift for someone you love

Kids who don't fight

Really, really good wine

A really, really good book that you wish would never end

New bedding

Longer nights

Longer shadows

A paycheck

Paper snowflakes in August

School supplies and new backpacks

That Foster the People song that I love despite the lyrics

And of course,

Laundry that puts itself away

On Mothering

2011-08-19T12:21:00.000-07:00

"I feel we are all islands - in a common sea." ~ Anne Morrow Lindbergh

The waxing and the waning. It is true - no greater sense of love have I ever felt than when I look upon my children's faces, all three of them reflecting back at me my joy, my responsibility, my duty, my heart.

They come from me. It still takes my breath away, even after all these years. They come from me. Would it matter had I not bore them? I think not. They would still come from me, be my children, my joy, my responsibility, my duty, my heart.

They are not objects. They do not live in a china cabinet, only to suffer occasional dusting and gazing upon by eyes that are afraid to use them, for fear that they'll break and be lost forever. They are not family heirlooms. But still...

That weight of motherhood. Oh - that weight.

I think daily about my role, my place, my purpose. Their mother. Their mother. Their mother.

With one attending elementary school, one in the middle, and one dangling even farther from the place of familiar, it's hard. This mothering. The intense need to protect, to cover, to guide. I learned long ago that the tether holding us together was a fragile one, but not until recently did I realize that if I don't make every right move, say every right word, and do every right thing - it could break. I really don't want it to break.

I want to cocoon us together forever. Wrap each one of them up like a spider does it's prey and never let them go. Keep them in my web, under my wing, in my home - their home, until I can no longer do my job. Mothering.

I'm so selfish.

It's this constant push-pull. One minute I can't wait for them to have space, the next I want to lock them all in a closet and stow the key in a far off place. I'll feed them nutritious meals in that closet, educate them through volumes of National Geographics and make sure every breath of air they take is that of pure, clean, unadulterated air. They will be safe.

I'm so selfish.

They need more. They need to run, to play, to explore. And I don't saddle myself with the worry, although it's always there - beating as steadily as my heart. I push and I pull. I give and I take. I love and I loathe at times, the behaviors, the tension, the "she touched me!" not the children themselves.

I cannot pinpoint the very moment. Some women can. They say that the second they found out they were carrying their first child, they felt like a mother. Some say it happened the moment they first laid eyes on their child. Some say it came later, after the stress of a newborn and adjustment to a life centering around said newborn calmed down a bit. Some say it was even later than that - but a pinpoint nonetheless. I think I've always felt like a mom. I've always mothered. I've never pictured myself any other way. No pinpoint.

And after a period of waning, after I kid with my husband that I'll check into a hotel just to get a moments peace, after I recognize the deep breaths I'm forcing myself to take to calm down, then comes that time. That place that exists in the in between. In between the push and the pull. In between the love and the loathe. There, in between, is someplace, some middle ground, some common area where we all exist, mothers, where we know exactly where we are and exactly where we want to be.

The center.

The mother.

*Reposted and edited from 2010, but still very relevant today

Jet Lag, Bloody Marys and the Tired

2011-08-10T18:48:00.000-07:00

The farthest I’d ever travelled was to the Caribbean (which reminds me, is that spelled with one “r” or 2?), where the 3-4 hour time difference wasn’t really relevant as we ate dinner every night at 9pm and in between dinners, we were adequately hydrated. READ: DRUNK. So you can imagine, despite being adequately hydrated, I never had to deal with anything other than a really long, a’hem, hangover, upon our return to the real world that exists when vacations end.

My friend told me it would take 10 days, and believe me, it did. The first few days, I was so happy to be home, still riding my vacation high and enjoying each little word that sprang forth from my children’s mouths, that I hardly noticed THE TIRED. But oh, the tired.

Normally, I’m a little bit of a night owl. Okay…big-time. What can I say? I like the quietness of the house when everyone else is asleep, especially during summer. I like to be able to clean the kitchen without a barefooted kid running yet another dirty dish into my hands, or a dog standing there, begging, drooling over my every move that may or may not involve a treat for him. I like the peace. I like the calm. So when I was finding it hard to keep my eyes from slamming shut at 10pm every night, I knew I was in trouble.

Turns out, a 9 hour time difference is a big deal folks!

Going to Denmark, we stayed up on the plane, we were fueled by our excitement, and caffeine, and bloody marys. Coming home was almost exactly the opposite. The flights were broken up into 2 grueling legs instead of 1 long one and 1 short one. The planes were both crowded, and hot, and smelly. My seat was stuck in the upright position for the 2nd leg from New York to Seattle…oh yes. And going to the lavatory was like being a contestant on Wipe Out, obstacles with every step.

But I did it, without too much complaining (I thought I’d save that for now), and we arrived back in Seattle and into the welcome arms of my Dad and our 3 children, who had come to pick us up at the airport.

Coming home, it was an entirely different story. There was no unknown to be excited about, no big city to explore, no ancient castles to wander through or countrysides to see and most importantly, no soft ice cream every day to keep me going. Oh yes, The Danes are very fond of their soft ice and their hot dogs. Another surprising thing about Copenhagen? There were more 7-11s than McDonalds. In fact, I think I only saw a handful of the golden arches during the entire trip. But 7-11s? On almost every corner.

So the tired. It took awhile to recover from that. But just like my good buddy told me, 10 days and I was back to normal.

I was grateful for so many things during those first few days home – we had nice seatmates, young girls who didn’t take up a seat and half OR smell like meatballs. We arrived safely despite extreme turbulence over the Dakotas…please one more bloody mary, thank you. I still had circulation in my legs even though my feet were the size of bricks and I’m pretty sure if you look up “cankles” in the dictionary you will find a picture of my lower legs. And, our kids were happy to see us; they even refrained from bickering for almost a week which only reinforces my belief that a 2-week long European vacation should be mandatory for all parents.

But most of all, above all the joking and the uncomfortableness that everyone is bound to experience a little of when they travel, I was mostly grateful to be alive.

We were in downtown Oslo on July 22nd.

Little by Little

2011-08-04T12:53:00.000-07:00

I didn't write much in July, here anyway.

We left for Denmark on the 12th - flying to Amsterdam in just over 9 hours and then caught another flight to Copenhagen where we were greeted with Danish and American flags by my husband's Aunt and Uncle, Jodie and Mogens, our family.

I brought along the most perfect little journal, in which I wrote everyday.

On the plane, July 12th, 2011, 7:36pm Seattle time:

We are on our way to Denmark! While this is a trip of a lifetime, I can't help missing the kids already, especially when Brett gives our extra airplane pretzels to the family in the seats next to us for the youngest of their 2 boys. He's probably 2 years old, maybe 3. I imagine that they are travelling home to Scandinavia, as I do not recognize the language they are speaking.

Other noteworthy passengers include a group of "suave" (I didn't know another word that would sum them up just right) looking men who are sitting in the fancy seats. One of them had jeans so tight I am surprised he could breathe and even though I wasn't gawking (of course not!) I noticed he grabbed himself several times in the terminal! I'm kind of grateful that we're not sitting near them.

Jane Eyre is the in-flight movie and even though I've only written one small page, I can feel my hand cramping up...I better flex my writing muscles more often and stop relying on the keyboard to always get my thoughts out.

It's dinnertime on Delta...chicken or pasta?

BRETT, 2027 hours: FREE BEER AND BOX WINE!

8:37pm Seattle time:

I love airplane food. I love the individual boxes. I love the separation of each item. I was never one of those people who freaked out when the peas ran into the mashed potatoes, but for some reason this makes me very happy.

We are somewhere over Canada. There are tons of tiny lakes out the window - or maybe they are large, we ARE pretty high up. I don't see any roads or cities or signs of civilization, although I'm sure there could be some people down there, somewhere. I keep waiting to fly into darkness. We are heading east and probably very north (think, Artic Circle) as well so maybe it will be like summers I spent in Alaska...no darkness. We had room-darkening shades on every bedroom window. Perhaps that's why the flight attendant said/suggested we close the covers on the windows in case people want to sleep...

And here I am with it wide open, staring at a moon and a baron landscape below us. I think I'll shut my window shade.

The family next to us is working on getting their boys to sleep. The mother has the older and the father has the younger. They've taken walks around the cabin and are now snuggling their babies. They are so busy (the parents) and I feel for them as I grab my book and begin to read...

I can't wait to tell my babies about our trip.

Extra Fiber

2011-07-01T08:37:00.001-07:00

Smoothies are practically a staple around here in the summertime.

Which makes me even happier because that means I don't have to cook.

I should've known the day was going to go sideways when I learned that we didn't have any fresh yogurt and I had to use a tube of frozen Go-Gurt in their smoothie instead. Why do I never recognize the signs the universe tries to hurl at me?

I poured them each a nice big glass of strawberry, peach, blueberry, banana, Go-Gurt and milk and called it good. They slurped them down in no time and finally hit the showers before getting on with that oh so exhausting task of being a kid in the summertime.

As I began cleaning up the mess, I noticed something funny about the wooden spoon I'd used to scrape the smoothie out of the blender with...

You know where this is going now...

There was a large chunk of wood missing from the end of the spoon.

Yes, the end I'd stuck down in the blender to mash everything into the blades so there would be no lumps, because nobody likes a chunky smoothie. Oxymoron?

Oh yes.

But kids need extra fiber in their diets, right?

What a Good Story Can Do

2011-06-29T09:10:00.001-07:00

I remember a few summers back having to define the word "sultry" to my daughter, then 5-years-old.

It was late July and right around the time of our town's annual festival. The kids perched themselves along the parade route with a homemade lemonade stand. They yelled at passersby continuously until they sold enough lemonade to buy tickets at the carnival while the ladies sat on the front porch fanning themselves and drinking vodka cocktails so as to not exert themselves too much in the heat. It was the kind of heat that makes your thighs stick together and leaves a constant bead of perspiration down the small of your back.

It's not exactly hot around these parts yet...not hot enough to carry around a fan in your purse or resort to wearing skirts, but it's getting there. And boy, is it humid. Summer is slowly revving up, as it often does in our state, little by little. And just like every year, after The Fourth of July, I expect it to be hot.

Not TEXAS hot, WASHINGTON hot, which is hot enough for me.

So anyway, as we transition into this warm time of year, I'm never more happy that the previous owners were smart enough to install a pretty solid ceiling fan in all the upstairs bedrooms, however tacky they may be the other 9 months out of the year. Although it's dated and ugly, the calm whir of that fan is all that makes it bearable to sleep in my own bed when it's so muggy outside that even the frogs are sweating.

Last night was the first night I've used it this year.

MUGGY!

I couldn't sleep (might have something to do with that nap I took at 5pm - I know, I am certifiable, but my husband was on shift, my kids were zoning out and I seized an opportunity - don't judge), so I read late into the night. I'd been trying to finish the same book for 2 weeks and with only 40 pages to go, I trudged on.

I shouldn't say trudged, like it was a chore to read it, because it wasn't. In fact, I can't remember enjoying a book more in recent years. I just hadn't had a lot of time to actually sit down and read, so I was grateful for these wee hours, when the house was quiet (save the fan), the kids were dreaming (one right next to me), and the worries of the day were over.

But someone should have warned me. I mean really warned me - or maybe the book should have come with an endless supply of Kleenex coupons because before I knew it, hot tears streamed down my face, one followed by another, as I read through the end of the story...in which the main character finds out way too late that she has inflammatory breast cancer.

It was like Beaches, Steel Magnolias and Terms of Endearment all rolled into one. The story of women. Moms, daughters, best friends. I've always been a cryer. I've always been sentimental. But this was the first time I'd read a book that really hit home.

Almost exactly one year after my own mom's breast cancer surgery, reading a story in which another woman (yes, fictional I know, but still...this could happen to anyone) looses the battle is rough. It's the "what if" and the "could have been" and maybe even the "it could come back" that made me feel like a puddle of mush in the middle of the night, glancing at the clock and knowing that although she was fast asleep, I'd never wanted to call my mom more just to hear her voice.

I finished the last word on the last page and put the book back on my nightstand. I took a deep breath and reached for another tissue, wiping away the river that was forming on my cheeks.

Good grief, I thought to myself. It's just a book!

But sometimes it's more than just a book, sometimes it's a story that no matter where or when or who...it's about all of us.

I looked over at my daughter, sleeping beside me. She was laying face up on her father's pillow, hands at the sides of her face and my zebra-print sleep mask covering her eyes because the light from my lamp was "too bright mom."

And I laughed, giddy over the comedy that scene created.

And then I went to sleep, grateful for all of the women in my life. The moms, the grandmas, the aunts, the cousins, the friends and the daughters.

Because that, is what a good story can do.

Dinner Conversation

2011-06-28T09:42:00.001-07:00

As most families do after a very full weekend of food and family and laughing and more food, we were pretty worn out come Monday, so worn out in fact that we had dinner at Taco Time. I know, classy, because that's how we roll.

Anyway, the last (and I DO mean last) thing I want to think about after a big weeekend is making dinner.

Or doing laundry.

Or paying bills.

Or making my bed.

But...

Yes - so there we were, the 4 of us because 1 kid decided to jump ship and spend the night with a friend, sitting at Taco Time when the endless conversation with our 7-year-old went in a new direction.

You see, she'd been probing me all day about the reasons WHY she couldn't have a baby sister. She'd even gone so far as to ask me how much money it would take to adopt one, because she could save enough. Sigh. Like that's going to happen! She talked on this subject for 3 hours. I am so not kidding. So when the conversation took a different turn, I was welcoming the change.

"Dad, how old will I be in 2nd grade? Will I be nine? Because my friend so-and-so is in 2nd grade and she is nine. So, um, Dad, what age will I be in 2nd grade?"

My husband slowly explained that usually, people turn 8 in 2nd grade.

"So Dad, that means I'll turn 9 in 3rd grade?"

He nodded patiently, having not spent the entire day listening to her which, don't get me wrong, I love that she wants to narrate everything we do but sometimes, oh boy, sometimes I wonder if she will ever stop. She talks when she feeds the cat. She talks while she brushes her teeth. She talks while she ties her shoes. She talks and talks and talks.

Yes mom, I know you're sitting there nodding your head at the daughter who was constantly put IN THE HALL by her 2nd grade teacher for TALKING who now has a little chatter box of her very own (and I wouldn't have it any other way).

I sat across from them, my mouth full of refried beans, enjoying the fact that I wasn't the parent being given the third degree.

This lasted for a good 5 minutes, long enough for me to finish my salad. It was like a Christmas miracle, only, without the Christmas. Let's just say I was enjoying it, right up to the part where they were talking about how old you turn in 7th grade and my husband turned to her and said, "And after you turn 12 in 6th grade, you turn 13 in THE MONASTERY. With THE NUNS."

Oh yes, THE NUNS.

Because that, much like the dream of paying for a baby sister with the coins saved in her giant crayon piggy bank, is ever going to happen.

There is no talking in THE MONASTERY. Or so I've heard. She'd never survive.

Have you Seen It?

2011-06-21T16:07:00.000-07:00

My zen...my inner peace...my third eye that balances me and keeps me sane, calm and happy.

It's not unusual to lose it during this time of the year. Not unusual at all. But you see, between a moody 14 year old who is about to be a FRESHMEN in high school, although he really attends a "mid high" so not technically in the high school yet, but still a 9th grader, a Frosh, and you know - making me even more old by proxy, well, you get the picture.

As I was saying...

Between a soon-to-be 9th grader, a soon-to-be 7th grader and a soon-to-be 2nd grader, I seem to have lost my calm.

Like, it's totally gone.

Last night Katie wanted me to explain what it meant to be "in limbo."

Perhaps we've been watching a little too much Inception in our house.

So I tried to explain what being "in between" meant, in the real world.

"But what about doing the limbo?" she asked.

"The dance?" I answered.

"Yeah, the dance. How is that in between anything?"

Without the proper encyclopedia handy at the kitchen table, I improvised. I told her it was called the "limbo" because it was in between up and down. I have no idea if I am right or wrong and she seemed perfectly content with that answer so, yes, do you regularly improvise (read: flat out lie) to your kids when you don't know the answer to something?

Obviously, the jig will be up soon like, say, when she's smarter than I am - and I fear we're getting dangerously close to that time. In fact, all I have to do is try and help her with her division homework and I know I'm going to be in a lot of trouble. And yes, this is first grade math...I never claimed to be mathematically inclined and my husband knew this when he married me. So.

That zen?

I can hear her her in the living room, asking her older brothers how to spell "vampire." Awesome. I still have a leg up on her, intellectually, for a few years.

Do I want to know why she needs to know how to spell "vampire?"

No.

I'm just happy that the boys have their hands off each other, there is no screaming, and the dog is not having a rodeo with our new cat.

It's a little slice of heaven, bring on summer vacation.

I'll just try to hold onto this happy place for the rest of the day and try to forget that I just heard my oldest asking his brother why the cat pees so much because he's never seen so much pee in a litter box before.

Aaaaaaaah, parenthood.

Ammunition, Part 2

2011-06-15T09:10:00.000-07:00

Oh what a difference 3 years makes!

Somedays, I really do wish I lived in Little House on the Prairie and had to churn my own butter and milk my own cow. That would really help cut down on this whole problem we've been having in our house lately regarding THE PHONE.

I realize that whether I like it or not, we live in a world of instant communication. But that doesn't mean that because we are accessible, that we should always be available, right? Can I get an amen?

Try explaining that to a 14 year-old in love.

I told him to start writing notes, like we did in the "olden days." Don't think it's going to work, so for now, a flashback:

As the boys get older, it has become increasingly harder to find meaningful punishments for them, other than the old standby, “Go to your room!” When they were little, the mere mention of, “If you keep that up, I will have to take away your Transformer” would cause whatever offending behavior was taking place to fly the coop. All I had to do was threaten an earlier bedtime, no Legos or taking their skateboards away and they would straighten up.

Unfortunately, they don’t stay young and impressionable (manipulatable) forever. It is harder to dole out consequences when they really aren’t into their boyish toys like they used to be. Say I told them I was going to take away their Hot Wheel cars, they would probably tell me, “Go ahead,” and then they’d find themselves in even more trouble than they started out in and I’d be searching fruitlessly for an even more applicable punishment, one that actually mattered to their tween minds.

As I sat and wracked my brain for meaningful consequences, reread the parenting manuals searching for the magic cure, and spoke to my own parents about what I should do, I was interrupted by the ringing phone.

“Hello,” I say.

“Hi, may I please speak to McRae?”

Oh, it’s a girl, I think to myself. I glance down at the caller id, confirming my suspicion and try harder than humanly possible to resist the urge not to listen in on their conversation. Although, from what I could tell from my son’s end, it wasn’t much of a conversation at all, unless you count “I’m bored” and “What are you doing?” as conversation.

I sat there; painful as it was, and waited the excruciatingly long fifteen minutes for his phone call to be over. Then, it occurred to me.

I wasn’t going to find the solution to my inability to find a consequence that mattered to my middle school bound son in any parenting book.

No magazine would have all the answers, and although my parents did a bang up job raising me, I was not my son, not by a long shot.

The answer was in the phone.

The phone, which had become, in the past few weeks, an object of great curiosity. The phone, whose inbound calls had increased so much so that I had to explain the finer points of answering call-waiting so that I would not miss a call while he was busy “conversing” with the girl in his 5th-grade class. The phone!

That’s it. That’s the magic bullet, the deliverer of truth and justice in this household. The phone is the ticket for my trip out of what-kind-of-consequence-will-matterdom. The phone it is!

A few days passed without any significant rule-breaking taking place. I was beginning to think that I’d never get the opportunity to wield my new superpower, that being the threat of losing phone privileges. Not that I was complaining about my kids being well-behaved, every mother knows that these brief moments when children get along with one another and go to bed without a tantrum are mere mutations in the usual daily grind of parenting.

Finally, the day had come. Some backtalk was thrown haphazardly from my son’s lips and no greater joy was found within my black, mean mommy heart. I’d finally get the much-anticipated chance to test out the new material.

“If you continue to speak to me in that tone of voice, you will lose your phone privileges for the rest of the week,” I delivered, trying my best to sound like a real grown-up.

His eyes got as big as saucers. His lips pursed, the sassiness trying like a caged bull to escape his mouth. I swear, I saw steam coming from his ears. . .

“Okay Mom,” was all he could say.

And I jumped leaps of joy and jubilation at hearing those words.

Original post written July, 2008.

The Chart

2011-06-01T09:37:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time (read "last year") I was shopping at Target or Costco or Bed Bath & Beyond...

Does it really matter?

There it was, a bright, shiny and NEW wipe-off chore chart. It was magnetic. It had colored stars to keep track of who did their chores. It had spaces for all the things I thought the kids needed to do. It was ON SALE.

I brought the awesome new chore chart home, unwrapped it from the plastic, making sure to take a deep breath of it's newness as I did so, and immediately hung it on the fridge. I couldn't wait to fill in all of the boxes and assign chores for my kids, who had no idea what was waiting for them when they came home from school. So I picked up that brand new dry erase marker and I WENT TO TOWN.

Nothing screams success like a neatly organized chore chart for all the world to see, no?

The kids burst through the front door as usual and before they could drop their backpacks on the bench in the hallway I ushered them into the kitchen. With all three standing at attention, I explained the new contraption hanging on the fridge, which I'd also cleared of any unnecessary papers, so as not to clutter the intent of the new chore chart. No lunch menus, painted cats, cheap magnetic puzzles with missing pieces, baby pictures or 6 month old awards for perfect attendance. Nope. It was all gone. All of it! No coupons or recipes I'd never use. Nothing but that gleaming box of organization which I was sure would bring family harmony.

I told the kids the expectations.

They glanced sideways.

I explained that each child got a color and stars of their chosen color would be placed in the days of the week boxes corresponding with the chores they needed to do.

They sighed.

I told them this would simplify our lives and that I would do a lot less screaming.

They seemed interested.

And then I explained that the new system started NOW.

They were less than thrilled.

For about a month, beds were made, dishes were done, toys were picked up and my house was beginning to resemble what it had before I had children (and their things) to clutter it up. When the boys would argue about a task, I would send them to the chart. No yelling. No screaming. No negotiating.

And if I had invested in a good set of earplugs, I may have not heard any bickering as they looked at the chart and then argued about who was which color star and how come you're always blue because we all know that I'm always blue and lord...someone hold me.

By the second month, we were slacking a bit on the chart and I had to regroup. So I drug the kids to the kitchen again and explained the revised list.

I told them this was the way it was. And that I was sick of reminding people to look at a chart in order to get them to brush their teeth twice a day! I kid you not. Brushing your teeth should be like breathing...you just do it. I thought that if I wrote "brush your teeth" on the chart, they would be mortified if any of their friends saw that and the problem would be solved.

Not so much.

I never said I was good at that whole "reverse psychology" thing.

So anyway, the chart worked great for about 2 months. And then something happened. I don't know if it was summer, or football, or too much Peanuttles, but something happened. We got off track. The arguing about whose turn it was to load/unload the dishwasher returned and even though I reminded them that their father didn't even have a dishwasher when he was growing up, nothing seemed to work!

And here I was, at the end of my rope again.

Yelling.

Screaming.

Generally NOT enjoying this little ride I like to call parenting.

The other day I took that godforsaken chore chart off the refrigerator and I sprayed cleaner all over it. I wiped every last bit of "I'm blue, not green because everyone knows I'm always blue" off it's surface until it glimmered like the day I'd bought it - which, for the record, seems like an awfully long time ago.

I removed the cap of the dry erase marker and applied my first mark: NEW RULES.

And then I began.

NEW RULES

* If there are dishes...DO THEM!

(I don't care whose "turn it is" or "who did them last," help out!)

* Take recycles down! Don't let them pile up!

* Pick up after yourself...ALWAYS!

* Take it OUTSIDE!

* BE KIND!

* BE RESPECTFUL!

* If something needs doing, DO IT!

I wonder how long this is going to last?

Sidenote: For those of you who don't know, my husband has been home recovering from shoulder surgery for the past month. He thinks the last "rule" is just for him and he plans on "doing" what needs to be done as much as possible.

It's going to be a long summer.

In other news, my neighbor brought me down a bottle of Mad Housewife wine the other day. He'd taken a sharpie to the bottle and crossed out the MAD and instead wrote HAPPY. We'll see if that works.

How to give a Compliment

2011-05-31T09:43:00.000-07:00

There I was, standing in my bathroom, scissors in one hand, 6 or more (I didn't measure) inches of grown out bangs in the other.

Snip.

I know. I know.

I should have gone somewhere.

I should have paid someone.

A professional.

But in the land of oh-dear-lord-if-i-have-to-deal-with-this-hair-for-just-one-more-minute-i-will-surely-die, I had to do something about it. And I had to do it now.

So I cut myself some bangs. Did them up just right. Or so I thought. Until I dried them and realized that no, they were not cute and no, no matter how hard I try to convince myself - I am not a beautician. Or a hair stylist. Or a hair master. Or whatever else you call people who can turn an ordinary mop of hair into a beautiful masterpiece. I am none of it.

I will never learn.

But, the damage was done. Now I had to face the jury.

"I love your bangs mommy!" Said my daughter (she knows what side of the bread her butter is on).

"Your hair looks good." Said my 13 year-old (he was trying to redeem himself from a long day of eye rolling).

"It's cute honey - you look like that girl in The Watchmen." Said my husband (who was just trying to be nice and avoid a tearful breakdown on my part - it worked).

"Did you cut your own hair?" Asked my 11 year-old, one eyebrow raised.

"Yes, how do you like it?"

"Um...you shouldn't have done that."

I can always count on him, my child of truth justice and absolutely no gray area, to tell it like it is. But I have just one little piece of advice for him, if he ever wants to learn the fine art of complimenting a female: Just say it looks nice.

You don't have to lie. You don't have to bend the truth. But when it comes to your mommas hair, just say it looks nice.

Even if it's sticking up in the back like a porcupine - a la Kate Gosselin (do you think her kids ever called her out on that hairdo? I doubt it) - just say it looks nice.

Even if it looks like she just woke up from a nap on the couch (not that I'd know anything about that) - just say it looks nice.

Even if you see a gray hair or two or fifty - just say it looks nice.

Because you never know what kind of embarrassing baby photos your mother can dig up and post on the Internet.

Consider this a warning.

You're welcome.

*Originally posted April, 2010...but guess what? Same thing happened last week! Funny how life is - cyclical like that. Even funnier that I do the same crazy things again and again.

Wax on Wax Off (NOT a Karate Kid Tale)

2011-05-27T09:02:00.000-07:00

For my 34th birthday I received 2 gift certificates to a local spa. One was for a massage (which I cashed in 6 months later . . . aaaaah, can we all say eucalyptus aromatherapy together now?) and the other (given to me by my loving spouse) was for a massage and a little something else . . . a little $50 something else which was cleverly coded as "other spa services" on the beautiful gold gift certificate.

Need I mention that I turned 35 this year and still, that one gift certificate remained in a special place in my underwear drawer, just waiting for the proper time to be used?

Yeah, well there it lay in wait amongst the veritable underwearfest that is known as my panty drawer as well as the place where the tooth fairy stashes all of her collected teeth (I think I may have to talk with her about leaving her goods in places they don't belong).

Since summer is here and since I am a full-fledged grown-up (shhhhh, don't tell anyone), I thought it was high time I use those "other spa services" available for $50. It probably is not much of a surprise to anyone that the only services listed for exactly $50 are those services having to do with the waxing of my bikini line and more.

God, if I can't even type it, than how can I actually do it?

Okay, Brazilian. Brazilian. Brazilian. Brazilian.

Me? Not such a big fan of a total Brazilian, but I figured there was probably some way of negotiating with my waxer, hair ripper, torturer, what do you call them anyway? I thought if I had been seen by my OB/GYN about a thousand times, not counting the team of people present for the births of my three children, than surely I could be brave enough to tell the lady (oh, it had better be a lady and not a man) exactly what I want and how I want it. And that little morsel of information is not for sharing.

Turns out you can negotiate anything you want while lying on a table with your feet pulled up to your ears. Although I am not sure I want to relive the experience anytime soon. I have been assured that "it will not ever hurt as much as the first time" by everyone I know who has had it done, including the 12-year-old Russian hair ripper who laughed when I asked her if she had seen the episode of The Real Housewives of the OC where they take Vicki's assistant to get waxed and you can hear her screaming through the door, "Will I ever be able to go to the bathroom again?"

She hadn't seen that episode but she assured me that she'd try to catch it in reruns when she wasn't busy staring at vaginas on the waxing table.

Gone yet Dad? Okay then.

I wasn't blessed with a hairy mother, so I had no formal schooling (until now) on body hair removal. My mom is one of those people who can shave her legs once a week and still have smooth legs. Her eyebrows are neat little arcs over here eyes with nary a stray hair, all on their own.

Me? I am a gorilla. Thanks Dad, if you are still here. I began waxing my eyebrows when I was 21 and before that I would attack them with tweezers like a fat girl in a cake store. The minute one would get out of line, there I would be plucking it away like it never existed. I have to shave my legs every live long day and don't even get me started on the weird hair that decided to appear on my chin.

Yes, I've had my hormones tested. No, I am not a man.

So there I was, breathing like I was in labor (probably sounding a lot like Free Willy eh?), trying not to scream or be embarrassed. Which, as I learned, is nearly impossible to do. Trying to not be embarrassed on a waxing table is like trying not to be embarrassed if you are that really weird girl who got kicked out of the American Idol auditions before she even sang a note. "The world will never know just how wonderful I really am!" Sob.

Finally the job was done. And by finally, I mean 45 minutes later. I think I only pushed for 33 minutes to get Wyatt born, but who's counting? My little Russian hair ripper worked on my eyebrows after that, which was surprisingly zen-like after the ordeal I'd just been through and I became so relaxed that I nearly fell asleep.

I probably had post-traumatic stress disorder.

Anyway, would I get it done again? Yes, in about 6 weeks. But next time, I'm packing a designated driver because personally, I think it would hurt a lot less if they would just give me an epidural.

*Originally posted July, 2008

Baseball Rage

2011-05-25T04:39:00.000-07:00

Little League baseball in my hometown brings out the best in people.

And the worst.

And I'm not talking about the kids.

There is no other place, other than the local dive bar (which I swear on a stack of my Nanny's bibles I do not frequent...on a regular basis) where a person can witness such juvenile behavior from grown adults. Well, maybe on the set of Jersey Shore, but I've never sat through an entire episode of that so I can't really say.

The grown-ups are terrible! Sure, there are a few stand outs who do not throw hissy fits when their son drops a ball or gets tagged out on base, but they are few and far between, which makes attending these games an overload of the senses and an extreme exercise in self control. That is, an exercise in trying to keep my mouth shut so I don't read one of these full-grown tantrum throwers the riot act in front of a bunch of kids.

There are just some things that should stay in Vegas and most of these guys obviously didn't get that memo.

So I was not entirely surprised when I witnessed a big Jeep with tires the size of small houses pull into a designated and clearly marked handicap parking space a few weeks ago at the ball field. Obviously this person who shall remain nameless but I want to call a name that rhymes with juice flag thinks that they are above the law and can park anywhere they want.

If you've ever parked at one of our local ball fields, especially the newer one which we were at that particular day, you'd know that parking is a sore subject - almost but not quite as sore a subject as the drop-off loop at the elementary school...

I'm sensing a trend here.

So the origin of my displeasure was not coming completely out of left field (pun intended).

Do you ever get the feeling that John Quinones from the show What Would You Do? is watching you? Like when you see a piece of trash on the sidewalk and you have a quick debate in your mind over picking it up vs leaving it there and you decide to go ahead and pick it up because you have enough hand sanitizer in your purse to clean and prep a patient for major surgery and the chances of you contracting any horrible germ from that ONE PIECE OF GARBAGE is far less than the public humiliation you might endure being labeled SOMEONE WHO DOES NOTHING on a major television program. So you pick up the garbage. Wait for the cameras to rush you and say you did the right thing. And get on with your day when nothing happens.

Or is that just me?

I was more than ready to address this parking thief.

I waited until the child was out of the mega Jeep because I have the common sense not to have unintended bad words in front of kids, of course. But as soon as that ball player was half way to the field I was ready. I had my plan in place. I was going to approach the driver with kindness first, before pointing out that by parking there he was taking something from us all, not just the people who actually need those parking spaces. And if he didn't agree with me, I was going to break out the kid issue.

Think about what you're teaching your children, you heartless troll. I would beg of him.

The time had come.

The drivers door was opening.

And out he stepped...

With a cane.

Who's the juice flag now?

WWJLD - What Would Jen Lancaster Do?

2011-05-23T08:47:00.000-07:00

Pearls, Lacoste shirts, Argyle, Ambien, Barbie, Reality TV...

Is there any reason NOT to love Jen Lancaster?

I was so giddy Friday night when my friend Kim and I headed to the bookstore where Jen would be reading from her novel If You Were Here - yes, John Hughes fans, this book is for you and if you don't connect the title with what is only the most influential movie of anyone's life born between 1968 and 1978, than I suggest you google Jake Ryan and educate yourself.

And you can thank me later for the experience...in pinot grigio. Yes, it seems I've taken to the white that makes housewives, particularly housewives of NYC, dance like turtles. But anyway...

I'd been waiting for her all of my life.

No, really.

Ever since reading her first book many, many moons ago and being an avid blog and twitter follower (despite the fact that I only "tweet" when something goes wrong with my Internet in order to get the attention of the provider), I knew, I just knew, that if she ever came to town I would be there.

In my mind it goes something like this:

Jen Lancaster comes to Seattle and discovers Carrie, whom she immediately adopts as a sister and mentors in the ways of writing, snarking, music and generally having a good time. She flies Carrie and family home to meet Fletch and her beloved animals, including the feral cats, who are immediately tamed by Carrie's daughter. From this point on, Carrie's family and the Lancasters are inseperable. They celebrate holidays together and go on trips to The Hamptons, even though Jen makes fun of The Hamptons in My Fair Lazy. Fletch and Carrie's husband Brett get along like long lost brothers. Jen listens to Carrie tell stories about being a firefighter wife and mom to 3 crazy kids, and Carrie listens to Jen tell her about everything else. They enjoy cupcakes and taking in the occasional Bret Michaels concert together, just to balance everything out. Jen can't imagine what her life was like before Carrie. They all live happily ever after. The end.

In reality it went something like this:

I stressed out over what to wear to see Jen Lancaster all week, finally settling for a lime green "shirtjacket" that I think is totally the bomb. My husband, not so much. He thinks I look like a giant lime. But I took a poll on facebook and my friends there all gave it a thumbs up so sorry Brett, you lose. Giant lime it is.

After stressing out over my clothing, I frantically searched for all the pearls I owned. Even the fake ones. I tried on the longest strand I had, wrapping it 4 times around my neck, thinking if Jen Lancaster didn't think that was totally rad, than I don't know what is. But it was too much. And my kids were acting up. And my daughter came out of her room wearing an ensemble that resembled a very poorly dressed clown so I had to abandon my pearl experimentation.

Perhaps I should rethink my fantasy about my daughter taming Jen's feral cats, clearly she was the one who needed taming.

One strand of pearls and lime green "shirtjacket" later, I picked up Kim and we headed on the first leg of our journey to see Jen Lancaster.

Since it was the day before THE RAPTURE, we took notice of the strange band of color surrounding the sun. I may have freaked out a little and maybe even Kim did too as we craned our necks to see the entirety of this phenomenon out the car windows as I drove down the highway. We may have even panicked a little and totally freaked out the kids, but that's neither here nor there. What we did learn, after calling an expert on atmospheric happenings (my husband), was that the weird band around the sun was not indeed the coming of Jesus, but only something called a "sun angel," which is caused by high clouds.

But still.

It sure looked like Armageddon to me.

And nothing was going to keep me from my Jen Lancaster. Not even that.

To make what could be a very long story short, we finally made it to the book reading. We were even early enough to snag seats in the front row. We took about a thousand self-portraits with Kim's iPhone to pass the time and I nervously crossed and uncrossed my legs until I saw HER, Jen Lancaster, peek her face around the black curtain that defined us, the book reading audience, from the rest of the folk in that area of the book store who were just sitting around munching on bagels and reading The Stranger. What. Ever.

My friend Linda will recall a Dave Matthews concert circa 2001 (what the heck does "circa" mean anyway), when I screamed like a banshee in her left ear (that was the one facing me) during a particularly intense moment.

My friend Kim will tell you she lost a little hearing in her left ear when I saw Jen Lancaster for the first time.

Note to friends: Never sit on my right when we go to these things. And probably not my left either. In fact, I have a better idea - just wear earplugs when you go anywhere with me.

Jen read from her novel, she told jokes and answered questions. Why she does not have her own show in Vegas is beyond me. Celine Dion has got nothing on Jen Lancaster.

When it was finally time for Kim and I to meet my idol and future BFF, I completely lost my nerve. I was going to tell her how it was fate that we were wearing the same color - I mean, not many people can pull off lime green. I was going to say how much she has made me laugh while I was crying over heaps and heaps of Lego's and Polly Pockets and Little People. I was going to tell her how much it meant to me when she started following me on twitter, even though I have nothing to say, and how much I admire her writing, her wit and hilarious take on everything from Grey Poupon to Mob Wives.

But all I could do was giddily hand her the cupcake I'd picked up at the grocery store and tried to disguise as something special by stuffing it's box with pink tissue paper and sticking a curly ribbon on top.

When she asked me where the cupcake was from, I said, "It's from Kim and I!"

"No, where did you get it?" She inquired.

Instead of saying someplace hip and cool, like Cupcake Royale, I had to answer, "Le QFC."

Yes, QFC, as in the grocery store.

Don't I get bonus points for honesty?

I'm pretty sure my BFF-in-standing status plummeted a thousand points upon uttering those words, despite my lime green "shirtjacket." Or maybe it took a plunge when I told Jen Lancaster that had her flight from Seattle to Portland been delayed any longer than it already had, causing much facebook panic amongst her Seattle fans, that I would have happily gone to pick her up.

To which she said, "And that wouldn't be creepy at all, now would it?"

Despite my uncoolness, I still had the time of my life.

My friend Kim, Jen Lancaster and me

Laundrypocolypse

2011-05-20T09:35:00.000-07:00

Back when we were a young married couple, I used to think it was cute how my husband would throw a pair of jeans into the hamper after only one wearing - whether they were actually in need of laundering or not.

After all, these were the days before our family unit expanded. The days before babies and kids and worms left in pockets. The days before daughters who try on everything in their drawers just because they "feel like it" and then deposit everything in the hamper...under a wet towel that had been used to mop up spilled water from giving the Barbies a swimming pool in a Tupperware bowl right there in the middle of her room.

Tell mom about this little water incident? Nah. That's too easy. It'll dry...eventually.

When it was just him and me and our 1970's gold washer and dryer, doing laundry was fun. Not because our machine liked to shimmy out into our kitchen during the wash cycle, but because even though he refused to wear a pair of pants twice, there was very little of that laundry to do. Days would go by without the hamper being filled. Months would go by without having to purchase laundry soap. A box of fabric softener sheets lasted almost all year!

Bliss.

Now I have fancy front-loaders which, any way you slice it, are like having a little piece of heaven all wrapped up in two box-shaped appliances with tiny windows in the front in order to observe and become one with their clothes washing genius. But despite the shiny, beautiful, energy-efficient machines, laundry is still a chore. A big one at that.

I'm not sure exactly when the laundry started becoming so cumbersome. Probably somewhere in between my husbands jeans and the finding of gum wrappers and bits of tree that come out in just about any load containing boys clothing. As the kids grew, so did the size of their laundry. What used to be one load of delicate, soft cottons with pictures of bears and bunnies playing in fresh fields - bibs the size of doll shirts and pants I could fit on a hamster - has now become one colossal pile, times 4.

I don't include myself in the equation because my laundry is easy and small.

Plus, I never leave worms in my pockets.

Or Polly Pockets.

Or race cars.

And the laundry never smelled as bad as it does now either. Granted, Katie's laundry still smells like fresh cut grass, as all little girl laundry should. But the boys laundry? Oh. Where do I start? It smells like sweat and dirt and lake water. Factor in the detail that they both require deodorant and you can almost smell their laundry from where you are sitting reading this...sorry.

It stinks!

I thought baseball season was over last week. I did a happy dance as I threw Wyatt's uniform in the wash, for what I thought was the last time this year. I may have even had a glass of wine to celebrate.

Now we're in tournament mode, with games at a moments notice. That means I have to keep his uniform fresh and clean at all times, because you never know when the next game will be. This is problematic. Especially because I've already mentally checked out of having to remove sunflower seeds from his pockets (I don't want to start growing those in my washing machine!) and his athletic supporter from his fancy undergarment...Plus, football starts for my oldest in just over a month - can't I get a break?

This has got to be the most thankless, unglamorous, gross job of any laundress - the removing of someone else's athletic supporter (read: CUP). I have reminded, reminded and reminded so many times my head spins that he pleeeeeease take that thing out before throwing his uniform in the laundry. I'm pretty sure if you looked up the phrase "In one ear and out the other," you'd see a picture of my sweet middle child, and he'd still have no idea where his cup was.

So, I'm heading out on a Laundry Quest.

It's kind of like a Vision Quest, except with laundry and without Matthew Modine or a cool Madonna song to accompany it. Which is really unfortunate because I could use a little muscle to get through the amount of laundry I have piling up.

*Originally posted June, 2010

On Blowing up Bags

2011-05-18T09:12:00.000-07:00

He walked 40 feet from me on the way into the store, a bag in his hand which he quickly filled with his own breath.

POP!

He glanced at me over his shoulder, to make sure I'd heard, a mischievous look on his face and a flush of embarrassment in case anyone he knew was watching.

Yes, I hear you.

Silly boy.

"That was awesome." The man in the family walking behind me said before mentioning that he would be there himself in 5 or 6 years when the little boy holding his hand reached the same age.

"You have no idea," I warned him.

One minute they are clinging to your leg, stuck like crazy glue and you think you'll never be free, and the next they are blowing up paper bags in parking lots for a laugh.

It just goes by too fast!

Slow down boy, slow down!

The Seduction of Motherhood

2011-04-19T16:03:00.001-07:00

I recently sat in an audience behind women of advanced ages and hair as white as my bathroom linoleum after a fresh bath of bleach. They nodded and fell asleep off and on as the famous author on stage spoke clearly and sharply about writing and dreaming and why she writes what she does.

I was immediately taken back to a college English course. Somewhere I haven't visited in a long, long time. Soaking, absorbing, engaged I sat. This women has written more words on more pages than anyone can even dream. I read once that she writes all of her manuscripts in longhand before transferring them to any kind of digital or typed form. In longhand.

I'm exhausted just plucking those words on my keyboard.

Think of the calluses.

Amazing.

She spoke about first person point of view. I was like a child outside the doors of Toys-R-Us on a day when everything would be free. She said that writing in the first person or memoir format is so much more seductive than other forms. Seductive.

The woman on the stage wore plain black pull-on pants that reminded me of my grandmother. She had similar shoes. She wore a pink turtleneck and a simple pendant necklace. Her hair was wild. Her voice was velvet. She slogged her purse onstage with her. I wondered why.

Seductive.

Writing about anything you care deeply about is in so many ways, indulgent. It's even more indulgent to think that anyone else would want to read it.

I've always been told, "write about what you know."

I know motherhood. I know the joy. I know the pain. I know the unsettled feeling in the middle of the night when I mimic my Australian Shepherd and have to go room to room, checking on my flock. I know the tears. I know the happiness. I know the way my daughter's hands fit exactly so in mine and the way my son's head rests upon my shoulder - but only if he slouches. I know the way my belly aches when I don't know where they are and the way my heart soars when they get a base hit. I know motherhood.

This space. This space is an extension of that.

I don't think it's narcissistic to write. I don't think it's narcissistic to share. I think motherhood is seductive. And I hope I want to write about it even when I'm old and frumpy and wearing black pull-on pants and a pink turtleneck.

That Thing You Do

2011-04-13T12:32:00.000-07:00

How do you do that thing you do, whatever it may be? How do you do it? I have three kids. Not an army. Not even a basketball team. There are days, when I don't do it all. Definitely. Like last night. We were all going different directions - some here, some there - some together and some not. We were all home by 9pm, some doing 1st grade math, some doing 6th grade projects and some lazing in bed with his iPod in because his homework was done. A'hem. {I'm sure he was listening to classical music.} Dinner. What's dinner? Dinner was on the go. The kids had pizza at the meeting and my husband had a bowl of cereal and a cookie. Hey, at least the cookie was homemade. That's my life. We're baseball, work, kids, meetings, family, go, go, go. Look at that family go! {Someone has been reading me too much GO DOG, GO!} So how the heck do people with 5,6,7... kids even function? I'm exhausted after a day, no matter how much sleep I got or how much caffeine I mainlined into my veins. I have 3, (THREE!), pimples on my chin. I'm tired of homework (not mine). I'm weary at bedtime reading Rainbow Fish to my little girl and I wish, oh how I wish, I had reserves of energy that didn't hold out until 11pm when I should be sleeping instead of running around the house collecting dust bunnies and mopping the kitchen floor. Who cares about the kitchen floor anyway? It's life. Yes, I realize we all have one. But gosh. How do you do it? {Social life? What social life? Baseball IS my life!} I've planned meals, thankfully (except for last night) and I jokingly looked at my husband the other day and flat out told him that it's a darn good thing that we know what we're having for dinner because when life gets busy, at least you have a plan. I'm pretty sure it just rolled off his shoulders. Mr. CalmCoolAndCollected. Me? Not so much. I fret. I worry. I anxietize. Yes, that's not a word. So what. My life is like a circus with different rings full of different things. Not lions and clowns, well most of the time there aren't clowns...okay, who am I kidding? I live with a bunch of clowns! But it's a circus nonetheless. And I'm a horrible ringleader, ringmaster, person wearing that huge hat with the stripes. I only have 1 child in an activity right now because there simply is no room for any more! I know, horrible, no good, very bad parent I am but there is simply no way to add one. more. thing. I would make a very bad Duggar. Which brings me back to my point. How do you people do it? A personal chef? A nanny? A therapist? A really good wine discount? How?

PS - I kind of like this post in one big, rambling paragraph. A manifesto.

Just like I kind of like my big, rambling, crazy life.

The Curious Case of Staying up Til 3am

2011-04-04T16:32:00.001-07:00

*Originally posted January, 2009

Some things just go together.

Peanut butter and jelly.

Pen and paper.

Sonny and Cher.

Bailey's and coffee...

Carrie and baking - well, usually.

The other night, as I was whispering "sweet dreams" and "sleep tights" into the ears of my children, Wyatt asked if I could make homemade cinnamon rolls for breakfast.

"Sure honey," I said as I kissed his forehead.

"Do you promise?" he asked.

"I promise." I assured him.

Promises are a big deal in our house. Of all our family "rules," keeping our promises ranks among the most important. Only to be overshadowed by showing respect for one another and not driving your mother crazy.

I knew I had to follow through on this one.

I found my recipe, got out all the ingredients and prepared to execute the first step in the cinnamon roll making. It was then that I realized that I had only about 1 cup of flour. Apparently all that holiday baking had taken it's toll on the flour reserves around these parts and I hadn't noticed...because I was too busy eating cookies or something.

So, I jumped in the car and drove to the little 24 hour store nearby.

No flour!

Without making too big a deal about the fact that they didn't carry flour (I mean, come on people, it's a STAPLE. Tell me I'm not the only mom in the world who started a project that needed four at 9 o'clock at night.), I called my husband and told him I would try the next nearest little market. I really wanted to avoid hitting the large supermarket because even at this hour of night, I was sure to run into someone I knew and this was the day I decided to let my face go naked (aka: no make up).

Little mom and pop stores needed to be my salvation.

They had to have flour (5-6 cups) on their shelves.

[See why I love living in the suburbs?]

Thankfully, the next store had what I was looking for.

I'm sure I shocked the lone employee, interrupting her task of cleaning the deep frying equipment while jamming to 80's rocker band tunes blaring on the store sound system, but she was friendly enough and pointed me in the right direction.

Cinnamon rolls, here I come!

Which would've been a lot easier had I not unknowingly opened up a package of EXPIRED yeast.

About an hour later...

Why won't this dough rise?

I heated up the oven, increasing the temperature of the air around the dough. Still no luck. I found another package of yeast in the back of the cupboard and added it, along with the newly acquired (And expensive, do you know how much 5lbs of flour costs at a convenience store? A lot.) flour to the dough. And waited another 40-50 minutes. Finally! Success. The dough was ready to be made into rolls. I spread the cinnamon mixture and rolled and sliced, creating perfect little discs of sugary goodness in three pans. I smiled when I thought about how happy the kids would be when they woke up to the sight of these little babies and I was getting ready to put them in the oven when I realized...

They hadn't done the 2nd rising yet.

Damn these yeast recipes and all their complicated rising methods!

I covered up the rolls.

Waited another hour.

Watched old episode of The Real Housewives of the OC.

Checked if they'd doubled in bulk.

Baked for 20 minutes.

Went to bed.

Looked at the clock. It was 3am. The middle-schooler would be up at 6:30, ready for cinnamon rolls and I hadn't even made the frosting yet.

Vowed to never start baking this late at night again.

I hate keeping promises.

That's Baseball

2011-03-31T09:51:00.001-07:00

It's muddy cleats on clean floormats.

It's gallons of Gatorade.

It's dinners after bedtime.

It's homework on bleachers.

It's umbrellas, and raincoats and keeping warm.

It's white uniforms.

It's OxiClean.

Lots of OxiClean.

It's batting cages and red licorice.

It's sunflower seeds.

It's base hits, walks, scoring and running.

It's dads in the dugouts.

It's games under the lights.

It's frogs croaking.

It's mud.

It's boys and bats and gloves.

It's smiles and tears and cheers.

It's high-fives and pats on the back.

It's proud parents.

It's happy kids.

It's fun.

It's baseball, and that's what it is.

Take me out to the ballgame...

Trust, Disappointment and the Internet

2011-03-29T16:37:00.001-07:00

Writing to me is personal. It's a way to share my thoughts, my experiences, my life. I've always done it and I always will, whether it's on a coffee-stained napkin, in a notebook or on the palm of my hand.

It's what I do. It's who I am.

It's not so important to me who reads it, although I appreciate that people do. It's not important to me who doesn't read it. Up until now, sharing my life in this space has been nothing but good.

And then last week happened.

I want to ask you a question. What would you do if your writing was posted somewhere else? It's a simple question. Material of mine was posted on someone else's blog, nothing personal thankfully or even something that I worked really hard at writing, but still...mine. Mine.

Not hers.

Mine.

When I found the content, I tried everything I could to contact this person privately...which she in turn saw as "stalkerish." I'm sorry, but I have a few (more than a few) issues with this.

#1 - The blog author has her personal information all over the Internet. Now, I'm not Agatha Christie, but it took less than 5 minutes to find her on Twitter, Facebook and her photography site. And from those avenues, I attempted to send her a polite email asking her to please get back to me regarding her blog. I thought I was being nice, instead of leaving a comment for all of her readers to see. Apparently, being nice makes you a stalker, according the the email she sent back to me.

#2 - Are you kidding me??? I just so happened to find my material on your site and I'm the one with the problem????? Sure, you didn't pretend that you authored it, but you didn't ask permission OR credit the blog author at all (which would have been done had you had permission).

#3 - What ever happened to bloggers common sense? I guess just like regular common sense, not everyone is blessed with it.

#4 - It's okay to link to someones blog without permission. It's not okay to TAKE THEIR ENTIRE POST and say you don't know where you found it! The blog author stated in her email to me that "tons of sites link to me without my permission so I don't link to others," which, alright fine I don't really care because that has nothing to do with what you did! A link is very different from a post. And by the way, in her profile, she says she is a teacher.

#5 - I understand that the Internet has grown at such a rapid pace since people began using it for everything from how to look up a recipe to how to save a life, but there are LAWS protecting Intellectual Property and it's common knowledge that you don't take what is not yours. Apparently they didn't teach this at whatever school this lady attended.

It's not the end of the world, but it makes me want to bang my head against the wall.

And the worst part about the whole thing?

I've made an enemy.

I never intended to do that.

The Way We Were

2011-03-23T14:39:00.000-07:00

Our Family, 2001 - Fire Academy Graduation

Washington State Fire Training Academy, Class of 2001(02)

This month marks my husband's ten year mark in the Professional Fire Service.

CONGRATULATIONS HONEY!

Love,

Your Fire Wife

What it is

2011-03-17T23:21:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I'm drawn back into time, back into things I've written 2, 3 even 6 years ago in my cozy little hole on the www and I get the same feeling as when I pull out a shoebox of photos from my honeymoon, or when our first baby was born. It's a long sigh of a feeling. It's a recognition of a different time, a different place, almost like a different life.

I guess it just is what it is.

And what it is, is life.

Life that barrels along day in and day out. Some days full to the brim with lunches, appointments, meetings, work, more meetings, dinner, baseball, homework...laundry. It's life. All of it. Some days less busy. Tired winter days before spring and better weather. Soggy, dreary, sit in pyjamas and drink hot chocolate listening to jazz days as a rare sunbeam filters through the blinds and warms a section of carpet just large enough for the dog to lie in. Those days. Those daydreaming, wandering, meandering days...

What ever happened to those kind of days?

These days I'm fortunate to get lunches packed around midnight, because that means I don't have to get up before 6am and do it.

Hibernation.

These days we go go go. And before we know it, there we are. Going again at the speed of light.

I think I used to have more time. I used to think I had no time, but I was wrong. I used to say to myself, back then when I still had a babe in diapers, that time would eventually slow down and I'd have a grip on every facet of my life as a mother. I couldn't have been more incorrect. I doesn't slow down, it speeds up and the people slow down. A cruel reality that one never seems to realize until the time has passed. Like my sinewy 16 year-old body, I didn't appreciate it when I had it...the time.

But there are reminders everywhere. In photo albums, on paper, in my children's memories, in a virtual world living in the archives of this blog. Time was slower, time was abundant, time was more of a gift than I could have ever realized, at the time. And without getting way too philosophical for my comfort zone, I'll end it by saying something I've always heard, some sort of cliche burned into my thought process that tells me that time really does not matter. What matters is today.

What matters is the life I have today. The words I say today. The feelings I have today.

The past reminds me of where I've been, but it doesn't dictate where I'm going. Nothing can. I can only live the way I choose, love the way I choose and be the way I choose, right here in this day, in this time, no matter how many times the sun does or does not shine in a day. It is this day, this gift, this life and this love that make me feel that long sigh of a feeling when I go to bed at night, kind of like looking at an old photo album from my honeymoon.

It is a good day.

It is a good time.

Pi Day

2011-03-14T16:07:00.001-07:00

At the beginning of the school year, we caved and became a 4-cell-phone family.

Now I'm not the type of parent that strapped a cell to my kindergartner's backpack and got her an iPod when she graduated preschool. I've tried to maintain some sort of what my husband and I consider "normalcy" and "unindulgence" when it comes to gadgets, technology and communication devices, hoping that our children would master the art of the SPOKEN WORD and (gasp) maybe even the WRITTEN WORD without a pint-sized keyboard before handing them something they can text with night and day. But there comes a time when life simply becomes more complicated, kids become older, and you realize that yes - the time has come.

And ta-da! You're now the proud owner of a family plan.

I must say, having the boys carry their own (don't tell them I said they were theirs, because I keep telling them that they belong to their Dad and myself, until they are old enough to pay for them with their own hard-earned moula) cell phones has come in handy and although I know that a cell phone is in no way a replacement parent, I do feel more comfortable knowing they have a way to get ahold of us if they need to, 24/7.

They haven't racked up huge texting bills, they haven't lost their phones and amazingly, they haven't become the type of people who have their phone permanently glued to their palm.

But then...

The home phone rang just as school was letting out.

I had to answer it, because it was Wyatt.

Expecting some kind of emergency, a request to be picked up because 4 rain drops were falling from the sky or something like that, I answered.

"Hello?"

"Mom?" The rushed voice of my 12 year-old came through the earpiece.

"Yes, what do you need?"

"Mom," he continued so matter-of-factly I thought for sure I'd be hit with the most crucial of information, or at least something more important than what was coming. "IT IS "PI" DAY. Can we please have pie?"

"You called to ask me this?"

"Yup."

"Wyatt, come home."

I can't wait until he calls me from his bedroom to ask for a milk and cookies delivery.

Fourteen

2011-03-03T16:33:00.000-08:00

Dear Son,

Fourteen.

How is it possible that you can be fourteen this week? Fourteen. It's so much older than thirteen, by leaps and bounds. Everyone told me having a teenager would be an adjustment. It wasn't. You were just a year older when you turned thirteen. You didn't grow fangs or a larger than life attitude. You didn't retreat to your room or shave your hair into a mohawk. You didn't suddenly change from the kind twelve-year-old of the past into the sullen, moody, very hard to live with thirteen-year-old that I remember being at that age. You stayed just the same...just a little older.

But fourteen? Fourteen makes me feel old, especially when you inform me that in 18 months, you will be driving.

It just isn't possible.

Fourteen scares me. I expect to hear horror music in the background every time I open the door to your room only to find not a trace of anything amiss. Not even a sock out of place on most days (although this is becoming a little more challenging with time). I keep waiting for a call from the school principal or for a neighbor to bring you home by the earlobe for doing something like wrapping a tree in toilet paper or egging someone's car (don't get any ideas). But it never happens.

When I was fourteen, I had a bi-level haircut, wore tube skirts all day and you could not see the floor of my bedroom underneath the mess of clothes and Vogue magazines. When I wasn't hanging out with my friends or babysitting, I kept to myself. I spent hours in my room glued to my portable boom box making mix tapes of my favorite songs. I only came out for meals, and even then I tried to avoid eye contact with all of the living things in our home, except for my cat.

You're fourteen. You're responsible. You're kind to your siblings (most of the time). You're smarter than anyone I know. You're fun to be with and you have a crazy sense of humor. You eat your veggies. You don't always love it when I ask you for help with this or that, but you always lend a hand anyway. I guess you can't be perfect all of the time, can you?

You're growing up. You're almost not a "kid" anymore and more often than not, I hear you being referred to as a "young man." Sigh.

I knew this time would come. Parents can't freeze their children and keep them babies forever, even though I'd like to. I miss that time when it was just you and your dad and me. The three of us. Our little family. And even though I love your brother and sister with the power of a thousand moons (or something like that), there is something magical about that firstborn child, something that they will never understand until the day when they become parents themselves. You were the only one to have us all to yourself. You broke us in. You christened us into the world of MOM and DAD and for that I will forever be grateful and indebted to you, my son.

I'm so proud of the young man you're becoming, but most of all, I'm so glad you're not me.

You're way cooler.

Love,
Mom

Snow Day

2011-02-24T17:07:00.000-08:00

She tilted the blinds just so and checked from her spot on the right-hand-side of the bed to see if she had a proper view.

Just a little more, she thought to herself as she twirled the adjustment rod and tilted them slightly upwards as her husband snored off and on. She was careful not to wake him.

After the hurried, frantic, rush of dinner where meatballs and marinara were stuffed into hungry little mouths (and not so little mouths of people about to turn FOURTEEN) that sat agape at the dinner table like a nestful of baby robins, the kids were finally, finally asleep on the eve of yet another day of not knowing if there would be school in the morning. The local news promised extreme weather, using words like THREAT, MASSIVE, and LOOMING to describe the snow storm that was coming.

Was it any wonder it was hard to get the kids to brush their teeth and calm down?

She covered herself up with flannel, her body still warm from the small glass of Bailey's that she had after the dishes were finally done, after the mail was sorted, after the dog was put to bed. She grabbed her book and stared out between the slats of the blinds, positioned just perfectly now, and watched as the snow fell lightly, then harder, then hardly at all in the glow of the streetlight over the rooftops of the houses one street over.

In the morning she would know if there would be a snow day. And so, she waited.

And she hoped that she wouldn't have to do it all over again tomorrow.

The Day That Wouldn't End

2011-02-18T11:00:00.000-08:00

*Reposted from this time last year, because looking back can only make one laugh...and also remind one that red wine headaches seem to be cylical, a'hem.

I know.

We all had a long weekend.

Some with more snow than others...and for that - I apologize as I sit here in the balmy Northwest watching daffodils and tulips sprout every which way.

But any way you slice it, it was a holiday weekend. And holiday weekends mean 2 things around here:

1) No school for the kids

and

2) Nascar for the husband (Non Athletic Sport Centered Around Rednecks)

Lucky for me, my husband decided to do his Nascar viewing elsewhere, in a land far, far away where men are men and kings are kings...or something like that. He and his brother took off for the entire 4-day weekend to Eastern Washington to visit their step father in the woods. And watch Nascar. And drink beer. And watch Nascar.

I wasn't kidding about that "men are men" part, see?

That left the kids and I (and the MIL) to fend for ourselves.

Now, if you're my friend on Facebook, you already know that everything was fine until the final day (that would be yesterday), when everything decided to take a complete nosedive into the oblivion I like to call "oh-my-god-can-someone-please-steal-my-kids-and-sell-them-on-ebay."

In other words, it sucked.

And not just the regular kind of suck...I'm talking full blown major suckage.

To start things off, I woke up with a red wine headache. You know the kind. I spent Valentine's night eating desserts and drinking wine with friends and went to bed without drinking a gallon of water and taking enough Tylenol to sedate an elephant. Lesson learned.

Then, I tried to do our taxes, with the headache. I spent all morning squinting at the monitor and banging my head on the keyboard but that refund amount would not increase...no matter what I did. I decided to take a break and come back to the situation with a clearer mind - like maybe next year.

In the meantime, I'd asked my children (who had been diligently goofing off all weekend) to complete a small but important list of chores. Instead of doing said chores, they made new messes to contend with. I tried banging my head against a wall, or a door, or any other hard surface to no avail and they still wouldn't shake a leg.

So I went to visit my grandmother - the best part of the day, but it was cut shorter than I'd like because I had to actually work (the kind I get a paycheck for and didn't get enough taken out of for taxes and is therefore a contributing factor to the reason my refund is so much less than it was last year) for a few hours.

And I worked, worked, worked.

And I reminded, reminded, reminded the kids to do their chores in between work.

I hadn't planned a meal for the evening because, well, I forgot. So I dug around in the pantry and located one lone box of Shake n' Bake chicken coating (my Facebook friend Jennifer from college forgot that they still made the stuff) and...shake...and...bake. Yes friends, it really was that simple. I only ate a small, cell phone-sized serving of it though because I was just not sure about it and expected that when I stepped on the scale the next morning it would register that I'd magically lost 5 lbs for giving up so much dinner - but it didn't.

After dinner I discovered that while I was working, my oldest son had a shoe cleaning project going on in the downstairs bathroom. He thought it was a good idea to flush SIX full-sized paper towels down the toilet and so I plunged, plunged, plunged until the paper towel blockage was finally loose from the pipe. That was fun.

After cleaning up the dinner mess, I heard my daughter's voice from the living room. I went in there to see what the commotion was about about and there were tiny pieces of paper all over the carpet. "Mom! I made confetti!"

Oh.

I took more Excedrin for the headache that wouldn't quit and got to work on the double batch of cookies that I was expected and required to bring to a class that my husband and I were taking the following night. After I made the cookies, I had to bag them up and hide them in my bedroom so that nobody ate them in the middle of the night. This made me feel weird. I made mental note to either stop baking all together, or talk to my MIL about her middle of the night cookie eating habit.

Then, just as the night was winding down, I heard talk between my daughter and my MIL that it was time for a bang trim. Right on, I thought to myself, one less thing for me to do today. Since my MIL did hair for over 30 years and cut my daughter's bangs last month perfectly, I didn't even worry about it and continued with the baking...

But it all went spiraling down from there.

Daughter was saying "Mom, I look weird."

MIL was laughing nervously.

The bangs got shorter and shorter and shorter...

And then the MIL was telling my daughter that when anyone at school asks her about her bangs she is to say they are European bangs - as if kindergartners know what that is. We have family who live in Denmark - I bet you $100 that these bangs are grandma-messed-up-bangs, not European Bangs.

But, you decide:

It's all Nascar's fault.

If

2011-02-12T10:43:00.000-08:00

If I had my camera, my REAL camera, not the old digital camera that I've let my kids take on camping trips, aka: the adventure camera, I'd share a picture of the crumpled up orange plastic wrapper lying on my desk...the only evidence left of my breakfast. Damn you, Mini Reese's Peanut Butter Cups.

But who wants to see that?

Put your hands down.

I know soon I'll have that camera of mine dangling off my neck again. Soon. Soon I will have sent her away to be fixed. Soon. As soon as all the other important things that come before my camera are tended to. Soon.

In the meantime, I can't be eating Mini Reese's Peanut Butter Cups for breakfast, and neither can you, so here's a smoothie recipe that my family loves like nobodys business. In fact, they probably love it better than nobodys business. At least I know I do. And thankfully, I had photos lying around in my picture file that I'd taken in the summer of this delicious and healthy breakfast treat - which only makes me miss my camera even more. I think I'll go drown myself in smoothies.

Fruit Smoothies

Makes about 3 - 4 eight ounce smoothies

1 cup frozen blueberries

1 cup frozen strawberries

1 cup frozen peaches

1 banana

1 small container vanilla yogurt

1 cup orange juice (or apple, whatever is open but no, you cannot - SHOULD NOT - use Hawaiian Punch, that's not juice)

Place all ingredients in a blender. It doesn't matter what order you put them in, just fill it up. You can always use fresh fruit in place of the frozen but it's the middle of winter in these parts and I'm low on the fresh.

Another tip from me to you: I chop up and freeze bananas that are "on the verge" all the time. Sometimes because I don't feel like baking banana bread and sometimes because I'm too cheap to throw them away just because they're getting a tad bit too mushy for my picky banana eaters. Either way you slice it, I think the frozen bananas add a little heft to the smoothie, if ya know what I mean. They help make the smoothie smoooooooth.

After you've placed all that goodness into your blender, blend away! My blender is as old as my marriage - going on 15 years - so sometimes I have to push more than one button to get my smoothie the perfect consistency. But once it's there, once the blender hits that sweet spot where it's pulverized all the larger chunks of fruit and funnels a wonderful, scarlet-colored, smooth and thick concoction around the inside of the blender pitcher, that's when you know it's done. So do whatever you gotta do to get there. You won't be sorry.

Pour into a nice big glass and enjoy. Your body will thank you and so will your dentist, just remember to floss later.

Bottoms up!

The Bank Job

2011-02-09T14:28:00.001-08:00

This week is out to get me. I am sure of it. In fact, I haven't been surer of anything in my whole life.

Monday...that was 3 days ago. I can't even go there. Monday was so bad I ended up curled in a ball on the couch under a blanket watching Jerry Springer and Maury Povich. I didn't even know those shows still existed!

I thought when I woke up Tuesday morning, things would be better. I had a small errand to run in the morning and then I was taking a friend out to lunch for her birthday. At least that was the plan.

I was super excited to have a basketful of valentine's and other completely necessary things for the kids (and myself) as I swiped my debit card at the dollar store. For the first time in my life, I was actually running exactly on time to meet my friend for lunch and even better? The sun was out. Oh yes, everything was going just fine until...

"Ma'am,"

(I hate when people call me Ma'am)

"I'm sorry, but your card isn't going through."

(I politely ask her to run it again, obviously there must be some mistake)

"I'm sorry, it still says declined."

(I politely ask her to run it as credit instead of debit as I recall this happening before and the card reader was just having a bad day.)

"It still won't work," she hands me back my debit card, which at this point I want to incinerate and toss around the store like confetti. Not to mention I am more embarrassed than I have ever been in my entire life as the poor souls behind me in the check-out line offer words of comfort and tell me that, "It's okay, this happens to me all the time." Where is the candid camera? Am I on that show What Would You Do?

I resist the urge to explain that my husband just yesterday deposited a substantially sized check into our account and there is no possible way that my purchases exceed that amount (after all, this is the dollar store, and I only have about $15 worth of completely necessary items in my bag). Instead I dig up enough cash to pay for my purchases, cheeks totally on fire, and high tail it out of there before I start crying.

All kinds of things go through my mind not excluding the fact that our money was deposited into someone else's account.

So, in order to spare you the boredom of reading all about how I went to my nearest bank branch and requested that something, ANYTHING, be done to fix my problem, I'll just break it down for you:

Apparently, if you make a deposit at my back after 4pm via check, funds are not available until the day after the following business day. I did not know this. I guess I always deposit earlier in the day or on Fridays, when this "rule" is not applicable. And Mr. Mean Bank Man was pretty clear in explaining that this so-called policy was just the way it was, despite my patronage at this particular bank since 1988. That's 23 years I've been a customer and never had this happen. 23 years!

Mr. Mean Bank Man told me that I could wait 30 minutes and he may be able to free up some of my funds. 30 minutes. Why? I have no idea.

I told him, while looking at my watch to confirm that my plans to be on time for the first time in my life were totally ruined, that would not work.

He offered me his business card.

Like that would be any help.

I declined Mr. Mean Bank Man's business card and told him that I'd just talk to the gals in the branch downtown (which is nearer my home, the place I'd be heading to drink a bottle of wine and take a handful of Tylenol PM after this ordeal - not really) because, unlike you Mr. Mean Bank Man, they have actual living, breathing hearts in their chests instead of stones.

He was not impressed.

So I drove around the lake towards "downtown" and my friendly local bank branch which rhymes with Bells Stargo with this song playing loudly on my radio:

You know, just to get my ya-yas out.

I walked into my branch declaring that I was having a bad day.

I just wanted to warn them.

And you know what happened? A nice gal, not a "Ma'am," and no, she didn't call me that either, she called me by my first name when I walked in the door. Well, anyway she fixed the issue with about 3 seconds on her computer. Done. Fixed. My funds were available and I was now free to buy as much dog food as I wanted, or, whatever.

Just like that.

She said that Mr. Mean Bank Man could have done the same with a simple phone call. A simple phone call! She also shook her head and said she was sorry as she explained that they'd been having "communication issues" with that branch for a long time. And then she handed me her business card...and I took it.

I know I didn't keep it short and for that, I am truly sorry to have rambled on and on.

But I did learn something from that whole embarrassing experience, besides that my friend who I was supposed to take out to lunch is still my friend...and a good one at that, and that was to always carry emergency cash. Just a little, perhaps enough to pay for things at the dollar store AND take your good friend to lunch if that's your cup of tea, tucked away that you may not use for everyday purchases.

And, always get your deposits in before 4pm.

And, don't run your checking account so low next time.

But geesh, we've had about a million extra expenses in the past month so I'm just going to forgive myself on that one, for now.

And I'm really trying hard to not walk into that other bank branch, you know - the one where Mr. Mean Bank Man works - and declare a la Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman, "You made a big mistake," as I withdraw every last penny from my account.

But I'm not that bitter, clearly.

A Work in Progress

2011-01-24T12:34:00.000-08:00

Who would have thought putting laundry away could be hazardous to your health? Certainly not me, but that's just what it became last night when I made the nightly pilgrimage into my daughter's room to tidy it up before bedtime.

I was expecting the usual. You know, Bitty Baby clothes strung here and there. A few stickers scattered on the floor and at least 2 shirts lying on her bed, the result of one too many wardrobe changes during the day if you ask me. What I was not expecting was to be bombarded with dominos when I opened her closet, or to have a pink princess tent (falling out of the box of course) spring out from it's box and attack me.

How in the world did she accumulate so much stuff? I thought to myself as I tried to find the box that belonged to the dominos. And why does putting dominos away have to be such a pain in the neck? You can't just throw them all in the box and forgeddaboutit, oh no, you have to line them up perfectly, make neat little rows and stacks, the whole she-bang...

It's exhausting, no wonder she doesn't want to do it.

The boys roll their eyes and sigh, "Make her clean her own room Mom." And then I remind them that she's a work in progress, just like they once were at her age when I used to brush their teeth for them, clean their rooms, pack their lunches...wait. I still pack their lunches, what are they complaining about?

They often forget that she's 7-years-old, five and six whole years younger than they are. I grow weary of explaining over and over again that yes, they did the same things (in their own ways) when they were her age - the one big difference being that they didn't have an older sibling to annoy with their behavior.

She leaves her mark in every room in the house.

Currently, there is a small purple teddy bear under a bench in my hallway, socks in the living room, a beaded hair tie in the kitchen along with with a bright pink feather boa. Her baby's high chair is in the dining room, her boots are in my office. She has books in one brother's room, Barbies in the other and there's a makeshift fort for her babies on the floor next to my husband's side of the bed.

She has taken over.

It's intervention time.

As I was pulling the ridiculous princess tent from it's awkward position in her closet after it had just nearly killed me, I may or may not have had a teeny tiny hissy fit over her clutter.

Okay, I did.

I told her that we were going to organize her room for ONE LAST TIME the next day. All of those baby clothes were going to find their place on her baby's changing table (for goodness sake, her baby has a changing table, you'd think that would be the logical place to keep her baby things) and if they didn't, oh baby, there was going to be heck to pay! I would confiscate any item left out of place at the end of each day. I told her she'd have to "buy them back" by cleaning her room and picking up her things around the house.

Oh yes, I did.

I was on a roll.

And furthermore, the buck stops here. After endless playtime with Polly Pockets in the bathtub, I told her, "No more!" I informed her that she could pick a few dolls and appropriate bath accessories for them to keep in the plastic tub under the sink reserved especially for bath toys(like boats and inner tubes - betcha didn't know Polly Pocket had her very own boat or inner tube, did ya?) but that the van (oh yes, the van) would have to be kept OUT OF THE BATHROOM.

Was that really so much to ask?

We'll see if she's still speaking to me when I pick her up at the bus stop this afternoon.

It Ain't Going to be Pretty

2011-01-21T13:34:00.000-08:00

I was so, so optimistic for 2011...

Maybe it was the elaborate New Years celebration or perhaps the fireworks. It could have been the fact that my sudden interest in professional sports was yielding magnificent results with every team I cheered for winning their prospective game. Yes, after the first week of 2011, I was pretty damn sure sparks were going to fly out of my rear end.

Well, you get the picture.

That's the thing about the happy. I get so caught up in it, so intoxicated and utterly glazey-eyed over it that it's sure to backfire.

And that's just what it did.

Last week started with my husband's car (truck, SUV, whathaveyou) deciding it wasn't going to be driveable. And the company that sold him his new engine (and their lovely warranty) had seemingly disappeared. Vanished into thin air. Oh joy.

Then, said husband woke up with a broken shoulder. Not really broken, but hurting enough to not be able to turn the pages of a magazine and certainly in too much pain to work pulling hose, putting on bunker gear or anything else that is required of him as a firefighter. So, home and rest it was.

Coincidentally, he already had an appointment with his spine doctor for a recurring disc issue, so at least he was being seen by someone...but as you may have guessed, life with a broken fireman is not so peachy. So. We got through the weekend, barely. After my requests to take him to the ER, he finally agreed to let me take him to the walk-in clinic Monday morning. He was given a sling, steroids, anti-inflammatories and instructions to rest. He's been doing that ever since.

Here's where it really gets good.

Katie had been complaining of a sore back all weekend. Well, being a 7-year-old girl and all, this was not unusual especially given that Daddy was getting a lot of attention for his sore shoulder. I rubbed baby lotion on her back at bedtime and gave in to her requests for extra snuggles, put her to bed Sunday night and thought everything was as normal as normal could be with her.

Monday she decided to go and get a fever. She complained of a little ear pain and I just so happened to have some leftover ear drops hanging around the medicine cabinet so I gave them to her. She felt better, she napped, played with her dolls, tortured her brothers and life was normal. Then her temperature got even worse. I kept her home from school Tuesday and by the evening, it was 103 with Advil.

Off I went to the walk-in clinic with my next victim, sure to get an ear infection diagnosis.

So wrong, I was!

Katie had a urinary tract infection, her kidneys were hurting . . . the lightbulb moment came and along with it a rather large dose of mommy guilt for not recognizing her symptoms earlier. Back pain...no appetite...urgency to "go." But she always is running to the bathroom...because she holds it too long. Oh dear lord.

I have had exactly 2 utis in my lifetime. 2. The reason that I know how many I've had is because both times I was in so much pain that I really thought I was dying. The first time it happened, I was in college. I really did think someone was using a voo-doo doll against me. The second time, I was pregnant. I'm pretty sure that I forgot about all the other discomforts of carrying an almost 10-pound human being inside of my body when I felt that pain. Nope, I'm absolutely sure I did.

So to have her diagnosed with an infection of that type, without her having told me of any pain, any frequent urination or painful urination, I was horrified. "My poor baby," I thought. "Had she been in pain and not felt it? Or not told us? Or does she just have a high tolerance for pain?" Her little body, fighting off this infection, without giving us any clues that we could have pieced together and had it make any sort of sense. And no, ear pain is not a symptom of a uti or a kidney infection.

I just felt horrible.

Worse than that, so did she. And so did my husband. Sleeping on the couch because our little munchkin needed to be "by mommy all the time" wasn't exactly making him feel loved. But I figured it would help his shoulder (being supported by all those pillows) and we'd both sleep better because a) I wasn't waking him up every 5 min to tell him to stop snoring, and b) he would be able to sleep on his back without his wife waking him up every 5 min to tell him to stop snoring.

You get the picture.

The week pressed on, taking its own sweet time that's for sure. At least it seems like that now. Now that it's Friday and I can look back and wonder just a few things about myself, my family and the way we deal with upheaval.

These are the things I've learned:

1. Kids are stronger than you think. Katie has been slowly but surely getting better and is back to bossing all of us around.

2. The rain sucks. Yes, I know I live in Washington and I'm supposed to love, love, love the rain (and for the most part I do, I really do). But when all you can think of is the movie A River Runs Through It when you go get the mail on the HILL you live on, and a river is running on not only 1 but both sides of your street, you must admit that it is time, goddammit, for it to finally stop raining. Or. Build an ark.

3. Crazy times are no time to experiment with new recipes. That's right. I got all ahead of myself and planned 2 weeks of meals last week. Last night's meal was supposed to be a delicious, comfort food casserole made of...chicken and potato chips. Well, did you know that when you cook potato chips (you probably don't know this because you're smart enough to have never tried this ridiculous undertaking), they smell and taste like burnt plastic? Oh yes. Oh sure, I could've bought some organic, non plasticy potato chips at Trader Joe's, but I was sticking to the recipe...ya know, because I'd never made it before. And it called for Ruffles.

Let's just leave it at this, the dog hesitated before eating the casserole leftovers that we put in his dish for a "treat," and my husband took one bite, put his fork down (yay! he can put his fork down without wincing) and said, "Honey, I'd rather eat tuna casserole than this."

Tuna casserole is on the DO NOT COOK, EVER! list in his book.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I feel a much-needed weekend coming on. I plan to lock myself in the bathroom with my good friends Cabernet, People magazine and enough Calgon to take me far, far away.

Broken, and Adventure Story

2011-01-12T00:09:00.001-08:00

On New Years Day, I depressed the shutter release button for what would end up being the last time from the window of hotel room 1111 at the Vintage Park Hotel in downtown Seattle.

You see, it all started the day before when we arrived downtown to a flurry of aid vehicles and news cameras.

Is there some kind of disaster?

What's on fire?

Someone was stabbed!

I texted my friend at home and let her know I wasn't even sure we could get into our hotel. Her advice? Come home! It's not safe!

Always erring on the side of caution, we finally were able to pull into the valet area of the hotel and ask what was going on. The staff informed us that yes, there was a fire at the hotel next door but that no, we were in no eminent danger. So we promptly gave them our keys, unloaded our suitcases and headed to the lobby for the wine tasting.

I mean, who wouldn't do that?

Look - a Christmas Tree made entirely of wine bottles! Jackpot!

After the wine, and a brisk walk prior to dinner, we sampled yet another fine glass in the hotels bar - a cozy little corner of the mouthwatering restaurant Tulio. Someday, I'm going back there just to eat their sweet potato gnocchi with sage butter and marscapone...someday.

And then we got dressed for dinner.

Here is photographic proof that yes, I wore a coat. I thought my mom would appreciate that since I did borrow it from her. Which reminds me...I better return it.

And then we headed to one of our favorite little places downtown - a place that reminds you of a sports bar disguised as the best martini bar in the world, plus - the food isn't half bad either, Von's. We had calamari. We had cocktails. We had PRIME RIB.

I'm still thinking about that prime rib.

And the strawberry lemon drop(s).

And my date.

Double old fashioned and strawberry lemon drop. Yum.

I could eat at Von's everyday. Sure, I'd weigh about a thousand pounds - but it would be worth it. 10-hour roasted prime rib is totally worth it.

But, we had places to go...

So we walked a few blocks down (in too-big high heels nonetheless - remind me to never wait until the last minute to get myself a pair of decent basic black pumps) to the monorail and caught a ride to the Seattle Center, where we were greeted at the doors of the space needle by tuxedoed men declaring, "good evening," and, "Happy New Year."

I took one look at my husband and thought we were in a dream.

In all my life, I'd watched the fireworks erupt from the space needle on television - I never, not in a million trillion years, thought I'd be up inside of it when the clock struck midnight. But here we were, doing just that. Happy New Year indeed!

The champagne was flowing, the desserts and appetizers were plentiful. The skies were clear as a bell, not a raindrop in sight and everyone inside the party was wearing a goofy HAPPY NEW YEAR hat and a smile to go with it.

In between dancing, we would head outside into the brisk night air where I'd slip off my ridiculous shoes and we'd gaze at the city below.

It was absolutely beautiful.

While I'm a more rural girl at heart, I do love the city. Especially on nights like these, when it's lit up like a Christmas tree and you can just feel the excitement.

With our noise makers and confetti, we greeted the new year as thousands of fireworks bounced from their perches just outside the windows of the space needle. Auld Lang Syne was bellowing from each speaker in the building and the entire party was swaying back and forth, kissing and hugging and wishing one another well.

I looked again at my husband, thinking of how much we've been through together since that fateful first date way back in 1989, and I am pretty sure that my heart grew a thousand times bigger in that moment.

And I can't wait to share even more with him in the next twenty.

When we woke up in the morning, in room 111 on 01/01/2011, we looked outside at the bright blue morning sky and noticed the black soot on the building next door. We both raised our eyebrows and discussed how strange it was that the fire in the hotel next to us had been literally right outside of our window, but we never saw it. Taking a picture seemed the only logical thing to do, since who would believe us if we told them? So, that's exactly what I did.

The windows only open a few inches so in order to get a clear shot, I had to extend my arms out over the ledge and aim it upwards. Perfect, I thought as I centered my shot in the viewfinder and slowly depressed the tiny chrome button on top of my camera.

"I got it!" I shouted to my husband, as I let my finger off the button and...boing! It sprang out from the camera and sailed down, down, down eleven stories to wherever it now resides. A tiny spring pitifully sat attached to the empty spot where the button had been. I felt like a piece of me had died.

It was the last time I used her, my broken camera.

I'm sure one of these days, I'll get her fixed.

I have never referred to my camera as a "she" before now, but I suppose that's what she is, a she. She's beautiful, cantankerous and sees the world in a unique way. Of course she's a she!Some people call their cars by a gender, some people their boats. Me? I'll call my camera a she. Perhaps I should also name her. Hmmmmm...

As for this story? I guess I should tell you that it pays to be childless in the car listening to the local radio station's 80's lunch and calling in when you know that the clip of the song they just played is, in fact, one that you know.

In other words, it pays to be bored.

Because had I not recognized the voice of Boy George in the song Time, I would have never won tickets to the New Years at the Needle. Oh yes, sometimes, just sometimes, it really does pay to be a child of the 80's.

Happy 2011. May all of your dreams come true.

Extra Good, Good, Goodie

2011-01-06T16:03:00.000-08:00

Everyday, I ask the same question, "How was school today?"

And everyday, I get the same answer, "It was good!"

Today though, she answered, "It was extra good, good, goodie! BUT...I had the worst recess of my life."

Ah, no, not the drama. It's not time. She's only seven. I'm not ready.

"What happened at recess?" I so don't want to go there but I'm imagining all sorts of horrors, her tripping and falling, breaking an arm, someone snatching her from the playground...oh wait, she's standing right here in front of me, all her limbs attached. All is well.

I really need to take something for that overactive imagination of mine.

Anyhow - so yes, it was the worst recess of her seven-year-old life, apparently.

"These boys were chasing, chasing, chasing me." She breathlessly answered, although the flush of her cheeks and the excitement of her tone did little to mask how she really felt about being chased by a gaggle of first grade boys.

And so, it begins...

The Day After the Day After

2010-12-28T00:40:00.001-08:00

The day after Christmas Day, I didn't get out of my bed.

When I say I didn't get out of my bed, I really mean it. Okay, yes I cautiously crawled out from under the flannel to fetch a glass of water, a cup of tea, a bowl of Cheerios and maybe even some leftover enchiladas from the 23rd, a few trips to the bathroom and one trip downstairs to make sure my family was still alive (they were, and the china was even washed), but that's it. I watched FIVE movies. FIVE. Who does that?

I ate crackers in bed.

And my husband didn't even divorce me.

Who does that?

I didn't shower until the kids were in bed.

And when I did, I stood in there for twenty minutes. TWENTY!

Who does that?

Good lord, I was ti-red. The kind of tired where your eyeballs are on fire, your limbs ache and your mind feels like a big old sack of stale rice. You cannot create a coherent sentence let alone thought and all you want to do is sink deeper and deeper into the memory foam topper that has essentially become your lifeboat on this, this day after Christmas.

I was putty. She knew it. She talked me into watching . . . oh, at this point I cannot even remember, it's all a blur. She crawled into bed next to me on her father's side and melded her body into mine.

"This is fun, mama," she said.

"It sure is baby," I answered, smelling the top of her head, hoping for just a whiff of that toddler/baby smell that mothers can sometimes smell on their children from time to time even when they are seven. She smelled good. Innocent. Awake.

So unlike me in that moment.

My thoughts stayed in that moment, that midday moment where mother and daughter lay supine underneath covers, wind blowing outside, twilight nearing, the light disappearing little by little until the room became dark enough to turn on the bedside lamp. I wondered if it was because she's my littlest, or because she's my daughter - what was it that tied us together like this in this moment?

It doesn't really matter, I suppose, and I think about things like that far too often than I should. What matters is that it is, and that it was. And being in the moment, albeit just for a day after Christmas afternoon of calm and quiet, it was such a lovely, lovely gift.

One that I need to remember on the day after the day after when the chaos returns.

I hope I don't forget.

Holy Guacamole!

2010-12-23T13:34:00.001-08:00

Is there anything better than guacamole?

I mean really.

Unless you're sitting on the beach in Mexico eating it, that is.

I've loved it for a long, long time. Long before I had it prepared tableside under the warm Mexican sun. Perhaps that is my mother's fault, what with all of her Spanish influence during my childhood years when groups of strangers would congregate in our living room and speak nothing but Spanish. They would bring interesting, intoxicating food and if I was lucky I could sneak a bite or two before running back into my room as I listened to the foreign words rolling off their tongues, imagining what they were talking about.

Naturally, one would think that when it came time to choose a language to fulfill my requirement for high school graduation, I would have picked Spanish.

One would be wrong.

Adhering to true angsty teenager girl fashion, I chose French. Simply because nobody in my house could speak it.

And I failed miserably.

The only good thing that came out of French class was my husband, so I shouldn't knock it too much. For, if I hadn't taken French, he may have never asked me out on a date in front of the whole class my sophomore year and I wouldn't have said "NO" in front of the entire class and then have spent my lunch hour penning an apology note which eventually lead to our first date some 3 months later - and then where would I be now?

Probably not making guacamole, that's where.

Anyhow...

I ended up taking Spanish. Like that has anything to do with my guacamole recipe.

I think the most important thing about making guacamole is to have your ingredients at room temperature. That way, it will taste pretty close to the way it should...flavors ripe and ready just like they are when you have it fresh in Mexico.

Holy Guacamole!

6 ripe avocados

1 diced roma tomato

1/4 cup diced red onion

1/4 cup chopped cilantro

juice from one small lime

dash of sea salt

Now, I know some of you will be saying, "Where is the jalapeno?" It's not that I don't enjoy jalapenos and love them with every little bit of my heard, but they have their place. And in this guacamole is not one of those places. They can hang out in the salsa. I want to taste the avocado.

So - take out your favorite bowl. I like to use a clear glass batter bowl so I can see the magic happen. Halve the avocados and scoop their insides into the bowl. Squeeze your lime all over the avocado. Then pile on the tomato, red onion and cilantro and sprinkle with sea salt.

Now, take out a large fork and mush.

Mush that until it looks just right to you. Some people like their guac a little more lumpy, I prefer mine somewhere in the middle.

Grab a few of your favorite friends, your favorite chips, a few pitchers of margaritas and have at it! Ole!

The Toughest

2010-12-16T15:27:00.000-08:00

I was lucky when the boys were very little to have a very dear friend right by my side going through all of the ages and stages of first-time parenthood. We would spend hours on the phone discussing sleep solutions, baby food, Elmo and yes, laundry (this was back in the day before everyone had the interwebz at their fingertips...the dark ages). Not a day went by that I didn't consult her about something...even if it was simply what to have for dinner.

Back then, in the throes of diapers and bottles and sippy cups, we always thought that someday, in the near distant future, it would get easier. Life would slow down to a manageable pace and we'd find time to breathe. When the boys went to preschool. When they went to kindergarten. When they were in elementary school life would most definitely be easier.

We were so naive.

I look at the mom in line at the grocery store, hair barely held up in a ponytail, spit up stains on her shirt and mismatched shoes, with a toddler in the basket and a baby strapped to her chest and I think, "How in the world did I survive those days?"

She soldiers on. Babies crying. Groceries falling every which way. Toddler grabbing things off the shelf.

"Can I help you?" I offer.

"Oh, I'm fine," she says, simultaneously scooping the toddler and the box of Cheerios off the linoleum floor before cooing softly to calm the baby.

I am in awe.

How did I ever do that, before the days when I drank coffee regularly, let alone push a double stoller everywhere I went?

I see people with kindergartners, experiencing the first day of school, the first school holiday concert, the first note home from the teacher. And I smile, relishing in the newness so blatantly written all over their faces as they pick up their babies in the school pick up line, smoothing hair, holding hands and marvelling at each word out of their child's mouth.

That used to be me.

I still smile and hold hands and listen, but with not-so-new ears.

I know people with older kids, going through unspeakable trials with teenagers. Yet, they too, soldier on, keeping community obligations, familial obligations, work and friend obligations while trying to piece back together a broken child who is one step away from being an adult. Gulp. It all seems so hard. So difficult. So tough. Again, I am in awe of their strength. These mothers. These parents.

And maybe that's just it, about mothering, about parenting, it is tough. There is no magical age when things become easy. They don't suddenly turn four and the rest is a piece of cake. There are no miracles when they are in school all day, or when they get done with potty training, when they have their first broken heart or when they finally learn to pick up their clothes without asking.

There is an abundant amount of joy, don't get me wrong, but if anyone tells you that it's easy, they're either lying through their teeth or suffering dementia.

Miss Dependence

2010-12-01T09:55:00.001-08:00

There are a pair of feet, chipped multi-colored toes fanned out in a stretch, that gently nudge my side under the warmth of my bedding. They belong to my daughter.

Moments later, a hand swipes across my face.

"Sorry mama." She whispers.

"It's okay baby."

She doesn't always sleep with me when Brett is on shift, but lately it's become the norm.

I don't mind.

She clasps the stuffed monkey that a very good friend gave her to "help keep her safe at night" after the few terrifying weeks following Halloween when she wanted nothing to do with being anywhere alone, especially at night. I thought we were going to have to go back to the days of a makeshift bed on my bedroom floor for her, but the monkey got her through the worst of it. She holds him tight and close, like he is an extension of her body. She rolls over again and quickly disappears into dreams that have nothing to do with monsters and scary things.

And all is right with the world.

I slip back into sleep just as easily as she. The comfort of another body calming my racing mind and quieting the unusual noises that a cold house makes in the middle of the night when someone is missing.

It's all about mama these days.

A few months ago, it was all about dad. Now it's my turn and I admit, although there are moments when I want to scream for my autonomy, it's not so bad - this dependence. In a way, it is reassuring, validating, soothing to know that she's not afraid to let me know what she needs, even if she doesn't always do it in the most charming way. And it's very fleeting, this I know.

It will change.

I look at the boys, older, gliding through their daily lives. Homework. Activities. Friends. They come in close from time to time and let me mother them. But their needs aren't as immediate anymore. They are little men. As quickly as they come to sit by me or give me a quick hug as they race through the kitchen, they are off again pounding a ball into the pavement or wrestling with the dog. Back and forth back and forth. That's where they are now.

It's a good thing.

It's natural.

Kids grow, they become independent.

I tell Katie that even though I'm 37, I still want my mom from time to time. It's a feeling I'll never grow out of. She smiles and looks at my face as if I have just told her the most unbelievable fairy tale. "You do?" She says, the corners of her mouth ready to burst into a big grin.

"I do, and I hope that's the way it will always be."

What Seven Is

2010-11-22T11:02:00.000-08:00

Seven is dressing your Bitty Baby in as many layers of clothing as you can at the sight of the first snowflake.

Seven is saying, "When you finish high school, you get a TACOMA."

Seven is losing front teeth.

Seven is helping in the kitchen.

Seven is being excited about the toy catalogs that come in the mail everyday.

Seven is silly bandz.

Seven is blueberry muffins.

Seven is all about the glitter.

Seven is loving new snow boots.

Seven is cuddling on the couch and telling mom about your day.

Seven is fresh baked chocolate cookies.

Seven is getting your first fishing pole.

Seven is standing in the snow, in your pyjamas with a flame hat on your head, tongue sticking out and hand-me-down gloves from your brother on your hands.

Seven is not a care in the world.

That's what seven is.

My Friend was on TV

2010-11-18T14:06:00.000-08:00

"Come on kids, get your pyjamas on and I'll let you stay up a little to watch my friend on TV!" I roared as I cleared the last of the tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwich mess from the table. It's our standard meal when Daddy is at the firestation - well, besides having breakfast for dinner because he is not a real big fan of that either, right after tomato soup and grilled cheese.

But anyway.

"Like, a real friend - or someone you've never met?" My 12 year-old asked.

"Does it really matter?" I answered defensively.

"Well yes it does," he said. "I have a lot of friends in 6th grade and I see them, in person, every single day. If you don't see them, in person, then they are not your friend."

Oh, wise one.

"Well, I have had email correspondence with her...before she was famous," I explained. "So that has to count for something."

"Whatever mom."

"And that's fine, if you want to go to bed and read instead of watching Food Network with me, that's just fine. Plus, I'll have you know that the pasta your sister and I made last night was one of her recipes and that's just find and dandy if you don't want to watch my friend on TV with me."

Evidence:

Katie and Pasta with Tomato Cream sauce, ala The Pioneer Woman, aka my friend Ree. And yes, I desperately need a new nonstick pan, I know - I plan on Santa hearing my request and sticking one in my stocking. I also need a cleaner kitchen but I don't think Santa will be much help in that department.

That seemed to sway his way of thinking, just a little. But it was enough to get him to stop razzing me about my make believe friendship with Ree, The Pioneer Woman (who is, incidentally, also my facebook friend) and get him to get his jammies on and settle in next to me in the big green chair I like to refer to as "heaven." And so he did.

We watched her chop, saute, brine and bake her way around her lodge kitchen, Bobby Flay doing the same next to her. We watched her effortlessly entertain the enormous crowd and pass adoring glances at her children while she simultaneously went head to head with one of the food industries biggest stars. Our anticipation grew towards the end when the judges would pick the very best Thanksgiving meal and the kids held crossed fingers in the air before erupting into applause when it was announced that she had won.

It was a very exciting moment in our living room.

"Your friend won mom! Your friend won!" My 7 year-old screamed in my ear.

"I knew she would," I said.

And that's just the thing about blogging. You really do become friends in this virtual place that we occasionally call "home." And although I favor real, in person connections with those I care most about, there are moments, moments like these, when I see someone I've connected with in the way far off past who has now published a cookbook, created a brand for herself and basically hit pay dirt in the blogging world and I think, "Hey, way to go, my friend!"

And it's just as simple as that.

Forever Young

2010-11-15T00:00:00.000-08:00

When I was young, I didn't talk like an alien in front of my parents. I didn't pass gas on purpose or burp like I was a contestant at the state fair. I didn't wear my underpants on the outside of my clothes and I most certainly remembered to brush my teeth each morning without a reminder, Did you brush your teeth today?, from a very tired and definitely not a morning person-type mother.

Things were so very different when I was young and I spend way too much time trying to figure out why. Was it just the times? Was it Jimmy Carter? Was there something magical about the 70's and 80's that is lacking in the new millenium, besides an MTV that played actual music and Wham! (oh how I miss me some Wham!)? Is it my parenting style? Because surely I've read enough books and put my time in taking care of other people's children prior to becomming a mother myself that I should know at least 20% of the time what I'm doing.

What is it?

I am not a morning person, sipping on my coffee, my head artfully wrapped in a towel, listening to Paul Harveys The Rest of the Story with a smile on my face and an easy demeanor that invites conversation from my children over their bowls of steaming steel-cut oats made with apple juice instead of water in a 1970's style kitchen with big, yellow, flowered wallpaper on the walls. I am more of a don't speak unless you're spoken to and there are frozen waffles in the freezer if you need some food type of a mom - who, bleary-eyed, gets up and attempts to throw together nutritious lunches for her kids in the wee hours of the morning. And yes, I do consider 5:45am to be a wee hour. No human should be forced to get up that early unless they're catching a red-eye to Amsterdam.

Maybe that's it?

It's not that I don't love my children with every fiber of my being, that's not it at all. It's just that I don't understand them lately.

And not just because the 2 in question most of the time are boys.

Or maybe that's it?

Why do boys talk in tongues? Why can't they keep a straight face to save their lives when I'm trying to be serious with them? Why don't they remember to brush their teeth? It's like breathing, it should be second nature at this point. Why do they blurt things out at the dinner table with mouthfuls of tater tot casserole even though I've taught them since they could hold a spoon not to do that?

And for the love of Pete, why do they wear mismatched socks?

It's a mystery.

My dad referred to them once as The Manning Brothers (Peyton and Eli - football player brothers who I really knew nothing about, save for some commercial a few years back when one of them was showing off in his underwear) when I was complaining about the puppy-like quality of their brotherly relationship, in that they simply could not keep their mitts to themselves. I suppose he's right, they're brothers. And not only are they just male siblings, they're close in age and share the same chromosomes which, unbeknownst to me being as a) I'm not a boy, and b) my sibling and myself are 4 years apart, defines their brotherly environment in ways that I will never understand, no matter how much coffee (read: VODKA) there is in the world.

So for now, problably until my last breath in this world, I will put up with the wrestling, the goofing off, the amazement over rather loud bodily functions, the weird voices and the general goofballness of their daily lives.

And I will be thankful, every one of those days, that I have the third child to fall back on...that is, as long as she stays far away from her brothers, which isn't likely to happen and chances are she's already ruined. But, a girl can dream right?

But I will not Miss the Mud

2010-11-10T11:36:00.000-08:00

I was a football-mom virgin until last year when my proverbial initiation into the world of youth football took place. My entry into the fast-paced, loud-mouthed, constant worrying on the sidelines that your child will be squished world of being a football mom was easier than I thought. Although, I don't have enough fingers and toes to count the number of times I wanted to (and perhaps did on occasion) scream, "Get off my baby!" from my spot in the bleachers. But who doesn't do that?

Maybe that's why I was never asked to be the team mom?

Anyway, our first football season came and went without any broken bones or concussions, thank the football gods! My son poured his heart and soul into each game and practice and stood up in his position as a tackle against boys twice his size - and he even pushed a few of them down.

How I got comfortable with cheering for my kid to push another kid down on a field in front of dozens of other parents is beyond me, but it seemed that everyone else was doing it to and you know what they say about Rome...

By the time our second football season rolled around, I was ready. I even remembered some of the key phrases from the year before. I knew what to feed my kid before a big game, what music to play in the car to pump him up, what kind of water bottle was his favorite, to always have ice packs ready, to roll the car windows down on the way home from practice or a game and most importantly, how to clean his jersey and game pants so he'd always look professional. Oh yes, these are important tasks to master when you're the mom of a football player - just ask any of my friends and they will tell you that along with a protein-packed breakfast, Oxy-Clean is your new best friend (as well as her best friend, bleach).

They will also tell you that some football parents are complete nuts, but that is another story.

Our season was a good one. It started in the heat of August and surprisingly, we were still playing games in the late October sun thanks to an unseasonably warm fall. Injuries were kept to a minimum although I was constantly worried about the massive bruises that seemed to color every inch of visible skin on my son's arms and every time he said his head hurt I immediately thought brain injury, but isn't that my job? To freak out over nothing? Yes, I thought so.

He excelled in the positions his coaches had him play. He blocked and tackled and ran his ever-loving football heart out and even though I still don't understand everything there is to understand about the game of football, I know one thing - my son did a great job.

Despite bad calls, grumpy coaches, mouthy players and some debatable behaviors by kids on opposing teams (as well as their equally mouthy parents), my son did a great job. He showed sportsmanship, teamwork and a winning attitude even when they were being crushed. Most of all, he had a good time - which makes what I am doing today (soaking and scrubbing the mud off his practice pants) all worth it.

I am going to miss football season...but I am not going to miss those muddy pants.

Until we battle again next year.

Trust

2010-11-05T00:02:00.001-07:00

So there we were, at least 10 minutes past bedtime (typical) just having finished supervised teeth brushing and a quick bang trim before her "spa" birthday party tomorrow with her little friends and she wanted to play a game.

Like I said, typical.

It's not that Katie doesn't behave well, she does. Just on her own terms. It's been that way since the very beginning. Heck, even before the very beginning she was making her voice loud and clear by creating quite a stir in our little family before even being born.

I like to say that it's the girl in her, but I'm probably wrong. I think it's just her.

So she wanted to play the game where one person closes their eyes and falls backwards, letting the other person (who is hopefully standing and ready behind them) catch them. Trust. She wanted to fall into her Dad's arms so bad and attempted it many, many times before we offered to show her how it's done. I don't know if she was just being chicken, because that is so unlike her, or if she was just in a mood, but once she saw that Dad didn't drop Mom she was ready to try again.

I will give her this, she is, if anything, persistent.

Finally, arms crossed in a V over her chest, she lets go. She slips backwards into the arms of her father and giggles ferociously. So proud of herself.

"I won't let go of you," he says to her.

And as I'm sandwiched in the hallway, unable to get by as I observe this little stall of the bedtime routine, I can't help but think wasn't it just yesterday that we held her everywhere we went, every moment of the day, every waking hour? Trust. Infants don't understand trust, they just are. Trust isn't a game played with your Dad before bedtime, it is just the way it is.

I won't let go of you.

And my, what a long time ago that was.

In a few days she'll be 7. That seems like such a big number for such a little girl. 7. Closer now to being double digits than to being the infant she once was.

I've spent far too many hours keeping her my baby. Far too many. But I can't help myself. It's just the way it is.

I just hope she always trusts us.

Happy Birthday Baby Girl.

Snippets

2010-10-30T22:55:00.001-07:00

Dear Blog,

I promise I'm not ignoring you on purpose. I promise. Life, as you know, happens and I've been terribly neglectful of this little chunk of loved internet space more than I ever have before. My mother tells me that I need to update my blog because every time she clicks on it, she salivates.

So here is my measly offering.

Snippets of the week.

It's all I've got, for the moment.

Signed,

Your Loving Author

PS - I promise, no more food posts without some actual words in between.

Roy misses the kids when they're in school. He snuggles with Katie's stuffed dog until they get home. Good thing 2 of them had early releases all week. Did I mention that was allll week? Yes - that means the house was only kid-free for 2 hours each day. That's hardly enough time to get my beauty rest!

We "pink'd the rink" for our local hockey team in support of breast cancer research and awareness wearing pink t-shirts from Daddy's firestation. With PINK hair!

Pinking the Rink!

Annual Pumpkin Carving Party at our dear friends from Circle Creek Home!

Appropriately...the end.

Good for your Heart Lemon Tart

2010-10-20T16:12:00.000-07:00

Don't let the looks of this thing fool you, it's really incredibly easy. And if you're feeling like I am - kinda run down, kinda tired, kinda uninspired and in need of a long winter's nap when it isn't even winter yet - well, this may be the tart for you!

I'm not kidding.

It will make you feel like summer.

Next thing you know you'll be running around in your tankini with your sunglasses on and a bottle of Hawaiian Tropic in your hand (and your neighbors will all think you've lost your mind).

Well, maybe.

Good for your Heart Lemon Tart

3 large eggs
1/3 cup fresh lemon juice (2-3 lemons)
3/4 cup sugar
4 TBsp unsalted butter, room temp, cut in small pieces
1 TBsp lemon zest

for pastry crust:

1 1/2 cup all-purpose flour
1/8 tsp salt
1/2 cup unsalted butter
1/4 cup sugar
1 large egg

Lemon curd: In a stainless steel bowl placed over a saucepan of simmering water, whisk together the eggs, sugar, and lemon juice until blended. Cook, whisking or stirring constantly (to prevent it from curdling), until the mixture becomes pale in color and quite thick (like a hollandaise sauce or sour cream). This will take about 10 minutes. Remove from heat and immediately pour through a fine strainer to remove any lumps. Cut the butter into small pieces and whisk into the mixture until the butter has melted. Add the lemon zest, cover, and let cool to room temperature before filling the pastry crust. Put in the refrigerator, covered with plastic wrap to avoid getting a film on top of the gorgeous curd you just slaved over.

Try with all of your might not to dip your finger in there and sample. I won't tell if you do.

Now, it's time to make the pastry crust.

Mix the dry ingredients together in a separate bowl. In a mixer, beat the butter until smooth. Add the sugar and egg until well blended, then slowly add the dry ingredients. Form the dough into a ball and cover in plastic wrap, flattening slightly until it resembles a disc. Or a spaceship. Whichever you prefer. Chill for about 30 minutes.

Take dough out of refrigerator and turn out onto a lightly floured surface. Roll it out to about a 12 inch circle. Don't worry if it doesn't look perfect - pastry dough never looks perfect but believe me, nobody will notice when they're devouring the finished product!

Place the pastry into a tart pan and press the dough up the sides so that a nice "lip" is formed on the outer edge. Prick the bottom of the pastry with a fork several times and bake in a 400 degree oven until just slightly golden brown. You do not want to overbake this bad boy because you want it to be delicate and flaky.

After the pastry has cooled, spread it with that tantalizing lemon curd you made earlier (if there's any left). You can get super fancy and make designs with it or even pipe sweetened whipped cream around the edges. I like to keep mine simple and just spread it in there and then top with fresh raspberries. Oh yes. Yum.

And if that doesn't cheer you up, I don't know what will!

Thanks Jack

2010-10-13T09:51:00.000-07:00

Scene: Evening in a typical suburban living room. Mother is enjoying a glass of wine, watching Extreme Home Makeover with the kids (box of Kleenex poised at the ready on a nearby endtable) while Father is on shift at the firestation.

Kids and dog lay strewn about the floor, cozy in front of a glowing fireplace as the evening wears on and everyone enjoys doing nothing after a very busy weekend.

The programming breaks for commercials.

A Jack in the Box ad comes on the TV. Jack is visiting his aging mother one morning in her kitchen as she clips coupons. He tells her he didn't know she still clipped coupons and they exchange pleasantries over hot cups of coffee. It's a typical scene until the father pokes his head through the doorway and tells his wife she better call the doctor, "It's been more than 4 hours." He says hello to his son and closes the door at which time Jack announces that he'd better leave.

Child #1: Snicker, snicker, snicker.

Mother: Shoots child serious glance with raised eyebrows - a warning that he had better not even go there.

Child #2: What's so funny?

Mother: Evil stink eye in child #1's direction saying, "You better not," with her eyeballs.

Child #2: Whaaaaaat? I don't get it!

Child #1: (In his best and admittedly really good male radio commercial voice) If you experience an erection for more than 4 hours...

Child #2: Laughing his head off.

Mother: Good lord.

Child #3: Still laying under the coffee table completely oblivious to child #1 and child #2's conversation, which is a good thing.

A very good thing. Mother didn't feel like explaining erections to a 6 year old girl.

Mother's Note to Self: Why do these things always happen when father is at work?

From the Local Paper

2010-10-12T10:22:00.000-07:00

Making Strides for Breast Cacer 5K, October, 2010 - Me, Mom and Katie

In case you're been wondering what I've been up to:

My cancer story isn’t really mine to tell. It isn’t my maternal grandfather’s, who passed away from lymphoma when my mom was six months old. It isn’t my paternal grandfather’s, who died after a cancerous brain tumor took all of his strength. And it isn’t even my paternal grandmother’s, whom I lost to cervical cancer.

You would think with such a strong family history of all types of cancer, I’d have a lot of stories to tell, a lot of awareness to spread. You’d think I would have been involved in every cancer-related event and fundraiser out there. Truth of the matter is, my cancer story didn’t become my story until it happened to my mom. My mom.

You might have seen my mom walking along Vernon Road recently, wearing a Making Strides for Breast Cancer shirt as she prepared for her first breast cancer event since her diagnosis. She might offer you a wave and a smile, but then again she‘d probably do that anyway, breast cancer or no breast cancer. She’s just that kind of person.

May 18th, 2010, the day Mt. St. Helens erupted in 1980, also the day my world turned permanently upside down. Having cancer in the family is one thing; it’s like having brown eyes or a sprinkling of freckles, nothing to be really afraid of. Having your own mom diagnosed with cancer is entirely different. Immediately every pink ribbon, every bumper sticker, every ad I heard on the radio about some event or another raising awareness about any kind of cancer, spoke to me. Everything became relevant. Everything became clear.

The following weeks became a blur of doctor’s appointments, biopsies, education and most of all, hugs, for my mom. We put together a team of twelve in just under two weeks to walk the Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure 5K in her honor. We called ourselves Team Jane’s Jugs and braved the Seattle rain (what’s new?) as we proudly, tearfully and emotionally put one foot in front of the other. I marveled at all the pink, smiled at the women wearing bright SURVIVOR t-shirts, which set them apart from everyone else, and when it came time for them to parade around the International Fountain, I completely lost my mind. Big, heavy, wet tears streamed uncontrollably from my cheeks. It was hard to breathe. I got separated from my husband by the crowd and never felt more alone and helpless in my life as I stood there and wept for my mother. My mom.

I couldn’t go home and tell her what I felt. I had to be strong for her, had to tell her only the good things about the walk. I had to make her laugh and make her feel supported, even though I felt like a damp, soggy mess of a person inside. I couldn’t let her see that.

My mom is one of the lucky ones, if there is such a thing, when it comes to being diagnosed with breast cancer. Had it not been for early detection and digital mammography, we might be singing a different tune. She was diagnosed with a Stage 1 Ductal Carcinoma In Situ (DCIS for short). It hadn’t spread to her lymph nodes, although her surgeon removed 3 of them during her lumpectomy procedure (a pretty standard thing to do). Her cancer was HRT positive, meaning that it was hormonally reactive, or fed. She was an excellent candidate for taking the estrogen blocking medication post surgery in order to stop the growth of any undetected, microscopic cancer cells that might still be present. Mom went through radiation (which was still pretty draining) and didn’t have to have chemotherapy like so many others do. She hardly took a day off during her treatment, although I kept willing her to lie in bed and accept my offers to watch chick flicks together and paint her toenails. She was a fighter the entire time.

The outlook is very positive for my mom. Early detection was the key to her survival. Having knowledgeable doctors and nurses was crucial in learning all she could about breast cancer. I know she’s going to be okay, but there is no adequate way of stating that this experience has changed all of our lives forever, especially hers. After all, this is her story, not mine.

If ever I needed a reason to Relay, this is it. She is the reason I am alive. She is the reason I breathe. She is the reason I fight. She is the reason I celebrate. She is the reason I Relay.

Our community is holding its first annual Relay for Life this spring. Before my mom’s diagnosis, I admit – I had never even paid much attention to Relay. I had heard of other communities doing it here and there, a college friend participated and I donated to his fundraising efforts but I really had no clue what it was all about. Oh, another cancer fundraiser, I thought as I filled out my donor information, hit submit then wished my friend well on his journey to a cancer free life. End of story, or so I thought. Not quite…

When I participated in my first Relay this past summer in Marysville (North County Relay for Life), I was overwhelmed with the hope springing forth from the athletic field lined with tiny paper luminarias celebrating, grieving or fighting for someone who had cancer. I saw several of our own community members there, participating, walking, and believing in themselves and this cause enough to take time out of their lives to take part in this event. I knew I’d be a part of Relay for Life forever, I had no choice.

She is the reason I Relay. What is yours?

Carrie Blankenship has lived in Lake Stevens since 1977. Her mother, Jane Molenkamp, was diagnosed with breast cancer in May, 2010, and recently finished the radiation phase of her treatment this September. Please join Carrie, Jane and the rest of the Relay for Life, Lake Stevens Team in celebrating our first ever Relay, May 14th – 15th, 2011, at Lake Stevens High School. Please visit our website www.relayforlife.org/lakestevenswa to register or join a team. You can also email questions, comments or offer to volunteer at lakestevensrelay@yahoo.com.

Tucked Away

2010-10-01T08:00:00.000-07:00

The other day, someone asked me about Katie's birth.

"Oh, it was certainly not without drama, that's for sure!" I said with a little laugh, hoping I would not have to elaborate.

"But what happened after she was born? You know, when you had to go back to the hospital?" she asked.

It was as if a scar - say, the one on my left knee from the time I skidded across the library parking lot on my brand new bike in Girdwood, Alaska, when I was 10 years old. The one that left a pale, gray scar where a piece of gravel never did make its way out. It was as if a well-healed and long-forgotten wound had been opened, made fresh again with the memories that I'd tucked away because I wanted to forget them.

Things happen for a reason.

We were lucky that we even had a chance to bring Katie into this world, although at the time it was impossible to process that. Her birth came on the eve of an ultrasound to "check the size of the baby." Next thing I knew terms I did not understand were being discussed, instructions were relayed and reservations in the labor and delivery unit at the nearby hospital were cemented. Phone calls and arrangements were handled by family, because that's what families do. They handle things.

And just after 9 o'clock that night, after a cooler arrived with the special blood I'd need to get through the c-section, that little girl, my little girl, entered this world and she was perfect, absolutely perfect, not a thing out of place, not a blemish nor anything wrong with her, despite the fears.

And I'm glad I didn't know. I'm glad I didn't find out that I had mutant blood with an antigen that attacks the unborn and worsens with each pregnancy. I'm glad I didn't know. I'm thankful that the doctors didn't find this with my first pregnancy because the risks of carrying another baby after knowing would have been too great and I would have chosen against it.

I would have never had Wyatt and Katie.

They say things happen for a reason.

When I left the hospital after my mandatory 3-day stay, I had feet the size of loaves of bread. "Fred Flintstone feet," we called them. They were actually really comical in appearance. I couldn't even get them into slippers...so swollen were they. My discharge nurse was a "floater," unfamiliar with the practices of discharging patients, unfamiliar with much of anything to do with obstetrics but she discharged me nonetheless. Sent me home with my baby and my Fred Flintstone feet and said congratulations! Enjoy your baby and make sure you rest.

That was a Sunday.

I was back in the hospital on Tuesday morning. Blood pressure you would not believe, plans to be hooked up to a little thing called magnesium to keep it under control, to keep me from "stroking out." Postpartum eclapmsia. Three cases at this particular hospital in one month! More than they'd ever seen, all different, all presenting uniquely. Mine, thank God, was the least worrisome, only swelling in extremities, unlike my fellow sufferers (one of whom was a friend) who had swelling in the trunk area and the other in her brain, the worst kind of all.

Special meetings were held for the doctors. Katie went to her first official check up with the pediatrician without me. I lay hooked up to the magnesium, in a fog, sweating whatever toxin is released from blood pressure that causes your nurse to come in and check your reflexes every 20 minutes before giving you another sleeping pill and doing it all over again...for five days.

Five days.

Fog. Blur. I don't remember much of the during. All I know is that she was there with me. They were there with me. My mom brushed my hair and tried to assure me that the boys were fine. Brett kept me calm. Katie kept me there. She sustained me. She, in her brand new - because she was our first girl and certainly would not need her brother's old hand-me-down sleepers but new, pink ones of her own, sleepers with the little bows and the teeny tiny flowers, she kept me.

And I tucked this memory away because - because I fear I don't have much of it. I don't own that memory like I do the days after my other children were born. It is unclear, messy, hazy. I don't have it.

But, I am certain of one thing.

That feeling, the one of being safe, being protected, being kept, I do have that. When I inhale all that is her, when I snuggle in close, so close I don't want to let her go even though I know I should. When she tip toes into my bed at night and I'm not upset but rather glad to see her because it was as if I wasn't really able to sleep without her right there by my side anyway. When she tucks her toes under my knee, to keep them warm. When she makes sure I am watching, as she does something really important and spectacular, like hit a baseball off a tee...

I am certain of all that.

And then I know, I haven't really tucked those memories away for good, they are right here with me - when I look at her, or the boys, and I realize that yes, everything does happen for a reason, and I haven't tucked anything away after all.

*Originally posted in March, 2009.

How to Discipline a Football Player

2010-09-20T18:02:00.000-07:00

Oh, it had been a day.

A real day indeed.

After consuming nearly every calorie in the house and then some my 13 year-old had the nerve to ask for dessert. Are you kidding me? I thought to myself as I tallied up the eggs, cheese, cereal, bananas, yogurt, macaroni and cheese, carrots, cucumbers, celery, hummus, granola bars and let's not mention all the liquid he had consumed over the course of the day. This kid is going to eat me out of house and home!

So dessert was definitely not something on the list of Sunday evening activities. Instead, I tried to entice he and his siblings into sitting still and watching a nice family movie with me until bedtime.

That lasted about 10 minutes.

Let me repeat myself, dessert was not going to be happening.

Anyway, it seems like somewhere between last Halloween and now, my kids have eaten more candy and junk than I ever did...before college, that totally doesn't count. We used to be a house that didn't allow the on-going consumption of empty calories. I had a no soda rule. I cringed at the sight of a Hershey's bar (unless it was in the middle of a s'more...that totally doesn't count either) and I tried with all my might to make any candy received during the holidays disappear with in a week or two.

And then there would be none, candy that is.

I don't know what happened between then and now, I blame the dog (it's always his fault anyway).

But I digress.

Sugar can't be the only reason my 13 year-old lost his ever lovin' mind Sunday night. There's got to be something else going on besides an all out crash from all the junk he had eaten during the day, right? I mean, he is 13 and all...isn't back talking required for all 13 year-olds?

Which leads me to my new form of punishment for back talking 13 year-olds: the tackle.

I was busy loading the dinner dishes into the dishwasher and there was some silly commotion taking place amongst kids who were supposed to be brushing their teeth but were instead arguing over a memory foam pillow.

I had had it!

I gave warnings, several of them, to my tribe of crazy children, warning the oldest that he'd better ratchet it back and follow directions (since he was the ringleader in this case) or else there would be consequences.

Just like that, he lost his mind.

Just like that, I lost my patience.

I started in, yelling about disrespecting his mother and the universe and why oh why can't you just brush your teeth and go to bed like a normal child?

And then he laughed.

And I laughed.

And although he'd already lost iPod privileges for a week because of his sassy mouth, I had to prove my point: that I was indeed, the one in charge here.

And so I tackled him.

Just like a linebacker.

See? I am learning something from watching him play football after all.

Let me know if this works for you.

This is Your Brain on Parenthood

2010-09-16T20:29:00.000-07:00

Man, I used to be a good babysitter. I was awesome - and I do mean awesome. I would bathe the kids before bedtime, read 10 stories, slather baby lotion on them, make sure they brushed their teeth and then patiently waited for them to fall asleep after several (and I mean several) requests for leaving hall lights on, more water please and can I have another hug?

Oh yes, I was an awesome babysitter.

The diaper clad set never went more than 2 hours without a fresh nappy. They were powdered and happy and fresh as a summer's day when their parents returned from a pool tourney at a local bar, a PTA meeting or perhaps a rock concert (I babysat for a variety of folk, I was an equal opportunity babysitter, fo sho).

So naturally, I thought I'd rock the parenting arena. I mean, I had the years and years of childcare to call upon, I knew CPR and loved babies, and always had the feeling that I'd be a mom. Oh yes, I was going to rock this thing, inside and out.

And then I got pregnant.

It wasn't the babyhood that was so difficult...well, besides the whole sleep deprivation, permanent attachment to your chest and hauling around that forty pound diaper bag - oh no.

It wasn't the toddler years that did me in...the constant babbling, teething and transitioning from one stage to another (and dinosaur obsessions, can't forget those) - oh no.

It wasn't even the preschool years with all that finger painting and the messes and hey mom, I'm old enough for bunk beds so let's get on it, stat - oh no.

It's the middle part of parenting - the part where I am have one elementary schooler, one middle schooler and one mid-high schooler, that's doing me in. It's a lot to keep track of!

Remember that anti-drug poster that we (oh yes we, children of the eighties and nineties) stared at in every single classroom we set foot in? The one with the fried egg in the pan? This is your brain...this is your brain on drugs?

I can't remember things I said 2 hours ago people! I say the most ridiculous things. For example, when getting Katie ready for bed I've apparently been channeling MC Hammer because last night she told me "Stop. Jammie Time." It was just one pair of hammer pants shy of a full on booty shaking break out session of the dance that made that man (see, I can't even remember his proper name) famous and graced my MTV every time I turned it on in the year 1990.

Like how I said in the year 1990, like it was sooo long ago?

My daughter was just telling my husband about the "pass the penny" game that they have been playing in first grade this week. His response? "Pass the penny to the left hand side." Remember that song?

My entire brain is fried, like that egg in the posters of my long gone youth.

I've got hula hoops in my living room and soaked football pads strewn from one end of the laundry room to the other. Honestly, I'm afraid to go in there. I found Mt. Dew cans (purchased for camping ONLY) hidden in various places in the garage and when I confronted one of those boy children of mine about my discovery I was told they were being stashed "for emergencies."
There are sparkles all over the kids bathtub and I nearly bathed the dog with some Axe shampoo the other day when I reached for his regular doggy bath kind.

Now that I think of it, that might not have been such a bad idea...

People. There are more juice bags than bottles of beer in our beverage refrigerator and I can't tell you the last time a day went by that I didn't hear the theme song to Spongebob.

All that babysitting, turns out, never prepared me for this. I'm about a day away from checking myself into a secluded yurt in the middle of a rainy forest (a QUIET rainy forest, I might add) and staying there until there are no more Polly Pockets or paper airplanes left in my house. And although I would never give any one of my children up to the highest bidder (a'hem, everything does have a price), there are days when parenting is downright exhausting, your brain feels like mush and you can't remember what you did last week.

This is your brain.

This is your brain on parenthood.

Any questions?

Pass the penny from the left hand side...

In the Blink of an Eye

2010-09-13T10:21:00.000-07:00

I've heard it a million times - "They grow so fast," "It's over before you know it," "Blink and you'll miss their childhood." But just like anything else that makes perfect sense, I choose to ignore it and carry on with the here and the now as if it's the most important thing in the world.

Usually, this approach works well during parenthood because living in the here and now means that tomorrow is another new day. Another day to wipe the slate clean and start over, preferably with all the kitchen dishes done, right? Another day to work on manners and chores and being a good human being. Another day to impose my values upon my children, whether they like it or not.

Yes, living in the here and the now means that we all get a do-over. And it also means that whatever horribly awful thing you just experienced (like opening the screen door to discover 5 salted slug carcasses) will be gone tomorrow (hopefully).

Tomorrow also means that your kids will be another day older. Another day farther away from babyhood and the days when your touch (and maybe a binky) was all they needed to soothe their bad mood. Now it's anyones guess.

At least around here it is.

I never know what to expect with each new day. I can observe the lunar cycles, check how many days it is until a birthday, anticipate certain things, but I can't predict my children's moods. I can't tell them that if they are a good person, honest and fair, that it will all be okay...because now they're old enough to know that isn't always the case.

Except for the six year-old...she still believes most of what I say.

I can't protect them from everything. I can't follow them everywhere they go. They are growing up, much too quickly. Part of me is proud, happy and glad that independence has replaced the constant need for help but when I find myself asking them (particularly the older one) for advice on how to navigate my cell phone or to help with a chore, I want to run and hide in the closet, rock back and forth and repeat "they're still my babies, they're still my babies" until I've finally convinced myself that it must be true. They're still my babies.

And now with my youngest in school ALL DAY LONG, I find myself vacant. Lost. Alone.

My mom says to enjoy, to take a 4 hour long bubble bath. I'm sure that one of these days that will appeal to me but for now I only feel like taking out their baby books and reading about when they first ate rice cereal, their first words, first steps. . .

Because in the blink of an eye. . .

It happens.

They grow.

When I was tucking Katie in bed last week she grabbed my cheeks and asked me to say something. I thought she was being sweet. Turns out, she was trying to get me to make a funny face...typical. But after that, I hugged her tight and asked her if she'd always be my baby.

"Of course I will." She answered. "But I'm gonna grow mom . . . and change too. But I'll always be your baby. Even when I'm OLD."

She's pretty smart, for a first grader.

Alone Time

2010-09-02T08:52:00.000-07:00

No sooner had I submerged as much as I possibly could of my body into the hot water when she burst through the door to my master bath.

"Whatcha doing mom?"

What does it look like I'm doing? Reupholstering the furniture? Washing the car? Perhaps I'm planting a vegetable garden.

"I'm taking a bath honey."

"Why?"

Weren't we done with the constant "whys" a long time ago? I mean, she's almost seven for Pete's sake and she knows darn well why I'm taking a bath...because I want to. Duh. And I'm the mom. So I can. Besides, I can't remember the last time I took a long soak without hearing the screaming of children and the barking of dogs. I can't remember the last time I slathered a blue mud mask on my face and lost myself in a good book.

But still, she clamors on.

Her father and I have just finished a heated discussion about letting 13 year-olds drink hot chocolate after having dessert at 9 o'clock at night. All I want to do is slip into the calgony blue waters of my bath and forget about the ridiculousness of said conversation, but I indulge her.

"Can I come in there with you mama?"

I used to ambush my mom while she was taking baths too. I'd wait a few minutes after I heard the faucet stop running before I knew it would be okay to knock on the door and see if she wanted company. There I'd find her in calgony blue waters, washcloth strategically placed over body parts and a book in her hand. She'd let me sit on the edge of the toilet seat next to the bathtub and ask her anything in the world. I knew I only had a few minutes before she'd shoo me out, so I tried to make everything important.

But mostly, I just wanted to be with her.

Katie starts in, talking about the trip to the dentist office that very morning and I tell her how proud I am of her bravery.

She beams.

She dips the tip of her painted orange all by herself big toe in the bath water.

"Are you sure I can't just come in there?" She pleads.

"Yes, I'm sure." I answer.

After a few rounds of in and out, a few more questions about life and anything she can think of on a whim, it's finally time for her to go to bed. I hear her dad calling to her. I've already had her brush her teeth in my bathroom so at least that part is done. She stacks the cookbooks I've brought to read, along with my novel, atop the stool next to the tub and kisses me for the tenth time in the thirty minutes I've been "taking a bath."

She comes back three more times to repeat this ritual.

I know someday I'll have all the hours in the world to take a bath in a quiet house after a long day. I'll be able to finish novels, maybe even two or three a week, without being interrupted by kids wanting my time. I'll cook nothing but delicious meals for my husband and I. Chicken fingers will be a thing of the past. I'll always have fresh flowers and an open bottle of wine and a pantry full of fancy crackers. There will be exotic cheese in the fridge instead of our staple block of yellow Tillamook cheddar. I'll be sophisticated.

And I will miss them like crazy.

Pork Chops and Applesauce - Hello Fall

2010-08-31T16:26:00.000-07:00

Just as the rain that came this morning quickly washed away any last vestiges of summer, I too feel snuffed out by the weather. Not that I am unwelcome to fall, quite the contrary - it is my favorite time of the year only occasionally trumped by it's friend spring - but the rain, it bogs me down, sucks the energy and makes me feel about as inspired and creative as a rock.

I've got to do something to fix that.

Waking up to the tinkling sound of raindrops on the roof makes me want to crawl further, further, further under the bedding which comforts my body...now out of the pain I'd been fighting with for the past few months. All that physical therapy is paying off and instead of jumping for joy (not advised at this time) I want to relish in the simple act of being able to read a book in bed without pain. Ah, it's the little things, no?

The looming start of school has the kids frenzied, frazzled (or is that me?) and fanatically asking me every live long day when we're going to finish school shopping.

"In time," I tell them. "In time. Trust me, you'll have everything you need before the first day."

And off they go to tackle each other and whip the dog into a wild mass of flying hair and slobber upon the sofa cushions that I had just laundered.

Sigh.

The days will be shorter, they have in fact already begun to do so. Long shadows take the place of short intense ones and the leaves on the trees flanking our driveway are already starting to get flecks of bright orange on them. It's coming.

When I see the pile of apples in the crisper drawer of my refrigerator all I can think about is pork chops.

And applesauce.

I want to can. I want to preserve. I want to put up.

But first things first. Haircuts. Two are done, one is undecided - although if his sideburns get any more scraggly looking that decision will belong to me. Binders, lunch boxes and daily schedules for everyone must be ironed out, gone over, clarified. Three different kids in three different schools. This hasn't happened since the days of preschool and even then, it was no big deal - as I was the mode of transportation for the little one. But now, it's riding the bus without a big brother. It's being at school all day, and I mean all day, none of this half-day kindergarten baloney that last year consisted of.

She'll be gone all day.

And so maybe that's why, instead of being inspired, excited and elated with the change of seasons like I normally am this time of year, I'm a little ambivalent. A little sad. And a whole lot not looking forward to my flock fleeing the nest, even though it's time. Even though I've heard enough "tap, tap spot back" 's from them and witnessed more adolescent insanity than ever before.

I keep telling myself it will be good to get back into the routine. I keep reminding myself that I can't freeze time or rewind the clock.

Hopefully soon I'll start to listen.

All in the Name of Love

2010-08-19T12:37:00.001-07:00

Raising boys is tough. It's grueling, messy, stinky, hard work that does, at times, yield much more conversation about bodily functions (re expelling gas from one area or another), fishing, Green Day, wrestling, football, worms, dirt and other odd topics than I ever thought possible. But soldier on I do, because even though they outgrow their shoes faster than you can say "boo" and are fascinated with all ways to torture their little sister, I do love them.

I love their boyness.

I love their rough and tumble.

I love the fact that their voices crack and unexpectedly go up and down causing a chorus of more laughing and even more conversations about puberty than I ever thought I'd have.

I love that they still want to hang out with me, even when they're being weird.

I love that they are mostly caring towards their sister.

They treat the dog like family.

They think their dad is a hero.

And they are adventurous.

But, dear future daughters-in-law, there is one problem I haven't mentioned about boys. And for this disservice I've done to you, I deeply apologize. It's an issue I've been working on since they were out of Pull-Ups and one I just can't seem to drill into their thick skulls. No matter how hard I try (and believe me, I've been this close to threatening that they be allowed to only use the bathroom outside because of it), it's just not working.

So. Embarrassing them on the Internet was my last and hopefully the most effective final straw in the battle I've been engaging with them for years.

I hope it works.

It's only Monday, Clearly it's too Early to Drink

2010-08-16T11:00:00.000-07:00

I'm not a yeller.

I'm not a screamer.

And I certainly wouldn't call my self a holler-er either.

Most of the time, that is.

These. These are the days that I question my sanity. I question my abilities. I question every fiber of my being that told me I'd be a good mother because these days, I feel like the sticky, elastic mess of hot gum stuck to the underside of a sneaker.

Oh yes, it is just that good.

Motherhood. The ultimate gift. The supreme experience. The be all and end all of our existence because after all, if nobody wanted to become a mother none of us would even exist, right?

It's tiring.

It's exhausting.

It's mind numbing at times.

And while trying to keep your cool can be the very thing that drives that nail into the coffin resting precariously on the edge of a freshly dug grave - aka the brink of every last sane thought in your mind - it can also be the very thing to pull you out of the abyss, the void of rational thought, the sea of misunderstanding teenagers and kids riding scooters through your house because it's too hot to ride them outside.

Oh yes.

Scooters.

In.

The.

Kitchen.

And just when you think you have 2 out of 3 figured out and calmed down with promises to visit the AT & T store and just possibly a trip across the mall to Old Navy to pick up a pair of $10 "skinny jeans" because lord knows, you aren't ever going to be wearing a pair of those...might as well let the 6 year old, that's when the middle child (the one who's supposed to be behaving) loses all control right then and there and you would swear you heard the mating call of a wildebeest just now but oh no, that's just him...singing.

It's only Monday.

There's a chilly bottle of pinot grigio in the fridge that somehow survived the weekend without being uncorked.

And why does just the act of writing that sentence suddenly make the world a much better place?

There are also leftover hot dogs in the fridge but, oddly enough, the thought of those does nothing to ease my mind.

Is There a Candle for That?

2010-08-09T19:51:00.001-07:00

I can't remember the last time I set foot inside a Bath and Body Works store...a few months? A year? Had it really been that long? Most likely it was before Christmas when I was rushing around like a madwoman snatching up teacher and Christmas hostess gifts to keep on hand, at the very last minute of course.

I'd tried to make it in a few weeks ago, when Katie was attending vacation bible school in the evenings near one of their stores only to pull up to their glossy storefront and find that it had closed 3 minutes before my arrival. 3 minutes! I nearly cried and had one of the boys fake an emergency so that the store clerk would at least open up the doors and let us in so I could gaze upon all the lovely soaps, lotions, lip balms and bubble baths, but I decided not to.

I don't usually get that crazy over soap. Okay, if you know me you know I do get crazy over soap, but not the mental, lunatic, I'm going to scream if I don't have any kind of crazy, only the good kind of crazy - and usually only over soap made from everything good for you. But Bath and Body Works is the exception. I mean, I'm fully aware that there is no actual essence of lime and basil hiding in their antibacterial pump soap...but I can't help but be intoxicated every darn time I wash my hands with that stuff.

And the pink grapefruit scent?

Is there a matching candle?

Because right now I'm this close to going postal and ordering one of everything from their website. Really. I need an intervention. Besides, speaking of postal, the postal service could use the extra business. I'm sure of it.

Just think of all the letter-carrier jobs I could save!

All I needed was to re-stock my kitchen pump soap. That was it. Simple task, no? I lectured the kids, "Please don't touch anything. Please don't ask for anything. Please don't bug me when I say no because I know you are going to ask for something." And I thought I was good to go.

Turns out, I'm no match for Vampire Blood (plum scented) mini-hand sanitizers with matching backpack holders for under a buck (I can say I was school-supply shopping).

Or fragrance spray for $5 (totally falls into the school supply category).

Let's just say it's a good thing their soap isn't edible.

A really good thing.

Now, if you'll excuse me I have to go wash my hands again. It has, after all, been all of 10 minutes.

The Happy Post

2010-08-06T08:14:00.000-07:00

After an exhausting beyond exhausting day (I totally blame the weatherman and all the mugginess coupled with the poor air quality from wildfires in BC - certainly not my crabby pills or sore muscle) we had just one more errand to run before picking up the oldest from football practice and heading home to make breakfast for dinner.

Because there is always just one more thing, isn't there?

As I was driving home I kept seeing a flicker of movement in my side mirror. Ruling out aliens and other sights that could be coming from the peripheral angle, I realized that the movement wasn't anything to be worried about, it was simply my daughter's fingers waving the peace sign at all the passing cars. A huge smile spread across her delicate face as the colors of the hazy, humid, setting sun warmed her skin, the cooling breeze from the open car window making her happier than I'd seen her all day.

By the time we got to football practice, her hair was a mess, windblown and tangly to the extreme. The clothes she'd thrown on over her bathing suit had bits and pieces of grape stems stuck to them (because you can't take her anywhere without a snack these days) and she had a giant bruise on her leg from some kind of fun or another.

Sidenote: When we were kids, our pediatrician told my mom once that if your kids didn't have bruises on their legs he would worry that they weren't normal.

She looked like a hot mess. A happy, hot mess with a stuffed monkey clutched under her arm as she climbed the gigantic hill in her flip flops to her brother's football practice.

My middle child was even happy by the time we reached the top of the hill, trying not to laugh at his sister's appearance and goofiness. Sometimes I can't help but wonder if she wasn't born into our family for one reason, to make us laugh after a long and tiring day. For just hours earlier, they were all crazy banshees acting like animals - banging on eachother's bedroom doors, bugging one another and basically causing more wrinkles on my forehead than anyone deserves.

After a dinner of pancakes, fruit, sausage and eggs they decided to all sleep in their older brother's room. Which basically made me forget all about the laps they did through the kitchen while I was cooking. Score for me because that means they were eager to get into their beds and although I knew I'd have to tell them to "hush" and go to sleep a few times, my job was basically done...which meant I could get onto more important things like watching the premier of The Real Housewives of DC...omg.

It's amazing what a day can do, if you let it.

The Long and The Short of It

2010-08-05T09:33:00.000-07:00

My hiney. It hurts.

You know what's horrible about aging, other than the mutant silver hairs that spring forth from my forehead like a cougar at a Rick Springfield concert? It's the unexplained aches and pains. And the fact that I know I'm all too young to be using the words "unexplained aches and pains" and "sciatica." Alas, that's where I find myself these days, halfway between an arched over ol granny who wishes she had a better walking stick in order to hoist herself up with and my 93 year old grandma who gets in and out of a chair better than I do these days.

In as few words as possible: it sucks.

I am not going to bore you with the minutiae of all the aches and pains associated with whatever is wrong with me - chiropractor says it's all about alignment, doctor says it's piriformis syndrome, physical therapist says it's a disc problem - except to say that I'm on the road to figuring it all out...which currently means I'm succumbing to the doctor's orders to take a steroid (just like the MLB, only without the high paycheck!). Interestingly enough, taking this steroid (prednisone) is supposed to make me crabby.

"You're going to be irritable." Said the doctor.

"You might feel edgy." Said my Dad.

"You're going to be moody." Said the pharmacist.

"You're going to want to eat anything that isn't nailed down." Said my friend.

So here I sit, on day 3 of said medication and I'm doing ok. Of course, screaming kids, barking dogs, raccoons running amok in the neighborhood during the middle of the day and people who don't know how to use a round-about all get my blood pressure to rise, but I don't think I've been too crabby...have I?

Don't answer that.

Only 2 more days.

And then maybe I'll get some sleep too because the funny thing about taking something that practically guarantees you'll alienate all of your loved ones is that it also causes insomnia. The laying awake at all hours although you know that you're physically exhausted type of insomnia that can't be cured by anything, not even the rhythmic snoring of the man in bed next to you. The kind that makes you wander the house in the middle of the night trying to wear yourself out only to return to your former place of slumber to stare at the ceiling fan - whirring crazily and threatening to fly off it's bracket above your head.

It's a comforting thought.

So here I am. That's the long and the short of it. When this is all over, I might be able to form a coherent thought or tell you a funny story about the kids or the dog or the raccoons who think they own this place. I'm pretty sure one of my neighbors is feeding them (the raccoons not the kids - although...) and I'm this close to placing a carefully worded sign on our community mailbox to warn them of the dangers of doing so but my husband says I better not...

Because he doesn't want them to think I'm crabby.

The World Didn't End

2010-07-30T09:08:00.000-07:00

I took a break yesterday...from Facebook.

After much thought and consideration (and willpower, who knew the draw of the mighty laptop could be so strong?), I purposefully didn't log back onto the computer after working in the morning. It wasn't a planned hiatus. I didn't tell myself I'd be on a Facebook Diet all night. I just did it - mostly to see if my life would fall apart if I didn't know what all of my friends were up to.

Incidentally, just when did I get so nosy?

Turns out, the world didn't end.

Sure, a few people said things to me in regards to things they'd posted on the mighty Facebook (FaceDORK as my husband likes to call it - he doesn't have an account, he can't be responsible for his truly warped opinion) which only reminded me how dependant we are on social networking in order to connect with one another, but all in all, I don't think I missed anything.

And since when did I care?

Before Facebook, I was normal. I ate, drank, showered and did everything I do now without caring how my activities would look in a Facebook status. And life went on. Shortly after entering the Facebook vortex, all of that changed. I'm not saying Facebook is a necessarily bad thing, but when you start dreaming in status updates (not that I was, people, not that I was), it might be a good time to take a little break and remind yourself that yes, indeed, you can breathe without it. Plus, who cares what you had for breakfast anyway? And yes, it is possible to walk by the computer on your way to doing something else without checking Facebook.

Imagine, I watched an entire episode of Bethenny Getting Married without Facebooking about it - I love that show! Or remarking on how much her little punkin' of love looks just like her Daddy. Because does anyone really care what I think?

Maybe.

Maybe not.

And still, the world didn't end.

Point? Do I have one? If I did, it would go something like this: Facebook is great, but life is greater. While I enjoy the overstimulation and enormous amounts of information available through social networking, I don't want to live my life by it. I don't need to tell everyone everything, and I don't want to think about it when I'm not on it . . . unless I just took a ridiculously hideous drunk picture of my best friend and then, all bets are off .

I kid.

Sorta.

But not really.

Let's just save the pictures to blow up into life size posters on milestone birthdays, okay?

All in all, like most things, Facebook is good - in moderation. Share what you want. Say what you want. But save the really good stuff for your life because unlike Facebook, life doesn't sit there and wait for you to walk by and check on it. And you really might miss something important if you're staring into a screen instead of living your life.

That is, unless someone took a picture of it and put it on Facebook.

She Still Believes in Miracles

2010-07-27T16:56:00.000-07:00

I'm not sure when I'm ever going to recover from the weekend.

As anyone living anywhere small-townish that holds an annual festival of any kind can attest, surviving said festival is as exhausting as it is exhilarating, what with all the funnel cake and all. Perhaps if we lived a little farther from our booming downtown (I kid), it would not be as tiresome to hear the "woooos" and the "wheeees" from the carnival or the sirens late at night chasing someone who'd obviously had a little too much to drink at the beer garden.

Despite all this hub bub, I wouldn't trade our close proximity for the world, and not only because the local businessman charges $10 for a parking space.

The kids obviously dig the festival. Big time. Where else can they stuff their faces full of elephant ears and corn dogs until their bellies burst and eat their weight in cotton candy? Only at the festival. They can enter a pizza eating contest, watch the festival Queens (and more importantly, Junior Queens) compete, see a parade (or, in our case, be in the parade), play carnival games and make their mom really, really nervous by riding the Gravitron. Only at the festival...

But it is exhausting, all of this festivalness.

So come Sunday afternoon, I had had it. I mean, had it. No more, I said to myself as the kids disassembled the lemonade stand they'd been working at trying to make extra cash for the carnival. For I knew that as soon as they'd put the last of their stand away, they'd be begging for me to take them to the festival...again.

This is where having older kids has it's advantages.

The boys begged, they pleaded they promised me a carefree night if I would just let them go down to the festival one last time.

I caved.

I'm easy like that, especially on a Sunday afternoon with an accompanying funnel cake hangover.

So that left Katie, her lemonade cash folded neatly in her pocket and a sad, puppy dog look on her face.

"Why can't I go with them mom?" She asked, pitifully.

I wanted to answer, "Because it's nothing but sweaty teenagers wearing scraps of denim, overtired carnival workers trying to suck every last dime out of anyone walking by and trouble makers with nothing better to do on a hot Sunday afternoon but hang out in large crowds," but I didn't. I told her, "Aw, it's no fun down there honey, why don't you stay here with me?" And ran to the freezer to briber her with a Popsicle so she wouldn't have a stage 4 meltdown right then and there.

It worked.

The Popsicle distracted her just long enough for the boys to leave and for me to come up with an alternative excuse as to why going to the festival was 100% bad news.

After the frozen grape sugary concoction had worked it's magic into her veins she questioned me again and this time I told her the truth, that if she saved her money instead of blowing it on umbrella hats and potato guns like her brothers were apt to do, she'd have enough to buy the Girl Gourmet Cupcake Maker she's been coveting. I didn't even have to pass out another Popsicle.

And it worked.

Really.

No.

It did.

Thank heaven for little girls who still believe the things their mamas tell them, no matter how silly they may seem.

And may the fairy tale continue...at least until she's seven.

Shiny Happy Summer

2010-07-21T14:30:00.000-07:00

We've made it just past the one month mark into summer vacation and I think it's high time to commence a little complaining.

In summers past, I wasn't chomping at the bit quite as frequently as I have been this year and I've spent countless hours trying to figure out why. Is it because my kids have reached some sort of behavioral apex this summer? Is it because the weather was not summerlike for the first few weeks? Are they watching too much TV? Is it because they ate red Popsicles?

I'm not sure I will ever know.

But one thing is for sure. These kids of mine are busy, screaming, crazy beasts and there are days that, no matter how brightly the sun is shining or how loudly the robins are chirping in the trees outside my bedroom window, I don't even want to get out of bed. They are wearing me out.

There must be something wrong with me.

When they were little, I used to dream of the day when they could go out of the house alone, unassisted, to explore the world surrounding us just like I did as a child. I pictured myself, clad in a frilly apron or something, dusting my blinds with a feather duster and not a hair out of place on my head, a permanent smile affixed to my face that had nothing whatsoever to do with vodka consumption. They would return at the end of their long days spent catching tadpoles and chasing chipmunks, faces full of smiles and stories about all the wonderful things they did that day.

Yes, it's a dream - just try to picture it.

Now that they are of the age where they do have a little more freedom than when they were, say, toddlers, I'm eating my words.

For example, nobody ever told me that sending a couple of boys fishing would be so much drama. While fishing is itself a wholesome activity for middle school-aged kids, it's a lot of work. Especially if you're the parent. And while I was whole heartedly proud of my son and the neighbor boy for building their own boat this spring, I'm whole heartedly tired of hearing about fishing or being asked when they can go fishing. Mom, Mom, Mom, Mom when can I go fishing? Listen boys, I'm sorry you aren't old enough to drive, but there is no way I'm structuring each and every day around whether the fishing (for you) is good or not. It just isn't going to happen. So take your 2 feet, take your poles, walk to the lake and go fish.

Sand. I also have an issue with sand this summer. Yes, I love that they spend time at the beach while I'm stuck at home working in the office at my part-time job - lucky them - BUT can you please leave the sand at the beach thankyouverymuch? Is it so much to ask? I'm worried the sand is going to break my front loaders and if that happens there will not be enough vodka in the world (not even in France) to fix that problem.

Bedtimes. Who cares about bedtimes in the summer? I do. There is no conceivable reason that kids should be up until 11pm every live long night. No. Reason. I don't care if they're playing a Deadliest Catch marathon on The Discovery Channel or if the President is giving a press conference - go to bed. Because you know what happens when kids don't go to bed at a decent hour? Oh yes, mommy doesn't get any alone grown-up time and you know what happens when mommy doesn't' get any alone grown-up time? She looses her mind.

Obviously.

Snacking. Why are you people constantly so hungry? It's like you all have a hollow leg. The constant I'm hungry I'm hungry I'm hungry is enough to drive the most patient of mothers right off the edge of that cliff (yes, that one, right over there). Besides, I'm trying to loose weight, not put it on, so having you around me, snacking like there's no tomorrow is not working out too well. Maybe one of you will grow up to be a successful plastic surgeon and hook your mama up with a little liposuction so I won't have to worry about the numerous muffin tops inhabiting my middle - but until then, lay off the snacking.

One more thing - laundry. Because what kind of rant would this be if it didn't mention laundry at least once? Please don't put clean clothes in the hamper with the dirty clothes. Is this too much to ask? Wearing something for 5 minutes does not make it dirty. Unless, of course, you spill ketchup on said clothing item. No ketchup? Not dirty. I think you're all mature enough to understand that. Shall I repeat myself? No ketchup? Not dirty.

There, I'm glad we've got that straightened out.

The good news is that the kids' godparents are taking them for an entire weekend - an ENTIRE WEEKEND - before summer ends. To celebrate while they're gone I think I will sleep whenever I feel like it, drink whenever I feel like it, and go to the bathroom with the door wide open.

Party.

Animal.

Happy Summer.

The Secret Life of a Minivan

2010-07-20T16:51:00.000-07:00

Everybody makes fun of minivans. Everybody.

For as long as I can remember I've heard the phrase, "No vans, no wagons, no way," fly out of the mouths of fellow mothers just as quickly as "Put that down, you'll hurt yourself," and "Stop hitting your brother." Oh yes, the minivan statement is plentiful and very alive to this day amongst many a parental unit.

But...what is it about minivans?

Is it that they scream PARENT?

Is it that they are boxy?

Is it because they have ten thousand cup holders?

What is the big deal?

I mean, obviously, you're a parent - unless you're trying to pass off that gaggle of children following you around (one attached by a leash even) the local Shop-n-Save as someone elses. Clearly, parenthood is your gig so why all the disdain for the vehicle who's sole purpose in life is to make yours easier?

I don't get it.

Would you rather drive a Corvette?

Is that it?

Lamenting about misspent youth perhaps?

Or do you just want to be "cool?"

Unfortunately, I don't drive a minivan. But I totally would. I see no shame in it. I have no issues with their appearance or configuration - I mean, have you seen how many ways you can re-arrange the seats in a minivan? Don't get me wrong, I love the car I drive and am especially fond of the shelf in the back behind the 3rd row of seats upon which I can load my groceries, but it ain't no minivan.

There aren't enough cup holders to put it into that category.

I suppose there are downfalls to driving a minivan, but who can complain about driving a car you can actually sleep in if you had to? I mean, it seems like a no-brainer. It reminds me of being able to drive around in one of those Volkswagon Eurovans...but without the extra camping stuff or the expandable roof - but have you seen how many skylights some of those mini vans have? It's mesmerizing...

Maybe they aren't so good in the snow?

Well, neither was the Mazda 323 that I drove in college and into the first few years of motherhood, but it never bothered me. Not like I was driving my babies around off road in the snow or anything like that.

So what is it about minivans that turns people off?

We've all seen that Toyota commercial where the mom is trying to act as unmomlike as possible (to impress a couple of cops on motorcycles...what is she thinking?) and then leaves her diaper bag on the top of her...wait for it...minivan. But I still don't get it. Are we that concerned with appearing to be childless that we'll do anything to make it appear so?

Or do we just want to drive a cool car?

I just can't decide what it is, America.

But I do know one thing. I wouldn't turn one down, in fact I get envious whenever I pull up behind one at a stoplight and see how many car seats fit easily in it's passenger spaces, not to mention all the compartments to stow things (TOYS) away in. Even though my babies are past the car seat stage (well, 2 of them are, 1 is still booster-bound), it would be nice to have all that room for everything else (kid shrapnel) that seems to find it's way into my vehicle. And not have to drive a suburban assault vehicle like so many (a'hem) other people do.

I think I'm just in love with minivans because they scream MOTHERHOOD like no other car. And while yes, it's nice to be mistaken for a young, single hottie (like that ever happens) once in awhile, I have no shame admitting that yeah, those are my kids - even when they're running like mad people through the local Target.

Motherhood, it's priceless.

The Power of Pink

2010-07-14T16:37:00.001-07:00

"Mama, can I get pink hair too?" She asked me when she overheard my husband and I discussing the extension I was going to have put in place the night before my mom's surgery.

A nod from behind her told me that he approved and to go ahead and tell her yes. Parental telepathy or psychic powers from being together more than 20 years has served us well in the nonverbal communication department. So I said yes.

"It will help Grammie, right?"

And again, yes sprang forth from my lips and off we went to the salon to do the deed.

Despite her posture, she really is having fun and this doesn't hurt a bit - trust me, I know.

Please disregard all pale calves and feet in this photo. Focus on the cutie grinning in the mirror.

Check out my pink hair, mom.

And mine, too - check it out, mom.

Mom's surgery was the next morning. She was a super trooper, just like the ABBA song. After spending the 4th of July resting, healing, and resting some more she received the news she'd been waiting to hear regarding the lymph nodes and the "lump" that was removed from her breast: No chemotherapy needed, lymph nodes clear for signs of cancer, margins good.

This, this is the best news she could have heard.

And just like that, I got my mama back.

For you, Mama:

Brave

2010-07-12T16:14:00.000-07:00

Every morning I stand in the shower after slathering a big dollop of conditioner on my hair (it's so dry these days I wonder why I even bother - maybe I should invest in some "3-Minute Miracle") and count 2 minutes before rinsing it out. After getting dressed I begrudgingly walk back into our bathroom and begin the process of getting ready for the day, all the while lamenting the fact that I'm a girl and I can't just put some crew comb in my hair or throw on a baseball hat and run out the door looking like a million bucks.

Every single day.

Oh, to be a boy, just for the grooming, would be so lovely. I think.

So it was, with this mindset that I found myself so grateful for this cloudy day because that meant one less grooming exercise (that would be the shaving of the legs) I had to complete. Hallelujah! I can have stubble and nobody will care or notice! Life is good.

Aaaaaah. Time to revel in the stubble - for who knows how many sunny days will follow this gloom and I'll have to approach each one of those sunny days with a Lady Bic and a squirt of bath gel in order to get the job done.

And so that was my mindset, until I read about Amanda (with whom I've been a blogging pal for a very long time). Sweet, sweet, talented, wordsmith, wonderful Amanda.

From her Facebook posts, it was apparent something had happened. Something life changing. Breathtaking. Something serious. With trepidation, I read her blog all the way through each beautifully crafted, painful, tear inducing line until the details unveiled themselves. She posted a picture - her laying on a couch surrounded by love in the form of 3 beautiful little girls who bore witness to it all. Her husband offered comments of love and support all over her page. Love, love is all it is - all any one of us ever need.

Please pay her a visit or send good healing thoughts her way. For, it is so easy to get caught up in the mundane, the small, the things that don't really matter - even after going through something so life changing as I just did with my own mother (who has received a big thumbs up from her doctor and won't be needing chemo and oh, how happy we we were to hear that). It's just so easy to slip back into the routine, the tediousness of life and overlook all the joy and love that abounds, surrounds and is present in each and every moment and each and every breath we all take.

Amanda is one of the bravest voices I know.

And she probably doesn't give a hoot if I shaved my legs or not this morning. Which is one of the reasons I've loved reading her blog for these many years.

Does it really matter if my hair is dry, my legs are sasquatched out and I ran out of my favorite perfume weeks ago? No. My life is full. My babies are healthy and love surrounds me each and every day. My husband just brought me a surprise after working 48 hours at the firestation...a new bike (total salvage job)! With a basket (to carry wine, no?) and 3 wheels...it is more than awesome. What the hell do I have to complain about?

Life, it's all that really matters. Let me not forget that.

Is That a Snake in the Tub, or are You Just Happy to See Me?

2010-07-11T19:30:00.000-07:00

Because it's hot, I'm spent, and life is good, a recycled post from April, 2009. Enjoy.

The kids leave their toys all over the house.

This is a truth known by parents everywhere. No matter what the said stuff is, the kids will inevitably leave it someplace other than said kids own room. Obviously, I'm no stranger to this completely normal act of childhood and if I had a dollar for every time I had stepped on a Lego or a Polly Pocket accessory...

Well, I'd be a very wealthy woman.

So when I do find the kids toys (kid shrapnel as my friends and I like to call it) in strange places it really should not surprise me one bit. Yet, sometimes it does.

I've mentioned before that there are a few things my husband cannot stand. Electrasol dishwashing tablets and snakes top that list. I cannot imagine the damnation that would occur if he were faced with a snake in a box full of Electrasol tablets...the words "epic" and "devastation" come to mind.

It wouldn't be pretty.

Knowing these truths, that kids leave things laying around willy nilly and that my husband is acutely bothered by snakes and Electrasol tablets, you'd think that I would have seen the situation unfolding the minute someone brought home a "grow snake" from the dollar store, one of those weird and completely bizarre "toys" (if you could call it that) that gets bigger when exposed to water.

Oh, when will I ever learn?

Of course (of course!), Katie wanted to bring that snake into the shower with her. You know, to make it grow even more! She was so excited, and I'm a sucker for a 5 year old who is excited over something other than Dora's new makeover, so I obliged.

"Sure you can bring that snake in the shower with you," I said, "just make sure you take it out when you're all done."

Note to self: follow up on whether or not a 5 year old actually heard you say "take it out when you're all done" is somewhat mandatory.

Did I mention that Katie showers in our master bath?

And she forgot her "grow snake" in there?

And I forgot to ask her to take it out and also forgot to remove it from the bottom of the bathtub myself, where it lay in all it's 3 foot long glory looking very much like a real snake if one did not look too closely?

Guess who had the next shower?

Baking Baking Bo Baking

2010-07-07T15:40:00.000-07:00

Someone I know called me a "closet food blogger" and I blushed from ear to ear. For this is the same someone I am so petrified to have over to dinner for fear that my food won't be delicious enough or taste good enough...kind of like when Julie Powell had (or thought she was going to have) that other French lady (I have a horrible recall of names) over to dinner and worried herself into a frenzy. Yes, like that.

Well anyway, I'll never be a food blogger - I just am not that good. But I do like to share what works so indulge me if you will for yet another recipe from this definitely, positively, 100% not food blogger - just another mother trying to get it right in the mothering/feeding/parenting/existing and trying not to send my children off to boot camp before summer ends, just like you.

This yummy yummy yummy recipe has a story behind it. You see, we've been ordering it's restaurant version from our favorite little local Italian joint for-evah. And we really really really love it. A lot. But it is $25 per crostata and when you need 2, well, that can get a little ridiculous in the wallet department so I was really excited to see if I could bake one on my own that was anywhere near as good as Luca's.

Guess what?

I did.

And know what else?

It was.

Raspberry Crostata

2 cups flour

1/2 cup sugar

1/2 cup butter @ room temp

pinch of salt

1/4 tsp baking soda

1/2 tsp almond extract

1 1/2 cups raspberry jam

Combine everything but the jam in a large bowl - some people like to use a food processor or mixer, pick your poison - just do not overmix. Once the dough is uniform and looking like it's cousin Mr. Piecrust (but thicker and sweeter), wrap in plastic wrap and refrigerate for about an hour until it's nice and firm.

After refrigerating, press about 2/3 of dough into bottom of greased tart pan or 9-inch pie plate, making sure it goes up the sides to form an edge. Reserve the remainder of the dough. Spread the jam all over the unbaked crust as if you're spreading sauce out for a pizza - it's the same idea.

Then, roll out the rest of the dough into strips and make a free form lattice, or ropes or whatever shapes you like on top of the raspberry jam.

Place crostata in a preheated 350 degree oven and bake for about 20-25 minutes. My oven is finicky, and likes to burn things I put in it, so I watch mine carefully after the first 20 minutes to make sure it doesn't get too brown. You'll want the color to be just barely golden to yield the most delicate flavor.

Cool and dust with powdered sugar and voila! Now you're practically an Italian Pastry Chef, but better - because I don't think Italian Pastry Chefs wrangle kids and dogs, laundry, summertime outings, family drama, dirty kitchen floors, grocery shopping, bill paying and everything else that mothers and fathers do in a day while at the same time baking up something as tasty as this! Go forth! Rock the crostata.

Serves 10 - 12, generously. Oh! Don't mind if I do.

2 Lines Not 1

2010-07-06T10:50:00.000-07:00

In our hall closet lies a basket of hardly-ever-worn shoes, among other things such as board games, brooms, crutches, high school annuals and a video camera that stopped working before our third child was born. You know, one of those kind of closets. We all have them, don't try to pretend you don't. They may be in the form of a drawer or a purposefully placed Rubbermaid tote under your bed, in your garage or attic, but these places do exist. . . the place where memories and other things you have no idea what to do with go to die. Or at least just hang out for a while.

So in this basket resides one lone wine-colored Birkenstock. Just one. Although I attended college in the hotbed of Port Angeles (which hadn't even heard a whisper of Stephenie Meyer when I went there in the early 1990's) and the booming metropolis (I kid) of Ellensburg, I never was a real Birky-type girl. I didn't wear patchouli and weave my own clothing. I didn't only listen to vinyl and drink black coffee. Sure, those things were ok...in moderation. But it wasn't a lifestyle for me. I only wore the Birks because I thought they were cute and they were comfortable. And in Ellensburg, where I purchased them, anything goes when it comes to fashion trends so it's not as if I was breaking any sort of urban fashion code.

In other words, cowboys don't really care what you have on your feet as long as you aren't in a pen with a bunch of cattle.

Every year or so when I clean out this closet I look at that lone wine-colored Birkenstock and leave it be. All by itself. At the bottom of the wicker basket that holds winter boots and vacuum attachments (I told you it was a diverse closet).

I ask myself, "Do I need this shoe?" And, "Do I want this shoe?" These are, indeed, the cardinal questions one asks oneself while purging unnecessary items, no? And then I move on, leaving the shoe there to gather even more dust. For, I don't need this shoe - it doesn't even have a mate. But I want this shoe.

While trying to finish up my Bachelor's Degree, I worked at a deli (fine, let's just call it what it was, a gas station...that made sandwiches) in Ellensburg owned by a middle-aged Italian who went to college with my mother. Through a connection with another old friend of hers, I was handed this prestigious job when I needed it most - when I was put on academic probation for the first time (yes, I said first) and needed to start paying all of my own bills.

My job consisted of making sandwiches, veggie trays, stocking the self-serve area (this is where I learned all about machine-made frozen yogurt), cleaning bathrooms, cashiering and maintaining the flowers outside. My job did not have anything to do with the gas pumps. This was Ellensburg, in the mid 90's and girls didn't (and probably still don't) do that kind of work.

So there I worked, for just over 2 years as I struggled to finish college.

I saw celebrities pass through on their way to concerts at The Gorge (George Clinton came in and used our bathroom), friends travelling across the state, and family members I never knew I had would stop in to say "hi" to someone they "knew" who worked at the first deli (gas station) off I-90 smack dab in the middle of Washington State. For all it's unglamorousness, working there was a lot of fun and I was grateful for the employment because obviously with my stellar GPA (we won't even go there), I was going nowhere faster than you can say "giddyup." And people said that a lot in Ellensburg.

I bought my first pregnancy test at the drugstore down the street and slipped it into my backpack on my way to work. All day, I thought about taking it - if only to make my suspicion go away, but it never did. Finally, I'd had enough. The customers had slowed, as it was a weeknight, after Memorial Day Weekend, and not much traffic was known to come through on nights like that. My co-worker was busy watching Beavis and Butthead on the tiny countertop TV meant to keep us from goofing off too much on slow nights and I saw my opportunity.

It can't be.

Whitney bought me another test from the drugstore and came to see me at work. Because surely this one was faulty. I couldn't look - I held out the stick from the bottom of the bathroom stall and had her confirm what I knew it said - 2 lines, not 1 - you're pregnant!

I found out I was pregnant in a gas station (DELI!) bathroom in Ellensburg wearing wine-colored Birkenstocks.

My stomach churned. Which was a feeling I was becoming used to.

The next few months were a blur. Parents were told. A venue was secured. Deposits were made. Invitations were ordered. My life changed instantly. Brett and I were already engaged, planning on a spring wedding...now we were planning a fall wedding and a spring baby. Life would never be the same.

He sent me flowers before our wedding. A gorgeous bouquet like you see in the movies sent to work for me to enjoy. The card said, "To Mrs. Blankenship."

That was going to be me.

When my shift was over, I picked up the heavy vase of beautiful flowers and started walking out to my car - parked so far away it seemed like it took forever to get there - my wine-colored Birkenstocks slapping the hot, black pavement below my feet. I lifted the vase to set it on the roof so I could unlock my car and that's when it hit me.

The wave.

Of nausea.

That was more than just a passing feeling and ended up manifesting itself right on top of my wine-colored Birkenstocks in the middle of a gas station (DELI!) parking lot in Ellensburg.

Seriously?

Seriously?

No, seriously?

So this is what it had come to? Me, pregnant, standing in a hot parking lot, in the middle of summer, a humongous vase of flowers on top of my car, back pack hanging off my shoulder and a Birkenstock full of vomit?

Seriously?

I can smile as I tell this story now, 14 years, 3 kids, 1 dog, 1 husband and 2 houses later. Parenthood has turned out to be the best job I've ever had - even if it did start out in a hot parking lot of a gas station (yes, a gas station) in the middle of nowhere.

You just never know...and I guess that's why I kind of want to keep that lone wine-colored Birkenstock in the bottom of the wicker basket in the hall closet.

Because I need it.

An Extension

2010-06-30T08:50:00.001-07:00

The big day will be here tomorrow - bright and early.

I have no idea how it will all play out, how many cars we'll be bringing, how much coffee we'll be drinking, how long we'll be waiting to hear her voice again.

The past few weeks have been hard. I'm not going to lie. It's hard waiting, mostly. She's doing remarkable though, fueled by the love and support of everyone around her. She's holding her chin up.

It's funny (not ha ha funny, more ironic funny) that she was diagnosed in such close proximity to the Race for the Cure - for I don't know if I'd be doing so well were it not for experiencing that event. I'm still riding on the high that day brought. I've never been a part of a "cause" in such a personal capacity. Yes, I've supported a ton of causes, but none for my own mom. Not like that.

Being surrounded in a sea of pink and tears and smiles was just the antidote to the fear and worry that I was experiencing. Seeing survivors from 1 - 45 years was beyond inspiring...especially knowing that next year, my own mom can walk with them - wearing her bright pink survivor shirt like a badge, a declaration, an announcement to the world that "I beat cancer, cancer didn't beat me."

I can't wait for that day.

Walking along with our team, the team we assembled in 2 short weeks, I felt supported. I felt loved. And I felt understood. I tried to walk and talk with everyone - tried to let them know how important it was to me that they chose to be here with us, on this rainy Seattle Sunday morning when I'm sure the newspaper and a hot cup of joe would have been tons more appealing, but here they were - walking for my mom.

Cousin Jen, Lotte and Colleen

It was overwhelming.

I walked with people I've known since birth. People I've known since childhood. People I've known since high school and people I've only known for 10 years. I walked with new friends and friends I'd just hardly met. I walked with my husband. And there we were, walking walking walking. Some knew how I felt. Some had been there. Solidarity never felt so good.

Jennette, Kim and Me

I will never be able to thank them enough, for giving me the strength that I could pass along to my mom, as she fights. Thank you Team Jane's Jugs.

I hugged her tight the other night, standing in the kitchen. Even though I'm just about a half inch taller than her now (and here you thought you'd always be taller than me, mom), I still feel like she's taller...

"I could stay like this forever," she said.

"Me too mom."

That's the funny thing about moms. Even when you're 37, even when you're the one supposed to be comforting her, even then - she takes care of you.

Mom and Me, 1973

Tonight I'm getting my hair done. Not really "done" done, just fiddled with a bit. I'm getting a bright pink hair extension placed atop my head.

(Need to remove this from "Things I'd never do at age 37" list immediately)

Turns out, they actually make breast cancer awareness pink hair extensions. And my sister-in-law's cousin just so happens to be one of the few hair designers who puts them in people's hair. And she's local!

How could I not?

I mean, seriously, how could I not?

So, come tomorrow morning at the surgical center, I'll not only be rocking all the love, support and everything else under the sun for my momma. I'll also be rocking some pink hair, holding her hand, and telling her to fight like a girl.

Because defeat isn't in our vocabulary.

Go Mom.

Why I Live Here

2010-06-26T08:35:00.000-07:00

Rounding the bend in the pavement along Old Hartford Road, where it meanders precariously close to the creek, I could suddenly hear music. Thinking to myself that it was just somebody's stereo turned up loud, I walked on - dog pulling on the leash dangling from my fingers - ready to break loose at the first scent of something interesting.

The kids were yards ahead on their bikes, pausing to explore the tall grasses in the field and perch on the bank of the creek to see if they could spot any fish or signs of beaver. The air was cooling down from one of the first nice days we've had and like a scene from a sappy movie, the birds were busy chirping and fluttering about in the air above.

I breathed deep, took in a few lungs of fresh, clean evening air and was grateful for this place, the place I grew up in. The music kept getting louder...the notes of southern rock a la a Lynard Skynard cover band making the distance between me and wherever it was coming from.

We bought our first house 2 blocks from the elementary school I attended as a child and 3 blocks from the epicenter of our little downtown lakeside community, intentionally. When we outgrew our first home, we bought our 2nd home as close as we could to the first, intentionally. We live exactly 2 miles from my parents and my grandmother lives in the retirement community just up the street. All of the kids schools are within walking distance.

It became clear to me, as we neared the fire station - the point in our walk where the road splits and we either head home or keep going straight into downtown - that the music wasn't coming from a stereo. It was live music, echoing from the lakefront park.

All week, we'd been warned that there would be regatta (major rowing competition) activities snarling up or normally peaceful and laid back way of life. Good thing we don't even have a stoplight downtown because the temporary road closure was enough to get some local residents panties in a bunch, I can't imagine if it had been affecting an actual working traffic signal. So we drove the detour route, behind the old post office and back around to the boys and girls club, if we had to go that way. Some of us chose to forgo the detour all together and just drive around the lake the opposite direction to get our errands done...that would be me.

I love that we have these events in our town. We've hosted triathlons, dualthlons, car shows, rowing regattas and more. We are a lakeside city, perched under beautiful mountains and just far enough from the hustle and bustle to make you think you're really out in the boondocks, except you're not.

"Can we go listen to the music?" One of the children asked.

Silly kid, why even ask? I thought to myself. This is why we live here. This is why my husband (who is also a native to these parts - in fact, we've been crossing paths since our tricycle days) and I chose to raise our family here. This is why we came back. To live near the water, to hear the eagles sing every single day, to be away from the traffic and pollution and business of the larger cities.

We took the road straight ahead, following the music. The kids parked their bikes and the boys ran down to the dock while Katie, Brett, the dogs and I got comfortable atop the hill that slopes down to the waters edge, where a band was playing on the lakefront stage. The park was littered with portable tents from rowing clubs all over the place - their skulls parked in the street. A sparse beer garden was hosting a few athletes, but most had likely retired for the night, getting a good sleep before they pushed their bodies to the limit the next day in the waters of our lake.

Buoys dotted the surface of the water for as far as the eye could see and a large platform marked the end of the course - and the place where the announcer would conduct the race happenings in the morning. But right now it was all quiet...except for the band, who was finishing their last set with a jovial rendition of Sweet Home Alabama as the sky turned crimson behind them.

This is why we live here.

Home sweet home.

Take Another Little Piece of My Heart

2010-06-24T12:48:00.001-07:00

When they were little, it was nothing but Buzz, Buzz and more Buzz in our house. Each boy had their own talking Buzz Lightyear, they were both Buzz for Halloween, and they ran around the house shouting "Not today Zurg" at every inanimate (and animate, like the cat) object they could find.

There were Buzz Lightyear bed sheets.

Buzz Lightyear movies.

Buzz Lightyear books.

Buzz Lightyear went to bed with the boys and woke with them each and every morning when they were little. When their grandmother took them to see Disney on Ice, they came home with real Buzz Lightyear arms that blasted real bad guys. Really.

Everything jumpable was jumped while screaming the phrase "To Infinity and Beyond!"

We ate, drank, read, slept, jumped, ran, shouted and hollered Buzz Lightyear from sun up to sun down. The Buzz obsession lasted for so many years that I was beyond delighted when the day came that the Buzz Lightyears were forgotten under the bunk bead and the wings were shoved into the back of a closet. The blaster arm only went off in the middle of the night when the cat accidentally (or maybe purposefully, you never know with cats - hence, the reason we no longer have one) stepped on it.

Gone was the rough and tumble space invading days of Buzz Lightyear and in it's place was not a quieter activity - remember, they are boys - but simply another fantastic and loud (battery operated Nerf guns people) play thing.

Although I celebrated the rite of passage that the abandonment of Buzz Lightyear brought, I did, from time to time, kind of miss those crazy days of toddler and very young boyhood when my boys would be content to sit on the kitchen floor, with nothing but their matching Lightyear toys and my Tupperware cupboard to keep them company.

Those were the days.

Before girls and football and zip lining through the backyard...

So I was a little surprised when they asked if we could go see Toy Story 3 after school let out for the summer.

I hadn't paid much attention to what others were saying about the movie and maybe I should have because towards the end, it really would have been helpful to know that I should have snuck a case of Kleenex into the dark movie theater.

It was bad enough that "Andy," who owned all the toys (including Buzz Lightyear) for the entirety of my kid's childhood, was heading off to college (I am sure that fact in and of itself is responsible for at least half a dozen of those crazy mutant silver hairs that I spotted in the mirror this morning - and quickly discarded of with my tweezers) but his toys had to endure almost being melted!

I was flanked by my middle-school and junior high-aged children, curious as to why their mother kept sniffling and wiping her eyes with the scratchy paper napkin from the concession stand.

"Are you crying mom?" Wyatt asked.

"Yes."

I was never so grateful to have a nerdy pair of 3D glasses on in my life.

The movie ended, the kids loved it, we reminisced about they days of Buzz for the rest of the night.

While the credits rolled, I sat listening to them tell their younger sister how they used to play Buzz Lightyear. I decided that I could do one of two things. I could be sad, lamenting all the time about their lost innocence and little boyhood. Or, I could be happy, reflecting on the fact that they've grown into 2 really incredibly super kids, each so different than the other but still, super in their own respect.

McRae is my adventure kid, who fears nothing. His drive and determination towards projects constantly keep me on my toes and even though I'd rather not say ten billion times a day "No, you can't use the axe to chop wood when Dad's not home," I'm glad he at least wants to do things like chop wood, build things, make tee pees and forts in the backyard. He can fix anything that anyone brings to him broken. He is smarter than a whip. He can program my cell phone and understands how things work. Most of the time, I can't believe he's mine.

Wyatt is the moral police of the family. He has a strong sense of what is right and what is wrong and there is no black and white with him. He's creative beyond words and can draw anything he wants. He has a natural ability to pluck at the guitar and has had rhythm since day one when he'd dance around in his diaper in the living room. He is kind, caring and sensitive and all of his peers look up to him. He has wanted to be a police officer since before he could talk and I sense that someday, that, or something like it, will be the perfect profession for him. His empathy and kindness impress me every second of every day and like his brother, I can't believe he's mine.

I sat there, after watching Andy go off to college and his old toys embark on another life and I grabbed each boys hand - eager to hold onto just a little slice of their boyhood in these days before having your mom grab your hand in a dark movie theater isn't a weird thing, and I smiled, despite the tears behind my 3D glasses.

For these kids are pretty spectacular. And I'm lucky I get to be their mom.

So during the coming dog days of summer, when I know they'll be at each other's throats, I'll try to remember the days they sat and played with their Buzz Lightyears...

To Infinity, and Beyond!

And even though a small part of me may be wishing they'd have stayed little forever, a bigger part of me is proud of the young men they have become.

Black Flies and Fatherhood

2010-06-20T10:36:00.000-07:00

Long before we had children, I knew he'd be a good dad.

Maybe it was the way he always took care of me, packing my favorite trail mix along on our long hikes and making sure I had everything I could need.

Maybe it was because he knew how to fix my car.

Maybe it was because he always put me first.

Maybe it was because I felt safe with him

My now husband then boyfriend will tell you a story, one that happened long, long ago (perhaps in 1989 - so yes, practically the Stone Ages) where I tested his patience - not for the first time, but one of the more memorable times.

We were hiking (this was back in the day before we had children with busier social obligations than ourselves) a local mountain (not a Mt. Everest type elevation, mind you - more of a "day hike" elevation) towards the end of July. Now. There is one thing I dislike about summer hiking: bugs. The funny thing about bugs and our northwest climate is that you never know when they are going to be bad. Take now, for instance. We've had a cold, wet, wet, wet spring and ordinarily by the end of June, we'd be covered in mosquito bites if we ventured outside past sundown. But this year, different story. Which makes me wonder and worry because I fear we're in for it sooner than later.

But anyway...

Back to 1989.

I was the only girl in our little expedition. No problemo! I'm a trooper, I can keep up. I was even outpacing some of the guys in our group when we got above the tree line. Everything was going swimmingly until I got the first bite.

Mind you, we're not talking about mosquitos here so I'm not sure why I even rambled on about them earlier - we're talking black flies. Biting black flies. I don't know if it was just me, or the fact that I liberally applied baby powder scented Secret to my underarms before leaving that morning (I do have standards of personal hygiene after all, wilderness or no wilderness), but I was getting extra special treatment from every biting black fly within a mile.

They were in my eyes.

They were in my ears.

They were crawling on my neck and underneath my socks.

They were even in my bra.

If you haven't had biting black flies in your bra, you simply have not lived.

Like I mentioned, I'm a trooper. Rain? No problem. Cold? No problem. Blisters? No problem. Biting black flies? Major dilemma.

I tried for as long as I could to tough it out. I willed for a net to fall from the sky that would shield my entire body from the nuisance flies but nothing happened. I poured every drop of bug repellent on every inch of exposed skin. I honestly gave it my best effort.

Until I didn't.

And I ran in the other direction (that would be DOWN the hill) flailing my arms and screaming like a hysterical...girl.

I didn't want to do this. I didn't want to freak out. I wanted to be tough like the boys I was hiking with, who obviously didn't smear half a stick of baby powder scented Secret under their arms and hence, weren't being bitten to death by these black flies.

What did my now husband then boyfriend do? He ran after me and wrapped his arms around me.

"Shhhhhhhh." He said calmly in my ear.

Between spurts of not being able to catch my breath and the snot running out of my nose from all of the crying, I'm sure I looked awesome - just like my idol Molly Ringwald.

He told the rest of our group we'd meet them at the trail head, took my hand, and led me away from the black flies. The lower we climbed, the less flies there were until finally we were in the clear. Or at least I was, with my definitely not smelling like body odor armpits. We spent the rest of the day hiking around the lower trails, picking dead black flies out of my socks, and picnicking until the rest of our group returned.

Nobody teased me. Nobody gave me a hard time. Sure, this group of guys were like family to me, and I was sure I would be in for a round of teasing or at least be forced to do a keg stand later...but none of that happened.

I can't remember the names of everyone we were with that day. I can't remember how much time passed until they got back. I can't remember what we ate or what songs we listened to on the radio. It's safe to assume that we were drinking Schmidt beer because we were young, broke, desperate and didn't know any better. But I do remember that feeling of safety that my now husband then boyfriend provided.

I remember his voice.

I remember his strength.

I remember how he made me laugh, even when I was having a panic attack.

And I think it was probably then, in the woods back in 1989, that I knew he'd be a pretty darn good dad, even though he didn't know it yet.

Happy Father's Day to my now husband then boyfriend. I'm such a lucky gal.

So Maybe It's Not the Rain

2010-06-17T08:40:00.000-07:00

"When I'm stuck with the day that's gray and lonely, I just stick out my chin and grin and say..."

You know how the rest goes.

Today I woke up to more rain!

I promised myself that I wouldn't complain about it but there seems to be a pain shooting down the front of my right knee. Therefore, complaining about the weather is almost mandatory as obviously I've reached the age where my body is reacting to the weather. Obviously! What other reason is there for this unexplained, sudden pain?

This morning my oldest son wore a sombrero to school. His friends sister (read: driving teenager, should I be worried?) offered to bring the boys to school, their 2nd to last day of 7th grade, with a few conditions. 1 - he had to wear a sombrero. 2 - he had to run around her car 3 times before being permitted to enter.

3 - I am officially old. Hence, the achy knee.

How is it that I have a child old enough to engage in these kind of silly teen-aged antics? How?

The 5th grader is graduating (GRADUATING) from elementary school this morning. Next year he'll be in middle school.

I don't even know why I bothered with mascara today.

Last night the little one, the one who I was just last week lamenting about her growing up, was in a school play. Technically, it was a kindergarten play, but it was at school, so. I was prepared to barely hear her, given her past performances in front of large groups of people. But she rocked it. She bellied up to the microphone even, at the end of the Goldilocks and the Three Bears performance, and thanked the audience for coming to her class play.

I died.

I know I spend way too much time lamenting about the fact that I cannot, despite all my efforts, freeze time. But how can I not? When I wander into each of their rooms at night and kiss their little, medium-sized, and large foreheads I sill am in awe that they are my children. How can I not be fascinated by every move they make?

Every step you take, I'll be watching you...

Sigh.

Time will pass, children will become adults and I'll grow more wrinkles than a California raisin - these things are inevitable. But I don't think I'll ever grow weary of being impressed with my kids. I'll cry through each rite of passage, each graduation and each school play - and there is no shame in that. No shame at all.

Only love.

Now excuse me, I have a graduation ceremony to get to.