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.)

Meara - The Bionic Two Year Old

When my mom was young, she had a dog named Sunny that lived in the house. The only thing she's ever told me about Sunny, is that no matter where the dog was, or how hard it was sleeping, you couldn't get into the cookie jar with out Sunny knowing. No matter how quietly the lid was handled, moments later Sunny would come bounding into the kitchen asking for a treat.

Some people have dogs. We have Meara.

For lack of treats and desserts in our house (because I have no self control and cannot sleep if such things are available), (that last was NOT an exaggeration by the way) my husband has come up with his own evening treat. Cake mix. And water. In a mug. Sound terrible, doesn't it? Just for the record, however, it's actually not bad.

To make this decadent dessert, he dumps some mix (preferably yellow) into a mug, pours in a little water, and stirs rapidly until the mixture reaches a smooth consistency. When ready for consumption, he sits on the couch with his treat and eats it with a spoon. And then he leaves the cup lying around so I can find it later with cake mix all dried and crusted inside. (That last sentence has nothing to do with this story, but everything to do with another story).

Needless to say our children are all aware of "Dad's stuff" and like him to share with them. Especially Meara. A couple of nights ago Rusty sneaked off to the kitchen with plans to get his "stuff" upstairs before being detected. As he finished stirring and came walking out of the kitchen with it, he picked up a tail.

We couldn't figure out how she saw the cup - since he practically had it in his shirt - but there was no doubt she knew what was going on. She moved right in behind him with the excited skipping, laughing, pig-tail-bouncing gait of a two year old who knows she's about to get a bite of "Dad's stuff". He made the circuit through our living room/front room at least three times before admitting there was no getting away from her.

FYI, if you have food - there is NO getting away from her.

Tonight we figured out her secret abilities. There we were, sitting on the couch. Rusty nonchalantly stands up and moves into the kitchen. Meara is playing on the other side of the couch. A few minutes later, I just happen to notice the faint "clink, clink" of spoon stirring in mug, and somewhere in my brain the fact registers that Rusty's making his "stuff".

At about this same moment Meara's head pops up. She resembles a hound on the scent. She drops whatever it was she was playing with, puts her head down, and runs for the kitchen.

She meets him at the kitchen doorway - hot on his heels.

SHE HEARS THE CLINKING OF SPOON ON MUG TWO ROOMS AWAY, AND REALIZES IT MEANS FOOD! WHILE BUSILY INVOLVED WITH HER OWN TOYS! SHE IS TWO!

Do you think I could get on Oprah? Maybe That's Incredible would be interested.

And the scariest thing? I'm pretty sure she gets this ability from me. I do have a thing for treats. If I thought my neighbors had cake at their house I'd probably come up with an excuse to go visiting. Even though I hardly know them.

Where these abilities will take my daughter, no one can tell. Maybe she should be some kind of food taster? Does anyone know if there's money in that? It seems like she could be worth something to the right people, doesn't it?

Who knows. But for now, I just hope those of you without freaky-hyper-sensibility-two-year-olds appreciate eating your food in peace. Next time you eat something good - that you don't want to share - think of us and be even happier. We would be sharing.

The Truth Hurts

I love it when little kids coin phrases that become family tradition. Take my sister Laura's son Kenyan, for instance. (He's going to love that I'm posting this story about him, by the way - now that he's thirteen and immune to all embarrassment). When he was being potty trained, he was having a hard time with the whole BM thing. Just couldn't really let it go on the potty, if you know what I mean. Finally, in his moment of triumph he excitedly yelled, "Hey, I dropped some!" A family phrase/code word was born. In our family we don't say a child has to "go", we say he has to "drop some."

My favorite of all time, however, is a phrase that originates with Liam. Liam has always been aware of other people's feelings. Even when he was really little, he never wanted to make anyone feel bad, or be mean in any way.

Yet, being a small child, the truth must be said.

One day when he was about four, Liam and my mother were outside together. I don't remember exactly what it was they were doing, but while they were doing whatever it was, my mom exhibited poor judgement on some level. A level low enough that my four year old son noticed.

Standing next to her, he critically examined the situation from his four year old perspective. Reaching his conclusion, he looked up at her with an apologetic expression on his little face, and gently said, "Grandma? I think maybe you're just a little bit not so smart."

It was clear that it pained him to be so brutally honest, but at four what other choice do you have?

Since this occurrence, my mother eventually recovered her self respect in the eyes of my child, and we have continued to use the phrase, "just a little bit not-so-smart" to lovingly point out judgement lapses, and various other, well, not-so-smart things committed by those we love.

Complete Mom Checkout

I think I've checked out for the summer. In a good way. Well, good for me - my family may not agree. This new state of mine is not the same as the Summer Blahs, which I've already mentioned getting. This transcends the Blahs, and has taken me to an entirely different sphere.

The Blahs just means having a general frustration, lack of energy, boredom, and a longing for some itsy, bitsy bit of motivation. I am blissfully past all that. Heck, who needs to be motivated when there are only days left of summer vacation? I'm feeling so relaxed I actually read a book this week. And it's only Tuesday. And...I didn't even feel guilty about it when I realized my husband was on his way home and I hadn't made dinner.

Dinner. What is that anyway? Can't we just repeat lunch and have sandwiches? Sure we can! See how blissful Complete Mom Checkout (CMC) can be? You send your kiddies out to play in the morning, see them briefly around lunchtime, and again at secondlunch/dinner. Then you send them back out for their last nights of summery evening play, and get them so tired they fall right into bed and sleep.

Now, as wonderful as it sounds, CMC isn't possible in long term situations. It requires dropping all but the most necessary household chores, i.e. dishes, laundry (only the minimal amount), and basic straightening. (Anything more obnoxious that MUST be done is assigned to the children to ensure a state of complete relaxation for the checked out mother.). This has been going on in my house for about three days. I feel wonderful.

For all of you who think I am the worst wife/mother ever for proudly embracing the CMC state, I would like to present my defense. In one week from tomorrow I reenter the world of getting up at 5:30 to get four children out the door by 7:15, working, teaching piano lessons, homework, reading, chores (theirs and mine), and all the other things moms are responsible for when they aren't checked out. So for the next seven days, I will continue to feel no pressure about all the things I could be doing, I will have very casual dinners, I will let my children run wild with the neighbors (within reason, of course), and I will remain completely immune to any feelings of guilt. After all, moms deserve a break every now and then, right? This is mine, and I am determined to enjoy it. So there. (My mother would never approve).

Home Sweet Home

I was just reading a favorite blogstop of mine, and took a foray into a subject near and dear to my insanity. My house. More specifically, what I'd like to do with (or to) my house. (In my mind, I immediately see an image of lighter fluid and a match...)

Can I just start by saying that my house is old? VERY old. One bathroom and minimal outlets old. When we moved in (after several months of work just to make it livable) I literally had two electrical outlets to serve the entire downstairs, outside of the kitchen. Just try to make things look good with orange extension cords running everywhere - I dare you. My favorite was the one tacked up the wall and across the ceiling to power the ceiling fan. Nice.

In the beginning of our time here, the upstairs was a very patchwork kind of place. Each room sported at least three different wall coverings, ranging mainly between tar paper (yes, I said tar paper - that black stuff used on roofs), paneling (of the ugliest 1980's varieties), unfinished sheet rock (the duct tape covering the seams was a nice touch), and the old cardboard-like wall paper covering used in the first half of the 20th century to keep the outside air from moving too freely about in the house.

We (just in case my husband ever reads this, I'm using the term "we" VERY loosely) have leveled the foundation, re-plumbed the laundry room, replaced the roof - sheeting and the works, re-built the front porch, sheet rocked, insulated, carpeted, wired (I hesitate to say re-wire, because that would imply there had been wires in the first place), painted - inside and out - multiple times, moved the driveway (which conveniently ran directly in front of the porch), put in a lawn, installed a picket fence and shutters, field-fenced the perimeter (we have just over an acre), and continue to sink every cent of our tax returns into this house. All with the hopes that someday it will be nice enough that some one else may want to own it.

Did I mention we got a screamin' deal?

Or that we bought it sight-unseen for the most part? (Technically, since it's down the road from my parent's I drove past it several times a day for the first 18 years of my life. This does NOT mean I was actually prepared for the stark reality). As to the condition of the house, my mother tried to warn me. She sent me pictures taken from every angle in every room (including the hospital green kitchen, and tar-papered upstairs) and lovely panoramas of the seriously cosmetically challenged exterior. She was very concerned.

My lofty goals for this summer included ripping up a sidewalk and putting in a patio, remodeling the back porch so we could enter from somewhere besides the front door, exterior painting touch-ups, and various indoor activities revolving around the words "paint" "organize-with-no-closets" and "do-something-with-the-bathroom-because-it-looks-just-like-it-did-when-we-moved-in". The sidewalk has been ripped up, just in case anyone is wondering. And I painted the doghouse. With the children. I may need to blog about that experience, now that I'm reminded of it. WHAT HAVE I BEEN DOING THIS SUMMER!!

In my defense, I hate projects. Possibly because they've been a way too constant element in my life this last seven years. And, it's not easy to fit them in around four children who want to go to grandma's, go swimming, eat lunch, have clean clothes to wear (okay, I don't think they'd really notice, but I do have some pride), and various other little distracting and time consuming wants/needs.

So how do I stand it, you ask? How do I handle living in a house that should be constantly under construction? When it gets overwhelming, I ask myself one simple question and force an honest answer from my reluctant brain.

If I could do it over, would I have changed anything?

I live a quarter mile from my mother. My kids have an acre to play on, fruit trees, several forts, and a nice quiet dead end private road to ride their bikes on. There are ditches and cricks (creeks for the non-country people) within moments of my front door where my kids spend countless summer hours catching "things". (No doubt the "things" are the distant offspring of the things I caught in the same cricks/ditches when I was a kid), and due to the close proximity, my children have the privilege of grandma-access almost every day.

I know very few people who even have the option of putting all these elements in their lives. Some people will think I'm crazy for wanting a life a quarter mile down the road from my mother. For my children and me however, the seven years we've spent in this old, out-dated, needs constant work house have been priceless.

I comfort myself with the thought that I won't live in this house forever. (Please, please let that be true!). But for the time being, I have to admit that I'm glad I didn't see the place before we bought it, because it might have scared me away. And there's NO doubt that even if it hadn't, one look at the foundation would have sent my husband running for the hills.

For now, I do my best to concentrate on the good points (namely the things AROUND the house) and ignore the bad. (My kitchen, my no-garage, my one bathroom, on, and on, and on). It isn't always easy, and my friends have heard my sob story many times, but in all reality living here has blessed our lives. In twenty years from now I have no doubt I'll look back on these years and be thankful I spent them in this house - that is, as long as I'm not still here. I won't be, right?

Armpit Hair, Anyone?

So, as a general rule, body hair is not a very desirable thing. Unless you are a nine year old boy. Then, apparently, it's fascinating, and you really, really, really want some. Especially if your friend gets some first.

Liam, my nine year old, has a best friend. We'll call him B. B is a hilarious kid that is a kick to have around. B is seven months older than Liam, and is not what you'd call a skinny kid - but this totally adds to his charm. I have been hearing for a while about B's "armpit hair." Liam is completely awed by the fact that a kid his age could have already acquired such a thing. Several times now he has asked me to inspect his own armpits - just in case.

The other day I took the boys and B to the lake. They had a fabulous time swimming around and playing in the sand. Finally it was time to pack things up, and we got in the car and headed home. Niall, Liam and B are all sitting in the back seat as I hear (and watch via the rear view)the following conversation.

B: I have armpit hair.

L&N: Can we see? (in their "like totally cool! No way, dude!" voices)

Rear view mirror shows B proudly thrusting his armpits in the direction of my children's scrutinizing faces.

N: Wow, cool!

L: I think I'm getting some armpit hair!

Rear view mirror shows Liam hopefully displaying his armpits.

Some general conversation follows about different people and their armpit hair, until someone says:

"I know a kid who has armpit hair on his face!" followed by oooohs and ahhhs at the coolness of this statement.

How exactly do you follow a such a statement? I'm at a loss. I laughed all the way home. Since then, Liam has had me inspect his armpits, chest, and face. I had to disappoint him on all three accounts by describing the difference between "hair" and "fuzz". He rallied right back, however, and informed me that he has some "pretty good arm hair." I don't know, it looked pretty fuzzy to me. But he swears that when he gets out of the shower and rubs it with a towel it looks "Sooo hairy Mom!" Again, what can I say? Goooo Liam!

P.S. I told my mother this story, and like the fabulous grandma that she is, the next time she saw Liam the first thing she did was ask about his arm hair. He was thrilled.

Tan Lines

I just need to publicly announce that my skin actually has some color. I HAVE A TAN! Not much of one, but THERE IS A LINE! Hallelujah! It took three hours of floating around in the water to achieve it, but who cares. And can I just say (brace yourself) that I even got a little color on my legs??? (only the front, and not very much - at all - but at least I won't blind everyone at church {maybe}).

This is coming from the girl who thought she had made peace with her glowing whiteness. I do not want to hear any one with any amount of natural skin pigmentation try to commiserate with me here. You do not know what it's like in my world of year-round-whiteness. I do not burn, I do not tan. Apparently, I have the world's first sun-resistant skin. Let me illustrate.

I got tan once. I was working (like a SLAVE) for my brother one summer (the summer I met my husband actually - could it have been the tan??) and he had a pool. It was so ridiculously hot (over 95 EVERY day) that I would start working at 5:00 am. My entire day was spent in the sun as I hauled rocks with the wheel barrow, moved construction debris, hauled more rocks, and (attempted) to level his back yard with a shovel.

At 11:30 every day I took a two hour pool break to cool off. No sunscreen touched my body - my weapon of choice was baby oil. Slathered all over my glorious whiteness, the baby oil and I would float around my brother's pool following a strategic turning plan aimed at achieving the world's greatest tan. When finished, I would spend the rest of the day outside finishing my torture - oops, I mean work. (BTW, he paid VERY well).

After three months of this, those who knew me (and my natural coloring) well would say things like "Wow, it looks like you got a little color this year."

The rest of the population was probably wondering why I was so white.

I should have looked like a sun-goddess.

Really, I am constantly hearing how my skin "glows". Just so you know people, this is NOT a compliment if it's proceeded by phrases like "you're skin's so white it..." Especially coming from someone with a great tan, or naturally dark skin. And what about when they want to "compare" so they can show you just how white you really are (as if you didn't know). It's the equivalent of a skinny person going up to a fat person and saying "wow, you are sooo fat! Let's compare, see how much thinner I am than you? Let's put our butts together so we can measure the difference! Standing next to you makes me look like a supermodel!"

I digress. Back to the happy news, when I put a black t-shirt on this morning, my arms, chest, and neck didn't offer nearly the usual contrast! And of course they looked thinner, because everyone knows that tan takes inches off and adds tone to flabbiness. I am so thrilled I'm thinking of trying harder to get color next year. Let's see, it should only take about 300 hours of dedication to the sun to achieve that elusive "all-over-color"... Wish me luck.