CSquaredPlus3

V-Day BK [before kids]

Valentine's Day circa 1996...

Chris would check tires, chains, brakes and ensure we had extra tubes and the proper allen wrenches for our bikes.  I made sure we had snacks.

We'd head to the desert, ride for a while and stop for lunch.  Pop-Tarts and water under a tree.

I frequently crashed -- usually pedaling uphill -- and Chris always sacrificed his water to clean my scratches.  Sometimes I cried... pain, frustration, fatigue or nothing more than a bruised ego.  Chris was never sharp with me.  You almost had it.  Take as long as you need -- we have plenty of time.

We don't have those bikes, that truck, or live near the tree.  And my leg sports a wrinkled knee, a few scars and evidence of Pop-Tart consumption [as all of our legs should].

But we still have each other this Valentine's Day.  Plus three handsome reminders of what intoxication on Pop-Tarts and water -- plus playing a little doctor -- can produce.

Happy V-Day.

Sick

Before I share my little story, it's important for you to know that I am not seeking sympathy, expressions of, "Poor Chrisy," or any other obvious comments that might follow.  We all have people in our lives who are much worthier of our sympathies, prayers and good thoughts.  I'm fine.

All three boys are recovering from the virus dujour of the prior week.  I assumed it was my turn when I felt feverish on Monday.  Advil, Mucinex, Vicks Vapor Rub on my feet, and naps in between shuttling boys to and from school all began to fail me by Wednesday evening.

Chris arrived home late Wednesday night from a business trip and didn't realize how sick I was as he quickly kissed my head goodbye the next morning, took the older boys to school and headed to work.

I knew I had more than a head cold, but tested my abilities several times to prove to myself that I was in trouble.  Sit up.  Faint.  Sit up.  Faint.  Sit up s l o w l y.  Faintfast.

I called Supermodel about 9:00 a.m.  "I'm sick."

"Do you need me to come over there?"

"Yeah.  I don't even know where the five-year-old is."

And I didn't.  I couldn't get out of bed.

Within moments I heard our garage door go up and her footsteps on the stairs.  My bedroom door opened.

"How are you?"

"Sick," I said without looking at her.

"What do you want to do?" she asked me.

"I don't know."

"Do you need me to take you to the bathroom?"

"I don't know."

We remained silent for a moment.  I saw my five-year-old boy standing next to Supermodel.

"Will you feed him?"

She knew me well enough to let the controlling and -- at times -- bizarrely indecisive parts of my personality fizzle.

She went downstairs, took care of things, then returned to check on me.  I told her I was afraid I might have pneumonia again, but it seemed strange it would hit so fast.  Her cell phone rang.  It was her physician sister-in-law, calling for a different reason, but Supermodel was able to ask her about my symptoms.  Physician-Sister-In-Law advised we go to the doctor.

Supermodel called my doctor, made an appointment for a couple of hours later and took the five-year-old to her house so I could rest.

When she returned later with my son, I felt slightly better and thought it was silly to go to the doctor for what was likely a virus.

"I think I'm better," I said.

"Your face looks red."

"My fever just broke.  I'm sweating."

"I still think we should get you to the doctor," she said calmly, but without condescension.

"Look at my hair.  I'm a mess."

"You're sick.  I'll help you put it in a ponytail."

"What are they gonna do?  I have a virus, I look terrible, I should be in bed," I whined as I tried to regain control.

"C'mon.  Let's go."

Supermodel tied my snow boots, helped me cover my wrinkly, damp-from-perspiration pajamas with a large army green winter coat, and grabbed a 1-gallon ziploc bag [my choice throw up receptacle] and loaded the five-year-old boy and me into the car.

I tested positive for the flu and a chest X-ray confirmed pneumonia.  While I sat on a chair in the hall outside the X-ray room, hunched over, my head in the light salmon pink vomit box they give sick people, the nurse pulled my pajama pants down and gave me a shot of antibiotics.

Chris arrived at the doctor's office in time to spell Supermodel.  She needed to resume her own Mom duties; it was time to retrieve Supermodel Jr. from school.

Two days later, the antibiotics are working and so are fresh pajamas.

I told Chris I was writing a blog post about Sick Thursday and he said, "From what angle?"

"I don't know," I replied.

Maybe it's this.  In an ideal setting, when a full-time caregiver/homemaker/child-rearer feels ill, they call in sick for work or arrange for a sub for a day or two.  We all know that's not how it works.  We're supposed to reach out to friends for help.

But it can be difficult.

There are people who take advantage of the help and support of others.  They're in need all the time, not just a difficult season or two, but for life.  Always asking, never giving.  I like to think those folks are in the minority.

So, friends, let's all agree... when we're in need, when we're hungry, when we're sick, and can't get out of bed?  We'll call Supermodel.  I'll get you her number.

Muppet Therapy

Head colds have come and gone the past week.  Chris traveled to Connecticut and made it home on his scheduled flight, despite the east coast winter storms.  I found a lump in my breast, had a mammogram and an ultrasound and all is well.  I'm thankful for nuggets of fat.

Before Chris left town [because everything falls apart after his departure], he called me as he was driving the boys home from school.

"Middle Boy doesn't feel well.  You'll have questions, so just talk to him."

Chris handed Middle Boy the phone.  In between congested deep sniffs and a lisp I can't recreate, I could tell he was trying to hide that he was crying.  He was difficult to understand, but I heard that his ear hurt... and something about his tongue on a pole.

"What?  Did you stick your tongue to a pole?"  Temperatures were well below freezing that day.

"Uh-huh," he cried.

It was like ordering Chinese food over the telephone, but eventually I got that another boy was successful removing his tongue from a frozen pole at recess so Middle Boy tried the same trick.  I asked if someone dared him to do it or if someone yanked his head off the pole, suspicious that he might have been bullied into the situation.  Nope.  He made both the entry and exit decisions on his own.

Middle Boy described how his tongue skin was still on the pole, and how he couldn't eat his lunch because... there was mustard on his sandwich, and oh his ear... it hurt so badly.  It had been a terrible day.  Would I please call the doctor?  Of course.

He went to the doctor that evening, had an ear infection and a bum tongue.  Antibiotics for one, ibuprofen and tepid, bland liquids for the other.

I listened to Middle Boy vent from the backseat of his father's car on the way home from school that day, and responded with mom-speak. Aw. I'm sorry, honey.  Shoot.  It's okay.  You can rest all weekend.  I understand.

He was finished.  He had purged his troubles for the time being, but still felt lousy.

One of Middle Boy's Christmas presents was a Muppet Whatnot.  He was able to create his own Muppet online, and the completed gift had arrived a few hours earlier.

 "I know it's been a rough day, but I have some news that might cheer you up.  There's a package with your name on it waiting for you."

He sniffed a few times, "Wha?"

"It's your Muppet."

"YETH!"

What's our vector, Victor?

The first entry in my 2011 journal...

I also have specific writing goals, as well as general/specific personal and family goals.  I don't feel the need to share here, but Chris has reviewed my lists and has agreed to be my accountability partner. 

NOTE:  If you show me yours, I'll show you mine.  Email me.  I've always been a good cheerleader.  I may not be able to do the splits or a Herkie any longer, but I'll pull a hammy trying.

The last few months of 2010 I didn't blog much.  Pretend the following are appropriate-length, funny, moving, entertaining [with attached photos and/or video] blog posts:

• Completed the Triple Trail Challenge for the second time.  Over. It.
• Got my braces off. [Pictures to come in a future post.]
• Finished writing a book.  [I'm waiting to hear from a publisher and considering the next step.]
• Dealt with a health issue.  I'm going to live but am recovering from numbness on my right side.  [Seriously.  I totally had an MRI of my brain, and was able to prove to Chris that my mind is perfectly healthy... and genius.]
• Celebrated my sons' birthdays.
• Chris and I cranked out another one, completing our 21st year of marriage.
• Halloween, Thanksgiving and Christmas -- check, check, check.
• Maintenance of relationships was poor, but real friends/family/people understand.

**********

The five-year-old boy has already accomplished a 2011 goal.  He learned to whistle.  He's usually the last person in our house to wake up in the morning.  He likes to creep down the stairs and startle me.  I allow this to happen even though I hear his bedroom door open and feel his little presence behind me.  And now I have to pretend I don't hear him whistling from the time he lifts his head off the pillow until he reaches the bottom of the stairs.

**********

I'll share the summary and affirmation paragraph from the Twenty-Eleven Goals entry in my journal.  You have permission to roll your eyes, remind me of my words when I bitch about them, join me in the cheesefest, or... nothing.

I've decided to add one more specific goal to my personal list.  I'm going to teach the 5YO boy to whistle with his two fingers in his mouth.  Just watch.

Happy New Year.

Standby One...

This crazy blog has provided me joy, frustration, stress, therapy, feelings of self-doubt as well as feelings of self-assuredness.  I'm not closing the doors, although I've considered it.  People who currently blog or have blogged in the past, know these feelings well.  Those who don't blog wonder what the big deal is.  It's your blog, write what you want, when you want.  Pfff!

And those who don't blog... are absolutely right.

I'm looking forward to closing out 2010 with Chris and the boys.  We have a few things to accomplish before the end of the year, but mostly we hope to enjoy some unstructured time, a visit from my parents, and the magic that is Christmas.  [I still believe!]

Chris worked hard lighting the too-tall tree that takes four adults to get in our family room.  As he balanced on a borrowed 20-foot ladder, moving ornaments a little to the left -- no, back to the right... wait... the blue sparkly one needs to go to the other side -- he accused me of trying to kill him for the life insurance money.

The tree is beautiful.  Middle Boy sat on the floor every morning before school, quietly looking at the lights and ornaments.  He seemed to be meditating, almost soothed by his private moments with the tree while the house was still.

[Chris and boys decorating.]

[Mary watching.]

 

I've intercepted the glide slope for 2011 and I'm ready for a solid and safe landing.  Bear with me and if I make it, I'll keep fiddling around with this silly blog.

Merry Christmas.

Spit

I was sweet on a neighborhood boy.  He was in the sixth grade, I was in the fifth.  A younger girl rarely caught the eye of an older boy in those days.  He was popular and had a little sister who knew how to make pom-poms out of tissue paper.  She was pretty and he was athletic.  They were a sibling power couple.

"Kirk's such a fox.  He's tuff," I remember saying to a friend within earshot of my dad.  "He's the best basketball player in the whole school."

Basketball is a religion in Indiana, or at least it was in the 70s, so the fact that my little Hoosier crush played the game well, elevated his celebrity.

"You like Kirk?" my dad asked.  "That kid spits all the time."

It was true.  Kirk was a spitter.  Maybe he still is.  But the way he spit as a kid was neat.  He'd walk down the sidewalk, sometimes dribbling a basketball, look to the side and spit with speed, force and precision.  He spit with equally precise frequency, like a high-pressure lawn sprinkler, ticking methodically across the grass.  It was awesome.  It also might have been a compulsion, but it melted my butter.

*****

I was looking at family video recently.  Chris and the two older boys braved a thrill ride at a local amusement park in August. The five-year-old boy [he was actually still four when the video was taken] and I are a crack team of backpack watchers and videographers.  It was the end of the day, which is my excuse for putting a four-year-old in charge of belongings.  I think he bummed a smoke from the people next to him, and karate-kicked potential abductors in the stomach.

"Spit" is a small part of the video, but I know my family will appreciate it.

Soaring and Spit from Chris Ross on Vimeo.

Ice In The Urinal And Family Traditions

I liked the Grapenuts in my cauliflower fondue at the Renegade Canteen.  Dinner with my parents, minus the kids was what Chris and I needed after a long 4th of July weekend in the Arizona desert.

**********

It's become a family tradition, the July pilgrimage to Scottsdale, Arizona.  We stay at Mom and Dad's for a week, swim, celebrate the 4th, visit family and friends, and try to relax.  There's usually a little drama.  A boy finds a scorpion in his room, runs into a jumping cholla, and someone gets a speeding ticket... or two.

[Chris and the boys - funky white.]

[This jumping cholla was stuck on the 4YO's ankle.]

[Dad sleeping, the boys watching TV.]

And every summer, I learn something new.

**********

Mom, Dad, Chris and I were enjoying food, drink and conversation at what has become another family tradition, the End-Of-Vacation-Adult-Dinner.  Poor Uncle Joe and Aunt Stephanie [my brother and his wife] were graciously babysitting the boys, foregoing the grown-up outing.  Unfortunately for them, this is part of the tradition.  [Joe, I love you, man.]

[Enjoying dinner... Mom and Dad.  Chris and me - braces off in October!]

Mom and I excused ourselves and went to the ladies' room.  When we returned to the table, Mom said to Dad, "Our bathroom was nice. How was yours?"  Because as most women know, it's all about the bathroom.

"It was fine.  There was ice in the urinal."

We all laughed.  Dad made a funny.

"Seriously.  There wasn't ice in the urinal, was there?" Mom asked as we both studied our husband's faces for signs of lying.

Dad nodded, yes.

Chris nodded, yes.

Dad and Chris explained that ice in men's rooms is common and nothing new.  Mom and I still weren't convinced.  How could she be married to my father for 47 years and not know about ice in the urinal?  I felt the same.

"Why haven't you told me about ice in the urinal?" I asked Chris.

"It's not a big deal."

"I think it's weird you've never mentioned it.  ...  And I still don't believe you."  It might have been the Chianti fueling my fire, but I wanted proof.

Chris and I walked to the men's room.  He wasn't thrilled, but he's a good husband and he knew his wife had had enough Chianti to do it by herself if he didn't cooperate.

"It's empty.  Have at it," he said as he opened the door for me.

And I'll be damned...

 

We returned to the table and I showed Mom the pictures.  The guys were telling the truth.  But now we wanted to know why.  Why was there ice in the urinal?

Dad and Chris shrugged.  Not only had they kept it a secret all these years, they had never bothered to ask why the ice was used. 

We asked the waitress.  She had been a server for a decade and had never heard about ice in the urinal.  How did she not know about this?  We asked the busboy, but the slight language barrier resulted in smiling, scurrying and more ice in our drinks.

The waitress said she would talk to the manager and get back to us.  Dad left her his card and he recently received an email that said in part:

...here's the answer for your questions.  There is nothing special about it.  It was out of necessity.  They had issue with not enough flow of the water to flush urine at the time.  So they used ice to add water flow.

Regardless of the ice, or the reason for the ice, what I still can't get over is that I'm 44-years-old, my mother is... older, and neither one of us knew about this.

I wonder what I'll learn next summer.

Tough Negotiator

December 1989
Chris and I had been married just over a month and were excited to purchase our first Christmas tree together.  Our budget was $20.  Not much, even twenty years ago.

We visited two Christmas tree lots and both times I immediately told the lot owner, "We want the biggest tree you can give us for $20!"  Neither lot had a tree taller than three feet available for that price.

As we got in the car without a tree the second time, Chris said, "Please don't say anything at the next lot.  Let me do the negotiating."

I tried.  Chris patiently followed the lot owner from tree to tree, nodding his head, whittling the price down.  I dutifully stood beside Chris and tried to look young and sweet... and poor.  Things weren't moving fast enough.  I felt an opening, sensed a softness growing in the lot owner.  "This tree is perfect for our apartment, but we only have $20," I said.

We left the lot without a tree again.

**********

Purchasing cars, houses, negotiating in general, is not my strength.  I show my hand too quickly... Would you like to see our bank accounts?  I pay more than is necessary because I trust the seller... He TOLD me this was a good deal.  Why would he lie?  Or I kill the transaction because I spastically blurt the wrong thing at the wrong time... Are you trying to screw me?

We bought a car recently and Chris reminded me several times to please just shhh.  He's kinder than most partners would be with my track record, "I know you're only trying to help, but you've got to let me handle this.  Don't say anything about money.  Try not to say anything at all... in front of anyone.  You and I need to talk privately."

It was hard, but I did it.

**********

Yesterday, we had a new guy do some yard work for us.  He gave me a bid for the work a couple of weeks ago.  It sounded... fine.  [What do I know?]  The man worked hard in the hot sun all day, the bushes and beds looked groomed and tidy and he was a pleasant person.

I gave the guy a check, came in the house and told Chris how pleased I was with the work that had been done.  I said, "He tried to charge us less than his original bid.  But, I reminded him... it was such a hot day... plus he's got to haul all that stuff away and unload it."

"So, you paid him more?"

"... ... ...  I don't want him to feel like we're taking advantage of him," I said.

"So, you negotiated up?"

Chris was calm, but he added, "Don't do that."

**********

I have a little money.  Anyone want some?

[Image courtesy of Google Images]

In Sync

I'm not exaggerating when I say our three sons were all dreadful sleepers as infants and toddlers.  Even now, at the ages of 12, 10 and 4, we rarely make it through an entire week without a middle-of-the-night blood sugar issue, bed-wetting incident or nightmare.  Sleep deprivation is debilitating, especially when it lasts for years.  Not that it's a competition, but it takes a lot for someone to trump the length and extent of sleep deprivation that Chris and I have endured.  Regardless, we muster compassion for anyone who's experienced lack of sleep, even those on the less severe end of the spectrum.

Chris' career hasn't required him to travel much over the years, which means we've been able to enjoy most of the hellish, sleepless nights together.  Recently Chris has been traveling a bit more.  With the boys a little older and all of us better rested, a sharp contrast has emerged in how I physiologically react when Chris tells me he has a trip approaching and how I ultimately manage the challenge.

**********

NEWS OF THE TRIP
Then - Seize, whine, then apologize to Chris for seizing and whining, and immediately start mini-therapying myself by repeating affirmations of my patient mothering skills and ability to function on zero sleep.

Now - Calmly say, "No problem," plan what shows I'll watch after the kids go to bed and debate internally if it's poor parenting to have a glass or two of wine when Chris is out of town.

ANTICIPATION
Then - Knowing Chris had a trip planned created tremendous anxiety for me.  I lost precious sleep worrying about the fact that I would get even less sleep when he was away.  I always managed my single-parenting days and nights better than I thought I would, but with the fear I might "fail" [not knowing what that would look like, but knowing I didn't want to find out] sitting on my shoulder.

Now - I don't hyperventilate anymore when Chris gives me his travel dates.  Occasionally the boys and I have a long night or complicated day, but we don't have multiple challenging days stacked one on top of the other, week after week, month after month, year after year.  I can deal with "typical" curve balls.

SLEEP
Then - I simply didn't sleep well, if at all.  The kids were up many times a night.  Someone usually threw-up.  If it wasn't a child, it was a dog.  When the house was quiet for twenty minutes at 2:00 AM, instead of sleeping, I tortured myself with envious thoughts of Chris sleeping soundly in a hotel bed while simultaneously missing him in ours.  I struggled with bad dreams, so I rarely slept deeply.

Now - I sleep great.  Sometimes a boy needs something in the night, but it's manageable.  I still have a vivid imagination and experience a nightmare once in a while, but it seems better now.  Maybe because I'm getting more sleep.  It's also much easier to make my bed in the morning.  I enjoy that.  Bonus!

SCHEDULES [Chris takes the older boys to school when he's home.]
Then - Awakening a baby who slept poorly the night prior, placing him in a backward facing car seat when what he really wanted to do was nurse [ALL DAY], was difficult.  The four-year-old [then baby] was a car screamer.  It upset the two older boys and lasted until he was three-years-old.  No joke.

Now - I prepare the four-year-old the night prior, explaining his father is out of town so we get to take the big boys to school.  This reverse psychology worked a few times but now he groans.  He doesn't like being woken from a deep sleep, pulled from a warm bed and placed in a cold car seat.  But he does it without protest.  Sounds small, but it sends me to the moon.

**********

Chris is out of town.

Yesterday morning as I uncovered my four-year-old son's warm, sleeping body, I whispered, "Good morning.  It's time to take the big boys to school.  I'll carry you."  He rolled towards me, eyes closed, hair sticking up like a rooster and reached out obediently.  I picked him up and drew in his scent  --  clean sheets and lavender soap from his bath 12 hours prior -- and I reminded myself to never forget this moment, how perfectly we fit together as he clung to me.  I felt happy and content.

I carried him downstairs and put him in his car seat, the big boys quietly helped me by opening doors, handing me the four-year-old's blanket, and double-checking the house for lights that needed to be turned off and doors that needed to be locked.  We were in sync.

Five minutes into the thirty-minute drive, the four-year-old's eyes were open and he looked peaceful.  Oldest Boy wanted to know if we could listen to his iPod, but asked if we could call his dad first.  We called Chris and left a voice message telling him we missed and loved him, and wished him a good day.

Chris will be home late tonight, maybe even early tomorrow morning.  I used to memorize or have handy flight details, hotels, meeting times, etc...  It's not that I don't have that information... somewhere, I'm just... I don't know... busier, better rested, able to send and receive texts [finally].

The boys and I are glad Chris doesn't travel much or for very long.  But now when he does, we all work together to fill in the gap created by his absence.  Sleep helps; so do restaurants.  I might not be hyperventilating waiting for his return like I used to, but just like then, it's nice to have the other guy home so I can poke him in the middle of the night and groggily demand, "Cuddle me.  I had a bad dream."

Hoops

All the advice about bloggers sticking with one blog is true.  I've nearly abandoned See Chrisy Run [my other blog].  It's still there, but I haven't updated since Supermodel and I finished our final race last September.  I don't know what I'm going to do with it.

More importantly, I don't know what my next event/goal will be, if any.  Supermodel kind of broke up with me after the trauma of the Triple Trail Challenge.  I might have pushed her too far when I enthusiastically made reference to how great the events would be next year because we would be experienced trail racers.  I had this discussion with her less than an hour after she crossed the finish line of our last event -- a grueling trail marathon.  She was clearly irritated by my attempt to muscle her into being my training partner again while she was still trying to hydrate, catch her breath and wipe the blood from her body as she repeatedly mumbled, "That sucked."

I reminded Supermodel that it was just like having a baby.  We forget the pain moments after delivery.  She told me she's had six children and vividly remembers the pain of each birth.  She also informed me she didn't want to run with me during the winter months. 

I workout before the kids get up for school, so I'm typically out the door by 5:00 AM.  Supermodel had a little more flexibility with her schedule so she didn't need to run in the middle of the night in the winter.  I don't run alone in the dark, so Chris said he'd run with me at the offensive hour.

Winter has come and gone.  Chris ran with me on several cold, dark, snowy mornings.

One morning I was waiting for him to come downstairs.  Steam was swirling above his lovingly poured cup of coffee and our cold weather gear was thoughtfully displayed on the counter.  I was in the office checking my email... and the windchill.  Chris entered the office dressed in his warmest running tights and turtleneck, looked out the french doors at the snowfall [which would have been pretty had the wind not been driving it horizontally -- it was harsh], and calmly said, "I'm not running in this shit."  He turned around and walked back upstairs.

Supermodel asked how it was going running with Chris.  I told her it was great -- he'd only called one run.  She said she wouldn't have wanted to run in that weather either.  "He just has the balls to stand up to you," I believe were her exact words.  Whatever.

Now what?  I'm reviewing training plans, plotting event dates against our summer plans, and working on Supermodel and/or Chris for a commitment to... something.  So far, no dice.

I do have one goal...

We have an arcade-style basketball game in the basement.  On occasion, I play by myself.  A couple of weeks ago I hit what I thought was a family high-score for a one-minute solo game.  I called Chris and left him a message.

"Know your busy, but I was in the basement tidying... anyway... I played a few games of basketball.  What's your high-score?  I think I beat it.  Sixty-four.  Uh-huh.  Six. Tee. Four.  Call me."

Chris returned my call and said he didn't remember his exact score, but knows he broke 80 once and hit the 70s a few times.  I didn't believe him.  He said he was in the zone and one of the boys was his witness. Further probing revealed that Middle Boy [10] witnessed the high score, however he's been known to stretch the truth, and succumb to the power of suggestion.  Doesn't matter.  The score to beat is 80.

Chris has taunted me with email subject lines that say "made it to 80 yet?"  And salutations like "Hey Hoops."

Sixty-eight.  That was my highest score until a few moments ago.  I went downstairs to take a picture for this post.  I played one game before returning upstairs.  One game.  My score?  SEVENTY-EIGHT.

I feel a sore trapezius muscle coming on...

Up In Smoke

The "Jesus hates it when you smoke!" ashtray featured in my last post generated strong responses. People either thought it was great or it made them feel uncomfortable.  My apologies to those of you who I offended.  Please don't read the rest of this post.  *kisses*

A few people have asked where they can get their own ashtray...

I recommend searching irreverent, greeting card stores, coffee shops, book stores, or your local gay porn establishment.  Here in Utah, it's one stop shopping.  I purchase the "Jesus hates it when you smoke!" ashtray at a store where I can buy irreverent greeting cards, best-selling books, keychains, have a cup of coffee and pick up gay porn.  Somehow I manage to do this with a four-year-old boy in tow, simply distracting him with the rainbow flags, kites and wind chimes that are tinkling above our heads.

Speaking of the Ashtray...
Two of my local friends requested an ashtray last week.  We'll call them Mulva and Juicy.  Because I frequent the store where the ashtrays can be purchased, and I usually have spares tucked away in my personal gift center, I was more than happy to help Mulva and Juicy score one.  These friends' kids attend the same school as our sons, so it seemed convenient to transfer possession of the ashtray at the school.

The Plan
Middle Boy [10] had a holiday concert on Friday morning.  I would stay home with Four-Year-Old Boy [uncivilized] and Chris would attend the concert.  Juicy would be at the concert, so Chris could discreetly hand her the small Williams Sonoma bag cleverly containing the ashtray wrapped in white tissue paper.  Mulva would not be at the concert, so I asked Chris to please deliver the small Sundance bag, also cleverly camouflaging the tissue wrapped ashtray, to Oldest Boy's [12] homeroom teacher.  Chris was supposed to simply hand it to the teacher -- we'll call her Mrs. Teacher -- and tell her that the bag was for Mulva, who would be by at the end of the day to retrieve it.

Note:  I do not know Mrs. Teacher very well.  We've only had the opportunity to chat in person during parent-teacher conferences.

Fat, Dumb and Happy
I assumed things went according to plan.  I hadn't heard differently.  My weekend was busy with ongoing Christmas preparation.  I do recall asking Chris, "Did you see Juicy at the concert?"  He told me he did and shared pieces of their conversation with me.

Sunday Afternoon
In an unrelated Facebook comment thread, Mulva casually mentioned that Mrs. Teacher wasn't in her classroom on Friday afternoon and an attempt to find the ashtray with the help of another teacher resulted in nada.

Hmmm...

Channeling Inner Special Ops Girl
Chris was outside shoveling snow.  I high-stepped through the house and out the garage, shrieking, "Chriiiis!"  I asked him if he gave the bag to Mrs. Teacher.

"What?  Uh.  No.  I was in a hurry so I gave it to Oldest Boy to give to her."

The color drained from my face.  "Did you tell Oldest Boy to tell Mrs. Teacher that she was to hold the bag for Mulva until the end of the day?"

"Uh. No."

I shrieked for Oldest Boy, who was in the backyard.  My entire body visibly throbbed with my heartbeat.

Oldest Boy happily answered my call.

"Did you give the bag Dad gave you to Mrs. Teacher?"  I manically chirped my question.

"Yes."

"What did you tell her?"

"I told her, this is from my mom."

FAINT.

It's AAALLL Good
Somehow I managed to find Mrs. Teacher's phone number and dial it, in spite of the fact that I was convulsing.  She was gracious as I babbled and explained and apologized and offered myself up for detention.  I tried to throw Mulva under the bus too, but somehow it didn't work for me.  It was HER ashtray after all.

Mrs. Teacher shared my "gift" with other faculty Friday afternoon during a meeting, and... THE DEAN.  Neato.  She said it was a huge hit, although admitted to being confused as to why I would give her such a unique gift.  She laughed at the comedy of errors and offered to get the ashtray to Mulva.  I told her it wasn't necessary.  Mrs. Teacher seemed genuinely happy to keep it, for story value if nothing else.

Next year I'll get her a "Jesus Shaves" coffee mug.  His beard disappears when hot beverages are poured into the mug.

Forgive me.

The End

Christmas Lights Did Him In

Nothing.  I mean, NOTHING, will make a man lose his cool quicker than issues with Christmas lights.  Even the most patient of men.

I thought Chris had passed this test right after we were married.  Dad was sorting through things in the garage and Chris offered to help.  Dad found a box of mangled Christmas lights, pushed the box towards Chris and said, "See if you can make some sense of these."

Chris untangled and organized several strands of lights.  I was so impressed.

The tree I selected this year is slightly larger than last year's tree.  It took Chris, a couple of neighbors and me to get it in the house.  We cut two feet off the top, and I trimmed the branches so it would fit in the tall, but narrow space we always place our tree.

Chris teased me about the tree, but remained patient.

Because this isn't our first rodeo, we put lights on the top few feet of the tree before we brought it in the house.  It was easier while the tree was on it's side.

Chris began lighting the rest of the tree yesterday morning.  At 8:30 last night, he was making another trip to Home Depot.  The day taught him, and me, that when we have a tree this large, it's important to have two zones of lights.  One for the top half of the tree and one for the bottom half.

Unfortunately, Chris learned this after lighting the same lower section of the tree, having the lights blow, removing the lights, and repeating the process several times.  He was wild-eyed and his hair was askew after eight hours of repetitive work.  Pine needles were everywhere, we all stayed away from the family room.  Foul words, agonizing growls and groans popped out from behind the tree in a Tourette's-like manner throughout the day.

One of the most patient people I've ever known, my husband, lost it.

It's Sunday morning.  I rose early, as I usually do, and found a half consumed Vesper in the kitchen sink. I  don't know if it was the first or the third, but I know my husband deserved it, or them.

Because, he did this...

Twenty Years

November 4, 1989

 

 

Twenty years later...

 

Happy Anniversary, Chris.  I like you.  You're fun. 

Love,
The Other Chris [the girl]

I Didn't Finish My Post On Procrastination

I had picked up the boys from school, stopped at the liquor store, was driving home and called Chris to touch base...

Me:  Anything new?

Chris:  No. You?

Me:  Not really.  I've had an unproductive day.  Questioned everything I wrote.  I attempted three blog posts because I was procrastinating working on other things.  The first one on Why I Blog turned into Why I Write and it felt too personal.  I wanted to tap into the "attention whore" theory Neil blogged about along with Kyran's post -- which I still need to forward to you -- but I got sidetracked.  I don't have enough time to do all this.

THEN, I started a post on Procrastination and I got all freaked out that I have a psychological disorder after Googling it.  Wikipedia nailed me.  But I found some great articles on how to resolve my reasons for procrastinating.  So that was good... I still have issues though...

THEN, I thought I need to address my running blog because I haven't posted since the last race, but I want to let that blog go, so I need to post something on CSquaredPlus3...like... about how you're running with me now and I'm trying to talk you into doing the Triple Trail Challenge next summer because Supermodel says she's out.

I hardly even looked at my other projects...

Chris:  I think you should finish the Procrastination post and title it "I Didn't Finish My Post On Procrastination".

Me:  And have a blank page?

Chris:  No.  Post what you have written so far.

Me:  I only titled it, then I went to Google so I could paste a definition at the top of the post.  That's when I got freaked out and had to diagnose myself.

Chris:  So you have nothing?

Me:  I have nothing.

Chris:  So... the content is... light.

Me:  Very.

**********

Per Wikipedia [Which, according to my sons, is not a good source because, "...ANYONE can post information on there!"]

Procrastination is the deferment of actions or tasks to a later time. Psychologists often cite this human behavior as a mechanism for coping with the anxiety associated with starting or completing any task or decision. ^[1] Psychology researchers use three criteria to categorize procrastination: for a behavior to be classified as procrastination, it must be counterproductive, needless, and delaying.^[2]

For an individual, procrastination may result in stress, a sense of guilt, the loss of personal productivity, the creation of crisis and disapproval from others for not fulfilling one's responsibilities or commitments. These combined feelings can promote further procrastination. While it is normal for people to procrastinate to some degree, it becomes a problem when it impedes normal functioning. *Chronic procrastination may be a sign of an underlying psychological disorder.

**********

*  Did you read that?  I'm SO freaked out.

I Blinked

As quickly as it began, summer break is ending.  Oldest Boy and Middle Boy return to school next week.  The school they attend resumes classes after Labor Day so we enjoy a summer break like the kind I had when I was a kid.  Three full months.  I love having the boys home and will join Toddler Child next week as he mopes around the house muttering, "I miss the big boys."

Our summer is ending with an assortment of tales to tell, but I've not had the time to chronicle everything publicly. 

Shortly after giving birth to Oldest Boy, I asked Chris if he got any good pictures or video.  He said, "I decided I wanted to experience the birth of our child, not worry about documenting it."  There's balance in that philosophy.  We have photos and journals that I'm thankful we have, but many, many years from now will any person really care?

Abbreviated Tales

Death:  The boys were prepared for Mamaw's death.  They were even prepared for the death of Susan Nelson, the wife of blogger, Fat Cyclist [Elden].  But they weren't prepared for the death of their beloved kindergarten teacher who passed unexpectedly due to a pulmonary embolism.  She was only 48.  These three deaths all occurred in August.  We parented through the death of a woman who had battled breast cancer for several years and left behind her husband and four children.  We parented through the death of an older person, blessed with a full and long life.  And we're still discussing the death of a teacher who appeared healthy one day and the next, was gone.  Rough.

It's Not Funny Anymore:  I had another incident with the car.  I dropped off Oldest Boy at his teacher's house for an ice-cream social.  As I backed out of the driveway [too fast], I hit the front of her husband's parked car.  No one was hurt.  When I called Chris to tell him what had happened, his normally calm and understanding tone was replaced with irritation as he said, "Are you effing kidding me?" 

NOTE:  My parents are refusing to take any calls from me if they see I'm calling from my cell phone.  [I only use my cell phone in the car.  For the record, I was NOT on my phone when I backed into the parked car.]

Birthdays:  Middle Boy turned ten on August 30th and Toddler Child will turn four next week.  Middle Boy thinks it's cool to be in the double-digits, and Toddler Child says he wants to be two, not four.  I told him I wish time worked that way sometimes too.

 

Hummingbird:  We had a hummingbird in the garage.  It flew around and rested on different brake cables of the bikes hanging from our garage ceiling.  I won't make this tale longer than it needs to be.  We were excited at the time.  You would have thought we had a bald eagle nesting on our trash can.  I have too many pictures of a hummingbird sitting on my bike's brake cable.

 

History:  We can't rewrite it.  Isn't that both a tragic and a glorious thing?  For now, this tale will remain very abbreviated.

Goodbye Summer:  I can't believe it's over!  I say this at the end of every school year, holiday, vacation, etc...  And I know I'll say it again.  I'm trying to enjoy the last few days before school starts by ignoring the toys that are left around the house, delaying wiping fingerprints where there typically are none, and avoiding yelling up the stairs, "Take it down a notch, boys!" when I hear them roughhousing.

Today I took my camera upstairs instead of requesting the boys downshift their play.

 

 

I miss the big boys already.

Speedo-Mon

We're home for the rest of the summer so that means the boys will have to play with a hose in the backyard for fun, and we'll take an occasional day trip to check something off the list of Still To Do And See In Utah.

The good news is, our boys love playing in the hose.  Toddler Child insists on wearing his fast swimsuit [Speedo], and Mary joins our nearly-mistaken-for-Jamaican children while they play with water.  They wear plenty of sunscreen.  We're proud of our funky whiteness.

[Click on all photos to enlarge.]

 

 

A couple of days ago, Chris and I took the boys to Antelope Island State Park at the Great Salt Lake.  We've lived in Utah nearly seven years and had never taken the time to visit the lake for which the state is so famous.  I called for information and was told by a Very Nice Woman, that there was a beach, paddle boat rentals, a bistro, public restrooms and outdoor showers.  I was told the salt content in the lake is 3% higher than the ocean, only brine shrimp live in the water, and there are several brine flies at the water's edge.  The Very Nice Woman said the brine flies create a black ribbon on the beach and they will separate as you walk through them.  Don't worry, she said, they don't bite, and once you get beyond them it's just you and the buoyant waters of the Great Salt Lake!

We weren't expecting Maui, but I envisioned a long day on the "island".

We spent two hours on Antelope Island, and one hour would have been plenty. There is a beach, but it should be called something different because the connotation that goes along with "beach" left us all feeling confused and disappointed.  The bistro was run-down and closed.  The three paddle boats available for rent were filthy and full of dead brine flies and live wolf spiders.  We passed on the paddle boat rental.

There were BILLIONS of brine flies.  BILLIONS.  The ribbon the Very Nice Woman described, was several feet wide in places. The flies didn't bite; that part was true.  But they peppered the top of the water as far as my eye could see.  They were... icky.  Middle Boy, lover of all living things, shrieked as he high-stepped through them to get in and out of the water.

Chris and the boys getting ready to enter the lake.

[Chris would like it known that he does not appreciate this picture, but he won't use his Blog Power of Veto.  I think it's the outfit, old swim trunks and Super Friends t-shirt.  I reminded him he was about to enter a cesspool so it was important to wear disposable clothes.]

If you click on the following photo to enlarge, you might be able to see the brine flies [that the Very Nice Woman said would only be at the water's edge] all over the lake.

 

I brought my bathing suit, but couldn't get beyond the smell and the flies.  I kept my clothes on and waded in to my knees, but was miserable as I shooed flies, took pictures, and looked at my watch every 30 seconds hoping the kids would tire of the experience as I tolerated it.

 

Luckily the boys didn't need too much time bobbing in the brine fly water, and Toddler Child got salt in his eye.  We told him prior to getting in the water to be careful of his eyes, and we also told him there were brine shrimp living in the lake.  He confused the two and cried as we walked back to the car, "I have shrimp in my eye..."

I'm glad we saw the lake and swam in it [shudder], but I don't think we'll be returning.  It's big, salty, and interesting, but if you want to check this site off of your list of places to see, call me for information instead of the Very Nice Woman.

Still To Do And See In Utah:  Antelope Island State Park

[The Great Salt Lake from Antelope Island State Park]

The Weapon

Chris was out of town last week.  I can now manage the the kids and the house while he's away without hyperventilating or leaving teeth marks on my tongue from biting it with frustration.  Toddler Child sleeps through most nights and we deal with a nightmare, an accident, or a blood sugar issue only occasionally.  I don't think a child has vomited once in 2009.  [I know.  I shouldn't tempt fate by sharing that fact.]

The week went fairly well.  Except for one day.  It was T-minus 24 hours until Chris was to be home.  I hate coming undone when I'm so close to the end of something that requires a little more from me.  I don't know if I create a self-fulfilling or a self-defeating prophecy in these situations. But I do it almost every time.

I was singing dorkily in the car while taking Middle Boy to his guitar lesson.  His disapproving, yet ironically not disrespectful, glances told me he was embarrassed by my grooves.  I asked him lightheartedly, "Do I ever do anything that annoys you?"

"Sometimes."

"Like what?"

"Well...  I can't think of the word... but sometimes... you're... ... ..."

I knew what he was thinking.  I instantly felt it.  He truly didn't know the word, but he was thinking bitchy.  I waited.  He was innocent and thoughtful as he searched for the word to answer my question.

"... sometimes you're...  grumpy."

I asked him to explain and give me some examples.  The look on my face and the tone of my voice told Middle Boy this wasn't going the direction either of us thought it would.  He nervously described how he dropped a perfectly clean, plastic fork on the floor and I got REALLY mad.  I don't remember this, and I told him so.  I wanted more examples.  I was aware of my subtle but palpable shift to defensiveness partnered with antagonism.  My son was aware too, and chose his words carefully as he answered the assault of questions I threw at him.

When we got home from the guitar lesson I told Oldest Boy about my question to Middle Boy and the answer I received.  He could tell I was irritated and politely and diplomatically supported his brother.  He said some days I'm very patient but other days I get frustrated with them a little quicker than usual.

What did I do with this honest and valuable information from my sons?  I chastised them.  All night.  I peppered what should have been a pleasant evening with, "And ANOTHER thing..."  I reminded the boys of everything I do around the house.  I reminded them how good they have it compared to other kids.  I reminded them that the "other mothers" who are sooo wonderful have GRUMPY days too.  I reminded them that some kids don't even HAVE a mother.  They were pink-eyed and trembly-lipped a couple of times.

Toddler Child was lying low.  Happy for once that he wasn't the boy on the receiving end of one of my manic lectures.

Dinner, showers, bedtime reading routines, all were accomplished successfully.  Toddler Child had been sleeping with something to protect himself and the rest of the family while Chris was out of town.  He requested it for one more night, in case he needed to battack someone.

NOTE:  We're not a gun family.  Chris nor I were raised by parents who hunt, target shoot or have a need for a gun, so we're raising our kids the same.  Our arguments are just passionate enough that if we had a gun in the house, it's possible that one of us would eventually be referred to as "Stumpy".  Or "inmate number 35704-019".

It was after 10:00 PM and all three boys were asleep.  In a span of seconds, I was painfully aware of how heavy I'd been earlier.  Selfishly, I entered Oldest Boy's room, hugged him and apologized for my rant.  He hugged me back and said, "I forgive you."  I repeated the scene in Middle Boy's room.  He's a sound sleeper and didn't respond.  I hoped somehow my words and heart penetrated his dreams.  I would talk to him in the morning.

Toddler Child hadn't been on the receiving end of my behavior directly, so I chose to let him sleep.  I also didn't want to invoke a battack by a plunger. 

One weapon had been drawn too long.  It was time to put them all down.

I'm an Excellent Driver

Earlier this week, in a hurry, I quickly said goodbye to the boys as I grabbed my purse and headed for the garage.  "Dad will be home soon.  Call either one of us if you need anything.  Mrs. Nice-Neighbor-Lady is home if Toddler Child poops!"

I was late for a doctor's appointment.  I usually tap the garage door opener as I exit the kitchen and enter the garage, like most people, but for some reason I skipped this step.  I climbed in the car, realized the garage door was closed, reached up and opened the door with the remote attached to the visor, like most people do when they're pulling IN to their garage.  I started the car, put it in reverse and hit the gas.  Hurry, hurry, hurry.  Then, I hit the garage door.  Hard.

When I was in Arizona visiting my parents in January, I hit their house.  I wrote about it here.  These incidents rarely get a reaction from Chris or my family.

I called Chris on my way to the doctor.  He was in a meeting so I left a long babbling message.

"It's me.  The weirdest thing happened.  I was in a hurry and I didn't open the garage door before I got in the car and I'm used to the garage door being open already after I start the car and so I just backed out like I usually do...  Oh, maybe I didn't say I opened the garage door from inside the car...  It's not that bad.  The door was halfway up when I hit it...  I mean there's damage... to the back of the car... and the top where I scraped it pulling back in... and the garage door... I think if you use a hammer you'll be able to fix it so it can shut... it's stuck... I couldn't assess it totally because I was late. ... ... ...  We've been wanting new garage doors.  Those dark steel ones are cool.  Costco has a great deal...  Sorry.  Call me."

This happened only days after receiving these photos in the mail from the Scottsdale Police Department.

 

 

We were on the final stretch to my parent's house after being in the car for TEN hours with the kids and the dog.  Chris regrettably let me drive from Flagstaff to Scottsdale, an easy two hour stretch.  [Did I mention I get carsick?  Driving is an antidote for carsickness.]  We were less than five minutes from Mom and Dad's house.  It was like a horse seeing the barn.  I was photo radar-ed traveling 63 in a 45.

 

Even though the ticket was addressed to ChrisTOPHER, there's no denying it's me, ChrisTINA.  The document requested Chris either accept responsibility for the offense or identify the perp.  I think I'm going down.

The Cool Chris

It's my husband's birthday today.  He's 42, and yes, I'm older.

When we began dating, Chris was a quasi bad-boy with a solid center of goodness.  He had that cool swagger without any sleaze.  I was a dork.  Chris loved me anyway.

[Dating - 1989]

He used to call me when I was working as a receptionist at a title company and say, "Hello, gorgeous," when he heard my voice.  I melted.  One time he said, "How's tricks?"  I immediately felt jealous.  "Who's Trix?" I asked.  He laughed and explained it was just an expression.  How are things?  I don't know a girl named Trix.

His cool quotient has always been coupled with a calmness that both soothes and irritates me at times.  He is not shy, but he is humble and the saying "still waters run deep" couldn't be more true when it comes to Chris.

[Disneyland - 1994-ish]

He's a good man; a good person.  I can't say that about too many people in my life.  Today I celebrate Chris.  The cool Chris.

[Arizona - 2009]

Happy Birthday, Studbuns.  [He blushes when I call him that.]

He'll be fiiine...

Chris is having two hernias repaired today.  His surgery is scheduled for 10:15 AM and we both understand this to be a fairly routine and simple procedure.  Other than not being able to lift anything heavy for six weeks, Chris is prepared to be sore for a day or two and allow the repairs to heal.  I'm prepared to do all the extra lifting around the house that Chris typically does, like...  It doesn't matter.  I'm sure this will be an opportunity for me to learn to appreciate all the subtle, quiet ways he assists me during a day.

Dad called from Arizona last night to make sure we had everything under control.  He's very sympathetic when it comes to surgeries and procedures.  He's had major back surgery, a kidney removed [cancer -- he's fine now], knee surgery and shoulder surgery.  He also has a serious case of man-sympathy.

"Chris isn't going to feel well when he comes home tomorrow, Chrisy."

"I know.  I'll get him to bed so he can rest."

"I'm serious.  He's really gonna feel crummy.  You have GOT to keep those little boys away from him.  They can't jump on him..."

"I know.  I'm going to take all three of them to Oldest Boy's saxophone lesson later in the day.  I've talked with Oldest Boy and Middle Boy.  They want to be helpful.  I've got soup and 7-Up for Chris.  He'll be fine."

"You might want to get him set-up on the couch.  He could have a tough time with stairs."

"They said this was going to be no big deal, Dad."

"That's what they always say.  I had a friend who had double-hernia surgery and he's fine now, but it was worse than he expected.  ...  I can tell I need to be there to supervise.  Poor Chris."

I've been up since 5:30 this morning, Chris and the boys are sleeping soundly, and I'm getting ready to go for a run.  Dad's famous for his make-sure-you-READY-AIM-FIRE-and-don't READY-FIRE-AIM lectures.  And this one worked.  I just remembered Chris needs to add salt pellets to the water softener and stomp down all the trash in the recycle bin before we leave for the hospital.  I can hear Dad sighing 600 miles away.

Almost

I'm pumped!  Oldest Boy and Middle Boy will be dismissed from school for summer break tomorrow at noon.  Sure, having two more kids in the house means more toilet, sink, and kitchen usage during a day, but overall it's less work than the rigid routine we all adhere to during the school year.  No more packing lunches, driving to and from the school [30-40 each way], and no more homework.

I don't complete my sons' homework for them, but I support, encourage and oversee their various projects and goals.  The level of parental involvement required these days in both public and private schools is a good thing in my opinion.  I've joked about it [here], but I sincerely believe kids who have involved [not controlling or micro-managing] parents are generally better off than those who do not.  Regardless, I'm looking forward to no homework...

... and more family band time.  An old friend was in town Saturday - a friend who can play almost any instrument by ear - and led us in this session...

 

Chris conducted.  Sort of.

We eventually got him to sing and he promised the boys he would contribute more vocally to our family band nights as well as lead us in guitar.  I'll do anything.  I'm not musically talented, but I wish I was.  [Don't we all?!]

I've stocked up on peanut butter, tuna, water balloons, paper towels, flushable toilet scrubbers, popsicles, sunscreen, guitar picks, and patience [send me some of that if you have any extra laying around the house].  We're looking forward to a simple but fun summer.  No more homework!  Almost...

"...it's wasted on the crappiest generation of just spoiled idiots..." Louis C.K.

It's not what you have, it's who you are.  I tell my kids this all the time.  I also tell them, there's no shame in having and enjoying nice things, we simply don't judge people by their possessions.  Someone may have a larger home with more "stuff" to play with - that doesn't translate to good or bad, just a person with more stuff.  Then we review the opposite example...  Someone may have a smaller home with less "stuff" to play with - again, not good or bad, just a person with less stuff.  It's who a person is that's important.  I think our two oldest boys get it.

Cheri at Blog This Mom included a wonderful link in her recent blog post.  It's a clip that's making the rounds so many of you may have seen it.  If not, it's worth the four minutes.  Conan O'Brien is interviewing the comedian Louis C.K., and Louis riffs about how AMAZING life is and how spoiled we are.  It's funny and true.  YouTube embedding has been disabled for the clip, but click on the link and watch it - "Everything's amazing, nobody's happy..." 

Chris and I continually struggle with how much is too much with our kids.  Our boys are far from spoiled, but also have plenty to play with, and have rarely been denied a requested "special" gift for a birthday or holiday.  We've made it clear what the boundaries are so they don't ask for things they know aren't kosher in our home.  They don't seem bothered and haven't complained about desperately wanting something that we don't believe is appropriate.  I can honestly say, I don't think our boys are "bummed" that they don't have game systems [other than Wii], cell phones, or computers in their rooms with Internet access.  Oldest Boy [11], Middle Boy [9], and Toddler Child [3] seem content to play board games, build things with Lego's, watch some television, and play approved games on the family computer.  When they're outside, they play.  I mean, they really play.  They look for sticks and rocks and bugs.  They build forts in the bushes, ride bikes and run to nowhere.

The goal isn't to raise our kids to be so counterculture that other kids view them as socially off.  But my fear is... that it's happening.  Chris and I have discussed this and are united in our opinion that it's not worth it to join the mainstream on some of our issues.  We just can't.

I confess, sometimes I want to.  It's about me though, not the kids.

I spoke with a friend last week and reminded her how much we'd love to have she, her husband and kids over for dinner.  I knew as adults we'd visit and eat and drink and laugh... but, I impulsively said, "Will your kids be okay playing with our kids?  We don't have a big screen TV with a game system in the basement, or lots of cool play equipment in the backyard.  We have rocks and sticks."

She was very gracious and said, "Heck yeah!  They'll have a blast!"

After thinking about how concerned I felt for our boys and the possible social judgment they might endure based on what "stuff" they did or did not have, I realized that when I tell my kids, It's not what you have, it's who you are, I need to remind myself... it's the truth.

It's in the eye of the beholder.

This morning I asked Chris to do this...

So that Mary could do this...

We discussed how we couldn't believe it snowed again, when we've had several tastes of spring - enough to stow away winter things until next year.

This snow will be gone as quickly as it came.  We'll likely be in the yard this weekend working on beds - seriously.  This snow doesn't bother me.  It's too beautiful.

Then again, I'm in the house drinking coffee in my pajamas, with my hair sticking out like Witchiepoo's from H. R. Pufnstuf, while Toddler Child occasionally asks, "Can I touch you ear?" [Ear fondler, remember?]  I'm not shoveling it or peeing in it. 

It's still beautiful from my perspective.

Let's Dance, Baby

The boys had their final Cotillion party a couple of weeks ago.  Overall, they both enjoyed the Cotillion experience, but neither boy wanted to attend the last dance.  It was a school night, they were tired, and over it.

Being the good parents that we are, we made them go.

Oldest Boy enjoys the dancing more than Middle Boy.  He smiles and makes light conversation with his partner, like he was taught in Cotillion.  Middle Boy's expression is solemn, he avoids eye contact and discussion with his partner and he moves like he's counting the seconds until the experience is over.  I felt sorry for his partners.  The little girls love the dancing and there are always more girls than boys.  A polite boy's participation is a treasure to these girls.

Here's Middle Boy in agony on the dance floor, mad that I'm taking his picture.
[Click to enlarge all photos.]

Here's Middle Boy after I whispered in his ear through clenched teeth [resisting the urge to smack him on the side of the head] to, Be nice, smile, and fake it!

After the kids danced the parents were invited to join.  We were taught dance steps by the instructor, then our child was supposed to graciously assist.  Middle Boy didn't even enjoy dancing with me.

Here we are wrestling on the dance floor.

Here I am reminding him to, Try to have a good time.  I'll pay you if you smile.

 

Oldest Boy is a parent pleaser.  He genuinely wants to do the right thing and he's delighted when he catches an approving glance.  We recognize this won't likely last forever.  Oldest boy is either dancing with bells on because he thinks it pleases us, or... he was born to dance!

Look at the joy on his face...

I was a parent pleaser and I enjoy dancing, so Oldest Boy comes by it naturally.  Middle Boy takes a little more after his father.  Notice where Chris is sitting in this picture...

Chris was a good sport to attend the Cotillion party.  Many fathers were unfortunately not willing unable to participate.  Chris was a great photographer, but when I had the camera, he sat in the back row, near the door and he didn't dance.  Not even once.  If I give him a few drinks and make some promises... then he'll dance.

Minutia

"Blogging has become so popular that all meaning has been lost.  People call themselves 'writers,' and ramble on about nothing, as if the minutia of their lives are as important as the big issues of the day, the tragedies that confront us all.

Which brings me to my story of the shower curtain." - Neil Kramer

This was how Neil from Citizen of the Month started a recent post.  I love it.  Neil continues the post and tells a story about something as simple as replacing a moldy shower curtain.  It's entertaining and funny.  Neil's a real writer though.  He can write well about anything and it makes the rest of us look like we're writing a sixth grade essay. [Although I don't believe it's his intention to make anyone feel inferior.  He's supportive of the individuality of bloggers.  He's the "Citizen of the Month"!]

I struggle with how much minutia to include in blogging.  Blogs that are well written interest me and like Neil's, I'll read a variety of content by a blogger who's writing style I admire.  If I haven't been hooked by a blogger in some way [the writing, the photographs, the recipes, a personal friend who I love regardless of what they publish], and the blog is purely a ramble of daily events, with too-frequent postings, I lose interest.  It's like listening to someone whine at length on the phone, and you tap your receiver to make it sound like your other line is beeping - Sorry.  I don't mean to be rude but that's my other line and I really need to take it.  Catch ya later!

This brings me to my story of the cleanse.  [I understand if your phone's ringing, or there's someone at your door.  Go handle it.]

Chris and I have been struggling with cravings for foods that aren't good for us [more than we typically do].  We've also wanted to lose a few pounds that are hanging on like baby opossums.  We know the benefits of eating more fruits, vegetables and whole grains - organic whenever possible.  We've read John Robbins Diet for a New America and May All Be Fed, as well as many other books encouraging vegetarian and earth friendly food choices.  We still grab handfuls of cinnamon bears, chug coffee, and troll the pantry for refined snacks.

We started The Master Cleanse yesterday.  We'll be ending it today.  You're supposed to do it for 10 days or longer.  The basic theory of a cleanse is that a person takes great care in cleansing the outside of the body, but rarely if ever cleans the inside of the body, therefore an internal cleanse is a good thing. [So "they" say.]  This cleanse involves drinking a lemonade made with purified water, lemons, maple syrup and cayenne pepper - I'm sure many of you have heard of it.

A part of any cleanse is eliminating.  "They" say we shouldn't  stir up the dust [toxins] then let it settle somewhere else.  It should leave the body.

Yesterday morning and this morning Chris and I did the "salt water flush" portion of The Master Cleanse.  We followed the instructions and dissolved two teaspoons of sea salt in a quart of warm, purified water, and drank it.  "They" say this will thoroughly cleanse the digestive tract.  "We" say, buy the best toilet paper you can afford if you ever choose to do this.

The jury's still out on the effectiveness of our cleanse project.  We have both sufficiently eliminated.  I'm hungry, but I must admit I'm craving a bowl of steamed vegetables... and beans sound good.  I thought I'd want a cheeseburger and a beer.  I was tired yesterday and today my energy level feels normal.  I'm leaving to run errands soon.

I took a photo of Chris with his laptop and his lemonade this morning.  He was in his pajamas and had a healthy, post-elimination glow.  He doesn't want me to share it.  Too much minutia, he says.