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.

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.