Anthrax in Your Smarties? Happy Halloween!

I took a highly complex and statistically accurate quiz this morning, and apparently I should be a vampire for Halloween.  Because I didn’t like that suggestion, I used an application on facebook which asked me one question and suggested I go as Jeeves the Headless Butler.  And then I became totally distracted and entered to win a free Kindle, because wouldn’t that be cool?

Last year I was hugely successful as Lucille Ball for which I was awarded best costume at a party and went home with a giant frosted cookie and a trophy doubling as a Christmas tree topper.  It left me with a tube of Are You Red-dy? lipstick and an impossibly uncomfortable pair of stunning ruby-red patent leather peep-toe pumps that I’ll probably never use again.  It was totally worth the cookie though.

In order to top Lucy, I’ve been brainstorming possible costumes for the last month or so.  So far all I’ve got is a vampire and Jeeves the Headless Butler.  It’s called Creative Costume Block.  

My kids, however, have known what they want to be for three months or so.  Okay, that’s not true: they’ve change their minds about what they want to be for three months or so.  Sport went from being Percy Jackson to Indiana Jones to Poseidon and back to Percy Jackson again.  Sis went from Mother Nature to a black cat to a witch to Raggedy Anne back to the black cat and then to I-promise-not-to-change-my-mind-ever-again-mom, a unicorn, before settling in on a cowgirl.  And Spunk will be Iron-Man.  Life is simple when you believe in superheroes.  It’s a universal truth, people.

I remember the good-ole days, before there was such a thing as plastic costumes, when kids were witches, athletes, hobos and clowns.  When you used a pillowcase to collect candy instead of a designer, copyright-protected plastic baggie.  Of course, those were also the days when ‘trick’ also meant overturnin’ an ornery farmer’s outhouse while he was still in it.  Okay, so I don’t personally remember those days, but I’ve read about them.  

Regardless, my kids live in these days where costumes are synthetic and go for about fifteen bucks at Walmart and where you have to perform background checks on the people distributing candy to avoid finding Anthrax in your Smarties (maybe I’ll be an urban legend for Halloween).  

Truth is, I still don’t have a costume, nor have I secured costumes for my kids.  I’m wishing that with the advent of modern technology I could actually print out our costumes and be done with it.  I’d pay for that application.  

Until then, I’ll do things the old fashioned way.  We’ll make our own costumes using cardboard, electrical tape and yarn.  Or, perhaps, aluminum foil, staples and pipe cleaners.  Just kidding.  My kids are totally going as mummies wrapped in medical gauze.  No, really.  We’ll go to WalMart and buy their costumes.  And me? I’m going to win that Kindle and go as a boring mom reading Poe while trick or treating. I already have the outfit.

Bullying, Deforestation and Goat Cheese

When early yesterday morning I told my kids that we’d be wearing purple that day, Spunk wanted nothing of it.  

“But it’s for a good cause,” I explained.  “It means we’re taking a stand against bullying.”

He shrugged, unmoved by any political campaign, even if it might be a good investment in his future; he is going to junior high eventually.  

My youngest offspring expounded on his position. a) He doesn’t own a purple shirt, and b) he hates the color.  Logical, rational and sound reasoning.  Six might be a little young to lead a freedom march.

As Spunk went about his business of selecting a long-sleeved gray T, I could hear Sport badgering him from the kitchen.  “EVERYone’s going to be wearing purple, Zack.  In fact, you might be bullied for not wearing purple.  It means you don’t care about other people and that you think bullying is cool!”  His intonation increased with each passing syllable.  By the time I reached Spunk’s bedroom, Sport and his younger brother were circling each other like sickly sumo wrestlers.

“Sport,” I said.  “Are you trying to bully your brother into wearing purple?”

His eyebrows rose in protest, and then, somewhat sheepishly, they fell and hovered at the cusp of his brow, as if contemplating the plunge that would take them to the spot where Kaleb now burned a hole through the carpet with his eyes.  “I guess.”

“Let’s let Spunk choose to wear whatever color he wants today, and maybe he’ll want to change the world with you tomorrow.”

As I watched my two boys work through the power of their own emotions, I realized that while bullying is always wrong, it’s a slippery slope from activist to bruiser, regardless of the cause.  So whether the Belknap family wears purple, red, white, blue or gray, we’re against bullying to the extent that we won’t even tolerate the bullying of the bullies themselves (or those who choose to wear long-sleeved gray Ts).   

We’re also against telemarketing, deforestation and goat cheese in to particular order.

Peace out.

Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow

While I’ve never actually listened to it, I think the title to Deana Carter’s song is ingenious: “Did I Shave My Legs for This?” Because now that I’m divorced, I realize that the frequency with which I shaved was directly proportional to how lucky I might get. These days there’s no one unluckier than me, thus my legs are, well, let's not go there (no one else is, right?).

But I didn’t realize just how poorly, *ahem*, maintained I had become until I was reading to Spunk a few nights ago. We were reclining on his bed, and I held a Junie B. Jones book in one hand and supported my head with the other, giving my little boy a bird’s eye view of my armpit. He looked sideways at me and laughed, “You’ve got hair there?” as if he had just discovered some fangs or a third eyeball. And I have to admit, when I took a peek myself I was a little disturbed. While my lower extremities are definitely a no-fly zone these days, had I really been that neglectful of my armpits? I mean, long sleeves are now vogue, but I thought I was still shaving my armpits, even if only for myself. And Spunk, apparently.

So it got me reflecting on my celibacy, my sexuality and my razor. Are the first two mutually exclusive? Are the last two?

I’m LDS. Mormon. And it’s one of the reasons I have chosen to remain celibate if and until I remarry. That, at times, makes for a seriously frustrated big girl, although I have plenty to distract me, being outnumbered by my kids and all. But even celibate, can I be sexual? Or sensual? Or attractive? And are all those things even related?

Even if I don’t have all the answers, I’ve decided that shaving may reflect on how I see myself as a woman.

The other day my kids were talking about a ‘No Girls Allowed’ sign Spunk had taped to his door.

“What about mom?” Sis asked.

“She doesn’t count,” Spunk answered, leading me to believe that to children Mothers fall somewhere outside the realm of human, and farther still outside the female realm. We’re an entity unto ourselves, a genus and species above playground duties and beneath Santa.

That being said, just because I’m outnumbered by my children doesn’t mean I have to see myself that same way. I am woman, hear me roar, or at least check me out and tell me I have a cute butt.

But if I were really to do something for myself, it probably wouldn’t be shaving. I would get a massage. Although, now that I think about it, I would shave before getting a massage, just like I would clean before having a housekeeper come over.

So maybe the answer is in a regular, two-hour detoxing massage.

Two birds, one stone, smooth armpits.

(P.S. If you want to set me up with someone, please do not refer them to this particular post. And if you know my mother, don’t tell her about it either. Thank you.)

Driving a 26-Foot UHaul across the State

Nothing will test your resolve like driving a 26-foot U-Haul across the state. That or getting someone’s name tattooed to your backside. And believe me, if I could have tattooed the word U-Haul to my booty in 26-point font to avoid actually driving the thing, I would have. Here’s how it all went down.

After the near brain implosion I mentioned in my last column, I was able to pull myself together long enough to pack the majority of our belongings and schedule a U-Haul. My BFF volunteered to follow me through the whole ordeal, to literally trail behind the UHaul in my minivan. And anyone who has ever seen my bumperless, rear view mirror-less, sour-milk smelling Dodge Caravan, knows there’s no truer act of friendship than that.

Together we picked up the behemoth moving van that’s about as long as two fireworks stands stacked end to end. The 26-footer is apparently the largest vehicle you can drive without a CDL which means that it’s the biggest vehicle they’ll allow any old fool (aka me) to drive unaccompanied on public roads.

Before we go any further, let me remind you that my nickname is Worst-Case Scenario Mama for a reason. If something can go wrong, I can imagine at least 14 alternate scenarios in which it does. So when the nice U-Haul man handed me the keys, the first thing I imagined was a cartoon-like sequence in which the big moving van (did I mention it was big?) skids around a corner, skips three times and lands flat on its side. I nearly hyperventilated at the U-Haul transit office.

First, I drove the U-Haul to my house. When I wasn’t thinking about how impossible it seemed for the truck to actually fit inside a lane, it was quite an empowering experience, for all of 5 minutes. Then I realized that each bump and pothole felt as if it was launching the UHaul about 2 and a half feet from the road.

We loaded the van in a number of hours and were ready to hit the road. Let me just say that apparently the universal advice people give those driving big moving vans is this: “Take corners wide.” Really? That’s all you got? There should be a book, or at least a pamphlet, loaded with helpful advice—accompanied, perhaps, by a CD with soothing nature sounds.

It would take too long, really, to detail the 10 -hour drive in that UHaul. Worth mentioning, however, is a 50-mile stretch of road work between here and Boise that made me feel like the UHaul was doing the Rock Lobster. There were also over 200 miles of winding roads with steep drop-offs into churning white water that we won’t discuss. And finally, there was that time that I nearly destroyed my relationship with my BFF because I couldn’t her calling my cell, begging for a potty break. In my defense, I was singing along with Beyonce and all the single ladies (take corners wide? No, turn the radio way up! That’s my first piece of advice).

Finally, after two long days, a bag of Cajun trail mix and 96 ounces of Diet Coke, we arrived to unload the UHaul and head back in my minivan. Never before have I been so happy to walk away from a vehicle. That, my friends, is freedom. Sweet freedom. Now would anyone care to tattoo that to my backside?

Where are we going? Crazy, for now...

You know when you’re trying to pack all your personal effects to move across the state with three kids under foot while also preparing to put your house on the market? And amidst all this you have conversations with your former real-estate agent father in which you’re told to fast-forward to a short-sell because the market’s so bad. Then your daughter looks at you with dewy eyes and asks, “Why don’t you take very good care of our yard?” so you cry hard enough to hiccup yourself to sleep. I hate it when that happens.

I am so stressed that I think my brain might implode. Really. Astral projection, spontaneous combustion, brain implosion. I’m sure they’re all in the same book on the supernatural published by Time Magazine and found on my grandmother’s bookshelf right in between the book on Nostradamus and the novel Futility.

As I move into this precarious state called Limbo, where I’m between destinations and completely unsettled, I realize how ridiculous it is to manage a meticulous household with three young kids. My children, I’ve discovered, are drawn to the cleanest parts of my home like I’m drawn to the super nacho. My Facebook friends tell me it’s something called Unchartered Territory Syndrome (UTS) and that no child is immune.

To prove my point, Sis decided to water the bushes adjacent to the newly squeegeed windows while Spunk spray painted packing boxes in our garage and Sport, in a fit of self-sufficiency never before witnessed, decided to rinse his muddy t-shirt in the bathroom sink, leaving enough forensic evidence to choke an entire CSI unit. And that was just yesterday.

Please tell me why we like to look at clean houses anyway? Who I am I kidding to see a Heloise-inspired residence and feel at home? Sellers would be better off marketing to my demographic by tossing a few happy-meal toys on the floor amidst candy wrappers and Wii remotes. Now that’s an environment to which I can relate.

But, of course, I can’t think about looking for houses until I’ve actually sold this one. And I’d be lying if I said that’s not a thought that keeps me up at night. In fact, I’ve taken to carrying a paper bag in my back pocket so that when people begin sharing their real estate nightmares, and everyone seems to have one, I can take it out and do some deep breathing exercises so that I don’t hyperventilate. Although, hyperventilation is preferable to brain implosion, right?

For the record, I’m completely above using my blog to shamelessly promote the sale of my home. However, I would welcome any of my three readers to call my agent for more information (her name begins with Nina and ends with Baldwin). That, or you could look for the house on the numbered streets with the crazy woman chasing her kids around the yard with a squeegee.

Until then, I will continue to blog from the convenience of this strait-jacket, thank you very much.

Ch-ch-ch-changes...

I started this blog six years ago. I was married with three young children in American Fork, Utah.

Now, I'm single, still with three children, but on the cusp of huge changes. I’ve been divorced for two and a half years, and we’ve lived in Idaho Falls, Idaho for nearly four. Now me and the chicklets are moving back to Washington to be closer to my family. I’m currently in the middle of packing up our house while my ex begins his summer visitation.

I’m excited about this new chapter, and I thought it only appropriate that I celebrate with a new-ish blog. While this one still has all my old posts, it also has a new name and address. It’s called “FYI, Sometimes There’s No Grass,” and below, I’ve pasted the post that inspired it all. I hope someone out there enjoys it.

Okay, so maybe I jumped the fence thinking that things would be better over here.  That not only would the grass be greener, but that there just might be a single parent amusement park with a secret spa in the back.  That, like Ann Romano, I would skip through single motherhood with grace and resolve, sporting a flashy ensemble and perfectly coifed hair with my three well-behaved children in tow.  But the truth is that sometimes I wear my pajamas in public, get fruit snacks stuck in my hair and untangle my brawling children at the public library. FYI, Sometimes There’s No Grass. 

This may be news to people, but being a single mother is not as glamorous as some may think.   Not that it’s excruciating either.  Some days it’s like a musical montage to “Sunshine on My Shoulder.”  Other days are as pleasant as exfoliating a sunburn with 60-grit sandpaper.  

And that has nothing to do with my kids, mind you.  They’re in the 98^th percentile of awesomeness (yes, that has been scientifically proven and documented).  It just means that as one woman with three kids, I have a short list of priorities, and they go something like this: 1. parent, 2. make money, 3. parent some more. 4. drink lots of diet soda.  

Of course that’s not all single moms do.  There’s chauffeuring children from school to ballet to soccer to the doctor to the orthodontist to the library and to the drive-thru for Happy-Hour slushies and two for one corndogs.  And then there’s managing the mortgage, miscellaneous bills, co-pays, daycare costs, extracurricular activity fees, and if you’re me, a running tab for overdue library books. There’s worrying about whether the bed-wetting and sibling rivalry are acceptable age-appropriate developmental issues or the result of deep-rooted divorce-related trauma.  And don’t even get me started on homework, housework, budgeting, disciplining, psychoanalyzing, and conflict management with the ex (although those last two might be synonymous).  All this, remember, on a streamlined schedule that includes a full-time paying job.

So as for a personal life, I have none.  Well, unless you count dreaming about that greener pasture and the man who will not only mow it for me but also build an entire playland (bare-chested, of course), install a sprinkler system, and add me to his retirement account.

Aside from my dreams, I don’t get out much.  And when and if I do meet people, it’s in a natural setting like the elementary school, the othodontist’s office or, say, second-hand stores.  

First of all, let me just say that Goodwill Industries is a fine establishment for parents wishing to purchase clothing for children growing at breakneck speeds.  Second of all, I’m a single mom—do I really need a second of all?

So I had been divorced for nearly two years when someone hit on me in a second-hand store.  The symbolism is not lost on me.

But first allow me to set the scene.  We were both in paperbacks when our eyes met, the world stopped and I could barely hear the John Tesh Radio Show being broadcast over the loudspeakers.  And then he asked, “Are you single?”  I answered, “Yes,” following which transpired the most awkward conversation of my life.  Mostly because I’m a little rusty, and I was wearing my fuzzy pink slippers.  I can’t make this stuff up, people.

When I noted the event on Facebook (because I really am shameless that way), my friend responded by telling me that when picking anyone up at Goodwill you have to be sure to wash it, at least twice.  You should also check that it doesn’t have any rips or tears.  Or lice.  Because while it may look like a good deal at first, it could be totally broken, and Goodwill has a No Return policy.  Maybe that warning should be posted on my collar.

So for those of you wistfully imagining what it might be like to be single again or for those beginning that new chapter in your life full of optimism and hope, consider this a public service announcement.  Not only is the grass not greener on the other side, sometimes there’s no grass.  And sometimes there’s just a second-hand guy with a Speak & Spell he plans to sell on eBay.  

Or a lady in the paperback section wearing fuzzy pink slippers.

Welcome to my life as a single mom. 

A Temporary Twilight Sucker

Okay, I’ll admit it. I saw Twilight. Two times. But the second time doesn’t count because it was at the cheap theater on a girls’ night out and I was totally outnumbered.

And yes, I’ve read all the books, and I’ve propagated the Twilight madness by loaning them out to countless friends and family. I understand that such a confession may cause my readers (yes, all three of you) to lose some respect for me, because if anything, I’m sure this blog inspires oodles of respect for the eczema-stricken, dirty-van driving, Twilight-reading soccer mom.

So last weekend me and five other women went to the downtown showing of Twilight and watched the movie yet again. And no it hadn’t changed since the first time I saw it. It’s still the same old vortex of vampires, teen angst, and pubescent romance with a slamin’ baseball scene. And yes, there are still those awkward moments where the film editor must have fallen asleep at his key grip, leaving viewers with long, odd shots of pained facial expressions. No matter; it was a good excuse to eat movie popcorn.

The first time I watched Twilight was days after its initial release (yes, I paid full price the first time I saw it. R-E-S-P-E-C-T.). We went one hour early to secure a good seat. I went with my sister, my BFF and her husband (yes Jason, I’m calling you out), and for 60 minutes we watched the theater fill with teenage girls, giggling with anticipation while texting anyone who wasn’t there to share the moment with them. And there we were smack dab in the middle of the theater, feeling just a titch out of place.

The second time I watched Twilight the theater was full of women roughly my age, a few accompanied by their significant others who were either under the false impression that this vampire movie included much more blood sucking than it did or they were involved in some high-stakes barter that included considerable payback later. Either way, I felt much more comfortable the second time I saw it, if for no other reason I was surrounded by other Twilight suckers like myself.

And for the record, I must also admit that I don’t believe the Twilight series need be admitted into the canon of great American literature (yes, Stephen King, I side with you there), but there’s something about telling a good story that can captivate young and middle-aged alike. That and using some British kid with unbelievably long and messy hair to play Edward who, according to my BFF (yes Ashley, I’m calling you out) is “yummy."

And for my last confession I will admit that I just might watch Twilight a third time. Tonight while the world is celebrating their love, you may find me in the cheap theater yet again sucked into that vortex of vampires, teen angst, and pubescent romance accompanied by nothing but my family-size bucket of popcorn. You’re welcome to join me…

Soccer Hell

I went to soccer hell tonight and lived to tell about it. And by soccer hell I mean AYSO registration at the local elementary school (and you think the lines at Disneyland are long).

If you follow any of my advice, let it be this: do not bring three children with you to soccer registration. We arrived 10 minutes early and were at the end of a line that started at one end of the cafeteria and weaved out into the hallway. By the time we left that line snaked from one end of the cafeteria all the way down the hallway, past the auditorium, out the side door and down the sidewalk. I looked solemnly at the people at the end of the line and offered my sincerest apologies; they were not appreciated.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. Way ahead.

We arrived at 6:20 to a stack of forms. I diligently sat down at a table and began to write; my children proceeded to run around like wild banshees, and I proceeded to pretend like they belonged to someone else. It wasn’t until we had been there for nearly an hour that things took a turn for the worst.

We had finally made it back through the threshold of the cafeteria when Sis and Spunk began to fight over the drinking fountain. And by “fight,” I mean brawl, and by “brawl” I mean that Sis began to whoop on her brother like she was making a guest appearance on the WWE. I made the mistake of deciding to wait out the brawl. They couldn’t kill each other, right? Right. But Sis could put her brother in a chokehold that might impair his long-term vision.

My question to you is this: do you leave your place in the three-mile long soccer line to ensure your youngest offspring, who just told you this morning that he would rather live with you forever than grow up and go to college, doesn’t lose his vision to his sister in a drinking fountain brawl? No way! You stand there and yell your daughter’s name across the cafeteria, attracting all sorts of negative attention while your daughter, lost in her own victory, ignores you.

Finally, Spunk escaped, and Sis, from across the cafeteria, felt the dreaded burn of my mommy laser gaze and sheepishly came to stand beside me. “What, Mom?” As if she didn’t know. “You will stand by me until we’re finished,” I commanded.

What followed was the longest temper tantrum in soccer hell history (look for us in Guinness next year). For 15 minutes my daughter wailed at my side, begging me to give her one more chance not to kill her brother over the drinking fountain. There was also periodic jumping, stomping, and pouting. Did I mention that the soccer line had outlasted their bedtime?

When all was said and done, I had stood in line for one hour and paid over one hundred dollars to ensure that my three children were enrolled in spring soccer, meaning that every Saturday for three months I will be watching approximately 210 minutes worth of soccer games. That’s a total of 2,520 minutes of AYSO fun (who said I wasn’t good at math).

And you thought soccer moms were chauffeurs dressed in trendy Gap clothing. No, no, my friends. Soccer moms are the bastions of patience, perseverance, and a piercing laser gaze.

So when do I get MY trophy? (By the way, if I have to stand in line for it, no thanks.)

Are You Smarter than a Second Grader?

I don’t claim to be very bright. But I thought my children would graduate from elementary school before surpassing my IQ. My son’s in the second grade, and he’s quickly becoming the forerunner for smartest-in-the-house. My reign was short-lived.

It doesn’t help that a lot of the stuff I learned in school is outdated. Yes, I’m that old. Like Pluto. A couple years ago it received an interstellar demotion and is no longer a planet. So, "My Very Excellent Mother Just Made Us Nine Pizzas," no longer applies.

And neither does Roy G. Biv. Remember that one? Red, Orange, Yellow, Green, Blue, Indigo, and Violet: the color sequence of the rainbow. Well apparently, “indigo” was fired because it was unable to adequately distinguish itself from Blue and Violet. And there was no press release for that one. I only found out after missing the question while playing Cranium. I lost, by the way, in Cranium. The irony in that does not escape even me.

All this makes me highly unqualified to help my children with their homework. Unless, of course, the new definition of “help” is nag until it’s done. If that's the case then someone please crown me Queen Homework Helper, because that is an arena in which I excel. In fact, is there were a board game for nagging, I’d challenge anyone of you people. Bring it.

But alas, even with my sub-par intellect, I know that helping my children with their homework requires just as much guidance as it does, ahem, encouragement. But what kind of tutor am I? I can barely remember my multiplication tables without the help of a Pee Chee folder (and they don’t even sell those anymore).

My son’s taken to asking me obscure questions like, “Is an otter a mammal?” or “What plants come from spores?” or, my personal favorite, “How does a whale go to the bathroom?” This is where I must be honest and acknowledge that my master’s degree is in creative writing. So I could answer all my son’s questions with stunning brilliance that includes unforgettable details and perhaps a Greek hero with a tragic flaw, but I’m sure it would eventually land the poor kid in the principal’s office. So my typical answer always includes, “Let’s Google that one later, okay?” My kids think Google is like Einstein or something.

So there you have it. Apparently I am not smarter than a second grader. Now wiser, that’s another question. Okay, so it’s not, people. Do I get brownie points for being old?

Anyone, anyone?

I haven't been posting...

So I decided that instead of having a whole new blog, I would just change the name of this one. And I would try to post now and then... The two posts below are from the column, but I do have A LOT of other stuff I want to post about, and one of my New Year's unResolutions is to get busy and post. We'll see how that goes.

Thanks for stopping by (and not giving up on my lil ole blog...).

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.