Song and Dance

This morning while I was curling Samantha's hair in preparation for the school day Drew came in and asked, "Hey Samantha, how come you look mad?"
"I'm not mad," she replied.
"Well you look mad," he said. Then he started to dance around and sing to a made up tune:
"You look mad, you look sad, you look glad, you look bad, you look..."
"DREEEEWWW!!!"
He stopped in his tracks. "OOooh," he said. "Now you just look mad."

We're off to a good start.

The force is strong with this one

Today is Drew's birthday and we are on our 3rd cake. He's had many celebrations, including a party with friends last Wednesday that nearly drove me to drink. I'm telling you, for someone who has never had alcohol in her life it is awfully tempting to start stashing for such occasions as entertaining ten 7-year-old boys for two hours. I later suggested to my husband that "maybe you need to wrestle with him a little more."

In addition to contemplating the serving of cocktails at future parties with young children in attendance, I was also amused with a short conversation I had with a mom of one of Drew's friends.
"So," she asked. "Do you have any gift ideas for Drew?"
"Well, lightsabers continue to be the object of his affection but I can't imagine that he needs more than the seven that he already owns. I saw a Sponge Bob blanket you could get him."
"It seems that Raphi is really intent on getting him one of those spring-loaded lightsabers. Does he have one of those?"
I started to chuckle and thought, do I tell her the truth? Oh well, why not. "Ummm...technically we DO have one, (pause) but...well...it's Cory's and Drew has to ask permission to use it." We both laughed, and Drew got not one but TWO such lightsabers for his birthday. He was thrilled, and it has been nonstop jedi duels ever since.

Keeping with this theme, I came across something today that I had written down from last year. I had been in the midst of creating bulletin boards at the school for each grade area and I tried to get Drew to be excited about his as I showed it to him.
“Look, Drew! The one for Kindergarten is going to be blue!”
“Why?”
“I don’t know, I just thought it would look good.”
“Is it because it matches my pajamas?”
“Sure.”
“And because it matches my blue light sabers?”
“That’s exactly right. I wanted your board to match your pajamas and your light sabers.”
Satisfied, he turned and went bounding up the stairs.

Later tonight when I announced that it was time to go to bed my young jedi came over and curled up on my lap - he was asleep within minutes. His whole body no longer fits between my neck and my waist, but I relished the few moments that passed as his form grew heavier with deeper sleep. He may be a sword-wielder by day, but he is still my little boy at night. Happy Birthday little buddy, and may the force be with you.

I think I'm in love

If you have seen me lately and noticed the gleam in my eyes and the stupid grin on my face, you caught me. I’m having a love affair…with my bed. After nearly fourteen years of marriage with the same mattress that has resulted in a daily gift of morning back pain, we threw in the towel and finally bought a new bed. A really nice one this time. It was delivered on Monday, and I haven’t been the same since.

“It will be so good for you,” the salesman told us. “Your body will be so well supported throughout the night that you will toss and turn less, which means you will spend more time getting quality sleep, and you will feel much more rested in the morning and therefore be more productive during your day.” I looked around at the ads sporting beautiful women sprawled out on beds conveniently located near waterfalls and actually believed for a moment that I might lose weight and go on an exotic vacation if I would simply purchase this bed. But even the basics were better than our current situation. Support? Sleep? Rest? Productivity? Sounds good to me, sign me up for the King size (we’re upgrading mom, but I promise that we will still snuggle and that this won’t be the unraveling of our marriage) and show me the dotted line!

Since the arrival of this beautiful contraption, I can attest to the following. Support? Check. Sleep? Check. More rested and productive? Not so much. For starters, I don’t care if there is a lining of cashmere it would take a very special concoction that might require narcotics to make me more productive. But aside from that, my main issue is that now when I wake up in the morning all I can think of is, How long until I get to come back? As soon as I get up I fantasize about returning. I walk around in a daze and count down to the magical hour of bedtime. That pillow top alone, where have you been all my life? Anyway, so if you see me and wonder what’s happened, don’t worry. I just can’t wait to get to sleep.

Barnum and Bailey would be proud

Some have requested a picture of the ticket booth I spoke of a few days ago in preparation for Samantha's birthday party. Here's one of Samantha and one of her really tall friends!!

And here she is with her cake:

Happy Birthday baby girl. It seems like only last week that I was frustrated with you in the store while you sat in the cart - you were about three years old and giving me fits, so I bent down to your level and in an exasperated tone said, "What do you NEED??" You looked up at me with your big blue eyes and timidly replied, "Lovin' ". I melted at your request and scooped you up and gave you a big hug. You hugged me tight, and then leaned back to meet my face again and asked, "Can I have some juice with my lovin'?"

My birthday wish for you is that you will remember that getting older is not as bad as dad and I make it look, and that no matter how old you are, I will always be here to give you lovin'.

Paradox Part II - "Jingle" all the way

You’ve seen the pictures, but I feel compelled to expound on our annual visits to Paradox, Colorado. Located in Southwest Colorado about 30 miles from the Utah border, it is the town where Cory’s dad was born, where Cory and his family visited every year growing up, and where several of his aunts and uncles still live. A place where gas, ice cream, and fresh beef jerky are a mere seven miles away, we have faithfully visited every summer for the last fourteen years. This was the first time we visited in the early spring without the attendance of cousins, but the kids still lamented when we pulled away to head home. And even after fourteen years, I learned a few things.

I learned that Cory and I have officially run out of road trip conversation, that when you don’t have city noises subtly demanding your attention you can actually hear the sound of birds flying (it sounds like a lasso circling the air), and that sometimes not even Dramamine can knock your kid out during a six-hour car ride. Samantha learned that trying to do push-ups and sit-ups in a moving vehicle is not a wise boredom-curing strategy, but that urging your brother to try and fit his entire body into his pillowcase provides a good 45 minutes of entertainment. I learned that I should stick with brain candy vacation novels instead of trying to appear more mature by taking on “1776”, and that just because your mother-in-law buys three bags of Oreos doesn’t mean a full sleeve should be counted as a single serving. Long ago I learned that somewhere past Glenwood Springs the animal-loving-tree-hugging-prairie-dog-defending contingent lose their power and the farm killing rodents become suitable and necessary targets for ammunition. And somewhere around Vail Pass I learned that the marketing campaigns for McDonalds, Subway, IHOP, Red Robin, Stanley Steemer, Toyota, Kohl’s, and Geico have been wildly successful as my kids began singing their jingles and reciting their catch phrases. Now THAT’S a really fun game…when you’re under twelve...and you’re bored out of your mind...and it doesn’t really matter to you that you have sung the same song 249 times in a row you still think it’s funny…and, “Holy crap, are you SURE you gave them enough Dramamine?” (Just to clarify, my children actually do get carsick. I don’t just drug them for peace and quiet, though I’m not against it and it’s awfully tempting after round 53 of “bada bop bop baaa…I’m lovin’ it!”)

Oh yeah, good times.

Paradox - Part I

We got back late last night, and while there's much material, there's not enough time to fill you in on the details of our annual pilgrimage to Paradox. So today I give you part one - in essence, my photo journal. We had rain, we had shine. I hope you enjoy the evidence.

Do as I say, not as I (hardly EVER!) do

If you are ever in need of a friend who's not afraid to tell you to stop being an overachiever and give you suggestions on how to simplify your life, I am always accepting applications. At least I will be after I finish my Hypocrite class, because somebody just spent three hours making a ticket booth for her daughter's upcoming Carnival birthday party - as in I went to the back lot of a mattress store, pilfered a large cardboard box, painted it with stripes and a lovely awning, and cut an opening where Drew will stand to collect the tickets I created in PowerPoint as the invitations to use as the guest's entrance fee. This ticket booth will be used for approximately 3 minutes, so that's one minute for every hour spent making it. That's a pretty good use of time when I'm trying to leave town and I have four loads of laundry to do, right?

Hypocrite class. What a great idea.

Spring Has (almost) Sprung

According to my news station, spring officially starts at 6:07pm tonight. Finally, when my children ask me for the 684th time, "Is it Spring yet?" I can answer with a resounding "YES!" I would also like to mention that OPERATION: Free The Carolers has reached a peaceful resolution. A few weeks ago the only thing left holding these suckers into the ground was some relentless ice. It was a rather pathetic sight:

They have since been rescued, but I decided that it was time for them to find a new home. Luckily, there's a great place southeast of here that offers a great location with wide open spaces:

And speaking of Spring, the weather has been fantastic and so I have resumed outdoor exercise. Namely, running. Yesterday when I went out for a run I came up next to a school bus at the traffic light and realized that Samantha was on that bus on her way to a field trip! I found her wave, then pretended to race the bus when the light turned green. I lost. Shocking. Anyway, I only ran about 2.5 miles and when I felt like I was only a few breaths away from leaving the earth forever, I reached home. Later, while sharing my sentiments with my friend Jill about how running had to be invented by the devil I said, "But it feels good afterward." She replied, "Yeah, well I feel good after eating a hot fudge sundae too!" Someone who hates running more than I do - I think that's why we're friends.

Anyway, when you hear the angels singing and light bursting from the heavens above at 6:07 tonight, you'll know what it's about. Welcome Spring!

For these are the things Jesus taught

My children and I have been asked to sing in church tomorrow with a couple of other parents and their kids. The song is, “I’m Trying To Be Like Jesus.” My job? To make sure my kids know the first verse and get them to church tomorrow half an hour early (8:30 AM that is, for the love of all that is good and righteous on a Sunday morning it should not include getting to church before nine.) So anyway, after dinner but before bedtime and in between baths and showers and trying to put the finishing touches on my lesson while cleaning up dinner and fetching Drew’s newly washed jammies from the dryer we sat down with the CD to memorize the first verse of this song when SUDDENLY, Drew’s canker sore became so unbearably painful that he flipped over on his stomach, flailed his arms, and identified a pain so excruciating that it rendered him unable to sing.

FYI – I have a patience meter, and it doesn’t function after 8 PM. So I said, “Drew, so help me we are going to sing about trying to be like Jesus or I will go in your room right now and start picking out toys to give away.” He sat up. I pushed “PLAY”.

“I’m trying to be like Jesus…” Drew, are you singing? If not, I’m starting it over.
“I’m following in His way…” Drew, stop kicking me with your feet.
“I’m trying to love as He did…” CORY!!! I need your help!
“In all that I do and say…” Would you please sit UP?
“At times I am tempted to make a wrong choice….”

I played it through once and called it good. Samantha knows the words, Drew doesn’t. I’m still supposed to learn the 2nd verse. Jesus would be so impressed.

Don't delay, thank a teacher today!

Last night our church sponsored a local event that we call Teacher Appreciation Night. The graduating seniors in our area nominate a teacher they want to recognize and an anonymous donor not only awards the teachers, but provides $750 scholarships to other deserving students nominated by those teachers. You might call it our Mormon version of “Happy Hour”. Anyway, it got me thinking back to some of the teachers I have had, and since I didn’t get a chance to talk about them last night, I would like to honor a few of them here.

First, I’d like to thank my neighbor and Kindergarten teacher Mrs. Horton for teaching me the meaning of the word “fib” after I came to school claiming that my little brother Greg had been trampled and killed by a cow. After verifying with my 5th grade sister that my story was not true, her lecture on fibbing ensued. I wasn’t trying to lie, my dream just seemed so real! (And for the record Greg, I’m really glad you didn’t die.) Next, Mrs. Johnson who taught me that when you smoke and drink coffee, a measly stick of cinnamon gum doesn't cover it up. Oh, and that you should be really careful when you bend over that far. Mrs. Johnson should have worn tighter shirts. Mrs. Bauer – who owned more cats than performed on Broadway, wore more gold necklaces than Mr. T, and would be fired for her “teaching” methods if she was still teaching today. She used to read our grades out loud in front of class and complimented us if we did well or made a sarcastic, condescending remark if we did poorly. I made sure never to do poorly.

Here’s to Mr. Blok for trying to teach me chess and making me feel like a math genius. To Mr. Lidster for wearing Izods and acting as seventh grade eye candy. Next, Mrs. Bohannon. I had developed a talent for imitating Mrs. Bohannon behind her back. One day my friends called her over to our desks and said, “Hey, Mrs. Bohannon! Watch this! Kristy does the BEST imitation of you!” I shot my friends a devil stare but Mrs. Bohannon insisted that she see me do it. Luckily, this algebra teacher had a sense of humor. I should have known she might take it well – for Halloween she came to school wearing a bra with a bunch of foliage on it: an “algae-bra”.

Thanks to Mr. McAllister for being the only one who ever successfully explained word problems to me. To Mr. Thoennes for introducing me to a love of ceramics. I think he was relieved to have a student that loved working with clay who didn’t also love working with weed. Mr. Wetzel for never reporting me when I ditched typing to go swimming at Jodi’s house. To Miss Keithley for, no wait, I hated Miss Keithley. What English teacher in their right mind fails a student and makes them go to summer school when they have all A’s in spelling, vocabulary and grammar????!! Miss Keithley…she needed a man in her life.

And finally, to Mr. See. I had heard of his unconventional tactics of lecturing while riding his stationary bike in class. He was definitely a different breed but as it turned out, Mr. See became an invaluable resource in preparing me for college. He taught me how to write a paper, and writing papers absolutely saved my college GPA!

So, here’s to the grossly underpaid. Thank a teacher.

Winter Games in 2007

A couple of weeks ago we took our kids to Winter Park ski resort for the weekend. We put the kids in ski school for the first time, a commitment we made after we (and by "we" I mean Cory) tried to teach them by ourselves last year. And lest I leave you with the notion that we are that cool kind of Colorado family who gallivants off to the woods every winter for sporty activity let me just say this: while I legitimately enjoyed skiing throughout my college years, it has turned into an activity for me that I somewhat liken to childbirth. I only do it about every four years, and every time I go back my starry-eyed recollections of poetic movements through fresh powder (or using my analogy, like rocking a cuddly baby to sleep) explode into the reality of uncomfortable boots and inherited bad knees (or Sitz baths, teething, and potty training).

Anyway, on day two Samantha wanted to go back for more but Drew was not as enthusiastic. So, he and I stayed at the hotel while Cory and Samantha headed out for more. Later when we went to pick them up we found ourselves waiting for a while. That's when Drew invented this great game that I wanted to share with you, just in case your own children are ever at a loss for ways to challenge your game-playing stamina:

Drew: Hey Mom, I'm gonna try to get you to say "green" okay?
Kristy: OK.
D: What color is the sky?
K: Blue.
D: What color is the snow?
K: White.
D: What color are the trees?
K: Green!
D: Ha ha! I made you say green! Now, I'm gonna try to get you to say "red". What color are cars?
K: Red.
D: Ha ha! I made you say it! Now..."brown". What color are branches?
K: "Dirt"
D: What?
K: Branches are the same color as dirt.
D: Oh right, and what color is that?
K: Brown.
D: Ha ha! I made you say it! Now Mom, today the color of the sky is actually gray, and I'm gonna try to get you to say "gray". What color are trees?
K: Green.
D: The sky?
K: Blue.
D: Moooom! TODAY it's GRAY! Okay, now "white" - what color is snow?
K: Cloud color
D: And clouds are white so I MADE YOU SAY IT! Ha ha!
K: Hey Drew?
D: What?
K: I think I'm done playing this game.

Someday I'll be begging him to talk to me at all. In the meantime, I'll write stuff like this down...just in case I forget.

Old With No Fashion

Samantha, while giving me a tour of her friend's bedroom: "And LOOK Mom, she has an OLD FASHIONED desk!"

Me: "That's the kind of desk I had when I was a kid."

Samantha: "I know."

Fashion For Dummies

I have not been blessed with an eye for style the way my sister Suzi has, but somehow I have at least managed to stay current. You may never see me with a bag and shoes to match every outfit, but you will also never see me in a pair of leggings sporting a perm and five-inch bangs. With meager credentials at best, Cory still counts on me to keep him up to date on his wardrobe. In his world, there are basically two clothing categories: work and church. Work requires nothing more than Dockers and a button-down shirt, and church is easy: a suit and tie. It’s the “less than business casual” and “impress me on a Friday night” categories where we seem to feel the most challenged. Most of the time, I just buy things for Cory and bring them home. But recently after one of our dates, we had an unprecedented opportunity to try and accomplish this task together. I have heard before that success is what happens when opportunity meets preparation. I guess I was unprepared.

C: “I need Skechers? What are Skechers? Am I out of touch if I haven’t heard what Skechers are?”
K: “Yes.”
C: “Who pays for jeans with holes in them? I don’t get it.”
K: “Stop it. You sound like a grandpa.”
C: “Hey, how ‘bout these?” (holding up a pair of light colored jeans that were only one step away from 80’s acid wash)
K: “No, you need to go darker.”
C: “These aren’t dark?”
K: “No.”
C: “I’m not wearing anything that looks dirty already."

I finally picked out two pair of great jeans and handed them over for him to try on. He gave me an incredulous look and said, “Seriously?” Seriously.

Then I handed him a shirt that was long sleeved underneath and short sleeved over it. He put it on and came out - I laughed, then he looked at me with an expression of betrayal so I went on to explain that it seemed like he was trying too hard. He took my criticism personally and proceeded with a ten-minute discourse relaying that, “I invented this look when I was in Junior High and I wore it ALL THE TIME and everybody made fun of me. Well where are they now? I’m GETTING this shirt – I invented this shirt….”

We got the jeans AND the shirt and yes, a pair of Skechers. Can’t wait for our next date...especially if he wears those jeans.

Homeward Bound

This post is dedicated to five wonderful dads who took over a temporary role of single parenthood while their wives, a group of friends, headed for sunnier skies and beaches in Southern California for the weekend. Not only did I get to take this trip with my friends, but Southern California is where I spent the first half of my life and where several members of my family still live.

After landing at the San Diego airport we went to retrieve our bags when I looked out the wall of windows and saw the palm trees swaying without me, and I knew that my bag would have to wait a minute while I went outside to inhale the balmy air. I ran for the exit, opened the door and took a deep breath – unfortunately I was met with an aroma comparable to dark corners of Denny’s restaurants caused by a group of people equally desperate to get outside…smokers. It wasn’t until we reached the shores of the La Jolla Cove that I would inhale again and be able to affirm, “Aaaahhh…I’m home.”

After bike rides around Coronado Island, Go-Kart racing at Miramar, authentic Mexican food for dinner and a nostalgic visit to the temple where Cory and I got married, we headed for the house of my childhood where my parents still live and where we would spend our first night. As we approached my home and ascended the driveway I could see the lights illuminating the kitchen nook, and there sat my parents, enjoying their dinner meal together. I smiled to myself and ran to greet them – they gave hugs all around and again I thought, “Man it feels good to be home.”

For the next two days we took in several tourist attractions and made our way to the beach whenever possible. We saw sunsets, Beverly Hills, carnivals, Rodeo Drive, Darth Vader and Spiderman, street performers and transvestites. We shopped Hollywood Blvd. and consumed the most intoxicating serving of Gelato I’ve had since wandering the very streets of Italy. On our last day, a family dinner with my parents and two of my brothers and their families was the final event before boarding the plane back to Denver. I soaked in the atmosphere I was raised in, laughing as much as humanly possible and consuming enough rolls to make Atkins turn in his grave. I watched my oldest brother take a genuine interest in the lives of strangers, I made my youngest brother do some of his uncanny impersonations, I watched my thirteen-year-old nephew entertain my 3-year-old nephew nonstop, and I watched my parents continue to do what they have always done, creating an environment that makes everyone want to stay. But it was time to go.

I arrived home after midnight. There were jackets piled on the arm of the couch, chicken nuggets in the freezer, and remnants of the guys’ dinners together (in our absence) lining the fridge. The dishes were done and the kids were tucked in bed. I went to kiss the kids and nuzzle their necks – Drew slept through it but Samantha woke up enough to sling her arm around my neck and say, “Hey mama.” “Goodnight baby girl, I’ll see you in the morning,” I said. She fell back asleep, and I tried to get ready for bed as quietly as possible. I finally slipped into bed when Cory woke up enough to give me a hug and inquire about the weekend. With his arms around me I provided a brief rundown and promised more details the next day. I set the alarm, pulled up the covers, closed my eyes and smiled at the ceiling.

“Aaaahh…” I thought. “It’s good to be home.”

Tales of a 5th grade something

I've spent 36 good years on this planet and had my share of bad days. But for the first time I have had the real definition of a bad day laid out for me by a pre-adolescent fifth grade girl. She happens to be my own flesh and blood, and her distorted view of reality at this age might possibly represent a legitimate benefit of having kept a journal through those ridiculous years in my life. I can look back and verify in my own handwriting that even I, the epitome of all things rational and balanced (shut up, it could happen), had days where the uncurling of a hair strand seemed like reason enough to end my life.

But just in case my journals aren't enough, I have my daughter to remind me. In the event that you are also in need of a reminder and don't happen to have a ten-year-old girl handy, allow me to enlighten you. If you have had the "worst day of [your] entire life" you may have faced a little snow on the walk to the car, had to run an errand with your mother after school, then come home only to be told that you had to have your homework done before you could play with friends (a rule that has existed in our family since like, Adam and Eve), and after crying about a world gone mad you finally came down to the table to work on your homework and hit your elbow on the table.

Good heavens, is there no mercy??!!!

Thirty minutes later she was done with her homework, came to give me a hug and annnounced that I was "the best mom ever", then went bouncing over to her friend's house.

Isn't there supposed to be a medication for this?

Walking on a thin, pink line

Pregnancy tests had to be invented by a man. If I’m wrong, sue me. But no woman I have ever met could take something as emotional as a pregnancy test and sum it up so simply with parallel shapes: two lines = pregnant; one line = not pregnant. I have taken my share of these tests over the last five years but have not come in contact with two lines since the results of Drew were manifest. That single line has wreaked havoc on my psyche for some time now, and I’m not interested in any more abuse.

At first, the single line represented something temporary to me. Something that maybe wasn’t happening now, but would surely come about after several solid months. When that didn’t happen I was introduced to regular doses of disappointment and frustration, so I decided to experiment with some basic fertility drugs. Two months went by with no success so my doctor ordered an ultrasound at month #3 to see if the drugs were working. I met him in his office for the results. I felt like a schoolgirl waiting for the principal to deliver a consequence for bad behavior. He put on his glasses, picked up the papers to dissect their contents, furrowed his brow and squinted, and after a definitive “Hmm” my 5’ 2” Jewish OBGYN pitched my results back down on the desk, removed his glasses and declared, “Looks like you have a nice juicy follicle. I say you go home and have intercourse!”

Not even kidding.

The drugs never worked and yes, I could have gone on to subject myself to more medications, more procedures, and inevitable surgeries to find out where my body was broken. But I looked at the two great kids I already had and declined. I currently find myself in a situation where so much time has passed that a pregnancy result bearing only one pink line is met with relief instead of disappointment. Relief because I don’t have to gain fifty pounds. Relief because I will not have to exchange my current lot of six hours a day alone for increments of five minutes. Relief because I will continue to enjoy a solid night’s sleep. Relief because I won’t have to endure that two years of post-partum depression (not an exaggeration for me).

But the relief comes at a price.

I also don’t get to smell the head of my own freshly bathed baby. I don’t get to experience that kind of celebratory hug from Cory again. I don’t get to enjoy the reaction from family or share another cousin with a sibling. I don’t get to watch my friend Ganelle relish in the validation it would give her to hear me agonize over the day to day struggles of fresh parenthood. I don’t get to see the reaction from my friend Michelle, who said she would cry if I ever delivered such news.

All of the above went through my head over the weekend as I experienced yet another single pink line. The cycle of abuse continues, and I continue to search for the pregnancy test that tells it like it really is.

Phew!

Good news! While talking to my dad on the phone the other day he confirmed that he is NOT the father of Anna Nicole Smith's baby. What a relief.

Me Tarzan. You Jane.

There's something about photographing two "kids" that are crazy in love that makes you want to go home and make out with your husband. I spent the afternoon with such a couple in downtown Denver taking engagement photos. They were so ridiculously into each other that my instructions would have been sufficient at a Tarzan-like level; "You - there. Me - over here." When I did that, something like this would happen:


The other bonus was being able to throw simple rules learned since childhood out the window. So we played in the street...


...and explored dark alleyways...


...and knocked on the doors of strangers.

Aaahh...young love.

I never said I wasn't crazy

I remember Samantha’s first day of Kindergarten. I swore I would not be the kind of parent who sat there and sobbed about giving my child up for a whopping two and a half hours to public education. So I took her up to the Kindergarten area where she gathered with all the other five and six-year-olds and she stood quietly against the wall, taking it all in. I would be cool. I would not be one of those needy parents rushing off to the “Tissues and Tears” meeting immediately following the initial drop-off because come on, that’s just silly.

As I watched her standing there waiting for the teachers to come out I suddenly felt light-headed. I thought to myself, So I’m just supposed to walk up and leave her here? Just like that? I’m going to put her in a room with twenty kids where surely half of them are bullies, and numerous staff I've never met where for all I know the janitor is a pedophile, and I just leave her here? Does nobody else see these older, sinister fifth graders walking around trying to be cool and having to walk RIGHT PAST the Kindergarten area where my little innocent girl is going to be standing every day? And who are these crazy parents who just drive up to the curb and drop their kids off to fend for themselves? Can you do that? Who does that? I will never do that.

“Good Morning children!” greeted the enthusiastic teachers who detailed the protocol of the day. I shouted out a final “I love you!” and watched her go into class as if I was sending her like a lamb to the slaughter, then walked to my car.

And I cried.

It is six years later and for the record, I drop my kids off at the curb EVERY DAY, and now my oldest is one of those heretofore described as “sinister” fifth-graders. The other day she came home with a paper detailing the latest fundraiser and it is the first one I have decided to participate in. Because it’s chocolate bars, and who can argue with the value of that? So we have been dutifully selling chocolate bars for the last month.

“Only the 5th graders are doing this one,” Samantha explained.
“Whatever”, I thought. “It’s chocolate, who am I to argue?”

Well, here’s the KICKER people! Do you know why it’s just the fifth graders who are selling the chocolate? Because it’s raising money for something only the FIFTH graders get to do! And do you know what that is boys and girls???? Well naturally, it is for the fifth grade TRIP! And do you know what the fifth grade trip is BOYS AND GIRLS???? Well they’re going to the mountains! FOR THREE DAYS!! WITH NO PARENTS!! FOR THREE DAYS!! THEY WANT TO TAKE MY CHILD FOR AN ENTIRE WEEKEND AND I HAVE BEEN HELPING TO MAKE THAT HAPPEN BY SELLING CHOCOLATE!!

ARE YOU LISTENING TO ME????

What is the world coming to? Preschool has a graduation and now 5th graders have a trip.

I think I’m gonna cry.

A rare dose of cheese...

Valentine’s Day is not a big celebration around here. And by “here” I mean in my household. Early on in our relationship I learned Cory’s feelings about this day heralded by cherubs and overpriced flowers. He hated the idea of somebody else deciding when and how he should express his love for me. Also early in our relationship I expressed that a complete disregard for the one day of guaranteed physical evidence of his undying love might be a bad idea. Therefore, we struck a deal and for the last several years I have received a token of Cory’s affection around Valentine’s Day. Not after, because I might be irritated by then. But usually somewhere within a week before the day of red, white and pink I am met with a pleasant surprise from my good husband. It works.

While compromises like these are necessary in every household, the truth is: it’s not about the flowers.

The real beauty lies in the fact that this is the guy who when we had been married about a year and my abdomen had to be sliced open and sealed back up with thirteen staples came running into the bathroom to support said staples in my stomach when he heard me throwing up. This is the guy I overheard telling my daughter to pick a different cereal for breakfast because her first choice was almost gone and happened to be “mommy’s favorite”. This is the guy who when I asked if he would rather clean out the fridge or clean the poo off of Drew’s shoe said, “Both”. This is the guy who when I mentioned how much I wanted to spend on a camera and classes said, “Go for it”. And this is the guy who said, a few months ago when we were listening to a Tina Turner song on the radio, “Well, in another 30 years they won’t be able to say that Tina Turner was the sexiest woman at 65 anymore.” (I’m 35 – you do the math.)

You see, real love is in the details. How lucky am I?

A foggy morning in Denver...

The naked truth

What kind of a gym-goer are you? Specifically, what is your nude tolerance for others at your workout facility? Because I’d like to be honest here: I am not interested in seeing other naked women. More importantly, I am not interested in being seen naked by other women. While the root of these feelings probably goes way back to those scoliosis tests and Hitler-fashion group showers after gym class in the 7th grade, I don’t understand how anyone in a locker room can do anything but hurry up and get dressed after a shower. Listen, I can be mature enough to handle somebody changing by an actual locker. I’m okay with that because the locker is right there and I know you are working toward being fully clothed.

But is it really necessary for someone like me who just needs to go pee and wash her hands to have to share that space with a buck naked middle-aged Asian woman taking her time under a hair dryer? I mean, good for you (whoever "you" are) for being so comfortable with your body. But bad for me who has to pretend not to see it while I’m protecting my basic hygiene rights.

Surely there are bigger problems in the world, but my mother might be relieved to know that I am conservative in at least one other area of my life besides politics. Too bad she will be too mortified by how I’ve expressed such to appreciate it.

Drugged, Comfy and Warm

So, it’s possible that I’m ADD and just haven’t been officially diagnosed. All I really wanted to do was make a deposit at my bank, which happens to be in my local grocery store. Then I needed milk, and if I was gonna get milk I may as well get the vanilla yogurt I like to use to make smoothies. And…wait a second, are those donuts fresh…? Anyway, after purchasing my goods (which disturbingly totaled $6.66) and checking out I started walking to my car and looked at the beauty supply store next door and reminded myself that I should get more mousse for my hair, as mine had recently been reduced to the likes of a rabid dog foaming at the mouth. So I went into Ulta to retrieve my mousse and then remembered the intoxicating lotion sample given to me by my hairdresser and fantasized about a really BIG bottle of it next to my bed at all times. I’m pretty sure it has a marijuana leaf on the outside of it, but the notes on the bottle inform that it is a “THC-drug free” product. However, with the way my eyes roll blissfully into the back of my head every time I lather this stuff on, I have to wonder. I decide against the lotion, but am distracted at every turn by items beckoning me to enhance my femininity with their shampoos and serums, fragrances, shower gels, and body butters guaranteeing to make you feel a part of the Caribbean for a few moments. Finally I tore myself away, made only the necessary purchases and left…and then looked to my right and noticed the shoe store and remembered that I still had Christmas money to spend.

So I went to the shoe store.

The last time I had gone into this store I had been inspired by a very trendy and cute pair of Skechers that I saw my sister-in-law wearing at our summer family reunion. When I tried to go locate some for myself, they were not to be found. So at the time I bought something else - some sort of black monstrosity that weren’t really sneakers, and weren’t really sandals, and weren’t really flats, and definitely weren’t cute…but they were comfy! (Note: The first time I wore these shoes I accidentally fell into thick, muddy pond water in Gunnison during our fishing trip, demoting them even further into the category of damaged goods. Alas, still comfy!)

Now I was in this store again, and decided to look for some knee-length, sleek black boots that I could wear with some of my skirts. The good news: all the boots I wanted were over 50% off. The bad news: None of them were available in a size 11. Something I’ve grown accustomed to. But you know what was on sale in a size 11? Slippers! Black slippers with foamy happiness lining the inside and endorsed by Dr. Scholl’s were on the clearance rack for $15. And if I wasn’t going to be able to walk out of this store with some sexy black boots to strut at the mall (as if) at least I would have warm toes in the morning.

So let’s recap: ADD, possibly high, not cute but comfortable, not sexy but warm. Happy Tuesday.

Wow - could this be more random?

You know what I miss are those shows with the psychics that connect with people “on the other side” to send messages to the skeptics in the audience. It’s not just the psychics that used to crack me up, but the messages that the people “on the other side” would send to their loved ones that were sitting there. The psychic and the audience member would engage in this long process of figuring out who’s trying to say something, who they’re saying it to, and the final climaxing moment of truth has something to do with the fact that this person on the other side has been longing for you to know that they have always hated the couch you picked out. It would go a little like this…

Psychic: “Is there someone over here with an Albert, or an Allen – somebody with an ‘Al’…”
Audience Member: (Raises her hand) “My husband’s brother’s boss had a bird named Alfonso that would cry ‘Ally Ally Oxen free’ in the middle of the night’.”
P: “Was it yellow?”
AM: (Starting to tear up, no longer skeptical) “Yes.” (Whispering to her friend, “How’d he KNOW that?”)
P: “Has the bird passed?”
AM: “Yes, killed in a tragic debacle with a siamese.”
P: “I see. (Pause) I’m sensing some little tray in the corner of his cage…there’s small little round things in it…maybe it’s a food tray or a bird bath with bubbles…did he have something like that?”
AM: “Yes.”
P: “I also see a letter ‘A’ on it, is that right?”
AM: “Yes – his boss had a party for the bird’s first birthday and we gave him an engraved food tray as a gift.”
P: “Okay. (Pause – thinking hard) The bird is coming through and he wants you to know…he wants you to know that he hated that tray. He was allergic to stainless steel and was glad the siamese took him quickly.”

The whole exchange would likely be followed up with a meeting in a private room behind the scenes where tears would be shed and testimonials given about how they would never doubt a psychic again. Ah yes, those were good times.

12 Repetitions on Med-High

I’ve been reflecting on Bob Greene’s advice to include strength training into a workout routine. This is not an innovative suggestion to the fitness world, but I’m just wondering: shouldn't blow-drying your hair and man handling a hand mixer while blending a batch of cookie dough count as an upper body workout? ‘Cause seriously, my blow dryer is really heavy. And while hand mixers are helpful, there’s only so much they can do with a stiff Oatmeal Raisin Dough. I’m just saying.