A Delicate Balance

Some might say it’s counterproductive to have a Slim Fast and a chocolate chip cookie for lunch, but it actually makes perfect sense. You see I sprained my ankle yesterday morning as I missed the final descent down my stairs. Now I find myself facing several weeks of a compromised exercise regimen, which will undoubtedly deflate some of the perky joyfulness for which I am known. [Funny - it's quiet, and yet I hear laughter.] So the Slim Fast is to help curb the side effects of no treadmill while the chocolate chip cookie restores some of that innate happiness that might wane during the duration of recovery. So it's basically a win/win. And any ill effects of said cookie are surely balanced out by the one-legged hopping cardio routine I’ve incorporated as I navigate between the couch, the freezer (to retrieve ice packs), and the DVD player.

On the positive side, I've been waiting for an opportunity to watch season 2 of "The Office" in its entirety while the children fetch me drinks. And as the icing on the cake, I will have at least one set of great quads when this is all over.

Wait a minute, did someone say "cake"?

And that's why they created the Dumb Friends League

Have you ever tried to put a cat in a cardboard box? I hadn't expected it to be easy, but I had no idea how difficult it would be as my friend Lorie and I tried to box up a stray for her to take on her move to a ranch for the summer. This was literally Lorie's last task before driving away from what had been her home for the last four years - the kids were seatbelted in, they were hooked up to DVD's to prepare for the drive, and I had stopped by to bid final farewell when I was roped into helping entice this ball of white and butterscotch colored furriness into the confines of a box. "It'll be happier on more land", "my kids have been wanting a pet anyway", "I don't think it belongs to anybody else", "it's obviously malnourished". These are all the things that Lorie said as we prepared the box for it's new tenant.

It was clear after attempt number one that we hadn't thought this through. The initial capture was successful, but as Lorie inched the cat closer to its new home he responded much like I do to birthday parties at Chuck E. Cheese - arms and legs shot out in protest with the appearance of claws. And call me crazy, but I'm pretty sure the cat said, "Heeeellll noooo!"
It bolted, and Lorie decided we needed tape.

Soon she came back triumphantly waving packing tape in the air and we tried again. This time in a stroke of genius, she put her hand over the cat's eyes so it wouldn't see what was happening. It helped at first, but eventually she had to remove her hand and thus began the wailing and gnashing of teeth. But this time we had tape! I set to work sealing up the edges while Lorie tried to keep the cat inside and offered encouragement in soothing tones, "Don't worry kitty, we're taking you to a better place. There's LOTS of mice and TONS of land!" Clearly this cat did not speak the language of bullcrap, and decided instead that his best escape route had been reduced to the small airholes we had created earlier with the tips of our keys. With all his might and power he began forcing his head through the quarter size holes, and we grew increasingly convinced that this was a very bad idea (ya think??!) not to mention borderline animal cruelty. Before we could undo the tape and set him free he had forged his own path through the aforementioned airhole and made a run for it across the street.

Having caught the tail end (HA!) of this incident a neighbor appeared seeking Lorie's email address and pointed down the street where he believed the owner of this cat lived. She rattled off a fake address, I waved good-bye while still laughing, and drove off. As we rounded the corner I heard a loud and deliberate "meow" from the depths of a distant juniper bush. I'm not positive, but I'm pretty sure he was giving me the bird.

Did you know...

...that there is such a thing as National Women’s Confidence Day? And did you know that it’s today? If you said “no” to either of these questions don’t worry, you are not a slacker. Because the last thing I want to do is call you a slacker on National Women’s Confidence Day. That just seems counterproductive. But am I alone in feeling annoyed that we think it’s necessary for a Congressman and a celebrity to spend tax dollars encouraging “women everywhere to empower themselves with confidence every day”? Are we really this desperate to validate ourselves? Don't get me wrong. As a proud member and current President of the Inadequate Club I certainly have my own issues. But as nice as it is for Queen Latifah to hand out plaques to exemplary, confident women while reminding us that big is beautiful, I’m thinking that I’d rather have less national debt. And a smaller waist.

Perhaps if we were more confident we would have fixed that already. Gotta go, I think I smell baked goods.

Happy Anniversary

As I sit here I am looking out my window at what appears will be a beautiful day. Blues skies, soft breezes, the sun is casting highlights over our aspen trees, the birds are rendezvousing in the branches, and Starbucks is already jumping to meet the demands of iced, tall, foamy, cappuccino, hazlenut, soy whatevers for their customers. The high today is supposed to be around 83 degrees. It's exactly what I had pictured for this day in June in San Diego fourteen years ago; a.k.a. our wedding day.
We were supposed to have an outdoor reception at the home of friends whose gardens and veranda sat atop a lovely hill overlooking my hometown. They had worked for months to make it even more beautiful, and it was indeed a great spot for this occasion. At least it would have been had the torrential winds not blown our canopy down the ravine and the thundering rain not drenched our tables and chairs. Allow me to reiterate: June. San Diego. Who'da thunk?
We had no backup plan. We had no decorations to move indoors, as the fresh flowers of our plan-A were going to be the main backdrop. We had no way of contacting the 350 guests we had invited to let them know we were frantically changing our location to the church hall. We hung a poster on the door and hoped for the best.
And then a crazy thing happened. People showed up out of nowhere with stuff. Some who had the foresight to imagine the state of my poor mother's mind had simply called her and asked, "What are the colors?" and then appeared with flower arrangements to suit. Another came bearing several pre-lit trees while yet another showed up with other odds and ends to fill space and add warmth. My mom insisted that I not fret about a thing while she ran around frantically trying to negotiate a path of survival and success. Which she did. And as it turned out, no one could have guessed that we hadn't planned an indoor celebration to begin with!
I had made very few decisions about this day as I had not designed my wedding since I was 11. But my sister had, so my approach was to leave the decisions up to her and my mom. (I was in college, and I had finals!) The day before the official "I do's" I asked my sister Suzi to go buy me some wedding day earrings. Her gasp of disbelief that I hadn't already done so was followed with an inquisition about what I wanted; big or small? dainty or bold? diamonds or pearls?dangly or subtle? "Whatever," I replied. "I'm sure whatever you pick will be perfect." I'm pretty sure I drove her crazy during this time.
I only remember having an opinion about two things. One, the bride's maids/flower girl dresses. And two, I had insisted simply that our reception be somewhere other than the church hall. I have changed a lot in the last fourteen years and as I look back on that day, I think about what it would be like to do it all over again making choices based on my current personal taste and style (now that I actually have some.) And just to be safe, I would probably have a weather related backup plan. The good news is that despite my changing opinions, the one thing I've never wavered on is the groom. The guy that stood across from me who promised to love me no matter what has held up his end of the bargain of "better or worse", and we've managed to enjoy a great life together so far. So here's to hoping that the next 14 years are as good as the last.
From where I sit, it's looking pretty good.

Cheapskate

Hint: When someone tells you about a cheap movie theater in town, you can assume it is probably not in the best area. In addition, when the person giving you directions says, “It’s in the strip mall right between the Dollar Store and a Bingo joint”, you should probably be prepared for something extra special. Finally, when they say it’s “cheap” they are only talking about the price of admission. Popcorn is still $73. However, if you ask for enough straws you’ll be surprised how far a drink will go between five people.

Brought to you by someone who participated in the complete annihilation of last month’s budget.

Don't try this at home - these are trained professionals

If you are a parent of young children it is possible that they have been indoctrinated with the enticing benefits of a new drinkable yogurt called Danimals Extreme. Drew informed us of this new product the other day when he asked if I would get some at the store. "It's so cool," he said, "because when you eat it, it feels like fruit is being splashed ALL OVER YOU!!" (as seen on TV)

And since I am a cool mom who is willing to buy artificially colored sugar that has been thickened with a little yogurt so as to advertise in the name of calcium and other nutrients, I got some when I was at the store the other day. After Cory got home from work, Drew grabbed a cold one from the fridge and took a drink. At the same time, Cory had been reaching for a bag of fruit and found an irresistible opportunity to reach down (not very far) into his twelve-year-old version of himself and simultaneously smeared fruit all over Drew's cheek.

Drew looked violated and unimpressed.

"What?" Cory asked. "Didn't the commercial say that would happen?"
"Daaaddy!" He protested. "That's not funny!"
Quick to appear repentant, Cory grabbed a Danimals, handed Drew the bag of fruit and sat down. "Okay," he said. "You're turn."
[Enter sinister grin on Drew's face]
Cory took a drink and without a moment's hesitation Drew threw his first punch, and the only adult in the room (that would be me by the way) was left to observe the pelting of strawberries and blueberries at her husband's head.

And THAT, my friends, is why we propogate that an ideal world consists of a mom AND and a dad in the home. Because eventually one of them is going to lob fruit at their children, and the other one needs to be available to take notes.

Proud to be an American

I saw this for the first time today and had to share. For all of those serving this country, whether it be here or abroad, this is the outcome we are all wishing for you today. Click here, and grab some Kleenex. Happy Memorial Day.

You Give Love A Bad Name

Is it a sign of poor parenting if your son walks around singing this Bon Jovi song? Ever since we watched an American Idol contestant sing his version during the competition a couple of weeks ago, Drew has had it stuck in his head. Since then he has been heard belting it out while cleaning his room, playing Game Cube, and getting ready for church. Granted, his 7-year-old interpretation insists that the words are "shot through the heart, and YOU'RE TOO LAME" because he swears it makes more sense. Either way, somebody's giving love a bad name.

Garden of the Gods

I spent a day down in Colorado Springs gathering pictures for a Photo Scavenger Hunt for a youth activity that's coming up so I thought I'd share. Here are some pictures from Garden of the Gods - take note of the crazy man about 2/3 of the way up in this first picture!

Camp

Samantha left for 5th grade camp yesterday. Last night when I was going through Drew's homework, I found this note. Looks like I'm not the only one who thinks this is a bad idea.

Failure To Launch

I am one of those people who don’t find certain modern technologies to be more convenient. When I go into a bathroom with automatic faucets and flushing toilets, I feel like I am auditioning to be a traffic cop. Because most of the time my 5’10” frame is not enough to signal the water to launch, the paper to dispense or the toilet to flush. So I find myself waving my hands all around as if the invention is yelling commands, “Higher! Lower! Almost, just a little more to the right…perfect!” Water finally comes out of the faucet, but then I have to change positions to reach for the soap and bam! the water stops and the game starts all over. And would you like to know just a little too much information about me that will show just how dedicated I am to making others feel better about themselves? Here it goes: I DID NOT KNOW, until about 2 years ago, that automatic toilets have a button you can push if they don’t happen to launch automatically. Think about that. Are you connecting the dots? Let’s just say that my Hip Hop class at the gym came in handy during those times. And let me also say that traffic cops would have to be very skilled to motion traffic with THAT.

Top 10 Signs You Are About To Have A Redneck Moment

10. While your parents are visiting, you decide to take on a large home improvement project

9. With 40 minutes to spare before picking your children up from school, you and your mom decide that you have ample time to choose, purchase, load and unload a shower that is roughly the size of Montana

8. When the cashier pages for additional muscles to help with the loading portion, a kid that resembles your 8th grade crush appears

7. When your 8th grade crush realizes the task for which he has been paged, his eyes get big and his ego doesn’t hesitate to ask for more help

6. So then your 9th grade crush shows up

5. After putting down all the seats and filling the interior of the car, your 9th grade crush announces that they will need to tie down the rest

4. He comes back with dental floss

3. When finished, they caution you to take the corners really slow on your way home

2. Five minutes into the 10-minute drive home your mother says, “Hey Kris? I think you need to pull over.”

1. And by the time we secure our cargo that was put together by Boy Scout dropouts, it is time to pick up the kids from school. And with many distractions to follow during the rest of the day, we decide to wait until tomorrow to unload. I make a mental note to drive my dad’s car to take the kids to school in the morning. And then when I went out this morning I realized that I should have shared my mental note with my father because he was long gone, probably already into deep conversation with a guy named “Wylie” in the plumbing department at Home Depot. And so I took the kids to school without seatbelts, in the front seat with an airbag, told them to shield themselves with their backpacks, and drove Montana through the school drop-off.

Happy Mother's Day

"My mother tried to kill me when I was a baby. She denied it. She said she thought the plastic bag would keep me fresh."

–Bob Monkhouse

"Always end the name of your child with a vowel, so that when you yell the name will carry."
– Bill Cosby

The first day home from surgery, Drew and I sat at breakfast and he seemed upset. [Note: The fact that he was sitting up anywhere eating regular food was a major deal – he has recovered a thousand times better than last time and might I add, he has refused any and all remedies for pain. This might actually speak more to his disdain for medicine than his threshold for pain, but still! Anyway, back to the story.]
“What’s the matter buddy?”
His bottom lip started to quiver as he began to cry and then managed to say, “I want my daddy and my sissy.”
With Cory back at work and Samantha at school, it seemed apparent that the rest of us had moved on with our regular routines but he was still in need of everyone’s company.
“Would you like to call Daddy at work and talk to him?”
He managed a silent nod. Cory wasn’t in his office, so Drew had to leave a message: “Hi Daddy, I just wanted to call because…well…I just missed you. Bye.” A very short time later the phone rang to return Drew’s call, and they talked for a few minutes. He seemed to feel better afterward, and we moved on with our day.

So yesterday it came as no surprise that Drew made another request to call Cory at work. Again he had to leave a message, and again Cory called back within minutes. I handed Drew the phone and then walked to the other side of the room to continue getting ready for our morning. “Hi Daddy. I just wanted to call because…well…I need some more ideas for Mother’s Day. I mean I usually get flowers, but I was thinkin’ maybe some clothes, or some rings, or a necklace or something. Do you have any other ideas?”

I raised my eyebrows and peered over my shoulder at the boy on the other side of the room, discussing presents for me with his dad. He sat on the bed and was quiet while Cory took his turn in the conversation, and Drew responded with an occasional “OK”. I continued to stare in silent admiration of my two boys as they carried on. Then I could tell the conversation was about to conclude as I heard Drew respond, “I love you too Daddy.”

Looks like Mother’s Day came a little early for me this year. Though I have to say the idea of jewelry sounds intriguing.

Just another day at the hospital

It is 3:30 in the morning and I wish I could explain why I am unable to sleep, because my body would really love that. Drew had his 2nd surgery in 9 months today and it has been a really long day. For those unaware of his condition, I will explain while also trying to be brief. It began with an abnormal result from a school hearing test and escalated to visits with the Pediatrician followed by more tests and a CT Scan at the hands of a Pediatric ENT. We discovered that Drew had what is called a congenital cholesteatoma, a benign growth within his ear that required a mandatory surgery to remove it. That was back in August, when the 2-3 hour scheduled operation took nearly 6 hours. We knew that we would be coming back for a 2nd surgery within 6-9 months to make sure it had not grown back, which they tend to do. Hence today’s surgery.

There’s nothing quite as difficult as seeing your child miserable, and so round 1 of this surgery took a significant toll on my emotional resources. I have to say that round 2 (today) was a little better since the sights and sounds of that environment were a little more familiar. Still, there’s nothing quite like a Children’s Hospital to make you realize how good you have it. One observation: I floundered a bit when trying to find my way to the cafeteria while other parents seemed to breeze through the hallways, pushing their kids in their wheelchairs and navigating a place that was all too familiar. Another observation: As a parent I have been known to point out en exciting thing or two from the car window such as, “Hey look! Hot air balloons!” or, “Check it out guys! A purple car with painted flames!” So I was humbled a little today as I watched a couple wheel their son to the window and with similar animation exclaim, “Look! Trees!”

But the action that took place in our waiting area trumped it all, and teetered on the edges of both uncomfortable and touching. It was impossible not to notice the huge black pastor who sat across from us reading his Bible and balancing a footlong wooden cross on his shoulder. He seemed to be counseling a woman who sat next to him, and I tried to respect as much privacy as exists in a large waiting room. But with James Earl Jones voice quality, I was unable to avoid hearing what this man had to say and soon learned that a member of his congregation, a YOUNG member of his congregation, had been hit by a train that morning and they were in the process of amputating one of the boys limbs. Oy. I heard him counsel another woman who appeared, with a small golden cross dangling from the corner of her glasses, not to talk to the press. Then slowly but surely, more and more members of this congregation started to show up to offer support. Each time a new member arrived, the pastor greeted them with a hug and began to cry into their shoulder.

Touching.

Soon after a small gathering had assembled, this pastor asked another woman to lead them in prayer, offering her counsel before doing so. (At least I think that’s what he was doing, but I was pretty busy giving them their privacy. Heh.) But not until he set up the “altar” (he put the cross on the coffee table and laid the open scriptures in front of it) did the prayer begin. They all held hands, and chanted their prayer out loud.

Uncomfortable.

The doctor came out to give them an update, and I gasped a little in horror when he mentioned “getting [the boy] back on his feet”. I turned to Cory and said, “Oh my gosh, did he just say that?” Cory explained that they had been talking about a prosthetic leg, and then I felt better. I guess I had missed that part when I was busy giving them their privacy. Anyway, by the time we left an entire section of this waiting room was holding only members from this congregation who came to offer prayer and support. Again, I was touched by the love and concern they seemed to have for one another.

At the end of the day we got the best case scenario outcome that we had hoped for with Drew – no more cholesteatoma grew back, which means they were able to implant the prosthesis of inner ear bones that had to be removed the first time, stitch him up and call it good. We were very happy. Drew is home and we are taking good care of him. Now I just have to worry about the NO PHYSICAL ACTIVITY he is supposed to endure for the next six weeks. Have I mentioned his love of all things lightsabers? Keep the prayers comin’, it's not over yet.

Music To My Ears?

I’m all for my children spreading their wings and learning new skills, and that’s why I have been so supportive of Samantha’s interest in taking up flute lessons. But allow me to define “supportive” in the world of Kristy, because when I say supportive what I mean is “here’s your money, now make my daughter into a flute playing genius – I’ll be over here reading a magazine.” But as we arrived at Samantha’s first lesson and I began to settle down on the comfy living room couch, her teacher motioned me to a different room with the both of them and proceeded to explain her “Suzuki method” of teaching. (Author’s note: Is there anybody else out there who thinks people just make this stuff up? Because it’s my personal theory that if you take any kind of Asian word and tack on “method” at the end that suddenly we believe we are learning a more enlightened way. Add onto that a little indoor fountain and I might be praying to you before long.) Pretty soon I was raising my hands in the air and learning to spit rice from the end of my tongue off her front porch.

But this is the beauty of Samantha. You know how most parents have to nag and nag their children minute after doggone minute to PRACTICE PRACTICE PRACTICE!!!?? Not Samantha. She is taking off like a rocket and practicing all the time. But that is why I find myself in my current dilemma and have to ask, how many times am I required to listen to “Hot Cross Buns” and “Go Tell Aunt Rhodie” before I start moving my things into the basement? And not only is she playing ALL THE TIME but she has taken it upon herself to teach Drew whatever she is learning on his recorder. Have mercy. One thing's for sure, I definitely have some choice words for Aunt Rhodie.

Match Day

Nine months is a REALLY long time to be pregnant. But two years? That’s excruciating. Just ask my friend Ginger. She and her family have been in the process of adopting a baby girl from China for the last two years, and when she began the process had no idea that it would take this long. In fact, nobody did. In the Chinese adoption world you don’t choose your baby, you simply state your parameters and then see what happens. There are no guarantees, but the one thing that Ginger knew was that they would be receiving a girl. It has been months (years!) of paperwork, interviews, visits from Social Services, applications, referral letters, fees, delays, more fees and even more delays. Eventually the referrals are sent from China to the agency and the glorious event of what they call “Match Day” happens. It is the day when you show up at the agency and finally get to see the nature of the cherub you will be bringing home. It is the day when the countless hours of preparation, anxiety, and disappointment finally start to make sense.

And for Ginger and her family, today was Match Day. I was privileged enough to be invited, and I have been speechless about the experience all day because there are no words. It was like Christmas, Disneyland, winning the lottery, flying kites and eating ice cream all at the same time…only better. We walked in, they sat down, the worker held the file in front of them and asked, “Are you ready?” Ginger was shaking, her husband sat calmly by her side and her kids stood by with eager anticipation:

Finally she opened the file and it revealed this picture:

Many tears began to pour as hugs were exchanged and joy permeated the room.

The kids exclaimed, “That’s my SISTER!” They immersed themselves in the pictures and the information they have been desperate to know since the very beginning of this process. It turns out that their baby has a hearty appetite, sleeps well, and her favorite toy is a colorful rattle. She has been living in an orphanage since mid-October, and they will travel to China in the next two months to go get her.

But that whole Christmas Disneyland thing? That was just the beginning. As Ginger and Tim began to take care of logistic responsibilities of signing more paperwork, it allowed the rest of us to observe other families who were coming in to do the very same thing. I observed one couple walk in hand in hand, carrying a camera and an anxious disposition who seated themselves not far away. Their worker sat down with them when my friend Ganelle (Ginger’s sister) saw an opportunity for the gluttony of observation and asked if they wanted her to take pictures. They cheerfully agreed as if Ganelle was somehow doing them a favor. Which I guess she was, but seriously? It’s really a win/win. They opened the file and instantly shot their hands up to their face as if to shelter the emotions that lay underneath. They looked at each other and then hugged…and then sobbed. This was their first child. Ganelle tried to snap away while wiping away tears, and I tried unsuccessfully not to pay too much attention while shedding my own tears over people I didn’t know.

This went on for over an hour, after which all the new moms walked around holding their pictures and held an ad-hoc show-and-tell. “Look at those cheeks!” everyone commented about Ginger’s baby girl. “Wow, check out all that hair!” we observed about another. I’m telling you, if I am ever having a bad day I will attend Match Day at the Chinese Adoption agency. It was emotional candy, and now I just can’t wait to meet this little girl for real. Too bad Ginger's not very excited:

It's that time already

Some might say it’s just a piece of paper. But this is no ordinary piece of paper. This is the permission slip I have been dreading all year, the one that officially revokes any young and cool mom status I have left and launches me into the pit of despair otherwise known as the mother of a child who is now old enough to attend sex-education class. The Dr. Seuss book “Oh The Places You’ll Go!” comes to mind and makes me think that perhaps there should be an adolescent version with a title that says something like, “Oh The Places You Should Really Avoid.” Seriously, I have no need in my life for this unsolicited rite of passage.

It’s not that I’m a prude, because I’ve already had frank discussions with my child on this subject. [Insert applause here.] It’s just that I still haven't quite recovered from my own experience from junior high, and the thought of my daughter being subjected to the likes of a Chuey Garcia (that really was his first name) making rude comments and passing around his disturbing drawings in Science class makes me want to flee and build a compound in Idaho. Aren’t we both too young for this? No wait, don’t answer that.

My serenity prayer

God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
Like lines at school carnivals and lines at the DMV,
And the wisdom to know that there is no difference.

Because you asked me to, and because I'm nothing if I'm not accommodating

Though I have no intention of making this a permanent change, I have to say that I am coming out of shock enough to admit that I actually don't regret doing this to my hair. I was sick of looking basically the same after several years and this seemed like a better remedy than tattoos, body piercings or botox. Plus it's cheaper than botox and less painful than the others. (But not to be confused for being cheap and easy 'cuz that's not what I'm going for either.) Whatever. Is there such a thing as a pre-mid-life crisis?

Family Night

Monday night at our house is what we call "Family Night", where we try to take a few minutes to spend quality time together and incorporate spiritual teaching moments with our kids. It is a concept I was raised with, and growing up with six siblings I have sometimes referred to it as "Family dysfunction that starts and ends with prayer". But our kids LOVE family night.

Last night I thought I put together a pretty decent meal of roasted turkey with mango sauce and baked sweet potatoes. The beholders of my DNA could not have disagreed more with the self-proclaimed brilliance of this meal, which is why Cory found himself offering this deal: "Drew, if you eat EVERYTHING on your plate we'll go to 'Cold Stone' for Family Night." Samantha shouted with glee until Drew shot her a look and said, "We're not gonna make it. I'm not eating this." Thus ensued her ten minute pouting session interrupted with bouts of prodding and attempted guilt-inducing tactics upon her younger brother. He remained steadfast in his commitment that he would not be able to finish his food, and Samantha obediently cleaned her plate and lamented that Drew's weak stomach was responsible for her plight of a non-visit to Cold Stone.

After leaving the dinner table we started our regular routine of Family Night. We began with a prayer and a song and then I whispered what I believed to be a brilliant idea into Cory's ear. He smiled in agreement, and began what was his turn for a lesson. He explained why Jesus is important, that he died for us because he was perfect and we are not, and that he did something for us that nobody else could do.

"Drew, you know how you couldn't finish your dinner?"
"Yeah."
"Well, just like Jesus did something for us that we couldn't do for ourselves, I'm going to give Samantha the opportunity to do something for you that you couldn't do. And if she would like to finish your dinner for you, we will still take you to Cold Stone."

Samantha's eyes lit up at our offering, and she immediately got to work eating Drew's dinner. He looked on with great interest and we tried to reinforce the point while she chewed. We asked, "Drew, how do you feel about Samantha that she is willing to do this for you?" He looked at us and smiled wide. "So how do you feel about the fact that Jesus would go through so much suffering JUST FOR YOU?"

"Sooo, Samantha is Jesus?" he asked.
"Not really, but it's kind of like..."
"Hey Samantha, are you gonna eat ALL those sweet potatoes?"
"So Drew, why is Jesus important again?"
"Uhhh...I can't remember."
"Because just as...."
"Mom, do I have to eat the piece of turkey that Drew put ketchup on?"
"Yes, but..."
"Oh my gosh, If I have to eat one more bite I feel like I'll throw up."

For about twenty minutes this went on. Samantha got sick and Cold Stone no longer seemed like a good idea to her. Drew was forced to finish the last bite so we could at least say that they both tried their best. By the end of the night our "Awesome Parenting Moment of the Year" award had been tossed in a proverbial trash can while Samantha moaned and groaned on her bed. We have promised them ice cream tonight instead, which will go perfect with the snow that has rolled in today. And as for our effective teaching techniques, it looks like we'll have to leave that up to their Sunday School teachers.

Say it don't spray it

Cory used to share a wall of his office with a co-worker who has since moved to another area of the building. They had become good friends, but don't see each other as much as they used to, which is why when he saw Cory today he asked, "Hey, what's new?"

Cory's reply: "Well, I've fallen in love with a redhead."

How cute is that?

I got back into town on Saturday night and when I walked in Drew ran up to me, threw his arms around my neck and screamed, "Hi Mom! I missed you so much I could hurl!" Actually, he just hurled. But I think "I missed you" is what he was trying to say. So I guess it's official - mom is back on duty!

"I see RED people..."

Famous last words at hair salons: "I'm ready for a change." I have been blonde all my life, but I uttered these words to my hair stylist today and I came home a red-head. Since my appointment this morning the words that have come out of my mouth the most, usually when I pass any kind of reflective surface and catch a glimpse of my reflection, is "Holy crap!"

Drew said I look like an "evil witch" while Samantha is offering words of encouragement whenever she senses that I might be close to sticking my head in the oven. This one is going to take a little time to get used to. My niece is getting married in Utah on Friday - I am flying out by myself to attend and so I will be making a major family debut where photographers will be present. Clearly, I didn't think this through!

Holy crap!

"We interrupt this program for an important message..."

Do you ever experience the urge to yell at your television? For example, last night I was watching the Discovery Channel when they broke to a commercial. I can’t remember the name of the product being advertised, but I DO remember that it was a remedy for constipation. There was an attractive woman holding a box and speaking in soothing tones, as if her voice alone might render one to become regular. And I began to yell at her as if heckling an umpire from the nosebleed section. “Hey lady, seriously, how DO you look at yourself in the mirror every day? Don’t you have a shred of self-respect? Are you at least getting paid well to furrow your brow and speak authoritatively to the uncomfortable and desperate of your target audience? And by the way, you should know that you’re not fooling anybody with that purple velvet backdrop. Really now. Have you ever at least considered a desk job?”

Then again, what do I know? I’m just a lady on a couch who apparently has nothing better to do than harass people who can’t hear me that probably drive nicer cars.

Why we might be making root beer floats for the next two weeks

[continued from last post...] So, Saturday night we went out to dinner as a family. Toward the end of our meal I reached over to take a sip of Drew’s root beer and announced, “Ooh, that’s A&W. You don't normally get that from the fountain." Cory stared at me in amazement and said, “You mean to tell me that after one sip of Drew’s soda you know that it’s A&W?” “Yep,” I replied with confidence. Then I went on to explain, “A&W is my favorite root beer, and it has a very distinctive taste from all the others.” [Enter: Cory’s sinister grin] “Wanna bet?”

He proceeded to explain his elaborate plan detailing that this would be a 2-part bet. First, we were betting on whether I was right about Drew’s drink. Second, on our way home we would stop at the grocery store, load up on several brands of root beer and conduct a taste test to see if I could detect A&W from the rest. “Cake walk,” I boasted. The waitress returned to clear some plates and I asked, “Excuse me, could you tell me what brand of root beer this is?” “Oh of course,” she responded. “It’s MUG.”

“NNNNNOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!” I yelled as my hands slapped the table and I looked at her in total disbelief. She was taken aback by my reaction and stammered, “Oh, sorry, um, I could go double check….” Cory was laughing his butt off.

After spending eight dollars on four brands of root beer at the store we came home for part 2. Cory labeled and lined up the cups and invited me into the kitchen. All I had to do was identify the A&W – if I could also name the others correctly, he agreed to cook dinner every night this week. I sailed through the first part, but failed in getting all of them correct thus squelching my dreams of a culinary bonus. Perhaps it’s time to put my gambling ways behind me for good.

Let's Hear It For The Boy

My husband and I have this game we play that’s called “Kristy Can’t Win A Bet Against Cory To Save Her Life”. I am rendered speechless when it comes to trying to explain this phenomenon, but my record is so staggeringly pathetic that it has become a running joke. While I have learned not to set the stakes too high on my part, there seems to be this unrelenting part of me that continues to bet him and goes on to think I will finally win.

A few weeks ago I came home and Cory was trying to explain an American Idol performance that I missed. “She sang a song called Dancing In The Streets,” he reported. “Oh yeah, that’s from the movie ‘Footloose’,” I said. “What? Nooooo,” he said. We went back and forth, and determined that perhaps the song that was sung on American Idol was not the one I was talking about, BUT! I maintained that there was DEFINITELY a song from “Footloose” called “Dancing In The Streets”.

An evil grin overcame his lips as he asked, “Wanna bet?”

OOOhhh, I’ve got him this time. “Footloose”? He’s going to bet me on “Footloose”? I mean, come on! Who knows the details of that movie better than someone who spent not very many weekends as a teenager going on dates but plenty of hours watching Kevin Bacon dance through the structures of a warehouse making residents of Lehi, Utah feel important?

“Heck yeah, I’ll bet you. I’m so winning this one Cory. This is the END of my losing streak!!!” I practically ran to the computer to do a search on iTunes to look up the results of “Footloose Soundtrack”. Cory stood over my shoulder, equally curious to see if he would lose and have to cook dinner all week. Because he doesn't even have to believe in the causes for which he bets anymore, this is just a game to him. The results came up and I scrolled down, “Here we go, Let’s Hear It For The Boy…Holding Out For A Hero…Almost Paradise…a-HA!! Here it is! Dancing In The…NNNNOOOOOOOOO!!!!”

The song from “Footloose”, in case you haven’t already figured it out from your own adolescent recollection, is called Dancing In The SHEETS. Unbelievable! How could I forget that? So the score of our betting history is now something like Cory - 427 and Kristy – 2. I remain undeterred in my quest and I swear I'm going to win one soon. You've all heard that if you want to win big, you first have to lose big, right? While that's really bad advice for just about any circumstance in life, particularly for compulsive gamblers, I'm still hoping that my big win is just around the corner. I'm just waiting for that perfect opportunity. Such as last night... (to be continued…)