Teenage boys ...

I love my 14 year-old, Drew.  He's entertaining.  He see's the world through a lens of the immaturity of a 14 year-old boy sprinkled with adult sarcasm.  The two worlds don't always successfully merge, but when they do it's comedic magic.  Drew has one- liners he occasionally drops that are vastly innapropriate.  He lacks the finesse of adult maturity to drop these little bombs, but he's insistent they make total sense.  I have to bite the insides of my cheeks, often, to try and not fall into hysterical laughter.  The
"mom" in me will kick in thinking, "teach him he is totally inappropriate" while simultaneously being completely entertained by his humor.

Really? Gross.

You Go Girl ...

"She got caught up in a net sometime ago....with deep cuts all over her body she made it to the hotel . Some people at the hotel nursed her back to health for 3 months. Everyday she returns to rest after being out to sea. She is now pregnant and expecting within a month. Her name is Panchita..."

You go Panchita, you go girl.

Patiently waiting in Zion ...

If I said the words, "ward, stake, service project, relief society, young men's, young women's, and elders quorum" what comes to mind? When I was a little girl I heard the phrase, "never assume, it makes an ass of u an me."  I wish that little gem would have passed into the water here in Zion (aka Utah).  I grew up in Utah.  I was a kool aid drinking, culturally endoctrinated, true beleiving Mormon girl.  These words and phrases rolled off the tongue with understanding.  The group dynamic to which they attached themselves was the same of everyone else I knew.  That whole messy "assume" business never even entered my realm of thought.  I knew, I didn't assume, everyone was mormon in my world. I got married 17 years ago, in Utah, then I moved to Japan where everyone doesn't know what a ward is? WTH?!

This is the WHAT?

I'm a mom.  I have boys.  Four boys to be exact.  As the mom, I "get" to go on field trips until such time as my kids "age out" and I am no longer "cool" to have around, but rather a complete and total badge of adolescent shame.  The 14 year-old wants me as far away as humanly possible from his life and surroundings. The 9 year-old ... I'm still awesome.  With this much awesome screaming through my veins, I got a recent invite to the third grade Utah curriculum field trip to ... hold your breath ... "This is the Place Heritage Park, Utah". 

If you grew up in Utah the phrase, "this is the place" is as common as, "pass the salt".  From infancy, perhaps in utero, Utah children are raised to know the phrase, "this is the place" to embody the miracle that is all that surrounds them.  Utah, their home, the "bubble" of sorts wherein Diet Coke consumption is akin to a felony, and the inability to bake bread assures you will die a virgin. Despite it's wackadiddy persona, the landscape of Utah is beautiful.  However, any Utah child will tell you this beauty is only the result of an incredible amount of sacrifice at the hands of early Mormon pioneers ... who's mass exodus fleeing religious persecution had thousands of early settlers following the Mormon prophet, Brigham Young, across the wilderness into the unknown.  These early Mormon pioneers followed their prophet without really "knowing" what the end game was, as in "where" in the mid 1800's. 

After having endured an incredible amount of trial and tribulation crossing the plains, enduring the elements, staring down and succumbing to death, and any other number of other tragedies, the pioneers finally came into what we now call modern day Utah.  Brigham, it is said, looked down into the valley and uttered the phrase now a state park, "This is the Place ..."  The pioneers finally found their end game.   A lake full of salt, a valley that was a desert ... personally, I lack the faith. This is why God, in His wisdom, knew that placing me on the earth and requesting mass exodus, plural marriage, and living with sister wives was a very, very bad idea for ME.  Utah would not be here.  I would have organized a revolt.  "So, first I leave everything behind because you want me hauling a handcart across the plains, pregnant, THEN you think I'm jumping on board this whole plural wives situation with the end game being some wooden shanty resembling the crafty nest work of a pile of blue jays (think mud, hair, feathers, and craptastic) to raise my children, live with sister wives, and raise their 47 children as one?  No, Nada, not happening ... ladies?  Who's with me?"  And thereby history would be rewritten, the menfolk having left me and the feminine rebellion back east.

BUT, I grew up in Utah with all the visions of my sacrificing ancestry (yep, it's true, I, folks, am some version of Mormon royalty because my ancestry came rolling in with one of those first handcart companies), and the phrase "this is the place" representing all the faith, love, and present day beauty I grew to call home, Utah.  I left Utah 17 years ago, when I married.  I moved to Japan.  Japan was not "this is the place", nor was Washington D.C. the Azores Islands, Las Vegas, New Hampshire or Colorado.  It took 17 years to return to "this is the place", and come full circle with my third grader at a relatively new state park entitled, "this is the place." Hmmmm.

"This is the Place" ... think pioneer town.  People dress in period clothing, they ride horses, they talk (because I am sure they believe) like they are from pioneer town.  It's like a cheap Disneyland complete with characters.  There are places the kids can "experience" pioneer life.  Rub down clothes on a washboard, wack corn kernels with rocks and grind them into corn flour, (stay tuned), pan for gold, buy penny candy at

the "country stores". 

There are homes, buildings, etc. that have actually been MOVED from miles away and put back together on the site of this park land.  Homes of prophets, old homesteads (these are the tiny bird nests I refer to, mud, dirt, hair, craptastic) where families of 17 (not kidding) lived, sister wives and all.  It's "interesting" ... I love history ... I see it for the historic factor and try to ignore phrases like, "and this was Brigham Young's 19th wives' home ..." Block it out, Cortney, block it out, this is history.

School children who "field trip" at "this is the place" are divided by grade into particular aspects of the time period.  The third graders learn about "Indian heritage" (again, block it out, block it out, wack the corn, make the corn flour, imagine happy Indians giving up their land to the white man) in relationship to early settlers of Utah.  To begin, the day was cold. It was the end of April, the whole week was GORGEOUS and the ONE DAY that week we have the field trip some weird cold snap hits. I was in charge of 6 munchkins ... 3 of which apparently didn't get the "it's cold as hell" memo and wore no coats opting for flimsy t-shirts. 

I won the lottery and didn't have to ride the bus down to the park (an hour drive) opting for the comfortable and QUIET climate of a fellow mom's SUV. My luck ran out when we got there and I realized we would be "dining" on our sack lunches in the outdoor pavilion. Think large bird nest craptastic with wooden tables, a bone chilling breeze, kids with no coats, and one special whiner in MY group. 

First, a train ride.  A train ride that circled the park with our tour guide pointing out specific landmarks, "and here is our Indian village ... wave to the pioneers, kids!  And here is this person's house, and that one room home (it was not a home, it was a craptastic bird nest) had a family of 17 living in it!  4 wives, their children, and (whoever his name was)! (block it out, block it out ...)!"  I did find out there are trees on that place that grow 1 lb apples.  2 apples = 1 pie.  Gotta get me that tree. 

I also found out, sans stupid tour guide, that the giant statue in the park had three figures, Brigham Young (ok), Heber C. Kimball (okay, Mormon royalty, go on ...) and Abraham Lincoln (what, stop, slow down this train, repeat, WTF does Abraham Lincoln have to do with all of this, when was he President, why is he on this giant statue, this makes no sense at all!).  I spent the rest of the train ride imagining one lb apples and trying to make sense of the whole Abraham Lincoln situation (only to find out three days later it is NOT Abraham Lincoln, the tour guide was a moron).

Train ride over, my brain is spinning with this Lincoln situation, and TIME FOR LUNCH in the craptastic outdoor pavilion.  It was about 40 degrees, who wouldn't want a lovely outdoor lunch? The self appointed whiner of my group of 6 munchkins started to cry because she was "cold". Duh, I'd be cold to if I didn't have a coat.  Someone had loaned her one of their extra sweatshirts, she was still crying.  I had tried to gently talk her off the ledge earlier in the train ride, but now my brain had Lincoln and craptastic bird nests filled with families of 17 on the brain and I didn't have time for the whine.  So... I informed whiner of the following, "look, it's cold.  we're all cold.  I don't think we are at this is the place, I think we are in winter quarters (look up famous locale where massive devastation and lives were lost in that early pioneer pilgrimage across the nation to this is the place).  All that being the case, you have to stop crying ... (pause) ... stop it, now.  You are a girl.  One day you will be a woman.  It's a noted fact women are tougher than men, that's why women have the babies, men would die with the first hint of labor.  Be a girl.  Stop crying.  One day you'll have babies."  She stopped crying.  Tough love with a hefty dose of reality.  I wanted to tell her one day she might live with sister wives because she is from Utah County and who knows, she could be a polyglit and I didn't know it ... but that would just be wrong. We'll leave it with "stop crying, girls have babies, not boys."  I had to rinse and repeat that phrase about 47 more times with her that day.

After our delicious lunch was completed and frostbite was setting in, we were off scrambling up the hill to experience our first "Indian" adventure... wackacorn.  I call it wackacorn because that's what it was.  The pioneer woman, who was convinced she WAS a pioneer, divided the kids into groups, had them sit around flat rocks, surrounded by smaller rocks, and gave each group some dried corn kernels. She then told them they had to make, "corn flour".  How?  Wackacorn.  Wack the corn, rub the corn into the stone, wala, flour. 

I sat there watching the kids earnestly trying to make wackacorn work out into some corn flour something or another.  I was still wrestling with the whole Abraham Lincoln debacle, staring up the hill at Brigham Young's "19th wives house" wondering how that whole situation panned out, and I left all of this thought for a moment as I started a visual scan in my brain of making bread.  Yep, I can make bread.  I grew up in Utah, remember?  I didn't want to die a virgin, so I can make bread. But BREAD takes flour... block it out .. I can't block it out! It takes ALOT of flour. 

What was this "corn flour"?  After 10 minutes of wackacorn, my group had produced about a 1/4 ounce of flour.  Bread takes CUPS of flour.  My filter dissolved as I said to pioneer woman, "uh, doesn't bread take CUPS of flour, how long did it take the pioneers?" (In my head I am now frantically picturing my ancestry playing wackacorn for hours or possibly days on end to produce a cup of flour) She informed me the "corn flour" was to make a "mush" or "bread".  I pointed out my concerns that wackacorn seemed to be producing about 4 ounces of flour after 10 minutes and 30 kids involved.  She said, "oh no, see up there on the hill, that's the mill.  The pioneers would take their grain to the mill for flour, this is mostly only what the Indians did for flour."  Huh, well then. Crafty little pioneers.  Why were we playing wackacorn, haul that corn up to the mill for heaven's sake!

Next up ... we were going INSIDE.  Finally, my toes could regain feeling and my lips were regaining their pink from blue pallor.  It was a big building, a store of some sort I suppose.  I noted to one of my fellow mom chaperones considering 17 people lived in the one room craptastic bird houses, this building must have held at least 100 people.  We were escorted to the upper "loft".  As I got nearer to the top of the stairs I noticed animal pelts ...of every size, shape, and color ... gracing the walls and a giant clothesline of sorts.  Pioneer women, now dressed as pioneer sort of man woman sort of thing, started draping herself with assorted animal pelts and asking the kids about, "and what does this animal belong to?"  Uh, PETA would be spray painting that whole debacle, this was like a vegan horror show.

Pioneer sort of man woman continued to drape herself with furs and I sat there quite uncomfortable. Meat comes from a store, in a package.  It never roamed, it never clucked, it never moo'd, or whinnied.  This is how my reality town works.  This was gross.  But we were just getting started ... In a sing song voice reminiscent of my childhood days of primary/Sunday school, the PWMP (pioneer women man person) asked the kids. "Who killed the animals?"  The kids squealed, "the MEN!" "That's right boys and girls, and who brought the animals back home?" "The MEN!!"  "Well, actually, often times the men would kill the animal and then come home and tell the women where the animal was.  Then it was the women's responsibility to go out, retrieve the animal, and bring it back to camp."  WTF?!  Are you kidding me.  I whispered to the mom next to me, "and what, give birth on the way out to bringing the animal back to camp?  Are you kidding me?"  She agreed.  This was not how we imagined this whole situation.

"So, boys and girls, what would pioneers do with the animal?"  "Eat it!"  (sick)  "That's right, they would eat the meat, and what would they do with the rest of the animal?"  Stunned silence.  It was then that PWMP pulled a piece of animal skin leather looking something or another from her clothesline of carnage.  "This is an animal skin, see how soft it is ... but this took a long time to get this (as she draped herself with another poor, humiliated animal skin) into this (draped herself with the leather skin thing)."  It was then that PWMP began explaining the process of making an animal into wearable whatever.

"First, boys and girls, pioneers made really nice baskets. (What the hell does this have to do with the animals draped over your shoulders?)  They learned from the Indians to line the baskets with tree sap so they were water proof (wrap it up lady, where is this all going?).  This was important because the pioneer women needed to remove the fur from the skin (and we're off).  They would take the animal, scrape out the meat, then put it into these baskets and submerse it into the river or lake."  Um, okay.  "After a day, they discovered that part of the hair was missing from the animal skin, so they thought, let's give it two days ... and then even MORE fur was gone from the skin, so they thought, let's give it three days."  Uh, sick.  "The problem, boys and girls, is that after three days it started to smell.  So they took it out of the water and used the bones from the animals to scratch off the remaining hair."  Sick.

"Now, boys and girls, the problem was ..." she gathered more visual aids from the clothesline of carnage, "the skin is still not like this skin (she rubbed said animal skin on her face caressing it, puking a little in my mouth now) ... it was tough and you can't make clothes with this.  But the pioneers learned ..."  If you have a weak stomach, take a tums, pepto, or pepcid before reading on. " ... from the Indians, it takes the brain (points to her head) of the size (makes a motion of size with her hands) to tan the skin (rubs the back of her hand)."  PWMP then tells the kids to rub the backs of their chubby little hands.  "See, this is skin, it's soft, it wouldn't make very good fabric would it because it is filled with bones and flesh?"  WTH?  Are you kidding me?  Have we just entered the lair of Silence of the Lambs?

The kids all dutifully rubbed the back of their hands. I was slack jawed staring at the kids, 8 and 9 year-olds mind you, preparing myself for her next imparting of wisdom.  "So say it with me boys and girls ... it takes a brain, the size of the animal, to tan the skin."  This phrase was said three times, accompanied with hand gestures I can only imagine from the book of American Sign Carnage Language.  "How big is the brain of a mouse?" (Drapes herself with a mouse fur.) "How big is the brain of a buffalo?!" (Points out the buffalo skin draping the stairs.)  "To get the skin soft the pioneers would take the brain of the animal, grind it in a bowl (she makes grinding motion), and rub it into the skin of the animal.  This was the women's job (of course it was, man kills, you retrieve, remove the fur, now women are grinding the brains into the skin, of course) to do.  But the brains were very stinky (uh, now we're using a third grade word, stinky?) so they would grind them into the skin, fold up the skin, and bury it in the dirt so it would stop smelling." 

Let's review.  Man kills animal and comes back to the homestead.  "Woman, I killed an animal, it's 40 paces out, go get it."  Woman, "okay."  Women then skins it, cleans it, de-furs it, grinds it's brains, rubs it's brains into it, buries it in the dirt.  You with me?  You puking yet?  You a vegan yet?  I'm considering complete veganism at this point.  I looked at the mom next to me and she whispered, "I could have gone my whole life and not known this."  I whispered back, "just get through it, this can't be much longer."  PWMP then detailed out the "final" process. 

After a YEAR, not a typo, a YEAR, remove the nasty smelly mess from the ground.  Clean it.  Is it cloth yet?  Nope.  It's at this point it's still "not flexible".  PWMP explained to the kids the skin had to be "worked" to become pliable.  If they were Eskimos, she explained, the women Eskimos would then put this filthy mess in their mouth and chew it into submission and pliability thus explaining the national geographic photos of elderly Eskimo women with nubby stubs where teeth had been.  All that skin chewing takes a toll on the teeth.  Sick.

BUT, the pioneers were a sophisticated crew (I am now thinking about my leather couch at home and picturing a bunch of Eskimo women chewing into it and rethinking my whole sofa purchase) and they found a way to sharpen a tree stub, wash, dry, wash, dry, rub into the tree stump, rinse, repeat, repeat, repeat, repeat ... and wala.  PWMP then grabs the finished "soft" skin from her clothesline of carnage, caresses her cheek with it, holds it up and declares, "this will make a nice pair of pants!"  AUGH!!!!!!

PWMP then explained what skin was formerly attached to which "native Utah" animals from her clothesline of carnage.  We then played a resounding game of "name that animal skin" (ugh, can this be over now?).  She let the kids touch the skins, she draped herself a few more times with each skin, then pulled out the finale ... the wolf.

"Boys and girls, do you know what this is?"  There were a few guesses until one of them hollered "a WOLF!"  "That's right boys and girls, a wolf.  Do you know wolves would follow the pioneers closely as they were coming across the plains to Utah (wait for it ...) because if you were sick, elderly, or unable to keep up with the wagon party the wolves, who travel in packs, would eat you.  They also would stay close to the wagon parties because many people died on the trek west and when the pioneers would bury the bodies the wolves would wait for them to leave and unbury the body and eat it."  I sat there in utter horror staring around the room surrounded by third graders.  Was she kidding me?  Are you kidding me PWMP?  The mom next to me was now questionably toying with the idea of a weekender trip to the local psych ward to ward off what we had just heard.  The kids ... they didn't skip a beat as she passed old Wolfy skin around and let them all caress the former relative of a bygone past that most likely ate or disturbed their ancestry.  Sick.

I tried to fill my brain with other things.  Soon it was crowded back with the old Abraham Lincoln question, the 19th wife, the craptastic bird sheds holding 17 people, wackacorn, it was all to much.  Fortunately the day was almost complete.  The kids had a great time, whiner continued and I gave her a hearty, "stop it, women have the babies, be a girl" before escorting her and my 5 other little charges onto the bus.  I left "This is the Place" confused, perhaps traumatized, definitely considering a vegan existence free of corn in any form.  I'm sticking to Mickey Mouse for future park visits of any kind.

Soccer WHAT?!

Coach,

You have been selected to coach in the Pre-Kindergarten league for Saratoga Springs, Spring Soccer League.

We will be having a mandatory coaches meeting on April 5th at 7pm at the City Offices.  We will be going over rules, roster, schedules, handing out equipment and jerseys.

Please reply to this e-mail if you CANNOT attend, otherwise I will assume you will be there.  

Thank you

Recreation Director

Discussion:  Last week in my e-mail "inbox".  Let's backtrack.  I signed Caden, (the questionably sane mean as hell 4 year-old child) up for soccer so he could learn to "play well with others" before he starts preschool in the fall. I'm "concerned" he'll get the boot from preschool for his lack of "social prowess", if you will.  HOWEVER, when signing him up for soccer I obviously assumed FAR TO MUCH of my fellow Saratogoan Springs, Utah parents. Like, they would CHECK THE BOX!

It started with a box. There was a box you could "check" on the online form if you were interested in "helping coach".  I checked said box with this thought in mind, "he's my third kid, I've parented 4 year-olds two times before him, parents are predictably still super involved with their kids sports endeavors at this age praying for an athlete and some parent out there really loves soccer (gross) and wants to teach their "love of the game" to the next generation (sick) and they have been waiting all season long for their coaching debut to begin! I am for sure in "safe zone" checking this box as being assigned as designated snack mom.  I can do snacks, I can organize parents and parties, I cannot coach soccer. 

I suffer from what I think could probably pretty easily be diagnosed with little effort as a sort of PTSD (post traumatic stress syndrome) from playing assorted sports as a child.  I was the first in the line up of four.  My parents just did what every other parent does and follows the rest of the lemmings.  This little lemming had to play soccer... and dodge freaking ball (the dumbest sport on the planet) with girls who's mommies didn't teach them that ladies don't throw the damn dodgeball so hard it renders other kids knocked on their ass as their feet fly out from underneath them just before the teacher blows their well meaning (albeit LATE!) whistle and screams, "Brittney, you are only allowed to throw with your LEFT hand!" Seriously, Brittney, you know who you are, and baby Jesus did not approve then or now.  Dislike.

The freakishly large man paws and obvious overly testosteroned "Brittneys" of my childhood world made sports impossible.  My mom thought since I was obviously a girl, perhaps I should be raised a lady?  Ladies do not charge balls or each other and they sure as hell don't get physical with the whole mess.  They do not grunt or huff or spit and knocking the BOYS feet out from underneath them during dodgeball is NOT going to get you to the prom anytime soon. This logic worked perfect in my world because I feared a) aggressive physical contact with questionable man children posing as lady children b) being hit by the ball. 

Soccer ... rush the ball, kick the hell out of each other, rinse, repeat.  Not okay.  Stupid.  My first soccer game?  I was THRILLED to score a goal ... for the other team.  It did seem a little to easy tottling down the field kicking away that ball with little or no defense getting in my way but rather keeping my own team away from me. I still, to this day, get a visible chill up my spine when we drive past "Shady Lane Park" when I go home to visit.  Why did my mom allow me to continue to play past year 2 of "most improved player" in a row?  It is literally translated, "you SUCK, but we have to give you something and it sure as hell isn't MVP ... soooo you didn't kick a goal for the other team this season, IMPROVED!"  Why did I have to reach adulthood, albeit parenthood to realize my parents collosal mistake in making me compete against Brittneys would later cause PTSD? Obviously, I still have a few issues to work through.

I have coached basketball, loved it (that game makes some sense to me).  Loved watching my son make his first basket, and admittedly even felt a testosterone Brittney moment or two even when the basketball team was so young they literally didn't keep score and "everyone was a winner" (um, my team actually won, they were not most improved players, they won, I kept score in my head).  I checked the soccer coach box for oranges.  I will do my part to prevent scuurvy (apparently a scourge of the soccer world because that can be the only reason for this universal orange wedge phenomenon gracing all soccer fields from 50 thousand years ago when I played until present day) and bring orange wedges.  I will cut orange wedges until I am orange because I know there is a kid on that team who hates soccer and hates being there and only looks forward to orange wedges. 

I checked the box ASSUMING far to much and now am left with ... facing my demons on a field of oranges.  I don't even know the rules, my kid is questionably borderline (look it up in the DSM IV), and I will not be able to reign him in and might forget to benadryl him (of course, I'm kidding, sort of) because I am trying to remember what the hell a corner kick is for or why a full back is a full back (I loved being full back, it meant by my teams goal, fully back, AWAY from the opposing team lest I get kicked in the head or with the soccer ball) and why it's important everyone doesn't mob the ball. 

Jon knows soccer.  He refuses to coach, but if I am just inept enough I think he might step in.  Way to go little town ... now we all suffer.  Seriously, CHECK THE BOX!

Speaking of today ...

It's 8:28.  A year ago today I was sitting in a labor and delivery recovery room in Denver, Colorado holding a 7lb 6oz bundle of blue.  The end of the train ... the fourth blue bundle to come to our family.  To say I was exhausted after the marathon 20+ hours to his delivery would be an understatement.  To say I was grateful would be ignorant.  Gratitude does no even encompass the feelings I felt this day a year ago as I stared into the blue eyes of this little person I knew I would die for but I had only met moments ago.  Maternal instinct is real ... if it could be bottled, there would be world peace, I'm sure of it.  Everyone had/has a mom, and if the sheer realization in a bottle of maternal instinct being unleashed on another was part of the equation we'd all get along ... because at the end of the day do you really want to face down the snarling gnarl of a mom who's kissed the tears away from her kid who YOU put into said hysterics?  I rest my case.

I walked into the nursery this morning and stared at my bundle ... now a grinning toddler.  He rolled in his crib, put his butt in the air, rubbed his eyes, and shot me a toothy little grin.  This moment .... is heaven.  I spent the day wishing each moment would continue and my kids would stop growing and life would stop running.  There are days I wish would come to a close the moment they begin.  The days you wake up to a kid saying they don't  ... and before they finish the sentence you are cleaning up puke sort of days. Today was not one of those days.  Today was a day for savoring life and the moment I was in and for being grateful.

I see my children, from ages 14 down to now 1, and I wonder where the time goes. My grandmother asked me today if I thought I was more relaxed with this last child than my others?  I told her I think everyone gets more relaxed with successive children ... but that is sort of a sad commentary on life if you think about it?  There are many different kinds of moms, but there isn't a single mom that sets out thinking they want to be a bad mom.  So where do we get that we aren't the best mom? 

I'm getting older ... my siblings have been asking me for years if I am 40 now so it's just become an accepted family fact that I am and have been 40 since I turned 33. I'm at the "people are talking about the 20 year high school reunion this summer" age.  I have a sister in the "people talking about the 10 year high school reunion" age.  She and I had a conversation a few weeks ago about being a mom. Despite the age difference, my uterus apparently can't tell time so we share children the same age.  She has the luxury of youth and can still pull off wearing trendy clothes.  I have the luxury of questioning if a person my age wears THAT if they look like they are just trying to hard or if they wear THAT they look like they are victims to a salesperson who told them the dress looked, "super cute!". 

So, in my questionably trendy apparel she and I chatted over meatballs at Ikea about motherhood. As I sat there juggling my two kids, and she juggled her two kids, I realized the ease with which I shrugged off things.  So my 4 year-old wanted a giant slab of chocolate cake for lunch?  Yep, guess that's what he was having for lunch.  10 years ago, my now 14 year old, no way.  I would be shoving chicken nuggets down his gullet battling for the prize of mommy knows best as he kicked and screamed.  Why?!  It has finally come to me ... it's not that I stopped caring about my kids, I love them dearly, I stopped caring about what other people thought about me as a mom and more about what my boys thought of me as THEIR mom. These little creatures are my jury on motherhood and hopefully we will have a relationship that endures from toddlerhood through puberty to still liking each other. 

I shared my sage wisdom with my sister.  We, the sisterhood of motherhood, screw each other over (sorry, there really isn't another analogy befitting here) repeatedly trying to best one another at motherhood.  We set the bar at a completely unreachable level and dare one another to try and ascend.  We don't verbalize we're doing this, but we do it every day. For whatever reason we take our children and put them out as our badges of merit as women.  We forgot that we are supposed to help each other because we got lost in outdoing each other.  And for whatever reason ... God and I will chat about this one day ... we as women don't start to "get it" until our kids are having kids and we tell them to not make the same mistakes we did.  I'm cracking this code early and refusing to wait until I am begging for grandchildren. 

Moms ... ladies ... relax.  We should give one another time and space to let our kids eat chocolate cake for lunch and not judge their parenting skills.  We should go to the store in our cookie monster pajama pants with our kids faces still wearing the leftover peanut butter and jelly from breakfast because that's what they wanted even when eggs and toast are the normal choice and we were to tired to fight that battle or the one after breakfast about wiping their chubby face.  We should high five each other in the aisles that we even had the good sense to put on a baseball hat with our cookie monster pajama pants that was at least in the same color family so we look like we tried! 

We should not stare and leer at the mom trying to get her screaming toddler to get off the ground at the store ... we should step in and say, "sister, no worries, all of mine  had a complete meltdown at this very store and have rolled on the ground at this very spot on more than one occasion!"  I had a friend who told me she actually packed a wooden spoon in her purse that her kids KNEW about as a form of sheer anti terrorist prevention from them acting up at the store.  The existence of that spoon meant they kept it together.  Do you think this friend was a 20 something mom?  Hell no she wasn't!  She was a late 30 something mom who was so tired she resorted to the spoon and threat technique and then TOLD people about it.  Sister, give it a high five.  They should hand out spoons at the door of every walmart to every mother. 

I live in a county, in a state, that happens to have the nation's highest prescription drug abuse problem.  I don't live in a ghetto, or an economically deprived area.  I live in an upscale fervently religious suburb, nobody wears cookie monster pajama pants to the grocery store, people go to church every sunday, and children are shined and sparkle like new pennies before they leave the house every day.  Of course, when the door closes, the nationally reported data is screaming out the reality that mommy puts on her size 2 jeans and does a snort of meth because it keeps her thin and peppy and able to accomplish the unsurmountable task of simply keeping up appearances. Prescription drug abuse?  Check.  Drug of choice?  Meth. Check.  Users?  Housewives. Check.  Sadly, it's a fact, it's written down, it's reported, people know, words out, and the spiral continues because there is no way to keep up with unrealistic fantasies of perfection.

For whatever reason, speaking about today, I saw things different.  Maybe it was the realization that I was never going to be bringing a newborn home again and that I needed to take each moment of every day with each of my boys and cherish it as time was fleeting.  Maybe I am just a little older, maybe all that talk about 20 year high school reunions has me thinking about the past and the future.  I ended today with some sobering news.  My friend has cancer.  She is a mother but has never had children of her own.  She may live to 50, she may not see 40.  Cancer doesn't really care about your expectations of life. 

Speaking of today ... we can't slow down time, the world will continue to spin at an eternally dizzying rate.  Technology will force us to bow down to it's excess and expectations of immediate reward.  But maybe, just maybe, that maternal instinct can be bottled just a little bit at a time and offered out to one another ... mommies united.  I have to believe that God in His wisdom granted women the maternal instinct to nurture not only our young but one another.  It is only a mother who can change the current of a roaring tide to shield her young from the stormy sea.  Women need not have children biologically thrust from their loins to be called mother, we are all mothers, and we all need one another to justify our efforts in meeting what we know our creator has in mind for each of our individual paths. 

We cannot slow time, but we can enjoy the time we are given and the lives to which we are entrusted ... and we as women can allow this time to be one of amazing joy rather than guilty nonsense of not being enough.  We are enough.  We are flawed, but a power greater than we will ever understand continues to send flawed creatures perfect miracles.  I have to believe that means womanhood, sisterhood, whatever we may want to call it, worthy of a high five in the cookie monster pajama pants. Amen.

Kitty and Emerchin, Frenemies

In my last post I said, " ... when I had each of my children I gained another blessing.  As they age, I lose a little more pride ... daily.  I think all new moms need to learn the following phrase: "Who do you belong to?  Where's your Mommy?"  I use this phrase in stores when my children act like they need and have not taken their medication. I'm not claiming that mess.

It's no secret that my children act like little fools 98% of their lives.  I don't blame them for their behaviors ... they are male children and I am firmly convinced (I can say this, these are MY male children) that there MUST be a chromosomal abnormality science has not yet revealed to the general public that deems all males incapable of reasonable thought process.  Hand a boy a hammer and he'll hit whatever is closest to him ... a person, a rock, a frozen giant Costco size container full of Hawaiian punch (yep, my boys have done that). 

Hand a girl a hammer and she'll look at you, reason for a moment in her mind, look around for WHY you gave her the hammer, realize there isn't a nail in sight, and hand it back to you and say, "why did you give me this hammer?"  Working versus non working chromosomes of reasoning ability.

Occasionally I get the foolish notion that I can test this chromosomal abnormality and its limits and I take my children into public.  Given my obvious lack of attention in health class, and Jon's irrational fear of the vasectomy, I find myself now almost 38 years old with a 3 year-old and 11 month old in tow.  By Utah standards I am a) waaaaaaay to old to have children that young this old b) behind the curve because by 38 I should be standing in the wedding line at my children's wedding or celebrating the birth of my grandchildren c) they are two of four children ... by 25 I should have had at least 5 to call my own. 

I didn't live in Utah when my babies made their appearance.  The first three are spaced a nice even 5-6 years apart.  It gave me time.  Time for amnesia to set in about the abnormally large 16" head circumferences I had to deliver, time for me to gather myself together to act like I had a clue how to parent, and time to have one or multiple children at school and only ever have one at home with me the way God intended.  God is laughing now.  Not so funny.

My sister recently moved to Utah County (silly, silly sister).  We decided to take her two under three kids and my two under three kids to lunch and shopping last week. It was a moment of weakness, there were crepes mentioned for lunch, what could I do, it was crepes!  After a morning of strategic planning rivaling that of a the best planned military mission, I managed to get myself and the two kids out the door on time with only one of them screaming ... the three year-old.  But at least when he screams I know EXACTLY what he's calling me.

We picked up Kati and her two kids and we were off.  The crepes for lunch ... not exactly as planned (sort of okay compared to what I had imagined in my mind for weeks prior!).  But on the way TO the crepe lunch, we passed some of our favorite places.  "Kate, look, Ross, TJ Max, Pier One ... " the stores were endless and I had not been "shopping" in forever.  We suggested to Emerson (age 2) and Caden (3) that we should go to some "stores".  They agreed, awesome.

The rest of the day is sort of a blur.  It started in Ross ... Kati and I were lured into a sense of security with those two little monsters until suddenly we hear a "wack", "smack", and blood curdling scream.  Emerson and Caden share a love hate relationship.  They are besties for the first few moments of their time together ... then they are frenemies ... then they beat the hell out of each other.  Gratefully the days of "mine!" have not been heard in awhile ... they've been replaced with violence.

Caden usually screams, Emerson pouts.  My kid is louder, of course.  The day ended with store #2 (no way these two were making a store #3).  I bribed them both with a stop at the "Krispy Kreme" for "boys who behave".  They were "manageable" and the meltdowns were minimal.  Of course, I did have to bust out with the, "who do you belong to little boys" phrase when they started acting foolish at store #2.  Out of the corner of my eye I saw some women looking at me all disconcerted as if they were really two errant lost acting like little fools children.  Her disconcert was replaced with a "get me the hell out of here before I have to get involved with those two monsters" dead sprint the other direction as they started running the aisles.  Rookie.

We made it to Krispy Kreme ... thank goodness for the drive through so Kati and I didn't have to yet again place on display our athletic prowess strapping in each of the four children into the seperate car seats in the Expedition to exit and enter the vehicle.  However, as luck would have it, the two special chromosomal lacking male children with no reasoning skills in the BACK of the LAST seat of the Expedition decided they needed to take off said car seat belts as we pulled into the drive through.  Apparently they needed to have full body language capabilities to place, excuse me, scream their donut order. 

Kati said, "what, what? get your seat belts on!" I noticed there was about 2 cars ahead of us in the drive thru lane so I jumped out of the drivers seat to get into the back, back, back of the Expedition and strap both their happy butts back into the car seats.  By this point Caden had reached full meltdown potential, Emerson was pouting and also reaching meltdown, and I couldn't get their stupid car seats attached to save my life.  All I could mutter was, "please, please, I pray they have Vodka in their donuts." Kati giggled, but I seriously thought Vodka in a donut was genius for this sort of situation.

We placed our order, and waited ... and waited ... and waited for an abnormally long period of time.  Apparently Krispy Kreme didn't get the, "don't make the mom with the 47 children screaming wait in the drive thru lane longer than 3.5 seconds when donuts are involved ... madness will incite."  Madness did incite.  I didn't catch the beginning of the argument, but I saw in the rearview mirror Emerson and fists of fury flying Caden's direction.  Caden started screaming and slapping back.  Honestly.  At least throw a punch at each other you ninnies!

Kati and I tried our best to ignore them, until Caden screamed out, "Moooooooom, tell Emerson to ..." I cut him off and said, "Caden, we'll let the police handle this situation."  I know, it makes no sense, but it also makes no sense that a Krispy Kreme in Utah County where desperate meth snorting housewives driving 15 passenger mini vans filled with sister wives and hollering polyglyt children don't sell Vodka donuts! 

Kati started snickering, then we both fell into hysterical laughter when Caden screamed, "call the police right now and tell them to take Emerchin to JAILLLLLL!!!!!"  Kati told Caden she was calling "whine-1-1-" right away!  Then the babies started to get persnickety ... the donut lady (sans the Vodka donuts, losers) finally gave me my goods (aka donuts, NOT HOT, again, losers) and then came the situation of "how" to get the donuts back to the back, back, back of the Expedition without one of us having to crawl back there.  I grabbed the bag from Kati, filled it with two donuts, and said, "flick it with your wrist like this" and with the grace and agility reserved only for an olympic event threw said bag containing two donuts to the back, back, back seat ... only to successfully wack Caden in the head inciting screams (since he had lost all reason at this point and was still suggesting, rather demanding, his 2 year-old cousin be taken to jail immediately for questioning!). 

Kati managed to talk him off the ledge as he opened the donut package ... but she made the fatal error of saying, "Caden, okay, give Emerson one donut and you have one donut."  Emerson was starting to tear up and I heard a whimper.  Even HE knew this request had about a 1% chance of success.  Caden started to lose it again ... so Kati excercised her best donut hostage negotiation skills promising Caden we had MORE donuts if he would just give Emerson one of the two donuts in the bag.  Caden complied ... donut coma was soon to follow with all four children, all was well.

Moral:  Listen in health class, space your children at least 5 years apart, never take male children shopping even if they act like they will behave, they are genetically incapable, Krispy Kreme needs to look into Vodka donuts.