With our white gloves and up-do's (hairstyles), fancy dresses and a feeling of anticipation, my daughter Mimi and I went to the theater. We had attended a local production of Rodgers and Hammerstein's Cinderella when she was three. We went with her friend Chloe and her Mom Tish. The little girls had worn their costumes to Cinderella, and so we dressed up this time too. My Mom and lttle sister came along and we took up six seats in a row. We saw Disney's Beauty and the Beast. Watching my daughter was an absolute joy. She got startled, concerned, excited, happy and sad. She laughed and wrung her hands. She sat on my lap a little and wanted to sit in her own seat like a grown up the rest of the time. Mimi, her little brother's nickname for her, loves spending time with her Mom, especially when we dress up and do something special. We hope to go watch another production soon. I love wearing my elbow length gloves and fixing my daughter's hair like she's going to the prom. There are so few reasons to get dressed in our elegant best and I will savor every moment that my daughter wants to be seen in public with me.
This "life is a stage" as some famous writer once said, and I plan on enjoying every act of togetherness that I can attend with my sweet children.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Haunted House
I was in fourth grade at Alpine Elementary. We lived in a two-story split-level home on a corner. To the left across the street was a fire station, across from it was a park. Across the street from us was an empty lot with the park on the one side and a house on the left. On the our other side was a huge garden lot, before reaching the neighbor's house. There was a little white haired lady who lived behind us. My point in giving you the geography of my fourth grade home is to establish the fact that it was a really quiet lot with few neighbors and lots of privacy. All quiet except the crying baby.
We had two bathrooms, the one upstairs that we all waited in line to use and the one downstairs. It was cold and clammy and none of us would use it unless we were going to wet ourselves. We didn't know why, but it was creepy. I remember that we did a lot of remodeling to the house even though it was a rental. My parents got to put the cost of materials toward their rent. Maybe we upset the spirits that lived there. We weren't in the house very long though. We moved about every year and a half growing up. I think that my parents have gypsy blood. When we were moving our boxes out one night, we heard a baby cry. My little brother Matt was an infant and I was sent to check on him three or four times and every time, he was sound asleep. There were at least five members of our family that could hear the baby as we sat on the stairs. We began to move much more quickly as we continued to hear the crying.
By the light of day, as we came back to finish our moving, the house didn't seem scary at all. We somehow ended up talking to the little old lady who lived behind us and she told us about two people who had lived there before us. There were a mother and daughter who were involved with the same man without the daughter knowing about it (or perhaps both women not knowing about the man's two-timing ways). The teenage daughter became pregnant by him and when she found out that he was involved with her mother, she committed suicide in the downstairs bathroom. That creepy, cold and clammy bathroom that we all hated to use unless we had no other choice. I have no way of knowing if this story is true, if a young mother died in our house or if the bathroom was haunted by her imprisoned spirit. All I know is that we heard a baby cry, a distant needful cry that would not be quieted. Do I believe in haunted houses? I don't know what to believe.
I know that all of this spooky talk has made me have to go use the bathroom, and that I am a little afraid of what I will find!
We had two bathrooms, the one upstairs that we all waited in line to use and the one downstairs. It was cold and clammy and none of us would use it unless we were going to wet ourselves. We didn't know why, but it was creepy. I remember that we did a lot of remodeling to the house even though it was a rental. My parents got to put the cost of materials toward their rent. Maybe we upset the spirits that lived there. We weren't in the house very long though. We moved about every year and a half growing up. I think that my parents have gypsy blood. When we were moving our boxes out one night, we heard a baby cry. My little brother Matt was an infant and I was sent to check on him three or four times and every time, he was sound asleep. There were at least five members of our family that could hear the baby as we sat on the stairs. We began to move much more quickly as we continued to hear the crying.
By the light of day, as we came back to finish our moving, the house didn't seem scary at all. We somehow ended up talking to the little old lady who lived behind us and she told us about two people who had lived there before us. There were a mother and daughter who were involved with the same man without the daughter knowing about it (or perhaps both women not knowing about the man's two-timing ways). The teenage daughter became pregnant by him and when she found out that he was involved with her mother, she committed suicide in the downstairs bathroom. That creepy, cold and clammy bathroom that we all hated to use unless we had no other choice. I have no way of knowing if this story is true, if a young mother died in our house or if the bathroom was haunted by her imprisoned spirit. All I know is that we heard a baby cry, a distant needful cry that would not be quieted. Do I believe in haunted houses? I don't know what to believe.
I know that all of this spooky talk has made me have to go use the bathroom, and that I am a little afraid of what I will find!
(When I find the photo of the actual house, I will add it. If someone had died in our house, then she would likely be buried at the cemetary in the picture).
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Tahitian Hip Flop
I have to exercise!
No, I am not a fitness freak! Size 12 suits me just fine, but I have a P.E. class online for college credit toward an Associate's degree in the field of "Whatever I can get the soonest." I have been using an awesome yoga DVD from the library where the people are not too in touch with their Cheeee or all freaky holistic, tree huggerish. Unfortunately, I had to take it back to the library and the one I quickly grabbed on the way out the door, was for a "mature adult." I think that is the politically correct way to say that the person has one foot in the grave and the other in a cast. It was even too slow on fast forward. Before my brain stem could start atrophying from inactivity, I switched it off and looked for an alternative. My other choice for exercise instruction in a box was a DVD called "Tahitian Hip Hop." Talk about polar opposites. I was transported to a tropical beach watching three island beauties who wanted me to shake my hips so fast that they were a blur. Here I was in my desperately-need-a-shower pony tail, with my comfy pajama pants and black t-shirt that doubles as a kleenex, watching three tan, tone women in bikini tops, and short skirts with grass skirt belts. I felt like a thorn among roses, or would it be a fern among tropical lilies? Either way, I felt very out of my element. My abdominals are more like abominables and if I want to get rid of the saggy spare tire, this is definitely a good video for me. If I survive! I need to go lay down. I think that I ruptured my spleen.
Friday, October 16, 2009
Human Wrecking Ball
J.B. our three year old has been sick lately. He started with a fever, then his eye looked bloodshot and gooey, and then it evolved to a good old fashioned cold. He laid around for almost three days feeling lethargic until his ibuprophen kicked in. He would perk up for a while, take long naps and sleep twelve hours at night. It was really nice, ...I mean ...poor little guy!
Today he would sneeze and shoot out double-barrel boogies that would bungee cord all the way down to his bottom lip. Just as I would reach him with a tissue, he would wipe his nose with his hand. I guess that wiping butts for a living wasn't glamorous enough, so now I get to clean up snot streams!
Along with feeling better came J.B.'s inner devil, ready to reek havok at the first opportunity. He dumped out toys more times than I care to remember, food on the floor, snuck three popcicles, continuously changed his own diaper, asked for food and then wouldn't eat it, but made big messes with it, then he would say "I'm hungry. To summarize, he was a hellion! When he went to dump my folded clothes on the floor, I yelled at him and he ran out of the room. Since a salvation nap was not on the menu, I decided to take him for a walk in the stroller with his little sidekick "Baby Destructo." It took forty minutes until I was human again and had regained some much needed patience.
Shortly after, my helper kids came home from school and along with some helping, they added some pre-teen drama and "what happened at school" conversation. I survived much better through the rest of the evening, but it was a really, really long day. My oldest son CeDricK "hung-out" (he's too old to play, you see) for a few hours and the boys walked around the neighborhood three times, so he was sooooo tired. I frequently say to him "You don't know what tired is!" Those words will echo in his head when he becomes a parent who spends his time wiping butts, noses and smirks of pre-teen faces.
Today he would sneeze and shoot out double-barrel boogies that would bungee cord all the way down to his bottom lip. Just as I would reach him with a tissue, he would wipe his nose with his hand. I guess that wiping butts for a living wasn't glamorous enough, so now I get to clean up snot streams!
Along with feeling better came J.B.'s inner devil, ready to reek havok at the first opportunity. He dumped out toys more times than I care to remember, food on the floor, snuck three popcicles, continuously changed his own diaper, asked for food and then wouldn't eat it, but made big messes with it, then he would say "I'm hungry. To summarize, he was a hellion! When he went to dump my folded clothes on the floor, I yelled at him and he ran out of the room. Since a salvation nap was not on the menu, I decided to take him for a walk in the stroller with his little sidekick "Baby Destructo." It took forty minutes until I was human again and had regained some much needed patience.
Shortly after, my helper kids came home from school and along with some helping, they added some pre-teen drama and "what happened at school" conversation. I survived much better through the rest of the evening, but it was a really, really long day. My oldest son CeDricK "hung-out" (he's too old to play, you see) for a few hours and the boys walked around the neighborhood three times, so he was sooooo tired. I frequently say to him "You don't know what tired is!" Those words will echo in his head when he becomes a parent who spends his time wiping butts, noses and smirks of pre-teen faces.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Blackened Corn Dog
We usually grow pumpkins in our backyard garden. We have a large lot and extra space behind the city-built chain link fence for access to the irrigation canal. Last year we grew gourds, butternut, regular sized and "Might Max" sized pumpkins, along with melons, toamtoes, etc. We grew 51 smaller pumpkins and 9 goldish-orange 50lbs+ HUGE pumpkins. We had a Halloween party and everyone that came took home a pumpkin, not one per family, but EACH.
This year I thought that it would be fun to have a neighborhood party where everyone was invited in our subdivision to our Harvest Party and went home with a free pumpkin. Yeah, it didn't work out, "cuz we grew zip, zilch, naughta in the pumpkin department. Stupid squash beetles! May you die a thousand painful deaths! I hate those things so much that instead of squishing them with my foot (doesn't work), or putting them all inside a jar to bake in the sun (ineffective), I squish them between my bare fingers (ANHILATION!). They have this sicky-sweet smell, that is a little nauseatng, but watching all of my hard work, money and effort put into my pumpkin plants, shrivel up and die is very nauseating. A lady on one of those A.M. radio gardening shows called squash bugs the "blight of
Idaho." Ain't that the truth!
So, finally getting to the highlight of this very informative and seasonally inappropriate (where has November gone?)blog entry, this year we bought our pumpkins. There is a local fruit and vegetable stand nearby where the pumpkins were cheap. I am debating even growing my own next year, but I will not let those little buggers win. I hate their sweet smelling guts! Sorry, I digress. Anyway, while at the local farmer's market place, I saw something a little strange. It was a Blackened Corn Dog. I didn't even know that Labradors retrieved corn cobs, I guess that you learn something new everyday!
Split Lip Gum
Church is a lot of work. By the time we get all five children dressed and ready to go, throw something on our own bodies and head to the car, we are already worn out. Then we fasten them all into their various car seats or "encourage" them to squeeze into the back seat where the oldest son immediately starts teasing his sister. Often, we split them into two separate vehicles so that we can have an escape vehicle for when, not if, our son Benjamin is simply done being at church. We have begun to bring the portable DVD player with Disney CARS (without the volume and sitting as far back as possible) to help us survive Sacrament Meeting. That is an hour and twenty minutes of intense parenting coping skills put to the test.
We bring amazing snack bags to entice our younger children to sit still and greedily stuff their faces with carbohydrate rich fruit loops, fish crackers, chips and fruit snacks. Our "firstborn son in the wilderness" as we lovingly call him, gets nada. He's old enough to know better, right? Alright, he gets a little bit. Heck, so do I. Kids get all of the best stuff. I'm lucky to get one bag of fruit snacks out of the industrial sized box of eighty. And I so rarely get a juice box that when I do, I hide in the pantry to drink it so that I don't have to share. Come to think of it, I hide in the pantry a lot, eating things that are rightfully mine. Phew! I'm glad that I got that out. The guilt was overwhelming!
Now, to get to the whole profound reason for sharing our Sabbth day frenzy with you...
My three year old son J.B. is very dramatic, to make the understatement of the year. Today at church, he was in rare form. He cried frequently, spoke with his outdoor voice throughout prayers and talks and had very vocal opinions about what he would and would not do. During one of his crying scenes, I walked to the back of the chapel and was holding his 40 lb body while speaking quietly and rocking him on my hip. I thought that it would distract him to blow a bubble with my chewing gum. I made a beautiful bubble with about a three inch diameter and even managed to pinch it off with my lips so that it would not deflate on its own. It distracted him alright! He decided to pop my bubble by hitting it with his gargantuan dome. He slammed his blond afro covered head directly into my top lip, splitting it clean open and making my gum taste warm and salty. I think that he was very lucky that we were in a church building with so many christian witnesses. To avoid harsh judgement, I set him down and breathed deeply and calmed myself before I could retalliate. I was a good girl.
When the meeting was finally over, I mean, when it regrettably came to an end, I gladly sent J.B. to class with his big brother. Benjamin bolted immediately after the meeting and my husband drove the escape car. I put lip gloss over my fat lip, kissed my next antagonist and carried that chubby boy to the next meeting.
P.S. My husband wanted me to make sure to mention that he had held the troops at bay while I fixed our daughter's hair, left to nurse the baby (and enjoyed every minute of my extended visit with the other ladies even after my lactation duties were complete :), and focused on J.B. the two or three times that I had to get up with him. He is an amazing husband and I would never survive without him. (No money was paid for this endorsement).
We bring amazing snack bags to entice our younger children to sit still and greedily stuff their faces with carbohydrate rich fruit loops, fish crackers, chips and fruit snacks. Our "firstborn son in the wilderness" as we lovingly call him, gets nada. He's old enough to know better, right? Alright, he gets a little bit. Heck, so do I. Kids get all of the best stuff. I'm lucky to get one bag of fruit snacks out of the industrial sized box of eighty. And I so rarely get a juice box that when I do, I hide in the pantry to drink it so that I don't have to share. Come to think of it, I hide in the pantry a lot, eating things that are rightfully mine. Phew! I'm glad that I got that out. The guilt was overwhelming!
Now, to get to the whole profound reason for sharing our Sabbth day frenzy with you...
My three year old son J.B. is very dramatic, to make the understatement of the year. Today at church, he was in rare form. He cried frequently, spoke with his outdoor voice throughout prayers and talks and had very vocal opinions about what he would and would not do. During one of his crying scenes, I walked to the back of the chapel and was holding his 40 lb body while speaking quietly and rocking him on my hip. I thought that it would distract him to blow a bubble with my chewing gum. I made a beautiful bubble with about a three inch diameter and even managed to pinch it off with my lips so that it would not deflate on its own. It distracted him alright! He decided to pop my bubble by hitting it with his gargantuan dome. He slammed his blond afro covered head directly into my top lip, splitting it clean open and making my gum taste warm and salty. I think that he was very lucky that we were in a church building with so many christian witnesses. To avoid harsh judgement, I set him down and breathed deeply and calmed myself before I could retalliate. I was a good girl.
When the meeting was finally over, I mean, when it regrettably came to an end, I gladly sent J.B. to class with his big brother. Benjamin bolted immediately after the meeting and my husband drove the escape car. I put lip gloss over my fat lip, kissed my next antagonist and carried that chubby boy to the next meeting.
P.S. My husband wanted me to make sure to mention that he had held the troops at bay while I fixed our daughter's hair, left to nurse the baby (and enjoyed every minute of my extended visit with the other ladies even after my lactation duties were complete :), and focused on J.B. the two or three times that I had to get up with him. He is an amazing husband and I would never survive without him. (No money was paid for this endorsement).
Friday, October 2, 2009
Pantene-D
When I was 18 or 19, I went on a road trip with four other young woman about my same age. It was a church trip that lasted about 1 1/2 hours. When I climbed into the back seat, I took one of those really uncomfortable hair claws out of my wet hair so I could sit back without pain. With one uniform breath, the other girls said "Pantene." Oh yes, women know these things. That is how we can smell another woman's perfume on our boyfriend or husband. That is how we know who has been holding our baby. We have uncanny skills of observation, because we are one rib sneakier than the male population. Most of the time we use our skills for good, like knowing what brand of perfume someone wears, to buy them the perfect gift. Other times we are more devious as we use our observations to steal someone else's man or to say something vicious and catty to get rid of an annoying competitor. All's fair in love and war, they say.
When we reached our destination, they asked for volunteers to get wet and our carload volunteered. "You will need an extra set of clothes," the lady told us. "We have everything that you need." They sure did, from underwear on out. I was second or third in line. When I got to the counter the lady asked my sizes and when she asked my bra size, everyone was perfectly silent awaiting the response. No exaggeration! You may have heard the phrase "pregnant pause," this pause was carrying multiples! That is another thing about women. We are competitive and comparative with other women. So I give the lady my bra size and she must have spent 57 YEARS looking for one. I have a narrow rib cage and fleshy front parts, so it is an unusual size. But why, why did she have to say the size over and over as she searched. Finally, she found an alternate size and I moved my mortified body to one side so the catty chics, I mean "other ladies" could get their clothes. (Right now, my readers may wonder, what size is she? I don't think I will say!).
Here is the thing about bust sizes; if you want, say, a D-cup, you also get the birthing hips and big feet that come with it. Be careful what you wish for. There is also back pain and rarely finding a button up or crossover shirt that stays where you want it. That may sound good to you, but I like to keep my modesty and hold it close. Thank goodness for underwire!
When we reached our destination, they asked for volunteers to get wet and our carload volunteered. "You will need an extra set of clothes," the lady told us. "We have everything that you need." They sure did, from underwear on out. I was second or third in line. When I got to the counter the lady asked my sizes and when she asked my bra size, everyone was perfectly silent awaiting the response. No exaggeration! You may have heard the phrase "pregnant pause," this pause was carrying multiples! That is another thing about women. We are competitive and comparative with other women. So I give the lady my bra size and she must have spent 57 YEARS looking for one. I have a narrow rib cage and fleshy front parts, so it is an unusual size. But why, why did she have to say the size over and over as she searched. Finally, she found an alternate size and I moved my mortified body to one side so the catty chics, I mean "other ladies" could get their clothes. (Right now, my readers may wonder, what size is she? I don't think I will say!).
Here is the thing about bust sizes; if you want, say, a D-cup, you also get the birthing hips and big feet that come with it. Be careful what you wish for. There is also back pain and rarely finding a button up or crossover shirt that stays where you want it. That may sound good to you, but I like to keep my modesty and hold it close. Thank goodness for underwire!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
