Antics of a Super-Mom.

Liar, Liar, Pants on Fire

2008-11-02T19:03:00.005-07:00

So I had a wonderful experience last night. To tell the story properly, I must give some background. Our basement has been in a state of remodel for the last ten years. (See here for bathroom story.) Two years ago, my dear husband finished framing the walls and I got my storage room back. I painted it and filled it with boxes and general clutter. The only problem was that he never finished the light for the room. So we've had electrical wires hanging out in two places on the wall right inside room. Wires that weren't covered with those cute colored electrical caps. (Can you see where I'm going with this?)

Last night, I went to store some shoes for Sunshine and I guess I hit against the wires with my hip, and there were some sparks, and, well, my pants caught on fire. Not badly, but how bad does it really have to be? It melted a corner of my pocket and blackened a nice area on my favorite capris.

I was a little upset. I called my dear husband and left him a voice message. I'm guessing that I sounded pretty pissy because when he came home he headed for the basement and fixed the light.

So, guess what? I have a light in my storage room! It only took two years and one hour. And a sacrificial pair of pants. Yeah!

Human racetrack/cushion

2007-11-26T08:18:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, being Sunday, we went to church. Sick hubby stayed home and left me to entertain five children for an hour in the chapel. Little Sunshine (3) was not cooperating and I had to half drag him into the church. He wanted to go home and be sick with daddy. So when he sat on my lap and pulled out his cars to play, I was very thankful. I was even okay when he used my arms as racetracks. But when he decided to connect the two racetracks, and "leave them here" meant crossing my fingers and holding my arms at an awkward position, I had a few problems. But when I moved, he got louder. So what is a mom supposed to do? Yes, I sat there, arms aching, while he raced his cars up and down my arms. I even laughed when he decided that my shirt sleeves were garages and put the cars up my sleeves. The things we do to keep kids quiet.

Supermom hits a brick wall

2007-11-11T19:15:00.000-07:00

So, what happens when supermom has surgery on her foot and has to use crutches for two weeks? Her superkids come to the rescue.

I spent last weekend plopped on the couch with my foot propelled in the air with a pile of pillows. I was told I could get up to go pee. That was it. I was to stay put for three days. Luckily, I didn't really think through the whole surgery idea and its consequences, or I would probably still be hobbling around on a sore foot instead of clomping around on crutches.

My husband stayed home on the day of the surgery and took care of me. He did really great on Saturday too. By Sunday, he was tired of playing foot maid to the surgery queen. I don't blame him. I'm rather obsessive compulsive and get upset easily when you stir my hot chocolate with the big spoon instead of the little one, or set the remote control down on my left side instead of my right. Well, maybe I'm not quite that bad. Okay, yes I am.

I was really worried about Monday morning. I had to get the kids off to school, get myself off to school, and go to work that night. However, superkids came to my rescue. They fought over who got to make my hot chocolate and who got to toast the bagels.

My Ellie has been very awesome. She has inherited her mother's obsessive behaviors (bless her heart) and she is really great at doing everything I need without my asking her - and exactly the way I would do it. Our dog has been on antibiotics. I asked her to fix a snack for him with his pill. This is a true show of her tendancies.

"Ellie, get the baggie down that has a piece of bread in it and tear off a piece. Then put a little bit of peanut butter on the bread, push the pill inside it, and fold it in half." Ellie gets everything down from the cupboard and sets in out. She tears a piece of bread. Then she says, "What side should I put the peanut butter on?"

Oh yes, I am raising a child to be just like me. I've apologized to her many times. At least I can help teach her how to overcome the obsession. Like I have. Really. Okay, not.

Anyway, I have been very humbled. I cannot do everything. I have found out how to carry a glass of water (okay, a can of Dr. Pepper) across the floor without spilling it. I hop around a lot in the kitchen and can clean for about 10 minutes before my "hopping" foot hurts too badly. I can sit on the folding table in the laundry room and fold clothes. I can even make my bed. But there is a lot that I can't do - and it takes four times as long to do it. I have had to resign myself to the fact that my house is not going to be spotless for the next few weeks, and I have to stop looking in the kitchen so I don't cringe at the mess. Recovery from hitting a brick wall takes a little time.

Back to shoes

2007-10-03T00:17:00.000-06:00

My oldest daughter boobear needed new church shoes this past weekend and I needed to find some way cool shoes to go with my new skirt. I decided to take along the other girls. Little jellybean informed me that she did not have any church shoes that fit either and needed some new ones. So I helped her look for some too. It didn't go too well. Jellybean has a mind of her own and is a distant relative of the 6th dwarf in Snow White, Grumpy. The combination makes me want to scream and pull my hair at the same time. And then go drink something strong. Like a Dr. Pepper.

So after looking at several stores, pulling her through the departments, and trying to ignore the whining, I decided that I was done with her and she would be going home. As soon as we got to the car. And drove there. After I deposited her on the doorstep and went to get in the car, she decided to go onto the front deck and yell at me. "What am I supposed to wear for church, huh mom? I don't have ANY shoes!" And if that wasn't enough, after being ignored, she thought she'd call me. (Imagine an ultra-whiny voice, with a hint of snotty.) "Mom, what am I going to wear, all my shoes are too small and hurt my feet. You said I could get some shoes. Why did you take me home if I can get some shoes?"

So, since I drove to the next store laden with guilt, I found her a pair of shoes and brought them home. (I paid for them first.) Did she like them? Oh, hello! Of course not. So now I have to take back the shoes and find her more. Except, and this is the best part...I found three pairs of church shoes, one pair of brown dress boots, and one pair of black dress boots...all in her closet. They were carefully hidden, but I found them. Isn't she cute?

I am a college student - yes I am

2007-09-08T15:21:00.000-06:00

So I have completed my second week of college and have so much writing material available that I don't know where to start. So I think I'll tell you about my first day and a classmate's shoes. Yes, shoes. Always a good topic.

I was waiting outside the classroom for my French teacher to show up and unlock the door. Other students began appearing, and we all stood in the narrow hallway and looked at each other. Surprisingly, I felt like a part of them. When I first tried going to school after being married it felt really strange. Doesn't feel strange anymore. Guess I've reached the "I'm 35 years old and don't care anymore" point of life. It feels good. Anyway...

Along comes this cute little college student, in a very pretty, flower-printed sundress. And shoes. Silver pointy shoes. I am quite proud of myself for supressing my laughter. I don't think my eyes even twinged. I thought about her all day - walking to classes, which consists of buildings that are approximately 2 miles apart from each other. In silver pointy shoes. And I was very glad that I had chosen my cushy Sketchers.

I'm REALLY liking school. It's a very different approach from my previous college experience. Mainly because I am interested in learning what is being taught and not just coasting my way through class so I can check another credit off my list.

I can converse in French. Well, if you want to know my name, nationality, and marital status - then I can converse in French. See... Bonjour. J'mappelle Colleen Henstra. Je suis americaine. Je suis mariee. Impressed? My kids are. I tell them something in French and they are so marveled at their mom that they begin laughing. Then they tell me that I'm funny. Not really sure what that is about; I haven't learned any French jokes yet.

Shakespeare anyone?

2007-08-16T23:56:00.000-06:00

Oh that I might convey my words unto such as thee.

However, I don't really have much to say about my trip, except ... I'm home! The plays were fantastic-o and, um, well, did I say I really liked the plays?

Shakespeare rocks.

Just call me Gullible

2007-08-14T02:12:00.000-06:00

Last year, some co-workers invited me on a trip to Cedar City for the Shakespearean Festival. I was being nice. I said it sounded fun and I would like to go. Like, being the operative word here. Like, as in not a need, but a wish, a dream, not a reality.

Next thing I knew, she had bought the tickets and told me I could pay her back with my next paycheck. I was really shocked, mostly because I didn't really think I would go, and I definately didn't think someone would just buy the tickets and expect reimbursement.

However, I was in a funny position because the person was my supervisor, so I handed over my money. I think this is how I ended up bringing the turkey for our Thanksgiving potluck last year too. And the hotdogs for the summer BBQ.

Anyway, I leave on the trip tomorrow. My friend at work was supposed to go with us but backed out at the last minute, leaving me with my supervisor and her friend. They are dressing up. Like Shakespearean people. And walking around like that. Where people can see them. I'm a little unnerved by the idea. I don't draw attention to myself on purpose.

So I'm packed and ready to go on a trip I didn't want to take. It should be fun. Well, maybe not. At least I'll have something to write home about.

Shoe shopping and pecking ducks

2007-08-10T14:50:00.000-06:00

I have a sign on my bathroom wall that says "Raising kids is like being pecked to death by a duck". Today, my little ducklings and I took a trip to the mall for the Buy one, get one 1/2 off shoe sale.

Normally, I am a Payless Shoes kind of mom. Not personally. I buy good shoes for myself. But for kids who grow out of them every other week, or lose them, or decide to color them purple with a "washable" marker, cheap shoes fit the bill. But not this year. This year I can afford to buy nice shoes. So we went to the expensive shoe store. I'll probably regret this next week when Handsome can't find his left shoe.

Once I entered, I realized my first problem. I had brought four children, but was only buying shoes for three of them. I felt the tension in my neck before the first whine came out of little Sunshine's mouth.

Secondly, I had three children that all wanted me to play shoe salesman with them. "What is my shoe size, do they have these that will fit me, can I try these on" was a chorus blaring through the aisles. Little Sunshine took his shoes off in anticipation of trying on new ones, and he wasn't getting any.

Somehow, without any over-the-counter medications or hair pulling, we found shoes and an extra pair for Boobear, who is away at camp. We made it to the cash register. The salesperson assured me that I could get Boobear's shoes ordered in her size and shipped to my house, all for free. But when checking on the computer, she found out that she couldn't get me "these shoes". So I headed back to the aisle for a different pair.

That's when my littlest girl duckling followed. I don't remember what she was asking for, but it flowed in a never ending string of words. I just remember the feeling, that pecked-kind of feeling. I lost it. I wasn't kind. Couldn't she understand the stress and frustration at having to walk 20 feet to get a different pair of shoes? Didn't she know the anger and inconvenience that was raging through my mind? Okay, maybe I was having a moment. I realized it and chilled. It was only shoes, after all.

Turning 12 with a moment to reflect

2007-07-29T23:28:00.002-06:00

My boobear turns 12 tomorrow. I didn't realize the feelings that would come with this. She leaves for girl's camp in the morning, and while I send her to her dad's for a week at a time, I hesitate to send her off tomorrow. Maybe it's because she is reaching a milestone in her life, that time to change from girl to young woman, and I just want to hold on to her a little longer.

It's not often that I reflect on the quiet moments of being a mom. But as I sit here and think, I can feel the great joy and miracle it is to be a mom and to have these moments. And even though I don't want to let go, I can't wait to watch her walk on this new journey.

Swimming pools and the pool police

2007-07-25T02:12:00.001-06:00

So, I took my kids swimming today, like most days in the summer. I sometimes have to relent to avoid the endless whining about nneeevvveerrrr going swimming. Being the awesome, kind, loving mother that I am, I gave in and trotted off to the pool with my kids.

Pool policewoman was there. I haven't talked about her before, because I seem to get a tick below my left eye when I think about her. She counted me and my children when we walked through the gate. I've decided that next time we go swimming and she is there, we will proclaim our numbers loudly by shouting them out to her as we walk through...1...2...3.

There is a general misunderstanding that we cannot seem to agree upon because, either I am misunderstood or this policewoman has nothing better to do but sit in the pool and count my children. (There are five of them, it's a no brain er.) She seems to believe that the rule #14 in the pool membership, that states: "10 or more guests constitutes a party" actually means you and your family and any people you bring that total ten is a party. She tried to explain that it could be interpreted like this: "10. Or more guests." Then when I didn't fall for that, she decided that the secretary typed it up wrong 7 years ago and it's strange that no one has caught it yet.

I kept my cool through all this, but when she accused me of breaking the rules that exist solely in her mind, I lost all reason and argued back. I do regret it. I got mad. It happens. I have thought about going over and apologizing for losing my temper and yelling at her, but I really don't want to face her. Maybe when my eye stops twitching.

Yes, I can dress myself

2007-07-20T13:45:00.000-06:00

Here I am. Super-mom extraordinare. Queen of multi-tasking. Surely something as simple as a shirt won't stomp my style. Picture this.

We just returned back from a morning of swimming. Since I sat in the sun long enough to dry my suit, I'm not clammering to get out of it. I look cute. My stomach is mostly flat, except for the part that isn't. My friend Meagon left a message, so I decide to call her back. Amazingly, seeing as I was thinking about her, she sensed this and called me first.

I take a few precious moments to talk on the phone before my children discover that "mom is doing something" and come rushing in to ask a series of very important questions. Before they find me, I lay down on my bed and stretch, gabbing away on the phone. For a brief moment I feel like a teenager talking to a girlfriend, but then we approach the subject of children, and I am reminded that mine will find me at any moment.

I decide to get dressed before I am discovered unoccupied and available. I lock the door and proceed to dress while still talking on the phone. Doing well, just my shirt left. I sit on the bed and wait for a brief pause in the conversation, in which time I plan to flip my head and the phone through the small opening in the shirt. I plan to leave the phone attached to my ear in case Meagon says something during this time. Okay, I do it.

Instead of briskly sliding onto my head, my shirt decides to attach part of itself to the large clip on top of my head, preventing further movement. So here I sit, phone to my ear, half my head inside my shirt, with the remaining part of the shirt stuck on the clip on the top of my head. It was like a miniature tent for my face, except that there were no marshmellows to roast and I hate camping.

Insurance and aspirin

2007-07-18T02:26:00.001-06:00

You know those trucks that say "How's my driving? Call 1-800-999-9999. I think that insurance companies should include a 1-800 comment/complain number.

The clinic where my husband was treated last year billed my insurance agency. My insurance agency payed the bill. 10 months later my insurance company discovered a problem and reversed the payment. So I got a bill from the clinic.

Today I called the insurance company. I found out that the clinic billed my husband as a NEW patient when actually he was an ESTABLISHED patient. Can you imagine the horror? It just gives me chills to think about it. Okay, not.

So I had to call the clinic to tell them "Aaauugh, um, like, can you bill him as an established patient? Cause, you know, golly gee, the insurance company, like, really wants you to."

After I banged my head a bit (hence the aspirin) and finished the phone calls, I started looking for that 800-comment/complain number on the bill. It must be in the fine print.

Compost and summer

2007-07-09T09:46:00.000-06:00

I can't believe how much of summer is already gone. It's time to start thinking about shopping for school clothes. I'm just getting used to the summer schedule, which means we'll be switching schedules soon.

I decided to start a compost bin this summer. I've been wanting to do one for a few years. I love the whole idea of it. Your food scraps go into it, making a purpose to all the food my children waste. Your yard scraps go into it, saving space in the landfields. It benefits your garden and flowers by adding valuable nutrients....blah blah blah. So I started with a simple compost bin, made from a rubber garbage can. You just have to find one with a tight lid and cut a few holes on the sides for ventilation. Okay, done! I was so proud of myself. I even bought some bricks and placed them in the garden for the compost bin to sit on.

I added some scraps, a little water and let it sit. Few days later, I rotated the compost bin by turning it on its side and rolling it a bit. Added more scraps, and a few weeks later was well on my way to making some awesome compost.

Then I found a hard piece of toast on the bathroom floor with a noodle stuck on it. I became a little suspicious. Out to the compost bin - I found that my dog had pried away one of the sides to the lid (the compost bin was laying on its side) and she had dug out some food. Gross! I lifted the can and discovered that the lid was no longer tight. Okay. Plan B. Just roll it around each day but leave it standing upright. Well, that didn't work either because it leaked when I was rolling it around. I also suspect that the sprinkler was adding more water through those venting holes placed in the sides. It was really yikey. (Yes, yikey is a word.)

I decided to ban the compost bin. I dumped all the contents into a garbage bag. It was the worst smell I have ever smelled, and with five kids, that is saying a lot. I mean it was a really horrible smell. I gagged.

I tried, I failed. Next year I'll just send dear hubby to the argricultural site to buy a truckload of compost. Much safer choice.

Boy, do I feel stupid

2007-05-04T10:02:00.000-06:00

As part of my super-mom antics, I design websites. I ran a home business for three years, and still have one client that I regularly work for. We have never met face to face and have always conversed through email and the phone. Anyway, I was cutting out an obituary for my boss at work and found that my web client had passed away. I was sort of in shock. I also didn't realize that he was 83 years old, and found it odd that he was still running his business. (Looking back now, that should have been a big clue.)

Last night, I got home from work and checked my email. There, posted among the living, was an email from Elmont. He wanted some updates added. Either stupidity kicked in at this point or I can blame it on the lateness of the hour (it was 2:00 in the morning) but I thought someone at their office was testing me. I replied:

"I was sorry to hear of Elmont's passing. Who has taken over for him? I will get these changes made ASAP."

And off my reply went into cyper world.

I spent some time last night contemplating the dead, and was reminded of our reincarnated cat. Checked my email this morning, and I had a reply. It said:

"Thank you. Dad has been retired from the business for the last 14 years so it is still me running things here. Thanks again. Elmont"

So I sent back:

"Well, that settles the confusion I had, and also the thought that your dad sounded very young and bright for his age when I spoke to him on the phone. I guess that's what can happen when you never meet face to face with someone, right? I'm happy to hear that you are alive and well. Sorry about your dad."

Web designers are supposed to be smart, aren't they?

Bargaining amongst my children

2007-05-01T13:28:00.000-06:00

This weekend brought a day I always wish for; the toothfairy talk. Ellie wanted to know if the toothfairy was real. "Yes," my heart cried. "One more down." We talked about what she thought and ended with "don't tell your younger sister or brothers." Then realization dawned on Ellie: "but can I still get a dollar when I lose a tooth?" My heart fell. I quickly replied "no" and walked away fast, hoping to avoid the sunken face and pout that were sure to follow my reply. Of course, Ellie went and moped around in her room. I ignored her.

Then I found the note. Placed on my pillow, with a marker for my reply. "Can I get a dollar every other time I lose a tooth? Write yes or no on the back and return to me."

Didn't I teach her to try other methods when the results weren't what she wanted? Shouldn't I be proud of my daughter for trying to find a solution that works for both of us? Instead I thought, "Oh sure, now I would not only have to remember to put the dollar under the pillow, but also remember if this was the paying time or the not paying time."

My reply: "We'll see." I know it's a cop-out, but I can only dish out disappointment so many times in one day.

My desk at work

2007-04-22T14:05:00.000-06:00

I work a real job during the week, and I want to put all the cute pictures of my kids on my desk, but alas, there is not enough room. So I've found this really cool picture frame that is digital, and I can win it for free. I just have to provide a link from my blog (that's right here) to the contest url, that's here - and shamelessly publish my blog for my chance to win.

See, this photo frame would be great on my desk because I could have one frame with tons of pictures, and I would even consider buying it because I like it so much - but it's $250 - and I somehow can't justify that. So, I'd really like to win it. If you are reading this post, please don't enter the contest yourself. Let me win, okay? And yes, my guilt is setting in already for promoting this, but if I win the picture frame, it will all be good.

Toothpaste and other squeezables

2007-04-17T01:56:00.000-06:00

My two year old dear son likes to squeeze toothpaste. He likes to squeeze it on the floor, on his hands, and any other available surface he can get to before he is caught. Since the toothpaste is now up high from his reach, he has ventured into other squeezables. We found honey squirted on the new wood floor in the kitchen. I found jam from a newly purchased bottle (you'd think I'd have caught on by now and stopped buying squeezable bottles) blobbed onto the living room floor. I have a proud red stain to mark that location.

Something interesting happened last night. My five year old son got up to go to the bathroom after being in bed. A few minutes later I walked past the bathroom and found him with the bottle of soft soap (the foamy kind) - he was making a line across the threshold into the hallway with the soap. Our conversation went something like this: "How come you are putting soap on the floor? Did that look dirty to you?" to which he replied, "Yes, I fought it was diwty and I was cweaning it." "That's nice of you, but I think you better wipe it off now. Next time you see something dirty, ask first, okay?" (I handed him a rag to wipe with.)

It makes me wonder. Not what was going through my older son's mind. I wonder that too. But it makes me think back to all those times when we found "stuff" squeezed all over. Was it really my little boy, or was my older son getting away with something?

Money is so important - Not!

2007-04-11T10:58:00.000-06:00

My ex-husband and I have joint custody of my oldest daughter, who I'll call Boobear. She will be starting junior high next year. Boobear's dad has four other children at his house, I have four other children at my house. She spends 1/2 a week at each house (she has a crazy schedule but loves it, fortunately). My ex has always been obsessed with money. Feels like it makes him into something. Self-confidence issues anyone? In fact, in our divorce, he said "I'm losing my wife and daughter. I want to keep the house so I have something to show for the divorce." I don't know if it was more pathetic that I gave it to him, or that he "needed" it. Anyway.

My daughter has a style of dress that is similar to mine: jeans, t-shirts, casual, neutral colors. I feel comfortable in my clothes, feel like "me". He has recently started this thing with her where he wants her to dress so that people know that he has money. He actually said those exact words to her. "I want you to dress so that people will know that I have money."

I've tried to talk to her (walking on eggshells so I don't bash her dad) about how money doesn't make you a good or bad person, it doesn't make you better than someone else, and it's not as important as other things, like being happy, liking yourself, etc. I talked to the ex about being careful with how he words things to her. Yet, he has done it again.

They took their kids shopping at Dillard's. Now, maybe when I have as much money as him (whatever) I'll want to blow my money buying the same dress for $75 as I can get for $40 - but probably not. I love sales. I don't think that will ever change. My kids dress nice. But they wear what they want, not what will make people think that we have money by looking at our children's clothes.

Okay, so they took them shopping for Easter dresses. At Dillard's. Told Boobear that she could either find a dress there or not get one at all. Hhhmm. No pressure. Or maybe it's no choice.

I also took Boobear shopping for an Easter dress. (Dear ex does not want her clothes from his house to come to our house. We often rip our clothes apart and set them on fire, just for fun.) We went to 7 stores before she found the dress she wanted. We also looked at Dillard's. And Mervyn's. And The Children's Place. And found one, finally. And it's nice. And it was on sale.

I just hope she looks like we make money when she wears it.

Four kids equals how many plastic cups?

2007-04-05T14:03:00.000-06:00

I'm getting a new wood floor and dishwasher in my kitchen this week. Dear hubby took out the dishwasher last night after making sure I was okay with the idea. He is so trained. Anyway, I asked him to run one more load of dishes so I only had to deal with breakfast dishes today. As a side note, let me mention that I really dislike washing dishes. My hands don't feel pampered soaking in hot soapy water. Instead, they feel dry, and my nails are so soft that they bend and break. I don't like it. At all.

Okay, so the dishwasher is out on the back deck, tossed out for the lastest, greatest, newest dishwasher available. That's a whole other blog. Breakfast is over, lunch is over (take-out leaves no dirty dishes) and I just washed the breakfast dishes. Well, I washed the bowls, spoons, and seventeen plastic cups. Seventeen. I had four kids home last night. Figure one each last night, one each this morning, count with me here. How did we get to seventeen? Are the cups multiplying during the night?

Last summer I took the kids to the store and they each picked out their own unique plastic cup. (Never mind that this is a margarita cup and this one is a wine glass.) My idea was that they would use their cup each day, one cup, and they would know it was theirs because, well, they picked it out. It didn't work very well because they didn't want to put soda pop in the same cup they had put milk in earlier. It was a good idea, just didn't take. I think I'll instigate this Unique Cup Program again and show them how to wash their cup between drinks.

I strongly dislike the Easter bunny

2007-03-31T22:52:00.000-07:00

What is the purpose of the Easter bunny? How is it in any way related to Christ, the Easter story, the Resurrection - whatever your belief? When Mary didn't find Christ in the tomb, was there a path of Easter eggs that led her to where he was? I don't remember that in the bible. Did a happy bunny come hopping along and show her where to go?

Mostly, I'm annoyed that my children will search the house for their hidden Easter basket, marvel at all the wonderful candy and fun toys inside it, and thank the Easter bunny. I will spend hours shopping (did that today) and hours putting them together (next Saturday after bed) - not to mention the money involved in buying all these things, and I get nothing! I'm probably being selfish. Note to self: thank mom for all the Easter baskets I got as a kid. Anyway.

Does this bug anyone else, or is it just me?

Guilt and denial

2007-03-30T11:19:00.000-07:00

Last night during our nightly phone call, my two youngest girls told me they had a surprise for me. They said I would see it when I got home. I figured they had drawn me a picture or left a note. What they did was to clean their room. And I mean CLEAN. You can even see the dresser! And as a bonus, they did not stuff anything under their beds. (They mentioned that tidbit this morning. I laughed.) Ellie even cleaned out her dresser and f-o-l-d-e-d her clothes. Wow! I mean, WOW! I was impressed.

Then, this morning, I am awakened by four children (Boobear is at her dad's house) who brought me breakfast. In bed. It was even good. Just what I wanted for breakfast. And there were notes that said "Thanks for being a good mom. You are the best."

Why do I feel guilty? Why is the first thing that pops in my head: "I'm not a good mom, I don't deserve this?" Am I striving for some level of perfectionism that is not only out of reach, but impossible since I don't even know what I'm striving for?

I am a good mom. This can be my new daily affirmation. You are a good mom. You don't beat your children, yell at them (unless I need to be heard), or make them wear old fashioned clothes. You might give them nicknames that they will have to defend later on (thanks, anonymous Nate!) but you are a good mom. Affirmations make me think of Saturday Night Live way back when I was in college. I am good enough, smart enough, and dog-gone it, people like me. Now if I could just find some friends.

Is it a Utah thing or do moms everywhere advertise their kids?

2007-03-27T11:54:00.000-07:00

Okay, I don't know if this is just a Utah trend or if this is something that is taking place all over the country - (I live a rather sheltered life) - anyway, it's really trendy to have vinyl clings on your car. I have some Hawaiian flowers on the back window of my Durango. But the most popular images are usually found on minvans. They show a cartoon picture for each member of the family, mom, dad, brother, sister, sister, and cat. Then some of these vinyls go so far as to include a name for each family member under the cartoon image.

Am I the only one that thinks this is just nuts, or am I over-paranoid? To me, this is saying: look, I have a boy named David who is about this size (must refer to picture) and loves baseball (again, the picture). If you are interested in kidnapping him, please just follow my minivan. I may make 15 stops before I get home, but you can see where his school is, where we like to shop, his favorite playground, where his friends live, and where we live. Please use any of these places to plan your kidnapping.

Is it just me?

Why does a 1st grader know what "popular" is?

2007-03-26T13:08:00.000-07:00

My youngest daughter Jellybean started first grade this year. She had an awesome kindergarten year and made lots of new friends. Last summer, I was talking to her best friend's mom about 1st grade and teacher choices. Kara hoped that Jellybean was in the same class as her daughter because the other kids in her neighborhood won't play with her daughter at school if they aren't in the same class. They will tell her kids point blank that "you are not in my class, so I'm not playing with you." Kara complained to the other moms. They responded by saying that was just how it was. I was kind of in shock over this.

So now we are halfway through 1st grade. I will ask Jellybean about friends from last year, and she will tell me that they hang out with the popular kids. These comments do not make me want to run out and buy the coolest new clothes for my daughter so she can be popular too. These comments make me mad. My 1st grader should not have to deal with popularity. She is seven! There should not be cliques in elementary school. Why is it this way? My older daughters did not have this - so it seems to be centered around a certain group of moms and their neurotic desire to make their child popular. I have to wonder how this can happen at such an early age.

I try to teach my kids that what is important is how you treat other people. That what is inside is what matters. That clothes don't make you a good person. But when we deal with popularity at age seven, what hope do I have to make them understand?

No talking day

2007-03-23T17:13:00.000-07:00

My 6th grader Boobear has a no talk day at school. This is just for her class, and I think her teacher is brilliant. I have decided to adopt this idea for myself at home. You know those days when you want to change your name to dad, well, instead - let's just not talk. My day would be something like this:

Wake up to the sound of children's banter. A few screams. One or two fake crying attempts. Go into the t.v. room. Hear a chorus of "mom!". Shake my head no and hold my finger to my lips, signaling quiet. Have handsome ask me "what?". Again signal quiet. His response would be something like this: "Me no know what you doin' mom. Tell me." Insisting on my no talking day would have him upset to the point of hysterics, throwing his door shut, and pulling all the pictures off his walls. Why? I don't know. He is a boy. That is all I know.

Sunshine is too little to understand what a no talk day is, so telling him SShhhh! would have him defiantly telling me NO! in a loud and obnoxious sound. He would then run around the house trying to break the world's record for the loudest and most horrible sound possible.

The girls would begin an argument about who was quiet first, the longest, or who heard someone else say something when they shouldn't have. It would end with one getting hit in the arm, and another one smacked in the nose. And there would be crying. And tattle-taling. And then it would begin again.

I would get so frustrated with the whole no talk day that I would get mad and yell at all of them. At which point they would point out the fact that I'm not supposed to talk either.

Maybe I can just have a "wear earplugs" day instead.

Super-dads and bathroom transformations

2007-03-21T12:00:00.000-07:00

Homes that have a super-mom always have a super-dad. It's a requirement. Our super-dad is so super and amazing that he is able to transform a perfectly good bathroom into a pile of rubbish in 2 hours. Let me tell you how this amazing feat was possible.

We had a home with a finished basement. Had. As in, don't now. In this basement was a beautiful, 1970's style carpet, complete with shag in colors ranging from orange to brown to black. During my pregnancy with our fourth child, I went through one of those bizarre moods where something must be done - and my mission was this carpet. I did not care (I actually said this out loud) if we had a cement floor for five years, I wanted this carpet out. That week. My husband understands me well enough to know that if he doesn't do it, I will do it myself. So on a Sunday morning he quietly left church early to go home and tear out the carpet. Please note the word "carpet" here.

When we came home two hours later, we found super-dad standing in the "I once was a bathroom" with hard hat and sledge hammer in tow. Did I mention that he was standing on the broken remnants of the tiled shower? He had torn out the shower, all the walls, removed the toilet and sink, and was pulling out the insulation. His plan was to build a bigger bathroom, so he had torn out my storage closet as well. All the storage boxes were piled in the garage. See, this bathroom had always bothered him. It bothered me too, but it was downstairs, used by one child, and I didn't ever see it. Okay, it didn't bother me that much.

He did take out the carpet in the rest of the basement first. I mean, as long as you are removing carpet, you might as well tear out a bathroom, right? I'm still trying to figure out what he was thinking. I think it's one of those Mars vs. Venus things. The thing that really confuses me is that we had no plans to remodel that bathroom.

So, here we are. That child I was pregnant with is now 5 years old. (Remember my remark about 5 years of cement floor?) Yes, the floor is still cement. The bathroom has been framed (framing is a long and difficult process that requires years to complete). We are carpeting the basement some day in the not-so-distant future. Someday when I decide I've had it and go paint the walls myself. Unless super-dad steps in and decides that as long as we are painting the walls, we might as well tear out the fireplace. Hey, that reminds me of the mouse books. Maybe I can write a children's book based on this. It would go something like this:

Hubby's To-Do List

Dear hubby had a to-do list. It said "tear out basement carpet". He went down the stairs. Hubby started to tear out the carpet. Then he saw the bathroom. Well, if you are going to tear out the carpet, you might as well tear out the bathroom too. So hubby tore out the bathroom.

When hubby was done, he was thirsty. He got a drink. While he was drinking his Pepsi, he saw the grass outside. It was covered in weeds. He thought he should tear it out too. So he did.

Then he turned on the sprinklers to rinse off his hands. The sprinklers weren't working, so he tore those out. When he was done, he saw that there was mud where the sprinklers had been. So he put some grass in the holes.

Seeing the grass made him think of his carpet. That reminded him that he still needed to tear out the carpet downstairs. So hubby went down the stairs again.

What do you think? Think I can find a publisher? Know anyone that does home repairs?

Carpet gremlins and cold medicine

2007-03-19T11:26:00.000-07:00

Why is it that all the pieces of paper, lint, strings, etc. always find the edge of the carpet to reside? Is there some carpet gremlin that creeps in at night and moves everything to the edge? I just wanted to do a quick swipe of the floor today. I'm feeling pretty sick. Allergies. Sinus infection. Cold. One of these. So I am doing minimal housekeeping and since dear SunShine sprinkled Frosted Flakes on the floor this morning, I thought I ought to vacuum.

A quick swipe of the floor became an "attach the hose thingy" job instead, since everything had moved to the edges. Wow, this medicine is really working. I can't even think to spell. I wish the medicine would make my nose stop running though. That is what it is supposed to do. Oh well, a groggy mind is a good excuse for just about anything. Anyway, what was I talking about? Oh, the floor. Why am I talking about the floor? Focus! Carpet gremlins. Okay. I think I'll just post this now before I realize what a weird topic I've chosen, in which instance I'll have to come up with something else to post.

Life was simple when I was a kid

2007-03-17T18:34:00.000-07:00

I took my kids to the park today. I watched them swing and do tricks like "no hands" and "eyes closed". I marveled at the joy of being a kid. I tried to remember the last time I did something that I wanted someone else to watch. Do I do anything like that as an adult? I couldn't think of anything.

How awesome is it to be a kid? When you get great joy in having your mom watch you jump from the top of the ladder. Or swing really high.

When do we outgrow this need for others to watch us? Or does it just take form as something else? I'm probably just having some strange "sleep deprived" philosophical moment that I will later read and wonder what was going through my mind. But I found myself just wishing for a few minutes of joyful bliss - having someone watch me swing.

Cat Reincarnated

2007-03-16T12:19:00.000-07:00

Last year our adopted cat Abbey was hit by a car. I found her after walking the kids to school. (I was so happy they didn't see her.) Anyway...fast forward two months. This cat appears in our backyard. Our fenced in back yard. She looks like Abbey. Exactly. The kids come running in the house - "Mom, Abbey is alive!" We have a talk about how cats can't come back alive. Well, apparently they had a Sunday School lesson about Jesus raising Lazarus (spelling? I'm too lazy to check) from the dead. Another talk about how cats don't come back alive.

She still roams the neighborhood. We left food on the front porch for her. The neighbor dog ate it. (Why do dogs like cat food better than their own?) We stopped leaving food. After all, it's okay to feed our reincarnated cat - just not the neighbor's dog. I'm deviating. Anyway, we see this cat all the time. My kids still remark "there's Abbey" when they see her. Maybe she really did come back. I'm just glad we didn't bury her in the backyard.