True Love

I've been a mom for fifteen years as of yesterday. I have four kids. What does all this amount to? A lot of puke.

Vomit, throw-up, puke - whatever you want to call it, I have spent the best years of my life dealing with it. It's been everywhere. Beds, cars, new carpet, right next to the toilet (a personal fav), on my person, and on my children. And, like mothers everywhere, I have done my duty. I have choked down the gag reflex, pushed through the smell (oh, the smell!), and cleaned up mess after mess. (I'd throw in 'without complaint' here, but I do strive for honesty...)

Have you ever noticed that each kid has their own puking personality? My youngest, for instance, is of the silent-but-violent variety. One minute she's sitting there peacefully, and the next - well, you get the picture. And the worst part? Even when she's actually throwing up there's no sound. You know that pre-puke cough that can wake any mother from a dead sleep? The one that has you on the run before your conscious brain has even registered what's going on? Ya. No pre-puke cough for number four. After years of dealing with the no-warning aftermath, I've decided that God gave kids that cough for a reason, and any time I feel like he doesn't love mothers I immediately think of the pre-puke cough that has saved me from so many vomit-disasters, and know that I am loved.

I bring all of this up because my children are getting older. They no longer vomit on their way to tell me they might need to vomit, because they're now all smart enough to head straight for the toilet. I can't even remember the last time I had to deal in puke, and I am so, so, grateful.

And then last night happened.

It was C, my ten-year-old. He got sick. He had pains. He wasn't sure which end would be affected, so I gave him a bowl and sent him to the bathroom. He threw up, assured me it was just a little, and looked so much better that I was sure the crisis had passed and gave him the following instructions: dump the bowl into the toilet and then put it in the laundry room sink. I told him I'd take care of it when I was done doing whatever very-important thing I was doing.

Then he threw up again.

The good news? He was self-sufficient enough to go fetch his bowl from the sink in time to make it back to the toilet (he required coverage on both ends.) (Is that too much information? Sorry...). The other good news? He was so self-sufficient that he didn't even tell me he'd thrown up again until after he'd taken care of things.

Now for the bad news: He forgot the order of operations for puke clean-up.

In his defense, he knew there was a problem as soon as the contents of the bowl filled the bottom of the sink and failed to go down the drain... That's right, people, instead of dumping into the toilet and rinsing in the sink, he went straight for the sink. Which had other stuff in it. Stuff that was now floating around in the usual flotsam that happens when a ten-year-old loses the contents of his stomach. And you know what? I couldn't do it.

Maybe it's been too long, maybe there's just been too much vomit in my life, but for whatever reason, I looked in that sink and knew that I didn't have it in me to clean it up. I didn't even know this could happen to someone who had suffered through the pains of labor and child-raising, but apparently it's possible to hit a wall - the Puke Wall, we'll call it. The wall which stands as an impenetrable barrier between a mother and her ability to clean up puke.

This is where the true love comes in.

My husband was innocently sitting in the family room, watching a movie and minding his own business. I looked at him, felt a brief, fleeting moment of guilt, successfully suppressed it, and proclaimed the following:

me: Honey? I've been cleaning up puke for fifteen years. I can't do it anymore, so this one is on you.

him: (brief moment of silent staring as if he's not quite sure he understands the language I'm speaking, and then, miraculously,) Okay.

He said okay. Not only that, but unlike the 'Okay,' that really means, 'Sure I will...eventually...if you don't get to it first because you can't stand waiting for me to take care of it,' this was the real thing. In other words, it was accompanied by action, and he immediately got up from the couch and took care of the sink.

And when he was done he even shrugged off my thanks as if it hadn't been a big deal. As if. This was the singular most big-dealish thing any husband that I know of has done for his wife in a long, long, long time. I mean, technically, I found the puke, I was over-seeing the 'process', so I should have been on duty for clean up. Right?

But he did it. Immediately and without complaint. This is True Love at it's greatest, and to every woman who will someday hit the Puke Wall, may your husband also show such unconditional True Love, and save you from one puke too many.

To Wave or Not to Wave?

My kids very possibly have the nicest bus driver in the history of the world. When I went into the 1st grade and started riding the bus my bus driver's name was Mrs. Horn. The name was fitting, and I was terrified of her. You know the bad guys' 'Mama' from Goonies? Well, she wasn't quite that bad, but to my already-terrified-and-anxiety-ridden self she might has well have been. She was not warm and fuzzy, she didn't smile and learn your name, she certainly didn't hand out candy every Friday, and I'm not actually positive that her name wasn't granted to her because of her very loud, very commanding voice.

(Now that I think about it, I may have my older brother and his friend to thank for Mrs. Horn's presence on our route. They were not good bus passengers. For instance, there was some song {Van Halen maybe???} in the '80's that started with the sound of a train whistle. Well, remember the boom box? My brother and his friend had one, and they decided that it would be an awesome idea to cue the tape, turn up the volume, and hit play just as the bus was passing over the railroad tracks...)

(I think that may have been the last time they rode the bus in their high school careers, but they still claim that it was worth it.)

Anyhow, Mindy is not Mrs. Horn. She gives candy. She smiles. She ALWAYS pulls over when there is a car coming from either direction. (Seriously, I've been completely spoiled, and I now have no patience for driving behind a school bus. I can also always tell when she has a sub because apparently she is the only pull-over-and-let-the-cars-pass bus driver in the world.) And despite pulling over she always gets my kids to school on time. And she always waves.

Always. Which leaves me to the question at hand: how many times in the same day do you have to wave at the same person when you pass them on the road? And I don't mean 'if you pass them and wave in the morning do you have to wave again in the afternoon,' I mean within a five-ten minute period.

See, it's like this: My younger kids' school (which is out of district, so they don't ride the bus) is west of my road, and my older kids' (who only ride the bus home from school) is east. When I drive west to drop off the younger kids, Mindy is driving east. We wave.

Then I drive east and (often times) have to go back up my road to pick up my older kids, or get something that one of us forgot. On my way up my road Mindy will be driving down. We wave.

Then I'll be going back down my road and invariably catch up to the bus (because it keeps stopping to pick kids up) and of course Mindy pulls over to let me pass. As I pass - we wave.

AND THEN, after I drop my kids off at school and head west for home, Mindy is driving east (because I passed her on the road and got ahead of her again, remember?) AND WE WAVE AGAIN!

Do you think she gets as tired of waving as I do? (And have any of you had to draw a map to keep all of this straight yet?) I admit that sometimes I'll put my visor down or pretend to be texting because waving repeatedly gets SO AWKWARD! I begin to feel like an idiot. In the meantime, I pass my sister when I leave my younger kids off and she's on her way to drop hers, and we wave, and then after I drop my older kids off and head back home we usually pass again and I have to wave again.

And there are at least three other moms I dance this I-pass-you-a-million-times waving dance with, and I keep wondering why we're all still waving.

I also have to admit that occasionally I'll be driving a car no one's familiar with and I blithely make my entire drive without waving at any of them, all the while feeling so happy that they don't know they passed me. It's so much easier. Am I the only person in the world who has ever had this problem? (Other than the poor people who have to keep waving at me, of course.) Do other people just hit their limit and start refusing to wave on principle? Can I do that?

I don't feel like I can. I feel compelled to wave. I tell myself I won't and then my hand flies up on it's own and does it anyway. After all, they're all still waving, right? Are they just nicer and more polite than me, or are they rolling their eyes when they see me and quickly pretending to tune their radios so they can get out of at least one of our morning waves?

Okay, this is kind of going on and on. Enough. Enough with the waving. For now, anyway. I'm sure that by Monday morning I'll be right back at it again...

The Hidden Dangers of the Tom Tom

Tom Tom's and every other brand of GPS thingies, may sound like a great idea to the rest of you, but I have a public safety announcement regarding the hidden dangers of putting these navigational tools into the wrong hands.

Hands like mine. Who don't know their left from their right.

Please, no lectures. No telling me that if I'll just hold up my thumb and first finger the one that makes the "L" is Left. And PLEASE don't tell me it's easy, and that I should just think of which hand I write with, or remember that the driver is on the left. If these things were that "easy" I would not have a problem.

And neither would my old Driver's Ed instructor, who was forever saying "Go left. No, you're other left."

I do want to say, however, that I am not to blame. I think it's genetic. I'm sure of it. My mother, you see, has the same exact problem - as does my sister Annie. (Except she fell off a horse when she was four and has a crooked right arm that doesn't touch her shoulder, so she just attempts the shoulder-touch and then she's kind of okay. Except that after almost three decades of doing this both arms now touch. Bummer).

Anyway, we have a problem.

So, as you know (if you've been faithfully following along with all my jingling) I am in Utah. I came down with a friend, and I'm currently staying at Annie's house. Last night I decided to go pick myself up something to eat for dinner, and took Annie's vehicle. Which is very large. (This info is important for visualizing things later on).

I initially was on the hunt for real food, like Mexican or Chinese, but somehow came around to the decision that Cutler's Cookies with popcorn and a diet coke really sounded way better. I didn't know where CC's was, but I did have a handy-dandy GPS thingie sitting right next to me. So I pull over, and put in Cutler's Cookies.

Bingo. It immediately tells me to pull out and head left. (SEE!! I just started typing right! This is pathetic). Thankfully, this one took zero brain power thanks to the bright green arrow. After waiting for a break in traffic, I turn left across two lanes and a turn lane, only to be immediately told to turn right.

Which way was right? There's two going-straight lanes, two turning (what I now know to be) left lanes, and one turn-only right lane. Feeling instantly panicked (because imagine if I never made it to Cutlers!), I head over to the right lane. Then, just as I start to enter the turn-only part, doubts assail me: "Is this right? Am I going the wrong way? Is the GPS woman going to yell at me? OMgosh, I think I'm going the wrong way!" Clearly I was too far gone to look for another green arrow).

I quickly checked for cars, veer across THREE LANES OF TRAFFIC - not even making it to the actual turn lane - and turn what I think is right (but is, in reality, LEFT), out of a go-straight-only lane. And there are cars coming. And I'm so busy stressing about whether or not I'm actually going right, I almost forget to yield. And come to a screeching halt in the middle of the intersection, looking like a completely deranged crazy woman in an over-sized SUV.

Which apparently, is exactly what I was.

Because I'm over thirty, don't know my left from my right, and was willing to risk my life (and my sister's vehicle) for a couple of cookies. (Fine, I bought a dozen. But I at the time of the incident I only planned on a couple, I swear!) Oh, and don't forget the wrath of the "re-calculating" navigational device that was thoroughly confused by my maneuver. When I headed back the right way and cut across traffic AGAIN after being in the wrong lane, the thing started telling me to head to the Interstate.

Do you think it was trying to save all the other drivers on the road? I mean seriously - by this time I was checking the rearview for lights. Surely it was only a matter of time before the erratic woman in the SUV was called in and picked up. I was literally starting to feel like a menace to society.

The good news - I've learned my lesson. People like me shouldn't be allowed to use navigational tools. It just. isn't. safe.

So my next question? WHY IS ANNIE USING ONE??!!! (Watch out Utah! She's on the loose!)

PS - when I got home and said "it's dangerous for people who don't know their left from their right to use those things", she said "I know." With emphasis. Like maybe this has already happened to her...

PPS - This is totally off topic, but..... Sue Q. gets a great big bloggy-hug for nominating me for MMB's spotlight blog award! Thanks Sue - you rock. (As will anyone else who nominates me :)

Lessons From Life

Sue Q.'s post about her daughter getting her license takes me back. Wayyyy back to my first real driving experience.

When I was eight.

It was summer, it was hot, and we were putting up hay. As kids we were always out there, rolling bales in to the truck for the guys to buck. I'm not sure what happened - probably someone had to go home - but all of the sudden they were out of a driver. (My ten year old sister Laura was no doubt driving the other truck. The automatic.) So the crew called me over, and initiated me into the mysteries of "The Stick Shift".

And told me to drive.

Might I add that the truck was stacked at about three or four bales high at this point, making a rough clutch just a tad treacherous for the poor guys trying to catch and stack.

And my clutch was rough. It was kind of like that song, "Bounding on the Billows." They kept making it sound really easy - just push that one down, then give it some gas, and then lift that one up - easier said than done when you're eight. But somehow I managed, although the quality of the ride was in serious question, and no doubt their were lives in danger.

This was also the year I learned to drive a tractor.

Enter Tim, my brother.

Ten years older than me, he was living close by and had apparently been at our house playing with the heavy equipment - because he got the Cat (bulldozer) stuck in the crick. My parents were gone, and even I knew he'd be in trouble if they got home and found out. Apparently, it wasn't a risk he was willing to take, and unfortunately for him, I was the only one home.

So we took off on the tractor, and he got the Cat out, and then stuck me on the tractor and said, "Okay, follow me to the house." I'm sure there was a short lesson in there about how to make it go, and how to make it stop, but all I remember is being eight years old, and feeling absolutely exhilarated as I drove that big piece of machinery across the field ALL BY MYSELF.

Can I just say how empowering that was? Dangerous, no doubt, and it's true I almost hit a phone pole, and he had to run after me, jump on, and steer me around it, but still. It was one of the greatest feelings in the world to be the sole operator of that tractor, with the wind blowing my hair, and my two little hands on the steering wheel.

In fact, I think you could say it's had a lasting effect. First off, I still love driving tractors - although I seldom get the opportunity. But even more than that, I think how much those experiences of responsibility and accomplishment must have done for me as an individual. I've always kind of felt like I could do anything if it was required of me, and looking back I think that confidence must stem from situations like these.

And no, I'm not endorsing underage driving of vehicles or tractors.

Instead, I'm just trying to invoke these feelings of empowerment as I tackle an insurmountable challenge: Homemade Birthday Invitations.

Please don't laugh, this is serious. I might have to cut and paste - and lets not even talk about a stamp pad. I would never have brought this on myself, but my turning-eight son just informed me that he wants to make his invitations in a conversation just like the following:

N: Mom, I need invitations for my birthday party.

Me: Okay honey, we'll go to the store and pick some out.

N: No, I want to make them.

Me: (reeling at the very idea) What??!!! No, no, no. Store bought ones are way better. We'll find some cool ones.

N: But I want to make them. Like Skyler did. He took paper, and made it cool, and wrote everything on it himself and put it in an envelope. Why can't we do that?

Me: (Cursing Kyler, and speechless at having produced a child who expresses a desire to voluntarily engage in crafts).

I know most of you are thinking I'm over-reacting, and that this really isn't a big deal. But that's because you don't know me. And you've never seen me try to craft. It's not just that any and all crafting projects of mine look so bad, it's that I hate doing them. And I can never think of what to do. And if I ever manage to make something that looks halfway decent, I can't stand the thought of parting with it.

This has happened about two times.

So anyway, I'm stuck. I must craft. I must pull from the resources of self-confidence gleaned from being forced behind the wheel at a tender age, under stressful situations. The worst part? They're invitations, so other (no doubt craftier) women will see them. My brilliant strategy - tell everyone the kid made them himself. After all - no one is going to laugh at a kid, right?

The Funk That Is February (or is it just me?)

February is Funk Month. Blog funk, house cleaning funk, mothering funk, dieting funk - they all seem to hit during the lovely (and somehow eternal) month of February. Four LONG weeks of "WILL IT EVER END????"

I remember about six years ago when I finally noticed the pattern - the one where during the month of February my house turns into a disaster area, and the laundry becomes an overwhelming force in my life. I swear I just did twelve loads, and last night my husband informed me he was out of underwear.

Again.

What is it with February? It's that time of year you sit around thinking, "didn't there used to be something BESIDES television/movies/video games for my children to do?" Because that is seriously all I can think of in the area of kid-activities these days. And I think the kids suffer from Funky February too, because for the last few weeks we have been dealing with an extreme case of boredom. EVERYTHING is boring. Inside, outside, upside, downside, every suggestion is met with "But that's so BOOOORING!"

So then I have them work, because every mom knows chores are the cure for boredom. Really, it works out quite nicely. I'm feeling totally apathetic, un-energetic, and, well, quite frankly BORED with house work - so I make them do it.

Sad, isn't it?

And it isn't just me. I know of about five bloggers who have recently compained of the blog-funk phenomenon. And several who are wondering where in the world the commenters have gone to. (Which begs the question - will anyone actually read this post anyway?) Almost every woman I work with has gained weight this month WHILE DIETING. Including me. And just the other day my sister Annie and I were discussing the complete apathy we feel toward the daily-grind that is housework. Bleck to all of it.

And now for the good news: FEBRUARY IS ALMOST OVER!!! And I can already tell. Just yesterday at about 2:30 in the afternoon, I actually had the following conversation with myself as I sat on the couch looking at the mess my two non-schoolers had made of my living room:

Funky Me: Oh good, it's almost time for the boys to come home. I can't wait till they clean this place up.

Non-funky March Me: Hmmm. Something about that just doesn't seem right...

FM: Of COURSE it's right! Right on the money. What are kids for if you can't get them to work a little? What do they think this is, a free ride?

NFMM: Yeah, but shouldn't you be doing something?

FM: I'll make them dinner. Maybe.

NFMM: No, this is wrong. You don't deserve to be called Mother. (All self-righteous, and on her high horse) Your children deserve to come home to a clean house, and YOU should be cleaning it! Now get up and DO something!

And I did. I can actually feel the apathy disappearing with the wretched month of February. Tomorrow, I will no doubt jump out of bed singing the laundry song, as I happily (and energetically) get my children ready for church. It's like a re-birth. Spring is coming, and the malaise of winter is about to end.

I think March may be my new favorite month. Or at least my new not-unfavorite month, which is certainly worth something. Happy Non-Funk Month, everyone! February is G.O.N.E. GONE!!!!!!!!

Woohoo. It's Valentine's Day. (just in case you didn't know)

I'm really bad at holiday posts. Christmas, Thanksgiving, birthdays, etc. - for some reason they come and go, and it isn't until other people post about them that I realize maybe I should too.

And now it's Valentine's Day.

I have a special affinity for this holiday, since I grew up being a Valentine. That was an extremely important distinction in elementary school, let me tell you. It isn't everyone in your first grade class who is actually named after a holiday. It made me special. My mom always sent us flowers at school. I was showered with attention. I took all the Valentine's Day cards very personally, and imagined the rest of the class did too. When it said "You're Great Valentine!" it was speaking to me. I truly was The World's Valentine.

And everyone loved me. (I was sure of this).

Then came jr. high and high school. No more class party. No more school-wide celebration of my "Valentine" status. No more cards to take personally. Hmmm, and something else - I was the world's Valentine, yet who was mine? As I've previously stated on this blog, I was completely boyfriendless throughout high school, and on Valentine's Day it bugged. At least Mom was still sending flowers.

Then came college. Ricks College, to be exact. And with it - a revolutionized view of Valentine's Day. My roomies and I took to calling it Single Awareness Day. Somehow, it just seemed so much more fitting. (And Ricks was such a disgusting place to be on Valentine's Day too. Possibly being single there, on this day, is the most depressing experience a single person could ever have). (Almost as depressing as my third and final Ricks College Valentine's Day in which I actually had a Valentine. The world's worst Valentine. If you weren't around when I posted about this one, go here for the most pathetic Valentine's Day story ever).

And then I got married. (Well, before that I dated and became affianced to my hubby. We dated for a year, and were broke up for two months of this year. Including the month of February. Go figure). Can I just say that my unfortunate husband had no concept of what an ex-Valentine girl expected from her hubby on Valentine's Day? As far as I was concerned, he was special. He had married a real Valentine. He should show his awe and appreciation for this and thank me in every imaginable way for bestowing such an honor.

Anyone who knows my husband will already know he'd been set up for abject failure. The poor man. It took me a few years of emotionally charged Valentine's Days to actually get these ideas out of my system. Apparently, they have evacuated completely, because now - our twelfth Valentine's Day - it is the last thing on my mind.

Is that bad?

We actually both made separate plans for today. Neither one of us even remembered today was Valentine's Day until a few days ago. In a way this seems kind of sad...me, The World's Valentine, completely oblivious of my all-important day. I've turned into The World's Most Neglectful Valentine. My idealism is (apparently) completely gone. It's like the end of a dream.

Then again, at least I can't be disappointed, right?

Sisters, I Have Sinned

We had a Relief Society sleep over this weekend. For those of you who don't know, the Relief Society is the women's group at our church. It was fun, and I enjoyed myself, but it was rather disconcerting to learn something critical about my personal salvation. I think I'm going to Hell. Maybe not "Outer Darkness" Hell, but definitely someone as shallow as me doesn't have much chance at Celestial Glory. This depressing revelation presented itself the moment I walked in the door - starved and ready to eat - and discovered soup was on the menu. Healthy soup, to be exact.

I looked for the chips and cheesy-bean dip we always have at our "unofficial" girl's nights - nothing. I looked for cookies, cake, brownies, or any other fattening, desserty type foods - again, nothing. I finally went as far as asking very nonchalantly if I should be "saving room for desert." The answer - THERE ISN'T ANY. I know. Whoever heard of a girls' night without dessert?! And then I learned the cold, hard, truth.

I was at a HEALTH FOOD sleep over. We were "eating light." And as my subconcious mind screamed "NOOOOOOOoooooo!!!!!!!" I was suddenly faced with the fact that what I've always suspected, but never truly admitted about myself is true - I was there for the food. I'd thought all day about the food, and even ran possible menu items through my head as I starved myself at lunchtime to justify the binging I was positive would happen at the sleep over. It was depressing.

And then, just as I'd hit a junk-food low at the prospect of having nothing but vegetable soup to quench my cravings, I realized the eternal perspective of my situation. Surely, anyone who attends a spiritual Relief Society retreat just for the food is going to Hell. All through dinner, there I was thinking about beanie weenies. The get-to-know-you game was witnessed through a sugar-crazed haze. Finally, during the big activity I broke down and asked if there wasn't some kind of chips in the house. I know, I'm totally shameless. But I was desperate! It was so bad I was almost ready to steal my mother's car and drive to the nearest Taco Bell. Instead I had to make due with those veggie rice chips from Costco. Yes, you read correctly, both "veggie" and "rice" came before "chips".

So sad.

And then came breakfast. I would tell you how it consisted of english muffins and fresh fruit (sans whipped cream OR sugar), but it would just be too painful to talk about it. Or how all the other women raved over the strawberries, grapes, and melons, while I sat dejected, trying to imagine there was sugar on my strawberry, while taking what comfort I could from my butter-drenched muffin.

I'm so ashamed. (And apparently, so shallow). But I want to proclaim to all of Blogland that as of this moment, I am going to repent of my obsession with fattening, sugary, deep fried snacks at Relief Society functions, and become more like all the rest of you. I too will be content with the fun games, good company, and barrels of laughter provided by my fellow sisters, and cease to allow health food to come between me and a good time.

And then I'll start planning a girls' night of my own...

How I Lost My Membership in the Ricks College VL Club

So Crash wants first kiss stories. I was going to attempt to put it in her comment box, but I quickly realized such limitations would never allow me to do it justice. Instead, I decided to treat you all to the full meal deal here on my blog. Lucky you.

First off, I would just like to say that my first kiss did not happen before I was sixteen. Second off, I would like to add that it didn't happen before I graduated from high school. To be brutally honest, it ALMOST didn't happen before I graduated from Ricks College.

I know. I attended Dateland America for five semesters, and didn't get kissed until half way through the last one. No innocent pecks. No spin the bottle. Not a single night of NICMO. (For those of you that didn't attend BYU-something-or-other, that stands for non-committal-makeout)(Can you believe I missed out on that???)

I would also like to say, that this not-kissing business was NOT because I was against kissing. It is also not because I had no opportunities. Even as far back as high school, there were definitely boys who would have kissed me - I just didn't want to kiss any of them. The boys I actually would have considered never offered. Go figure.

Then I got to Ricks and found out there was a club for people like me. The Virgin Lips Club. And although I was in pretty good company, I was not a proud member. At any time I would have been very happy to hand in my VL status for a little kissing action, but...

I was too chicken. This is what happens to girls who go that long without being kissed. We begin to wear a stamp on our forehead visible only to eligible members of the opposite sex, that says "Kiss you? No I don't want to kiss you! I mean, not unless you want to kiss me first, which probably won't happen since you'll NEVER KNOW I actually have a major crush on you, because I am so terrified you'll know I really do want to kiss you (or even just date you) that I will act as if I am the world's best buddy instead."

Whatever we put out there truly is what the world sees. And I will prove that point.

I went along like this for four semesters. I lived in three different apartments. I met LOTS of people, got set up on several dates, and was asked out a grand total of one time. I was the perennial buddy. I was "one of the guys". Other girls were jealous of all my "guy friends".

And all because of that stupid, invisible stamp.

And then came my final semester at Ricks. Rather than graduate in four semesters, I saved Math 101 (because I need serious time and help when it comes to math), Fit For Life (because I was avoiding the mandatory running involved), and FA 100 (because I'm a huge procrastinator) for one last semester. Besides that, I had started Ricks in a winter semester, and wasn't really ready to leave the fun behind mid-year.

That Christmas, while my bosom-buddy/roommate/niece (I know, it's weird) Kelly and I were home with the fam, we decided to change our stamps. We adopted a new motto: "Take Rexburg By Storm" (which was actually code for "Take Rexburg's Male Population By Storm").

And we did.

Rather than hiding from prospective flirtations, we left the apartment each day in search of male attention. We were available, and wanted the world to know. Eye contact was implemented, smiles were cast, and our stamps changed to "Date Me!" And within the first week I gave out my first phone number EVER.

Coincidence? I think not.

Who was he? Is he the one that broke the evil non-kissing spell? I'd love to tell you now, but it's getting late (and this post is getting REALLY long), so this story is going to have to be

To Be Continued...

My Amazing Self Control (which totally deserves to be rewarded at the earliest opportunity)

I've been living in the same house as a milk chocolate Symphony Bar for over 48 hours.

And it's still intact. But only because it's not the kind with toffee. My self control only goes so far, after all.

I bought it on (Black) Friday to send in my MIL's birthday package, thinking I could have it out of the house by Saturday morning at the latest. Unfortunately, sending the package requires several other things - like letters/pictures from my kids, school pics of my kids, and other little birthday-ish things - and Saturday was so busy I never got around to any of it.

And it's just sitting there staring at me. And I refuse to eat it, because it's not really mine. It's my MIL's. And I should have a LITTLE self-control. Considering the fact that I've managed to fall asleep TWO TIMES with the stupid thing calling my name is really pretty good for me. Let me just put it into perspective for you:

If I were Edward, the Symphony Bar would be my Bella. My husband (who would be thoroughly disgusted with me for losing control and eating his mother's gift) practically had to physically restrain me earlier.

If it had toffee chips in it, I would have overpowered him.

In fact, the only thing keeping me from the offending piece of chocolate right now is the fact that it is void of toffee. Well, that and the knowledge that tomorrow, at the earliest opportunity, I will go buy myself one (with toffee) and eat it alone so I don't have to share a single bite.

Maybe I should go to bed early so tomorrow comes a little faster. (And I'm seriously salivating RIGHT NOW just thinking about it. Like when Edward talks of his mouth "filling with venom"...) (And I can't believe I'm actually using a Twilight analogy. I didn't even love the books the way I was supposed to - being LDS AND female...)

So, farewell until tomorrow - and the long awaited and totally deserved chocolate attack. You know where I'll be (in a closet), and you know what I'll be doing (inhaling Symphony Bar).

Try not to be jealous. (Or better yet, go get your OWN Symphony Bar!)

Just In Case You Didn't Know...

Today is Tuesday.

NOT Wednesday.

Just though you might want to know, because no one told me until AFTER I dropped my child off at preschool. And went home. And was in the middle of blogging about my holiday weight-control strategy over on Desperately Seeking Skinny Pants.

Yeah. I felt cool. And smart, because there's nothing like NOT KNOWING WHAT DAY OF THE WEEK IT IS to make a person (especially a mom of young children) feel brilliant. This isn't my first calendar casualty either, sad as that is.

Wouldn't it have been even smarter if I hadn't found out until I showed up at the dentist office with the other two for their WEDNESDAY appointments? After getting them out of school?

Yeah, glad that didn't happen...

So now I'm gonna go and think about life, and sing the "Days of the Week" song my preschooler loves...and HOPE IT SINKS IN TO MY HEAD!!!

So have a nice TUESDAY everyone, Wednesday's TOMORROW.

I Won!!

Yes, in case you're wondering, I WON THE CASH!!! (And a great big THANK YOU to all of you who voted for me too:). I really can't believe I finally won something. Now what should I do with all that cash...

Yet, strange to say (for someone coming off the high of winning big), I really don't feel much like blogging at all right now. I attempted to write about my house-cleaning funk, but it was a flop. I just couldn't manage to put into words what it's like to have the house you've spent all day on be destroyed every evening while you do piano lessons, homework, dinner, reading, baths, football taxi-ing, etc. I know exactly how Pat feels over there on her hamster wheel - since apparently I'm running around on one of my own.

And then I tried writing a post about child #2 getting sick this weekend. Yes, I thought it was the Halloween candy too - the first four times he threw-up. By round seventy-six, I'd changed my mind. I wanted to express the beauty of having a child old enough to graduate from the "bowl" to the toilet, but it was all just a little too graphic and throw-uppy, if you know what I mean. (But still, can I just say Hallelujah!?!? Talk about convenient! I tried to look sad for him, but really I was totally giddy at the thought that all I had to do was flush...)

Or I could tell you all about how Mr. Amazing Hubby totally cleaned and organized my catch-all room on Sunday. True, he was angling for points so he could head off into the mountains, but still. Shelves were assembled, furniture was rearranged, "stuff" was cleared out - it was enough to break through my house-cleaning funk, and today I even dusted. I know, amazing isn't it? I actually like that room again.

Unfortunately, however, none of these things are that interesting, and so I have nothing of any real value to write about. There are other ideas rolling around in my head...but they would all take an amount of mental effort I somehow just don't feel up to at the moment. Maybe this means I'm in a blogging funk? Is there such a thing?? Hmmm. I'll have to think about that. Maybe tomorrow I'll have something amazing to say that will change all of your lives forever...

But until then, Peace Out.

Repetitive Tears and Talking Animals

When my hubby and I got married, we were too poor to buy a TV. We were married in July. For our first Christmas, my mother-in-law gave us one. But we were too poor to afford cable,and since apartment living put an antenna out of the question, it didn't really help our TV-less condition.

A few months later (right after we FINALLY purchased a microwave), we scrounged up enough for a VCR. It was so exciting! We owned a whopping five movies, and they were all from my personal collection of old musicals. While I was more than content to watch Doris Day and Judy Garland every day, my husband wasn't quite as entertained.

We lived in this TV-deprived state for almost a year and a half. Then we moved. In our new duplex, sticking out of the wall, was a cable hook-up. Hmmmm. T.V. was finally an option.

We passed.

I know it sounds crazy, but we both had no real desire to sit around watching cable all day. Why? Mostly because with no children, a whole 900 square feet to clean, and no yard to take care of, we both knew that's exactly what we'd end up doing.

We've been married for eleven years. We have four children. We still don't have TV. What do we have? A huge video collection. This means that essentially, we sit around watching the same movies over, and over, and over again. But that isn't the strange part. The strange part is how I keep crying over the same scenes, in the same movies, over, and over, and over again.

It's blowing my mind.

Take the movie Ever After with Drew Barrymore, one of my personal favs. It's on my go-to list of movies I feel like watching almost anytime. The incriminating cry scene? The big reunion. The old servant guy gets sold by the mean stepmother, and is being shipped to America. Danielle (Barrymore's character), saves him and brings him home.

The scene changes, showing his old wife hoeing in the garden.

Camera pans. Danielle and old man are walking toward old wife/woman.

She looks up. She sees him. She drops her hoe, picks up her old dress, and runs towards him. Tears streaming down her face, scrawny legs going as fast as she can, while he runs to meet her with arms outstretched. They embrace. Triumphant-yet-emotional music plays, as other old servant and Danielle join the embrace.

I cry EVERY TIME I watch this scene! How can you not cry? They are so old. They have so little. They love each other so much!

My husband thinks I'm crazy and laughs at me, but it gets worse. At least in this movie I'm crying over people.

The next offender? Both the Incredible Journey, and its re-make, Homeward Bound. The remarkable thing? I don't really even like these movies. Especially the new one with the talking animals - way too obnoxious for my taste. Yet despite this, without fail, the reunion scene brings tears to my eyes.

I have been known to break down and bawl.

I'm not even an animal lover! (I like them, but come on - they aren't people) But when those little kids hear those dogs barking off in the distance, and then see them barreling down the hill, I start to feel the tears pricking. It's bad enough with the first dog and the cat, but when the oldest boy thinks his old dog couldn't make it and turns dejectedly back to the house only to hear that far off bark - I'm done for. By the time the boy and his dog collide (even with that ridiculous dog voice practically ruining the whole thing in the talking-animal version) I am a mess.

But this is not the most ridiculous example.

You know the movie Babe? That's right, the one about the pig? There is a scene in this movie (again, a movie I could totally do without) that will actually cause me to drop what I'm doing, move into the living room, and watch with rapt attention (shushing my kids if necessary, so they don't ruin the mood), knowing I'm about to cry.

Over a talking pig.

??????

Which scene, you want to know? Or does it make you cry too, so you've already guessed.

Fine, I'll tell.

It's the end of the movie. Babe and the old man have just taken the field during the sheep herding competition. All the people are laughing, mocking the crazy old man with his pig, and you know he's got to be feeling a little insecure.

The pig runs over to the sheep and holds that ridiculous conversation (revealing he knows their secret "sheep chant"), and the old man just stands there silently watching.

The people are still laughing.

His wife is hysterically crying because she's sure her husband has gone insane.

And then the sheep start to move. In a column. With the pig behind them.

The crowd goes silent. Jaws drop as they watch in disbelief.

More ridiculous animal-conversation happens, and the sheep do everything they're supposed to, ending up in the little pen.

The silent old man walks forward, grasps the gate, swings it shut on the amazing, pig-herded sheep, and the latch clicks in the heavy silence...

And then pandemonium breaks out! Everyone is jumping and shouting, and cheering for the old man and his pig! You think they couldn't be cheering any louder, but as the judges all present perfect scores, the crowd goes wild!!!

And I cry.

Because I'm so happy the old man doesn't feel stupid, and everyone finally appreciates him and his pig.

Why do I get so involved? And why do I feel extra sympathetic because he's a tall old man??? And why don't I get desensitized? I was crying over this scene just two days ago. Crying, and marveling at my ability to continually empathize with made up characters, doing made up things, in movies I don't necessarily even love, involving talking animals.

I'd ask if anyone else does this - just for re-assurance - but I'd be scared of the response. I have this sinking feeling that I'm alone on this one. But if someone wants to lie, and pretend like Babe makes them cry too, I'd be totally grateful.

If you think about it, I am now kind of like the old man. Here I am, feeling a little insecure about what I've just shown the world, and there's that crowd of readers - laughing, mocking, and jeering at the crazy lady...

Except I'm not so tall. Why does that help?

How To Lose Those Last Four Pounds, Crazy Yoga, and Other Stories

You know when you're doing something, and while you're doing it you're thinking "If anyone saw me right now they would think I was a complete idiot"? I had one of these moments this week.

As mentioned a few posts back, this has not been a great week for me. Rotten, in fact. I happen to be one of those lucky people who suffer from anxiety. Not often enough to be medicated, just often enough that every so often (like when someone proposes to me, or my husband goes missing in the mountains, or other various kinds of problems arise) I have an anxiety attack.

I have various ways of containing and handling these episodes to keep them somewhat under control, but every so often things get a little out of hand. Knowing this, (and dreading the fact) I found and bought this "stress relieving herbal tea" that claimed to calm anxiety. It's been sitting in my cupboard for almost a year, waiting for an out of control bout of anxiety worthy of a little product testing. The last two times my husband went MIA while solo-ing it in the mountains, I had the tea brewing when he finally either called or arrived. What a bummer. Twenty minutes later, and I'd have been able to find out if the stuff actually worked.

This week I had my chance.

By Friday I was a mess. The anxiety had been building up since Tuesday night, and somewhere around lunchtime, I felt it coming on. Full blown anxiety attack. Heart starts racing, panicky feeling takes over, what's left of my functioning, rational brain begins shutdown.

Then I remember - I have that stupid tea in my cupboard. It could work. I'd better try it.

I open the cupboard, grab the tea, put on some water, and while it boils I notice this on the tea box: "Yoga To Let It All Go." I read on, and discover there is a yoga pose that's supposed to calm anxiety. I am not really into yoga. I am, however, feeling desperate. I decide that at this point I will try anything.

So I go into the other room, kick enough stuff out of my way to clear a spot on the floor (anxiety SERIOUSLY impairs my ability to do anything productive around the house - we're talking no-laundry-for-four-days kind of serious), and sit cross legged on the floor. With one eye on the instructions, I get into position. Left hand, palm up on my left knee - middle finger crossed behind first, thumb over fingers four and five. (Not joking, I really did this). Right hand, first finger extended - thumb over fingers three, four, and five. Hold right hand at chin level. Close eyes, and twirl finger in the air for one to three minutes. Breathe deeply. Feel like a complete idiot, and hope no one comes to the door, because it has a window and I'm sitting on the floor right in front of it feeling like a crazy lady.

It totally worked.

I actually stopped shaking, and was breathing normally after a minute or two. Seriously, it was so effective I was kind of bugged, because it messed with my product testing. If I'm already calming down, how the heck can I judge how effective the tea actually is???

But I drank it anyway, and it did seem to help. Or, I was just experiencing the full affects of my amazing yoga experience. Who can tell? Now I'll have to wait for my next major anxiety attack (no rush there, Mr. Anxiety) so I can drink the tea BEFORE doing crazy yoga poses.

But don't get me wrong, I am not complaining. I'm just hoping I don't have any public anxiety attacks, so I can keep my idiotic yoga pose all to myself. (Can't you just picture me dropping into the Praying Mantis in the grocery store, twirling my little finger on aisle Nine? What a picture). And there was a silver lining to all of this - thanks to my anxiety-induced starvation diet, I lost 4 pounds!!!

See - just when you think life really stinks, you take a chance, do something that makes you feel like an idiot, achieve minor success, and lose those four pounds standing between you and your skinny jeans. Last week's anxiety - this week's accomplishment.

Just call me Pollyanna.

Due To Circumstances Beyond Our Control, We're Forced To Take The Easy Post-Writing Way Out: yes, it's another contest, with yet another (lame) prize.

I have to apologize for my posting delinquency. Usually by now I would have something (whether it was worth reading or not) to offer those of you who bless me with your visits. (Those of you who leave me your comments are a class above the mere blessers - you are Blog-Angels). But frankly, this has not been a fabulous week, and I am not feeling very witty.

Actually, I'm feeling extremely witty about one topic - but unfortunately, I've decided it wouldn't really be the best thing for me to blog about. This topic is the one regarding the not-so-fabulous-week I've been having, and I'd really enjoy nothing better than telling all of you out there in bloggy land just what a complete idiot I can be. Unfortunately, however, there are other people involved in my latest escapade,who might not appreciate it if I strung the whole thing out for everyone's entertainment.

But it's also the only thing I can think about, making post-writing about other things extremely challenging.

So instead, let's just have a nice little limerick contest, shall we???

Topic: Laundry. This is in honor of the dirty laundry I don't dare hang on the blog to dry. So get your limerick-y brains ready, and remember the rules:

1. It has to have something to do with laundry.

2. It has to have five lines.

3. Lines 1,2,5 need to rhyme.

4. Lines 3,4 need to rhyme.

5. The meter is very simple, just check out the limericks on my sidebar - or keep reading, because I'm about to throw a couple of my own out there just to get you all warmed up!!!

Laundry is really a pain.
It's enough to drive you insane.
It never will cease,
And the piles just increase
Till you just want to leave on a train.

That was admittedly horrible. Undaunted, however, I will try again.

Oh where is a match for this sock?
I think that my socks all must walk.
I bought ninety-three,
Now where can they be?
If only my washer could talk!

Not much better, but let's not forget that I'm having a bad week. Apparently this impairs one's "limericking" ability. I better try to redeem myself one last time:

While laundry can be such a chore,
A regular, bummer and bore,
There's those who just smile
And hum all the while,
And when it's all done they want more.

This last is based on true events. If you don't believe me click here. And leave her a comment, because anyone who feels this way about laundry deserves a LOT of Blog-Angel love!!!

And now, I will turn it over to all of you hopeful limerick winners! Leave your entries in the comments, and I'll give you until Sunday night. Number of entries is unlimited, and the (lame)prize is still an honored place on my sidebar, and the title of "World's Best Limerick Writer Ever". Such an honor! But just breathe deep, and try not to let your nerves get you!!

My Non-Fairy-Tale-Like Tale

I was just reminded of an incident that happened to me back in my single days, and thought I'd share. Once upon a time...

When I was single, my dating life was practically non-existent. Particularly during my time at Ricks (College, that is). I attended Ricks for five semesters. The last was reserved for Math 101, Fit For Life, and Fine Arts 100. And a job so I could save money for BYU.

I was in the VL (virgin lips) club until that last semester. Sad, isn't it? And please do not congratulate me. I was not trying, okay? I mean at first it was fine, and I was all pure, and unwilling to kiss just any old guy (easy to be picky when there AREN'T any guys), but by the time that final semester came around, I have to admit I was feeling a little desperate.

Then, low and behold, within weeks of winter semester starting, someone actually asked me for my number. Stop the presses - THIS HAD NEVER HAPPENED TO ME BEFORE! How is that possible? you ask. How does an average looking girl who goes dancing, and plays basketball at the gym with DOZENS of guys all the time manage to repel men so completely that not one of them will ever have even the slightest desire to ask for her number? I have no idea. But we're straying off topic here. The point is, it had actually happened!

So the guy (whom I'll call Phil to protect the innocent) asks for my number. He's tall (6'5), nice looking, and a complete non-mutant as far as I could tell. So I of course handed my number over willingly - doing my best to act like it was something I did all the time.

We went out. Several times. After a week or two we kissed.

(BTW, I do not recommend kissing for the first time while standing outside in Rexburg-freezing-windchill-sub-zero-weather. Ever tried to talk when your lips are frozen? Yeah, kissing is even more difficult. It was kind of like kissing while wearing those red wax lips. Totally anti-climactic).

So now I was excited. I had a boyfriend. Unless you count Brad Johnson when I was eleven, this was a first.

And it gets even better.

It was almost February. I had already endured two non-boyfriend Valentine's Day's at Ricks College. Were my roommates and I the only ones who referred to this depressing holiday as "Single Awareness Day"? And to make matters even more pathetic, my maiden name was Valentine. How sad is that to be a Valentine and never have one?? Finally, I was going to have someone to give me some cute Valentine something, and smooch with on that stupid holiday.

The big day came. I waited in vain for flowers to be delivered, but finally it was 8:30 am and I had to go to class. No in-class deliveries, no note waiting for me at home, nothing.

Then he called.

He wanted to know if I wanted to hang out, since it was Valentine's Day, and all. He said he'd stop by after dinner.

True, I had entertained hopes he'd take me out for dinner, but whatever. The main thing was that I was going SOMEWHERE with SOMEONE. I was not going to complain.

7:00, the doorbell rings. I greet Phil at the door, and he says: "I thought we could take a walk."

Rexburg, February, freezing, no problem. No single-awareness-moping for me!

We walk the five blocks or so to Smith Park. We hold hands. We walk around the park. We talk. I'm sure we must have kissed, but for some reason I have no recollection. Then Phil starts telling me the following.

"I was at the grocery store today, and I almost bought you one of those roses they have at the register for $1. I actually picked it up. But then I thought about my last girlfriend. I went all out and spent money buying her a dozen red roses. Then we broke up. It just seemed like such a waste. I don't think material things should be part of a relationship, so I decided not to get you the rose."

Okay. This was fine. At this point, I was perfectly fine with the whole thing. I honestly didn't care that much whether he got me a flower, card, box of chocolates, or anything. I admit I was slightly bummed, but whatever. At least I wasn't alone.

Then he continued:

"I did, however, want to get you something, because I think you're really great. So... Here."

What was it? What did my romantic boyfriend give me? What sweet token of his love did he deem more meaningful than the $1 rose?

A green sweetheart. It said "You're #1".

Am I the only one who thinks that this was just wrong??? IF you're going to give your girlfriend one single sweetheart for Valentine's Day rather than the whole box, SURELY you could find one more suitable than "You're #1"??!!

How about "You're Sweet" or "Cutie" or even "Hug Me"?? Any of these could have been seen as a sweet, small, yet meaningful gesture that showed his affection, and illustrated his feelings.

And it was green.

Since when does the color green have anything to do with anything on Valentine's Day? If it had been pink, or even white with pink writing, that would have been something.

It was painful. I would like to add, however, that I handled the situation as graciously as possible, and even thanked him for his "thoughtful" gift. I probably even gave him a kiss, and said something I totally didn't mean, like "thank you so much! This is soooo sweet!" I even distinctly remember trying desperately to read some unwritten, secret meaning in the message that could in any way be interpreted as romantic.

Nothing came to me.

And I never had a boyfriend on Valentine's Day again. The next year I was in between relationships, and the year after that I was (miraculously) married. That stupid green sweetheart is the only token of Valentine's Day affection I ever received while my last name actually was "Valentine".

Is this just a little sad and pathetic, or is it just me? It just seems to me that there must have been at least a hundred other non-materialistic ways he could have chose to say "Happy Valentine's Day, girlfriend whose last name actually IS Valentine."

Without coming across as being a totally pathetic/apathetic boyfriend. Especially since I happen to know he actually really liked me.

Or maybe I'm just being really shallow, and I should be way more appreciative of my one Valentine-boyfriend experience. You tell me.

The Jog/Walk Diaries - Doing the Shuffle

I just want to tell the world that I really have gone jog/walking. TWICE. I know, I know, you think I am amazing. I'm actually feeling a little that way myself, to tell you the truth. Who would have thought I'd be up for multiple bouts of self-torture? That's a bet I definitely would have lost.

And how has it been, you want to know? Will I continue? Can I still move after two maybe-it-was-a-mile jog/walks? I'm currently undecided on most of these issues, although just thinking about how far I've traveled down the road of complete muscle deterioration and loss of cardio stamina, makes me think my nighttime forays will probably continue.

And yes, I have been waiting for the cover of darkness before jog/walking. You see, it's not like I'm just jog/walking. This fitness undertaking (no pun on the whole death and dying thing intended) revolves around basketball, and my getting in decent enough shape to handle a game of horse. This being the case, I have incorporated sprints and defensive stance/slides into my jog/walking routine. This is not a joke. I would die if I were seen.

Can you imagine watching some chick jog/walking nonchalantly along, thinking she's a completely normal person, when suddenly she drops into a defensive stance and does these moronic looking shuffles from one side of the lonely country road to the other? Or stays in place doing defensive shuffles facing front-2,3,4, right-2,3,4, left-2,3,4, etc.? There's no way I'm jog/walking in daylight hours. I mean, really, I'm the first to admit I can be a bit dorky, but I do have some pride.

And it is a bit boring. And I'm definitely sore. Not like volleyball-daily-double-sore, or anything, but I am feeling the effects of jog/walk/defensive-shuffling.

There are some encouraging aspects as well. Like the fact that I made my almost-mile in twenty-seven minutes on the first go. (Are you seeing how pathetic it is now?? This was encouraging... So sad). And last night? Which I might have skipped if it hadn't been for the incredibly guilt-inducing oreos my darling husband brought home? Hold onto your hats, I took three minutes off my time! What is it people say when excited? Whoot? Well that's how I felt - Whootish. And very, very, tired.

So next time you're feeling down, picture me defensive-shuffling my way down the road like a complete idiot. I guarantee you'll crack a smile. True, it will be at my expense, but hey - what are friends/blogging buddies for?

Disillusionment and Desperation

I am so incredibly out of shape. No, really, this is serious. It's so serious that I'm considering taking up jogging - tonight. Anyone who really knows me, knows just how serious this would have to be for me to even CONSIDER such a rash and reckless step.

I have never liked "jogging" as a form of exercise. I love to play sports with a purpose, but running???? Just to run??? Yuck. Humiliation. My um, "girls" bouncing all over the place for passersby to observe.

This last is what originally turned me off from any sport requiring solo running, i.e. softball, cross country, and track. I was rather well endowed when I was in high school (thankfully, I consider myself normal after the four children), and any running event (or non-running event if we're going to be totally candid) got my assets WAY too much attention from the hormone beast also known as the "high school boy". A t-shirt that said "Hellooo, we aren't her eyes" would have been helpful.

Anyhow, back to running. Or not running, which is where I think I actually was. When I was in college, one of my roomates convinced me that running would be fun. I went right out and purchased a pair of running shoes. I was determined to finally get over my issues and give this popular form of exercise a chance.

Just to be safe, however, I always ran at night.

And I hated every minute of it.

Nothing but me, the darkness, and that stupid bush/tree/whatever I was attempting to run to before I started walking again. Can I just say BORING!! Nothing to think about but how long I'd been jogging, and how much further I should force myself to go. The worst thing? Back then I was actually in pretty decent shape. Puffing and wheezing were not my problem. Aching, burning legs that shake when you stop? Nope, the mental game alone was enough to make me tired.

And now I'm considering giving it another try.

And I'm adding in the puffing/wheezing/burning legs, because they will definitely play a MAJOR roll this time around. Which brings me to the catalyst for this desperate move. Tonight I played a very small, harmless, never-moved-beyond-the-three-point-line, game of basketball. One on one. Kelly, this was nothing to your full-court experience. This can only be classed as Truly Pathetic.

Unlike jogging, I love to play basketball. There's no boredom in basketball. (And there's way too much going on for the "girls" to be the center of attention). Tonight, however, was worse than pathetic.

There's me, barely moving around the court, sensing from the start that I must conserve every ounce of energy to finish the game. We were playing to seven.

There's my opponent, young, strong, over six feet tall, and fresh off the Marine Corp base where he takes daily runs in the desert in full gear with a thirty lb pack on his back.

You may be asking yourself why a burned out mother of four would take on such an opponent. I have no answer for you. Insanity? Derangement? COMPLETE disillusionment? That one was obviously a big player. Back when he was in high school, and I wasn't quite so far from my prime, we used to have these little games all the time. That was when running from the baseline to the three point line didn't feel like a long distant sprint.

So now, here I am, facing the cold hard truth. I may occasionally exercise. I may even use weights now and then. I may like to think that I'm in decent shape, and that I can "keep up" if I have to. Newsflash: I couldn't keep up with an old guy in a nursing home. If I ever want to play a decent game of basketball again, I need to do something desperate. Jogging is desperate. So that's what I'm going to do. I start tonight when the boys and Rusty get back from fishing. I should feel right at home, because it will be dark. My only concern will be making it back before suffering from cardiac arrest.

The good news? I will be so amazingly in shape when Dallin returns, that I will fearlessly challenge him to a rematch. Watch out Dallin, this is one mom who refuses to sit by while all her muscles atrophy into jello. When you get back, I will be ready for you. (But you still can't stuff my shots unless I stuff yours. After all, I'm not totally delusional.)