An epic tale

My friend Sherise shared something with me a while ago that was so funny to me that I asked her for permission to share it here. She said yes.

So, she has a little notebook that she keeps in her purse to use as an exercise log. She opened it up the other day and found these words that had been penned by her 10-year-old son, a John Clancy in the making:

HUNTING THE MONSTER
by Jimmybobjoe Poony

Day 1
I entered the cave. It stunk. Probably its poop.

Day 2
Heard roaring. It might be farting.

Day 3
Found monster. It's my brother. He must have gotten lost at the Barbie convention. He loves Barbies. Too much.

Lead by example

One thing that I love about my mom is that she always seems prepared for us to take the next step. When I drove off to college there were no tears, no desperate final hugs; simply a mandate to work hard and have fun. So I did. Then when I was 18 my older sister graduated from college, and I had just completed my first year. My sister had no immediate plans so instead of rushing into post-graduate life she said, "Let's go to Europe!" So we did. And my mother not only supported this plan but let us borrow a little money to make it happen, when she herself had yet to fulfill her own dreams of traveling the world.

A couple of years after that I earned a scholarship to work in a Congressman's office during the summer as an intern. (Which makes me sound cooler than I really am - the truth is that Congressman Packard's office is where my sister landed that first post-graduate job, discovered they had a scholarship to award to an intern, and she picked me. It's all about who you know.) My mom could not have been more thrilled. A politician at heart, she threw me on a plane to Washington D.C. and waited for me to write legislation and change the world. I hope she wasn't too disappointed to never spot me on C-SPAN, but it wasn't a total loss. After all, I did respond to thousands of constituents, formed a crush on the guy who worked at the Republican National Committee, and memorized the days that chocolate/peanut butter frozen yogurt was being served in the cafeteria. I was very important there on The Hill.

Always the cheerleader, my mom has been excited for every new chapter in my life. But despite her example, I feel completely unprepared for the bigger phase changes in my children's lives. I know this topic of middle school angst is getting old, but I'm just not used to having Samantha gone every day until five o'clock because of track practice after school. On her first day of practice I noticed that she had forgotten her water bottle. Afraid she might not survive the 90 degree heat I filled it up with ice water and met her at her locker after her last class. (*Gasp* I'm a locker stalker!) The girl who had previously waved at me during her first practice now looked at me and said, "Uhh...what are you doing here?" (She's a quick learner) Someday she will thank me for that ice water. Or not. Whatever.

So here's my conclusion. Either my mom was just a really good actress, or I'm just not very good at learning by example. OR, my mom's not a freak, but I am. OR, any opportunity to get rid of me as a child or otherwise was ALWAYS met with a smile and a wave. Come to think of it those were some pretty enthusiastic waves. VERY wide grins now that I think about it. And do I recall...leaping? Hey, wait a minute...!

Note:

Having erased my "About Me" section during my techno-issues a while back, I have written another one in case you want to check it out. FYI.

New territory

You know you're in middle school when you walk in the first day and hear an administrator yelling orders in the hallway, and when confronted with an issue by a student you hear the teacher respond, "Sucks to be you!" I guess the days of pats on the back and "don't worry, we'll help you figure it out" for new students is a thing of the past.

And in elementary school when someone mentions a meeting after school what they really mean is, "Parents come and write this down, and students - try to sit still while we talk this out." So when we met the track coach and she invited us to the meeting after school on the third day, I dutifully showed up with my planner in hand and my big, bulky purse slung over my shoulder. This is when I made observation #2: Parents don't come to meetings in middle school. Apparently. And if they do (which they don't) they also don't bring their other children with them to feign death defying duels on the stage in the back of the room while said meeting is in full swing.

I marvel at my gift, because it takes a special kind of person to enter a middle school at the age of 36 and walk out feeling just like the dork I was when I was 13. But my daughter is officially signed up for track, and luckily she is still painfully unaware of how uncool I am, waving at me during all of the meeting intervals and motioning me outside during her laps around the track at the end. I smile, feeling momentarily grateful that while many things are changing, not everything is.

You know you're a Mormon when...

It's the stuff that little girl's dreams are made of, to stand in front of a group of people and be declared royalty as she is presented with a crown and a sash. There are all sorts of places this could happen; Homecoming, Prom, the State Fair, a pageant.

Or in my case, a Jell-O Festival.

I have officially arrived.

A walk in the park

Question: When you run into your gynecologist in public, do you say “hello”?

Depends. The zoo? No. That’s easy. A baseball game? No. Just start clapping, heckling, or act like you’re explaining what’s happening to your kid. The grocery store? Still no. Simply become instantly enthralled with the fresh produce. But your neighborhood park? When you and he are the only ones there with little people? And his adorable 2-year-old granddaughter has latched on to your 7-year-old boy as a suitable role model and wants to do everything he is doing? With him? THEN I say it’s probably time to go ahead and set aside the fact that this is the man who has violated you every year for the past decade and say, “Hey”.

Me: “Hi Doctor ‘K’. (He furrows his brow as if to say, “Do I know you?” Ha – does he ever.) I’m one of your patients.” Perhaps I might look more familiar if I were wearing half a shirt made of pink tissue paper.
Dr. K: “Oh yeah, you look familiar.” Comforting? Not sure. True? Maybe. What he always says in these situations? Entirely possible.
Me: “Is that your granddaughter?” I asked, noting her quarter-sized blue eyes and adding, “She’s adorable!”
Dr. K: “Actually no, she’s my daughter.” Now my doctor is at least in his mid-50’s. And not that there’s anything wrong with that, it’s just not the kind of situation you expect a man entering retirement to announce. So it’s possible, I can’t totally remember, but I might have let out an audible gasp. To which he replied, “Yep. That’s what happens when you go off the medication!”

Memo to self: Never go off the medication. And the next time I run into my OB-GYN at the park, maybe I should just turn around.

Golden Anniversary

Last Friday was my parents' official 50th wedding anniversary. The true festivities will have to wait until we can all be gathered in December, but we didn't want the day to come and go without saying anything. The logistics can be complicated when there are seven children living all over the country from California to Kentucky, but remedied with a "can do" attitude from our eldest brother and a little help from modern technology, we arranged to have a surprise conference call. As customary with my family, we instantly partook in a fast food version of a humor feast. Incidentally, my family is hysterical. We are far from perfect, but even over miles and miles of fiber optic network we managed to connect in a way that fed a part of me that I didn’t even know was hungry.

And don’t get me wrong, it’s not because I don’t lead a completely happy and charmed existence. I love my life. But the boundary between what feels like two different lives became rather clear after hanging up on our family conference call. Gone are the days of lying on our green shag carpet in front of the fan on a hot day while my mother made dinner and my dad helped with homework. Neatly packaged in my first life are memories of early morning swim outings and frozen yogurt runs with my sister Lori, dates and Congressional internships with my sister Suzi, mock weddings behind the garage performed by my brother Randy (I had to “marry” his friend Mark Marean – he was not a good kisser in 2nd grade, just in case you were wondering), dressing up to serve dinner to my brothers and their dates on the 2nd floor balcony, and the daily comedy routine by Greg, performing uncanny imitations of our high school staff. Gone are the days when I didn’t have to worry, because Mom and Dad had things under control.

It seems crazy to me that there are now people in my life that look to me the same way I look to my parents. I am stunned at the thought of young, vulnerable little souls counting on me for answers and guidance. Most of the time we do okay, but 50 years later we all still rely on my parents’ faith, knowledge, example, and unconditional love to get us through tough spots. How ridiculously lucky we are.

Happy Anniversary Mom and Dad. Thanks for setting the bar so high.

My Back To School Haiku

The first day of school;
Shout “hooray” or “holy crap”?
That is the question.

This is what happens when coffee and alcohol are eliminated as coping mechanisms

It is customary in our community to post fliers for upcoming events or lost animals near the neighborhood mailboxes. At the beginning of the summer last year I posted my first-ever announcement; I can’t remember exactly how I worded it but I remember the bold-type across the top to get people’s attention that something of mine was definitely LOST. Those who took the time to read the rest would learn that the item I was missing was my sanity, a tragedy brought on by the new summer schedule of no alone time, frequent bickering, and nonstop statements declaring a Code Red of “I’m bored.” One of my neighbors, while innocently picking up her energy bills and Linens ‘N Things coupons, discovered the flier and recognized the work as likely coming from me. We laughed about it, commiserated a little, and then went on with our summer of frolicking in tall grass and sipping cold drinks by the poolside.

Or I may have just spent it locked in my room playing Kenny G trying to prevent myself from curling up in the fetal position. Or maybe it was the Kenny G that put me in the fetal position. Whatever. Anyway, I haven’t posted any fliers lately but last Saturday morning I realized that I was about one dirty cereal bowl left on the kitchen table away from going postal. Instead, I announced to my one and only while bestowing a quick kiss that I was leaving. “Are you coming back?” he slowly asked while maintaining a grin. “Eventually,” I said.

I drove across town to a Borders bookstore, ordered a soda and planted myself in a big, soft chair by a guy wearing headphones. I took my magazine out and laid it on my lap, not yet ready to commit to reading and momentarily content to observe the others around me. The guy on my left was on his computer, and when he got up to cross the room I spotted the dog picture on his screensaver. I envisioned him spending Sunday afternoons walking his dog in trendy parks chock-full of hot babes also walking their pets and wondered if that was how he met girls. I took a long sip of my drink and opened my magazine, ready to distract myself with fashions I will never live up to and advice I will probably never follow. I was minimally distracted with an article about financial choices when I noticed a couple sitting across from another gentleman at a table near me – they weren’t trying very hard to be quiet and so I listened in. It took all of 8 seconds to understand the purpose of this meeting: an engaged couple meeting with their DJ to discuss the music for their upcoming Big Day. I kept my magazine open and looked at it in mock interest, making a conscious decision to listen to their conversation instead.

The bride’s parents are divorced, her dad is remarried to one who is apparently “lucky to be getting a corsage”, her mother is anti-marriage, and her dad supports an alcoholic lifestyle. She doesn’t want the Father/Daughter dance to be too sappy. The groom’s dad tries to save people from inebriating beverages and apparently thinks his son is already going to hell. The parent’s dance is deemed as too awkward and therefore eliminated. They can’t decide on the song to play to transition to “Party Time” so the DJ starts singing snippets from Run DMC, Aerosmith, and Justin Timberlake to give them choices. The groom wants to know if the money dance is too cheesy, after which the DJ offers an alternative of an “Advice Dance”, where the guests dancing with the Bride and Groom offer advice for marriage. For example, if I were a friend of this couple and were invited to this reception and I danced with the groom, I might say something like, “If you'd spent as much time with a premarital counselor as you did with your DJ, you’d be off to a good start.” Plus I might suggest trying to distract the bride’s parents from this portion of the program.

I spent about three hours at Borders on Saturday, mostly eavesdropping on strangers. By the time I left the DJ was talking about his crazy non-law-abiding citizen friend from high school who later became a reverend. He wondered if they had done a background check on him before adorning him in the cloth. Whatever, I was tired of planning this couple’s wedding and I was ready to go home. There’s nothing like hearing a middle-aged DJ singing “Crazy Love” in the middle of a Borders to snap you out of a summer funk.

Ouch

Samantha had to go to the doctor to receive the rest of her shots that would bring her up to date before school starts. I know that immunizations have been successful in preventing thousands of people from needless suffering, but I am starting to get irritated with the fact that at every well-child-check I am informed of two or three more shots that have been added to the repertoire of disease prevention. In order to follow protocol I am inevitably handed a piece of paper where in small print it details the worst case scenarios of death occurring only in very rare instances. Even still, I have agreed to all additional shots up to this point in my children's lives.

Whipping out the chart at the office it is revealed that Samantha will need four shots - two boosters, a tetanus, and a Tdap. "And," the doctor began, "there's a new vaccine that has become available for children of this age that you should be aware of called the HPV vaccine. It stands for human papilloma virus (wait a minute, isn't that...) which is a sexually transmitted disease (holy crap, he's not kidding) which would prevent a sexually active (sexually active? she's wearing a puppy shirt!) girl from getting infected."
"Uh..." I eloquently began, "I'm not too worried about that at this point."

He went on to explain that while abstinence is the advocated form of birth control and disease prevention in their office, confessing that he and his wife were virgins when THEY got married, it was still something I should be aware of. I looked at Samantha sitting wide-eyed on the patient table and turned back to the Doctor, "Uh, no thanks. I think we're good."

More accurately, I think SHE'S good. I might need some valium very soon.

Just another day at Hogwarts

“Alohamora!” Drew shouted this Harry Potter spell at me as I sat at the computer this morning, checking my email.
“Morning Drew.”
“Hey Mom. Wingardium leviosa!” he commanded, waving his wand with authority. He has the full Harry Potter costume now, and has been wearing it every day lately. He sleeps in it. Yesterday he wore the full bit to the grocery store. The glasses, the cloak – he’s even rummaged through Cory’s tie collection to find a suitable replica to wear with his white church shirt so as to give the full effect. It’s like church every day here now. Except the cloak isn’t normally standard issue. Nor are the glasses. And I can’t recall the last time a magic induced spell was shouted in the chapel….
“Expecto patronum!” He chanted while circling around my chair.
“Expecto patronum? What does that do?” I asked.
“It blocks the dimentors.”
Of course it does.

I'd like to think this will go away once school starts, but I can't promise

Some random thoughts over the past few days:

1. Will I have good skin in heaven?
2. Have you ever had an allover back hickey? See: "chinese cupping massage". Let's just say if Mick Jagger ever made out with my back I think I know what it would look like the next day.
3. Eww!
4. Is there a statute of limitations on the number of days that it's appropriate for two large tents to be set up in your neighbor's backyard that their eight kids share with their rabbit and three dogs? Just curious. Seems like a week should be long enough.
5. If I actually beat my 7-year-old at a computer game should I do the happy dance around the house or just play it cool?
6. Is it a sign of food addiction if I walked out of "Ratatouille" craving a delicious meal?

Houston, we have a problem

All I really wanted to do was change my website to make it a little more original – a little less “Oh, she has the same template as mine!” and a little more “Oohh…I like her style.” Having mastered a 486 computer in college and Microsoft Word, Excel, and PowerPoint in my earlier professional life, surely it couldn’t be that hard to personalize my blog template? Within minutes of trying, I had erased my “About Me” summary and changed the language of my blog to Russian. Funny, I don’t actually speak or read Russian, so it took me a while to fix that. But once I did, I tried to outsmart the system by creating a bogus blog site to practice my changes on – but then it outsmarted ME by linking it to my other site. In the process of trying to delete it, all sorts of warnings and instructions tried to help me through it. But I don’t understand most of what the computer assumes that I know. For example, what is an RSS Feed? In my world, that’s what Relief Society Sisters do when somebody is sick. What does that have to do with my blog? And what are widgets? And why is my server threatening to delete them all? And why do I fear this might have serious repercussions for the Land of Oz?

I’m feeling technologically old. I might need something more like this....

Round 3

I have this vague recollection of being a child and my mother taking us to the local health center for shots. I recall being in what felt like a never ending line that circled the building, slowly inching up to our fate of our dose for disease prevention. I heard children's cries the whole way, each one starting out loud from the initial violation, gradually slowing and calming to the sound of their mothers' soothing voices. As a child in line that day I vividly remember how it made me feel to hear the cries coming from the inside of that building, as if I was headed for Purgatory itself. Now as a parent I understand that sometimes, even when it hurts, certain things really are for your own good. Unfortunately, that doesn't seem to make it any easier.

Yesterday was Drew's 3rd ear surgery in a year. I know that he will be better off if we can, once and for all, repair all of the problems that we have been trying to fix. So that maybe one day he can pick a seat in his classroom next to a friend instead of having to sit in a certain spot to be able to hear better; maybe one year he can start school without any "NO RECESS" Post-It note warnings next to his name; maybe one day soon he can go swimming or venture out into the rain, feeling free to lift his head up and stick out his tongue to catch a few drops instead of running for cover with his sweatshirt pulled up and over as a protective shield.

Maybe one day he won't have to worry so much.

Sometimes it feels like the line is endless, and I am listening to those excruciating cries as we inch our way up. Only instead of me at the end of this line I will ultimately hand over my son. They will put him out under the premise of fun and smiley faces and "What flavor would you like in your mask?" and "Did you see the hot air balloon pictures on the ceiling?" But I know, and so does he, what happens when he wakes up.

Unlike the fleeting pain of shots, he will wake up and be inconsolable. My words will attempt love and comfort but they will sound loud and annoying. My touch will attempt to calm but instead will irritate. We will offer popsicles and slushies only to be met with cries, because saying "yes" requires a decision and saying "no" is like admitting defeat, and because a measly little popsicle in a cup feels about as helpful as dumping a glass of water on a forest fire. I want to carress, whisper, distract and love him back into lucidity, but such efforts get rejected when my son is coming out of his drug-induced stupor. I've heard it said that when you have a child on drugs, you can't reason with them because you're not talking to your child, you're talking to the drug. While in this case it is temporary, I think I know what that feels like.

Only time will tell whether this surgery was successful. I keep telling Drew that all of it is for his own good, as we patiently (?) wait for the evidence that would make it true. "For your own good" has its own set of consequences, but I remain confident that one day, one day, it will come.

You see, when I say "My kids are the best", it's not just because I'm biased

One of the great things about having slightly older kids is that I don’t have to wake up when they do. It’s a fantastic benefit, particularly in the summer when we have nowhere to be before at least 9am. So instead of waking to an alarm, I am usually roused by a child in my face checking to see if I am actually still alive, an argument between two youngsters who have decided to start the day off right, or by giggling from two youngsters who have turned boredom into a game. But today I came out of my coma somewhat gradually by a recurring beeping sound. Unlike the alarm by my bed, it seemed to be originating from further away. I woke up just enough to rule out any kind of emergency and fell back asleep.
I heard it again, and fell back asleep.
Again, and then “ZZZZzzz”.
I heard it a good 38 more times before Drew came up to my room, only to order me away from the downstairs and closed my bedroom door.
“Okay. Fine. Thanks Drew. ZZZzzzz.”
Minutes later I heard the clomping sound of rushing feet ascending the stairs and arriving at my bedside. I opened my eyes to discover Samantha and Drew, standing there, smiling big and seeming very proud of themselves. “What’s this you guys?” I hoisted myself to a sitting position as they handed me a tray of freshly cooked french toast and a glass of milk. “It’s breakfast in bed!!” They replied. “Wow, you guys are awesome – what’s the occasion?” I asked. “No reason,” they said. Samantha turned and left the room, and Drew stayed long enough to watch me take a bite, content to watch the happiness that he helped create. I hugged him before he left; Samantha returned a few minutes later where she also collected a hug and retrieved my dishes.
Not a bad way to start the day.

A disruption in the force

I love those messages that the celebrities do for "The More You Know" commercials sponsored by NBC, mostly because I find it amusing that the networks believe we are more likely to serve in our communities if we are told to do so by a blond bombshell like Molly Sims, or that John Stamos is the residing authority on monitoring what our kids watch on TV. But regardless of the irony, I still wholeheartedly concur with many of the messages that they deliver. And if it weren't for heeding advice like this from Howie Mandel, the following dinner conversation never would have happened last night:

Drew: "I like Harry Potter better than Star Wars."
*GASP* *GASP* *GASP* The forks dropped to our plates; our mouths gaped open in astonishment. Cory donned a tone of utter betrayal and asked the inevitable, "WHY?"
Drew: "Because I like magic better than the force."
Cory: "The force is more powerful than magic. Who would win in a fight? Neville Longbottom or Obi Wan Kenobi?"
Drew: "That's easy. Obi Wan."
Cory: "ExACTly!"
Drew: "But wizards can fly and jedis can't."
Samantha: "Harry Potter could take on a storm trooper, but NOT Yoda."

Thus ensued a comparative analysis on lightsabers vs. magic wands. Perhaps Howie is on to something. Maybe the very forces of good and evil are not actually fought on the battlefields, but right here at the dinner table. "Meal, or no meal."

The Meal Deal

Like I said, men are simple. My Dad is no exception, and I love him to death for it. But there are instances when less is not necessarily more. For example, my siblings and I are in the midst of planning a 50th wedding anniversary celebration for my parents. [Feel free to offer a little cyber-applause for two people who didn't just manage to stay together but who hold hands more than Cory and I do.] Anyway, I had an idea regarding the food issue at hand (i.e., "How do we feed more than 300 people a full course meal without spending $8000?") so I called home to share my idea with the guests of honor, and my Dad answered.

"So Dad, what would you guys think about this for the dinner...."
"Oooh, Kris, I have an idea. This could be fun. You know Subway has these six foot long subs...."
He was totally serious.
"Sooo, when's Mom gonna be home again?"
Mom, I had forgotten, was across the country helping my sister move back across the country. My sister just had a baby a week ago. C-section. She is 44. [Cue more cyber-applause.] And did I mention she's moving? Across the country? With three kids ages 12-18, a two week old baby, one dog, one husband, and my sister with a stitched up abdomen from Connecticut to Arizona? You can see why my mom flew out to help.
"...and you know what else could be cool is we could maybe shape the sandwiches into the number 50...."
I began openly teasing him and he laughed along, but I promise you that if I had said, "That's brilliant!" we would be hiring 3 high-schoolers to cater my parents anniversary party. With mayo and sides of Sun Chips.

I'm hoping we can do a little better than that.

Quote of the day

While talking to my sister on the phone today I actually heard her say these words as she prepared lunch for her hungry brood:

"I would rather you not eat your food with a screwdriver, I would prefer that you use a spoon."

She gives excellent advice.

x times y is not that complicated

"Which is easier, boys or girls?" It's a question that's been debated since the chicken and the egg fighting over who came first. Having one of each (a son and daughter, not a chicken and an egg - although I do have eggs, and I'm not against chicken ownership entirely, but...nevermind) I might seem qualified to weigh in with credibility, but most of the time I would probably say "neither" as it depends on the situation. For instance, when it comes to the issue of change my "Y" chromosome has far more resilience. When I mention to my "XX" chromosome that the house needs a new paint job, she defends its current color and later on during family prayer emphasizes to the heavens above that "...we are thankful for our beautiful home." Yet she always agrees with me when I say they need a bath, while my son remains content with wearing socks that can stand up on their own.

But one area that men and boys seem to have some stereotypical truth, and that I feel qualified to vouch for is that they're really not very complicated. As a woman, I keep trying to find out if this is true and not just something society is trying to impose with "Everybody Loves Raymond" reruns by cornering my husband and asking things like, "Really? Food and lovin' and you're TOTALLY happy. That's it? Those previously advertised phrases like 'love long walks on the beach' was just for show?" He seems to search for more because he feels like he should and then smiles as if to say, "Uhhhh...pretty much."

Lately I have noticed that this simplicity trait starts young, as exemplified in my seven-year-old bundle of testosterone wielding cap guns. Here's a little sampling from the last few weeks.

* While messing around with my iTunes playlist he selected some "Blake Lewis" songs we downloaded after watching American Idol:
Drew: "Hey Mom, can you guess who my favorite singer is?"
Me: "Um, Blake Lewis?"
Drew: "Yeah."

* Playing with his new Harry Potter wand:
D: "Hey mom, can you guess what my new favorite toy is?"
Me: "Could it be...your Harry Potter wand?"
D: [exhaling as if to signify defeat] "Yeeeeess."

* Listening to my iPod:
D: "Hey mom, do you know what I want really bad for Christmas?"
Me: "Let me see, is it an iPod??"
D: "Yep."

*And finally, last night as we sat at the dinner table and enjoyed the perfect watermelon:
D: "Hey Samantha, what's your favorite fruit?"
S: "Mangoes."
D: "Do you know what mine is?"
S: "Uh, watermelon?"
D: "Yep."

As fate would have it, in the middle of writing this post I was interrupted by the other "XX" chromosome in my house who asked, "Is that your blog?" "Yes," I replied. "Oh. What are you writing about?" How you don't want to paint the house and if we ever move I will have to use the equity in our home to pay for your professional counseling and that your brother loves watermelon. "The difference between boys and girls," I said. "Oh, that's easy," she interjected. "Boys are annoying and girls...well, I guess they can get sassy sometimes."

Ah...so simple. I wish I'd thought of that.

As Seen On TV

In his book "The Screwtape Letters", C.S. Lewis writes, "Indeed, the safest road to Hell is the gradual one—the gentle slope, soft underfoot, without sudden turnings, without milestones, without signposts.”

Or to put it in lay terms, it starts out kind of like Play-Doh. A nice, pliable, toxic-free clay, suitable for young children to enjoy as they hone their motor skills. Clean up not too painful. Seems all right. But before long you've moved on to perler beads, not suitable for children of younger ages who are prone to meandering the hallways scrounging for a stray fruit snack because they may come upon a perler bead instead. Choking might ensue. Not good. Also somewhat tedious to supervise as it does involve ironing and enough wax paper to line the inside of Oprah's closet. Next you're on to Floam, a marriage of the gooey-and-pliable-but-magically-not-sticky with the irresistible texture of small beads. Actually, not that messy. But holy cow, they do NOT warn you about that smell when you call the 800 number.

And before you know it you have been carefully led down to hell with the culmination of a product called "Moon Sand", which sounds whimsical and worthy of purchase from a mom who is desperately trying to save her children from a summer dedicated to video games and a TV station created by the very devil himself, but might very well be the culprit behind my grainy corn on the cob.

That C.S. Lewis was no dummy. Anybody want to weigh in about Aqua Dots?

Nailed

I've only had a pedicure once in my life, and probably 2 or 3 manicures. But lately it seems like I haven't been able to cure the roughness of my heels on my own and so I broke down today and went for my 2nd of a lifetime pedicure. Frankly, I don't know why I stayed away so long. But because I am not in the habit of such indulgences, there was a level of uncomfortability that I had to grapple with.

First of all, sometimes I have questions. The first and only time I had fake nails (about 2 years ago - hated it - will never do that again) I wanted to make sure that they weren't too long, too square, too oval, too much, etc. In essence, I needed a nail consultation. But it's hard to have a conversation with a guy named Frank from the Philippines (whose name is surely not really Frank but who had to change it because he would rather go by a plain, American name than suffer the rest of his life with his given name being butchered by a world of Brittanys, Ashleys, and Mikaylas) whose forte is nails and not english chit-chat with a salon rookie. I walked in and tried to describe my needs in detail with some kind of articulate monologue like, "Well, I think I want to get acrylic nails with a french manicure, but will they be really long? Because I want them to be relatively subtle, you know, no daisies, no american flags, no spray painted hearts or anything, but I've heard that these things can be a little suffocating to your real nails. Is it true that once you take them off that it takes like TWO MONTHS for your real nails to come back? 'Cuz I don't know, that seems like a long time."

All he seemed to hear was "french manicure" and "acrylic" as he smiled but wordlessly motioned me to a chair got to work.

So, yes. I find that communication can be a bit of a problem. Second of all, I find that I have a hard time really relaxing. The salon I went to today was in the middle of my local Wal-Mart and so there was a lot of traffic passing by. I found myself regularly distracted, and thinking things like, "Holy cow, that kid is MAD," or "Honey, you really shouldn't wear sleeveless," or "Hey! There goes Lauren!" And above all I kept thinking, "Is it really appropriate for me to completely relax in a vibrating chair with another man rubbing me feet? What will people say?"

But I will tell you this, my feet are now pretty and smooth and at the end of the day, I think my new friend Frank is worth every penny.

Turning Circles

I can't say exactly when it started, but from the time Samantha was little I have had this thing that I do with my kids. During the short window of opportunity when they are standing far enough away from me to get a running start but close enough to make eye contact and sense the invitation, I throw my arms out wide and they know exactly what to do. They run toward me, jump into my arms when they get close enough, and then we turn a circle or two before I let them down.

Tonight Samantha was walking a friend home, but it was getting dark outside and so I waited for her in the driveway to return. I stood at the edge, observing an ant colony and pulling at a few stray weeds when I looked up and saw her coming back. She was wearing a dress that we just bought today, and I took note of the fact that this new outfit was a little different. It was the kind of dress that an older kid would wear - no bows, no cutesy fabrics, no Disney characters, nothing to suggest that she was doing anything but growing up and starting those very early stages of choosing her own personal style. She got closer, and reached the point where normally I would have spread my arms.

But I looked at her tall frame, her maturing face, and her resolute pace and decided that she had probably outgrown that little tradition. So I just stood and waited, watching for her to get close enough for me to turn my back on the heat of the outdoors and head back inside to my home where I keep it at a nice, refrigerator-like temperature. But before taking my first step I glanced back one more time, and instead of opening my arms, she opened hers and began to run. Surprised at her initiative I reciprocated, and before I knew it we were turning circles. "I love you mom," she said before putting her down. "I love you too," I returned. You have no idea.

I have a dream

You know how some people have a list of things they want to do before they die?

Well, I have a new wish, and it all started with a visit from Cory's parents a couple of weeks ago. One of the things we did with them was visit the "Bass Pro Shop". Are you familiar with this place? If not, you should understand that this is no ordinary store. Similar to a place called "Cabela's", this is the ultimate camping/hunting/fishing establishment and is not for the faint of heart. It is a place where you could not be surrounded by more testosterone if you were standing in the middle of a sperm bank. The famous "lions and tigers and bears, oh my!" line takes on a whole meaning as you walk in and dozens of pairs of eyes are immediately staring at you from above in an area created after the likeness of the terrain and wildlife of the Rocky Mountains. "See kids? I TOLD you they had tons of stuffed animals here!" I shouted as I pointed up. They don't think I'm funny. Luckily I've always got myself to fall back on.

The square footage of this store is such that upon entering you are met by zoo-like assistants bearing maps near their information center. And not to be outdone by any other self-respecting retail joint, a Starbucks connected the area between the fishing rods and camouflage. The kids spent several minutes observing the aquarium after which Samantha scaled the rock wall and rang the bell at the top. Near the Children's section (we're shopping with Grandma, let's not forget how vulnerable she is) was an enormous stuffed grizzly bear, in half mid-air, simulating an attack upon a wolf, also in mid-air and inches away from his fatal encounter.

And that's when it hit me that one thing I'd like to see before I die is Susan Sarandon and Rosie O'Donnell in the Brass Pro Shop. Let's see, I'd need a camcorder, some popcorn, a little soda, maybe some licorice, I'll wear my mink...oh yeah, I'm so adding that to my list.

"Reviving Ophelia's Mom" - a Sequel

We have been on vacation this week (hence my lack of communication), but I neglected to secure appropriate vacation reading material before we left. So I rummaged through our existing reserves and chose to take a book along with me that I purchased a couple of years ago that I haven't yet read, but have been told by many is a critical and helpful guide for parents of adolescent daughters. It is called Reviving Ophelia: Saving the Selves of Adolescent Girls, and considering my plight of the onset of middle school in less than two months, this seemed like a good time to hone my mothering skills so as not to disrupt my current pattern of perfection. (heh)

Day one provided me with my first opportunity to open this book and begin my enlightening quest. By page 38 I called my friend Ganelle, a major proponent for this book, to express my sheer horror at which she laughed because what does she care she has 3 boys. Apparently I've got little more than thirty days before my 55 pounds of blond-haired-delight-who-cheerfully-helped-her-brother-pack-his-suitcase-for-our-trip-and-recently-decided-to-start-doing-her-own-laundry is about to hate me, obsess about boys, stop caring about grades, wear too much eyeliner, and get annoyed by my every move such as clearing my throat in a way that OH MY GOSH EVERYONE WILL NOTICE. One night as we sat at dinner Samantha was rambling on about her Webkinz and all I could think of as I looked into her big blue eyes was who might try to say or do something horrible to her in the halls of her new school. I chattered on in raised tones to Ganelle, who suggested I skip the case studies and move to the back where the helpful suggestions are supposedly located. I chose option B): run to the grocery store and buy a "People" magazine and read instead about Prince William and Kate Middleton making eyes at each other at a concert and that Lindsay Lohan, pictured holding a tall cold one on the beach, seems to be handling her rehab really well.

If this author is right about what my child is about to go through, Lohan and I just might become roomies.

Lucky 7??

So yesterday's date was 7/7/07. As such, many were saying it could be called the luckiest day of the year.

So which part of our lucky day would you like to hear about first? The part where our car broke down on the freeway at 6:30 am, or the part when Cory got two flat tires on his bike ride, lost cell coverage, and after finally getting a hold of me he sat down to wait and stepped in dog poo? OR, the part where the tow truck company we hired to remove our abandoned vehicle called when they were 1/2 an hour late to apologize that their truck had broken down on the way to our rescue? The irony. Not to worry, he gave us the phone number of another tow company. I called him but he too apologized, explaining that his flatbed truckdriver had died of a heart attack a few days prior and he had not hired another driver yet. This was starting to get crazy, and it didn't escape my attention that somebody's life was far worse than mine right now. Still, I had a stranded car that needed to find its way to the dealership before day's end. I was referred three more times before we found someone who could extract our car from the Krispy Kreme/Del Taco parking lot where Cory had waited for three hours. As a result, we had to cancel some dinner plans with co-workers and reschedule our babysitter for later that night, hoping for eventual reprieve.

Dinner was great, and we decided that our stroke of bad luck was over for the day. We came home and asked our babysitter for the report. "The kids were good, but...ummm...there was this really loud sound that came from the garage...I'm not sure what happened, it just came out of nowhere. There's something that fell on the garage floor...." We went to scope it out and sure enough, we discovered parts on the floor indicating a broken garage door.
On one side.
The side that had our one working car in it.
And we would have moved it to the other side, but we didn't have the opener for that one because it was in the other car. You know, the one that was towed to the shop? Yeah, that one. Recognizing that we still needed to return our babysitter to her rightful family, Cory and I exerted a little force and opened it manually. The sitter and I got in the car, started it up, and began to exit. As I inched my way out I looked back, and then front, back and front again, only this time as I looked forward I saw Cory lurch in a panic, trying to stop the garage door that was suddenly plummeting and heading for the top of our vehicle. I slammed on the accelerator, stared ahead, and watched as the weight of the garage door missed the hood of our car by approximately two inches. I sat there in stunned silence until Cory appeared out of the other side of the garage.

As soon as we saw each other and noted the circumstances we just endured and the disaster we just narrowly escaped, we started to laugh. All the events of this day, mostly endured by Cory, came boiling to the surface and the laughter came so hard that soon I could hardly breathe. The babysitter giggled nervously along; this poor 15-year-old girl had come to our house for the very first time, and I fear she might never return.

A lucky day? The car broke down, but not too far from home. Cory's tires blew out on his bike...TWICE...but he was going uphill. Fast? Downhill? That would have been bad. His cell phone worked eventually, and after stepping in the poo he still had to wait 45 minutes for me to get to him so he had plenty of time to clean it off. He's not the one who died of a heart attack, and in the end we didn't actually crush our car with the plummeting garage door. 7/7/07. Could have been worse.