My Day Spa, or more appropriately titled, I Have Strep

Today I went to the doctor to get a throat culture (Yes, people, the Belknap’s have strep), and I was a magazine whore in the waiting room. I’m guessing this is what happens when you confine a woman in a room without her children (and her laptop), forcing her to sit quietly by herself for nearly 20 minutes.

First I raided the wall rack, snagging a Good Housekeeping, a Country Cottage, and a Redbook with Kelly Ripa on the cover. I binged, flipping through pages furiously, trying to get as much mindless magazine-ing in as possible. The other lady in the waiting room looked up from her Newsweek with raised eyebrows and then back down as if embarrassed for me. I read magazines I never would pay for—People’s issue naming the sexiest men alive, and then the one about that guy they think killed two of his four wives.

When the nurse called me in I scowled at her. I would have waited for an hour. or two. I’m probably the only person who views a trip to the doctor for a throat culture akin to a relaxing spa getaway. Unfortunately, my appointment was short-lived. The nurse said my uvula and tonsils were extremely swollen and inflamed. (Uvula. So that’s what that’s called… I had been calling it a goiter, or to mix it up – the do-hickie at the back of my throat). Within 15 minutes I was diagnosed, prescribed, and sent on my merry way. Viola.

Two doses of amoxicillin for ten days and I won’t be reading another magazine until my next checkup. Unfortunately, that’s an agonizing 6 months from now.

Bye Bye Bling...

I can’t afford therapy so I’m writing in my journal, religiously. It sits on my bedside table and sometimes I stay up until one in the morning, writing down my feelings and reflections, trying to figure stuff out and make myself accountable for changes I’m trying to make.

Recently I’ve been made acutely aware of how much I worry about what other people think. Does anyone else struggle with this? When I’m at church, with my family, talking with my ex, and yes, even publishing posts to this here blog. It’s been something I’ve struggled with since high school. Before that I remember being a carefree child who could care less what anyone thought. What changed that?

Junior high. At least that’s when I realized that others’ judgments could impact me in a very public way. There was this popular pack of boys who would roam the halls before school, circling the 8th grade wing and bulldozing anyone in their path. I remember having my locker closed on me, being goosed while trying to drink from the fountain and watching a friend get shoved out of someone’s way. I went from being a strong girl to feeling powerless and very vulnerable. That carefree child retreated and I began spending time in the library, waiting there with a group of friends until the bell rang.

But that was so many years ago and I’m an adult now. Stick and stones, right? Not only that, but I’m a mother and I don’t want to model this perception to my children (I know, if this is how I perceive the world I already have modeled this perception). So I’m trying to move beyond this, making the best choices I can regardless of, irrespective of what others might think.

I’ve been lucky as I’ve moved through this divorce. There have been countless individuals who have stepped forward to offer their love and support, including so many of you in the blogging community. And for that I’m extremely grateful. But every now and then I encounter a mean-spirited judgment that sends me reeling. And I feel that urge to justify my choices, explain my situation, and divulge information that is private and personal. But I’m trying to remember that my only concern is how one entity regards my choices. When I acknowledge that I’m baffled that some are presumptuous enough to think they can pass judgment on me and mine, or anyone else for that matter (I’m also baffled that I’ve been presumptuous enough to pass thoughtless judgments on others as well).

So I’m trying not to worry about what anyone else may think about my life. I’m also trying to remember how important it is to refrain from judging others, to reach out to those who need understanding and generosity of spirit. Really, we’re all trying to learn here and I believe we each have experiences tailored to our needs. Those of you who share your very personal experiences on your blogs enrich my life and demonstrate the resilience of the human spirit and how we’re all just trying to do the best we can.

I hope I don’t offend any of you by removing all the bling from my blog. I have been giddy over each and every award but I’ve gotten to the point where I worry too much about how “popular” I am here in cyberspace and that’s just a silly. So I’m going to write from my heart and not worry about the numbers, awards or anything else. I’m just going to enjoy my blog and the great community it’s nestled in.

Thanks for reading!

The Longest Finger of All

At church on Sunday, after Leah had tired of drawing in her notebook, she sat back in our pew and began fiddling with her hands. Minutes later she lifted her fist high in the air, her middle finger erect. I cupped my hand over hers and whispered, “Leah, don’t do that.”

“Why, Mom?” she asked.

“Because it’s not nice.”

“But, Mom,” she said. “It’s my longest finger.”

How could I reason with that?

“Yes, Sweetie. It sure is,” I said. “Just keep it to yourself.”

So for the rest of sacrament meeting she admired her middle finger, the longest of all, from the safety of her little lap.

And thus it begins...

A sign Kaleb penned himself and hung on his bedroom door just this week.

Dating-Service Guy

Okay, so I’m sitting here in the library, waiting for a desk with an internet hookup and there’s this guy browsing some electronic dating service. Can I just say, ew? Now I don’t mean to be nosey (okay, so I do) but he must have set his search specifications to “busty” because he’s enlarging all these pictures of very buxom woman with come-hither looks (it’s certainly no eHarmony). And he’s sat himself right in the middle of one long desk with two internet hookups. Now I come to the library to freelance – if I stay home where my ex mother-in-law is watching my children I don’t get anything done. So I come here to focus for 4 quiet hours a day and work at a desk with a free internet connection. I know, it’s a public place where everyone’s welcome to use these services, but, pah-lease! Try to get lucky somewhere else, mister.

Sheesh. That was a grumpy post. It's now one hour following this aforementioned "encounter" with Dating-Service Guy, and I've gotten my own desk with my own internet connection. I'm feeling much better now.

Black Friday

I have a riddle for you.

Where do you find a bunch of crazy people crowded together before daylight without their straight jackets on?

Answer: Black Friday, otherwise known as the Day after Thanksgiving Day sales. And I say that with love, people, because I’ve been a loyal attendee for years.

When I lived in Utah my ex and I were great Black Friday strategists; we would pour over the ads and make lists of where to go and at what time. We would wake up at 4 and wouldn’t get home until after 10 (for you sane people, that’s in the a.m.). And while I haven’t had much experience shopping in Idaho Falls, Black Friday in Utah was more than a day, it was an Olympic event.

I made my sister, a Black Friday virgin, come with me one year. She was amazed to see retailers passing out refreshments to 5am shoppers on their way into stores. But on Black Friday those shoppers are more like marathoners taking the paper cups of orange juice and hot chocolate to pour over their heads as they start the grand competition called Christmas Sale Shopping.

We quickly learned that the shopping cart was a great handicap; the best Black Friday shoppers go armed with a billfold and their own two hands, ready to carry everything from a 32” plasma TV to stacks of Spiderman action figures. And besides, you could get stuck in an aisle for hours trying to maneuver your cart around crazed shoppers.

The really serious shoppers tag-team shop, with walkie talkies in hand as they work through their lists, elbowing old ladies and children who may stumble into their way.

This year, however, my ex and I (in disagreement on just about everything but shopping) decided to sleep in and go a little later this year. What we discovered was that you don’t avoid the crazies that way. While you do avoid the strategists, the Type-A shoppers with lists and hand signals and shopping paraphernalia, you don’t avoid the lazy crazies, who, like us, decided to roll out of bed at, heaven forbid, seven in the morning only to discover that the $20 acoustic guitars and $80 digital cameras were, alas, all gone.

But even thus impaired, we still managed to spend over $100 before noon on Black Friday, standing in shorter lines and fighting smaller crowds. You pick your battles, I guess, even on the fierce field of Christmas shopping.

But maybe the true winner in all of this is my mother who called me the other day to say, “Watch for Zack’s Christmas present. I bought it on QVC and had it shipped to you.” And, following a lengthy conversation on Christmas shopping, added, “I just may avoid the stores all together and get all your presents on QVC this year…”

What I Know for Sure

(I know, I stole it from Oprah, but the woman’s too busy getting pedicures with hundred dollar bills rolled between her toes to sue lil ole me – so I’m gonna run with it. Love ya, Oprah. And should you ever want to run a show about poor bloggers trying to become multi-millionaires on nothing but poopy posts, I’m here for you.)

While at BYU-Hawaii a kazillion years ago I attended a devotional that changed my life (unfortunately, the same portion of my brain that remembers the devotional can’t remember the person who delivered it. Sorry.). The speaker said, “Just because it feels good doesn’t mean it’s right, and just because it’s right doesn’t mean it feels good.” I’m certain he used an example of making out in the back seat of a car. Feels good, not so right. You get the gist.

At the time I was engaged to a great guy, one who treated me very well. I loved him and was caught up in everything that was Wedding (there was a $200 deposit on the dress and a luau with a dozen pigs in the works). And then I went to that stinkin’ devotional.

For weeks I hadn’t felt quite right about our engagement. I may have loved him, but there was something about our plans that didn’t sit well with me. Every night I would pray for the anxiety to disappear, but that only seemed to worsen it. So when I heard those words at that devotional given by Anonymous, I knew I had to break things off.

Not only did I break off the engagement (I’ll spare you the heart-wrenching details), but I decided to serve a mission for my church, proving the following algorithm to be completely true for me:

Engagement/Love/Marriage/General Swooning: felt good, wasn’t “right.”

Serving a mission in Japan for 18 months: didn’t always feel so good, was "right.”

While that was the hardest thing I’d ever done up to that point in my life, I still know I made the right choice. And acting on what I knew to be right, regardless of how difficult it was, was a defining moment for me. I became a stronger person because of it (a stronger person who no longer speaks Japanese, so don’t ask).

So here I am, years after the fact, dragging through the days and reminding myself that while divorce may be the “right” thing for me now, it sure as hell doesn’t feel good.

Thankfully I believe there's always a time when things will feel both good and right.

At least that's what I'm telling myself today...

A First Date

I’m going to take a break from my melancholy self and write an uplifting post. I’m determined to think my way to a happier place so I’m going to tell you about my date. Yes, I’m newly single and tonight I went on my very first post separation date. With whom, you ask? My son. I know—you feel a little ripped off. You were expecting a juicier story – the likes of which I don’t expect to experience in the immediate future. But believe me, people, if I ever have a juicy story, you’ll be the first to know (because I’m shameless that way).

Anyway, my date with my son was fabulous. He was the perfect gentleman, and while I had to pay my own way (and his), he was a good conversationalist, well-mannered, complimentary, and asked if we could go out again. Soon. Now how often does all that happen on a first date?

I guess it’s a misnomer to call it a first date. We’ve gone out before. In fact, I’ve gone out on dates with Leah and Zack too. And I’ve got to say that while I didn’t come up with the idea myself, it’s been good for us nonetheless (I won’t lie – I’ve Googled all current parenting tactics).

We spent three hours together, just me and him, without a chore chart, my nagging about the chore chart, his homework, my nagging about his homework, and the wonderful dynamics of sibling rivalry. It was Kaleb and Mom stripped down to the basics. I asked about school, friends, teachers, and yes, I took his pulse on the divorce.

“So,” he asked. “Does that mean you’re going to marry someone else?”

Whoa, let’s not beat around the bush. But I was grateful for the candor, the honesty that comes, full-force, from a child. “Sweetie,” I said. “That’s not going to happen for a long time. But if it ever does, I’ll tell you.”

“Will you have more babies?”

Sheesh, questions I hadn’t even been brave enough to ask myself. “I don’t know. Do you want more brothers and sisters?”

“I’d like an older brother to play with,” he said, and then, “Are we going to be late for the movie?”

The conversation was over and I had only been in the hotspot for, say, three minutes. Not bad.

And just so this post has a little juice—while watching the Bee Movie (not a fan), I saw a very handsome man sitting just five seats down from us. I know. I got nothin'. But I can share a fun picture of an unattainable man I have been known to lust after (Thanks, Rachel, from Three Day Blog).

Goodnight, everyone!

Without My Children

I both relish and despise the weekends my ex has the kids. On the one hand it’s exhilarating to have hours to myself—to freelance, to watch movies, to take baths. I can go shopping, without a cart, and meander the store looking at things—me-things. Body wash, jewelry, handbags, magazines. And then it gets late and I start to ache, wondering what my children are doing, if they’re having fun, and how much of their lives I’ve just missed.

Kaleb has another loose tooth—will that go under a pillow at our house or his Dad’s? What profound questions will Leah ask that I won’t be there to answer? And what of Zack and his potty training—will he finally get it when he’s not with me? They are my children, flesh of my flesh, and I’m sharing them like luxury vehicles, piecing out moments of their lives like poker chips. And I wonder how they feel about this, passed between my ex and I without thought or question of what they want, of how they would like to spend their time.

If you asked them they would probably tell you that all they want is for their parents to move back together, to share a home so they don’t have to be ported back and forth between us. Because, really, who’s it for, them or us? Are we divvying out their lives because it’s the best for all involved?

So on this Saturday night, when darkness makes every burden a little heavier, I’m deciding that it’s childhood compromised, a sad tug of war between two adults greedy for their children.

And to be completely honest, I’m feeling especially greedy right now…

You're Fired!

About three weeks ago I was unceremoniously fired from a job I’ve held for a little more than 6 years. I’ve never been fired before so, I admit, I took it personally. Unemployed, and from a volunteer position, no less. You know where I’m going with this. My three year old let me go.

Following an especially difficult trip to the grocery store, I was buckling a disgruntled Zack into his car seat when he informed me, “You’re fired, Mom!”

I was stunned, because really, where had he learned to say that? And then, shouldn’t he have warned me in some kind of formal performance review?

“So are you giving me two weeks’ notice or should I leave you here so you can call a Taxi?” I asked. He wasn’t amused. I continued my bitter monologue home. “Do you have someone in mind or are you just going to take this to the classifieds?” And then, “Remember to ask for someone who will wipe your tears, wipe your nose, and yes, wipe your bum. Not a very appealing job description. You may want to offer a salary with benefits.”

As I considered the untimely end of my career I couldn’t help but entertain my options. I could get a job where I only had to work 40 hours a week, where I could clock out at 5, catch a movie on the way home and then, well, go to bed. I could pursue more exciting avenues like becoming a secret agent or working at a waffle factory. Imagine, all those hours I would get paid for working.

But those thoughts were dashed the next morning when Zack came in to wake me up at 6:30.

“Mom,” he said. “I hungwee for beckfast.”

“But you fired me,” I said. “Last night. Remember?”

“Mooooooom,” he said, pulling on my sleeve. “It’s time to wake up.”

Employers these days can be so fickle. Especially when they’re not potty trained.

So I’m back on duty, full-time and uncompensated – well, at least with anything my bank will allow me to deposit. And there are perks. I can wear slippers to work. I get to go to the park a lot. My employer sometimes shares his Halloween dividends with me. And while it may be considered inappropriate in a more traditional work environment—the boss gives me lots of wet, sloppy kisses.

It’s a sweet job, really.

A Storm of Pain, and other shameless metaphors

Humans are interesting creatures, not unlike animals in their desire to shun pain, to do what they can to avoid the sting of a wound, be it physical or emotional. About the time I stopped posting to my blog I had stepped into the axis of my pain, and I have to admit, it surprised me.

Just weeks earlier I had been talking with my friend Mary, explaining that I had already mourned the end of my marriage three years ago. All that was left to grieve was the impact it was having on my children (can we say denial?). I was efficiently moving through my divorce, checking through these emotional steps like items on a To-Do list. That’s when the unbearable pain hit me, stealing my breath. Suddenly my heart resembled a split melon, wide and messy with emotion. I thought I was going to die, thought I wanted to die, and gravitated towards my ex, the only one who truly understood how much our divorce hurt.

Not until this moment have I recognized two types of pain. One steals upon you slowly and before you realize it this pain has taken over your life and become common—what you’re used to. We recognize it in the story of a frog, seduced to his death by lounging in a pot of water slowly set to boil. We become comfortable with this type of pain—we recognize it and have learned to cope with it. It’s manageable.

The other pain is a storm, a Katrina of hurt that disorients you, blurs your vision and masks the horizon. I was in the eye of this storm just one month ago. And I’m convinced that often we’re required to step through this brand of pain in order to reach a much better place, a promised land, a city of hope, a bright future. Cheesy, I know, but true. But how eager I was to slip from this pain into another that was more comfortable, albeit equally debilitating.

For the first time in my life I empathized with people who turn to drugs and alcohol to escape pain. It’s just that base instinct we all have to free ourselves from a long moment of crushing heartache. Whether we, when possible, avoid the storm altogether or turn to something that will numb our awareness of it, we’re depriving ourselves of a blissful destination at the end of an arduous journey. That is what I have to believe. For me, my ex, and my children, I know this painful moment in the string of eternity is really just the gust of wind we need to reach a better place.

At least that’s what I’m telling myself today…

Mission Mompossible

The other night I watched Mission Impossible for the first time in years. And as I watched I realized why I will never be a secret agent. Not because I can’t hold my breath for more than five minutes while I defuse a bomb underwater. Not because I can’t scale an elevator shaft in an evening gown. And not even because I’m probably taller (and heavier) than Tom Cruise with Suri on his back. No, not for any of those reasons.

I could never be a secret agent because I wouldn’t be able to listen to the entire secret recording without rewinding it. By the time it self-destructed I’d be turning to the person next to me asking, “Did you hear what he just said?”

The truth is, I’ve become my mother (bless you, mom!). In order to follow a movie I have to rewind it at least 5 times or ask my children to 1) repeat what’s just been said or 2) turn up the television, again.

Now there are valid reasons for this. One is my poor hearing. My mother was right; all that rock music did make me go deaf. But more problematic than that is my newly acquired lack of focus.

Before I had children I could watch three movies in a row, sitting for more than 362 minutes in a wooden chair watching B-grade films without missing one scene. In fact, to the chagrin of my co-watchers, I probably would have deconstructed each before the credits had run, cross-analyzing the films like a graduate student with nothing better to do (because I was). I would use words like “acquiescent,” “theoretically,” and “banal.” Yeah. I was a real smarty-pants.

But not so much these days. I’m lucky if I can watch a Pixar film and get all the adult jokes the first time through. And the phrase I’m most likely to say while watching said film is, “What did he just say?”

Which takes me back to my future as a secret agent. It ain’t gonna happen. Not that I was planning on it or anything; it’s just nice to have options. I’ve decided this is how my encounter with that secret recording would probably go down.

Your mission, should you choose to accept it…

“Zack, get off the counter! And Kaleb, you put that cookie back… Did he just
say Prague? Am I supposed to defuse an underwater bomb in Praugue?”

…and scale an elevator shaft in your evening gown with Suri on your back…

“Did he say sell the pretty little surrey with the fringe on top, or scale an elevator shaft with Suri on my back?”

We would not do well if the safety of our nation rested in my ever-so-chapped hands.

This post will self-destruct in 20 seconds…

ALOHAlloween

I'm going to have to take a break from my blog (officially)--at least from posting regularly. Until I get a better handle on things, I'll only post my column here. You people are great! I hope to be back soon...

My children have finally decided what they’re going to be for Halloween this year. Indecisive. Yep. That’s right. They are going to be wishy-washy, can’t-decide, too-late-to-actually-buy-something-at-the-store werechildren.

It’s not that they haven’t had ideas. No, they’ve been full of those. Kaleb has already run through the following options: the Avatar, a white ninja, a red ninja, Yoda, Batman, anything with a cape, anything with face paint, anything with a sword. Leah, on the other hand, has tossed around the following: Wonder Woman, a ladybug, a butterfly, anything with makeup, anything with jewelry, and Lilly Lightly Princess of all the Twinkles and Glows. But ask any of them what they want to be today and everyday until Halloween and they’ll say, “I’m not sure yet.” Zack, the only one who can make a solid decision around here, wants to be Lightning McQueen.

And when it comes to costuming, I wish I was more creative, in a Martha Stewart kind of way. I’ve seen countless adorable costumes and have tried to convince my children to try any one of them: a Crayola crayon, a deviled egg (complete with horns), a sack of potatoes, an Ompa Lumpa, a garden knome, the Hamburglar, a Lego, and my personal favorite, a bag of butter-flavored microwave popcorn. But they’re not biting. “Mom,” Leah said to me, rolling her eyes, “Those aren’t real Halloween costumes.”

To encourage my children to choose, and quickly, I have prepared backup costumes for them should they wait until October 30th to put something together. Kaleb can borrow any one of his sister’s princess costumes. And Leah can be a baseball player. Funny how they’re now extremely motivated to decide.

In actuality I’m a big fan of Halloween. For one day of the year you can pretend to be whatever you like. Albert Einstein, a Dallas Cowboy Cheerleader, Donald Trump, Ryan Seacrest, an Ompa Lumpa, or a Lego. Your options are only limited by your imagination. So think big, people!

I, on the other hand, have known what I want to be for a few months now. On vacation. Yep. That’s right. On Halloween I want to be a tourist in Hawaii. A really authentic one. With a muumuu, a flower lei, and a box of Macadamian chocolates. Oh, and a plane ticket. One way.

Aloha and Happy Halloween!

Thanks for your support!

To all of you who emailed and have continued to check back, the twins are faring well. Another Cat Scan revealed the bleeding has been contained to one side of the brain which is good news. This little gals seem to have new battles daily, but they're both fighters. I promise to keep everyone posted as I learn more myself. Thanks so much for your prayers!

Please Pray for My Brother's Babies

Last Sunday my sister-in-law had twin baby girls, beautiful Ava and Emma. While they were more than two and a half months premature they were life-flighted to a larger hospital in Spokane, WA, where the babies seemed to be doing well. Until today.

Apparently Cats Scans indicate that both girls have blood on the brain. You can imagine that we’re all extremely worried, and the burden my brother and sister-in-law, Jeremy and Natalie, currently bear is unimaginable. Please pray for them and their girls. They’ll be running some tests on Sunday morning that will provide them with more information. We’re all praying that information will be hopeful and positive. We’re also praying that Jeremy and Natalie will be granted peace of heart and spirit. If you could, please, offer a prayer for them and their beautiful babies.

Popcorn Cancer

So did you hear the news? Apparently butter-flavored microwave popcorn causes lung cancer. Not that I think the Universe is listening or anything, but I take issue with that.
Initially they thought only factory workers were coming down with this rare type of lung cancer, called bronchiolitis obliterans or “popcorn workers’ lung” (I’m not making this stuff up). But then they found this 53-year old man with an acute fondness for microwave popcorn; he eats it twice a day and breaks open each bag to take a whiff of the buttery vapors. Apparently, that can kill you.

I’ve spent thirty odd years of my life avoiding the big vices. I don’t drink. I don’t smoke. I’ve never done drugs. And I don’t wear white after Labor Day. But I am a diet coke fan and eat my fair share of butter-flavored microwave popcorn. And wouldn’t you know it, the popcorn’s gonna do me in. (Although I may not sniff the popcorn steam, I do lick the butter off the bag. Is that so bad?)

I would like to propose a solution. If anyone would be interested in signing a petition, I would like to ask God to take both popcorn cancer and breast cancer off the table. And as long as we’re asking, colon cancer, prostate cancer, and leukemia (go for the gold, right?). Because as far as cancer goes, those seem especially unreasonable.

I’m guessing that He’s going to want something in return, being a just God and all. To sweeten the deal, I say we throw in a few carcinogens of our choosing. Win, win, right?

So here’s my list (feel free to email me with more) of things that should cause cancer: telemarketing, flipping the bird (because really, people, can’t we just all get along?), not allowing someone to merge even though they’ve been signaling for three blocks, green ketchup (that’s just wrong), cleaning the toilet, nylons, Monday Night Football (okay, okay, it’s off the list…), dressing room mirrors and fluorescent lighting (that’s a combo deal), bullying, name-calling, rolling your eyes at your mother, blowing your nose on anything but tissue paper, and being a Paris Hilton fan. There. That’s a solid list, right?

Now we know why I’m not God. But if I were, microwave popcorn would definitely not cause cancer. (And fudge-covered Oreo cookies would be fat-free.)

Amen.

Thanks, Long Overdue

Eileen over at A Life of Triggers gave me this Reflections Award (I heart you, Eileen!). Ain’t it purty? And because Eileen’s blog is so genuine, so open, and reflective, it means even more that the award came from her (please read her blog—she shares so much of herself it makes me cry almost everytime I read it).

And to share the love I’m giving this same award to these lovelies…

I Can Fly, Just Not Up…I know. I’m always giving Heather awards, but she’s just dandy! And her blog is open and genuine. One of my absolute favorites…

Cheerio Road…a blog I’ve recently discovered, Karen’s posts are always so thought-provoking (Plus, she’s a Zen Buddhist Priest. How cool is that!).

The Prairie Preacher…who is very open and honest about his life in transition. And doesn’t it just make you happy to read good guy blogs?

Now I have to say that as much as I love getting awards, I hate nominating others for them because there are so many bloggers out there that I just love to pieces (you know who you are—at least I hope you do…). I can’t say enough about what a wonderful support community I’ve found in blogging. (*blowing kisses*). You're all swell!

Back for Now

Sorry, people. I did, in fact, fall off the face of the earth and have just clawed my way home. Unfortunately, I haven’t been lounging my life away (although if anyone knows where I can apply for THAT job, do tell…). My absence included all of the following: the arrival of my soon-to-be ex in-laws who are temporarily residing in my home, a road trip to Boise, approximately 52 hours of intoxicating family time, three emotional and pseudo psycho outbursts directed at the soon-to-be ex Hub, a broken water heater, and the creation of an underground blog that may have saved my life. Phew.

I’m better now.

More on all that later…

Rat + Patootie = Ew!

It is just me, or are rats gross?

Now before I go any further I have to say that I am an avid Pixar fan. Monsters, Inc. is one of my all-time favorite movies. I mean, really, a closet as a monster portal into the human dimension? Clever, right? And the whole Toy Story series with Tom Hanks and Tim Allen as Woody and Buzz? Brilliant! Even the one about the ant colony trying to outwit the grasshopper mafia is fun. But a rat cooking in a famous restaurant? Ew.

A little backstory might be necessary. Our first home was a small Victorian over 100 years old. Kaleb was nearly two and Leah about six months old when we realized that the previous occupants of our home had never moved out. We were cohabitating with a large family of mice. They were everywhere, as were their little mousey droppings and their little mousey germs. I was grossed out. I had two babies in my home and a host of vermin threatening our health and livelihood (no, I am not overreacting…okay, maybe I am just a little...).

Thus began Operation Extermination. We tried everything. Mousetraps. steel wool in potential entry-ways, peppermint-soaked cotton balls (the things you do when you Google), rat posion. There was even a basement incident involving myself, an infant mouse and a yellow, 72-inch aluminum box beam level. The mouse won. And the level broke.

Finally we got a cat and the mouse problem vanished. End of that mouse story. But onto another. Ratatouille.

Now my aversion to animated rodents isn’t limited to the newest Pixar movie. I’ve never liked Tom and Jerry (well, just Jerry), Stuart Little, Fievel, Speedy Gonzales, Mickey Mouse (okay, so I liked Mickey a little), and any of those Night before Christmas cartoons. I’m a cold-hearted mouse hater.

So when I took my kids to see Ratatouille yesterday at the dollar theater I did think, “Wow, how clever.” But then I thought, “Ew.” And that scene, with the rat colony acting as an especially squirmy bunch of line chefs was just a titch disconcerting to me (But Shauna, you say, they were run through an industrial-strength dishwashwer. Still. Ew.).

Now I’m not going to try and pass this off as a high-brow (or even low-brow) movie review. I have nothing more to say but, “Ew.” Okay and this: my humble opinion is that no matter how much you animate a rat or have him follow his little chefy dreams, he’ll still a disease-ridden rodent in my book. That and, ew...

Tooth Fairy Economics

This week marked my first stint as Tooth Fairy. Kaleb, my oldest, surrendered his third lost tooth and faithfully placed it under his pillow (his first two, which he had decided to keep, were lost somewhere in the house a couple years ago where I’m afraid Zacky snacked on them). Being in an especially generous mood, I replaced this tooth with a five-dollar bill.

“Heh, Mom?” he said the next morning. “How come the Tooth Fairy doesn’t give much for teeth these days?” He waved the crisp bill at me as evidence. Apparently, the neighbor boy, who has one year on Kaleb and a couple more lost teeth, gets toys under his pillow.

“Five dollars is a lot!” I said. “Do you know I only got a quarter for my teeth?” Later that day a friend of mine echoed those sentiments, telling him, “I was lucky to get a dime.” Suddenly Kaleb turned braggart, telling everyone that his teeth were worth much more than his mother and her friend’s teeth combined.

Later that day, while I folded laundry, Kaleb decided to engage in Tooth Fairy Economics. “Why did I get more for my teeth than you did?” he asked.

“Well,” I said. “It’s been awhile since I lost my teeth. Maybe teeth are worth more these days.” I patted myself on the back for introducing Kaleb to the concept of inflation.

But Kaleb shook his head, unhappy with that explanation. “I think,” he said. “That boy tooth fairies give more money than girl tooth fairies.” I thought about that for a minute. “So you think girls have a girl tooth fairy and boys have a boy tooth fairy?” He nodded. “And the boy tooth fairy gives more money than the girl tooth fairy?” He nodded again, and then added, “Because boys make more money than girls.” Sheesh, I thought. This conversation had evolved all too quickly from inflation to gender discrimination in the workplace.

“Kaleb,” I said in my lecture voice. “Girl tooth fairies and boy tooth fairies make the same amount of money.” Imaginary money, I thought. But Kaleb shrugged, already disinterested in our conversation.

Only later did he bring it up again, saying, “Mom, I’ve stopped thinking about boys being tooth fairies. I think the Tooth Fairy is a grandma now.”

“How come?” I asked, wondering if this was progress.

“Because I don’t think boys have fairy wings. That’s for girls.”

I sighed. Well, at least the grandma tooth fairy no longer has to file a complaint about unfair wages. That’s progress, right?

Imaginary progress…

What Remains

On Thursday I retained my lawyer and experienced first-hand how one tallies a life. My husband and I have been married eight years, an entire lifetime shared, the result of which are three young, beautiful people. Simple math tells me our marriage represents 30 birthdays, 8 anniversaries, three pregnancies, three births, two apartments, two houses, over 150 Christmas cards, one car accident, three surgeries, two therapists, and now, one divorce decree.

And as I sat at the long lacquered table answering my lawyer’s questions, I couldn’t help but wonder how you divvy out a life. Could we really calculate all the spiritual debts and assets that have accrued within that time? Could we tally what’s yours and mine and theirs without ripping, unnaturally, at the center of our lives? As my lawyer applied this surreal formula of delineation I anticipated years of emotional hemorrhaging for all of us. This moment, drawing the lines and boundaries between us, preparing a chart of alternating holidays, determining percentages of responsibility, was the lesser of two evils.

If you’ve seen Indian Jones and the Last Crusade you probably remember the scene where Indiana is to walk across a gapping chasm to reach the Holy Grail. He’s instructed to walk the chasm by faith. I’m certain that doing such a thing would weight your heart with a cold fear, because how could you see such impossibility before you and ever expect to achieve solid footing again? I’m certain because as I sat in my lawyer’s office that day, my heart was a frozen anchor of fear.

I believe in marriage and always have. Divorce was never in the plan and for years, three exactly, I struggled against the idea. I perceived divorce, like a character in Wonder Boys, “as the first refuge for the weak in character and the last of the hopelessly incompetent.” It took no less than a whisper from God to assure me that what I saw as death would be a better path, not necessarily now, but years into the future. And while I’m sure there are some who see divorce as a lack of faith, for me it has been a faith-filled journey, one-step over a darkened chasm.

So as I type to what seems to be a never-ending pulse of pain, I allow myself to answer it with tears; they honor this marriage that will soon be over. It wasn’t a mistake, because the three beauties of my life were born within its bounds. And while I’m not sure how I would define it, I do know that regardless of what the divorce decree may say, five lives are forever held together by one fine gossamer strand, and that will always remain.

Phone Etiquette, Part One

The other night a client called to talk business at 5:15 pm. Now I don’t know about you, but if I were a businessman calling a soon-to-be single, work-at-home mom I probably wouldn’t call at dinnertime. But that’s just me.

I was in the middle of making spaghetti and my kids, plus one, were playing in the house. It took awhile to clear them from the kitchen, but quite soon I was carrying on an adult conversation about my freelance work. That is until I heard water running.

I asked my client to wait while I checked on my kids. Sure enough they had turned the hose on in the middle of a fair-sized patch of dirt on the side of my house. The water had been on long enough to flood an area big enough for an alligator. A giant, mutant alligator.

“Sorry,” I told my client. “My kids just flooded my yard.” Now I’m not sure, but when does proper phone etiquette require you to say, “Is now a bad time?” Apparently not after your children flood your side yard. We continued our adult conversation about my freelance work.

That is until my children invited a stray dog into my house. And not a tiny, yip-yip dog, but a large golden retriever (yes, it too was the size of a giant, mutant alligator).

I asked my client to hold on while I chased said dog through my house and out the front door. This lonely beast, and the four children who had invited it in, all left muddy footprints from one point of entry to the other.

“Sorry,” I told my client. “My kids just let a stray dog into the house.” Now I’m not sure, but is this the point at which proper phone etiquette requires you to say, “Is now a bad time?” Apparently having a big, stray dog romp through your house like the Pied Piper followed by four muddy children does not warrant it. We continued our conversation.

That is, until I realized that only three of the children who were now romping outside with the muddy dog were fully clothed. Yes, people, my youngest son had stripped naked and was running down the sidewalk, a trail of clothes behind him.

I asked my client to wait while I collected my naked child, brought him into the house and planted him in front of the television. “Sorry,” I told my client. “My son was running around outside, naked.”

I waited, again, for that fateful question. Nothin’. At that point we were able to finish our adult conversation about my freelance work without being interrupted by as much as a boiling pot of spaghetti noodles.

Just so you know, I’ve since looked for the manual on phone etiquette that determines at exactly what point you ask, “Is now a bad time?” I couldn’t find it. But I did find one on common sense and it plainly states: “If, during an important phone conversation, your children flood your yard, invite a stray muddy dog into your home and then chase it down the sidewalk naked, you are required to tell your party, ‘Now is not a good time. Can I call you back?’”

Weigh in, People

I’m such a delinquent blogger these days (this freelancing thing is killin’ me) so I thought I’d try to multi-task in this post. Bare with me, folks.

My dream (yes, I’m blushing) is to syndicate my column. (Sometimes I wonder if I’m one of those tone-deaf singers auditioning for American Idol. You know the ones. They’re either dressed in drag or uber androgynous performing some frightening dance moves while they sing on, oblivious. That’s me. Only I’m submitting column queries, in drag, oblivious…)

So anyway, I’ve gotten positive feedback from two papers so far that have yet to give me a definitive answer. Now I’m of the opinion that editors are not the string-‘em-along type. They don’t know me personally so if they didn’t like my stuff they’d probably just say, “We’re not interested,” and get it over with, right? (I know, I’m such a sucker). So I’ve written a couple follow-up emails with no luck. And that’s when I concluded that since I’ll probably get rejected anyway I might as well have fun doing it. I crafted the following email as my last and final attempt to get an answer from these papers.

Dear Editors,

I’m sure you’ve tired of my endless queries, those relentless emails pleading for your attention. I’m needy that way. But I can’t stop thinking about you and your paper and the wonderful future we could share. I’ve signed my name countless times with your moniker: Shauna B., The Dream-On Daily News Columnist. *sigh* What a combination. So natural. So complete.

But because I haven’t heard back I’m wondering what’s wrong. Perhaps you’re afraid to commit. I know I can be intimidating with my humor and stuff. Or maybe you think I’m high maintenance and will charge a lot of money and tire you with verbose emails like this one. I’m cheap, really. And once you say “yes” I promise to back off and give you your space.

And then the other day I was watching Oprah and she had this expert Guy on who said that when “they” don’t call or email you back it really just means one thing: he’s just not that into you. And it got me thinking: could the same concept apply to a desperate writer and the paper of her affection?

So tell me, are you just not that into me? I can take it, really… (*sob*sob*)

Sincerely,
Shauna B.

So what do you think? On a scale of 1-10, how stupid am I? (Okay, okay. I take that back. Please don’t be honest. Just flatter me senseless. I’m a little fragile right now. *snort*).

A Soon-to-Be Single Mom Manifesto

These last few months I feel like I’ve had to turn the Winnebago of my life around and head in a completely different direction. The landscape has changed and I’m trying to become accustomed to this new view. During a consultation with a lawyer I was told the people who best endure divorce do so by looking forward, not back. “You need to have a vision,” he said. “Of what you’d like your life to be.”

I’ve thought a lot about his advice. So much so that I’ve decided to create this, my Soon-to-Be Single Mom Manifesto. It’s only a draft, as is my life.

1. I will continue to work from home.
I want to minimize the impact of this divorce on my kids. Divorce is one of those major life changes, right? As is moving. As is going from having a stay-at-home mom to a working mom. As is suddenly having to spend lots of time with a sitter or daycare provider. I figure my kids should only have to endure one of those at a time. The truth is, I’m not raking in the dough as a freelance writer (as I squeeze writing sessions in between carpooling kids to school, making meals, avoiding laundry, and, well, blogging), but I believe it can work. And for now, I believe it’s the best thing for my kids.

2. I will try to stay in the house.
See above.

3. I will enjoy my children.
I have to remind myself about this one. The pain of divorce coupled with financial concerns can be distracting sometimes. And when I’m stressed I loose my patience and am not as eager to draw unicorns (in dresses with necklaces and earrings) for my daughter. But there are no Do-ey Overs in childhood so they deserve an attentive mom who’s present, accounted for, and when possible, ready to play. Today I took the kids to the river and we fed the ducks. For an hour we all seemed to forget our painful evolution from traditional to dysfunctional family. I’ve added “do more of that” to my list of priorities.

4. I will get healthy.
That, ladies, isn’t just about my keister, although that does need immediate attention. I’m also taking charge of my emotional health. There’s been so much turmoil these last few years that I’ve lost touch with who I am and am rediscovering, delightfully, what I’m all about.

5. I will not trash the soon-to-be ex-Hub.
See my post “The Bad News.” 'Nough said.

And that’s it. I think there’s something to say about looking beyond a painful situation to a brighter future that you have the power to create.

And now, I think I will create a nice, long bubble bath for myself. Happy Weekend, everyone!

Gee, thanks, Bananas!

Jenny from Absolutely Bananas gave me this awesome award:



Gotta love the graphic (and big, fat, wet kisses--who doesn't love those?). Thanks, Bananas!

The Toilet Paper Epiphany (from the Way-Too-Much-Information Files)

I deleted this post after realizing that today was 9/11, but after reading Karen's comment to my new-and-improved September 11th post, decided to repost the toilet-paper epiphany...

Just yesterday I had an epiphany while sitting on the porcelain throne. And lest you think I spend unwarranted amounts of time there, it was a toilet-paper related thought and thus, completely justified.

I decided that we go through toilet paper all too quickly in my home. As I sat there and replaced yet another toilet paper roll, I realized that I do that approximately once a day. Now I’m no expert on toilet paper consumption, but that seems a titch excessive.

So I considered (as I sat and thought) different ways to remedy the problem. Years ago I read a book called The Complete Tightwad Gazette that talked about how to save money and get out of debt. There was an entire section on saving toilet paper, from establishing a rationing rule that dictated how many squares were allowed per function (i.e. 4 squares for number “1” and 8 squares for number “2”) to squashing the roll so the cardboard cylinder turned more slowly, preventing wasteful unrolling. I considered what would be required to stop this waste in my home (that pun was so unintended, that is, until I got it).

So I devised a plan whereby we would stop using so much toilet paper. And by “we” I mean “me.” What? Okay, so this where I had my epiphany. Because as I sat there I realized that I’m currently the only adult residing in my home. And every time I pass the bathroom I must remind my children to a) flush the toilet and b) use toilet paper.

I am using way too much toilet paper. And as I did my bathroom math I determined that yesterday I treated myself to more than one roll of toilet paper in what may have been 7 trips to the bathroom—tops. What am I doing in there, and why is my toilet not always clogged?

After adjourning the Bathroom Summit I decided that no further action would be required. Except that from now on I will be purchasing extra-soft, two-ply, quilted toilet paper.

Because, baby, I’m worth it.

In Remembrance

I had to remove another post today when I realized it was far too inappropriate for September 11th. Because I believe we should honor the memories of those who died that day and reflect back on this, the 6th anniversary of 9/11.

When I think back to 9/11 I remember exactly what I was doing when I found out; just as I’m sure all of you do. What I remember most, however, is that palpable fear that spread through my body with each report of another assault on our country. I too couldn’t be pried from the coverage as I wondered how I could protect my then newborn son from terrorism. I imagined running from those crumbling buildings with him in my arms. I imagined fleeing the Pentagon, frantically pushing him in a stroller. I imagined sitting on a plane, trying to sooth him with a trembling whisper. In a weakened moment I felt helpless and lost.

That is, until the news coverage began to unearth the true nature of our country. We heard about the firefighters and EMT who ran towards those same buildings people were fleeing from. We saw countless volunteers trying to find survivors in the rubble. And we listened to people relay the courage and heroism displayed by passengers on a plane that was intended to kill even more Americans. Although many of those individuals lost their lives, I was buoyed up by their strength and that portrait of patriotism. And I felt again the power of being a part of this great nation. The fear didn’t disappear but it did subside and was eventually replaced by admiration and awe.

And now as I reflect back I wish there was more I could do than remember. But that much I can do.

(That and take down my inappropriate post, which will appear bright and early Wednesday morning...)

It’s Not a Wedding Reception, but for Tonight It’ll Do

My daughter just turned five, but from the conversations she’s been initiating these days you’d think she had just turned twenty. Here are some things she’s asked me lately:

“Will you come to my wedding?”
“Can I wear a black dress to my wedding?”
“When I get married will you buy me a necklace, earrings, a ring, and makeup?
“When am I grown up enough to get married?”
“Can I drive you to my new house when I’m grown up?”
“Can I borrow your makeup when I’m grown up?”
“Some day will you give me a diamond? Just the jewel, not a ring.”

Okay, so my neurosis is showing here, but is she preoccupied with marriage and being grownup because her father and I are currently failing at both? And is this an “issue” that needs addressing? If so, how do I address it?

As the hub and I have worked through this separation, we’ve encouraged the kids to be open with us about their feelings. The tricky thing with children is, sometimes they don’t know enough about what they’re feeling and why they’re feeling it to share it with anyone. So we’re seeing separation residue seep out in strange ways. The million-dollar question becomes: which behavior is caused by a pending divorce and which is just typical childhood development? Some argue that it doesn’t really matter which causes it. But as the mother, I’d like to know. Oh, for a live-in Freud. Scratch that. Oh, for a bowl of chocolate ice cream.

But I guess if I’m going to worry about Leah’s recent obsession with marriage (since I’m worrying anyway) I should also worry about this big shindig she’s been planning all weekend. With her birthday over and Christmas an agonizing 4 months away, she’s decided to throw a party, complete with cake, invitations, and a gift-registry. She wanted to hold said party tonight but I explained, “No, Britney Spears is opening the VMA awards and I’ve gotta watch that train wreck.” Of course I didn’t say that, but I did say, “Sweetie, you can’t have a party just to get presents.”

But you know, maybe she’s got the right idea. Not the presents, but the party. The mood around here has been heavy and sad lately. A party with cake, ice cream and noise-makers might cheer us all up, at least for the evening.

So excuse me while I watch Stuart Little 2 and eat popcorn with my kids. We’re not following the itinerary Leah has outlined (in duplicate with a purple Crayola), but it’ll do, at least for now.

[Uhm, by the way, did anyone else realize that Stuart’s “father” is Hugh Laurie from House? Strange, right? Okay, back to the party…]

A Name Change and Google Searches

I have decided to change the name of my blog to “Poo Memos, Venomous Spiders, and eBay” because those are the favorite post topics thus far as determined by the comments of you, my dear beloved readers! And can I just say that you really are dear and beloved! If I went on a quest for the best support group EVER, I don’t think I could find such amazing, compassionate, and wise women in one zip code. Thank you so much for all your wonderful comments to the difficult post about my separation. And this week I’m feeling like your positive energy alone will carry me over the ugly. Bless you!

Now on to a lighter topic. I finally have the means to see what’s driving those Googlers to my blog. Here are some searches that bring people to Up in the Night:

“pink pee death”: Well, for a moment there I was worried. But luckily, our pink pee was caused by a Crayola fetish.

“scratch and dent surplus”: This one’s popular. In fact, I think I get one visitor per day on this search alone. Unfortunately, this is all they find when they get here…

“Shauna by nite”: So I tried this search myself and apparently there’s a playmate named Shauna Sands who “now walks the streets.” Sorry fellas, there’s no playmate here…

“Pictures of fat Shauna”: Now that’s just mean.

“girl cracks”: Okay, so I’m the horrible mommy blogger who actually wrote a post
about my daughter’s crack. But writing about it and searching for it are too
completely different things, you sickos!

“beautiful buttocks womanhood”: Now I wrote a post about my daughter’s crack, but no beautiful buttocks womanhood were mentioned in the making of that or any other post (Unless you’re looking for my buttocks. In that case, thank you. Thank you very much!)

“kid vomit blog”: Now that’s another possible title for my blog. Because I have talked about vomit here and here and here. But when you compare that to another significant bodily function, it would be more fitting to change my name to Kid Potty Blog because I talk about that here and here and here and here and here.

“Outsource household chores”: Bring it on, baby. We’re all about that over here…

“Six-year old has nasty attitude”: And sadly, we’re all about that over here too…

Phew. That’s enough for tonight, ladies. But really, thanks to all of you for being so amazingly supportive. You’re the best peeps a girl every had!

The Bad News

My husband and I are separated.

And now I’m not sure what else to say. I’ve rewritten this post repeatedly,and even held onto it for nearly a month, timing it with Blogher so that it wouldn’t be broadcast over that network, and now this is all I can manage. I’m sure everyone can appreciate that this is extremely difficult for everyone, especially my kids, as we all stagger through this experience, trying to grasp something hopeful and secure to steady us.

I’ve wondered whether or not it was even necessary to share this with the blogosphere. It’s strange announcing something so private and painful in such a public forum. But I decided to do it for a number of reasons. One, I’m selfish. In blogging I’ve discovered the most amazing support group full of compassionate, wise and genuine women. And I thank you all for that. Two, I can’t not write about this experience; I’m a writer (who uses double negatives, okay?) and this is an extremely therapeutic medium for me. Three, it’s important that my blog be authentic and truly chronicle my experience with motherhood, and currently this separation consumes our approach to parenting; I can no longer look at Kaleb’s defiance and Zack’s delayed potty training without saddling them next to this separation to see how they might connect. And four, I can only hope that in writing about these things there might be someone out there who can relate, even remotely.

Finally, I just want to pledge here that I will never bash The Hub, even if he might someday become The Ex Hub. I trust that readers recognize this decision didn’t come lightly, and that there is a complicated history that’s led to this separation. But I will never share that history here. While I may blather on and on about womanhood, motherhood, writing, and relationships, I won’t go there. For lots of reasons but especially because The Hub is the father of my children, and consequently a person who will always be in my life, a person I still love and vow to respect, regardless of what has or may happen.

I’m spent. There’s so much more I could say about how this separation is a constant ache that saturates every moment, even in sleep. But that’s another post for another day. And I’m hoping that there will be something amusing, maybe about vomit or poo, I can write about before then.

Takin' Care of the Girls

One day I was getting into the shower when Zack pointed at my breasts and asked, “Are those the bests, Mama?”

“I like to think so,” I answered.

That was back when I was immune to any breast-worry. But now that I’m in the WhyMommy-know I’ve been thinking about the girls in a whole new light. In fact, I’ve become a little obsessed.

I’ll admit I’ve performed maybe five breast exams my entire life. I never knew what I was looking for and felt self-conscious poking at the girls so sloppily. And while my family has a history of breast cancer (via my grandmother on my father’s side) I always thought nursing my children somehow made me immune to any breast ailment (well, shouldn’t it?!). So I’ve never given my girls the attention they truly deserve.

But just last weekend I got to go on a quick trip to Utah sans children to visit my family. As I was driving I noticed that my left breast was a little sore. So I spent nearly three hours poking and prodding at my boob trying to find a lump or some tangible explanation for the pain (I blame this heightened self-awareness on the empty backseat. I couldn’t be rational while contending with so much silence.). By the time I got to Utah my breast was really sore and I was really worried.

Two days and 48-hours worth of self-induced poking and prodding later, I was nearly hysterical (fyi, I’m prone to be irrational. See Mama Meme, letter “I.”). So Monday morning I tried scheduling an appointment with my husband’s family doctor (along with being irrational, I’m also a procrastinator. We’ve lived here nearly a year and I have yet to schedule a checkup with a doctor.). Apparently, regardless of how hysterical a potential patient is, this doctor will only schedule one new patient a day; and she was booked until mid-October. I took five deep breaths and went to Urgent Care.

I can’t imagine that any woman enjoys a breast exam. But I’ve never been happier than at that moment while, lying topless and fondled by a competent professional, I was told that nothing unusual had been detected. Hallelujah!

So for those of you who don’t know, the purpose of a regular self exam is to detect any irregularities. And you can’t detect those unless you’re doing them every month. (duh! I know.). You gotta get to know the girls intimately, so perform a monthly exam and get a yearly checkup or if you have an extensive history of breast cancer or are nearing 40, schedule a mammogram.

So this post is in honor of WhyMommy. Thanks for making me more aware. Thanks for prompting me to take better care of myself so I can, in turn, continue to take care of my family. And if you’ve yet to visit her blog and share some love with this incredibly courageous and selfless woman, please do so today. She could use our prayers and positive energy to kick cancer’s butt.

Up in the Night thanks you, WhyMommy! God bless!

Is someone coming over?

Here's my latest column (although, just between you and me, it's really just an old post...).

People who know me are well aware that I'm not very domestic -- that's a nice way of saying my house is a mess, I'm always behind on laundry, and my children eat a lot of macaroni and cheese. But I thought I had my kids fooled.

That is, until a couple days ago when Kaleb asked, "Mom, who's coming over?"

"No one. Why?"

"Because you're cleaning the house."

It was one of those rare days when I was cleaning the house just because. Because I wanted to clear a pathway through the playroom and to clear my mother-conscience.

But apparently my children are onto me. I'm beginning to wonder how long it will take me to get it. I'm a grown person with an advanced college degree who just can't apply the whole optimal time management thing.

Case in point. When we lived in Utah I would watch twin 5-year old girls every Thursday from noon to five. From nine to eleven every Thursday morning I'd madly clean the house. The kids' room especially had to be orderly, a ridiculous notion for a preschooler play-area. But like clockwork, every Thursday my house would be immaculate by noon only to look like a presidentially declared natural disaster by 5:30. Why clean a house that will only, just hours later, look worse than it did before you started to clean it? Wouldn't an educated person wait and clean the house after the kids had left so she could enjoy her work longer?

I do the same thing for the babysitter. Just yesterday I found out my sitter couldn't watch the kids at her house, so I spent three hours cleaning the four rooms I allow people access to (my bedroom, the garage, and the basement are currently off-limits, and have been since we moved here). And after all that work my sitter kindly forgave me for my messy house. "Your kitchen looks like ours does when my mom blows a gasket," she said. Apparently one person's clean is another person's mental collapse. *Sigh*

So I've realized that I'm the kind of person who would clean her house before the maid comes. I'm also the kind of person who, when she cleans, doesn't even make babysitter-clean standards. At some point I'll need to embrace my domestic anti-goddess self and call it good. I'm an artist, I tell myself, cleanliness and order are in opposition to my creativity. Why not rejoice and let the world see my disarray?

But there's hope. Today as we were cleaning Kaleb’s bedroom, he said, "Christian's room is so messy." Christian is my babysitter's little brother. "Messier than your room?" I asked innocently. "So messy," Kaleb said. "And he never cleans it."

Redemption can sometimes come from the little tattlers living with you. I wonder if Christian's messy room is what makes my babysitter's mom blow a gasket.

I'll probably continue scrambling to get my house clean before visitors arrive. And if I ever blow a gasket the authorities might have to declare my house a biohazard.

But until then, this is just my dirty little secret.

The Birthday Girl

Last week Leah turned five and regardless of my somewhat distracted state she managed to have one wing-ding party (well, three wing-ding parties, but who’s counting).

The Cake
She wanted a butterfly cake and, having made one for her second birthday, I thought “no sweat.” What a silly, silly woman I am.

Two containers of frosting later I had created this hideous orange, pink, and purple butterfly cake (it even sounds bad, doesn’t it?). I was a little worried that she would go diva on me like she did on her third birthday when I attempted the Barbie cake (with the cake posing as a skirt). When she saw THAT one she cried, “But Mom, I wanted the cake from the store!” Forget that Albertson’s uses a dollar-store Barbie while mom used the real deal. Anyway, so I showed her the butterfly cake pre-party to prevent any cake fits. What did my blessed daughter say when saw this ugly cake from butterfly hell?

“Oh, Mom, it’s BEEEautiful!” in this awed voice that nearly made me cry. Of course that wondrous moment was tempered when she added, “Next year can I have a pony cake?”

The Part(ies)
It’s all a blur now, but needless to say after cupcakes with her kindergarten class, a subdued “friend party” with the two neighbor kids and a family party after dinner, my little birthday girl was a little full of herself.

Apparently while I was ran an errand her grandmother asked her to get her PJ’s on. Leah complained that she couldn’t find any PJ’s to which her grandmother reminded her that she needed to go to her bedroom and actually look in her PJ drawer before coming to such a rash conclusion. Leah then complained that her room was a long, long ways away and could grandma please go fetch some PJ’s for her. To which grandma replied, “no.”

“But I’m the birthday girl,” Leah said. “You should get them for me.”

Later she asked me, “Can I be the birthday girl even when it’s not my birthday?”

I wanted to laugh, but really, don’t we all feel like that sometimes? She is currently adjusting to a very, very unbirthday-like existence.

little-girl wear, the antithesis of hoochie wear (dress courtesy Grandma Barnes)

Just last night Leah said, "Mom, I'll never, ever be four again." And looking a little wistful she added, "Now I'll only be five."

*sigh* So true...

Nice Matters!

Gustogirl, the Queen of Nice, gave me this Nice Matters Award so I am completely flattered (and a little surprised!). Thanks so much!


This sounds absolutely cheesy, but I am lucky to know more than a few fabulously nice bloggers. I'm going to nominate the uber-nice here:

Candygirlflies from I Can Fly, Just Not Up
Rachel at Three Day Blog
Karen at Pediascribe

These ladies are fabulous! But it seems so unfair to narrow it down like that. This blogosphere is an amazing place--I am impressed by the clever, kind, and dedicated bloggers out there. Thanks for letting me blog with y'all!

Mamma Meme

The Zen of Motherhood tagged me with this fun middle name mime. Here are the rules:

1. You have to post these rules before you give the facts.
   
2. Players, you must list one fact that is somehow relevant to your life for each letter of their middle name. If you don’t have a middle name, use the middle name you would have liked to have had.
   
3. When you are tagged you need to write your own blog-post containing your own middle name game facts.
   
4. At the end of your blog-post, you need to choose one person for each letter of your middle name to tag. Don’t forget to leave them a comment telling them they’re tagged, and to read your blog.

Okay, so this is forcing me to be creative. Thank heavens my mother didn’t give me a ridiculously long middle name.

M – I’m very religious—Mormon, in fact.

A – When I was just a kid I wanted to be an actress, and then in high school an artist. Now I’m an author (of accounting newsletters, no less).

R – Rich. I’m so not rich (I’m sure this violates one of the meme rules). In fact, I’ve been thinking about making a t-shirt that says, “Will blog for food.”

I – Irrational. Yep, that’s me. I worry about the littlest things and have been known to turn my fair share of molehills into Mt. Everest.

E – My confession…one of my favorite songs is “Call Me When You’re Sober” by Evanescence.

I know, that was a pathetic attempt at creativity. But now I get to pass the challenge to five fellow bloggers: Gustogirl, Three Day Blog, Mommy Vents, Becky & Co., and my sister-in-law from Life in the Nuthouse (because I just realized, Erin, I don’t know your middle name!). Meme on, ladies!

Hobos, Spiders, and Piles of Dirty Laundry

I admit, I’ve been a delinquent blogger. I’ve also neglected putting my columns online lately. So I’ll post the latest one here, inspidered (get it? in-SPIDERed? haha) by the Hobo Spider. They’re all over the place here. Ew!

When I first called to set up our phone service here in Idaho Falls last October, the nice lady I talked to was a virtual welcoming committee, sharing all things good and bad about the area.

“Hobos are horrible here,” she said at the end of our conversation.

I imagined scads of homeless people filing the sidewalks of old downtown, complete with smudged faces and polka-dot bindles. I said something silly about not knowing Idaho Falls had a problem with the destitute.

She laughed. “No. Hobo Spiders. They’re nasty!” She explained how the Hobo killed entire populations and kept most Idaho residents entrenched in fear. Okay, so I’m exaggerating. She said something about them being poisonous and drawn to large piles of unfinished laundry. Just what I needed to hear.

Now I had heard of the black widow, and even the brown recluse, but never the hobo spider. And Google gave me just the panic attack I needed; they’re hideous looking creatures with long, icky legs and those strange dangling eyes. Other pictures illustrated how a hobo bite pickled a man’s thumb while extraneous text explained that it had killed countless others. Should we call an exterminator, bug-bomb the place, or move to Atlanta? A call to the extension office (which also provided us with a lovely pear-butter recipe) gave us just the answer we needed: sticky traps. That’s it. Pesticides, exterminators, and even the evil eye would do us no good. We just needed a good set of sticky traps.

So I diligently set up eight in the basement, putting them against the floor boards and praying that not one delinquent spider would make its way up the stairs. Little did I know that by October hobo season was nearly over; I had nothing to worry about.

Until last week. Because I guess August is mating season for the hobo (yes, I Googled that too) and all the adult spiders are looking to get lucky. In my basement.

How do I know this? Just last week I was working on a little freelance at the library when I got a call from my mother-in-law who occasionally watches my children and tackles Mt. Laundry. She reported witnessing a real live hobo spider by the washing machine in my basement, big enough to carry one of my offspring from the house.

So betwixt more Googling and an informative conversation with two young moms at the park, we decided that rather than purchase the hobo-specific, pheromone-laded sticky trap I had read about online (because, apparently, that’s inviting all the hobos in the wild to come live with you), I would buy some good old fashioned bug spray at Walmart and exterminate my basement.

That’s why, two hours later, you would find me in my basement, wearing a nuisance mask, a long-sleeved shirt, gloves and some tennis shoes, picking through piles of laundry and spraying pesticide like it was air freshener, trying to unearth the hobo.

What did I discover? Three suspiciously hobo-esque spiders and a lot of unmatched socks. Which begs the question, which problem is really worse at my house? The infestation of venomous spiders or all my loads of unfinished laundry?

I’d like to say that for once, it’s not the laundry, thank you very much.

(And you're welcome. Because I was only thinking of your well-being when I decided NOT to include a picture with this post...)

First Day Faux Pas

Remember me? I’m the proud mama prude trying to keep her daughter modestly dressed at all costs. Well, I have a confession to make. I sent my daughter to school in hoochie-wear. On her first day of kindergarten.

I know. It’s shameful. I should be banished to live on the Island of Misfit Mothers where I can mingle with Dina Lohan. But in my defense, it was an accidental, completely unintended protistot ensemble. And there’s a moral to this story, so pay attention.

I bought Leah this cute little dress at Walmart for just six dollars. It was one of those belted shirt dresses reminiscent of the 1960’s. Simply adorable. In addition to that dress I also bought knee-high tights. It’s Idaho Falls and not only are tights practical, but there’s nothing cuter than a little girl in a dress with knit tights.

And that was the outfit Leah chose to wear the first day of school. And it wasn’t until we were ready to leave that I realized the tights were not quite as high as I expected while the dress wasn’t quite as long as I expected. There, in my livingroom, Leah was channeling Britney Spears, circa “Hit Me Baby One More Time.” But we were running late and the first day of kindergarten was only an hour; I decided to overlook the hoochie-wear today and swear never to let her leave the house like this again.

The entire hour of that first day of kindergarten Britney whispered in my ear, “Oh, baby, baby, how was I supposed to know, there wasn’t something right here.” Oh, Britney, baby, you got that right. For those agonizing 60 minutes, Leah sat on her heels with her legs splayed, showing off her Dora panties. Asking questions. Providing insight. over. and. over. and. over. “When’s recess?” “I’m not five yet.” “Will I paint today?” “My name’s Leah.” Rocking back on her heels as if to say, “My mommy dresses me inappropriately EVERY DAY.”

When it was all said and done my daughter professed she hadn't learned anything new in kindergarten that day. Her mother did.

1. Girls should always wear shorts under dresses, no matter how long or short they may be. And,


2. The outfit your child wears the first day of school should a) be modeled BEFORE the first day of school and b) never remind you of Britney Spears.

The rest of the story…

My daughter made the front page of The West section in the Sunday edition of Idaho Fall’s Post Register. And she looks cute as a button. It was Saturday and she was wearing her rainbow swimming suit when caught skipping through ankle-deep water at a local event trying to catch fish. And true to Leah-form she saw her picture in the paper and exclaimed (palms cupping cheeks), “I didn’t catch a fish but my picture is on the paper…” as if the cosmos had finally realigned, restoring karmic justice.

As Paul Harvey would say, and now, for the rest of the story…

We were down by the Snake River enjoying a big shindig in preparation for the great Duck Race, an annual event where people adopt rubber ducks which are numbered and then dropped into the river in a race for different prizes. So sans stroller (note to self: never again) we walked the river and enjoyed lots of kid-friendly activities. We made sailboats at the Home Depot tent, noodle necklaces, sand art, and maracas with the Youth Jamboree, and then, the best part, the kids got to jump into a man-made pond to try and catch some rainbow trout. It was a Norman Rockwell moment. Good farm town fun. Kaleb and Leah were completely invested; Kaleb even caught four fish (two of which were already dead---sshhhhhh…) and Leah just seemed to be enjoying a very public romp through the water. That is, until they blew the whistle and ushered a new set of kids into the pond.

Leah had a meltdown. At the top of her lungs (which, I must say, have the capacity of a 20-year old snowboarder, dude) she screamed, “I didn’t catch a fish…” Over and over again. Hundreds of people seemed to be watching while I wrangled cloths back on children and tried to keep a very distracted Zack by my side. Leah continued to scream. When that didn’t work she dropped to her knees and wailed. When she regained her strength she stood up and stomped her feet, screaming still. In fact, mid-tantrum Zack wondered onto a policeman’s golf cart. Once I disentangled him from the steering wheel I easily relocated my daughter who was still screaming by the river.

So imagine my surprise when on Sunday morning we discovered that while our ducks may not have won the race, Leah’s picture was on the cover of the paper. Looking absolutely joyful and serene. And thus, in Leah’s mind, balance had been restored. While she may not have caught any fish, she did secure a very captive audience. And that time she didn’t even need a tantrum to do it.

Yes, I am very afraid. I only have 9 more years until the girl turns 13.

We interrupt this blog...

I haven’t posted in awhile and there is a good reason, although I can’t share it now. Our family is going through something that’s knocked me off my blog a bit. It’s prevented me from posting to my own blog and from reading those blogs I love. I apologize for being neglectful. Blogging is therapeutic for me and I’m guessing everyone will learn far more than they ever wanted to know as soon as I feel it’s fair to begin posting about our icky ordeal. So until I catch up with my life a bit, my posts will be sporadic. Thanks for stopping by—I’ll be back soon…

MEMO to my son

TO: Zackary William
FROM: Mommy
DATE: 8/7/07
RE: Saturday night’s “activities”

Now would be a good time to assess the activities that transpired the night of Saturday, August 4th, 2007, since we (i.e. me) have had amble time to cool down and reflect.

Understanding that you are not yet ready to deposit your poopies and peepees into the potty (having tried 4 vigilant attempts at “training” thus far), I appreciate your need to further acclimate to the big boy method of going to the bathroom. However, I would ask that given the current diaper-friendly situation, you consider the following the next time you need to fill your drawers (i.e. pampers, the generic brand).

• Do not remove said diapers once you have taken a juicy dump.


• Do not place your soiled buttocks on the carpet or furniture once you have removed those diapers.


• Once placed in the bathtub to remove the poopage that resulted from the unauthorized diaper-removal, do not sneak from the tub and leave poopy butt prints on the porcelain while the parental authority (i.e. me) goes to get PJ's.


• And absolutely DO NOT take the parental authority's cell phone (i.e. my cell phone) back into the tub with you to hold on your chest while you practice the back-float in very unstable waters.

I appreciate your consideration in the aforementioned requests and anticipate that we will both better endure the current diaper situation if you choose to honor them. I would also ask that when you are ready to use the toilet, and dear heaven above let that be soon, you inform me immediately.

We all scream for ice cream...

My mother-in-law is visiting and last night she treated us to some ice cream (I know—this woman is wonderful). As I went to open the Blue Bunny Pralines and Cream carton I found a safety tab on the lid. Eating my ice cream I wondered, Was that tab supposed to protect me from the ice cream, or the ice cream from me?

Either way, it didn’t work…

The NAP is winning

The score?

Nap: 2, Mommy: 0

An Ecosytem of Love

I’ve mentioned my daughter’s love of ladybugs. And for those of you who don’t know, she loves them to death. Literally.

Everyday Leah finds a ladybug and carries it in a fisted hand while she plays (“No, Mom, she’s not dead. She’s resting.”) As a result she was killing approximately one ladybug per day (or more, when our ladybug population was especially unlucky). And for whatever reason, this past week I was struck with the sudden urge to stop the pesticide.

So instead of killing them off, we took them in as pets, putting them in a grass-filled jar with a vented lid. Now, I’ve never been good with pets. I’m a cat person because they’re low-maintenance, snobby pets that don’t require much on my end. Luckily ladybugs run a close second to cats; all they need is a handful of grass, a wet napkin and some moistened raisins in their jar, and voila—you’ve got a ladybug paradise.

I thought so, at least, until I went to replace their moistened toilet for the first time. As soon as I unscrewed the lid about ten ladybugs rushed the lip of the jar; I swear I could hear them all squeal, “Help me, help me.” The ladybugs were not convinced that Leah’s little love jar was a ladybug paradise.

But Leah carried this jar around like other four-year old girls carry around dolls or purses. The first few nights she even slept with it. So I knew that this little ecosystem of love, while in need of modifications, would have to stay.

So I made an executive decision that each day I would release two ladybugs back to the wild. Which is how our pet ladybugs came to be on a work-release program. The Hub asked, “How will you know which to release so you don’t keep a few of them in there forever?” "Well," I said defensively. "I'm not going to tag them." I had to refer him to paragraph three of this post—our ladybugs are LOW-maintenance pets and require no tagging or research journals of any kind. I'm trusting bug karma to sort it out.

One Crazy $2500 Contest!

Over at Ashwin’s blog, you will find one crazy blog owner!! You can win $2500!! To enter just copy this text and paste it in your blog!! But hurry, this competition will not last long! So get posting!

Inflammatory Breast Cancer

The following post was writting by Whymommy over at Toddler Planet. She recently discovered that she has inflammatory breast cancer and as she fights for her life, she's working to fight for yours too. Here's a post she's written to inform us about the nature of this type of cancer. And because this is really her post, I'm closing comments on my blog to encourage you to leave your words of love and support on hers.

We hear a lot about breast cancer these days. One in eight women will be diagnosed with breast cancer in their lifetimes, and there are millions living with it in the U.S. today alone. But did you know that there is more than one type of breast cancer?

I didn’t. I thought that breast cancer was all the same. I figured that if I did my monthly breast self-exams, and found no lump, I’d be fine.

Oops. It turns out that you don’t have to have a lump to have breast cancer. Six weeks ago, I went to my OB/GYN because my breast felt funny. It was red, hot, inflamed, and the skin looked…funny. But there was no lump, so I wasn’t worried. I should have been. After a round of antibiotics didn’t clear up the inflammation, my doctor sent me to a breast specialist and did a skin punch biopsy. That test showed that I have inflammatory breast cancer, a very aggressive cancer that can be deadly.

Inflammatory breast cancer is often misdiagnosed as mastitis because many doctors have never seen it before and consider it rare. “Rare” or not, there are over 100,000 women in the U.S. with this cancer right now; only half will survive five years. Please call your OB/GYN if you experience several of the following symptoms in your breast, or any unusual changes: redness, rapid increase in size of one breast, persistent itching of breast or nipple, thickening of breast tissue, stabbing pain, soreness, swelling under the arm, dimpling or ridging (for example, when you take your bra off, the bra marks stay – for a while), flattening or retracting of the nipple, or a texture that looks or feels like an orange (called peau d’orange). Ask if your GYN is familiar with inflammatory breast cancer, and tell her that you’re concerned and want to come in to rule it out.

There is more than one kind of breast cancer. Inflammatory breast cancer is the most aggressive form of breast cancer out there, and early detection is critical. It’s not usually detected by mammogram. It does not usually present with a lump. It may be overlooked with all of the changes that our breasts undergo during the years when we’re pregnant and/or nursing our little ones. It’s important not to miss this one.

Inflammatory breast cancer is detected by women and their doctors who notice a change in one of their breasts. If you notice a change, call your doctor today. Tell her about it. Tell her that you have a friend with this disease, and it’s trying to kill her. Now you know what I wish I had known before six weeks ago.

You don’t have to have a lump to have breast cancer.

My Six Year Old: Persistent and Gassy

I know I wrote about Kaleb being loving and defiant, but I should mention that he has lots of other great qualities I treasure. One especially is his persistence, a trait that didn’t come through my DNA strain. I’ve learned a lot just watching him.

For example, he taught himself how to ride a bike that’s bigger than what you’d find most seven-year olds riding simply because he believed me when I said, “You’ll get it if you practice long enough.” He’s done the same with swimming, basketball, reading, chess and, yes, video games. The kid keeps pluggin’ away until he gets it.

Well, he’s done it again. This week he’s been practicing and practicing and practicing. And just today he got it. That’s right, folks, Kaleb has mastered the armpit fart.

*sniff* It does a mama proud.