The unResolution

It’s that time of year again, where we aspire to become better (and thinner) people. I always get tense when friends start talking about the New Year. There’s so much pressure to make a list of resolutions—to start dieting, to go to the gym, to be nice. Isn’t life difficult enough already?

And I’ll be honest; I haven’t been too successful in my prior relationship with The Resolution. Maybe my expectations have been too high, my goals unrealistic, the onion blossom too tempting. Go figure.

So this year I’m taking a new approach to my New Year’s goals. No more unrealistic, overwhelming, grandiose resolutions. This year they will be completely attainable. Take a peek:

1. Don’t yell at my kids, after bedtime. Because I’ll wake them up if I do.
2. Lose all the weight I gained from December18st to January 3rd. News Flash: I won’t be acting as the Weight Watchers spokesperson anytime soon. I’m already on probation for all those lies I told you about holiday goodies being worth one point. What will they say when they discover I’ve outgrown my skinny jeans (purchased a mere 16 days ago)? So my second unresolution is to lose all the holiday cheer stuck to my backside.
3. Stop Googling illnesses and their corresponding symptoms. My regular readers know that I’m a closet hypochondriac who consults Dr. Google every time my nose itches. Google will no longer be my homepage in 2009, nor will I continue visiting that wretched WrongDiagnosis.com.
4. Vacuum my stairs. Okay, so I’m commitment-phobe who is unwilling to resolve anything more domestic than a once-over with the handi-vac. Baby steps.
5. Be more positive. Right. Whatever. Like that’s going to happen. Okay, I’m just kidding. I will try to become all zen and stuff through meditation and positive affirmations designed to achieve good karma. Or I could just stop using pseudo swear words around the kids.

There you have it: my five New Years unResolutions. And seeing as how today is January 1st, 2009, I must remind myself to step away from the cheese ball and get back on that elliptical! See, they’re working already.

Happy New Year!

Why I'm Not Smart Enough to Be Santa

My oldest child is in the second grade and has been informed that Santa is not real. Some third-grade Grinch told my son that parents really masquerade as Santa Claus, filling stockings and leaving presents under the tree in the name of Jolly Old Saint Nick. Unless that kid’s parents are indeed Father Christmas, I don’t know what he’s talking about, because I’m not smart enough to be Santa. And I’ll tell you why.

First of all, I can hardly remember the names of my own three children let alone nine reindeer. And those elves? If you ask me, Santa’s running a sweatshop, and even Kathy Lee Gifford couldn’t get away with that. Only a jolly fellow like Kris Kringle, who pays his staff with sugar cookies and ski lift tickets, can make that racket work.

Not only that, but I don’t have the organizational skills required to hide presents from my own children until December 25th. I once “hid” the marshmallows from Zack and then forgot where they were, until I found him sitting on the counter stuffing them into his mouth (I had hidden them in the back of the silverware drawer—who hides marshmallows in the silverware drawer? Me, apparently.).

I also don’t know enough about the greater toy world to even pronounce half the things my children want. Would someone please tell me what distinguishes a Spectacular Spiderman action figure from your average, run-of-the mill Spiderman action figure? I leave those weightier issues to the big man in the red suit.
In fact, Santa would probably make a better parent than me. I’ve told you that the mere mention of Santa’s Naughty List will whip my kids into better shape than any Love and Logic strategy. Not that I plan on vacating my position anytime soon. I’m just sayin’.

Add to that the fact that I don’t drive well in the snow, have a horrible sense of geography, and wouldn’t be able to afford all those cookies on my Weight Watchers plan, and you have a mommy that can’t even apply for Santa’s job, let alone perform it.

So to all you children out there who think your moms and dads are doing Santa’s job, let me just say that in behalf of most parents in the free world, we don’t have the brain cells for it. Santa runs a tight ship and has to remember more things than I can track on my grocery list, so power to the big man. He’s doing a fine job and I won’t rock the boat by questioning his existence.

Will you?

Merry Christmas!

My Sweet Little Leaf Whisperer

We bought our house in September, when the two big trees in our front yard were brilliant with color. Standing on the corner of our lot you could look down our numbered street and see a canopy of trees stretched tall and wide with fiery leaves. It was so romantic as to induce a series of heart-felt sighs.

In October we moved in, after the two big trees in our front yard had vomited all their leaves in a thick carpet that lay, wet and slimy, on our grass. Shortly thereafter, we raked and we raked until our palms were blistered and some 20-odd garbage sacks were filled with tree waste.

Last year I discovered a leaf blower hidden in the bowels of my dry vac, and upon plugging it in, was delighted to discover that magical thing would blow all the leaves off my yard and into the gutter in no time at all. I was in love and, will admit only here, I may have had a few terms of endearment reserved for my beloved leaf blower alone.

This year my children decided to help me rake the leaves and created one huge pile in my front yard, after which they insisted that this chore, inspired only by their love and concern for me, should earn them each a dollar. Those cute little capitalists.

And then it rained. It rained before I had a chance to retrieve My Sweet Little Leaf Whisperer to disperse the leaves and move them to the gutter. And if you don’t know how rain can thwart the powerful magic of a leaf blower, let me tell you.

That pile ‘o leaves, which my children had so lovingly gathered together for me, had become a thick, immovable mass. My Sweet Little Leaf Whisperer blew and blew, and nary a leave budged. Okay, so that’s not true. There was some budging, there was some flipping and flopping (because that’s what wet, congealed leaves do after they’ve been composting in your front yard through a series of rain storms), but there was NO magical swooshing, where the leaves, as if commanded by something stronger than Nature herself, would dance their way to the streets.

So after two hours with My Sweet Little Leaf Whisperer (and two very numb feet), I still have a fairly large pile ‘o leaves in my front yard. Although I did unearth half a bag of Halloween candy, two rakes, one broomstick, one plastic snow shovel, and a handful of squirt guns. My cute little capitalists were obviously doing more than just raking leaves in my front yard.

If the rain stops, today I will find myself on another date with My Sweet Little Leaf Whisperer, once again trying to move that sopping leaf pile into the gutter.

A leaf pile, remember, for which I paid three dollars…

Happy Halloween!

In a fit of insanity I agreed to make my kids’ costumes this year. Yes, me, the 4-H flunkie, decided to tackle my children’s three unconventional and bizarre Halloween selections just two weeks before the 31st.

The Dreaded Question: What do you want to be for Halloween this year?

When you ask it in September you give children more than enough time to consider elaborate, ornate, and eBay-able costumes. You also give them nine weeks in which to change their minds. Over and over again. When you ask it on October 15th, you run the risk of not being able to find their selections at Wal-Mart, however, at that point there are no taksies backsies and you have a definitive choice.

Upon being asked the Dreaded Question, Sport and Spunk, with boyish resolution, supplied one-word answers.

Sport: Avatar

Spunk: RobotBoy

Decisive and to-the-point. Of course I had to Google them both later to find out exactly what they were, but no matter, I still had sixteen days to sort it all out.

Sis, on the other hand, wasn’t quite as concise. Upon being asked the Dreaded Question, she spun around in a circle and then, performing a deep plei, answered, “I want to be a ballerina princess riding a Pegasus unicorn.” What? This is Halloween, not Fantasy Island.

In seasons past they have all made more conventional, mass-produced selections like Tinkerbell, Elmo, and Spiderman. This year their imaginations had outrun Wal-Mart’s suppliers, and I was left to make a very difficult decision: to sew or not to sew. As mentioned previously, I chose crazy; I chose to sew.

The fifteen dollar costume is a beautiful thing, and only once before have I foregone the convenience of ready-made Halloween-wear. And that one time amounted to an entire week of late nights and pseudo swear words. This year would prove to be no different.

After 72 hours with a pile of fabric, two boxes of Rit dye, a beaded leotard, one iron-on, and a very tall stack of chick flicks, I emerged with three unique, hand-crafted, custom-made Halloween costumes. My children have never been more proud. Or more strangely dressed.

Which proves you can be whatever you want for Halloween.

Me? I’m Martha Stewart this year. Spooky, right?


Here's a picture of the "real" Avatar.


Here's a picture of the "Sport" Avatar. (Yes, we're the crazy parents who shaved our son's head for Halloween...)


Here is a picture of the "real" Robotboy (I know. I had never heard of him before either...)


Here is a picture of the "Spunk" Robotboy.

And because I don't have a picture of the "real" princess ballerina riding a Pegasus Unicorn, I present to you Sis riding a Pegasus Unicorn.



Ta-Da!

Quarantine

Yesterday Sport was home with the stomach flu, and I was a little disappointed. Not because he soiled his sheets, moaned for attention, or asked for specialty foods, but because he didn’t.

For years, my kids have used my jeans like tissue. Without a second thought, I’ll hold out my hand so my kids can spit out gum, snuck candy, or plain too much food. And in public places I’ve even cupped my hands as an emergency vomit bowel. Bodily fluid has become my specialty.

Motherhood is not glamorous, people.

Those of you with kids are familiar with the Public Vomit. You’re at a formal gathering (it always is, right?) with a child who has been incubating an illness for about 12 hours, although you, as of yet, have no idea. And then, at the most inopportune time, the percolating child blows. And by blows, I mean chunks—and by chunks, I mean all over the place. (And if you’re unlucky, like the Belknap family, some poor, unsuspecting and immaculately-dressed older women had been trying to entertain aforementioned urpy child.)

As Mother, you step in and begin the cleanup, using everything from the Taco Bell napkins you’ve been stashing in your purse to your new leather jacket. In fact, you may even use your own shirt to wipe any residue from your child’s pale little face.

After years of such sickly episodes, you would think I’d be more than ready to graduate my oldest son from the human vomit bowl to the toilet bowl. Call me crazy, but I’m not.

Yesterday, Sport was a grown-up sick kid. He drank his 7Up and ate his soda crackers without complaint, even when it made him throw up thirty minutes later. And throughout all his disoriented nausea, not once did he miss the toilet. He didn’t cling, he didn’t whine, he didn’t use my shirt to wipe his face. What’s a mother good for if not all those things?

So I’ve begun to sing the enjoy-them-while-they’re-young anthem of motherhood. No more diaper bags, no more ear infections, no more public vomits. But while I may no longer be the human vomit bowel, I’m still the homework nag. That counts for something.

And the sibling rivalry referee. They still need one of those, right?

Winter, anyone?

Winter’s coming.

I know. Leave it to me to be the bearer of bad news.

Just this weekend, it snowed here in Idaho Falls. Sunday morning we had about an inch on the ground and it’s currently 29 degrees Fahrenheit. I still have nightmares about last winter. The ice dams, the frozen pipes, the icicle tears.

So I decided to better prepare this year. And so far I’ve insulated the pipes and practiced building fires. I went to girls’ camp; you would think that last one would come more easily.

I have decided that all my 2007 winter woes were the direct result of my inability to build a fire. The ice dams on the backside of my house? The fireplace is on the backside of my house. The pipe that runs under the stairs by the backside of my house? The fireplace – still on the backside of my house. There’s a definite pattern that you would think an educated women would have deduced before the third or fourth snowfall. But no, I had already abandoned my efforts of trying to make a spark with some steel wool and a 6-volt battery (kidding).

Firebuilding 101. There’s a fundamental college requirement for you.

More than the physical chill, I’m bracing myself for those heating bills. You think the feds might spring for those after they bail out Wall Street? I won’t get my hopes up; I’m buying a couple cords of wood and will continue to practice my fire-building skills. Yesterday I actually started one without having to use an entire newspaper (sports section and all). In fact, I’m moving through the newspapers so quickly I’ll have to use last year’s heating bills to fuel this winter’s fires.

So I’m bracing myself for what this winter will hold. Some people around here are hoping that, due to our mild August weather, we’ll be having an even milder winter. Being the eternal optimist I am, I think mean ole Mother Nature was just shutting down the sun early so that by Halloween the only kids who could survive trick or treating will be dressed like Sasquatch or Satan.

You better watch it, Mother Nature. It’s an election year and I just might vote for the Devil if you keep this up (still kidding!).

Hope for Me, Thanks

I’ve joked about being Worst Case Scenario Mama. It seems a funny thing, a natural thing –something that prepares me for the worst possible outcome of a situation so that we are fully braced for all that is bad, ugly, and painful. I’ve done it for years to the point that it’s become as natural as breathing. Unfortunately, it has also made my life miserable. All that bracing is exhausting; it’s taken a toll on my spirit, making it difficult to embrace the good in life and celebrate joy.

I don’t talk about my beliefs much. When I first started blogging, it was simply an opportunity to tell my family about the crazy experiences I was having as a mother without calling them up, one by one, to share what they might consider the blathering of just another giddy mommy. But it soon evolved to be more than that, bracing me against the harsh edges of separation and then divorce, and then, encouraging me through the strange land that is single-motherhood.

But now I’d like to share another faucet of my life that I hope will grow to consume my experience, and that is JOY, something that I find inseparable from my beliefs as a Latter Day Saint (a Mormon).

Life is hard. I get that. I’ve braced for it, experienced it, and survived it (so far). I’ve learned a lot from difficulty. But life is also a blessed experience that should be full of hope and happiness. As I’ve thought about that idea, read lots of inspiring books and listened to the amazing leaders of my church, I’ve discovered (as many of you have probably already realized) that happiness is a choice.

This past weekend our church held its semi-annual general conference, where our leaders (men and women alike) shared powerful messages intended to inspire members to serve others, endure struggles, and capture joy.

Elder Dieter F. Uchtdorf’s, second counselor to our prophet, shared a message (Saturday Morning Session) that was life-changing for me. He spoke of the infinite power of hope and how it has the ability to fill our lives with joy. The antithesis of hope is despair, which, as Worst Case Scenario Mama, I have often experienced. He explained, “Despair drains from us all that is vibrant, and joyful, and leaves behind the empty remnants of what life was meant to be. Despair kills ambition, advances sickness, pollutes the soul and deadens the heart. Despair can seem like a staircase that leads only and forever downward.”

“Hope, on the other hand, is like the beam of sunlight rising up and above the horizon of our present circumstances. It pierces the darkness with a brilliant dawn. …Hope upholds us. Hope raises our resolve. The brighter our hope, the stronger our faith.”

When I was in graduate school I despised the Pollyanna’s of the world, those stricken with a sickening optimism that seemed, to me, to have nothing to do with the realities of life—hardships, struggles, disabling disappointments. Now, however, I want to become a Pollyanna. Because, really, who enjoys life more? The Pollyanna’s of this world or the Negative Nellies? After years of being a Negative Nelly I say, take me to the bright side, the sickeningly sweet side, the side where I can smile at my children more and worry about the unknown future less.

In reading Marriane Williamson’s book, The Gift of Change, she talks about how we’re given opportunities to learn through joy. We encounter experiences and opportunities that enable us to learn, with grace and ease. If we refuse that opportunity, perhaps because we feel too busy, overwhelmed, or just not up to the task, it will pass and then return again. Each time it returns, it takes on an element of difficulty, forcing us to turn our attention to the curriculum God intends for us to master.

She explains, “It’s not up to us what we learn, only whether we learn through joy or through pain. But if we don’t yet trust that every situation is a lesson, we don’t bother to ask ourselves what the lesson is. And unless we do, our chances of learning it are nil. Then the lesson will reappear—with even higher stakes—until we learn it. We may as well learn it the first time, when the chance to learn through joy is still available.”

I can see that this lesson of HOPE has been returning to me again and again. I intend to learn the lesson this time and release the fear, the despair, and the darkness that has often suffocated me. It will require effort and intention, but it will come.

The last talk of general conference (Sunday Afternoon Session) was given by our beloved prophet, President Thomas S. Monson. He spoke of finding joy in the journey. For me there couldn’t have been a better message with which to close.

So while in the past I have easily spotted the storms, I intend to seek out the light, the uplifting and the hopeful more and more every day. I’m finding myself inspired by many who are doing the same and with them I will try harder to choose JOY.

A Day Off

The kids didn't have school today so we went and got haircuts. On a well-measured whim (is there such a thing?) we cut Sis's hair to her shoulders. What I thought would be so traumatic was no big deal. Here she is in her big-girl haircut.



You can "almost" see her missing front tooth. *sigh*



Then we went to the dollar store and Spunk picked this:



I laughed out loud to see how much he loved the funny-man glasses.

And then, always combat-minded, Sport got fighting gear:



It's a little blurry, but all in the spirit of camouflage.

We're off to visit the cousins in Utah. Enjoy your weekend!

Whine Fest

I don’t mean to complain, but my son is a whiner.

And I don’t mean a part-time, occasional, periodic bellyacher, I mean a chronic, unceasing, will-you-please-lock-yourself-in-your-bedroom-until-the-end-of-this-millennium sourpuss.

He’s not the only one. Whining is highly contagious in our house, and when one child starts, it sparks a Whine Fest. I have literally run away from my whiny brood, contorting my face to mimic their nasty complaints as they trail behind, the decibels increasing the further ahead of them I get. You’d think only dolphins or humpback whales would be able to hear them.

My favorite of their complaints include:

• You must hate me to make me do chores.
• You’re the worst mom I’ve ever had.
• Why are you always bossing me around?
• If you really loved me you’d let me eat more marshmallows.
• You’re the only mom in the world that makes her kids do X.
• I want another mom. A nice one this time.

But I do what any good parent does when their children complain. I ignore them. Sometimes I pretend like I can’t hear—I point at my ears, shake my head and then shrug my shoulders.

I blame some of my bad parenting tactics on the fact that I’m the only adult in the house. And being a freelance writer, I can go days without any adult interaction.

Things get ugly when you’re outnumbered by three children. I can spar with the best of them. Of course, I sound like a six-year old myself when doing it. I say things like, “No, YOU!” and “Whatever!”

This past week I tried to take a more enlightened approach. In my efforts to better apply the Law of Attraction I’ve been trying to vibrate at a higher frequency. The better the emotion the higher the vibration.

So when Sport began complaining on Friday I said, “You’re vibrating at a very low frequency, Mister!” You can imagine he changed his attitude immediately. Okay, so that’s not true. He looked at me like I’d sprouted a second head.

No matter. At least I know that as a seasoned whiner he has a solid career ahead of him.

He could offer political commentary.

Or maybe become a blogger, like his mama.

Diving off the Wagon

Since joining Weight Watchers this April I have lost a total of 45.2 pounds. And while that alone is fabulous, I confess that this past week I fell off the wagon. And by “fell” I mean I was trampled by the wagon and dragged for two blocks with a Fundido in my hand. Here’s how it went down.

It’s was a girls night out and we had decided to see a movie. We were hungry but the movie was at seven so we decided to wait and have dinner later. For a reformed popcorn addict that was my first mistake.

We ordered the jumbo combo which included a refillable tub of popcorn without butter (wink wink). And then we got to business.

To say I daintily snacked on the popcorn while journeying to the center of the earth with Brandon Frasier would be dishonest. There were witnesses. I upended the barrel of popcorn and was back for a refill before the opening credits. I apologize to all the movie patrons surrounding me that might have been frightened by the display. I was on popcorn overload and cannot be blamed for my actions.

After consuming enough Weight Watchers points to power the Olympic swim team, the gals and I decided to go lite—we went to a Mexican restaurant for dinner.

The rest is all a blur. There were bottomless chips and salsa and fried tortillas smothered in cheese and sour cream, all atop rice and beans. I had to undo my top button just to look at the food. And it would be a lie if I told you I didn’t consider licking my plate after I had finished. Yes. I ate all that the night before my weekly weigh-in.

The next morning I awoke with a popcorn hangover. My tongue was swollen as were other unmentionable parts of my body. And the scale and I still had a showdown.
To make a long story short, we weighed in. And by some freak of biology my BFF and I had each lost one pound.

I formally apologize to the Weight Watchers facilitator who was conducting a meeting during our weight-loss miracle (and please don’t ask them to recalibrate the scales after that). We (and by “we” I mean “I”) interrupted her motivational speech by telling the entire group that we had fallen off the wagon by eating countless points worth of unbuttered (wink, wink) popcorn and Mexican Fundidos. And we were still big losers.

FYI, I did climb back on the wagon (without the Fundido). And no, they didn’t suspend my Weight Watchers membership, although after this post they just might.

Children and the Law

My children have recently become experts in the law. And because I’m fairly certain it’s not part of District 91’s curriculum, I’m not sure where they learned it. The Cartoon Network?

My children, who now seem well versed in various statutes that apply to children in the state of Idaho, have become the leading authorities on authority.

First they told me I couldn’t leave them alone in the car.

“Not even if I’m running to Little Ceasars to get a Hot ‘n Ready pizza?” I asked.

“You’ll get arrested,” Kaleb said.

“Even if there’s no one in line and we park right in front?”

“You’ll go to jail,” Leah added, gravely.

Okay. I can comply with the law as delivered to me by my minor children.

But yesterday they detailed this law in a manner that left me questioning. I was gassing up the car. They all unbuckled and poured out of the van.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“You’ll get arrested,” Kaleb said.

“For putting gas in my car? I’m right here guys; I can see you through the window.”

“You’ll go to jail,” Leah added, gravely.

My dear children—always looking out for my greater good. They don’t want a delinquent mom. I get that. But really, gassing up my car?

And don’t get me wrong. I’m not one to abandon my children in the vehicle and go off gallivanting. Except for those few times I’ve gotten pizza. And returned movie rentals. But that’s it. And that will happen no more, apparently, as my children are incredibly invested in keeping their mother out of jail.

However, they’ve taken the law too far. And by “they” I mean “Zack” who, after listening to his ever-wise older siblings, has started sharing his own version of child protection laws with me.

Like when I went to the garage to grab my forgotten cell phone from the van.

“Mom!” Zack yelled from the open doorway. “You’re gonna get a rested!”

Or when I threatened to send him to his room: “The police are gonna put you in jail!”

It’s a tough rap, parents, keeping these kids in line. Not only will it stretch your patience, endurance, and mental aptitude, but it may just leave you wondering how many episodes of “Law & Order: Trial by Children” your parenting style might inspire.

When You're 6

You go to school for 6 hours instead of 2 hours and 40 minutes.

You lose your first tooth.

You cross the monkey bars all by yourself and are undaunted by the resulting palm-blisters.

You play the kissing game at recess.

You practice ballet in real leather ballet slippers.

You don’t like pants with “buckles.”

You get upset and you get over it.

You share with your brothers.

You’re proud of your choices.

You’re innocent and lovely and amazing.

You’re my fantabulous daughter, Leah Lou.

An Altar to My Blessings

While neglecting the serious blogger within, I've been getting all metaphysical and stuff. I recently ordered a number of books from Amazon and hunkered down to get enlightened. And dogoneit, if that isn't exactly what happened.

My new favorite book is called The Gift of Change by Marianne Williamson. In it she talks about replacing the fear in our lives (and in our world) with love. Not romantic love, parental love, or even neighborly love, but Godly love.

And we all know that I tend to get a little jiggy with fear sometimes. Like here, and here, and here, to name just a few posts. But I'm ready to release the fear and replace it with something intentionally fabulous rather than the negative runoff that was certain to flow from other areas of my life. Love sounded intentionally fabulous enough for me.

So Marianne has become my new best friend, and here's just one of the things she shared with me:

"We often build an altar to our disasters, giving them so much time and attention and energy. But do we do the same for our blessings? Are our minds truly disciplined to call forth and accept the good?"

Oh boy. Have I built an altar to my disasters!

If there's one tangible thing I can do it's to begin neglecting my disasters and focusing on my blessings. I've noticed that as I do, those gifts seem to multiple under my attentive gaze. And the disasters? Those spoiled little suckers shrivel up and slink away. It's miraculous in the simplest of ways.

My new goal is to become more positive. To look at my life and always see the blessings first. With enough practice I'm hoping that it won't take long before that's all I see. (All right, all right. So this is me we're talking about. I'll still gripe about a thing or two--but in a very positive and uplifting way...)

Tonight's blessing? All three of my children were in bed and asleep by 7:30 pm. Miraculous, no?

What are you grateful for today?

In My Dreams

I have a small girl-crush on Sydney Bristow. If you don't know who Sydney is, and shame on you, she is the double agent played by Jennifer Garner on the hit TV series Alias.

Recently my friend has gotten me hooked on the show by feeding me, one pirated DVD at a time, action-packed episodes. I didn't watch the show when it originally aired, and shame on me, over 6 years ago. And I thought I was living.

I realize now that my life won't be complete until I can obliterate someone with a roundhouse kick. If you've seen the show you know what I'm talking about. Sydney can disarm the burliest opponent with a powerful sequence of uppercuts, 360 kicks, and double back-flips, all while wearing these fabulous disguises.

My friend and I were so obsessed with fighting like Sydney that we went to a local dojo to see how many classes we would have to take before simulating a Bristow booty kicking. The smart woman at the front desk didn't answer the question, but she had the very handsome sensei on duty perform a 540 kick. Who knew there was such a thing? I nearly hyperventilated.

My loyal readers (all three of you) will remember that I once wrote a post entitled "Mission Mompossible" where I divulged that I would never make a good secret agent. That still stands. If the enemy tried to extract national secrets using Chinese water torture, I would crumble within 15 minutes. Threaten to feed my children sugar before bedtime and I'd be done in 10.

But that doesn't mean I couldn't fight like Sydney. I also have to admit that I'm currently coveting some of her gear-especially the tranquilizer guns that became popular circa session three. Not that I would, but I have dreams of piercing my children in the fanny when they're embroiled in one of their more vicious living room brawls. Admit it. The thought made you smile. Just a little.

So until I can actually do a back flip off a wall after kicking a gun from the bad guy's hand, I'll just have to dream about it.

That and watch Alias reruns over and over again.

Bathroom Science 911

I have discovered another unalterable rule of the universe, and it can be filed alongside the Law of Gravity and E=MC2. I call it Bathroom Science 911.

This is how it works. Every time I enter the bathroom for a moment of privacy, my children experience "emergencies." I, like many a parent, have defined emergency to my children as follows: any incident involving blood, loss of consciousness, and/or a house flood or fire. For whatever reason that definition does not work for my children. Allow me to demonstrate.

Just this past Monday I was taking a shower. Feeling especially empowered in my moment of privacy I shut and locked the door, because otherwise my children come in periodically to gawk at their naked mother and complain about their siblings. It's not fun for me.

I hadn't even washed my hair before one of my children began pounding on the door. "MOO-ooom! I need your help!"

I tried to be all calm and serene. "You'll have to wait until I'm out of the shower."

"WHAT?" the child screamed. "I CAN'T HEAR YOU!"

"I'll help you when I'm done."

"THIS IS AN EMERGENCY!" was the distressed reply. I ignored this child for a few more moments, determined to lather, rinse and repeat before leaving the shower, during which there was much door pounding and incoherent screaming.

Finally I opened the bathroom door, clutching a towel to my chest. Kaleb and Leah stood there looking at me, Kaleb's head cocked to the side as if viewing a new zoo exhibit.

"I can't pour the milk for my cereal," Leah said. Apparently that is a 911-worthy situation. I looked at her brother who has the strength, coordination, and brainpower to poor milk for cereal. Yet there I stood, dripping wet, hair unconditioned.

For whatever reason, my children do not believe in a mother's privacy. Mothers, it seems, hover somewhere outside the human realm, a unique species designed to meet their children's needs without nary a potty break.

However, anytime I walk into a bathroom in which one of them is otherwise "occupied" they yell, "MOM, I need my privacy!" Privacy, I believe, is earned by shutting the door and flushing when you're finished. Both of which I do with exactness. My children? Not so much.

Regardless, you can't argue with the universe. Which is why I'm lobbying to have the law of Bathroom Science 911 added somewhere between Einstein's and Newton's laws. Because, really, where else should they go?

Now excuse me while I run to the loo with my entourage…

Prayers for a Fellow Blogger

Some of you may have heard, but a fellow blogger and her husband were in a plane crash and are currently being treated for severe burns. If it's one thing I've learned about blogging it's that it fosters a spectacular community of support. I share this so you too can pray for them. Today Stephanie's family and friends are holding a benefit auction intended to raise money for their recovery costs. You can also visit the link below to learn more about helping their cause. Or visit her sister's blog for updates.

The Sales Demo that Sucked

When it comes to door-to-door salespeople, I’m a sucker. I’ve had my windows cleaned by a very ambitious Southern man, bought a magazine subscription from a drunk teenager, and just this week endured a 90-minute vacuum cleaner demonstration. How did I fall for that, you ask? Sit back, relax, and I’ll share.

In retrospect I realize that this was not your average salesman. This was a strategic three-man team designed to reel in prospects with an air freshener and hook them with a ludicrously priced, yet seemingly magical vacuum cleaner. I didn’t stand a chance.

First, they sent in the Headliner, the one charged with finding and securing Suckers. This particular Headliner was a dwarf, although I believe the politically correct term is “little person.” Either way, he blind-sided me, offering me an air freshener for my time and promising not to take too much of it. Before I even realized what was happening, the Headliner was introducing the Demo Guy, and then *poof*, he was gone.

Now I have a 20-year old kid in my livingroom, assembling a new age vacuum cleaner that looks like it might double as a jet-pack. His job is to shame me by sucking the dirt from my livingroom rug and displaying it on round little filters. Within 30 minutes he has collected at least 20 of them and isn’t slowing down. By the time he’s gathered about 45 dirt-encrusted disks he asks me to sit down for his formal demonstration.

I’ll admit. This vacuum cleaner was extraordinary. It had about 20 attachments and could do everything from clean your gutters to unclog your drains. But the only way I would pay $2400 for a vacuum cleaner was if it could turn my $30 throw rug into a magic carpet that would take me and my children to Disneyland. I’m sorry, but there’s not enough carpet in my life to justify a purchase of that magnitude.

But the Demo Guy’s job isn’t to sell the vacuum cleaner, it’s just to demonstrate it. After 60 minutes of being shocked and amazed by this simple household appliance, the Boss Man arrives. His job is to make the hard sell.

First let me say that any man wearing rhinestone-studded jeans shouldn’t expect to sell me anything. But, boy, did he try.

He informed me that him and his team had traveled all the way from Denver, Colorado, to the numbered streets in Idaho Falls to sell me this magical vacuum cleaner. Because apparently there are more suckers in this area code than in theirs.

I played the single-mom card and tried to look sad and pathetic atop my newly-cleaned livingroom rug (which, by the way, now looks fabulous). He practically rolled his eyes before cutting his asking price in half.

If only this bedazzled salesman knew what he was dealing with he never would have dispatched his team to my home. I am no domestic maven. And while I care about the health of my children (almost obsessively) I would expose them to all the dust mites in the world in order to put $1000 into their college accounts rather than buy his sterling silver, streamlined vacuum cleaner.

The Boss Man, dejected and annoyed, left the poor Demo Guy to clean up his mess, literally. And before the Demo Guy ducked out my front door, his magical vacuum cleaner in tow, he asked that I return the air freshener. Because apparently I sucked more than their vacuum cleaner and their sales practices.

Celibate in the City

When I first started dating, MTV really played music videos and Aqua Net was the most sophisticated hair product on the market. A lot has changed since then.

To find out if a guy was interested you either passed him a note or sent a girlfriend to ask if he was dating anyone. These days it takes about as much effort to find out if a guy is single as it does to file your taxes. I’ve decided that the late 30-something single male is about as rare as a three-headed unicorn. Where are you guys hiding out?

I decided to take the search online and became more interested in usernames than I did profiles. Did I really want to approach 2hot4u? lazyman, lonesomeloser, and stillluvmyex apparently hadn’t read the instructions on projecting a positive image. And kilzoranges, stalkingcupid and itchyscalp distracted me from my original purpose all together.

I hear that women my age must be more aggressive in order to “attract” a man. It’s a competitive market, and ladies, we outnumber the men about ten to one. Unfortunately for me, I become a little dumbfounded in the presence of an eligible bachelor. Remember how I exposed my forearms to show the beautiful pediatrician, Dr. LoveMonkey, my eczema? I’d make a great reality show but not a very good first date.

And speaking of dates, in the six months since my divorce I’ve been on one. He asked me if I played tennis or badminton or basketball—I’ve since forgotten the details. I answered, “Do women my age play organized sports?” Yeah. He didn’t ask me out again.

So I’ve taken to looking at men from afar. And in my “studies” I have seen the Idaho Falls Fire Department and am here to say they represent. I’m just saying.

Early this summer I became transfixed when a truck of firefighters came to our alley, examining a stray branch that had fallen on a power line. My family, visiting for the weekend, were startled when I rushed into the kitchen. “Can someone help me start a quick house fire? Really. I’m not kidding.”

A little desperation can turn a level-headed, single woman into a serial arsonist.

Not that I’m desperate. (Technically my username is desperateinIF.) Because I’m not.

I am an attractive SWF looking for a freakishly SM for possible LTR. Must love kids, employment, and WWE (women with eczema).

Pictures, Pictures

My children have a few readers sweet on them, and they've asked me to post pictures. And I'll be honest--I have about 15 rolls of film that need developing and a digital camera that doesn't get a lot of attention. But here are the most recent pics of my lovlies:


This is just so everyone appreciates how hard it is to get three children looking in the same direction while smiling.


More appreciation please...


This is the last one of these...I promise.


Here's Kaleb in all his seven-year old, toothless glory.


Leah's my favorite subject because she's the only one who loves to stand still while getting her picture taken. "Cheeeeeeeeese...." (5 years old)


And my toughest subject, but still dang cute: Zackers! (4 years old)


Tada! A picture that makes it look like my children actually like each other...

The Law of Distraction

I am rich.

I am thin.

I am fabulous.

Those are affirmations intended to make me, well, rich, thin and fabulous. I say them every day. The Law of Attraction tells me my life is a reflection of my thoughts so lately I’ve been thinking very generously. From what I hear the Universe will honor my positive thoughts and return all good things to me. Like this: my children are freakishly well-behaved.

But I’ve decided that another Law exists, and it needs some attention. It’s called the Law of Distraction and it goes something like this: if you think one itsy bitsy negative thought, the Universe will multiply that thought by the number of children you have and return it to you. Hence, the last time we went to Sonic, all three of my children spilled their fry sauce in the back seat of the van.

And that’s not the first time the Law of Distraction has manifested in my life.

Hypothetically speaking, let’s imagine you go to an important event, like, say, a wedding reception. Let’s say you’re alone with your children and they’re all acting out. Let’s say a timeout in an isolated classroom at the church doesn’t work so you take your children to the car, threatening to leave. Let’s say all your children lock you out of your car so you can’t get back in.

What happens next? Well, let’s break it down. You have three children. For the last two hours you’ve had very bad, bad thoughts. It’s obvious. The car alarm goes off, alerting the entire wedding party that you are a horrible mother. In addition, it takes 30 minutes to coax your oldest child from his seat to unlock the door that disengages the car alarm and allows you to make a getaway.

3 children x bad thoughts = embarrassing public event

Thus I’m trying to think positive, affirming thoughts as much as humanly possible. And it seems to be working. Aforementioned “hypothetical” event may or may not have occurred nearly three years ago. And I have yet to encounter another such monumental parenting mishap.

Unless, of course, you count that time we got locked in my sons’ bedroom this summer.

Okay, so I don’t know how the Universe works, but I’m going to pretend that it honors my positive thoughts. And yours.

So repeat after me, “I am enjoying this post more with each passing word.”

See? You’re enjoying this experience more already. Now go on with your positive self.