I Thought Frogs Were Supposed To Croak

A few days after N’s first fish died, I took him to the local mega store and let him pick out a new one. Instead of opting for another traditional goldfish, he decided to go with a Black Moor fish. On the way home, he tried out several different names to give it. I don’t think that he ever settled on one. I secretly started calling it Azeem.

It was the summer before my freshman year of high school that Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves hit the theaters. I remember all of my friends and I swooning over the theme song, rewinding our walkmans over and over to hear the song’s climax.

At fourteen-years-old, hearing an approaching-middle-aged man with bad skin and a scratchy voice sing “I would die for yooooooouuuuu…” as the background music took a dramatic pause was incredibly hormone-inducing.

As a mother, seeing your son’s second fish put that concept into practice? Yeah, not so much.

N~ woke me up this morning with the sad news that Azeem had gone to meet Allah.

So, we built a little popscicle-stick pyre, dowsed the little fishy in kerosene, and shot a matchstick-arrow at him as he was circling the bowl (Flushed dooooooown, in a blaze of glory…).

OK, not really. We just flushed him. But really, the flaming fish flush scenario would have been pretty awesome.

So, we are back down to two fish, which I continue to care lovingly for. And five little tadpoles that I’m all but forced to leave alone. And not a single one of them has croaked, yet.

Happy Stinkin’ Birthday

Today is Sean’s birthday (and I think he is slightly bothered by the fact that he is thirty-ONE). I did all of my shopping preparation yesterday. I cleared my normally busy Wednesday schedule (voice lessons and youth group) so I could have the evening with him and our family. I wanted to be sure and make it a nice day for him.

He woke up early this morning so he could, as usual, head to the gym and work out before going to the office. I’m assuming the workout was good. The drive home, however, wasn’t.

Oh, OK, the drive was fine. It just wasn’t in his car. Because his car refused to start.

Yay.

He spent half of the morning testing the car battery (it was fine) and having the car towed to a shop. The starter is messed up. I can live with that, since that isn’t a horribly expensive thing to have fixed.

So he finally made it into the office (in jeans–lol–how often do you go to your insurance agent’s office and see him in jeans?), and the morning has been calm for him.

My morning, however, would not be classified as calm. The kids have actually done OK for the most part, but I have been busy trying to get things ready. Their bedroom was a mess, the kitchen floor still needs swept and mopped, and I have all of the general picking up and vacuuming that needs to be done.

And, of course, there was the cake.

If there is one “given” about an adult birthday around here, it is that someone had better be making a German chocolate cake. From scratch. Sooooo worth it. But making a cake from scratch can get a little frustrating with four little people arguing with each other and wanting your attention at the same time. So I put on Thomas the Train DVD’s for them to watch while I worked on the cake.

Would you question my sanity if I told you that I started getting a bit too involved with Thomas? It started when I heard the trains all singing about how much they had to do. All I could think was, “Yeah, right, try bringing your animated little cabooses into my world. You’ve got nothing on reality.”

Then the steam engines and the diesel engines started arguing about who is better (like I don’t hear enough of that without the help of the television). For the next fifteen or so minutes, I walked around singing “Oooooh, the diesels and the steamies should be friends…” a la Oklahoma.

Oh, yes, that brings me to the term “steamies.” Please tell me that I’m not the only one highly disturbed by the diesel’s insistence on calling Thomas a “stinkin’ steamy.” Maybe it’s just because I already had the farmer and the cowman on my mind, but that just sounds unsanitary.

OK, I’ll stop. Sean will be home in a few hours, and I’ve got miles to go before I have a peaceful home for him to return to. And, after his morning, he deserves at least that much for his birthday.

Meme Fun

My friend Jill tagged me for a meme, which I have put off for a few days now. So, here we go:

What I was doing 10 years ago:

I was 21, and had just finished doing my student teaching (high school English) in Salt Lake City, Utah. I would have just moved back home. I was attending a singles congregation, and Sean was still on his mission (and we had broken up while  he was on his mission…), so I was dating A LOT. More than I ever had at any other time in my life. Like, lunch with one guy and dinner with another. It was a fun time, but also a scary time. I was trying to transition from being a college student to the idea of moving on to actual adulthood.

 

5 things on my to-do list today:

1. Clean (every day, same things, over and over)

2. Buy a birthday present for Sean (I’m thinking running shoes–and I can say that here because he doesn’t read this, anyhow)

3. Buy and deliver rolls for an after-funeral dinner (need to confirm time on that one)

4. Get ingredients for German chocolate cake (see #2)

5. Go work out with trainer (and feel guilty about the brownies and M&M’s from Mother’s Day and the cake I’ll have tomorrow)

Edited to add a #6: Go plunge the toilet. Again.

 

Things I would do if I were a billionaire:

1. Pay off all debts.

2. Invest

3. Set up trust funds for my children

4. Hire a housecleaner/nutritionist/chef/mother’s helper

5. Create an organization to help needy children

6. Ooooh! Scholarship fund for families wanting to adopt needy children (I’d have you covered, Jill)

7. Let’s be honest, there would be some selfish, splurgish stuff in there, too (clothes, cars, dream house…)

 

Bad habits:

1. Computer time (that’s right, folks–your blogs are my bad habit)

 

Places I’ve lived:

1. Maine (for a whole three months of my infancy)

2. Provo and Salt Lake City, Utah

3. A couple of different towns in the general location where I now reside.

 

5 jobs I’ve had:

1. Waitress

2. I was responsible for cleaning out the three huge garbage disposals/food grinders in the MTC (Mormon missionary training center) and the machine that converted the ground-up sludge into mulch for the flower beds on the grounds (very efficient, if nasty). It was, officially, the most disgusting job in the entire MTC. Nobody can ever accuse me of being a princess.

3. Administrative manager/technical writer/editor/database compiler/anything else they asked me to do for an engineering firm

4. Office manager for my husband’s insurance business

5. Chief Operating Officer of a rapidly expanding organization focused on health, wellness, and life coaching (aka: Mom).

 

Pretty much anyone that I would tag has already been tagged, but if you haven’t and want to play, I’m extending an open invitation.

Mother’s Days

My first Mother’s Day as a married woman was memorable. And not in a warm and fuzzy sort of way. I had been trying to get pregnant for about eight months. About a month or so earlier, we had gone through preliminary fertility testing and had been told that our chances of conceiving a child without major intervention were basically non-existent.

I sat through sacrament meeting teary, but holding it together. The closing prayer was said. Everyone was told to remain seated while the kids passed out treats (flowers? chocolate?) to all of the adult women. I probably freaked out the kid that handed me mine. I was sobbing uncontrollably. The pain of my childlessness was magnified to unbelievable proportions. I hadn’t gotten past the irrational shame associated with not being able to have kids, so most people didn’t even know that we had been trying. Which means that most people wouldn’t have a clue why I was blubbering in such an extreme way. I just wanted to leave–to go home, curl up in a ball, and sob. But I didn’t feel like I could because I had responsibilities. I had to go teach Primary. Yep. There I was, a drippy mess because of my sadness at not being able to have children, and I had to stay at church so I could go teach other people’s adorable little 4- and 5-year-olds. It was, to put it mildly, a difficult day.

I went through two more childless Mother’s Days, but at least I was prepared for the emotions that they would bring out in me.

My first Mother’s Day as a mom was a mixture of emotions. N~ was just a bit over three weeks old. My friends and family had gathered the day before to throw me a baby shower. I truly was a *new* mother. It should have been one of the most joyful days imaginable. That day, however, was overshadowed by family grief. You see, a couple of hours before my baby shower began, my grandmother (my mom’s mother) passed away after a prolonged illness. Five years later Mother’s Day, while a celebration, is also a reminder of great loss. So that day–my first Mother’s Day–was not the celebration that it might have been.

Yesterday was a wonderful celebration of motherhood in our family (well, except for a couple of my brother’s kids, whose mother decided she didn’t want to deal with them and basically kicked them out–some people just don’t deserve the title of mother). We headed up to Radiator Springs to Elaine’s new house (about 2/3 of the way there, Sean commented that he had thought that Elaine was just being snarky when she complained about living in the middle of nowhere, but that it seemed we were actually heading to the outskirts of nowhere).

We had crab legs, shrimp kabobs, hamburgers, hotdogs, corn, and asparagus. The kids caught tadpoles (there are now three more in our bowl at home) and shrieked over enormous spiders. And the day ended with tractor rides. It was childhood Mecca. We didn’t leave until it was bedtime for the boys, hoping to have a quiet two-hour ride home (yeah, right). It was a good day, and the boys look forward to visiting again soon.

Next time, we’ll bring clean clothes (no matter how cold it is!)

N~, Tank Boy, and W~ doing the little boy thing

 

L~, A~, N~, and Tank Boy looking for tadpoles

 

C~ took an unauthorized swim when we turned our backs for a second (shallow water, folks, no worries!)

Toddler Fun

C~ cracks me up. Especially when I can keep a pacifier out of his mouth–he talks so much more, then. (Yes, we have got to break him of it. I didn’t let his brothers have theirs after their second birthdays, but I have been a bit more lenient for him since E~ was born so close to his birthday.) So, a couple of quick, cute things the C-man has done today.

When I finally was ready to eat breakfast this morning, I discovered a severe lack of milk to drench my cereal in. No problem! I grabbed my bowl and headed next door to steal some milk from mom (whole milk–blech!). Two minutes later, I was back in my house with ready-to-eat cereal. But I could hear this suspicious crinkling sound in my kitchen. I went to check, and found C~ squatting on the floor, my unopened bag of crispy mint M&M’s (Mother’s Day present from Elaine–YUM!) in front of him, and safety scissors in his hand. Sneaky little imp! Luckily, his scissor skills aren’t that advanced, yet, and my M&M supply stayed secure.

Of course, another two minutes passed and I discovered that he had gone digging through my diaper bag and stolen a piece of gum. I had to physically pry his mouth open to get it out. He was not going to be denied another treat (and I was not going to reward him for digging through my stuff).

And now, as I sit here eating lunch, he has gotten me to giggle. I made him a sandwich, with string cheese and a piece of banana. As he ate, he looked at me and said, “I want an orange apple, Mommy!” OK, you have to live in my life to know just how adorably cute it was. He has developed a recent love of oranges, but hasn’t gotten the concept that they aren’t apples. It would produce great frustration on his part when he would ask for an apple and I wouldn’t grab the desired fruit. So “orange apple” is cute (and helpful!).

Oh, so many other cute things I could talk about. And some, I will. But not in this post. I have others that need written, and the cuteness will be covered, there.

Firsts

No, this isn’t a post about the baby (although E~ is now cooing and has started to giggle some–waaaay cute!).

Actually, I suppose a more appropriate title would be “Firsts in a while.” But that is sort of nonsensical.

I mentioned earlier this week that I have started taking voice lessons. I have always loved to sing. The summer between my senior year of high school and freshman year of college, I took about a month’s worth of voice lessons. My teacher tried to convince me to major in music. I told her that, no, I was going to be an English teacher and “make a difference.” Ha! Ask me now what I think of government schools. (Hint: I already have enrolled N~ in a virtual charter/homeschool program for next year.) Anyhoo…

So, I started voice lessons three weeks ago. My teacher asked me the first week to participate in our ward’s (ward=Mormon congregation) classical recital. She chose a song for me that I had never heard before, “The Curse” from the movie version of Rigoletto. It is a beautiful song.

(OK, I thought I would try going to YouTube and see if I could find a video of the song for you to watch. And guess what I found???

The video is jerky, the sound quality isn’t great. BUT…It’s my teacher, singing the song! Yep, that’s the lovely lady that is teaching me to sing better! I couldn’t resist showing you off, Jill.)

Last night was the recital. It was the first time that I had sung a solo in quite awhile. I was definitely nervous. My hands shook when I had to turn the pages of my music. I swear, my mouth was shaking when I sung my high A flat (I had mental images of horrible, contorting expressions on my face at that moment). But  I think that I did pretty well. Of course, as I told my mother (who accompanied me) as we were walking up to perform, I could have screwed up as much as I wanted and it wouldn’t have mattered–I sang right after Jill belted out a gorgeous opera piece. I was feeling a little, um, less. (Of course, I found out that I was right after her because she had ordered the performers by age–youngest to oldest. Out of ten performers, only two came after me. Um, yeah, kind of depressing. )

****************************************

Now, in honor of another first, we must pause for another YouTube gem.

We live close enough to King’s Island that Sean’s dad gets our family season’s passes for Christmas. The drive there takes us past this church and its, um, unique statue. Please don’t misunderstand, I know nothing about the church, their beliefs, etc. I’m not trying to make fun of them, I just wonder if there wasn’t a better use of the money spent to create an enormous statue of a drowning Jesus signaling a touchdown. Like, maybe, feeding a village. Especially since there is already a ridiculous statue-landmark right next door, in the form of an anatomically correct horse over a flea market sign (its “correctness” is obvious from its bucking pose). Yes, it makes for a rather strange minute or so of driving down interstate 75.

So, anyhow, today was our first trip of the season to King’s Island. Good times. N~ was excited because he is finally tall enough for the Avatar ride (then he white-knuckled it through the whole thing and didn’t ask to ride again). W~ is now tall enough for the “big kid” roller coaster, and C~ just barely made it onto the little kid roller coaster. It was a day of new experiences for them all.

E~ slept happily in our new stroller off and on throughout the whole day (I cannot say enough positive things about the stroller–LOVE it).

A good day was had by all, and we did a pretty wonderful job of completely wearing our kids out. Of course, I managed to pick up a lovely sunburn in the process. It’s stupid, really. I brought sunscreen. I put it on the kids. I just didn’t think that I needed it. Duh! My arms and chest area are telling a different tale.

It has been a wonderful day. But now, it is time for bed. Tomorrow will be another first–we get to make the two-hour drive up to Radiator Springs to see Elaine’s house for the first time.

Everyone have a wonderful Mother’s Day tomorrow!

A Question for Those Who Might Know

I know that there are some birthmothers who read my blog. I have a question for you.

I honestly have never known how to deal with Mother’s Day with N’s birthmom. I haven’t called her in the past because I figured that it was her day with her mother and her other children. I have been afraid of making it a more difficult day for her.

This year, though, I’m thinking about calling. N~ has an understanding now of the role that she plays in his life. And she knows that he has it figured out. So, I’m thinking that it might be a good thing now to have him acknowledge her tomorrow, too.

On the other hand, she didn’t acknowledge his birthday this year, so I’m wondering if this means that she is struggling with things right now. Or maybe it is just because she has a newborn that she is dealing with.

Opinions?

I just don’t know if calling her would make it more positive, or if it would bring sadness closer to the surface.

Losing Control

The issue of control came up twice as I went about my day yesterday. Today, it has been a topic of much contemplation for me. Simply put, I think there is a lesson here.

If you read my ramblings on a regular basis, you already know where the first mention of control came from. Yep, that’s right. I was told I have control issues because of my discomfort with having someone with past “kiddie issues” around my children without my knowledge or consent.

As I said yesterday, while I do not agree to the accusation in this instance, I do not deny the fact that I do have control issues. Heck, I admit to them openly. As they say, “knowing is half the battle.” Of course, in my case, I also have a pretty good idea as to why I have control issues. And, as I get further away from some of the events of my life, I feel my grip ever-so-slightly slackening. Sometimes. But I do not deny that significant parts of my personality can be driven by a need to feel in control.

Then yesterday, during my voice lesson (no, I haven’t mentioned the voice lessons yet, but they started a few weeks ago), my teacher (and friend) made a comment that, over twelve hours later, hit me like a ton of bricks. As I struggled through a tight voice to make a high note sound like it should, she said something to the effect of, “Most people think that, to sing well, they have to control their voices. But to reach the full potential, you have to give up the control and guide the results.” (OK, paraphrasing, but it covers the concept pretty well.)

I have always loved to sing. There have been times in my life where singing has transcended to a metaphor for my life (part of why, at a time during my teen years when my mother and I were not getting along, I became very attached to two specific lines in the Pink Floyd song, Mother.) As I contemplated this advice this morning, I felt singing once again become representative of my life.

To make it beautiful, you have to let go. Lose the control, and harness the results.

A couple of weeks ago, we were playing a game with the Young Women at church that involved answering random questions. One of mine was, “What have you tried to do, but just weren’t any good at?” I couldn’t really think of an answer, so I said something so heartfelt and sincere that I now can’t even remember what it was. The truth is, the answer is “nothing.” If I really try to do something, I can do it.

And if I really think that I won’t be any good, I generally don’t try.

Paralysis by perfectionism.

Don’t misunderstand. This doesn’t make me some Desperate Housewives caricature. Anyone who has been to my house knows that (it’s not a health hazard, but it certainly wouldn’t be featured in Good Housekeeping, either). It’s more of a lazy perfectionism.

If you can’t do it right, don’t bother.

No, that’s too harsh. Not quite in the right vein.

If you can’t do it “right,” don’t let others see you fail trying.

Control the outcome.

It really is like singing a high note. You focus so hard on the pitch that you tighten and strain to get it out correctly. By releasing that stranglehold, you risk the possibility of having your audience hear you fall flat.

Splat.

So what is the answer? (Or was there even a question?) Maybe there are only more questions. What would happen if I relaxed that grip (aside from, in some cases, really freaking me out)? Would life fall apart?

Or could I harness the “what may come” into some beautiful melody that could echo on for generations?

A Post About Poop

We all know that it happens. We become mothers, and we start talking about poop. We try to curb the urge in polite company, but sometimes we just need to discuss it.

Consider yourself warned.

I’m sure that you’re expecting me to talk about the baby. That is, after all, where most poop conversations are focused. But you would be wrong. This is a post about W~ and the fact that the kid’s output is just.not.natural.

I’m flummoxed. I mean, he’s three for goodness sakes! But his daily constitutions could give most adult men a run for their money (I have family members who can back me up on this–I’m not exaggerating). I honestly don’t understand how he is managing not to be traumatized. But, you know what else?

I’m sick of plunging.

Every.Stinkin’.Time.

Honestly, I haven’t spent this much time with a plunger since my days as the only woman in a single-bathroom office with men. That situation got to the point that, one day, I walked into the bathroom, walked back out, closed my office door, and sent an email to the rest of the office that essentially said, “I need to use the restroom and I’m sick of plunging toilets I didn’t clog. Someone else needs to go deal with it.”

But that’s not my point. And I can’t email my kid and tell him to plunge his own poop, anyhow. Heck, I can’t even trust him to wipe himself.

I’m seriously beyond knowing what to do for the kid. I’ve tried putting fiber in his drinks, but I don’t think that’s really the issue. I mean, it’s not like there are days between plungings. This is a daily occurrence (heck, I got to plunge twice on Tuesday). And he is probably eating more fruits and vegetables than my non-clogging children, anyhow.

OK, I’ll stop whining. I should probably go plunge the toilet now.

Big, Fat, "Harry" Deal

The relative has come and gone. The conversation has been had.

Bah.

Really, folks, I tried to keep my cool. I only felt like I lost it once, at a point where I just couldn’t take her minimizing the situation anymore. Her reaction at that point, honestly, could have sent me into a tailspin, but I held it together. I was supremely angry from that point on, but I held it together.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

I started by calmly mentioning the fact that the young man had mentioned spending time in prison and asking her what for. She tried to hide the answer. She just said something about not knowing all of the details, but his record has been wiped clean now.

Not a good way to start.

I told her what we had been told about the situation, at which point she conceded the fact that it had to do with other kids. I started to tell her how upset I was at the situation. She cut me off and said that other family members had already talked to her about it and he wouldn’t come to anything else, so it was no longer an issue that needed to be discussed.

Like heck.

This was about more than just this kid. This is about her judgement. About the fact that I can’t trust her if she doesn’t see a problem with what she did (and it was obvious that she didn’t see a problem with it).

I’m not going to write about the worst thing that she said to me–it is too personal. What I will say about it, though, is that if she hadn’t been family, her butt would have hit the pavement.

She tried to make the conversation about just about anything other than the real issue. She asked me if I thought this kid should be an outcast.Of course not. That doesn’t mean that you bring him to family functions with a ton of kids and not tell their parents.

She asked if I then also think that my kids shouldn’t be around another family member with a drug issue (and why I do let them around him). Um, yeah, I’m not thrilled about the drug thing, and sometimes I wish he wasn’t around them at get-togethers. Of course, he barely interacts with anyone at the parties, let alone my kids. And it’s not like I think he’s going to sneak off with them and shoot them up. And there are some things that you tolerate because you’re dealing with family, but you would never intentionally expose your kids to from an outside source (see above comment about butt meeting concrete).

She suggested that my having a problem with this is due to me having “control issues.” OK, for the record, I do not deny having control issues. But, hello? You don’t need control issues to want your kids kept out of harm’s way. Sheesh.

I tried to end the conversation on a more positive point. I told her that I think that what she does with these kids is admirable. I told her that I’m glad that she cares so much for them–they need it. But she has the freedom to do it because she is a single woman and doesn’t have little kids to worry about protecting.

Her reply?

“I find it strange that you have such an issue with this, but you bring the occult and séances and stuff into your home.”

What?!

OK, at this point I glanced up at my tv and realized that I had last night’s episode of The Secret Lives of Women on (paused). It was about psychics this week. She must have watched some of it when I went to the store this morning.

I explained to her that my kids don’t watch that stuff. Hence the fact that it was paused. Kids in the room=adult shows not playing. One would think that this would end that conversation.

One would be wrong.

You see, the show on psychics is not my worst infraction. Oh no. I’m a serial offender.

I let my kids watch Harry Potter.

Da da da Duuuuum!

Yep, that’s right, letting my kids watch Harry Potter is apparently worse than knowingly exposing them to someone with a past involving children. Naturally, I asked her if she had ever read a single one of the books.

Of course not.

But, she doesn’t need to read them to know that they are evil, evil, EVIL I SAY!

I told her that, having read all of the books (and having an English degree and a real issue with people who are all for uninformed book banning), I’m not going to keep my kids away from some great stories just because some fringe, right-wing Christian wackos say so (yep, this coming from the good little Mormon girl). I also asked her if fairy tales were banned in her house when her kids were growing up (nope, but that’s different!).

So, in summary:

Bringing a border-line adult with a past to hang out around little kids: Good.

Wanting to protect your children from becoming some sad statistic: Bad.

Oh, and Harry Potter? Just plain evil.

 

I need a tylenol.

 

*If you are interested in learning about some of the Christian symbolism woven throughout the Harry Potter series, you can read the analysis my sister did on the topic here. Really, it’s worth the time.