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?"