Fraidy in Waiting

Waiting is not my forte. Whether it is waiting for a baby to be born, a missionary to come home, or a football game to end, my obstetrician, a certain young man that served in South America, or my husband, can all provide corroborating testimony that in this regard, I lack even a glimpse of talent.

I believe it is because I dislike (am afraid of?) the unknown. Since the bulk of the future is unknown, the sooner it gets here, the way I see it, the better.

Today D3 and I found ourselves in one of those dreaded lingering situations. As she and I sat, I tried to console ourselves, "Waiting is no fun, huh?"

"What? No, Mom. I love it. I just like to sit here...in the quiet and the peace. It's fun."

Proof that she was switched at birth continues to grow.

Search and Eager

This morning, D3 was unable to find the Band-Aids®. Which is a shock because we have a gallon-sized Ziploc of 1,879 of the life-saving stickers.

I admit that the quantity of Band-Aids® in our home is enough to supply a small country for the remainder of 2011. But I can't help but buy more when they are on sale and I have a coupon that will be doubled at the cash register. These continued purchasing decisions of the minuscule patches are based on adrenaline and are irrespective of our overflowing home inventory. (Acknowledgment is the first step.)

My only real mistake was to organize them and place all 1,879 of them in a single bag. Because as of 8:43 this morning, the said bag is AWOL.

Undeterred, D3 came up with a search plan.

"We'll split up!" she ordered with the pointer on her right hand denoting east and the pointer on her left, directing west.

I couldn't help but crack a smile. D3 noticed.

"Mom, it works all the time on Scooby Doo," she assured.

Do You Adore Me? Because That Would be Super!

Most of my children are teenagers or are in the process of evolving into that species. In part this means they will no longer admit, despite my awesomeness, that I am the most amazing person they know. I don't necessarily need the verbal accolades, but some respect for the assistance I can provide them would be nice. For example, allowing me more than ten seconds to help them with their math homework before cutting me off mid-sentence and refusing to listen any further - that would be something new and fun to try.

So while giving birth to a tail-ender like D3 at the ripe old age of 37 was torture on my hip joints, it has since proved to be very good for the ego. Because D3 is still miles away from the dreaded teen-age years.

Yesterday, I was "helping" D3 clean her room. This means she picks up one toy for every 27 that I put away. I sent her to put a cup in the kitchen while I continued to work on the myriad of miniature Polly Pocket accessories, Barbie sandals, and Happy Meal toys. When she finally returned, her room had seemingly been transformed right before her eyes.

"Mom!" she shouted in amazement, "Are you some kind of superhero or something?"

Why yes! I am! Thank you for noticing.

It should be no wonder to her older siblings why I act like she's my favorite.

What Kind of Life?

Recently I had the pleasure of driving from Irvine, California to Orem, Utah.

D2 sat in the front seat and kept me company the entire way home. For the first 4 hours from Irvine to Las Vegas this meant non-stop chatter. At one point, she asked,

"Mom, do you ski with sticks or without?"

"Neither," I replied.

"What?" she asked. My little snow bunny was certain she had heard me incorrectly. Growing up in the state with unarguably the best snow on earth, she has been in countless snowboarding lessons and enjoyed many hours at a local ski resort.

I, however, was raised in Iowa. Although the Hawkeye state is known for many great things, powdery ski slopes is not one of them.

"Neither," I repeated. "I've never been skiing."

"Snowboarding?" she asked.

"No," I confirmed.

"No skiing either?" she double checked.

"No. No skiing. No snowboarding."

Shaking her head in disappointment, she sympathized,

"What kind of life have you lived?"

I Wan Fwen Fwies

When D3 was born I insisted that I was going to raise her as a vegetarian. For the first few months no one gave me much trouble, except in theory. I suppose it is possible that the lack of conflict was due to the fact that her life was sustained by milk alone for those first few months.

However, as she grew, we naturally starting adding solids to her diet. And the pressure from my family to let her decide whether or not to be a vegetarian for herself increased. I argued that I could raise her to smoke cigarettes too and when she is older, let her decide for herself if she wanted to be a smoker or not. That logic, to me seemed perfectly sane, and yet the reasoning escaped DH and my childrens' thought processes entirely.

When D3 was 1 year-old, DH "accidentally" fed her a chicken nugget. When I found out I was furious. However, with increased pressure, I soon relented and let them feed her animal flesh. Her diet has increasingly deteriorated from there.

However, I had not realized to what degree the deterioration had occurred until I went to fill a prescription at Rite Aid via the drive through. Or at least I attempted to fill the prescription.
D3 was settled comfortably in the back seat of the car, when we pull up in the covered drive-thru lane. I believe it was the shade for the overhead cover that first alerted her to something a little abnormal in our errand running afternoon. Then she heard me roll down the window as the outside traffic noise became more apparent.

"I wan fwen fwies!" she yelled.

"Hello?" the pharmacist asked.

"I wan fwen fwies!" she repeated.

"Hi," I began, "I'd like-"

"I wan fwen fwies!!"

"Sorry. I'm needing to-"

"I wan fwen fwies!!!"

"I came from the doctor's office and I have a -"

"Fwen fwies!!!!" "I wan fwen fwies!!!!"

"Um..." I briefly contemplated my limited options.

"I WAN FWEN FWIES!"

"You know what? I'll come back, in a few minutes-"

"FWEN FWIES! I WAN FWEN FWIES!!!!" She continued. All the way to McDonald's.

A Picture's Worth Three Words

One of my necklaces has a photo holder charm, inside of which I have a small picture of DH. The photo was taken on vacation, and with his relaxed face framed with an uncommon-for-him and slightly sexy goatee, the picture has become one of my favorites.

Tonight when I leaned over to zip D3's pajamas, she spotted the necklace and shouted in surprise,

"Is that Dad?"

"Yes," I confirmed, "Isn't he cute?"

"No!" she exclaimed while looking at me like I had just suggested she drive the car.

"I'm cute," she emphatically corrected.

Folks, it Doesn't Get Much Worse Than This

This afternoon my cell phone rang.

"Hello, Tonia!" I answered my neighbor's call energetically, after noticing the caller id.

"Mom, it's me, "D2 clarified.

"Why are you calling?" I asked.

"D3's ears are hurting her. I think it is because you never clean them and now they are all dirty inside."

"Ok, I'll come right home," I promised, as I began to wonder what my neighbor thinks about babies with dirty ears.

"And why are you calling me from Tonia's house anyway," I mistakenly inquired before she had a chance to hang up.

"You never paid our phone bill, so all our cell phones were shut off today," she shouted, although no one ever has any trouble hearing her at her normal volume.

"All right then. Thanks, Sweetie," I mumbled as I pushed the receiver closer to my ear hoping no one around me could hear her.

"So you're coming home? And you are going to look at D3's dirty ears?"

"Yes. Love."

"And you'll pay the phone bill and get our phones turned back on?" she repeated.

"Of course, Sweetie," I replied.

Then I listened to D2 hang up. I imagined my neighbor kindly smiling as D2 handed the borrowed phone (one with a paid-up bill) back to her and then I expect she gently walked D2 and her little sister with the dirty ears to the her front door, all the while full of pity for the neglected little ones.

Taken Out of ConTEXT?

Technology allows me to stay connected with my adorable children. Even when I don't really care to. I was about to clear my text messages on my cell and thought I'd share the following REAL, untouched examples of the tender messages my children have recently texted to me. Motherhood is so rewarding.

Hey ANSWER YOUR PHONE!

Mom i don't think i should be grounded just cause i didn't wash my hair...don't you agree...were you ever grounded cause you didn't wash your hair?

Mom my belly button hurts jessica said there could be an infection in there

I forgot to do my homework

(sent to me by D2, when she clearly meant to send it to her best friend)
do you wanna talk bout boys
Mom that was a joke
Ha lol
Mom it was a joke say something

(sent to me while I was two rooms away at bed time)
Mom (D1) has her light on and wont turn it off

(sent when a package arrived in the mail at Christmas time)
Mom my Ugg boots came Can I open them?

(sent after I failed to immediately respond to a text message)
See you dont care about my life do you well good nite person hoo does not care :(

Mom will you for once answer your phone

(sent to me after someone didn't like what I served for dinner)
Can i have 5 dollars and go get myself a chicken bowl

Of Mice and Men

We often remind our oldest, that our parenting skills are getting better and better with each child, thanks to all the mistakes we've made parenting him.

Family Councils, as we call them, are how we coordinate our family calendar. A few nights ago, we were discussing schedules for the children. When it became known that S1 was about to receive a privilege to drive himself to a special event, S2 started to grumble about the unfairness of the situation. He quickly stopped himself however, and in a sarcastic tone, unusual for him, he confessed,

"Oh, that's right. I forgot. You are the Golden Child."

S1, who is clear on a regular basis about his many hardships as the oldest child, corrected his little brother,

"You mean I'm the Lab Rat. Right?"

“We are so vain that we even care for the opinion of those we don't care for.” Marie Von Ebner-Eschenbach

DH and I (well, mostly DH) have dealt with our fair share of business disappointments and the ensuing legal woes these past couple years. Finding joy in my family and friends has helped me stay positive (at least for the most part) through all of this. In fact it is the reason I started this blog.

I never expected to find humor in the legal woes themselves. But if anyone can surprise me, it is DH.

One evening DH was on his cell phone when he walked in the front door from work. With a slightly louder and more high pitched tone than is normal, I immediately knew the nature of the call was not social.

"My opinion!?" he harshly asked the person on the other end of the phone.

"My opinion," he continued, in a slightly softer more satisfactory tone, "is whatever my attorney says it is."

Boogers Bug-her

While driving in the car, D3, buckled in her lounge recliner/car seat, suddenly shouted, "Mom!"

It is a little odd to me that someone so young calls me by that name. Even D2 and D1 still call my "Momma" and "Mommy". I am fairly certain that "Mom" is something your children call you when they become arrogant teenagers. Not when they turn two and start to talk.

Since I was driving and focused intently on the snowy winter roads, I ignored the salutation.

"Mom!" she shouted again - very distinctly. I continued to drive.

"Mom! she burst with even more gusto.

"What, Sweetie?" I finally replied.

"Here! Hold this for me," she demanded.

Musing to myself at her unusually mature speech, I briefly glanced over my shoulder to see what she needed to me hold. However, I declined taking the little "gem" she had pulled from inside her nose that was perched at the tip of her finger.

She Takes the Cake

This morning at breakfast, D2, our nine-year old, announced,

"I haven't had a birthday in years. But on my next birthday, I'm gonna be a double digit woman."

The Truth About Boys

Inside the cover of D2's journal she has defined the essence of the boy/girl relationship that causes mankind endless joy and woe:

Girls are clean and pritty
Smell Butiful
GOOD LOOKING

Boys are stinke

Spoiled Dinner

With an uncanny ability to speak with skills that would not normally be expected of a 28-month old, D3 often elicits chuckles as we hear ourselves in someone who is only 30 inches tall.

The other night D3 and I sat at the kitchen bar eating dinner. As she crawled up, down and around the eating area, I cautioned her that she needed to remain seated and hold still. But she continued to fidget, oblivious to my advice.

Eventually her fork fell off her plate and tumbled to the floor. With an animated look of surprise, she crawled off the edge of the counter and back onto her bar stool. There she perched on all fours and peered down to the floor from the rattan seat.

I sat in silence watching her think. Soon she looked up at me, shook her head, and distinctly confessed,

"That's not good."

She's Too Hot for Marriage

I have made a conscious effort from their infancy to brainwash D1 and D2 into believing that they should allow me, the one person in the world that has nothing but their best interest at heart, to plan their weddings. I make no secret about the fact that this would be an attempt to re-create my wedding day, but with better choices. And when I say, "plan their wedding", I mean everything. As in everything. From choosing the wedding dress to the paper mint cups, of course it will all be tasteful and perfect. Their young age does not temper the seriousness of my intent in this scheme.

For the most part D1 has accepted this enormous generosity as fact and has not questioned my motives. When she has begun to inquire, I have quickly reminded her that on her wedding day she is the Princess Bride. Once she makes the most important decision of all, on who will be her future husband, she should not have her mind cluttered with more choices. At this point in the conversation, D1 usually smiles faintly and lets the matter drop.

As D2 has gotten older however, her independent mind is becoming more apparent. And as such, she has become more of a problem in my planning-the-girls'-weddings conspiracy.

One evening D2 had gone to the Home Depot with me and, as usual, ran to the paint section to grab - er steal - as many paint chips as she felt she could - without me forcing her to carefully file them all back. On the way home, she picked two colored squares and placed them side by side. Shoving them in my face, she showed me what she called her "wedding colors." I gasped at the juicy orange and electric teal samples.

"Oh, Sweetheart," I lightly chuckled, trying to downplay the seriousness of the situation.

"You know that Mommy is going to pick your wedding colors."

D2 shook her head furiously and an argument ensued. D2 asserted her rights to plan her "own wedding" as I attempted to convince her this was something best left to her loving mother. I could tell I was losing the debate, but that failed to dissuade me from continuing the heated discussion.

Finally, D2 threw up her hands in frustration.

"It doesn't matter," she confessed, "since I'm never getting married anyway."

"What!" I shrieked.

"Of course you will!" I tried to assure her. And myself. I was not ready to let my visions of her gloriously planned wedding slip away so soon.

D2 was silent.

"Love, what would keep you from getting married?" I questioned hesitantly.

With fingers up by her head forming quotes in the air, she replied,

"Duh!"

And then with finger quotes curling, she continued slowly and distinctly,

"Global. Warming."

Give it To Me Straight: Snow Holds Barred

We've been enjoying a series of snowstorms the past few weeks. Before the onslaught began, my snow-loving D2 overheard DH talking in the kitchen.

"We are getting a snow storm tonight, another two days after that, and one more on the weekend." He explained.

D2 instantly ran out of her bedroom, down the hallway, into the kitchen, and slid her socks along the wood floor to come to a screeching halt right in front of her dad.

"Talk to me, weatherman!" she invited with a big grin.

"The Best Day of My Life"

Last night DH and the kids were playing around with the camera on DH's Apple Powerbook. This morning D2 said, "Last night - when we were playing with Daddy's computer - was the best day of my life."

In case you are wondering what the best day of an entire lifetime looks like, here are some photos:

Trash Talkin'

Marjory the Trash Heap

Wednesday afternoon D2 came home from her walk to Allens (think store-where-you-take -all-your-money-from-your-allowance-to buy-candy-and-dollar-toys). On my freshly washed kitchen counter she started to unload her treasures from the shopping spree. First she pulled out a couple foot long Tootsie Rolls, next came a Butterfinger bar, followed by a plastic package of fake money.

I was surprised to notice the plastic grocery sack was still not even close to empty. But not nearly surprised as I was to see what came out next: a flatten soda can, a piece of paper with tire marks, a balled up wad of wrapper, and a myriad of smaller pieces of litter. I stood in amazement at her collection, spread across my once clean kitchen counter. Before I could compliment her on picking up so much trash along her way home, she looked up at me and explained,

"My teacher says littering is the baddest thing you can do."

"The baddest?" I doubted, ignoring her grammar.

"Yep!"

"What about stealing? What does your teacher say about the Enron executives?" I asked.

"My teacher says littering makes our world ugly," she replied, completely ignoring my inquiry.

"And murder? How wrong does you teacher believe it is to take another life?"

"No one should ever litter. It's really bad."

"Perhaps the real questions is what is your teacher's opinion on the death penalty. Have you ever discussed capital punishment?" I questioned.

"Littering is the baddest thing you can do," she repeated, "We should never do it."

While D2's teacher seems to be a fine person, I'll be terrified if this woman ever becomes a Supreme Court Judge or heaven forbid a member of the legislature.

'Cause if I'm sent to the gallows for a receipt blowing out my car window...I'm gonna be ticked!

A Crystal Ball Just When You Need One

The other evening, D2 approached me alone in the kitchen and said, "Mom, there's something you should know: I'm from the future."

While I admit I'm not certain how these things work, I do recall giving birth to that child. Actually more so than any of the others, since the epidural was non functional. But maybe that is how kids from the future come to this world. How should I know? I know very little about time travel.

In fact, as I contemplated this shocking news I realized that I know very little about several things. Naturally, I want to ask D2 many questions, like how and when I'll die, if DH will ever make a couple million dollars, which stock purchase will net me a 235% return in one year, and how soon Marie Osmond will be voted off Dancing With the Stars.

But if she only gives me one question, I've already decided what it will be, "Who wins: Blu-ray or HD DVD?"

The rest of my life will come and go regardless, but I'm putting off too many DVD purchases to let this battle continue undecided.

Chivalric Burping

D2 was talking at the kitchen bar this afternoon and recited the following encounter:

"I was walking up the stairs while Hutch was walking down.

Just as he walked past me he burped.

I said, 'Eeeeew!'

And then Hutch said, 'Excuse me.'

Now there's a man that knows how to respect a woman!"