6 Days Sober and Counting

I don’t think I knew how addicted I was until I quit (and I’m using the word “quit” loosely—you know, the whole “counting chickens” thing).

Last weekend I ran out of Diet Coke, and because I refuse to break the Sabbath to purchase my caffeine juice, I went to bed with a migraine starter. Two hours and one bucket o’vomit later I was sound asleep, on the tail-end of a prayer vowing never to drink again (you know, Diet Coke).

But that wouldn’t be my last fit of withdrawals. Wednesday morning, a whole 4 days sober, I woke up with yet another head-splitting migraine. I realized that if I was THAT addicted that two detox migraines were necessary, it was time to leave the Diet Coke behind. For good. (loosely speaking, of course)

And this morning my body demonstrated just how close I am to falling off the wagon (is it "off" or "on"? I’ve never known…).

I craved me a soda, fully-leaded. But remembering my last migraine I got a Diet Sprite with lime instead. As soon as that carbonation hit my throat the back of my head started to throb. It was as if my capillaries were screaming, “SHAUNA, you FOOL! That’s not what we want. WE WANT THE DARK COLA!” Amazed that my body wasn’t falling for the bait and switch, I stepped away from the Sprite.

So it’s official. I’m currently 6 days sober and counting.

*sniff*

An Open Letter to Mother Nature

Generally I appreciate a woman with your spunk, but, Mother (if I can call you that), it’s time to give it up. From one woman who knows bitter, I’m not afraid to tell you, you’ve got a chip on your shoulder the size of the ice dams on my roof. Did somebody hurt you in a past season? Because I believe the gracious citizens of this fine state prefer you key a car or TP a house than continue with this icy behavior. You know what I’m saying?

And it’s not just me that’s noticed. There are the overworked snowplow guys. The mail carriers. And that poor girl down the street that walks to school. And did you know—it’s nearly impossible to buy a snow shovel. This is Idaho. We’re out of snow shovels in Idaho!

So on behalf of the entire state I’m leading your intervention. Winter must end. Enough with the subzero temperatures, and the school cancellations, and the one-two punch. It’s time another season got some press.

And although I’m not the only one you’ve assaulted, I’m registering my personal complaints, because, well, this is my letter. You’ve busted my pipes, compromised my metal roof joints, and left water stains on my bathroom ceiling. You should pay for that. And I don’t even want to know what will happen when it all starts melting.

I’ll be the first to suggest, Mother Nature, you need a timeout. Take a break. Go visit Bermuda, Bahama. Come on, pretty mama. Anywhere but here. We all need a need a little distance, and I’m guessing no one would complain if you gifted us with some mild weather in your absence. Boring weather. A slight chance of precipitation. Partly cloudy. Possible winds. You get my drift?

It’s time for you to go now. And don’t worry. We’re not banishing you forever. We really like winter. The chill, the snow flakes, the holiday festivities. It’s all good. Just don’t be so severe next year.

So we’ll see you next season, okay?

B-bye now. (And don’t forget to take that cold front with you.)

On Sabbatical

Okay, so maybe it's not that bad; I might not be gone that long. But I recently discovered leaks in my roof which are causing me stress (something about ice dams compromising metal roof joints. Who da'thunk?). And stress is really not the word for it. Heart failure, maybe? Despair? Tunnel-vision where I've yet to see the light? I'm not sure. But right now it's all I can muster to make a living and take care of my children (Last night that I-am-mamma-so-everything-will-be-okay-because-I-can-manage-it facade slipped from my face and I began to cry. It was a weep-fest and we all cried together. --I'm still feeling guilty for letting my children in on that little secret--I CANNOT manage it all).

Whatever doesn't kill you, right?

Too Sexy for My Boots

Take a gander at Idaho Falls standard-issue winter footwear. Fabulous, right? Sexy, no?

No.

Not at all.

I got these nearly a year ago after realizing that shoveling the sidewalk in fuzzy slippers wasn’t working for me. Those toes? Kinda like to keep ‘em. Call it a foot fetish.

But the other night at my parenting class (I’ll save that for another post) I saw a woman in fancy black boots, with heels. How she got from her car to the class without falling on her keister, I’ll never know. Me? I require Michelin-like treads on the bottom on my boots in order to make it up my front steps.

How do women manage to look fabulous in inclement weather?

Not only am I a jean-and-t-shirt kinda girl, I’m a clutz. So wearing heels of any kind, even in summer, becomes an exercise in staying alive. I avoid it. But maybe I could sport a more feminine boot next year.

One not so Sasquatch.

Any suggestions?

A view of an Idaho Falls' winter from my front door.

Broken Pipes, Part II

It wouldn’t be fair for me not to share the rest of this story, because it does have a happy ending.

About five minutes after I turned the water main off (the point at which I had decided the camel was indeed dead), the Primary President (Mormon Lingo Alert--MLA) called to ask me about my plans for the quarterly activity (MLA). I must have had that I’m-having-a-nervous-breakdown lilt to my voice because she asked, “Are you okay?” To which I immediately broke down into a weepy mess. Of course she asked if there was anything she could do. Of course I made light of the situation and told her I’d just call a plumber. (Note: she later brought me pizza and salad for dinner because, “what can you make without access to water?”)

About five minutes after hanging up the phone, it rang yet again. This time it was a member of the bishopric (MLA) who said, and I quote, “I heard you’re having a bad day.” Now this is what I know about women having bad days. When anyone asks how we’re doing with any amount of sympathy we cry (forgive me for the gross generalization). I don’t know what it is, but after having my pipes break I’ve decided it works much like a water main shutoff, only in reverse. I cried. He came over.

About five minutes after this bishopric member climbed into the crawl space of my home, we discovered that while the water could have sprayed anywhere, it did NOT land on the exposed sheetrock under the stairs. It sprayed up onto the stairs and then dripped back onto the concrete floor below. Not only that, but I caught the leak shortly after it had sprung, so there was very little water on the aforementioned concrete. All in all I was lucky. Or blessed, depending on your perspective (I’m going with blessed, because, gosh, it makes me feel good).

So this bishopric member was able to apply a temporary patch to my broken pipe so I could turn the water back on. He also called me once a day until Sunday to see if everything was okay.

Now on Friday I called two plumbers and left messages (apparently there was a rash of broken pipes in the Idaho Falls area, making local plumbers very rich. Er, busy. I meant, busy.). No one called me back.

Fast forward to Saturday morning when my friend and her husband show up to take a look at my broken pipe. After taking a gander he decides to go to Lowe’s, purchase a torch (and whatever else one purchases with a torch) in order to sauder my pipe into working order. They go to Lowe’s where they find an easy fix (cut off the pipe – because it just connects to an outdoor spicket we don’t use anyway -- and plug it with what’s called a “shark’s bite”). Now before they knew this project would only take 15 minutes to complete, they were willing to spend their entire Saturday morning torching and saudering so that I wouldn’t have to pay a plumber. Sweet, right?

What I’ve learned:

1. The Mormon grapevine is fast and effective
2. Nice people rule!
3. I’ll be looking for the opportunity to bless someone else’s life the same way, because really, it can make all the difference in the world.

So I guess that means my camel was just playing possum. I love it when that happens!

An open memo to the handsome Sonic drive-thru guy

First, I must say your customer service was impeccable. You were enthusiastic and friendly as you took my order for a Route 44. And even though it was not required, you still gave me a tasty mint to go with my drink. But, attractive and well-mannered young Sonic worker, as you man the window of this great American drive-thru, could you please not call me ma’am? I understand that my bumperless mini-van (yes, I lost the bumper shortly after Christmas, although patches of duck tape remain), permanent furrowed brow, and frumpy attire completely warranted this courteous greeting. But FYI, it totally killed my Sonic buzz.

The Camel Is Dead

It was the pipe. And this is what happened.

I was taking Leah and Zack upstairs for naps when I heard what sounded like a fan. A hissing fan. A hissing fan with a bad case of rabies.

I looked at the wall curiously for approximately 5 seconds before I realized what was going on. That’s when I freaked. out.

I can’t remember where I went first. To the garage where I could access the pipes and see the water flow? To the basement where I knew the water main shut-off was? Or upstairs to puzzle over which toiletry appliance was causing me grief? And this is when I started to swear. Sorry, gentle readers. I know you expect more from me. But I said the “S” word (if my kids were reading this they would say, “You said ‘stupid’?” Unfortunately, no. That’s not what I said). I said the OTHER “S” word. over. and. over. again. So really it sounded like I was saying “Sh-h-h-h-h-h-h…” [Aside: In case anyone has been performing research on whether or not swearing helps in stressful situations, I’m here to report. No. It does not. I will, however, have to explain why my youngest child shares this new word in primary on Sunday, telling his teacher that it means, and I quote, “the uncontrollable flow of water under the stairs in our house”.]

Back to the broken pipe.

I was finally able to turn off the water main and ponder this unpleasant situation. I thought, This is the straw that breaks the camel’s back. But then I thought again, That camel’s back broke three straws ago. This is the fanny-pack full of quarters that killed the damn camel. Again, gentle readers, I apologize. But really, who needs a camel anyway?

My friend from church told me to pray for help. I told her I didn’t believe I qualified for divine intervention unless and until I repented for all that swearing. Or maybe that’s what she wanted me to pray about. (Now I have to call her back to find out.)

So the pipe has been patched. And I've called a plumber. And every moment since I've been begging forgiveness. –That and expressing thanks that the ex is not dating a model.

Because that would really suck.

When it Snows, it Blizzards

Let’s say you’ve been having a bad week. Let’s imagine you freelance for a living and need a few hours everyday sans children to write. Let’s imagine the public school system and a good babysitter provide you with just that. Now let’s imagine that on Tuesday the wind chill factor is such that school gets cancelled. Now let’s imagine that because your youngest child throws up on the way to the sitter’s on Wednesday you don’t get much work done (now two days running). Let’s imagine it’s now Thursday and you are sick along with your little boy.

What do you imagine happens next?

a. Your other two children throw up at school and must come home.
b. The extreme cold causes a pipe in your home to burst.
c. Your ex starts dating a model.
d. You win a million dollars through Ed McMann’s Publisher’s Clearing House Sweepstakes.

So what do you think really happened? While I’m not giving prizes to people who guess correctly, reading your responses just might cheer me up.

Taking a Load off – 20 Loads of Laundry, To Be Exact

Last weekend my sister Denise and cousin Lusina came to help me paint my playroom. Only I had a nervous breakdown and they ended up doing my laundry instead. And I promise—I didn’t pull a bait and switch. For weeks I had been looking forward to a DIY girls weekend. But it had been a tough week and on the day they were scheduled to arrive I called my sister blathering on like a nutcase (I’m not sure she could even understand me—I couldn’t even understand me). And you know what? They came anyway. They came, they saw, they kicked my laundry room’s butt.

I once overheard someone say that one person could never make a difference in the world. All I can say is that although my sister and cousin didn’t establish world peace last weekend, spending 48 hours worth of their time and energy on my laundry changed my perspective and changed my life when I most needed it (thus positively impacting the lives of three wonderful children). And I am proud to announce that for nearly 11 days I have kept up on my laundry. (I now LOVE going into my basement where I can see the floor and make my way to the washing machine without taking out my repelling gear).

So I’ve been thinking a lot about the difference we can make in another’s life. Here are a few more thoughtful gestures that have eased my burdens:

My bishop (the ecclesiastical leader of our local church) gets out his snow-blower every time we get more than a couple inches of snow. He clears the sidewalk on his entire block, the block across the street from his house, and then the sidewalk in front of my house and my neighbor’s (on yet another block).

My sisters and mother got me a very generous gift certificate to ShopCo Optical so that I could get the new glasses and contacts I’ve needed for more than three years.

Realizing that today’s “snow” day (really more of a COLD
day—25-degrees-below-zero COLD) had left me with little freelance time, a friend
of mine came and took Kaleb and Zack to her house so I could write sans children.

A week before Christmas we opened our front door to discover that an anonymous Secret Santa had gotten all of us gifts (including a $50 giftcard to WalMart).

My ex husband’s great uncle has gotten us firewood twice this winter (without being asked or taking one penny in return).

I could go on and on. And I’m not trying to brag about how attentive people have been to my needs. I’m just grateful to all those individuals who recognized that I was going through a tough time and needed a little help. It also excites me that one person, in doing just one little deed, can make a world of difference in another’s life. I love the idea of Paying It Forward. Consider the impact those six great deeds have had on me and my ever watchful children? And if I can respond by reaching out to others, and they can respond by doing the same, imagine the ripple effect.

And I’ve yet to encounter a more supportive and generous environment than the blogosphere. So for those of you curious as to the nature of my next contest, it will have something to do with this post. Give me just a little bit more time to orchestrate a fabulous prize.

Until then, sweet dreams!

My Daily Dose

Karen over at Pediscribe has nominated me for this fabulous award!

Xander, creator of this award, had this to say about it: This little award is called The Daily Dose - and here is all the important info to tell you what it is about and where it came from. This is a tribute to all the blogs that you’ve discovered that you can’t possibly live without. They make you laugh, cry, think and feel connected every time you read a post. They give you a thrill as you see them loading into your browser and you get an equally satisfying thrill when you see that they have commented on your blog.

Thanks so much for that, Karen. It means a lot to know I'm someone's daily dose! And now to spread the love. While I've been a deliquent blogger of late when I do sit down to blog I have a few daily doses of my own. Many of you have become good friends and I feel like reading your blog is like checking in, having a chat, learning something new. Here are my daily doses:

• Life in the Nuthouse -- aside from being my sister-in-law, Erin's just darn funny!
• Like a Star -- I'm not sure how I stumbled on Rachel's blog, but she's great and I love to hear what's going on in her neck of the woods.
• Gustogirl -- Gustogirl is Rachel's sister, so I know how I found her blog, but she has kids about my kids' age and I love hearing how a rational woman parents (I need all the help I can get).
• A Life of Triggers -- Eileen is such a sweet blogger and I have to check in to see how she's
  doing.
• I Can Fly, Just Not Up --Heather has become a BBF (Best Blogger Friend). She is genuine, warm, and compassionate. The girl doesn't just post comments to my blog, she emails
  to see how I'm doing!
• The Daily Knack -- I've recently become a regular to Lindsey's blog. And if you really want a laugh, visit her husband's blog the Daily Rebuttal.

There are sooooo many blogs I love to visit so I hate narrowing it down. So go spread the love, ladies--everyone should be a daily dose!

A little court-ordered fun

Yesterday I went to a court-ordered co-parenting class with my soon-to-be ex-husband. And lest you suspect otherwise, it was actually quite pleasant. Like taking a nice warm bath. With a blow-dryer.

For those of you unfamiliar with divorce in the state of Idaho (May you always stay that way, amen.) all couples with children who are getting divorced are required to attend this co-parenting class. Not only that but you are scheduled to take this class together. So imagine, if you will, a room full of divorcing couples. And not just a room, but a courtroom full of divorcing couples (because apparently, the classroom they use for traffic school is unavailable). Needless to say there was nary a warm-fuzzy in that place.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let’s start with registration because you must first stand in line to pay for this court-ordered co-parenting class. That’s when amidst the giggles issuing forth from the conversation behind us I heard the most unusual pickup line ever:

“Is this your first time taking this class?”

The couple was obviously not familiar enough with one another to be getting divorced. The only alternative was they were flirting in the registration line. I have just one thing to say about that: Ew.

Okay, back to the class. Let me just say if that class had a prom, the ex and I would have been voted King and Queen. Not because we were the most attractive couple in the room, but we seemed to get along the best. We sat together and everything. I know; we’re fabulous. But honestly, how tough could the competition be? At break there was an argument between a couple because one had opted to sit apart from the other. After which one soon-to-be ex-spouse gave a passionate monologue about the ridiculous nature of a co-parenting class in which the couples are required to attend together.

Can’t we just all get along?

So you can see, it wasn’t that bad. Add to that the video where Carl Malone gave parenting advice and you have an evening totally worth the $35 registration fee. That and the ex and I are feeling pretty good about ourselves right now.

All things considered, does that mean we passed?

And the winner is...

You guys are good, I gotta say. And I had lots of favorites, including (but not limited to) Zellmer's "See Dad. I told you this Power Ranger shirt is a chic magnet." Rachel's "Ladies, ladies. There's enough man here for everyone." Eileen's "KALEB STRIKES GOLD IN SAN FRANCISCO." And how could I not like Shawn's "DAD !!! How can you even THINK these girls are prettier than MOM???" But I have to say my absolute favorite was Candygirlflies':

"HELP ME!! My sister's barbies have COME ALIIIIIIIVE!!"

So Heather, I'll be emailing you to get you your Amazon giftcard.

Thanks, everyone, for playing. This was a lot of fun and it's gotten me thinking about another great contest I'd like to try -- so stay tuned for the details.

Up in the Night's First Contest!

I’m so excited I can hardly contain myself. I got this idea from Confessions of a Pioneer Woman and I think it’s a great way to let all of you know how much I appreciate you reading my lil o’ blog. I’ve got this picture and I want you to write a caption for it. While I may not be able to give you a $500 gift certificate to Best Buy, I can offer you a $25 Amazon card. Yippee!

So here’s the backstory. Mid-summer, shortly after the soon-to-be exHub and I separated, he took Kaleb to California to watch a couple football games. After returning he handed me the digital camera and lamented that he hadn’t taken many pictures. I forgot about said pictures until uploading the frozen pumpkin to my computer. I found this:
It was the first of about 5 pictures and was by far the most interesting. It represents my son’s first encounter with cheerleaders—and San Francisco 49’er cheerleaders, nonetheless. So here you go—post your caption for this picture in a comment to this post by Sunday the 13th, noon (MST) to get a shot at the Amazon gift card. Anyone can enter and one lucky blogger will win! I feel all Publisher’s Clearinghouse…

In which post Shauna gets over it

Okay, so not really, but it was good to vent and now I’m moving on, post-wise that is. Thanks so much for all the great advice—it has been incorporated into my action plan. Following my dear mother’s suggestion I put my kids to bed early Sunday night, took a long, hot bath, and got a little me-time (see Suburban Correspondent's comment). Meds (St. John’s Wart chased with some B complex—for starters [thanks, Carrie and Karen from Pediascribe] – as suggested by my lovely pharmacist sister, Jen) to commence on Wednesday. If that doesn’t work I’ll be trying the stronger stuff. Thanks Tola (Mom and my brother Jason) for volunteering to help me fold laundry--there are no better friends than those willing to brave my dirty clothes. Thanks also to the exHub who brought me a Diet Coke and chocolate after reading the post in which I vented and felt sorry for myself (How's that for amicable?) And I do so solemnly swear to move forward one 3x3 inch square at a time (thanks, Shawn).

You couldn’t be more fabulous, dear readers. I’m trying to think up some way to show you have much I appreciate your fabulousness. Stay tuned!

And just a few things that have made me happy as of late. My sister Jen sent me these:
Aren’t they beautiful? All yellow and cheerful (with lemon slices in the vase—appropriate, no?).

And here’s the new purse my mom got me for Christmas—proof that she picks the best fabric for my purses (I LOVE IT, MOM!).

If any of you are interested in these purses visit Designs by Jamie who made all the purses showcased here and here.

And that’s it for today although I started a “Parenting with Love and Logic” class last night which I’m sure will inspire many a future post. Kaleb also got glasses so I’ve got to share the before and after pictures. But Leah’s home sick today so I’ve got to mother and stuff.

Thanks again, everyone. You’re a force to be reckoned with; you did indeed help me better manage my stress and depression.

Love to you all!

In which post Shauna vents and feels sorry for herself

Sorry, folks, but I gotta to do it, and I’m warning you now so you can click the back button before it gets ugly. There. I said it. Carry on if you don’t want to hear my sorry whine. It won't hurt my feelings. I promise.

Being a single mom sucks. A lot. Surprised? Of course I knew that going in, but the energy required to parent my children alone in the quiet corners of the house, make money to pay bills, and live through some days without talking to one adult is tiring. The silly thing is I knew all that before my very-very-soon-to-be exhub and I separated. But it’s been 6 long months of living it and I’m flirting with a nervous breakdown. Most days I feel like I’ve got it together, but every now and then I’m begging someone to fit me in a straight jacket, load me with meds, and place me in a padded cell for 6 weeks.

The holidays were hard. And that seems an odd statement for me to make because it was a great time. The exhub and I shared a very pleasant Christmas and New Year’s with the kids, but a part of me was wishing I could catapult myself from my own life and land nicely in someone else’s.

I’ll own all my choices. I still believe they are the best ones for me and mine. I freelance from home because it affords me the ability to be with my kids as much as possible. What this job doesn’t provide me with is sick leave and vacation time, insurance benefits, or a guaranteed check every two weeks. So maybe my little pity party right now is directly proportional to the days I tried enjoying Christmas break with my children. The days I didn’t make as much writing.

And have I mentioned that I’m a worry wort? The two things that preoccupy my days are my children and my freelance. It seems I can't manage much else. My basement is full of unwashed clothes, my dining room table is lined with exactly 6 bins of clean, unfolded laundry, and I can't keep two rooms of my house clean at any given time. Don’t get me wrong. I’ve always had what I consider a domestic disability, but now I’m messy-squared and that can wear on a woman balancing on the cusp of a police-escorted ambulance ride to the local psych-ward, a la Britney Spears.

So there you have it. Four paragraphs full of Shauna’s very own private (okay, not true) pity party. Sorry guys. It was either that or I was going to wave down Mr. Crazy and ask him to stay at my house for awhile. So far this has kept him at bay.

Thanks for humoring me. I’m sure things will look better in the morning…

One Mother’s Conspiracy Theory

I don’t want to be an alarmist or anything, but our children are plotting to take over the world. Or maybe it’s just my children. Either way, you should be very, very afraid.

Just today they conspired against me in the grocery store. We were there for an hour, and for 45 minutes they were complete angels. And I’ll tell you why. If they behave themselves while I’m grocery shopping, we’ll go down the toy aisle before we hit the register. It’s my rule, and it’s always worked for me. Until today.

Those little devils waited until we were walking away from their reward to turn on me. That’s right. Like one of those game simulations that changes strategy based on your choices, these kids were organized, conspiring, and downright tricky.

I had followed Dr. Phil to the letter. I discovered their “currency” (i.e. toy aisle) and used it to leverage the situation to my advantage, only to be bamboozled in the last 15 minutes of our errand. I tell you—today the grocery story, tomorrow the world.

The real mutiny began at the checkout and didn’t end until we reached the van. One or more of them did each of the following: man-handled the bank displays, took a ride on the merry-go-round that is WalMart’s bag dispenser, shoved a baby bottle pop up their nose, threw up outside the store (three times), tried to ice skate in the parking lot while holding onto the shopping cart (only to upend the cart and run over her baby brother who screamed like his toes had been severed in the process).

Not to get all Chicken-Little on you, but I’ve decided children are conniving and smarter than us. Or maybe they’re just smarter than me. Either way, I am very, very afraid.

How many of your children could hack a computer faster than you could pay your bills online? Or skateboard through the mall before you could pull up your nylons? Or text three chapters of War and Peace before you could figure out how to program your VCR?

So while everyone’s trying to decide who to elect for president, how to go green or establish world peace, I’ll be keepin’ my eyes on the little buggers.

The world, people, I’m warning you.

A Pumpkin's Slow, Cold Death

I may not have hung Christmas lights this year, but I left some of our Halloween decorations out to compensate. Here's Kaleb's poor Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle pumpkin. We will miss you Leonardo.

Post Christmas Day Crash, or as I like to call it “Good Riddance 2007!”

Yep, that’s right. That says “crash” not “bash.” Because Christmas wasn’t exciting enough for the Belknap family, I had to get into a car accident two days later. Here’s how it went down.

I was taking Kaleb to the dentist. The van was nearly out of gas and I was less than 5 yards from Conoco when I tried to slow down.

Let me pause for a moment to describe the Winter Wonderland that is Idaho Falls. For those of you dreaming of a white Christmas—your dream came true—in my area code. Over the Christmas break I’m going to estimate we got approximately 6 feet of snow (and for those readers from Idaho Falls, you and I both know that number’s probably closer to three, but we’re going for effect here, people. Run with me on this one). And in spite of all this snow, by December 27th few of the side roads had been plowed, and the main road I was traveling had probably not been plowed as much as it had been talked about in the plowmen’s breakroom (effect, people!).

So back to my story. When I went to slow down for that gas station, my brakes locked and I began to skid into what looked like a 2007 Ford Taurus, color Merlot. Now hindsight is 20/20 so I can tell you now that I should have either 1) hit the Ford Taurus (Their bumper looked pretty hearty and could have withstood my 10 mile/hr skidding speed – although my bumper would have done neither of us any good). Or 2) turned into the curb to my right. Of course I went with #3, or as I like to call it “stupid”; I turned into the left lane.

Lucky for me the left lane was NOT oncoming traffic, although there was someone clipping along at an insane speed who WASN’T watching for stupid drivers picking option #stupid in their first skid of the winter season. He hit my door, right at the hinge and knocked out his headlight in the process. (At least he was in a '91 Toyota Tercel...)

That’s when Kaleb perked up from the backseat. “Were we just in an accident?” he asked. “Did we just crash? Wow, that was cool. Lucky I was in my seatbelt. I could have died!” He was far more excited about the event than I, let me tell you.

The kicker is, in the time I spent idling in wait for Mr. IFPD, my van ran out of gas. I coasted into the gas station and had to be pushed up to the pump. As if getting in a car accident, holding up traffic for 20 minutes, and having my son narrate the entire experience wasn’t momentous enough, I had to top it off with an empty gas tank. Brilliant!

It’s been less than one week since we “survived” said accident (at least that’s how Kaleb’s describing it) and I have to tell you, while not pretty and definitely not my year-end of choice I have to say it suits 2007 well.

Bring it, 2008. Because you and I both know you’re bound to be a helluva lot better than last year.

Happy New Year, blogworld!

Zacky's Lunch Prayer

Zack: Please bless the two twins…

Mom: Dear Heavenly Father…

Zack: Mom, I can do it mysefff… Dear Heavenly Father, bless the two twins. Bless Aunt Nalalie and Uncle Jerumy. Bless that I can get Lightning McQueen and Doc for Christmas…

Mom: Bless the food…

Zack: I can do it myseeeeeeeffff… Bless that we can go to church and watch Harry Potter and the Order of the Pheonix…

Mom: ????

Zack: And please bless the food. In the name of Jesus Christ, Amen. Was that a good prayer, Mom?

Mom: Yes, Zack. That was a very good prayer.

Merry Christmas (Eve) to all, and to all a good night (Right. Like that's gonna happen...)

The Diapurse

2000 BC (Before Children) I used a strappy purse. You know the kind—the wallet on a rope. Everything I needed fit in that tidy number: cash, credit cards, pictures of friends and family, lipgloss. Never would I arrive somewhere and think, Dang, how could I have left the wetwipes? Or, please tell me there’s a Lightning McQueen in here somewhere. I was childless and streamlined, coming and going without much forethought. And then I had babies.

I was never much for diaper bags but being the sharp new mom I was, I soon realized my strappy purse was no longer going to work. So I upgraded to a Mother Purse that was big enough to carry diapers and sippy cups but not big enough to double as a beach bag.

Enter Purse Party. Finally I had the time and inclination to hand-select a bag that would carry all the stuff I was starting to accumulate as a frazzled and disorganized mom. This is the first purse I picked:

And then my mother gave me this one (recognizing that I was a little jealous of my beloved sister-in-law Erin’s diaper bag of the same style):

Adorable, right? Fully of personality and color. I love them both, but here's the problem. I use them to pack the most ridulous things around. That one above? It's been my bag of choice this entire Christmas season. And I only realized it's been loaded with too much stuff when I had to dump it out to find my cell phone. So last night I decided it was time to clean it out and here’s what I found (I call it Purse Vomit):

Things of note include: three Sonic straws (one without the sanitary paper covering), one loose WalMart receipt, a Radiator Springs Lightning McQueen (note: not Zack’s favorite), a clean diaper that—due to its long, rumpled journey—looks used, and one homemade invitation to a church Christmas party. How could I go from a wallet on a rope to a diapurse—that’s what I call this sad little hybrid between a purse and diaper bag. Catchy, right?

I’m just saying that I haven’t transitioned into my matured state of motherhood very gracefully. There are streamlined mothers out there, wearing fashionable clothes and carrying what they need (read: no Sonic straws or matchbox cars) in a tight little purse that matches their shoes. Me? I’m carrying a junk drawer in a bag (albeit a very cute one).

I’m going to have to work on that one in 2008…

The Because-I’m-a-Loser MEME

Over a month ago Candygirlflies at I Can Fly Just Not Up tagged with a meme I was actually excited to do (I’ll admit, I’m not a fan of the MEME). I realized it was the same MEME that Rachel at Like a Star tagged me with two months earlier (no, I didn’t do it then either). But I got a little sidetracked (I’ll blame it on getting locked out of my house shortly thereafter) and never did it. So in efforts to push the Collateral Damage post down a bit (as always, thanks so much for all your words of comfort and support) and to fulfill my blogging obligations, I will share 6 random facts about me:

1. I’m obsessed with Britney Spears.
Don’t ask me why. I was never interested in her life before it became a train wreck. Maybe it’s because regardless of what I’m going through I can always say, “At least that’s not me.” Or maybe it’s because we’re watching, in real time, what happens to a media darling who’s told she’s sexy before she’s old enough to watch R rated movies. It’s sad really. (Have you heard about her sister?). I know; I'm pathetic.

2. My front bumper looks like this:


Yikes. This has quickly gone from a 6-random-facts meme to a true confessional. The sad thing is I did nothing to deserve this bumper. I blame it on the cold Idaho Falls winters that cracked the plastic before it even had a fighting chance. And now, the poor thing, is held together with bailing wire and duct tape. True story. It’s also the laughing stock of Idaho drivers everywhere.

3. I love Bravo!
I don’t watch much TV but when I get the chance I’ll stay up past midnight catching up on Project Runway, Top Chef, and yes, blasphemous Kathy Griffin (what can I say, the girl makes me laugh…).

4. I’m canceling cable come January.
See #3. That and regardless of how much I try to restrict TV my children still know the theme song to Sponge Bob Square Pants.

5. I can’t figure out how to get my header graphic back.
I had my purty night-scene graphic displaying nicely at the top of my blog and then one day, poof, it was gone. Well, not really gone, but cropped and left justified. And I can’t figure out how to fix it. Help?!

6. I could live off diet coke, microwave popcorn, and graham crackers with frosting.
Which is why, in 2008, I plan on selling my soul to the local gym. I’m hoping to barter with them. I write a monthly newsletter for free (in which I divulge my monthly weight loss stats) and they give me one free membership. I can’t decide if that’s gutsy or stupid. I’ll tell which if I ever get the nerve to call them.

So there you have it. The confessional meme. My apologies to both Candygirlflies and Rachel for not posting it sooner. And because it’s such a late response I won’t tag anyone in turn, but I do welcome any of your confessions. Please, gentle readers, don’t leave me hangin’ here. My bumper’s on display.

Collateral Damage

This year has been taxing on my little man, Kaleb. The divorce has been hardest on him, and in just a few short months he’s matured more than I’d like to admit. My toothless wonder is more reflective, thoughtful, and introspective.

Last week was the most difficult of my life. I won’t drag you through the details—suffice it to say that ending a marriage is a painful, difficult, and often, ugly thing. On Tuesday night I placed my kids in front of the TV and shut myself in the nearby empty playroom to talk with my Mom. It wasn’t long before I was sobbing uncontrollably, wiping snot from the faceplate while trying not hyperventilate. Kaleb walked in.

At that exact moment I realized that while my children have seen their mother cry (in a dainty, dab-a-tissue-at-the-corner-of-my-eyes kinda way) they’ve never seen me broken like that, incoherent and hiccupping with emotion.

He stood in the doorway, stunned. “Why are you crying, Mom?”

“Mommy’s just sad,” I said. (Why I speak in third-person like this, even to my six-year old, I don’t know.)

He continued to ask that same question, over and over, letting me know that being sad wasn’t answer enough.

Finally I said, “Sometimes mommy and daddy don’t agree about important things.”

There, I’d said it. In my least-rational, weakest moment I had told my child that his father and I weren’t currently on the same page, in fact, I was doubtful we were even in the same book. I got off the phone and we muddled through the next few days. Somehow.

On Friday the ex picked Kaleb up from school and asked how he could be a better father. His answer? Not, buy me a video game, let me have my own bedroom, or even play catch with me more.

“Don’t make Mom cry.” That was his answer.

And later, when I asked him how I could be a better mom he said, “Get along with Dad.”

Profound in a simple, innocent way.

And absolutely heartbreaking.

An Undeniable Will for Chocolate

This week's column...

One parenting trend suggests you describe your child’s shortcomings in a positive light to avoid pidgin-holing them early in life. If that were the case I would say my daughter is selective, discerning, and astute. Unfortunately for her I don’t subscribe to that trend. Leah is a picky, persnickety, finicky eater.

If my daughter had her druthers, she would eat Honey Nut Cheerios, chocolate ice cream, and grilled cheese sandwiches everyday. Again, unfortunately for her, she doesn’t get her druthers much.

So dinner is a battle at the Belknap house. It doesn’t matter what it is, child-friendly though the meal may appear, the girl won’t eat it. Spaghetti? Nope. Tacos? Too spicy. Pork chops and mashed potatoes? What is this, Mom?

But I won’t budge. She has to have a bite of everything to get down from the table; her plate must be clean to get any dessert. And tonight’s piece de resistance is chocolate ice cream. The situation has now become a moral dilemma for my daughter. She must eat that ice cream.

If I were to tell you that a 5-year old could execute the most motivational monologue you’ve ever heard in your life, you wouldn’t believe me. But I was there; I witnessed it from my very own kitchen. My little Leah, with her gift of gab, managed to talk nonstop and still eat an entire plate of broccoli, little smokies, and macaroni and cheese.

It took an hour and went something like this:

“Dinner looks really good. Mhmmmm. It’s delicious. I’m licking it right now, Mom. Watch me lick the broccoli. I think we should eat this every night. Even for lunch. What do you think, Mom? This is even better than chocolate ice cream. It tastes like green chocolate. Yum! It’s amazing.”

At this point she wrinkles her nose and puts the broccoli in her mouth, working through a gag reflex until the broccoli has been safely swallowed.

“Wow. That was great. I only have three more bites and then I can eat ice cream. Do I have to eat the macaroni and cheese all gone? Every single bite? That’s a lot of food but I think there’s plenty of room in my tummy. Tummies are big. Big enough for broccoli, mini hot dogs, macaroni and cheese and ice cream. Lot and lots of ice cream…”

And she did it. In no less than 8,562 syllables my daughter ate her dinner. So while she may be persnickety I’ve got to give her one thing. She’s got gumption. Chutzpah. Moxie. And an undeniable will for chocolate ice cream.

She gets THAT from her mother.

Picture Retakes

I took all the kids in to get their pictures taken at the school. And after getting retakes for Kaleb and Leah, they have returned. Thankfully they turned out pretty durn good. They're cute, right?


Kaleb, or as we like to call him, "No Teeth"


Leah


Zack, Zackers, Zacky, Zackerino

Leah at Church, Again...

Yesterday, Leah sat next to me in church (sound familiar?), cross-legged on the pew with her dress covering her legs. She was concentrating on her notebook, painstakingly placing stickers (thanks, mom) all over the cover. When out of nowhere (and in the stark silence of the chapel) she let loose the biggest piece of flatulence that congregation has ever heard. And at first I had to look back, expecting to see a gassy elephant sitting behind us. But no. It was my dainty daughter, acting as if letting one rip in the middle of church was completely natural. And not to be gross, but it had a noticeable flapping effect and was long. Long enough for me to look back at the pew behind us, not see an elephant sitting there, and then turn back to my daughter and say, “Stop, Leah,” to which she responded (yes, still flatulating), “But, Mom, it’s my toot. I CAN’T stop that.”

Why, of course!

And that’s when the man sitting in front of us looked back (expecting to see an elephant) and laughed out loud.

Project Playroom-Makeover, Part One

Sit down, people, this is going to be a long one (but totally worth it, I promise).

I had quite the weekend planned. The ex had the kids and I had a list of Honey Do’s (yes, I call myself Honey) longer than Santa’s naughty list; and my list had nothing to do with Christmas.

I had decided, in the middle of the most hectic time of year, to prep the playroom for a makeover. My in-laws recently moved out and the room was nearly empty so, I said to myself, why not paint it while the painting’s good? I know—these monologues of mine are nothing but trouble.

Sooooo, if you’ve ever done a home improvement project you know that before you can accomplish said project you must do 20 other things first. It’s a rule or something.

Here’s my list in reverse order so it makes more sense (stay with me—the good part’s coming):

10. Paint playroom
9. Prime playroom
8. Sand-down baseboards and window casings
7. Empty playroom and put books in my bedroom
6. Move beautified bookshelf into my bedroom
5. Paint knarly pesticide shelving unit in garage
5. Decide I can’t afford to buy a nice new bookshelf for the books I must move from the playroom to my bedroom
4. Realize I must move all my books from the playroom to my bedroom
3. Forget to take a “Before” picture
2. Look disdainfully at dusty, littered playroom
1. Get the brilliant idea to perform Project Playroom-Makeover

So late last night I had cleaned off and primed the knarly bookshelf. I was excited about this pre-playroom prepping task—I felt all HGTV and stuff. It was nearly midnight when I decided to apply the first coat of black spray paint in order to get a jump-start on my long Saturday To-Do List. I went into the garage, shut the door behind me and DIY-ed my heart out. Then I tried to go back inside.

You got it. I locked myself out. After midnight. On a snowy night in Idaho Falls.

I admit it. I panicked a bit. For about 30 minutes I circled the house, pounding on windows and doors as if the cats would open up and let me in. Finally, I broke some screens. Three to be exact. And I wasn’t all clean and burglar-like. I got a little wicked with a screwdriver and bent them past repair. I still didn’t get in the house.

That’s when I decided to scale the roof and try to break in through my sons’ room. Yes, it was snowing. Yes, we have a steep metal roof that was certain to provide no traction whatsoever. Yes, I am a little portly with no athletic prowess. Yes, I am the same person who refused to get on a ladder to hang some Christmas lights for my dewy-eyed children. But it seemed perfectly reasonable at the time. That is, until I stood beneath the roof, yellow rope in hand, and realized I couldn’t easily lasso the chimney. Damn.

I circled the house again, swore a few more times, and decided the garage wasn’t that cold. At least, it hadn’t seemed cold until that thought flitted through my head. It WAS cold and my fingers were numb after all that screen-breaking and failed chimney-lassoing. But did it really warrant waking the neighbors?

Don’t worry, there’s a happy ending to this story (there’s got to be right? I am typing this post – ten fingers intact). I realized my MIL lives just two blocks down (I blame this delayed epiphany on the hyperthermia). To make a long story short (too late, right?), I trekked to her house in my PJs and slippers and then she drove us both to the house where she tore the weather stripping from the garage door and jimmied her way into my house using her Safeway card. I hugged her. And cried. Just a little.

The good news is I can check items one through seven off my list. And I have a sleek new bookshelf in my bedroom. But don’t take my post for it. You be the judge:


Totally worth it, right?

Deck the Halls, Not the Children

This week's column...

Because I’m now the only adult in my home, I’m frequently outnumbered on things like food preferences and movie picks. That’s why on the 26th of November Christmas decorating commenced at the Belknap house.

Now I’m not a Type A personality. In fact, I’m more like Type C, if there is such a thing. My house is not meticulous, Mt. Laundry looms in my basement, and my children believe cooking simply requires a can opener and microwave. So you’d think I’d be easy-going when it comes to Christmas decorating. Not so much.

I’m not sure if it’s because the majority of our decorations are breakable or I’m just a grinch, but as soon as I popped the seal on our Christmas tubs I became Martha Stewart preparing for a party at the compound. I was barking orders, telling children to stop touching things, and finally made everyone sit at my feet to watch me place everything “just so.” Yes, someone should nominate me for the Christmas Spirit award.

When we set up the tree a few days later I was determined to make it a more kid-friendly activity. I gritted my teeth through the light-hanging while all the bulbs and ceramic decorations were Zack-handled. Once finished I sat on the couch to let my kids go at it. After a half-hearted attempt to channel Martha and give hanging instructions, I finally gave up and watched the rest of “A Charlie Brown Christmas” while the bottom two tiers of the tree were loaded up with every decoration in the box.

So my house is officially Christmas-ready, although my children reminded me that we had lights hanging from the roof LAST year. They even volunteered to hold the ladder while mother risks life and limb stringing up those bulbs of horror. I told them it was a dangerous job, and Kaleb explained to his sister, “Yeah, Leah, Mom might fall on you and break your arm. Or leg. Or kill you.” Thanks, son. Either way, I believe we’re all in agreement that we won’t be decorating the outside of our house this season.

But we’ve been able to enjoy the decorations that went up early this year (I would call you all overachievers, but I might offend half my readers—all five of you). There are the inflatable Santas and snowmen and elaborate light designs, but so far the prize goes to a house just two blocks down from us. The entire front yard is dedicated to an ice sculpture including a heart, a cross and a frozen ladder. It requires a daily spray-down. My mind cannot wrap itself around the scrupulous planning and maintenance of such holiday cheer. But kudos to those of you who can because it satisfies my children and keeps me off the ladder.

So back to the song. Halls decked? Check. Gay apparel donned? Check. Joyous singing altogether? Sing with me now, people: Fa la la la la.

Let the Christmas celebrations begin. Happy Holidays, Bloggers!

Hawaii, my Ku'uipo

Last night I found the Israel Kamakawiwo'ole CD, "Alone in IZ World," and played it as I fell asleep. Ever since I've been homesick for Hawaii, my sweetheart, my Ku'uipo. So in honor of Pink and Blues Girls Flashback Thursday I'm going to indulge myself a bit and write this lovepost in honor of the place I once called home and am missing dearly today.

Have you ever had that odd sensation of coming home? I don't mean returning home from college for Christmas break, although the feelings are similar. I mean landing in a place you've never been before and feeling like it was the place meant to be the setting for your life? And like a tuning fork your heart resonates whenever there? Hawaii was that for me. It's the only place I still have reoccurring dreams about, and when I wake up I feel melancholy and apart.

But enough of that. On to the good stuff. As I closed my eyes last night and listened to the very local Hawaiian music I remembered so many things:

• I could hear the ocean through the open louvers, either in my dorm room or my bedroom off-campus, and didn't realize just how loud it was until I returned to the mainland.


• The airport smells like a flower fest with the scent of carnation, plumeria, and orchid so strong you carry it back across the ocean with you.


• Polynesians raise their eyebrows intermittently throughout a conversation to let you know they're listening.


• POG (passion, orange, and guava juice) is thicker and sweeter than your average juice.


• No matter how long I lived there, poi still tasted like kindergarten glue paste.


• However, the taste of breadfruit grew on me and for the longest time I couldn't imagine eating chicken without it.


• When you're a starving college student there's nothing like being invited to a traditional wedding reception complete with a luau (which includes a double breasted buffet line with real Kalua pig).


• McDonalds has a special Hawaiian menu that includes the teriyaki burger (yum!) and rice as a side dice.


• Oh, and since I'm talking about food, my favorite thing to eat at the Polynesian Cultural Center (PCC) was the Spam roll (like a California roll only with Spam).


• My favorite job EVER was as a Japanese tour guide at the PCC.


• Every evening as I walked from the cafeteria to the library I was serenaded by the loud music blaring from the PCC night show.


• Pulling my hair up in a bun with chopsticks was considered uber-cool.


• Every slack-key guitar or ukelelei song sounds like love to me.


• The hula. Ah. What more can I say?

Like a love-sick girl I could go on and on forever, but I'll spare you. Still, I hope you've caught the Aloha spirit from this one little post and will have a better day because of it. And here are my pictures. 1)BYU-Hawaii, 2)The LDS Temple as seen from Hukilau Beach, and 3)Hukilau Beach

Calling all readers...

People, I need your help. Seriously.

I’m about ready to tackle the task of sending out Christmas cards, but I’m a little stumped. Generally I try to write a light-hearted newsletter that tells people what we’re up to. But how do you share the earth-splitting news I’ve got to share (i.e. divorce) without putting a damper on the Christmas spirit? I’ve considered not sending anything at all, but then lots of people will just be confused next year when I return to the ritual. I’ve also considered just sending out the picture postcards and signing it “Shauna and the kids.” Is that enough? I welcome (and beg for) your advice and/or suggestions.

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…