Cooking Up a Brainstorm

Mothering involves a tremendous knowledge of a variety subjects. Today it was cooking. Probably because D3 was feeling hungry.

"What do you make when you mix fruit snacks, ice cream and cucumbers?" she asked.

"Funny Salad," I answered, hoping that didn't sound tasty enough for her to want to actually make it.

"Hmmmmm. What do you make when you mix bananas, Krabby Patties and popcorn?" D3 ventured.

"Sweet Krabby Pattie Pop" I quickly replied, feeling pretty proud of that response.

"Oh," D3 said, dejected. "I'm trying to make soup, but I guess I'm just not a good cooker."

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?"

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It's OK. I'll Sleep Later. When I'm Dead.

It's 9 o'clock on a Sunday morning, but for some reason feels like 8 AM. I'm fairly certain I have no one to blame except Benjamin Franklin and his not-so-forward thinking invention of Daylight Savings Time. If only he had stopped at the lightening rod and bifocals. He obviously never had to plan a conference call while sitting at a desk in Utah. For a caller in Boston. That will be calling people in India and Singapore. Sending the appointment on a Friday. For a meeting that will be held on a Tuesday. After Daylight Savings Time happens on that Sunday. But they pay me the Big Bucks to help people figure out stuff like that. Unfortunately, no one pays me Big Bucks to get out of bed on a Sunday morning, especially when church isn't until 1 PM.

However, if I sound overly cranky it has less to do with my confused body clock and more to do with the noises in my home. Right now, someone is vacuuming the family room. You heard me correctly. Someone is VACUUMING. You see, NO ONE vacuums unasked in this house. It only happens after they receive a threat of no friends, no television, no video games, or no FOOD. Usually the threat includes all the above before any manual vacuuming labor is actually performed.

Early (extra-early) on this particular Sunday morning, I have made no such threats - I'm not even out of bed yet.

And that begs the question: "Do I get out of bed and go see what kind of late Saturday night after-mom-and-dad-fell-asleep-from-exhaustion disaster someone is trying to cover up?"

Or is it simply best not to know?