tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-45968737033712272432024-03-05T09:25:40.129-08:00Green Boogers and OatmealRaising the Crazy in Ogden, Utah. Jayneehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18043652983678073891noreply@blogger.comBlogger238125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4596873703371227243.post-83257190324317158182018-01-01T15:07:00.000-08:002018-01-01T15:35:07.195-08:00Chapter 1: Completely ScathedIt's 2018. This means that I made it through 2017.<br />
<br />
Relatively unscathed.<br />
<br />
Well, I take that back.<br />
<br />
I was scathed. <i>I was totally and completely scathed. </i><br />
<br />
But no one really knew it. Because I didn't let them see it. If there's one thing I learned on the farm, it's that you never let them see you scathed.<br />
<br />
Or sad.<br />
<br />
Or furious.<br />
<br />
Or weak.<br />
<br />
Really, the weakness was the bad one. The term game face didn't just apply to life on the basketball court. It applied to all areas of my life.<br />
<br />
Friends were being shitty to me? <i>Game face it. </i><br />
Boys at church said horrible and hurtful things to me while the teacher just sat back and let it happen? <i>Game face it.</i><br />
Endless torment from bullies in elementary? <i>GAME. FACE. IT.</i> <br />
Heartbroken because I didn't get asked to prom? <i>Game face it.</i><br />
<br />
College was much of the same. The one and only person who actually got behind the mask of my game face... well, I married him and heaven knows how he has managed to survive my insanity for the last 20 years. <br />
<br />
So, yea... the game face has worked for me for a long time. But it also has a drawback.... because the things that hurt don't pierce the game face, but often neither do the good things. And how's that for a mid-life crisis epiphany?<br />
<br />
In January, I lost my dad. I wish that I could say that his passing was peaceful and that I have moved on. But, the truth is... I don't think I have. In fact, I think that his passing has spotlighted my game face weaknesses in a way that I wasn't prepared for. And it's freaking me out.<br />
<br />
Dad struggled for his entire life with clinical depression. It was my job to make him smile. I learned this at a very young age. I was the comedian for him and would do whatever it took to make him laugh. I credit my dad with my quick wit and sense of humor. Because of him, I honed it until it was razor sharp. Because even though he dealt with that debilitating depression, he had a quick wit. He just didn't always feel empowered to use it. <br />
<br />
I do. And I know there are people out there - men, mostly - who either don't care for me or who are intimidated by me because of it. And that's okay. <span style="color: #cc0000;"><b> *cough*chickenshits*cough*. <i> </i></b></span><br />
<br />
<i>Side note: Really, I still don't know why I never got asked to prom.</i><br />
<br />
And the humor, it keeps me content.... but sometimes that's not enough. I actively seek out things that will make me laugh. It's like a drug to me. If you can make me laugh, I will always hold you in high esteem. You're my dealer, after all. And if you can intertwine comedy while having some tenderness and vulnerability then I will forever be your fan. <a href="http://birbigs.com/">Mike Birbiglia</a> does a great job with this, as does <a href="http://thebloggess.com/">The Bloggess</a>. And I can't get enough of either of them. <br />
<br />
In 2017, I finally admitted that I needed some help. I had a breakdown because I JUST. COULDN'T. HANDLE. IT. ANYMORE.<br />
<br />
"IT" being... everything.<br />
<br />
And nothing.<br />
<br />
At once.<br />
<br />
I have a full-time career. Two kiddos that I don't deserve and who I love so much that I want to punch someone in the throat about it. A husband that is my rock. At the time of the breakdown, I was the President of the Junior League of Ogden, which if I'm being honest, I'm still shocked about. I mean, how in the world did I convince anyone to let me take the helm of <i>that </i>organization? At the same time, I was also taking on new responsibilities at work and trying to make sure that my kiddos got their homework done<i> (they didn't), </i>were eating healthy <i>(they weren't) </i>and getting along like you read about in on the mommy-blogs here in Utah <i>(LIES). </i><br />
<br />
And it just... it was just too overwhelming. I couldn't keep it all together. It was too hard. And I was giving all of the best of me to everywhere... except my family. And that's not right. <i>That's not right at all.</i> And OMG, it shouldn't be this hard. And why isn't Benny isn't here so I can cry and scream and yell at him?<br />
<br />
When he got back from his work trip the next day, I told him that I needed help. And he was all: <i>"Uh... yea. I've been tryin' to tell you for years now."</i><br />
<br />
And then I punched him in the throat. Because I love my kids.<br />
<br />
So, I went to the doc and talked with her. After hearing about my family history, she was shocked that I had never been on any type of anti-depressant. My explanation of being the one in the family that made it out without any mental health issues made her roll her eyes and guffaw. She GUFFAWED at me. I don't know if you know much about the medical profession, but if a doctor does that to you... it's not good. So, she put me on an anti-depressant.<br />
<br />
And I promptly gained 40 pounds. <br />
<br />
Which was awesome. Really, 2017? My dad dies AND I gain 40 pounds? You can SUCK IT. <br />
<br />
So, that went on until October before another doctor stepped in and made a course correction and I was able to lose over 40 pounds by changing my anti-depressant and addressing a couple of other medical issues that I had been ignoring.<br />
<br />
<i>Because I'm a grown-ass woman and I will ignore what I want to ignore, mkay?</i><br />
<br />
And all of that has helped me a lot. There's nothing quite like being able to button a pair of pants that your fat-ass couldn't fit in just 4 months ago to really build your ego. But I still feel the game face factor. And lately, I've noticed that I'm just really damn hard on my kiddos.<br />
<br />
And that's not what I want for them. Or for me. Because that's what they'll remember when they're my age. And then they'll be sitting in the coffee shop on New Year's Day thinking about how their lives have gone and they'll think back on their life and go: <i>"Man... my mom was a hard ass and just not very fun... and nothing ever was good enough for her. No wonder I'm the way I am</i>.<i>" </i> I don't know if you know much about parenting... but that's not good, either.<br />
<br />
I'll concede that it may just be an effect of the Christmas "vacation" and the fact that I would be a suck-ass stay-at-homer, but I feel like it goes deeper than that. There's something not quite... right. I don't know if it's the medication that needs to be adjusted. Or just my focus and attitude. I think it's the latter. I think that my spirit is telling me that I'm not whole. That I'm missing something.<br />
<br />
Two days ago, we ordered Chinese because we wanted to eat just a teeny-tiny bit of food and feel like ass for two days. AS ONE DOES. But silver lining... this was in my fortune cookie. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVxOcJe5hKd2XpHGYW1ExOqHmt_7X_Ug9gRvPb_GFeuKSjjHYLlwpILcp_jIF_GiIi6UiBTXna8IBKY-M8xss3yxWo5EH3GDiUfiQufISiOHR_r29AKkQv81ndC-C7LfPApstVv_r8p-r9/s1600/20171230_105340.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVxOcJe5hKd2XpHGYW1ExOqHmt_7X_Ug9gRvPb_GFeuKSjjHYLlwpILcp_jIF_GiIi6UiBTXna8IBKY-M8xss3yxWo5EH3GDiUfiQufISiOHR_r29AKkQv81ndC-C7LfPApstVv_r8p-r9/s320/20171230_105340.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
I've been tossing around this idea for years now. And I've had a lot of people urging me to do it. With the ease in which you can self-publish these days, and the absolute joy I get out of writing... it seems like a no-brainer. But it's going to take more than me just deciding to write a book. It's going to take me committing to writing every day in my blog. It's um... going to take me committing to updating the blog to look like a legitimate blogger... not a wannabe still living in the world of blogger.com, while there's Wix and WordPress out there just waiting for me to play in. And besides... fortune cookies don't lie. Ask my girls who were fighting over whose lucky numbers were better from their fortune cookies. <br />
<br />
Just thinking about getting back to writing brought a sense of peace to me that I hadn't experienced in quite a while. And at that moment I realized that feeding my soul through spreading my verbal vomit onto the internets was what I was missing. And if I could find my peace and contentment through something like this... by following my passion and exploring my talent and hobby, I could be a better mom and wife.<br />
<br />
But honestly... I want more than to just write a book. I feel like a book... it's just the beginning. Who knows where it will take me but at least it's a first step. <br />
<br />
Don't get it twisted... I fully expected 2018 to leave me scathed as well... but I think that's the point.<br />
<br />
Isn't it?Jayneehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13842106366686309729noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4596873703371227243.post-64294044595093608212017-05-31T22:12:00.000-07:002017-05-31T22:43:00.296-07:00Nauseously Exciting<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaLeM5DhhsbACXTa__r38912gwXLvUNyejniRln4yDEZJunBBQvC5Vu8R-Mfn3GFxEN_uh6laxoWAwWOJ1HCFosLv5ja5_8FY1VbxKrLVddZjUHIOLPv_7ojFs3PJnHSLJf38PTH5d6PGv/s1600/combo_stacked_centered_print.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1592" data-original-width="1600" height="198" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaLeM5DhhsbACXTa__r38912gwXLvUNyejniRln4yDEZJunBBQvC5Vu8R-Mfn3GFxEN_uh6laxoWAwWOJ1HCFosLv5ja5_8FY1VbxKrLVddZjUHIOLPv_7ojFs3PJnHSLJf38PTH5d6PGv/s200/combo_stacked_centered_print.jpg" width="200" /></a>Those who know me well, know two things about me.<br />
<br />
1 - I love to speak in sports metaphors or relate sports to life. Because so much of who I am today is because of what I learned playing sports. The rest of who I am is because of coffee, wine, chocolate and Seinfeld quotes.<br />
<br />
2 - I don't do well with the touchy-feely emotional stuff. I mean... I'm kind of a one-person emotional floodgate... kind of like a cat. And my person... well, he's my best friend. And even THEN, I hold a LOT back and he has to coax it out of me. Then I tell him to suck it up, buttercup, because I'M. FINE. It might be the way I was raised where tears for physical pain were tolerated more than tears for emotional pain... but only slightly. Because there's no crying <i>or bleeding</i> in softball. See? I did it again. <br />
<br />
But tonight, I want to share the joy I felt being a member of an amazing team in the Junior League of Ogden. A <i>critical mass of bad ass women</i> who were so unbelievably talented that I continually asked myself how much longer I could keep faking being one of them.<br />
<br />
So, because I still have all of my magical Presidential Powers and Wisdom that descended on me June 1, 2016, we're going to do things my way. With a sports metaphor.<br />
<br />
I KNOW. <i>This comes as a complete surprise to me, too.</i><br />
<br />
When I was in high school, I joined the track team. Not because I liked to run <i>(quite the opposite) </i>but because I had sprained my ankle crossing first base the year before and I couldn't open myself to another ridiculous injury and risk the loss of uber-athlete status. <br />
<br />
It turns out, I really couldn't run the 100. Or the 200. Or the 800. Or the mile. Well... I could. I just wasn't going to find any success. Plus the sobbing... which, as we've already discussed, was frowned upon. <br />
<br />
That left the 400m for me. I'm 40 years old now and I still want to vomit a little bit when I see people lining up for the 400m race. Either on TV or in person. <i> It's nauseously exciting</i>. And I loved every minute of it. I held a couple of school records for a hot minute - which did wonders for my ego and was my first immortality project - until someone better and faster came along and wiped out my entire 400m existence like I hadn't almost died out there on the track. <i>Multiple times.</i><br />
<br />
And that's where I learned a profound lesson. There's ALWAYS someone better, faster, smarter. And that's a good thing. Otherwise, what do we train for? How boring would life be if no one got any better? If we didn't have anything to benchmark or push ourselves towards? <br />
<br />
My favorite race by far was the medley relay. In the medley, each person has a different distance. A different job. But we were a team. And we worked together tirelessly. What people don't really understand in a relay is that the transition... that handoff of the baton... is THEEEE most important part of the relay. And it will determine the success of your team. Of your school.<br />
<br />
And honestly, in some cases, it determined your ability to compete.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTntmaAba_VfMXpHWmtg8t19tHLnulJNE3ncy97wZtJdGJLgKRH8uHLnYogwex38poVqvrFl5VcY3M4oBlGi2Eyega9Uo01wcTPkaYpriuPKbX2mDZFeOp9-wb5uj3j87l1gJd93zFg5tD/s1600/baton.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="275" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTntmaAba_VfMXpHWmtg8t19tHLnulJNE3ncy97wZtJdGJLgKRH8uHLnYogwex38poVqvrFl5VcY3M4oBlGi2Eyega9Uo01wcTPkaYpriuPKbX2mDZFeOp9-wb5uj3j87l1gJd93zFg5tD/s1600/baton.jpeg" /></a><br />
<br />
The JLO transitions every year. On multiple teams. And perhaps no one team of transition is more crucial than that of the outgoing and incoming board. And let's be honest... the woman running as the anchor - the President - ultimately determines the ability of the team to compete. To get better. Her job is to keep an eye on the goal and help the team execute. To guide the league through the nauseous excitement and help it take a leap of faith. As my relay teammate, Kim, takes the baton from me and begins her leg of the race, I trust that the League is
on solid footing. And I know with that foundation, she and the board
will take JLO to the next level of genius and passion. I am so excited
to see what's in store for the League... because this little
organization of ours is about to blow things up. <br />
<br />
This year has been one of the most significant time periods of my life. It has been my absolute honor to serve on this year's Junior League of Ogden Board with some of the most talented and passionate women I have ever met. Saying how much I love each and every one of them rings hollow, but I do. I learned something from each of them and they each inspired me in some way. And it made the year fly by. It was mach speed and slow motion at the same time. All of the meetings. Following up on an additional email account where everyone needs or wants something from you. Having conversations with people who needed some guidance. Writing up agendas and researching issues. Finding a babysitter to attend more meetings. Holding your temper when something goes awry, and constantly reminding yourself: <i>"I'm a volunteer. I'm a volunteer. I'm not going to lose sleep over this."</i><br />
<br />
And then losing sleep over it anyway.<br />
<br />
It's just such a beautiful time. Everyone should have this opportunity!<br />
<br />
This year, I lost my dad. And this group of women... they didn't miss a step. They were there for me in the best way they could have been... by reaching out with a call or a text. By sending a ginormous plant that I can't seem to kill... and by showing up at my office with a beautiful painting of my Dad <i>(thank you to Kim, Kym and Emily) </i>and pretending it wasn't magnificently awkward when I burst into tears. <br />
<br />
I can honestly tell you that I have never had so much fun with a group of women as I had this year. Particularly at the board meetings with the new mama's and babies. Watching our board members grow both personally and professionally has been the highlight of my tenure with the League. And one I will not soon forget. <br />
<br />
As part of my new immortality project, I'd like to leave the President and incoming board with a few tokens of advice as they embark on the 2017-18 year from someone who has a leetle bit of experience on the board:<br />
<ul>
<li>No one is carrying the heart in the cooler. <i>- Vicki Clark</i></li>
<li>Believe the best of people... even at their worst.</li>
<ul>
<li>There are always exceptions to this rule </li>
</ul>
<li>There are three levels of no AND yes. </li>
<li>You can't do everything... so don't expect it of yourself.</li>
<li>You will make mistakes. And you will survive them. </li>
<li>Delegate, motivate, delegate, motivate, delegate, motivate.... REPEAT</li>
<li>Everyone is scared. Everyone thinks they're in over their head.</li>
<li>Don't mess up your priorities.</li>
<li>Ask. For. Help. </li>
<li>If you get prego, you don't get to quit the team. </li>
<li>This is supposed to be fun.</li>
<li>Showers and shaving are over-rated. </li>
<li>Chocolate at every meeting is a must.</li>
<li>Your legacy is that you're planting a tree whose shade you may never sit under. </li>
<li>Make time to not talk about JLO with each other. </li>
<li>Stay to the left and hurry <i>back- 400m coach</i></li>
</ul>
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibcNZRpaEHM6PuXB79TxfGdwk7HgtC5u_iPXQ_S4wPB8ZvKn8h24yRCHXLc_4cR48h78WEDOoCW78-gdI-IT5LeG7WMrpakv67s2egl_fs0xFGjEdT0GS5x4_96qCQByizwl3LxjokeLBO/s1600/14356027_10153710540216780_1032200150_n.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="655" data-original-width="655" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibcNZRpaEHM6PuXB79TxfGdwk7HgtC5u_iPXQ_S4wPB8ZvKn8h24yRCHXLc_4cR48h78WEDOoCW78-gdI-IT5LeG7WMrpakv67s2egl_fs0xFGjEdT0GS5x4_96qCQByizwl3LxjokeLBO/s200/14356027_10153710540216780_1032200150_n.jpg" width="200" /></a>Finally, to the 2016-17 Board and JLO members who latched on to the whole <span style="color: #cc0000;"><i>#lobsterup</i></span> theme and KILLED it:<br />
<br />
Thank you. Thank you for letting me be a part of this wild ride. Thank you for helping me grow and letting me help you grow. Thank you for always having my back. Thank you for your professionalism. Thank you for you personalities. Thank you for showing up. Thank you for working hard and for laughing harder. Thank you for putting your trust in me and letting me put my trust in you. You never disappointed. Thank you for giving me the opportunity to lead. Thank you for Daring Greatly and stepping into that arena with me.<br />
<br />
I will always look back at this year with a fondness, joy and pride. That's what having little babies at Board meetings and volunteer events can bring.<br />
<br />
But more importantly, that's what women fearlessly stepping up to make a difference with passion, intelligence and courage can do. And that's what the Junior League of Ogden is all about.<br />
<br />
Jaynee - OUT.Jayneehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13842106366686309729noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4596873703371227243.post-9575105938209502602017-01-30T16:41:00.000-08:002017-01-31T10:41:15.110-08:00Dad<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ_iB4Sav4EzJXT0l0Qww_El-A_y68WjBiUT3NzT-7ueu0PxH98rizvLYtTV9i4VpOKfzvWni2yRUJeaiDhmLEmvnYipPGB3hM1XKrMCYHORbpzNIDm_pbHQo3RIEQ2ng9DPMgpFGLEoEs/s1600/16265438_10154052833586780_7290409333940304868_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ_iB4Sav4EzJXT0l0Qww_El-A_y68WjBiUT3NzT-7ueu0PxH98rizvLYtTV9i4VpOKfzvWni2yRUJeaiDhmLEmvnYipPGB3hM1XKrMCYHORbpzNIDm_pbHQo3RIEQ2ng9DPMgpFGLEoEs/s200/16265438_10154052833586780_7290409333940304868_n.jpg" width="163" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">My Dad died on January 22nd after a long battle with congestive heart failure. The days and hours preceding his passing have been seared onto my heart and finding the words to provide comfort and share a portion of Dad's legacy was one of the most difficult things I've done.</span></span></span></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></span></span></span></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">We celebrated Dad's life on January 28th, and I had the honor of sharing my thoughts with the <span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">friends and family that came to pay their respects</span>. Below, is the talk I gave, edited to reflect a blog post.</span></span></span></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">***************************</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">I probably shouldn’t have waited until Friday night to
finally compose my thoughts with some semblance of clarity for my talk at Dad's funeral on Saturday. But if I’d done it earlier, Mom wouldn’t have been able to roll her
eyes while I was typing at midnight and even as a 39 year old, that’s something
I like to experience.</span> </span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">Dad
was sick for a long time. Longer than
any of us realized. But even when he
went into hospice last month<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">,</span> I didn’t really believe that anything could
actually take down Dad. The man that
used to throw me through the air at the pool without so much as a grunt? The man who would let me hang off his bicep
as he would lift his arm until my feet didn’t touch the floor anymore? The man who, on more than one occasion - <i>and
once during my wedding rehearsal dinner surrounded by city folk</i> - punched a
horse whose attitude he didn’t appreciate?</span></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><a href="http://www.webbmortuary.com/notices/Kirk-Paskins">THIS is no ordinary man</a>. I<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> didn't believe th<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">at</span></span>
<i>anything </i>can take down a tough old bird like that.</span></span></span></span>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaP8ZeE-35MZNziS2fl2N68gFt1TMIgJw6SdhYeGUQ7BEY7fceoz4UHhW7is9_Z5ovZ90rjDXU8fVyg6dfMksH3hw9dVSKs04xLyP5Gn220bDlttGeE0ZgxEUBppiOHpp7P9VX9vgMsdtX/s1600/294049_10151146717641780_443550362_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaP8ZeE-35MZNziS2fl2N68gFt1TMIgJw6SdhYeGUQ7BEY7fceoz4UHhW7is9_Z5ovZ90rjDXU8fVyg6dfMksH3hw9dVSKs04xLyP5Gn220bDlttGeE0ZgxEUBppiOHpp7P9VX9vgMsdtX/s200/294049_10151146717641780_443550362_n.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">Dad
was a true miracle who shouldn’t have made it past the age of 5 due to the quarter-sized hole
in his heart… which <span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">they found when he was</span> 70. 70!!!! But because of his unbelievable grit and determination, he
worked a farm, married the woman of his dreams, raised three headstrong and
stubborn daughters, survived <span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">the<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> hijinks of <span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">hundreds </span>of </span>high school boys <span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">in 29-years of bus driving</span></span></span>, <u>and</u> lived to see the birth of his two granddaughters. </span></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">As
I was procrastinating the talk I would give at his funeral all last week -- <i>you know, when t</i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>he family is tasked with comforting the people who are coming to co</i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>m</i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>fort t</i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>he family?</i> - </span></span></span></span> I
thought about all of the things I learned from my Dad. <span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">And thought that would be the best way to honor him and to give everyone<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> a glimpse into <span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">the legacy he has left behind.</span></span></span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span></span></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">Dad taught us to be tough. He taught us
to be fearless. He taught us how to work
hard. And most importantly, he taught us
to stand up for what we believe, even if it wasn’t popular to do so.<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span> </span></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">Everyone
that grew up on a farm knows that if a horse bucks you off, you get right back
on. I didn’t even really like horses so
I felt that when I got bucked off, well, the horse and I were <i>clearly </i>in
agreement about this happening so let’s just call it good. But, <span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">i</span>t didn’t matter how
much I cried or stomped my feet, Dad insisted that I get back on. When<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> I</span> was in the 6<sup>th</sup> grade, my horse reared up and rolled over on top of
me. It was very scary and not at all something I would ever want to repeat.
After it happened, the horse took off one way, and I took off the other. Dad
caught up with me before I made it to Mexico, made sure that there weren’t any
broken bones. And then made me get back
on and sit on that stupid animal. Just
for 30 seconds, but it may as well have been 30 years. Today, whenever I have a professional
or personal setback, I have to decide if I’m going to run to Mexico, or get
back on the horse and handle my business.
Mexico would be fun… <i>and given the winter we’re having right now, I’m
thinking Cabo?</i> But I know I’d always
have that horse on my mind if I didn’t get back on. </span></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">Humor
and laughter were a big part of life on the farm. Dad had a great sense of
humor. The day after that horse rolled
on me, it was gone and I decided that my new ride would be our Shetland pony
who didn’t buck <i>or</i> rear. But in the off chance that she did, I could
just put my legs down on the ground. And Dad sure got a kick out of watching me
run barrels on that Shetland. If you’ve
never seen a Shetland run barrels with a 70 pound, lanky 12<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">-year-old,</span> <i>with a perm</i>, riding sans saddle and holding on for dear life,
then you haven’t really lived. </span></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">And
for just a second, let me digress and talk about the perms. We <u>need</u> to talk about the perms. Dad
took over hair duties when mom broke her wrist.
We all have naturally straight hair and none of us were known for our
ability to do our hair… a trait that has been passed down to my girls. I’m not sure why dad thought it would be a
good idea to cut our hair into mullets and <u>then</u> perm it… but <span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I</span> can tell
you that it was a really rough year for the three of us socially. But everything was a lesson… this one being
that if <span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I</span> can get through the perm femullet <i>(female mullet)</i>, with any semblance
of confidence, I can survive anything. </span></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">Dad
was determined to make sure that I had every opportunity to excel and be the
best at whatever I set my sights on. When
I was in junior high, I found an ad in sports illustrated that said: <span style="color: purple;"> <i>“Somewhere,
someone is out there training harder than you.
And when you meet her, she’ll beat you.”</i></span> I took offense to this ad and made it my goal
to outwork anyone I ever came across.
Dad knew this, and decided it was his chance to cure me of this little problem
I had of not being able to jump. We
didn’t have a jump rope when I started my little summer jumping workshop, so Dad
gave me a straw rope he kept in the back of his old GMC. I kept getting little slivers in my hands
from the rope because it wasn’t exactly for jump roping. But for about a week, that was my rope. I had also brought back a workout
from one of the many basketball camps I had attended, and one of the things
that it called for was box jumps. I’m
sure you’re probably thinking that dad went ahead and built me a couple of
boxes to jump on. And
that’s cute. Surely, you <span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">are thinking </span>to yourself, <i>surely </i>he wouldn’t have
found an old wood-burning stove in the barn<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> - </span>one with two different levels<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> and </span>covered in rust on the very sharp edges - and told her to jump on it. </span></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">When he presented my new workout equipment, I remember asking him with <span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">not a small amount of <span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">incredulity</span></span>: <span style="color: #cc0000;"><i>“What
if I miss???”</i></span> </span></span></span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">He
was on his 4-wheeler and just kind of looked at me and said: <span style="color: blue;"><i>“Well, I would recommend not missing.”</i></span> And then he drove off. </span></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">And
that’s how I spent my summer… jumping on to a
tetanus shot waiting to happen and becoming a great jumper in the process. </span></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">One
of the best lessons I learned from Dad was not being afraid to stand up for
myself. If I had a problem with a coach
or a teacher, I would tell my Dad about it, with the hope that he would step
in, use his size and his scary voice and handle it. But, he’d just look at me and say: </span></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i><span style="color: blue;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">“Well, what are you going to do about
that?” </span></span></span></span></i></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">A</span>nd
so<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">, </span><i>I had to do something about that</i>.
And the sense of empowerment and confidence it gave me to know that my
dad believed in me enough to do that on my own?
Immeasurable. </span></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFp4W3KCx6x-qW24NY4mKNub8KBloiTqt0jfcP2mGrVy1N7fFcd47ejvQz8Jr2VvHmElzuXqB_UVm6O2kaQ0F5jOgQq4pP50j-p6KkgqmSaE3n3RVLA5gis3Gkxn-jXANm7vtnzSBnKXjq/s1600/199105_5014141779_160_n.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFp4W3KCx6x-qW24NY4mKNub8KBloiTqt0jfcP2mGrVy1N7fFcd47ejvQz8Jr2VvHmElzuXqB_UVm6O2kaQ0F5jOgQq4pP50j-p6KkgqmSaE3n3RVLA5gis3Gkxn-jXANm7vtnzSBnKXjq/s200/199105_5014141779_160_n.jpg" width="133" /></a><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">This
also extended to the boys I grew up with.
I don’t think that it was very often that I didn’t get the last word
with them… <i>and yet I couldn’t figure out why I never dated.</i> I blamed the perm. Dad blamed my tongue. But again, he got a kick out of every time I
handled my own against a boy. All the
same, he was relieved when I finally found <span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">one</span> that appreciated this little
personality trait, and could handle the tough job that is dealing with my
attitude.</span></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">Dad
believed in his girls. He trusted
me. And knowing that <span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I</span> had his trust was
an amazing and empowering feeling. Last
week when I had to have one of the most difficult conversations that a child
will ever have with their parent - <i>when I told him that we needed to
think about his safety and that of mom’s, and that I needed him to get into
that hospice bed </i>- well, let’s just say
he was less than thrilled. I didn’t
blame him. </span></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="color: #cc0000;"><i>“Dad… it’s not like you’re giving up. You just have to think about your
safety. It will be okay. ”</i></span><span style="color: #cc0000;"><i> </i></span> </span></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">He closed his eyes and I held his hand and asked
him: <span style="color: #cc0000;"><i>“Do you trust me?” </i></span> </span></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">He got that little Kirk-Smirk of his and
simply said: <i><span style="color: blue;">“NOPE”.</span></i> </span></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">And then we argued about who would have the
last say at his funeral. </span></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">One
of my favorite memories of <span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">D</span>ad is sitting with him on our porch during a
storm. We would look to the east and
watch the lightening over the hill. We
didn’t talk when we’re watching the storm.
This was not the place for high school drama, or complaining about my
sister cheating at monopoly again. This
was a place for quiet stillness. I loved
that time of quiet reflection and meditation, although I’m sure that he would
scoff at the word meditation. But as I
look at it from my grown up, admittedly liberal perspective, that’s what it was. I’m sure that when Dad went out to the porch
during that storm, he was stressed about something. More than likely, he was worried that the
storm wouldn’t bring enough water. Or,
maybe it would bring <i>too much</i> water. Or
maybe he was worried about how in the world he was going to pay for new shoes
for all of us girls because our feet grew faster than the crops. </span></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">But usually, sitting out there in that storm
brought him a sense of peace that was palpable.
To this day, I love storms and feel a sense of peace when I hear the
rolling of the thunder or the howling of the wind. Because of Dad, I learned to lean into the
storm and enjoy it.</span></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">Leaning
in was something dad was a master of.
Dad was such a strong supporter and advocate of <span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">M</span>om. I was so blessed to grow up watching how
my parent’s marriage worked. How they
were <i>equal </i>partners. How they would
lovingly flip each other the bird when one of them would pull something over on
the other. <i>Which was daily</i>. And I think that it broke his heart to know that he was
leaving her and that’s why he just fought so hard to stay. He was a <i>fighter</i>.</span></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZBQ9ne54uzodi4AnHWOyfsUMjt5mmZPZIS7JSQtHJ2XOFCplXCNAccZ9BEPUGx2CAtok8s-y5UfJBQxqUsfUuBF4oDjGm4R3xf9f2wmegurnL07YsiSVmsMRQQIn6e48jZu5hhSlSwVlZ/s1600/19160_294290066779_820897_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="135" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZBQ9ne54uzodi4AnHWOyfsUMjt5mmZPZIS7JSQtHJ2XOFCplXCNAccZ9BEPUGx2CAtok8s-y5UfJBQxqUsfUuBF4oDjGm4R3xf9f2wmegurnL07YsiSVmsMRQQIn6e48jZu5hhSlSwVlZ/s200/19160_294290066779_820897_n.jpg" width="200" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">My par<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">ent's marriag<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">e t<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">aught me the</span></span></span></span> importance of picking the right person to share your life
with. More specifically, watching how my
Dad loved and supported my Mom through thick and thin taught me a valuable
lesson about how I should expect to be treated. Through his unwavering support
and fierce loyalty to my mom, I grew to expect the same of my future
husband. The last week of Dad’s life was
rough on him<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">. It </span>was rough on all of us.
But one thing I’ll never forget was one of the last times he was conscious
and lucid. He was talking to mom while
she was holding his hand. All of the sudden
he said: <span style="color: blue;"><i>“How about a kiss?”</i></span> And pulled her down to him for a big old kiss. </span></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">That right there… that was everything. </span></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">I had asked Dad on one of his better days
what some of his favorite memories from his life were. He looked at me and simply said: <span style="color: blue;"><i> </i></span><span style="color: blue;"><i>“Your mom.”
</i></span></span></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">And
then like the <span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">G</span>ambler, he faded off to sleep.
</span></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">Toughness.
Grit. Courage. That’s what <span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Dad </span>wanted for
us. </span></span></span>These
are just a few of the great memories and lessons I learned from my dad, and there
are just so many more <span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">that I could tell you. Like how he never missed a single game in my high school career. How he would purpos<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">e<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">l<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">y not sit next to <span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">other parents because he just wante<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">d to watch t<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">he game and not <span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">listen to complaints about the coaching or playing time. </span></span></span></span></span></span></span>How he <span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">would pay me a dollar to <span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">sweep the school bus. How h<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">e neve<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">r listened when I asked him to please stop texting me in all upper case because that meant he was yelling at me. </span></span>How he never judged me when I told him I was thinking of becoming a De<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">mocrat. And how he always left me a voice mail with the words: <span style="color: blue;"><i> "This is your dear old Dad. Call me please."</i></span> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I'll miss all of this, and more. </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">I
love you, <span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">D</span>ad. </span></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">Thank you for surviving
and giving <span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">u<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">s life. For givin<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">g your <span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">g</span></span></span></span>randaughters life. </span></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">Thank you for being a shining example of
perseverance and kindness. </span></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">Thank you
for putting up with everything we put you through. </span></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">Thank you for passing on your feet to me
because anytime I put on my shoes and woe is me about their size and shape, I’ll
think of you. </span></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">Thank you for making sure that our home was a safe place. </span></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">But
more than anything, thank you for loving mom.
</span></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">"Do
you know, you are my sunshine? Do you
know what your smile did to me? Do you
know you are my sunshine and it looks like you’re always gonna be." </span></span></span></i></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span></span>Jayneehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13842106366686309729noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4596873703371227243.post-30435382683763998272016-05-08T12:38:00.001-07:002016-05-09T11:07:44.825-07:00In My Defense, I'm Just Incredibly LazyLast night, I woke up in a cold sweat because I realized that it's been over a year since my last post. And Blogger has a reputation for deleting my blog if I haven't posted in a while... <i>looking at you, tech who deleted "Life Is Nuts" and therefore made it as though 2005-2010 never even happened.</i><br />
<br />
I'm not exactly sure how long Blogger's "Hasn't Posted Shit So Let's Delete" time frame is. A year? 18 months? So at 3 a.m., I asked myself what I would do if the blog had been deleted? Sue? Murder? Curl up into the fetal position under the coffee table and blame the world for my year-long writers block? Because I'm pretty sure it was spring of 2015 when I last posted. And how pathetic is that? What, like NOTHING interesting has happened since then? Are you kidding me? I now have a 5 and 6 year old, an elected official for a spouse, have helped launch a new non-profit, am incoming President for the Junior League of Ogden AND have made a resolution to write a book this year.<br />
<br />
YEA. <b>A book</b>. <i>Can't find time to write a blog post about The Bean's 5th birthday, but sure... I'm gonna write a book this year.</i><br />
<br />
So, in an effort to make sure the blog doesn't get deleted - and maybe play a little catch-up on my life - here we are. Mother's Day, 2016. I'm currently sitting in my favorite coffee shop, drinking my favorite coffee drink which is not <i>really </i>coffee according to most human beings... and borderlines on candy bar status... but you can just go ahead and shove it if you think I care at all what you think about it.<br />
<br />
And yes... I'm at the coffee shop sans kids on Mother's Day. Because that's exactly what I need right now. Something that's JUST for me. Not them. And I'm not going to lie, it's effing glorious. Second only to a massage... but until Utah gets its shit together and has something open on Sunday besides a coffee shop for us heathens, this will have to do. <br />
<br />
Since spring of 2015, a lot has happened. The Benny was elected to City Council <i>(despite the political liability that is yours truly)</i>. Being involved with a campaign is... well, SUPER weird. You know what I DON'T like? Seeing our last name all over town. You know what I dislike even more? People treating us differently <i>because </i>of our last name now. You all should know by now that even if he was elected President of the Universe, I'm still the same chick who peed down her leg during the bike portion of a triathlon in St. George... and I'm PROUD of it. <i>And </i>will TOTALLY bring up uncomfortable topics like that at any time and in any place. Including a fancy art auction . So you're probably gonna need to adjust your expectations. <br />
<br />
The Bird turned 6 and started Kindergarten. She was so excited the first day when she put on her uniform and went to class. And THAT totally got old for her aboooouuutttt day 4. <i><span style="color: blue;"> "You mean I have to wear a uniform EVERY. SINGLE. DAY?"</span></i> <br />
<br />
I keep waiting for her to figure out that this is like... a thing. But here we are. Two weeks left of school and she STILL hasn't accepted it. Maybe next year.<br />
<br />
One of the things that has been tough for us this year with The Bird is that she already took Kindergarten at a private school last year. So, she was a bit overqualified for the class and was really bored at the beginning of the year. But, she was allowed to work at her level and things changed for the better. Somewhat. I mean, she lied about not having homework more than once... and seriously? What Kindergartener does that? But despite those little hiccups, I have to give props to the YMCA after school program that she attends, which helps her with her homework so that our evenings when we get home are only filled with fights over what we're serving for dinner <i>("Chicken nuggets, again???")</i> and whether or not she has to wear her uniform to school tomorrow. <br />
<br />
The Bean entered private Kindergarten this year and OMG, has this kid flourished. We had to get special permission to put her in the class because she didn't turn 5 until February. We were never concerned about the academic part of it... rather, we were worried about her maturity and temperment with the older kids. Turns out? Not so much of a problem and her maturity has reflected the kids that she is around. <i> (Sometimes for the better, sometimes for the worse. Like marriage.)</i><br />
<br />
For being the youngest, she's kicking ass. She's currently neck and neck with another little girl in class for having read the most books. And because she's <i>exact </i>opposite of The Bird in every way, she absolutely devours her homework every night. Where often we would have to take 2-3 days for The Bird to focus enough to do her homework before a butterfly flitted by and SQUIRREL!, The Bean is <i>alllllll </i>about making sure her homework gets done in one night. And then the next night, she's all: <i><span style="color: purple;">"But I don't have ANY homework and I WANT more homework!"</span></i> She's a little sick in the head, but at least she's not lying about having homework.<br />
<br />
This year, we also became likely the only parents in the history of AYSO soccer to lie about their kid's age to get her to play up a level with her sister. Our reasons were fully practical: 10% because she's pretty athletic and 90% because we didn't want to have to go to two soccer practices and two soccer games every Saturday. Because at the end of the day, it really is just all about us. And she loves it. And when her sister isn't scoring all the goals because she's a freakin' gazelle who sometimes gets distracted by SQUIRREL!, she then gets a chance to score some goals and runs down the field like so: <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxC3Uj0N6D6kRcMVCaeRR1bcDK-7WivpHSRpxcJ9Sfz1m-JCTuU3f28taSyp8I8o-atrcGDClyVxOvc25Mf9G10ak2xAMqDxwRiN363dE0Fxme4nXgdFuwzHaE-xPBVDUwVq4iAl2bd0Fh/s1600/12088427_10153044894306780_5435953077390663919_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxC3Uj0N6D6kRcMVCaeRR1bcDK-7WivpHSRpxcJ9Sfz1m-JCTuU3f28taSyp8I8o-atrcGDClyVxOvc25Mf9G10ak2xAMqDxwRiN363dE0Fxme4nXgdFuwzHaE-xPBVDUwVq4iAl2bd0Fh/s320/12088427_10153044894306780_5435953077390663919_n.jpg" width="182" /></a></div>
<br />
And no. We didn't teach her that. <br />
<br />
And no. We don't encourage that type of behavior.<br />
<br />
But... YAAASSS!! <br />
<br />
This year has been rather challenging for me personally. I often feel as though I'm just barely holding my shit together and life is just going to fast right now. And it feels like all it takes is one ill-advised comment from someone and I'm going to either murder them outright, or burst into tears. Luckily, neither has happened... but it's been close a couple of times.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCp8wWjENQ1Ux3Pm0yD-FrGcqepfF6o_WqUDFsRveD9vwWIPhlTVl14XJ-0P3kKuW9C83Pd5w_Y_8JDPVyB-iWB_sQU_9qTbMDpibVEA9gNRQh2dhzVM8fwzYBosKjF7bNxU8Uarzd8IFV/s1600/FB_IMG_1462679605920.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="157" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCp8wWjENQ1Ux3Pm0yD-FrGcqepfF6o_WqUDFsRveD9vwWIPhlTVl14XJ-0P3kKuW9C83Pd5w_Y_8JDPVyB-iWB_sQU_9qTbMDpibVEA9gNRQh2dhzVM8fwzYBosKjF7bNxU8Uarzd8IFV/s200/FB_IMG_1462679605920.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
For the most part, I try to stay positive and optimistic when things don't go as expected or shit hits the proverbial fan. But when your bucket is already empty because you were up until 1 a.m. writing an email to send out to campaign supporters, your travel schedule has you gone almost every-other-week, the kiddos fought over who got more milk in their Cheerios that morning and you've got 3 deadlines in the next 4 days that you're not ready for? It gets tough.<br />
<br />
Parenthood is not for the weak. And I fail every. single. day. I actually think that's pretty healthy. Within reason. I mean, today I read about a mom who kept her 3 and 4 year-old's chained in the front yard in San Antonio which is off the scale FAIL.<br />
<br />
No, my fails are a bit more mild, but nonetheless confidence shaking. To give you an idea of what I'm talking about, here are a few key talking points from my running list.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: lime;"><u><b>JAYNEE'S SAMPLE LIST OF 2015-16 MOMMY FAILS</b></u></span></div>
<ul>
<li>When we haven't gone grocery shopping in weeks and all we legit have in the house are Eggos and when we feed your kids Eggos to the point that they don't want Eggos anymore... maybe we've fed them too much Eggos and we should buy some mother-effing meat, fruit and veggies so their bones don't get brittle and break when they play soccer?</li>
<li>Dropping the F-bomb when I think they're not around. Here's a secret about having kids that no one ever tells you: THEY'RE ALWAYS AROUND.</li>
<li>Yelling at the kids to stop yelling. Yea... I HEARD IT.</li>
<li>Taking The Bean up the ski-mountain that she wasn't ready for... and having to ask ski-patrol to take her down in the sled with me following behind. </li>
<li>Not insisting at looking at the toe The Bird said was hurting, but wouldn't let me look at... only to wake up a few days later and discover it was infected. With strep. In my defense, who knew THAT was a thing?</li>
</ul>
So, yea... it's been a good year. And at least I've bought myself another year before I get deleted. Who knows... maybe this will be the start of continuous blogging.<br />
<br />
Not likely, but it's a nice thought.Jayneehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13842106366686309729noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4596873703371227243.post-49337614053481334432015-03-04T11:19:00.002-08:002015-03-04T15:39:14.761-08:00One Braid At A Time<span style="color: blue;"><i>"Hey, babe? I need to learn how to braid so I can do the girls hair. Can you show me?"</i></span><br />
<br />
These words could have easily been followed by the sound of a needle sliding off a record player. And in many homes, it probably would have.<br />
<br />
But not ours.<br />
<br />
Here, it is as common as it being Daddy's turn to cook, or to give the girls a bath, or to iron his own clothes.<br />
<br />
And honestly, it's not because I've made a big deal about any of it. It's all him. <i>And it's amazing</i>. Not just because it gets me out of ironing extra clothes so I can work on my crush on all of the firemen on Chicago Fire without any distraction. But because when he busted out the ironing board last week and I offered to do it for him, he said:<br />
<br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i>"It's important that the girls see my ironing my own clothes, babe. They need to see that this is something men can do."</i></span><br />
<br />
Uh. YEA IT IS. Because also? This Daddy? The one ironing his pink shirt out in front of God and everyone? The one who wants to learn how to braid? This Daddy also single-handedly lifted 20 tons of asphalt and concrete onto a trailer with nothing but his hands<i> (and a lot of blood, sweat and cursing)</i> during our remodel. This Daddy helped build a river in town. This Daddy brings home river bugs for the girls to play with. This Daddy bought his girls fishing poles for Christmas and works with them on their cast technique. This Daddy is teaching his daughters how to ride a bike without training wheels. This Daddy built a room in our house by himself. <i>You know... the one I get all the credit for because everyone likes how I painted the bricks? </i><br />
<br />
And this Daddy? He wants to learn how to braid his girls' hair.<br />
<br />
So, we sat The Bean down and I showed him how to do a French braid. I explained that he could tell it was French because it was stylish and snobby. <i>Because I love stereotypes</i>. And because I've convinced The Bean that having her hair done to look like a sister-wife is super stylish. And snobby. And it looks gooood.<i></i><br />
<br />
The French braid was a bit too complicated for him at this early stage in the game. But I reminded him that this is also how you can tell it's French... its complexity. Like a fine wine and... <i>Oh... look! Another stereotype!</i><br />
<br />
So, we decided that he should focus his efforts on mastering a regular braid. I may have <strike>made fun of</strike> encouraged him by noting that if he can tie a fly, he can most certainly braid our daughters' hair and <span style="color: purple;"><i>"Seriously babe... what's wrong with your hands? Have you always lacked dexterity or did your hands get run over by a truck??"</i></span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1hhqhXZrRYif6Km6QqJYNeYKLIupzeNCEUlnWDxKFCUNZr6ZRz_qIcevcuLCam2biRbD7hT_5eps3yRh75mNzFJGqYILZCM4caIW-XeHFM0pFxN_i14ur1quy9_L8XY3vrbW73V7zNtli/s1600/20150301_185400.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1hhqhXZrRYif6Km6QqJYNeYKLIupzeNCEUlnWDxKFCUNZr6ZRz_qIcevcuLCam2biRbD7hT_5eps3yRh75mNzFJGqYILZCM4caIW-XeHFM0pFxN_i14ur1quy9_L8XY3vrbW73V7zNtli/s1600/20150301_185400.jpg" height="150" width="200" /></a></div>
<br />
<strike>Despite my taunting </strike>With my encouragement, he actually caught on to the technique pretty quickly, although his large hands and fingers weren't quite as nimble as they need to be to deal with fine hair like The Bean's. But, he compensated and pretty soon he was on a roll.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzBxHni0LeYRqA6ix6cfR66Vec70fEkcwCS60NnQqrSZBhZ_vr4D-BCf8kcXVbyE8YRU7h99w8XVFvPm4Rb5TNo4tD7k8JPgt3KaUZZQa7GjJf8CFR0kC59k5XVBF9r280VEgqI_SDOqbO/s1600/20150301_185609.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzBxHni0LeYRqA6ix6cfR66Vec70fEkcwCS60NnQqrSZBhZ_vr4D-BCf8kcXVbyE8YRU7h99w8XVFvPm4Rb5TNo4tD7k8JPgt3KaUZZQa7GjJf8CFR0kC59k5XVBF9r280VEgqI_SDOqbO/s1600/20150301_185609.jpg" height="150" width="200" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAIjmXLtxnPdXwsQoaISxeI9C5BwasYuAYO3zWaRE_khidZJT8do73HO7LZAA1SP1NT1OVP2LJNQzZqA-v3HYcv774n18f9YunPW2W-M6_Z2h6oIoBkDY9zdNgLj8_WGot1cP-8s5J1_ar/s1600/20150301_190357.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAIjmXLtxnPdXwsQoaISxeI9C5BwasYuAYO3zWaRE_khidZJT8do73HO7LZAA1SP1NT1OVP2LJNQzZqA-v3HYcv774n18f9YunPW2W-M6_Z2h6oIoBkDY9zdNgLj8_WGot1cP-8s5J1_ar/s1600/20150301_190357.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtIjbYy3njvAG8K9bJJXE-FwV3RhgGn-k7zwB8lTlRFIX4h6xi_Gw17ey3oRyJL9fY-wTt9rna_4qPqAEgh5jTw9gmYi-LckMmZUsnx860Wk77vTL5kRaRbg8qyKx6DJ6ORmx06qxK19UM/s1600/20150301_190801.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtIjbYy3njvAG8K9bJJXE-FwV3RhgGn-k7zwB8lTlRFIX4h6xi_Gw17ey3oRyJL9fY-wTt9rna_4qPqAEgh5jTw9gmYi-LckMmZUsnx860Wk77vTL5kRaRbg8qyKx6DJ6ORmx06qxK19UM/s1600/20150301_190801.jpg" height="150" width="200" /></a></div>
<br />
The Bean, who is usually adamant that her braid look like she's a
sister-wife, was perfectly content to let Daddy do some... <i>things </i>to her
hair. And she was beyond thrilled with how it turned out since she got more than one braid and <i><span style="color: red;"><b>"I WUV deez bwaidz, Mama!!"</b></span></i> Needless to say, it didn't go over well with her later that night when I explained that we would need to take all of the braids out for her shower. But that's what vodka is for.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3iVDmuxmzaW2eWX-IWcIKU0-2pOmMAI3aeOrQ4LWrnCWwdk4Jwl0eSjQkj0mrCi6q5l4HcU3hEM_kXr8ulcQ0h6dxxvCpFBcggTdQg3RJrxxsNhk6tK_P4Miw4BM3lc-w4KtR770snPkW/s1600/20150301_190623.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3iVDmuxmzaW2eWX-IWcIKU0-2pOmMAI3aeOrQ4LWrnCWwdk4Jwl0eSjQkj0mrCi6q5l4HcU3hEM_kXr8ulcQ0h6dxxvCpFBcggTdQg3RJrxxsNhk6tK_P4Miw4BM3lc-w4KtR770snPkW/s1600/20150301_190623.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
I drew a little pic for The Bean after she was done. She took one look at it and exclaimed: <span style="color: red;"><i><b>"It wooks wike MEEEE!"</b></i></span> Because I'm a good artist and also... <i>because it does.</i><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisY67F2ni-vQ1KKT8BmEv3MuLv5KeySV2f4QmfgBXs9l85FdLfodCP7IRlnpNqytdeiHca_uMf-44npYnI-ZyScRTZvrGyppLTB01qLKLey29HgoSK6GlkzMal0UNemzJpC2QQ5qImkd9g/s1600/20150301_191140.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisY67F2ni-vQ1KKT8BmEv3MuLv5KeySV2f4QmfgBXs9l85FdLfodCP7IRlnpNqytdeiHca_uMf-44npYnI-ZyScRTZvrGyppLTB01qLKLey29HgoSK6GlkzMal0UNemzJpC2QQ5qImkd9g/s1600/20150301_191140.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
She then asked me to draw Waldo and I'll be damned if I actually didn't do a semi-decent job. Although in reality, he should have had vapors coming out of his butt because... you know.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjaoalEg4gKj0O52WW3GP3C2Wul5cO_LHGE1p_K9Wp7sCht1bkNMQJTH_67AgIZVXZRknMAnGinET7PZ1BqmlxB1MkOAds0A3GSeWSW9u6Nosd3z_V03rkhOQWwMaizSTs1DczeQphpa6O/s1600/20150301_191357.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjaoalEg4gKj0O52WW3GP3C2Wul5cO_LHGE1p_K9Wp7sCht1bkNMQJTH_67AgIZVXZRknMAnGinET7PZ1BqmlxB1MkOAds0A3GSeWSW9u6Nosd3z_V03rkhOQWwMaizSTs1DczeQphpa6O/s1600/20150301_191357.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
But, I digress with my fancy artwork. The Bird was so pleased that Daddy was working on her hair. And not just because of the Daddy worship that she practices 24/7. Only MOSTLY because of that. Seriously, given the choice between being a princess living in a castle made of chocolate, or having a Daddy-Daughter fishing date in the rain, she'll choose Daddy every. single. time. <i>(Although she would insist on wearing her princess dress while fishing. Because what is she? An animal?)</i><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO0Jdbwt16IoGV9KrPUCk-nA4DfLDAu_DHxNwP_ShXP8Lq-3UOqcwfNu5oBkEeKtmfkBUllylVluF63MsKg-5S13HAzhELOdC5HbFgFRp6jY19QSqf6ewAi6LrhNFmXZZ1M2Cyo5iNoGPx/s1600/20150301_191201.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO0Jdbwt16IoGV9KrPUCk-nA4DfLDAu_DHxNwP_ShXP8Lq-3UOqcwfNu5oBkEeKtmfkBUllylVluF63MsKg-5S13HAzhELOdC5HbFgFRp6jY19QSqf6ewAi6LrhNFmXZZ1M2Cyo5iNoGPx/s1600/20150301_191201.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
Since his dexterity had improved in the 20 minutes it took to do The Bean's hair, The Bird's hair was finished rather quickly and looked marvelous.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuS1AiL4OuZW1vIt_Yqz-WsXGPUdU74QeEhDnZiD5eymz2Qh96_-Qv5ygin4Qo4rRzw_jegQyfaRSvW2vudY95Zv4KAYFhS01pB80hyS9h0NNGG75IedWNQrfuvHnH9AWMgtFfIeGijNo-/s1600/20150301_191742.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuS1AiL4OuZW1vIt_Yqz-WsXGPUdU74QeEhDnZiD5eymz2Qh96_-Qv5ygin4Qo4rRzw_jegQyfaRSvW2vudY95Zv4KAYFhS01pB80hyS9h0NNGG75IedWNQrfuvHnH9AWMgtFfIeGijNo-/s1600/20150301_191742.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
I'm telling you, this little girl loves her Daddy more than anything in this whole world. More than ice cream. More than Monster High. More than the braids he gave her. <b>And she LOVED those.</b></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRRIKfsEJSO_vlCsuYhlhp_Kiki1eX6NPz7-0VZr6bO7Cft3zU7Db3uRVgFTxI_lzmIsgvrbZ2YnnupUZJwZoSMoOIS78IRs8vDVxvglxSxoz5_10r7csx32tvR_zci_E-msaw-Yurbz2O/s1600/20150301_191733.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRRIKfsEJSO_vlCsuYhlhp_Kiki1eX6NPz7-0VZr6bO7Cft3zU7Db3uRVgFTxI_lzmIsgvrbZ2YnnupUZJwZoSMoOIS78IRs8vDVxvglxSxoz5_10r7csx32tvR_zci_E-msaw-Yurbz2O/s1600/20150301_191733.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<br />
And honestly, he's either spoiling her for other men, or doing
exactly what he needs to do to make sure she doesn't bring home a loser.
Either way works for me.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsoqdip2I2A4SpYfnqB9xTTJ9SMcTBwDqSQY9xU_OlZynV3e4u6oWIrLAUSsccYWCFsxJ1-XLcakRzvOQR_v9nM17sISjKC9mc2Ra8t9J-ScYOxNThk2e6RPvhBM1UvDARN7ZYC5ns8niS/s1600/20150301_191955(1).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsoqdip2I2A4SpYfnqB9xTTJ9SMcTBwDqSQY9xU_OlZynV3e4u6oWIrLAUSsccYWCFsxJ1-XLcakRzvOQR_v9nM17sISjKC9mc2Ra8t9J-ScYOxNThk2e6RPvhBM1UvDARN7ZYC5ns8niS/s1600/20150301_191955(1).jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
It takes a special man to raise daughters. It takes an even more special man to understand that what they see him do and say every day, how he treats them every day, how he treats their Mommy every day... THAT is what they will expect from the other men that eventually come into their lives.<br />
<br />
So, let's talk about stereotypes. Not the French stereotypes. Those are for my own twisted amusement and very much showcase my inner Republican.<i> Aha! Another stereotype! I'm on a roll!!! </i><br />
<br />
Let's talk about the stereotypes we hear all of the time about men and what being a real man is. The kind that say that men have to be macho. That it isn't their responsibility to cook or clean. That they don't have as much responsibility in raising daughters as mothers do. That what they think or do or say carries more weight than their wives thoughts and actions. That their worth is defined by their strength or the paycheck they bring home, rather than what they do with their family every day. That girls don't have as much potential as boys.<br />
<br />
These stereotypes.. they're simply not true.<br />
<br />
And this man? He knows it. <br />
<br />
This man... the one that felt it was important to learn how to braid, the one who supports this Mommy in everything she does and dreams of doing, the one who irons his own pink shirts, the one who will color with The Bean while helping The Bird do her homework, the one that will go into work late because he feels like he hasn't had enough time with his kids, the one who they tackle every night when he walks in the door, the one who can fall asleep while they are using him as a trampoline, the one who can fix anything from an owie on their toe, to a toy that isn't working, to a sprinkler system to a <b>freakin' house</b>.<br />
<br />
This man is the definition of what a man should be. This man shatters stereotypes. And in the process, is raising daughters that like him, are going to change the world.<br />
<br />
One braid at a time.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8f9kV6GZPiBzAuoyaXVTL5-sSET-HUlp_KbBGE0XCXd9ocKWhm18riKPd_uo_BALTwH3hcFKTLn9PkQ_qiskb0DXGzciYCWiR-EysOS75iEZEDvD2sktKTyn0xC0Zo2AEDF96eROLBBUh/s1600/20150301_192119.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8f9kV6GZPiBzAuoyaXVTL5-sSET-HUlp_KbBGE0XCXd9ocKWhm18riKPd_uo_BALTwH3hcFKTLn9PkQ_qiskb0DXGzciYCWiR-EysOS75iEZEDvD2sktKTyn0xC0Zo2AEDF96eROLBBUh/s1600/20150301_192119.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
Jayneehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13842106366686309729noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4596873703371227243.post-83231442468226169462015-01-29T09:41:00.001-08:002015-01-29T09:41:09.103-08:00My Pre-K BeanThe Bean has been going through a rough patch for the last few months. She's been defiant and bull-headed in a way that makes bulls seem somewhat reasonable and even-keeled... someone you'd consider inviting out to Girls Night.<br />
<br />
At first, we thought it was just a phase... that she would grow out of it. But it's been like a bad case of plantar fasciitis<i> (I happen to know a little about that)</i>... that's gotten worse and more inflammed and even alcohol can't help it. And I am honestly at the end of my very, very long rope with her.<br />
<br />
We've tried everything. Reasoning... choice and consequence... sending her to her room... taking away her blankie... out right yelling... threatening to give Waldo away <i>(yea, I sooooo went there)</i>... and even threatening to leave her at gymnastics overnight because she refused to put on her pants and shoes after class when it was time to go. <br />
<br />
<i>Five points if you can you spot the slow spiral down to Insanity Parenting.</i><br />
<br />
Her teacher has been flummoxed as well. She's pulled me aside several times and asked what type of things work for us when she's being so defiant and I was all: <span style="color: magenta;"><i>"Dude! Don't ask me!!! I threatened to give the cat away last night... I'm bottom of the barrel here!"</i></span><br />
<br />
Yesterday was another rough day for her in school and she got an incident report for being.. well, a general asshole to everyone at school and was sent to the equivalent of the Principal's Office at the day care. <i>Great... she's THAT kid.</i><br />
<br />
After signing off on the report and taking my copy, I walked into her room where she was playing with her little friends. She saw me and did her usual routine of: <span style="color: blue;">"Yay! Mama's here!"</span> while clapping her hands and jumping up and down. Which is hands down the best greeting you can ever ask for, but I digress.<br />
<br />
I looked at her and held up the folded piece of yellow paper that was the copy of the report. And this child's demeanor changed mid-jump and clap. She lowered her chin down to her chest and wouldn't make eye contact. Her response was exactly like Bonnie's response when I catch her eating underwear. I didn't have to say a word. <i>She knew</i>. SHE KNOWS SHE'S SCREWING UP. Which means there's legitimately something going on here... not just the Being An Asshole Phase I was chalking it up to.<br />
<br />
That night, I had a heart-to-heart with her. In the past, thinking maybe it was a personality conflict with the teacher, I have asked her if she liked her teacher, Ms. Jennifer. She would always respond that she loved Ms. Jennifer. Then I would ask her what was wrong... and she would say she didn't know.<br />
<br />
Last night, I asked her if she liked her class... <i>because it only takes me four months to try phrasing the question differently... because I'm super on-point like that</i>. She once again hung her head down and shook her head no. <br />
<br />
<i><span style="color: magenta;">"Why not?"</span></i><br />
<span style="color: blue;"><span style="color: black;">With a quivering lip:</span><i> "Betuz... I'm bored. There's widdow kids in there and I'm a big girl and everything we do is bowing."</i></span><br />
<i><span style="color: magenta;">"Oh! Well... you know what? We can put you in a big kid class with older kids."</span></i><br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i>"You can?"</i></span><br />
<span style="color: magenta;"><i>"Absolutely! Would you like to do that?"</i></span><br />
*silence*<br />
She looked up at me then, with big blue eyes and unshed tears and choked out:<br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i>"But... I still wuv Ms. Jennifer!"</i></span><br />
<span style="color: magenta;"><i>"That's okay, sweetie! She knows you love her... but she knows you're almost four and need to be with the big kids. And you'll love your new teacher, too!"</i></span><br />
<br />
At that point, the smile and joy that had been missing from her face whenever the subject of school came up, returned. Her smile was so big I thought her face might break and she hugged me around my neck so tightly that I thought I might pass out. <br />
<br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i>"I wanna go to the big kid class! And I get to learn things and even have homework, right?"</i></span><br />
<span style="color: magenta;"><i>"Maybe!"</i></span><br />
<i><span style="color: blue;">"Yay!" </span></i><br />
<i><span style="color: blue;"> </span></i><br />
This morning, I dropped her off at school and she marched right into her new class, no questions asked. Her only concern was that she didn't have a cubby yet. <i><span style="color: magenta;">"Dude... relax. We like JUST got here and the decision to bring you into this class happened <u>about </u>12 hours ago</span>." </i><br />
<br />
She got over it quickly and grabbed my hand and walked with me to the cafeteria, where she walked right up to her new class, sat down and ate breakfast with all the big kids. I kissed her, wished her luck, told her to be the best her she could be and that I loved her. She beamed at me and told me she loved me.<br />
<br />
It was the first time in weeks that she hadn't clung to me and sobbed when I left. <br />
<br />
<i>How could I not have figured this out sooner?</i><br />
<br />
Sometimes I don't give The Bean the benefit of the doubt. She's always been a rascal and she likes to push limits and doesn't always seem congnizant of other people's feelings... and doesn't talk about <i>her </i>feelings. <br />
<br />
I should know this by now. I realize now that she does care and she does love people deeply... she just doesn't wear it on her sleeve like her sister does. <br />
<br />
When I left my little Bean... the one I feel like I need to protect much more than her sissy because I still remember when she came out of me and couldn't breathe... well, she was sitting in that cafeteria, happily eating her breakfast surrounded by new big-kid friends. <br />
<br />
She. Was. Beaming.Jayneehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13842106366686309729noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4596873703371227243.post-27878042859461878042014-12-17T14:19:00.001-08:002014-12-17T14:26:17.554-08:00A Morning In The Green Boogers & Oatmeal Life<span style="color: purple;"><i>The most common things that come out of my mouth every weekday between 6:27 a.m. and 9 a.m.: </i></span><br />
<br />
"It's not time to wake up yet... shhhhh!"<br />
"We have 3 more minutes before it's wake-up time."<br />
"If you are in Mommy and Daddy's bed, you have to be quiet."<br />
"Ouch! Go play in your bedroom with sissy... quietly." <br />
"No, you may not have a Fiber One bar." <br />
"Eat your breakfast."<br />
"No... you've had enough Wild Kratts. Time to get ready for the day."<br />
"Yes... it's school day."<br />
"Oh, I know! It's horrible. You'll survive." <br />
"Please get
dressed."<br />
"You have to get dressed before Mommy finishes her coffee... or Mommy picks out your outfit."<br />
"Good job getting dressed. Now, let's try it with the underwear under the pants." <br />
"You look so nice! Thank you for getting dressed on your own."<br />
"No, you cannot wear that. It's dirty/you wore it
yesterday/it's too cold outside for that."<br />
"Did you remember underwear?"<br />
"Did you flush?"<br />
"Wash your hands."<br />
"Hold on one sec... I'll be right there to wipe your bummy!" <br />
"Don't forget to put on your socks." <br />
"Please put on your shoes."<br />
"Nope... wrong feet. Try again, sweetie." <br />
"Where is your coat?"<br />
"No."<br />
"Because I said so."<br />
"Stop asking why... just do it."<br />
"Are you kidding me?" <br />
"Stop teasing your sister."<br />
"You can't have mac & cheese for breakfast." <br />
"COME HERE."<br />
"Please sit on your bummy."<br />
"You do that again, Mommy takes your blankie/teddy bear."<br />
"Don't carry the cat upside down by his tail!" <br />
"Would you like ME to carry YOU that way?"<br />
"You're missing the point."<br />
"Come get your vitamins."<br />
"You get what you get... and you don't throw a fit."<br />
"Deal with it, kiddo." <br />
"No, you can't have gummy bears for breakfast."<br />
"Please go get
in the car."<br />
"Because I said so!"<br />
"COME HERE!"<br />
"Brushing your hair does NOT hurt."<br />
"Yes... if you want long hair like Rapunzel you have to stop sucking your thumb and eat your veggies." <br />
"If you want a french braid, you have to sit still."<br />
"You can't ask for a french braid when we're already 10 minutes late!"<br />
"You said you wanted a french braid. THIS is a french braid!" <br />
"I think what you meant to say was 'thank you'." <br />
"No... I'm done doing hair for a while until you can remember to be grateful."<br />
"You're fine."<br />
"Shake it off." <br />
"You can have Cheerios... or Cheerios."<br />
"We're out of oatmeal."<br />
"We're also out of pancakes."<br />
"No... those are Mommy's special fatty pancakes with whip cream. No, you may not have them." <br />
"Yes... you may have bacon." <br />
"You wanted toast... that IS toast!"<br />
"It's not nice to steal food off of anyone's plate. EAT YOUR OWN BREAKFAST." <br />
"The last time I got to eat all my food off my own plate was before you were born, you know that, right?" <br />
"Next time you get out of your seat, that means you're done eating and we give Daddy-monster your breakfast."<br />
"Go get in the car."<br />
"Worry about yourself, please."<br />
"No more tattling!"<br />
"THAT'S TATTLING!" <br />
"No, you can't take that toy with you." <br />
"Because teacher will take it away."<br />
"Because I said so."<br />
"Hurry!!!"<br />
"Where is your blankie?" <br />
"DID YOU NOT HEAR ME TELL YOU TO COME. HERE?" <br />
"Why are your pants on backwards?"<br />
"Why in the world would you take your shoes off IN THE CAR ON THE WAY TO SCHOOL?"<br />
"If you want second breakfast at school, you better hurry!"<br />
"We're totally late... let's move!"<br />
"I'm sorry... I don't know where the Frozen CD is."<br />
"Stop sticking your tongue out."<br />
"You think I can't see you?" <br />
"Yes, I DO have eyes in the back of my head." <br />
"Yes... I DO know everything. Because I eat my vegetables."<br />
"Because I said so!"<br />
"I love you."<br />
"What do you mean you need something for show and share?"<br />
<br />
<i>And that, my friends, is more words than I speak in an entire day at work.</i><br />
<br />Jayneehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18043652983678073891noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4596873703371227243.post-2862752261125129882014-12-16T14:54:00.002-08:002014-12-16T14:58:13.830-08:00The Bird and Bean's Guide to Waking Up Mommy Now that the girls are a little older now, I've taken the opportunity to indulge in a hobby that I never had time for when they were babies: Sleeping In.<br />
<br />
Until at least 7 a.m.<br />
<br />
Because I'm a rebel that way.<br />
<br />
The girls still aren't old enough to tell time, and honestly, I don't think they would give a rat's ass if they could... so they still come into the room at exactly 6:27 a.m. every morning. Usually it's The Bird first... followed by The Bean about seven minutes later. The bed's a little tall, so The Bean needs some help getting up. I have perfected lifting her up and over my body to the middle of the bed without opening my eyes. I can tuck her in with my hands behind my back so I don't really even have to move from the fetal position.<br />
<br />
This of course, causes my rib to pop out... but for a few extra minutes of shut eye? TOTALLY WORTH IT. <br />
<br />
You have to give these girls credit... after years of training, they've finally learned to be quiet <i>(mostly) </i>while they are in our bed in the early morning hours. Usually, we get 22 minutes of additional sleeping time before the nonsense begins. But when it begins, it escalates quickly. <br />
<br />
And so I give you:<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: red;"><u>The Bird and Bean's Guide to Waking Up Mommy</u> </span></div>
1) Snuggle up to her and run my big toe toenail along her back or butt.<br />
2) Ask for a Fiber One bar<br />
3) Lick her shoulder<br />
4) Start poking/scratching/biting sister until she cries.<br />
5) Ask for a Fiber One bar, again. <br />
6) Sit on her head.<br />
7) Ask if today is a school day. If it is, respond with "<span style="color: blue;"><i>Awww... I don't wanna go to school!"</i></span> If it isn't, respond with<span style="color: blue;"><i> "Yay! Can we watch Wild Kratts???!"</i></span><br />
8)<i><span style="color: blue;"> "I'm hungry!!!"</span></i><br />
9) Jimmy-leg it until Mommy freaks out and tells you to stop - for the love of God - STOP moving your leg.<br />
10) Jump up and down on the bed.<br />
11) If Daddy's still in bed, "accidentally" land on his privates after jumping on the bed.<br />
12) "Accidentally" dig your elbow into Mommy's bobos while trying to get more comfortable.<br />
13) Ask for a Fiber One bar. Again. In case she's changed her mind.<br />
14) Straddle Mommy like a horse and ask: "Is it time to get up yet?" 43 times.<br />
15)<span style="color: blue;"> <i>"I have to go potty.... and need you to wipe my bummy."</i></span><br />
16) Bring the cat into bed and let him sit on Mommy's head.<br />
17) Toot and then laugh about it... which makes your sissy toot. Lather, rinse, repeat. <br />
18)<i> <span style="color: blue;">"Can we watch Rudolf?"</span></i><br />
19) <span style="color: blue;"><i>"I tink I'm sick... can we watch Frosty and da Gwinch?"</i></span><br />
20) Pick your nose and then ask Mommy to take the giant green booger on your finger.<br />
21) Start fighting with sissy over who is breathing more air in the room.<br />
22) Start crying because your nose/ear/eye ball/pinky/hair hurts.<br />
23) Slam the door to your room repeatedly.<br />
24) If that doesn't work, slam sissy's fingers in your door. Repeatedly.<br />
25) Open up Mommy's eyes with your finger, and peak in with a concerned look. If she has slept through all of the above nonsense, you need to confirm she's actually alive.<br />
26) When she does finally wake up, ask her about the Fiber One Bar situation. Jayneehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18043652983678073891noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4596873703371227243.post-20897464711467054832014-11-13T11:35:00.002-08:002014-11-14T08:56:16.763-08:00And That's How She Became A VegetarianWhile on a family outing last night<i> (read: a trip to Costco)</i>, The Bird asked approximately 2 million questions, because WHY and WHY NOT? <br />
<br />
The questions ranged from why we were there yet again, to how come we aren't buying this, or that, or this, or that, or DIS, or DAT??!?!? <i>(The answer is because until she starts working and earning her keep, Mommy calls the shots and no, we do not need a $175 giant teddy bear. She already has 175 $1 teddy bears and I think that's sufficient.) </i><br />
<br />
She, of course, is not one to let a simple shoot down of her dreams of owning the giant teddy bear deter her from asking more questions that demand a response... which leads me to forget the one thing I came to Costco for. <i>(Usually a year's worth of toilet paper or a day's worth of pumpkin seed bark.)</i><br />
<br />
<span style="color: magenta;"><i>"What's that?"</i></span><br />
<span style="color: red;"><i>"Eggs."</i></span><br />
<span style="color: magenta;"><i>"Can I see?"</i></span><br />
<span style="color: red;"><i>"Sure... see how they're not broken? Let's just put them back so they don't break."</i></span><br />
<i><span style="color: magenta;">"Okay. What's that?</span>"</i><br />
<span style="color: red;"><i>"Salad."</i></span><br />
<span style="color: magenta;"><i>"Why did you get salad?"</i></span><br />
<span style="color: red;"><i>"Because I like salad."</i></span><br />
<span style="color: magenta;"><i>"But why do you like salad?"</i></span><br />
<span style="color: red;"><i>"Because it's yummy!"</i></span><br />
<span style="color: magenta;"><i>"That's weird. What's that?"</i></span><br />
<span style="color: red;"><i>"That's steak."</i></span><br />
<span style="color: magenta;"><i>"What's steak?"</i></span><br />
<span style="color: red;"><i>"It's beef."</i></span><br />
<span style="color: magenta;"><i>"What's beef?"</i></span><br />
<span style="color: red;"><i>"It's, um... cow."</i></span><br />
<span style="color: magenta;"><i>"I LOVE COW!"</i></span><br />
<span style="color: red;"><i>"I know. It's yummy."</i></span><br />
<span style="color: magenta;"><i>"Yea! How do you get the cow into our cart?"</i></span><br />
<span style="color: red;"><i>"Well... I buy it here... from the store."</i></span><br />
<span style="color: magenta;"><i>"But how does the store get the cow?"</i></span><br />
<span style="color: red;"><i>"Well... they get it from the farmer."</i></span><br />
<i><span style="color: magenta;">"But HOW does it get so small so we can buy it?"</span></i><br />
<br />
At this point, I'm frantically looking around for anything to distract her... where is that damn giant teddy bear? Maybe a sample cookie? Anything???? But we were un the checkout line and people were lining up behind us... and I sensed that more than a couple strangers were enjoying our little show and were anxious to see how I would handle the situation. The Bird loves cow on her plate. And she also loves cow in the field.<i> I just don't think she's ever made the connection, ya know?</i>.<br />
<br />
And am I ready to do that to her on a November night, over eggs and salad and steak, in the middle of the checkout line at Costco? No. Because I already made her wear tennis shoes instead of sandals, so I've hit my <span style="color: purple;"><b>Ruined Her Life</b></span> quota for the day.<br />
<br />
So, I did the next best thing.<br />
<br />
<span style="color: red;"><i>"You know what, sweetie? I bet Daddy can answer this for you."</i></span><br />
<span style="color: magenta;"><i>"Ok! Daddy, how do they get the cow to the store?"</i></span><br />
<br />
And without missing a beat, the love of my life jumped in. Head first.<br />
<br />
<i><span style="color: blue;">"Well, you see, the cow lives on the farm, right?"</span><br /><span style="color: magenta;">"Uh-huh!" </span></i><br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i>"Right, well, there's a man that is a lot like grandpa. He's a farmer..."</i></span><br />
<span style="color: red;"><i> "Be careful, babe...."</i></span><br />
<span style="color: red;"><i><span style="color: blue;">"Hey! I got this. I GOT THIS!"</span> </i><span style="color: black;">He looked at me with waaaay more self-assurance</span><span style="color: black;"> than any parent should ever have... and then turned back to The Bird. </span><i> </i></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: red;"><i>"Okay..."</i></span> as I looked around nervously and smile at the other shoppers who were trying to pretend they're <u>not</u> eavesdropping.<br />
<br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i>"So, the farmer - someone a lot like grandpa - comes up to the cow in the field... and KILLS it and SLICES it into small pieces with a KNIFE! And then the store buys it and then we buy it from the store and eat it....."</i></span><br />
<br />
And I don't know what else was said because I FELL OVER DEAD RIGHT IN THE MIDDLE OF THE COSTCO CHECKOUT LINE.Jayneehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18043652983678073891noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4596873703371227243.post-16939156173639269892014-10-15T13:39:00.001-07:002014-10-15T16:50:52.665-07:00The B-WordThe Bird recently asked for a Barbie for her upcoming 5th birthday.<br />
<br />
First, let me thank all of my friends and the day care for exposing her to the B-Word. No... not THAT B-Word. I would prefer <i>that </i>B-Word to the B-A-R-B-I-E-Word.<br />
<br />
Back before I had kids, I swore that Barbie would never enter my home. I believe that I have referred to it on more than on occasion as <i>"The Eating Disorder Doll"</i>... and vowed never to let it cross the threshold of my house. <br />
<br />
But, when your almost-5-year-old looks up at you with wide, innocent eyes and desperately whispers: <i><span style="color: magenta;">"I want a Barbie doll... because I've never had a Barbie doll... and all my friends have Barbie dolls... so can I please have a Barbie? Please, please, please?"</span> </i> Well, now you feel like a Grinch.<br />
<br />
It's hard balancing feminism with raising a little girl who, if she could, would like to grow up to be a Butterfly Princess that could fly and go to dance class and wear a crown of jewels and have pretty rings and necklaces and pink hair with sparkles AND WEAR HIGH HEELS!!! <i> (happy screech!!!)</i><br />
<br />
<i>So. God... she has a sense of humor, no? </i><br />
<br />
Yep. I'm a Grinch. The Grinch Who Stole Barbie. And yes... I <i>may </i>have gone too far with the No Barbies Rule. And yes... I may not completely understand The Bird and her need to make everything princess-y. And honestly? I need to be better at that. I need to let her be the little girl she wants to be and not impose my view of the world on her... the one in which I expect her to fly her feminist flag high and question authority and patriarchy. Because she's just a little kid and she should just be allowed to <i>be in that moment</i>.<br />
<br />
So...I get that. I get that I'm 37-years-old and NEED TO DEAL WITH MY SH*T and not force it on my kindergartner.<i> </i> It's just hard... way harder than I expected it to be. <br />
<br />
Luckily, Mattel has found a way to soothe my feminist ire and STILL take money from my grubby hands via their new line: Career Barbie!! Props to my girlfriend who pointed this out to me when I lamented how I could see the Barbie train coming and was powerless to stop it.<br />
<br />
A quick Amazon search of Career Barbie turned up a few gems. You guys. YOU. GUYS. I don't know whether to be delighted at the possibilities... or dead inside. Because while the powers that be have been shamed into trying..<i>. they're definitely trying.</i>.. to step into the modern day, my ears are <i>still </i>bleeding. <br />
<br />
So, seeing that I have nothing better to do, let's discuss the concepts in the Career Barbie line:<br />
<br />
<b><span style="color: magenta;">1) Actress Barbie</span></b><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-FNH1JdNLt2I/VD6u34IcJwI/AAAAAAAAGyc/13WHNQahgt8/s1600/actress.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-FNH1JdNLt2I/VD6u34IcJwI/AAAAAAAAGyc/13WHNQahgt8/s1600/actress.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>
Do I really need to say anything about this? Okay, fine. See, the thing is there are some amazing actresses. The ones that make you want to go see a film because you know they'll blow your mind. And the funny thing is, NONE OF THEM LOOK LIKE THIS. The ones who aren't so amazing... yes, they often look like this. They're the ones who have to have guardianships placed on them and say they're not a feminist... because they don't hate men.... but women should definitely have social, economic and political equality. <i>See? Ears bleeding.</i><br />
<br />
<b><span style="color: magenta;">2) Astronaut Barbie</span></b><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-bGUxGu3Lr8c/VD6u4FFeL1I/AAAAAAAAGyg/el6ZKm9kSPw/s1600/astronaught.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-bGUxGu3Lr8c/VD6u4FFeL1I/AAAAAAAAGyg/el6ZKm9kSPw/s1600/astronaught.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>
This one... I'm okay with. Not sure why they have to vomit pink at every turn, but you do you, Mattel. Good job. <br />
<br />
<span style="color: magenta;"><b>3) Soccer Barbie</b></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-D4XosS7CwXs/VD6wIIclrWI/AAAAAAAAGzo/RbFsgAGoZXI/s1600/soccer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-D4XosS7CwXs/VD6wIIclrWI/AAAAAAAAGzo/RbFsgAGoZXI/s1600/soccer.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>
So, listen. I'm an athlete and am a huge advocate of women's athletics and what it means for the development of girls and women. However, this is just not cutting it. I mean, despite the fact that this outfit exactly matches The Bird's soccer uniform's color-scheme<i> (not even joking),</i> there are some issues here.<br />
<br />
#1 - How many girls do YOU know that wear tight shirts and shorts to play soccer? None. <i> That's volleyball. Get it right. </i><br />
#2 - And how many of them have perfectly coiffed hair? NONE. <i>Which leads us to: </i><br />
#3 - Her teeny-tiny feet that are so small there's no way she can kick a soccer ball effectively, or even be able to stand properly. <br />
#4 - Of course, since her knees don't bend, this is all a mute point.<br />
<br />
Seriously... if we're going to promote sports via a Barbie doll, let's make it realistic. How about a Million Dollar Baby Barbie Doll? Looks like crap most of
the time, doesn't comb her hair eats leftover food at the diner when no one is looking and
hasn't showered in days... but can throw a mean left hook and knock you
flat on your ass. YOU GUYS!! I would buy that doll in a heartbeat... hell, The Bean could be the model for <i>that </i>doll. <br />
<br />
<span style="color: magenta;"><b>4) Baker Barbie</b></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-3W3uyAkT0eg/VD6u4bWMJtI/AAAAAAAAGyk/p-lJdcA-R1I/s1600/caker.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-3W3uyAkT0eg/VD6u4bWMJtI/AAAAAAAAGyk/p-lJdcA-R1I/s1600/caker.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
When I first looked at this one, I got a craving for some Pepto. But other than that, I wasn't too bothered. Until I looked at her shoes. Really? <b>No.</b> No <i>career </i>woman I know would wear those kinds of shoes to work. Well... one career woman, but Mattel hasn't <i>officially </i>created a Stripper Barbie <i>(although seriously... if they make one, it better come with a pole and I'm totally going to buy it)</i>.<br />
<br />
But, I digress. Besides the lack of comfort and impracticality of wearing these things in a kitchen, I'd be willing to bet that Baker Barbie will eventually end up with plantar fasciitis and a neuroma. Those shoes are NOT her best friend. Why not a Cat Cora/Iron Chef Barbie?? I guarantee she's wearing running shoes. <br />
<br />
<span style="color: magenta;"><b>5) Doctor Barbie</b></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitajqNVkDvh3AvH4GYop8myfVLDjh6QOzvwJ8_jhXqKtTzouMSk-xmPV6yVGvv4iVnuYbZHVfdfKKqBv-TrLUDnY6icadan04ILautSXU5aWEudt7FaQ0z58seX-qOEad9Nh1vCArtLwKU/s1600/doctor.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitajqNVkDvh3AvH4GYop8myfVLDjh6QOzvwJ8_jhXqKtTzouMSk-xmPV6yVGvv4iVnuYbZHVfdfKKqBv-TrLUDnY6icadan04ILautSXU5aWEudt7FaQ0z58seX-qOEad9Nh1vCArtLwKU/s1600/doctor.jpg" height="320" width="228" /></a></div>
I actually was okay with this one... but then my friend who is an <i>actual </i>doctor pointed out that doctors? <b>THEY DON'T WEAR SHORT SKIRTS LIKE THAT TO WORK</b>. I know... I KNOW! How in the world will we make Doctor Barbie about her looks versus her career if we <i>don't </i>emphasize her legs and the place where her vagina would be if she had one?<br />
<br />
<span style="color: magenta;"><b>6) Nurse Barbie</b></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNKC9_z4_OUEDMo0oxL2vYrvhTzbkTURN5Xpf6_sc1QYMZx6q69xgOpM3d06vK5H89jpsMS10Q3alsN1bi6pzlNMPXBks9PGz6xZJcWgEqepJXJbmHq6Rk9jc7DusvxmCzmtxoBpTvP0GG/s1600/nurse.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNKC9_z4_OUEDMo0oxL2vYrvhTzbkTURN5Xpf6_sc1QYMZx6q69xgOpM3d06vK5H89jpsMS10Q3alsN1bi6pzlNMPXBks9PGz6xZJcWgEqepJXJbmHq6Rk9jc7DusvxmCzmtxoBpTvP0GG/s1600/nurse.jpg" /></a></div>
This is one of the few that I can get behind, as I've actually seen a lot of nurses dressed similarly. She does look incredibly unsoiled for a nurse, though. Maybe they should add some vomit to her shoes. <i>Which by the way, should be Crocs, not heels. </i><br />
<br />
<span style="color: magenta;"><b>7) Pediatrician Barbie</b></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-x4tZs0qFLYo/VD6u5siO1mI/AAAAAAAAGzA/d31_3lea4f4/s1600/pediatrician.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-x4tZs0qFLYo/VD6u5siO1mI/AAAAAAAAGzA/d31_3lea4f4/s1600/pediatrician.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>
Again with the shoes. And also... the tiny wrists that couldn't hold a baby if her life depended on it. Nevermind giving a screaming baby a shot. NEXT!!<br />
<span style="color: magenta;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="color: magenta;"><b>8) Skier Barbie</b></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-QTBau6hgdIw/VD6u6XM1NtI/AAAAAAAAGzU/ZLmmkrWsV-o/s1600/skier.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-QTBau6hgdIw/VD6u6XM1NtI/AAAAAAAAGzU/ZLmmkrWsV-o/s1600/skier.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>
I hope she freezes to death with those tight pants and no gloves, hat or goggles. But... other than that, she's fine. Except her hair should be in a pony tail and if she's wearing those tight pants, at some point her knees are gonna have to bend, otherwise her dreams of competitive skiing are over.<br />
<br />
<span style="color: magenta;"><b>9) Teacher Barbie</b></span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioTvbdliFHI1kWY8RwTRGbEFz_kTprQwYsrw5V0ytSMwOy3EqJPsLA_CwUiMU7xtt0uEBmv4bXa264gotZUlZv29VugNup_Nu9yxNroSO13kT2PqRoE71YMLot1nrxg0eq8Y6z3e44n0sH/s1600/teacher.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioTvbdliFHI1kWY8RwTRGbEFz_kTprQwYsrw5V0ytSMwOy3EqJPsLA_CwUiMU7xtt0uEBmv4bXa264gotZUlZv29VugNup_Nu9yxNroSO13kT2PqRoE71YMLot1nrxg0eq8Y6z3e44n0sH/s1600/teacher.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
Look how put together Teacher Barbie is? She obviously teaches young children who are <i>totally</i> paying attention and listening to her at all times. Luckily, it appears that she only has the one student, which is super realistic. This is her thinking to herself: "I need to figure out how to change out of these God-forsaken tight pants so I can actually move around my classroom and help my one student." Someone needs to explain to this Barbie about budget cuts and America's educational priorities so that she knows that she's going to be teaching 40 kids in her classroom tomorrow... because they've cut the music and arts programs.<br />
<span style="color: magenta;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="color: magenta;"><b>10) Detective Barbie</b></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrKo_DtAXEAYmth7GIE4hGoZD3_3gY9zVdQbEiK3sww6Tp16Mi1uxewupTSnv73LobtOhAiuFCpRxAVSX98QYyFv31Gz2yk3G6K2wJg-fVPfzZPMSrISCPO4SWeMN0MiQYNdHCGH-PwR4o/s1600/detective.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrKo_DtAXEAYmth7GIE4hGoZD3_3gY9zVdQbEiK3sww6Tp16Mi1uxewupTSnv73LobtOhAiuFCpRxAVSX98QYyFv31Gz2yk3G6K2wJg-fVPfzZPMSrISCPO4SWeMN0MiQYNdHCGH-PwR4o/s1600/detective.jpg" /></a></div>
THIS IS <u><b>NOT </b></u>DETECTIVE OLIVIA BENSON AND I REFUSE TO ACCEPT ANYTHING LESS THAN DETECTIVE OLIVIA BENSON. By the way, Detective Benson wouldn't be caught dead in tight pants, boots, a walkie-talkie and a side ponytail.<br />
<br />
<span style="color: magenta;"><b>11) Entrepreneur Barbie</b></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-8_MM3BMm0jg/VD6u46GeS4I/AAAAAAAAGy0/7ElTfw-ZytQ/s1600/entrepreneur.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-8_MM3BMm0jg/VD6u46GeS4I/AAAAAAAAGy0/7ElTfw-ZytQ/s1600/entrepreneur.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>
So, now that I've offended everyone about Career Barbie - and possibly their professions - let's talk about Entrepreneur Barbie. Which I think should be re-named to Working Mom Barbie... with a few changes.<br />
<br />
1) Long skirt. Working moms use this trick to cover up the fact that they haven't shaved since 2009.<br />
2) Outfit should be wrinkled... not offensively so, but enough so that you can tell she had to pull them out of the dryer and hope a little <i>Downy Wrinkle Release</i> would do it's job in the five minutes she had before she had to walk out the door. <br />
3) Overflowing purse that contains all the staples of a Working Mom Barbies life, like:<br />
<ul>
<li>3 tubes of lip balm</li>
<li>4 tubes of lip gloss</li>
<li>a pair of sunglasses for each kid... which they refuse to wear </li>
<li>one kid sock</li>
<li>43 cents in change</li>
<li>Dora The Explorer goggles... broken </li>
<li>pebbles that her children stuck in her purse for safe keeping.</li>
<li>3 Costco receipts</li>
<li>10 dental floss sticks</li>
<li>sunblock stick</li>
<li>a swim diaper, despite the fact her kids are way past diapers</li>
<li>half-eaten granola bar that she never had time to finish </li>
<li>business cards</li>
<li>necklaces</li>
<li>Pez dispenser with no candy </li>
<li>dried up pens</li>
<li>hair clips</li>
<li>pigeon feather that her children stuck in her purse for safe keeping</li>
<li>hair pick</li>
<li>an Oregon Ducks whistle... because that makes sense </li>
<li>sticker earrings... that her children stuck in her purse for safe keeping</li>
<li>assorted items of useless garbage... that her children stuck in her purse for safe keeping </li>
<li>this wine cork that she keeps because of OH SO MANY REASONS<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-8feBDn-P7FE/VD7QHmAA_NI/AAAAAAAAGz4/T0oHIPsfIQo/s1600/20141015_121332.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-8feBDn-P7FE/VD7QHmAA_NI/AAAAAAAAGz4/T0oHIPsfIQo/s1600/20141015_121332.jpg" height="150" width="200" /></a></div>
</li>
</ul>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>All of which are covered in melted chocolate from those espresso beans she accidentally spilled in her purse and never got around to finding before they melted in the sun when she left her purse in the car. Along with her keys.</li>
</ul>
4) A suspicious stain on her shirt that she thought about changing before work but decided,<span style="color: blue;"> HEY! THIS IS ME AND WE MADE IT THROUGH BREAKFAST WITH JUST A FEW MISHAPS <i>(including this maple syrup/milk/bacon grease stain on my shirt).</i> Everyone else can just deal!!!</span><br />
<br />
5) Let's be real with the makeup. Like Working Mom Barbie has time for that? <i>She doesn't. </i> She had to settle a fight between the kids about where they should wipe the booger they just pulled out of their respective noses, which took up all of the "putting on her face" time she had allotted for herself.<br />
<br />
6) Working Mom Barbie should have her sunglasses on her head haphazardly, a coffee in one hand, her purse slung over her arm and one child holding on to the coffee hand's pinkie finger, while holding the other child's hand. Working Mom Barbie decides who gets to hold her pinkie based on who she thinks is less likely to dart out into traffic that day. <br />
<br />
Look, if Mattel really wanted to inspire girls, they would try to make
these career dolls more realistic. Not just pick a career and then
pink it up. That being said, I recently purchased Entrepreneur Barbie and a Mermaid Barbie because the 5YO... she's allowed to be a kid. She has her entire life to question what she's being marketed and why. <br />
<br />
And I hope she will. <i> I really hope she will. </i>Jayneehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18043652983678073891noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4596873703371227243.post-1354709451053441802014-08-29T10:21:00.001-07:002014-08-29T10:23:25.331-07:00Home Sweet HomeNine months ago, Benny and I took the girls skiing for the second time.<br />
<br />
Ever.<br />
<br />
Because we're good parents like that.... living in an outdoor mecca with three ski resorts within 30 minutes of our home and we go skiing a total of two times. We put the kiddos in lessons and had a fun day of skiing. After lessons were over, we skied a few times down the bunny hill with the girls, before The Bean lost her ski while we were riding the lift. I had to carry her down in my arms - <i>demonstrating all kinds of athleticism and strength that I didn't know I still possessed </i>- and we decided that it was time to call it good and head home.<br />
<br />
On the way to the car, we ran into a friend who had put his house on the market back in September. The price at the time was a leetle<b> (read: COMPLETELY) </b>out of our price range. So, despite the fact that I've coveted that house for oh... 10 years, or so... we didn't even bother looking. What would the point have been? BEHOLD! EVERYTHING YOU WILL NEVER HAVE BECAUSE YOU WORK IN ATHLETICS AND YOUR HUSBAND PLAYS WITH FISH!<br />
<i>No thank you. </i><br />
<br />
So, when we asked him who bought his house, he mentioned that it was still up for sale and that they had reduced the price. <br />
<br />
I looked at Benny. Benny looked at me. And because we've been married FOREVER we both knew what the other was thinking.<br />
<br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i>"We better call Rob."</i></span><br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.equityarchive.com/CMS/ContactUsCMS.aspx?UID=11684&Web=2" target="_blank">Rob Moser </a>is our friend who also happens to kick ass in the real estate biz. He's with Equity Real Estate and I cannot say enough about the work he did for us in this process. He answered every call and text immediately with customer service second-to-none. His background in construction helped us determine issues we may not have noticed otherwise, and also help brainstorm solutions to issues that we wouldn't have thought of and would have likely passed on the house because of. He sat with us in the house at noon in mid-February as we went through the pro's and the con's of 1) buying the house, 2) taking on a bigger mortgage, 3) fixing the house and 4) selling our house. He never pressured and was able to help us work through our concerns on our own... with professional feedback and advice. <i>Also? He's easy on the eyes and that's super important for Benny.</i><br />
<br />
Anyway<i>, </i>I recommend Rob to anyone who is looking to buy or sell. And yes, I know a lot of people in the real estate business. They're my friends and neighbors and occasional shoulder to cry on. And yes, I know that they are very good at what they do. This is not a comment on them. This is a comment on Rob, whom I have known for a long time AND who does The Crossfit with me. It was Rob's wife, who helped me realize that I was stronger than I thought I was. It is she who is partially responsible for my 301 dead lift a few months ago after she texted me in the middle of the night and threw down the gauntlet by telling me that she had lifted 290 to my 285. So... you know... <i>I owed them both one.</i><br />
<br />
So, this house... it's absolutely our dream. It has everything we've ever wanted in a home. Indoor-outdoor living, wide-open living and kitchen areas, main floor laundry, an actual pantry, bigger bedrooms, master bathroom, pseudo walk-in closets and the view? KILLER. <i>It also has a garage which we've never had and was never really on our list of wants but hey, I won't kick it out of bed, you know? </i>The previous owners had opened up the living area by taking out a couple of walls and adding a master bathroom/closet. They also added a beautiful little porch area in the front where we can enjoy the view in comfort. It's heaven. <i><br /></i><br />
<br />
Those were the pro's. Those were the things that just made my soul sing. <br />
<br />
The con's... well, they were pretty big. For one, the previous, previous, previous owners - the ones who had invited me into their home originally which began my obsession with the house 10 years ago - had installed some really nice features. The kitchen was updated and they had a pizza oven in the atrium. Ten years ago, that's all I needed in my life. <i>An oven specifically for pizza</i>. A previous owner to them had enclosed the back porch for more living area, and added the garage. I'm not sure which owners added the bar tile roof, but yea... it has a bar tile roof. But all of those elements, while nice, were done incorrectly, which caused some serious foundation issues that showed up via cracks in the ceiling of the atrium, and on the wall of the garage. The doors that lead to the backyard from the atrium have been so affected by the settling and water damage from poor gutter installation that they were difficult to close and open. We knew that we were going to have to fix the entire back wall of the atrium because the footings were not done correctly. And I don't know much about construction, but it sounded like that was <i>kind of a big deal</i>. The new bar tile roof was placed on top of the two previous layers of roof, which overloaded the structural capacity of the house which was built in the 50's and wasn't capable of handling that much weight... so much so that the roof trusses in the garage had buckled, causing the roof to sag in the middle. <br />
<br />
So said the structural engineer that we had come out and look at it. At least, that's what Benny tells me he said. All I heard was<i> "Cha-Ching!"</i> We found out later from other real estate agents that they had never been in the house, but had been directing their clients away from the house because of its problems. We won't even talk about the water issues around the perimeter of the
house... mostly because the <i>"Cha-Ching!"</i> above is going to cut into my maple whiskey supply significantly and I don't want to even think about the water drainage issues on top of it.<br />
<br />
For a while, I was convinced that we were going to pass on it. I didn't want to get into a money pit and you know... foundation problems? Not. Interested.<br />
<br />
But at the end of the day, we decided we would be able to make enough out of the sale of our old home to pay for the most necessary fixes of the new home. The fixes that would make it safe for our kids. Honestly, it's not sexy... fixing a foundation and a roof. Sexy would be updating a kitchen or a bathroom but those things have already been done... and beautifully done. So... <i>whaddayagonnado</i>?<br />
<br />
Really, the only things we needed to do prior to moving in was paint the girls rooms. I tried to talk The Bird into a purple and green room. She insisted on pink. So, I convinced her to let me do it purple and pink... so that my eyes didn't bleed every time I went in there. Of course, The Bean would need something just as special. I tried the purple and green line on her, but she insisted on orange. Which... NO. So, The Bean has the same colors as The Bird and she seems perfectly fine with it. Both of their rooms are soooo much bigger than their previous rooms. And The Bean finally has a closet... which she doesn't use because, as we have established, she only wants to wear shorts and short sweeves. She has no use for dresses or shoes other than her pink sneakers.<br />
<br />
The best part? The girls have their own bathroom that's <span style="color: #a64d79;">PINK</span>!... and they love it. Which means the Mommy and Daddy have THEIR own bathroom that's <b>NOT </b>pink and OMG, we've never had our own bathroom. At the old house, Benny used to have to go downstairs so he could shower and blow his nose without waking up the girls. And me... well, I've never had a legitimate shower that didn't have a curtain on it so I'm super pumped. I'm not super pumped about keeping the glass clean, but I suppose it's part of growing up. Double sinks in the bathroom mean that Benny and I have finally become that couple that brushes their teeth together. <i>That only took 11 years. </i><br />
<br />
Our new home has so many unique features, including an exhaust system, hardwood floors, low voltage lighting from The Land Before Time and so much storage I don't know what to do with it all. Seriously... we've gone from a house with little-to-no storage ANYWHERE to a house that has so many shelves, cupboards, nooks and crannies that I could accidentally put something somewhere and NEVER find it again. <i>Like my children, for instance. </i><br />
<br />
Rob did an amazing job of showing our house and after just a month, we had it under contract. I always thought that I would be super sentimental and sad to leave our old house. We really did plan on living there for our entire life because we had a killer mortgage and we loved the neighborhood. In the rush to get moved into the new house, I didn't have much time to reminisce. But, during the cleanup and staging of the old house, I had the chance to walk through and think about what that house has meant to us. I'd lived in that house for over 14 years and had a specific memories for each room. Hazel's bedroom was where I spent my first nights as a new mama... The corner in the living room is where Millie first rolled over in her gym... My bedroom where the cat brought in a live bird and played with it while I slept... Millie's bedroom where she managed to poop on the door from 7 feet away on the changing table... The laundry room which used to be a kitchen/laundry room for our tenants... The garden that I gave up on because I was tired of fighting crab grass... "Nights of Thurnder" in the basement where we had friends come over to play quarters in on my grandmas old table with the orange swivel chairs (pre-kids)... The kitchen that flooded when I was 8 months pregnant with The Bean and gave me no end to the already significant heart burn... The driveway where both girls spent hours drawing with chalk... The basement that Benny remodeled by himself in time for The Bird's birth... The sidewalk in front of the house where they learned to ride their bikes... The great room that Benny created by knocking down walls and surprising me after work... The teeny-tiny pantry that we could just never keep organized... The wall decals that I had lovingly put up in both girls rooms before they were born - the ones that I couldn't bring myself to take down when we moved because it was just too hard.<br />
<br />
<i>Yea, well... now here come the tears.</i><br />
<br />
The kids enjoyed running through the house after we had moved out. We had concerns that maybe it would be traumatizing for them to go into the house and not see anything in it... not their beds or their dressers. But I think that they enjoy their new larger bedrooms so much more that it didn't bother them in the least. And they liked the echos they made in the now eerily empty house. I think I was most bothered by the fact that we had to leave the tree that we planted when Hazel was born. But still... other than a little wistfulness at a less complicated life that we no longer have, I didn't get too upset.<br />
<br />
Until we sold the house and I drove by and saw the people who bought it moving in. <span style="color: red;"><b> As if they just had every right to park in <u>MY DRIVEWAY</u> and put their furniture in <u>MY HOME</u></b></span>. I found out later that they were repainting every room and I started to hyperventilate. Why in the world would they do that? <b><span style="color: red;">THAT HOUSE IF EFFING BEAUTIFUL! </span></b><br />
<br />
<i>Yea... so, I may have been a leetle more attached to it than I realized. </i><br />
<br />
But seriously... how will they <i>ever </i>comprehend just how special that house is? Will they know of the memories that were made there?? The laughter, the tears, the joy, the sadness... but mostly the love?<br />
<br />
I don't know the family that moved into our old house, but I hope that they can feel the love that those walls contained for us. And more importantly, I hope that they make their own memories filled with joy, laughter and love.<br />
<br />
Even with new paint on the walls.Jayneehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18043652983678073891noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4596873703371227243.post-55734653067533872072014-08-27T11:50:00.000-07:002014-08-27T14:32:27.126-07:00Doing The Best I CanWhen I got to work today, I turned off the car and sat in the parking lot... mentally calculating how many arguments I had already been in that day.<br />
<br />
Fifteen. <i>Fifteen </i>arguments between 6:45 and 8:30 this morning. And that just sucks. Even worse, the arguments were between me and two little girls that just recently stopped pooping their pants. For the most part<i>. </i><br />
<br />
<i>Even worse than that? </i> I'm not sure that I, at 37, won any of the arguments.<i> </i>Sure, sure... raising kids is not about winning or losing. EXCEPT THAT IT IS.<i> </i>And anyone who wants to argue that point with me can go ahead and bring it. I'm already at 15 arguments today. What's a few more?<br />
<br />
To say that this morning was not my best parenting moment is putting it lightly. I mean, I didn't yell. And I didn't scream... but was there joy? Was there peace? NO. But there <i>was </i>me impatiently explaining for the fifth time this morning that it's raining outside so tennis shoes are required because I'm tired of hearing about your feet getting wet in your sandals. And also? You already have a sore throat and I don't need to roll the dice on you getting sicker. And also? Pants and long sleeves will not kill you. I know you <i>think </i>they will, but no one has ever died from pants and long sleeves instead of shorts and short sleeves or a dress. NO. ONE. Unless it's the mother who just said screw it and drove off a cliff after the umpteenth argument about it. And no... see, I've already played that game with you about wearing what you want and suffering the consequences. You know who suffered the consequences when you were cold? <b>ME</b>. I had to listen to the whining and crying about you being cold... and yet, here we are. Fighting about this. <i>Again</i>. Because contrary to what everyone says will happen if I try this little parenting trick on you, <b>NEITHER OF YOU HAVE LEARNED</b>. So, I've now taken the choice out of your hands. Because I'm tired of it. There's going to be tears and a fight anyway, may as well do it while we're at least warm and dry. And no... you asked for oatmeal. <i>That's oatmeal</i>. I don't care if it's in the wrong bowl. Eat it. You! Please. Sit. Down. and eat your breakfast before blood starts coming out of my eyes. No! I already told you...you're wearing tennis shoes today. Because your other shoes gave you an owie on your toe. And it's raining outside. No. You cannot have Mommy's breakfast. BECAUSE THE LAST TIME YOU HAD SOME OF MOMMY'S BREAKFAST, YOU DIDN'T LIKE IT AND SPIT IT OUT... BACK INTO MOMMY'S BOWL. Just eat your own breakfast please!! It's fine that you don't have the same cup as your sissy. YOU WILL SURVIVE. Yes. We have to brush your hair. Because we haven't brushed it in 4 days and people will start to talk. No. You cannot have fruit treats right now. We only have fruit treats in the morning when we're camping. No! You cannot take your play computer to school. Leave it here please. Because I said so. Oh! You don't want to go to school? That's SHOCKING. Please get in the car. I don't care who gets in first, one of you get in, the other one follow! We don't have the Frozen CD in the car right now (<i>because I hid it for my sanity</i>). I'm sorry. I'M SORRY. That's life. We have a gazillion other songs, let's try one of those. No. I'm sorry you don't like it, but that doesn't mean you get to scream the whole way to drown it out. <br />
<br />
And that was my morning. So, when I pulled into the parking lot at work, I was more than a little frazzled and disappointed in what the morning had been. So often I find myself sitting alone<i> - </i>either in the car or on the toilet<i>... <b>JUST KIDDING!</b> I never get to sit alone on the toilet!<b> </b>-<b> </b></i>and thinking about what kind of mother I had envisioned myself to be... back when I didn't have kids. And it's just not meshing with my reality. And honestly... that's a huge, depressing bummer. The kind of bummer that leaves you sitting in your car in an empty parking lot and getting teary-eyed because SHIT. This sucks. I suck. The whole world just SUCKS.<br />
<br />
That's when my girl, Tracy Chapman, joined me in the car. She put her arm around me with a few versus and let me know... this is okay. You're doing okay. <i>You're doing the best you can. </i> And at this point in your life, that's okay.<br />
<br />
Well, actually what she said was:<br />
<br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i>"At this point in my life, I've done so many things wrong.... don't know if I can do right. Put your trust in me... hope I won't let you down. Give me a chance... I'll try. See it's been a hard road, the road I'm traveling on. If I take your hand, I might lead you down the path to ruin. Had a hard life... I'm just saying it so you'll understand. Right now, right now, <b>I'm doing the best I can</b>. At this point in my life, although I've mostly walked in the shadows... I'm still searching for the light. Won't you put your faith in me, we both know that's what matters. If you give me a chance, I'll try. You see I've been climbing stairs, but mostly stumbling down. I've been reaching high always losing ground. You see I've conquered hills but I still have mountains to climb. And right now right now<b> I'm doing the best I can</b>. At this point in my life."</i></span><br />
<br />
And if that's not a parenting motto that everyone need to sing to themselves once a day... maybe in an empty parking lot when they finally have a moment to themselves, I don't know what is. At the very least, it's the soundtrack to my life, right now. Which is good because we all need a good soundtrack to get us through the day.<br />
<br />
So, tonight... we try again. <br />
<br />
I try to find the joy that was missing this morning.<br />
<br />
I remember that it's a journey.<br />
<br />
I remember that my children... <i>they're also doing the best they can.</i><br />
<br />
At this point in their lives. <br />
<br />
<br />
**************<br />
<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/WwtP7hD3PkQ" width="420"></iframe><br />
<br />Jayneehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18043652983678073891noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4596873703371227243.post-54940385172493437852014-07-21T14:02:00.000-07:002014-07-21T14:02:06.575-07:00Thirty-One Things I'm Going To Do To My Children When They Are Grown... As Payback<i>I have been inspired by <a href="http://www.byclintedwards.com/" target="_blank">this </a>guy who wrote about his top 10 things he wanted to do when his kids were older to get back at the nonsense they pulled as kids. And I was all: Only 10? I have 10 per day. So, in no particular order, I give you:</i><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #741b47;"><b><u>Thirty-One Things I'm Going To Do To My Children When They Are Grown... As Payback</u></b></span></div>
<br />
1 - Stomp around in my high heels on their nice wood floor. At 6 a.m.<br />
<br />
2 - If The Bean serves me anything other than Mac & Cheese, declare loudly that<span style="color: blue;"><i> "I don't wike dat!"</i></span> and refuse to touch it.<br />
<br />
3 - Insist that The Bird french braid my hair and if it isn't perfect, melt into a puddle in the middle of the bathroom.<br />
<br />
4 - Climb into bed with The Bean and ask if I can have a Fiber One bar. Bring said bar back to the bed and proceed to eat it... dropping chocolate and granola all over her and rubbing it into the sheets.<br />
<br />
5 - Go up to The Bird's neighbors and tell them that I didn't wipe... because I drip dry. <br />
<br />
6 - Insist on wearing my finest dress for a trip to Home Depot with The Bird.<br />
<br />
7 - Call little old ladies poopy-face at the market and then laugh hysterically.<br />
<br />
8 -When The Bird asks how my day was, answer with: <i><span style="color: blue;">"Arrrghh! You asked me that YESTERDAY and I ALREADY told you!!"</span></i><br />
<br />
9 - Insist that The Bird warm up my ice cream by blowing on it... because it's too cold in my mouth.<br />
<br />
10 - Poop in my bed and fall asleep next to it.<br />
<br />
11 - Take a dry-erase marker to The Bean's friend's pretty white door.<br />
<br />
12 - Grab The Bean's breasts in front of her friends and scream: <i><span style="color: blue;"><b>"Bobo's! Bobo's!"</b></span></i><br />
<br />
13 - Sit on The Bean's lap... and toot. At will. Repeatedly.<br />
<br />
14 - Make both girls push me in the toy carts at the market and drag my hands along the floor the entire time. And then proceed to suck my thumb.<br />
<br />
15 - Lick the floor at a BBQ joint... in front of their friends<br />
<br />
16 - Mention loudly that the gentleman sitting across from me at the pool is old... because he doesn't have hair.<br />
<br />
17 - Exclaim to The Bean that the guy sitting at the table next to us isn't a boy because he has long hair. <br />
<br />
18 - Eat all of The Bean's food. Every time she tries to eat.<br />
<br />
19 - Insist on smelling all of The Bird's drinks.<br />
<br />
20 - When I think they're not looking, drop all of my peas on the floor and then call the dog over.<br />
<br />
21 - Run at the pool after being told to walk, slip and fall on my butt... and then cry for 2 hours.<br />
<br />
22 -Come out of a public bathroom with a handful of paper towels and insist that I carry them around the rest of the day. Because they are my FAVORITE things ever.<br />
<br />
23 - Go into The Bean's bedroom at 3 a.m. and insist she give me cookies.<br />
<br />
24 - Say the words: <span style="color: blue;"> "<i>Did not! Did, too!"</i></span> 83 times in a row until both girl's ears bleed.<br />
<br />
25 - Insist on wearing flip flops in the winter, and stockings and closed-toe shoes in the summer.<br />
<br />
26 - Throw up all over The Bean on the last night of vacation.<br />
<br />
27 - Scream that The Bird never lets me make the rules for ANYTHING.... because she wouldn't let me wear my super fancy dress to bed.<br />
<br />
28 - Pick my nose and then go up to The Bean and hand it to her. Do the same to The Bird 30 seconds later.<br />
<br />
29 - Go into The Bird's bedroom at 6 a.m. and ask if I can do chores and sweep the floor.<br />
<br />
30 - Freak out because I don't like the song we are listening to in the car, and scream louder than the song so that no one can enjoy it.<br />
<br />
31 - Break into The Bird's makeup bag and put her mascara... on my cheeks. <br />
<br /><br />
<i>And that's July's list. </i><br />
<br />Jayneehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18043652983678073891noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4596873703371227243.post-41110583045368397802014-07-19T23:24:00.002-07:002014-08-27T14:56:35.658-07:00Hmmmm....Even though I have a solid four years of parenting under my belt, I have yet to come anywhere close to expert status. I always secretly giggle when my girlfriends ask me for parenting advice because OMG... you must be desperate if you're asking me. Did you know that my girls think that drip drying is an acceptable form of hygiene?<br />
<br />
Seriously....I'm 37 with two kids and still have no idea what the hell I'm doing most days. But, hey the kids are still alive and they're happy at least 49 percent of the time, so I'm either doing something right or just know how to polish a turd when I see it. For example, did you know that there are children out there in the world who don't know the genius of hot dogs in their Mac & Cheese.... because their mothers feed them vegetables and other unprocessed foods? I feel bad for those kids... I really do. <br />
<br />
And, yes... I tend to brag up my parenting swagger by letting my Facebook friends know that my child used the term "F*ck *t" and that I will soon be teaching her the other F-word: F*m*n*sm.<br />
<br />
But the truth is, I still need help every now and then. That's where <i>you </i>come in.<br />
<br />
You... reading this bit of nonsense right now and chuckling about what it must be like to have me as a mother. You... the one who NEVER leaves a comment because you don't want to mess with your "lurker" status. You... the one who comes up to me on the street and says<span style="color: blue;"><i>: "Hey-o! Loved your post about your little girl pooping in bed and sleeping next to it!"</i></span><br />
<br />
<b>YOU</b>. Pony up, sweetheart. We need all hands on deck for this one.<br />
<br />
On the way home from school a couple of weeks ago, The Bird mentioned that a little boy in her class punched her in the stomach. Since, I hadn't received a note and The Bird has been known to leave out pertinent facts<i> (not on purpose, just because she's 4)</i>, I talked with the teacher about in the next day. Turns out, she had been punched, but the teacher on duty was a sub and hadn't thought to write a note to explain what happened. This particular little boy... Oy. Vey. It didn't surprise me that he was the culprit. But, it seemed like an isolated incident and it was handled by the teacher and the executive director of the center, so I didn't worry too much about it. <br />
<br />
Cut to Thursday when I got a note from the teacher stating that The Bird had been punched in the stomach by another little boy <i>(we'll call him Jerkface because HE IS)</i>, and well... two times in two weeks and Mama is NOT pleased. <br />
<br />
<i><span style="color: red;">"So, why did he punch you in the stomach?"</span></i><br />
<i><span style="color: #351c75;">"Because he was killing an earwig and I kept telling him not to kill it and he didn't like what I was saying so he punched me in the stomach!"</span></i><br />
<i><span style="color: red;">"Hard?"</span><br /><span style="color: #351c75;">"Yes... it made me cry."</span></i><br />
<i><span style="color: red;">"Did you tell teacher?"</span></i><br />
<i><span style="color: #351c75;">"Yes."</span><br /><span style="color: red;">"What did she do?"</span></i><br />
<i><span style="color: #351c75;">"She made him go sit on this beach towel."</span></i><br />
<i><span style="color: red;">"</span></i><i><span style="color: red;">Hmmmmm..."</span></i><br />
<br />
Just as a point of reference, if you ever hear me saying "Hmmmmm...", you should probably back away slowly. Because when I say "Hmmmmm..." that means I'm about to say or do something that could prevent me from ever holding public office. In the past, "Hmmmmm" has immediately preceded the following statements:<br />
<br />
- This bar will never even notice if we take this glass home with us. Look how pretty it is!<br />
- What's the harm in saran wrapping those cars together?<br />
- I say we drink some more margarita's.<br />
- That weirdly shaped apple looks like a butt. I'm going to take a picture and post it online.<br />
- There's a real genius to Baby Got Back. <br />
- Let's go up to the most conservative boy in school and grind on him at the school dance while "Shoop" is playing. Bonus points because he's the principal's son.<br />
- You know what... that Spanish teacher is about to have a nervous breakdown. We should TOTALLY set her desk on fire.<br />
<br />
This particular "Hmmmmm..." immediately preceded me asking:<br />
<br />
"Bird... are you bigger than Jerkface?"<br />
"Yes... why?"<br />
<strike>"He punches you again, you push him down and stand over him like you're
freakin' Lara Croft and tell him to NEVER touch you again. And if he tries to stand up, you step on him and tell him to stay down or you will END him." </strike><br />
"Just wondering."<br />
<br />
I went for a swim that night and had a long talk with myself about advocating violence against a 4-year-old. It wasn't my best moment as a <strike>mother </strike>human being, I admit it. But I never actually said those words out loud to her. Partly because you don't teach that violence isn't acceptable.... by advocating violence. But mostly because I knew if I did and the teacher asked her why she pushed him down, she would totally rat me out. <br />
<br />
The overall problem as I see it is NOT that the boy punched her. It's about how she is expected to react to being punched that bothers me. I'm all for non-violence and no hitting and using our words and walking away, but what if that doesn't work? What if you're now a target and a victim? There are many things I expect my girls to be. A victim is nowhere on that list. There is a fine line between teaching your daughter to stand up for herself and advocating violence... and it's not an easy line to walk.<br />
<br />
I struggle with the idea that the teacher has to handle the situation, when my daughter could and should be the one to handle it. We should be teaching our children - especially our daughters - that they should have an expectation of how others treat them. And sure... I get that he's 4. And his parents haven't taught him better. And he has three older brothers and that's just how they are... rough and tumble.<i> I get it.</i> But, why is that an excuse to physically harm <i>my </i>daughter and she not be able to do anything about it other than cry and run to teacher? Why in society do we teach our girls to let someone else handle it? What is wrong with telling her to stand up for herself when someone hurts her? This little boy may never change, but I don't believe the right answer for my daughter is just to avoid him. I suspect that would make it worse and that's not how real life works. And I wonder if parents of little boys would tell their sons to let teacher handle it if their son was the one who received the punch... or two punches in two weeks. Or... if perhaps they would tell him what I wanted to tell The Bird:<b> Anyone punches you, you push them down and make sure they know that YOU are not to be messed with. <i>Capisce</i>?</b><br />
<br />
Of course, if she handles it on her own, she runs the risk of getting a rep. Which is sad. It just seems as though we are teaching our girls that they need to have someone else stand up for them, fight their fights and deal with their issues. Which makes the feminist in me bleed from her ears. We should expect more from our daughters than running to tell teacher if someone hurts them. We should empower them the way our sons are empowered. I certainly don't want her in a fight, but I sure as hell want her to know how to defend herself in a fight if need be.<br />
<br />
Again, I'm not advocating violence, per se. But it seems like if they're both 4-years-old, it's a fair fight. And if he's smaller than her and she puts him in his place, maybe he'll be better at picking his fights. And if The Bird learns how to stand up for herself now, and not be cowed by someone else who is willing to hit her because he can get away with it <i>(because, honestly... at the end of the day, he had to go to timeout? please. he learned NOTHING from that. and he'll do it again)</i>, then maybe she'll know how to stand up for herself when someone else tries to hurt her. Maybe in a year. Maybe in high school. But she'll know that she deserves to be treated with more respect. Will inaction on this lead her to believe that if someone doesn't like what she's saying or doing, it's okay for them to hit her?<br />
<br />
BECAUSE. IT'S. NOT.<br />
<br />
We don't hit in our home. That's not how we communicate. We use our words and/or have a meltdown and have to go to our bedroom and cry it out.<br />
<br />
But enough of how I communicate....<br />
<br />
I'm sure there are some parents out there reading this thinking: <span style="color: #0b5394;"><i>"Dude... chill out, Mama. It was just a punch and it's part of growing up."</i></span> And trust me, I've wrestled with the idea that maybe I've let this get me too worked up. But what I see is more than a punch. So much more.<br />
<br />
When I spoke with one of the wonderful women who run the day care about this, she asked what I would do if I saw a little boy punch one of my girls on the playground. Would I run up to them and stop it and comfort my daughter? Or would I be okay with her slugging him back? It's possible she now thinks less of me because I responded that I'd let them fight it out. At least for a little bit. But I've always been a little more fight, less flight.<br />
<br />
How would you advise your child in a similar situation?Jayneehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18043652983678073891noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4596873703371227243.post-32519811252114625972014-05-20T09:11:00.000-07:002014-05-20T09:33:24.499-07:00Keep Wunning!My favorite event in Ogden is the <a href="http://getoutandlive.org/ogden-marathon" target="_blank">Ogden Marathon</a>. It's a time when the whole community comes together and rallies to create a simply spectacular event and vibe that you won't find anywhere else. It's something that would be impossible to replicate elsewhere and it's one of the many things I love about this town and its people. <br />
<br />
The amount of volunteers that turn out to help put this on is staggering. Upwards of 1,400 men, women and children volunteered this year...this is in addition to the <a href="http://getoutandlive.org/aboutgoal/missionvision" target="_blank">GOAL Foundation</a> staff and board that work so hard to put on this incredible event year after year. Because of everyone's dedication, little old Ogden boasts one of the top marathons in the country, hosting over 5,000 racers this year alone competed in the marathon, half-marathon and 5K races. And even though I have a hate-hate relationship with running, I am uber proud of my town for doing this... and doing it so well.<br />
<br />
Benny and I have been <a href="http://getoutandlive.org/volunteer" target="_blank">volunteering </a>or running in the Ogden Marathon in some capacity for the last 10 years. These days, Benny serves on the Board of the GOAL Foundation so he's busy all day race day, working in the canyon, helping with medical issues and aid stations. I usually work at the expo the Friday before the race because race day for me is all about the kiddos now. But, pre-kids, I was able to participate so much more. Back in 2004, we rode our bikes downtown at 3 a.m. to help load buses... and if you really want to get the vibe of the event and its participants, helping load buses is the way to do it. The trepidation and excitement of the runners at that time of day makes the air crackle with excitement. They're tired, but they're so excited to finally be at <b>Zero Days Left Till The Ogden Marathon</b>. All of the training they've put in has led up to this one moment. Getting on that bus is the last step in the lead up to race-day. It's the last time to back out. Because once you go up that mountain... the only way back down is by self-propulsion. Putting one foot in front of the other. It's you and the road... and a few thousand other runners who had the same idea as you. <br />
<br />
In 2005, we spent the day picking up the discarded clothes along the course while cheering on the runners and making sure the aid stations were stocked appropriately. In 2006, we got to help with the finish line by giving out water and medals to the finishers... and I WAS HOOKED. This was absolutely the <i>coolest </i>thing I'd ever been a part of. <br />
<br />
All of these experiences are why I decided to add running a marathon to my bucket list. Seeing the people getting on those buses or crossing that line - some who were fit, some who were not, but all who were completely excited and proud of themselves - inspired me. So, in 2007, I ran the marathon. It's a beautiful course and I was so excited to do it that <u><b>one</b></u><b> </b>time. Because I'm older now. And wiser. And I now learn from my mistakes.<br />
<br />
Me running a marathon? Mistake. A mistake that ended with me sitting in a bathtub full of ice and cursing my legs for <i>being</i>. Me sitting at the finish line, cheering on the runners while eating ice cream? THAT'S HOW WE DO.<br />
<br />
After I had The Bird, I ran the half-marathon in 2010, which was so much better for me and my legs... and one day, I'll do it again because it was a wonderful experience. There were no tears and no ice was needed. But, I got pregnant with The Bean like the <i>next </i>day, so I'm just playing the odds right now. Every year I haven't run the half marathon, I haven't gotten pregnant. I'd be a fool to ignore that data.<br />
<br />
This year, my sister was running the half, so I took the girls down to watch her finish. It was a geeeeorgeous day in O-Town. One that made you happy to be alive, even if you were sweating down the back of your shirt while cheering on perfect strangers and wondering where in the world your sister was... before realizing that you had missed her crossing the line 30 minutes before. Because you're just really good at telling time.<br />
<br />
This year was also the first year that we felt confident enough to let both girls run in the KidsK. This is such an amazing event for young kids to be a part of, that really ties in so well with the fitness priority of Ogden. The organizers of this particular part of the day were fantastic and it's apparent that they really love the children of this town <i>and </i>the idea of creating a building block of health and wellness for them at an early age. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4qy-NbkKdf4xZCXWinfqlZLdR5ZEpSG-NtFVYP-wuAl4h2MfAN7yN8PcngUo_yZ1B8MAsDUE-w8lTXdRptKoFwG8Lki2B8R5cU5CpeEv5C_m2ZH8CgYOIFOOmtVeO-jZo_zLQ5s286E_t/s1600/20140517_122917.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4qy-NbkKdf4xZCXWinfqlZLdR5ZEpSG-NtFVYP-wuAl4h2MfAN7yN8PcngUo_yZ1B8MAsDUE-w8lTXdRptKoFwG8Lki2B8R5cU5CpeEv5C_m2ZH8CgYOIFOOmtVeO-jZo_zLQ5s286E_t/s1600/20140517_122917.jpg" height="264" width="320" /></a></div>
Both girls and their friend TK did the requisite stretching and warming up before the start of the race. I had made it clear that The Bird was supposed to stay with TK who I <i>knew </i>was going to want to stretch his legs and win the whole thing.... but I thought I had pounded it into both of their heads that YOU NEVER LEAVE A MAN BEHIND. So, that was Phase I of The Plan.<br />
<br />
Phase II of the plan included TK's mom waiting and catching the kids at the finish line, while Phase III of The Plan had me batting cleanup on the course as I was running with The Bean... in case someone got left behind or pulled a hammy.<br />
<br />
The Plan was solid.<br />
<br />
The Plan fell apart immediately.<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="270" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/Ct9_T8MJ3vg" width="480"></iframe> <br />
<br />
TK was gone before I even crossed the start line with The Bean. I'm pretty sure he won the whole thing. The Bird was left running with some random kid by herself, but refused to come back and run with me and The Bean. She didn't look upset and was so excited to be a part of the race, that I just tried to keep an eye on her, while making sure The Bean didn't get run over by the strollers behind us. Luckily, Benny was able to put his race day responsibilities on hold for 15 minutes and showed up just when I lost sight of The Bird. After giving me our requisite: <span style="color: red;"><i>"No matter what happens, you STAY ALIVE!! I will find you!"</i></span> look, he took off and was able to find her and cross the line with her, which she thought was just the greatest thing since princess dresses. <br />
<br />
The Bean, who has never been a follower in her short life, actually bought into the idea of running with all of the other kids. I tried to carry her at one point, and she insisted on walking/running on her own... which came as a shock to me. The entire race was a mixture of her running and then stopping to look around her and then walking... at which time I would remind her to<span style="color: purple;"><i> "Keep running!"</i></span> Halfway through the race, I figured out that I could walk as fast as she was running, so I started walking next to her. And then this little girl who has more attitude than should be legally allowed at 3-years-old looked up at me, squinted her eyes and yelled: <b><span style="color: blue;">"KEEP WUNNING, MAMA!!"</span></b><br />
<br />
This girl is going to be the death of me.<br />
<br />
As we crossed the finish line, I scooped her up and we gave high-fives to all of the volunteers waiting for the kids to cross. Many of whom were friends and were thrilled to see The Bean crossing that line... while also probably wondering why I was in khaki shorts and Keen's. BECAUSE I TOTALLY PLAN AHEAD, THAT'S WHY.<br />
<br />
<i>This </i>is how you raise kids in Ogden, Utah. You do it with your community and its people that share your values and philosophy of life. The ones who know your kids by name and who you know would protect them and corral them at the finish line until you got there. The ones who want to create a beautiful world for all of our children to grow up in, and they do so by their words and deeds.<br />
<br />
I had a friend ask me the other day if I would ever consider moving if it meant making more money and having more influence in my chosen career. The answer is no. Which goes against everything I learned reading Lean In. <i> I know.... I'm a disgrace to working women everywhere.</i> But, there's more to life than work. I don't need a lot. I just need... enough. Enough time.... enough love... enough energy... enough joy... enough laughter... and enough money to help teach my girls how to take care of our world and our community. Just... enough. I can figure it out from there. Because enough to me includes living in a place where the town rallies to show the world what we're capable of. Where success is not measured by how much money you make, but how you have helped your community. Where the mayor voluntarily bikes to work every day for an entire year to set an example for the people and the children of his city. <br />
<br />
That's living. <br />
<br />
That's where I want to live and grow my family.<br />
<br />
It's where my family will <span style="color: blue;"><span style="color: black;">keep wunning.</span></span>Jayneehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18043652983678073891noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4596873703371227243.post-79510876057910113062014-05-12T14:26:00.000-07:002014-05-12T14:36:03.958-07:00Mother's Day 2014Mother's Day dawned yesterday with cah-rappy weather and grumpy kiddos who had gone to bed too late the night before and who were also all sorts of cabin-fevered. Initially, we had planned on taking them on a bike ride along the Ogden River during a break in the storm, but it was just too damn cold and the one thing I won't tolerate on Mother's Day is being cold. So, we ended up taking them over for a play date while my girlfriend and I went to get pedicures and left the kiddos with their dads. Spending time with the kids on Mother's Day? I mean.. who does THAT?<br />
<br />
For dinner that night, I threw on some leftover taco soup. You know... the one the kids loved on Saturday but suddenly loathe on Sunday? <i>That one.</i> Don't like leftovers? Tough. It's Mother's Day... and I'm not supposed to do anything on Mother's Day. I think it's a law or something. So, taco soup it is! And also, if there's <b>one </b>day in the year that you<b> DON'T</b> tell our mom that you <i>"don't wike dat!" </i>while pushing away the homemade food she's lovingly put in front of you,<b> IT'S MOTHER'S DAY.</b> Brat.<br />
<br />
After <i>that </i>epic success, we decided that the only way to salvage the day was a trip to get ice cream at Burch Creek Mercantile. We didn't tell the kiddos where we were going so that we could surprise them. Think about that for a minute. On Mother's Day, we go out of our way to surprise our <u>kids</u>. And it's not just Mother's Day. Last year for Father's Day, both girls got new bikes. We're doing this wrong, I know. But I'm not sure how we get back on track with this nonsense.<br />
<br />
So, yea...we wanted to surprise them. But it's also true that we kept the surprise from them because we've been to this rodeo before and wanted to make sure we had all the facts before we told them to avoid hysterics and a meltdown. <i>(And then there was the worry that THEY would be upset</i>.) But mostly it was to surprise them on <i>my </i>special day. <br />
<br />
Of course, the Mercantile was closed. Because, you know... karma. For those of you not in the know, a spring Sunday in Utah + kids + raining = misery. To add to the misery and also get our ice cream, we decided to go to McDonald's. Which is where a little part of me died. <br />
<br />
As we sat in the drive-thru, I thought about what I always envisioned Mother's Day being... and how I never thought it would include a trip to McDonald's for ice cream to quell the beasts <i>(she said lovingly in between refereeing their fighting)</i> in the backseat. I asked Benny to remind the kiddo's why we were getting ice cream because I may have threatened them with no food for the rest of the night if they didn't eat their dinner. And yea, they didn't eat their dinner... BUT WHO WANTS ICE CREAM?<i> </i><br />
<br />
Tiger Mom I am not. But at least I get ice cream.<br />
<br />
Because he's a good man, he reminded them without rolling his eyes. And did so as as he was being handed their ice cream cones through the service window. <br />
<br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i>"Alright kids. Do you know why we're getting ice cream? It's Mother's Day! It's Mommy's special day so we're getting something special!"</i></span><br />
<br />
I didn't even have the energy to look horrified as the McDonald's worker raiser her eyebrows and smirked. I imagine she was thinking: <span style="color: #351c75;"><i>"Yea, you're one special mama to get McDonald's on your special day. What are you going to get for your birthday? A root canal?" </i></span><br />
<br />
So, I gave her my best: <span style="color: purple;"><i>"HEY! THIS WHOLE THING WAS <b>MY </b>IDEA!"</i></span> look. And then threw the $4 for my Mother's Day treat at her and had Benny peel out.<br />
<br />
While the kids were happily slurping their cone and The Bean was eating the paper with the cone, we headed up to Ogden Valley for a nice family drive. It's beautiful in Ogden this time of year, but particularly so in Ogden Valley, where everything is green and the surrounding mountains stretch into the sky like they're just waking up from a long nap. Those mountains... they make me jealous with their long naps.<br />
<br />
Everything was going great... both girls were happy from their sugar high and Benny and I were able to have a conversation about the Ogden Marathon that is happening next week, and my one experience in running it many moons ago.<br />
<br />
<i><span style="color: purple;">"This spot right here... this is where the wheels fell off." </span></i><br />
<i><span style="color: blue;">"Mile 18? That's pretty early in the race for the wheels to fall off, babe. "</span></i><br />
<i><span style="color: purple;">"Yea? Well, you can just go ahead and suck it."</span></i><br />
<br />
<span style="color: purple;"><i>"Oh... this part is brutal... but not as brutal as this part... or this part."</i></span><br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i>"You've only pointed out the flat parts of the course. So, what you're saying is it's only brutal when you're not going downhill?"</i></span><br />
<span style="color: purple;"><i>"Yes. You don't need to sound so smug, by the way. I know my weaknesses. Anything not downhill is one of them."</i></span><br />
<br />
And so on.<br />
<br />
And then The Bird threw my bike helmet at The Bean in the backseat and EVERYONE'S LIFE WAS RUINED. It's unfortunate because it was really just a slight misunderstanding... Bird-zo thought it would be funny. The Beaner didn't. So, her face melted off and we had to do some quick front-seat parenting. Which basically means we took the helmet away and threatened to cancel Christmas... and order was restored. <br />
<br />
Halfway down the canyon, The Bird started complaining<i> (started? or continued? jury is still out... because she's got this thing about complaining... in that she's always. complaining. about something.) </i>that her tummy hurt. Not to be outdone, The Bean also started complaining that her tummy hurt and she was going to <i>"frow up!". </i> Which caused The Bird to declare that she was going to <span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>"frow up first. And Mommy... my tummy weally, weally hurts!"</i></span> <br />
<br />
And then Mommy, the voice of reason, declared that frowing up was not a competition and there would be no frowing up because that's just weak... and how disgraceful it is if they can't hold their ice cream. <br />
<br />
See... we've also been to <i>this </i>particular rodeo and knew that there were two possibilities: 1) they're faking it because it was too quiet and there was a need to fill the silence or 2) crap. motion sickness. <br />
<br />
As a parent, there's no right way to play this as you're driving down a tight, windy canyon... other than just begging your child to hold on till we got out of the canyon and could pull over. And, as is the norm for this type of situation, the "frow up" occurred right as we came around the last corner of the canyon.<br />
<br />
And that was my Mother's Day. How was yours?Jayneehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18043652983678073891noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4596873703371227243.post-41862255361258776632014-05-11T08:05:00.000-07:002014-05-11T08:06:29.604-07:0010 Things My Mom Taught Me<span style="color: red;"><i>This post was written Wednesday... which is why the beginning of it is totally past tense. Deal with it. </i></span><br />
<br />
Mother's Day is coming up. I'm reminded of this because the girls have apparently been making something at school for me. And also practicing screaming HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY! at the top of their lungs. Every. Day.<br />
<br />
They continually ask me if today is Mother's Day. No? Is it tomorrow? What about yesterday? Was it yesterday? What about Wednesday? What about Tuesday? No? WHEN IS IT, MOMMY? <br />
<br />
See, there's only two days of the week that they know. Tuesday, which is Tumblebus Day at school. And Wednesday, which is when they have gymnastics. They don't know what Saturday or Sunday are... except that they know they don't have to go to school for two whole days and it's AMAZING. <br />
<br />
I'm not sure what I'm getting for Mother's Day from them... but with the buildup, we've been experiencing for the past two weeks, I expect it to be nothing short of a diamond tennis bracelet. Or maybe a couple of rocks and a dandelion. <i>Which is pretty much the same thing in my world.</i><br />
<br />
Now that I'm out of the baby-phase of parenting and am raising two very independent and opinionated kiddos, I often have chances to step back and look at my experience as a mother. Which leads to the daily question of whether or not I'm doing it
right or if I'm just completely screwing my kids up. I suspect it's the latter
because this morning, The Bird tried to tell us that unless we gave her more
Cheerios, she was going to keep crying. It is clear to me that my
consequences-based parenting is rubbing off on her the wrong way.<br />
<br />
I think every mom goes through this self-doubt. And those who say they don't are lying liars who lie.<br />
<br />
I also think that whether we realize it or not, we are applying the lessons we were taught as children to our children. The Good. The Bad. The Ugly. <br />
<br />
My mom and dad stopped by the house last night and dropped of a beautiful hanging basket for Mother's Day. I felt bad because... well, yea... I haven't done any shopping for my mom for Mother's Day, yet. Maybe by Saturday I'll get myself to the nursery and grab something she'd like. But seriously.. Wednesday? I don't operate that far in advance unless it's for chocolate. So, for now, my Mother's Day gift to her is this:<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><u><span style="color: purple;">10 Things My Mom Taught Me </span></u></span></div>
1 -<span style="color: blue;"> <i>"If something is worth doing, it's worth doing well."</i></span><br />
Work ethic is important to my mom and she has instilled that in her kids. She preached it while we were picking worms in the alfalfa field waiting for the sun to come up so we could finally go home and get the mud out from under our fingertips. And she preached it while we were roasting marshmallows over a campfire. In mom's mind, whether it's picking night crawlers to sell to fishermen, cleaning the bathtub, doing your homework or making the perfect s'more... don't waste your time. Do your absolute best and then move on to something bigger and better. This may well be why when I suffer from writers block or if I'm not up to par on my writing I yell: THIS IS CRAP! while deleting the file and starting over. Or why I refuse to make the bed<i> (because I don't think it's worth doing)</i>. But it's also why I graduated from college, excel in a career and make a mean s'more. <br />
<br />
2 - <span style="color: blue;"><i>"Stand tall and proud! Tall is beautiful!"</i></span><br />
This was little solace to a 5-8, 98 pound 5th grader who endured such horrific nicknames as Giraffe, Too Tall Paskins, Pencil Legs and Hey! How's The Weather Up There, Dork? But every time my mom saw me slump my shoulders in an effort to conform to the "normal-sized" world I was living in, she affirmed that tall was beautiful and I should never try to disguise it.<i> <span style="color: #351c75;">"Do you know how much I would give to have your height? All those people are just jealous of your height. You're going to be able to do great things <u>because</u> of your height. You're height will never hold you back. Now, please grab that bowl up on the top shelf for me. I can't reach."</span></i><br />
<br />
3 - <span style="color: blue;"><i>"We don't flip the bird. And if we do flip the bird, we DON'T flip the bird to the Bishop."</i></span><br />
There were a couple of lessons here: 1) Choose your battles wisely. If you're going to flip the bird, do it slyly while pushing up your sunglasses or scratching your nose. Anything else is just unladylike. 2) If you flip off a church leader - or anyone, really - church doctrine says you're required to clean the toilets for a month.<br />
<br />
4 -<span style="color: blue;"> <i>"When someone says mean things about and to you, it says more about them than it ever will about you."</i></span><br />
This little lesson got me through some ROUGH times in school. This lesson taught me kindness because I remembered how those girls (it's always girls, isn't it?) made me feel with their words and actions. Years later, I've had conversations with some of those girls and I found out that when those hurtful things were coming out of their mouths, they were going through some pretty rough times in their lives and they were acting out at the easiest target.... the freakishly tall, skinny girl with the big hair and lisp. <br />
<br />
5 - <span style="color: blue;"><i>"Life isn't fair."</i></span><br />
Sister got the last bean burrito? So? Put on your big girl panties and deal with it. Horse buck you off and Dad made you get right back on that piece of crap? Stop crying and deal. You friend has prettier dresses than you do? Maybe you should pick more worms so you can afford to buy a nice dress this year. <br />
<br />
7 - <span style="color: blue;"><i>"If a bird poops on your head, let it dry... then you can flick it off with less mess." </i></span><br />
And yes... this was her advice to me on a family trip to Mexico 25 years ago when that happened outside a fast-food joint. And she was only 10% kidding. The point is, life can be messy. Don't stress about it. The poop will dry. Life will go on. <br />
<br />
8 - <span style="color: blue;"><i>"You should have listened to me."</i></span><br />
When I was about 4, I decided to walk down to the barn and play with the baby peacocks that had hatched a few weeks earlier. Mom told me not to... and then watched as I disobeyed her and skipped down to the barn completely oblivious to the protective pea-hen that proceeded to swoop down from the rafters beat the living crap out of me with her wings, while scratching me with her talons. I'm not sure how long the beat down lasted. In my 4-year-old mind it was about at 30 minute brawl, but it was likely just a minute before I turned around and ran, sobbing, to the house... bleeding and covered in welts. My mom merely glanced up from her Dr. Pepper she'd been sipping as she watched the battle unfold and said: <i> "Well... I told you so."</i> and went back to her drink. My mom... the antithesis of the helicopter parent.<br />
<br />
When my girls freak out about something trivial, I think back to that day. I GOT BEAT UP BY A FREAKIN' PEACOCK, GIRLS. YOU CAN DEAL WITH YOUR PIGGY-TAILS NOT BEING PERFECTLY ALIGNED TODAY. <br />
<br />
9 - <span style="color: blue;"><i>"Stand up for yourself."</i></span><br />
I was taught from a young age that I should be treated just like everyone else. No better. No worse. Just because I was a girl, didn't mean I couldn't do the same things boys did. So... I ended up playing on a Jr. Jazz team full of boys, because there were no girls teams. BTW... feminism was not super popular in rural southeast Idaho in the 80's, which meant that the boys LOVED having me on their team. Like most people, I endured a stupid amount of bullying all through grade school. Big bangs and a lisp will do that to you. But, as I gained confidence due to my abilities on the court, I learned how to stand up for myself. It's what I teach my daughters every day. To be proud of who they are and not to let anyone tell you what you can and cannot do. <br />
<br />
10 - <span style="color: blue;"><i>"Hi, Bored! I'm Mommy! Go outside and play!"</i></span><br />
Bored? Go outside and play! Hungry? You just ate two minutes ago. Go outside and play! Tired? Go outside and play! For the love of Pete! Go. Out. Side. And. Play. Very little of my childhood was spent indoors. We had exactly three channels when I was growing up, but we had about a gazillion animals... domesticated<i> (even the cow that we kept as a pet when its mother rejected it)</i> and those that <i>maybe </i>mom knocked out of tree or captured on the hill and decided to raise as pets. Iggy, Ziggy and Twiggy the magpies <i>(yes, we had magpies and they were awesome.)</i> and Rocky, our lice-covered yellow-bellied marmot. Among several others. The point is, we experienced life. Barefoot and muddy for the most part. And man, do we have some awesome memories of growing up. I want the same for my girls... and with maybe the exception of early morning Saturday wake-ups and throwing on some Sesame Street so Mommy and Daddy can sleep in until a more appropriate hour, we don't let the girls watch too much TV. We're truly pushing the No Child Left Inside philosophy... and it's one that I learned from my mom. She was either fishing or golfing or gardening or knocking baby magpies out of their nests... not watching TV. With the exception of Days of Our Lives.<br />
<br />
Happy Mother's Day, mom! Thanks for imparting your wisdom and -isms over the years.<br />
<br />
(Also, I did in fact get a dandelion from The Bird for Mother's Day, and some rocks from The Bean. It was a great morning.) <br />
<br />Jayneehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18043652983678073891noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4596873703371227243.post-19730704133347424052014-05-09T13:56:00.001-07:002014-05-09T13:59:02.181-07:00Parenting A PrincessThose of you who read the blog regularly, know that I have daily battles with both girls about what they're going to wear. I want to be clear that these battles have nothing to do with me needing to exert control over them at the micro-level. I don't care if what they put on matches. I mean... when they come out with a pink shirt, lime green leggings and an orange skirt, I don't bat an eye. The other day, The Bean came out with her swimsuit on top of her jeans and shirt and I was just: <span style="color: purple;"><i> "Okay! Ready to go?" </i></span>Because otherwise, I'd never leave the house. And I get it... there's so few things that they have control over, why can't they dress themselves? Fine. I'll roll with the punches as long as the punches are appropriate and don't hurt anyone.<br />
<br />
Which is why I haven't brushed The Bean's hair in about a week. <br />
<br />
The problem arises because The Bird insists on wearing dresses every. damn. day. It doesn't matter if it's raining or snowing or her face is on fire. She wants to wear a dress. I've accommodated her obsession by setting up ground rules that if it's raining, snowing or is cold outside, she has to wear leggings and a long sleeved shirt under the dress. She's been <i>somewhat </i>okay with this agreement, but every once in a while, the wheels would fall off and we have a knock-down, drag-out fight. This is usually because the leggings she wants to wear are nowhere to be found and those are clearly the ONLY leggings that she will allow to be worn with that dress. And no... she doesn't want to wear another dress. She wants to wear THIS dress and only THIS dress. When I innocently ask if I should just get rid of the other dresses if she's not going to wear them, her face does, in fact, go up in flames. And at this point, I'll acknowledge it's really my fault that our morning veered so far off the track. Because I am a stupid, stupid woman who is just stupid with the stupid questions. <br />
<br />
To further ruin our mornings, I've also put stipulations about what types of dresses she can wear to school each day. Meaning that the super, fancy dress used for school performances is not an every day school type of dress. Which drives her nuts. She wants to dress up to the nines all. the. live. long. day... week... month... year. <br />
<br />
There is no stopping this obsession. It's like me with chocolate. Only more maddening because chocolate is amazing and her dresses are the bane of my existence. <br />
<br />
But here's the real problem. It's not that she's wearing dresses. I can live with the wearing of the dresses. One of the reasons I loved summer when the kiddos were younger was the ease in which I could throw them into a dress and just be on our way. No muss, no fuss. And yes, the argument could be made that I've brought this on myself. And that argument will end with my punching you in your solar plexus because I. KNOW!<br />
<br />
So, no... it's not that she's wearing dresses. It's her <i>behavior </i>when she's wearing the dresses that makes me want to put my finger through my eye, into my brain
and swirl it around. I'm not a fan. I've noticed that when she gets to wear her fancy dresses,<i> or really any of her dresses</i>, she doesn't want to play outside. She'll stay in her room and change into 15 different dresses TWICE until she finds one she likes and then come out for 30 seconds before going back in and changing. She hardly ever goes outside to enjoy nature and... what the hell is that yellow thing in the sky? The sun??? And if she does go outside, she doesn't play like a kid is supposed to play. She sits there demurely and watches other kids play. She has princessized herself to the point that she isn't being a kid. She's being a lump on a log, looking down at the other kids playing while she sits on her throne and blows on her nails while demanding I go grab her a sippy cup because she's parched. This is how I imagine Paris Hilton was as a child. And so help me, God... I am not raising a Paris Hilton. Death first!<br />
<br />
The attitude that comes out when she is in princess mode is absolutely unbearable. Holy mother of a headless goat, is she out of control. Even when she's not actually in the dress, she still has this insolent, spoiled princess attitude and makes demands the likes of which I, the 37-year-old with a college degree and a career, cannot and WILL NOT abide by. <i>Anymore</i>. Mostly because she didn't say please. But also because contrary to her belief, I'm not her servant and she can go get the damn sippy cup herself.<br />
<br />
It is fair to say that I have not handled this phase of her beautiful childhood well. In fact, last month I caught myself asking her if her legs were broken and if that's why she couldn't go get the blanket on the other side of the room? You know... where she put it 30 seconds ago. Because that's the adult way to handle something with your 4-year-old: <i>Sarcasm</i>.<br />
<br />
I also refuse to do things for her that I know she can do. Like brush her teeth, chew her food and swallow her water for her. Over the last few months, I have threatened her with taking away her dresses in order for her to understand that the behavior is just not acceptable. I always give her a "last warning" and then forget that I've given her a last warning before giving her another "last warning". And another. And another. Until my child has figured out that I apparently don't have the balls to take away her dresses because I don't want to deal with the ensuing nuclear fall out.<br />
<br />
But last week... last week I'd had enough. Full disclosure, I was not at the top of my game last week. I had been traveling. I was tired. I was irritable. So, my handling of the situation was less than desirable. I admit this. And I'm sharing it with you anyway.<i> Because that's what bravery looks like in 2014. </i><br />
<br />
To set the scene, let me explain that The Bird has rather sensitive skin and from time to time, we have to put lotion on the back of her hands to prevent some pretty painful dry skin issues. As I was putting her to bed, I broke out the lotion that we use and was taken aback when she flipped out. Her Highness was having NONE of it. I asked, begged, pleaded and cajoled her until the little timer in my brain - the one labeled<span style="color: red;"><b> 'I've Had Enough of This Shit'</b></span> - went off.<br />
<br />
<i>And cue the excellent parenting in 3-2-1:</i><br />
<br />
<i><span style="color: purple;">"Alright! We can either put on the lotion and you keep your dresses... Or, I take away the dresses and <b>THEN I STILL PUT ON THE LOTION. WHAT WOULD YOU LIKE TO DO? EITHER WAY... YOU'RE GETTING LOTION!!!!" </b></span></i><br />
<br />
<i><span style="color: purple;"></span></i>Sounds super Silence of the Lambs, doesn't it?<br />
<br />
Given my previous history, it's no wonder she decided to take the risk that I wouldn't follow through. Except... yea, I did. I may have been overly dramatic as I grabbed her dresses out of the closet, tripping on her dolly stroller on the way out of her room and throwing them into my room. I may have scared her as I picked up the dresses that fell out of the first load and threw them in my room with the rest of them. But that was it. I was done. D-O-N-E. Done.<br />
<br />
Of course, the consequence for <i>my </i>consequence was miserable for everyone. She was heartbroken. I was a huffing, puffing monster angry over lotion. <b>LOTION</b>. Yea, I was mad... but seeing my little girl so heartbroken? Not my favorite memory. I was Mother Gothel, Ursula the Sea Witch and Malificent all rolled into one.<br />
<br />
It isn't my best look.<br />
<br />
Once we had both calmed down, we had a heart-to-heart. I explained to her that her behavior was no longer going to be tolerated. <i>I had to explain behavior and tolerated to her, so that took an additional LIFETIME, but we got there.</i> I then explained that she would get her dresses back. Some day. But she would have to earn those dresses. Meaning she needed to be on her best behavior. She needed to do what I asked. She needed to be kind to her sister and be happy. No more crying over what she wanted to wear in the morning. And then... well, then we'd see.<br />
<br />
The next morning, she woke up and asked if she could have her dresses back. Because she missed them. Cue the clarification that being on your best behavior while you slept didn't count and she'd get her dresses back after she proved that she deserved her dresses.<br />
<br />
That was a week ago. And in that week... OMG has this child been the best kid ever. And not just because she's trying to get her dresses back. She was playing like kids are <i>supposed </i>to do. Climbing trees, riding her bike, getting dirty, picking up garter snakes, playing with the dog and her sister... all without worrying about getting her dress dirty or tearing the fabric when it got caught on a branch. She even started wearing her sneakers again... without complaining. <br />
<br />
Is it bad that I like my kid better when she doesn't have dresses? My mornings were amazing for an entire week<i> (minus the meltdowns over the placement of her piggy-tails... but cutting her hair seems like it would be too traumatizing for both of us so we'll just have to figure something else out). </i><br />
<br />
I won't lie... I have considered NEVER giving her dresses back. Again... not because I'm anti-dress. I'm just anti-princess-attitude and I'm pro-mud-pies, pro-snake-wrangling, pro-scrape-your-knees, pro-run-through-the-sprinklers-fully-clothed, pro-climb-a-tree, pro-bike-riding and pro-Get-Out-And-Live. All things that the princess wasn't doing. Until last week.<br />
<br />
Yesterday I got my Mother's Day gift from The Bird. She made it at school and drew the pictures all by herself. She was very proud of it.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-pdzZBi9zG9M/U20w3gxTGWI/AAAAAAAACF0/FBV7U5RLVFY/s1600/mothersdayhazel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-pdzZBi9zG9M/U20w3gxTGWI/AAAAAAAACF0/FBV7U5RLVFY/s1600/mothersdayhazel.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
As I read the story about why she loves me out loud, I almost choked on the third point. I was further taken down a notch when she corrected what her lovely teacher had so clearly edited for my benefit:<br />
<br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i>"No mommy! You take away my dresses and MAKE me go to sleep. MAKE!"</i></span><br />
<br />
So.<br />
<br />
The Bird got her dresses back today.<br />
<br />
Because I think we have all learned our lesson.Jayneehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18043652983678073891noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4596873703371227243.post-130367155887962692014-03-26T16:06:00.003-07:002014-03-26T16:17:24.368-07:00"Just"On a flight to Texas this weekend, I noticed a mom traveling alone with her little girl. Izzy* was about 15 months old and her mom... well, she was about to fall asleep with her eyes open. Because I was full of caffeine for my early-morning flight, I was unusually talkative<i> (and jittery)</i> and mentioned to her that I had kids of my own at home, so she shouldn't worry that Izzy had just pulled my hair and had been licking my elbow for the last five minutes. It didn't bother me... that's what kids do. I'd rather my kids lick someone's elbow than the floor at Dickey's BBQ. But sometimes life likes to spit right in your eye and <i>waddayagonnado</i>?<br />
<br />
When she asked how many kids I had and how old they were, I told her... and was met with the obligatory wide eyes at the whole<i> "they're 16 months apart"</i> piece of trivia about my life. And yes, she gave me the<i> "How in the world do you handle it?"</i> stare that I've gotten used to from new mothers who need a little more sleep than their child allows. So, I nodded my head, and murmured my obligatory <i>"(sigh)I know....(sigh)".</i><br />
<br />
I was about to admit that most days, just remembering to feed and water them is my only victory. But then she said something that stopped me cold.<br />
<br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i>"Yea... I just have the one. So, it's a lot easier."</i></span><br />
<br />
Just? <i> JUST</i>? <br />
<br />
Nonononononononononono. There is no <u>JUST</u>. And there is no <u>EASIER</u>. I've heard this song before, and I'm taking a stand. I'm tired of mothers who apologize for not having more than one kid because they think - <i>or have been told by other mothers </i>- that somehow their value in this discussion is diminished by the number of kids they<i> don't</i> have. <br />
<br />
Pisses me off. TO. NO. END.<br />
<br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i>"No. You don't have <u>just </u>one. You have one. And she's awesome. And also? Having one doesn't make it easier by any stretch of the imagination. Having a kids is tough, whether you have 1 or 10. Don't qualify your motherhood. You're a good mom. She's a beautiful little girl and you're doing great."</i></span><br />
<br />
And I went back to letting Izzy lick my elbow while I read my book. <i> </i><br />
<br />
She looked a little taken aback... possibly because I hadn't brushed my teeth yet and I refuse to wear makeup that early in the morning... but maybe because I was the first woman to say something like that to her.<br />
<br />
And that's just sad.<br />
<br />
Seriously, why can't we all give <i>and take</i> credit where it's due?<br />
<br />
We've all missed out on hundreds of hours of sleep because we're a mom. We all have our "I was so tired that I threw up" stories. We all have explosive poop stories to share... you know, when the poop comes up out of the neck of the onesie? Usually in public. And always when we are low on wipes? We all have those travel nightmares when the kid screams the whole flight or drive because they have an ear infection that we didn't know about. We all feel guilty for one thing or another every day of our mothering life. We all have our moments when we just don't think we can handle one more second of crying/whining/screaming/fighting. And that's when we <i>need </i>other mothers to talk to and cry over a beer with. We all need that time to just be a human... not a climbing wall or a milk machine or a maid. <br />
<br />
How about we stop putting qualifiers in front of everything about being a mom... because it's getting old. I'm tired of the labels... because they never end. There's never anyone "good enough" and we're always ready to slap a label on someone so that we diminish who they are and the value they have. And why? To make ourselves feel better? To make our choices seem like the only choice that is appropriate?<br />
<br />
You know what? We're moms. That's it. It's nothing fancy and it doesn't require a qualifier in front of it. Rather than arguing about whose life is harder or whose way of mothering is better, we should stand together as one force. We should stop comparing ourselves to others for either the better <i>or </i>the worse. We should stop being mean girls and start being empathetic women. Can you imagine the power we would have if we did that one simple thing? If we stopped worrying about what others are doing or what others think of us and just took care of each other? We would be unstoppable.<br />
<br />
When I look at my friends, I don't see a stay-at-home mom. I don't see a working mom. I don't see a mom of four or a mom of one. I don't see a mom that gave birth with or without drugs, or a mom that adopted. I don't see that you have twins <i>(although, I will admit that multiples may be the exception to this whole post because OMG... that has to be the hardest thing ever)(okay, fine. I see you have twins and I'm in awe. Serious awe.) </i><br />
<br />
But, I digress. <br />
<br />
You know what I see when I look at my friends?<b> </b><b>A </b><b>MOM</b>. <br />
<br />
Tearing each other or ourselves down, either outright or passive-aggressively, doesn't make <i>anyone </i>a better mother. The mommy wars are just about the most ridiculous thing I've ever seen or heard. Second only to when The Bean walked outside naked yesterday and declared she wasn't naked... because she had socks on. <i>And who can argue with that logic?</i><br />
<br />
There are common themes that run through motherhood, whether you work inside the home or outside the home... whether you have one kid or six... whether your children eat tofu or french fries. Those themes usually center around poop, nursing, sleep, crying, whining, eating, poop, teething, growth charts, sickness, losing the baby fat, fevers, laundry, forgetting to change the laundry, rewashing the laundry three times, getting the smell of mold out of the laundry, keeping the house a semi-respectable state of clean, bed wetting, the best way to change a bed in the middle of the night without turning on the lights, getting the kid to eat a veggie, lifelong fatigue, potty-training, oh so many fill-in-the-blank lessons, doctor's visits, trimming nails, picking boogers, tubbys, reasoning with a toddler, which car seat is best, how to fit 36 hours of life in a 24 hour period...<i> (deep breath) </i>and more poop.<br />
<br />
But the most important theme that every mother can agree on? This. $%*#. Is. HARD.<br />
<br />
And if a mom you know tells you that it's <i>not </i>hard and she's got this mothering thing down, just smile. <i>Because she's lying.</i> She's lying to you and she's lying to herself. And she probably needs a night out with the girls so she can decompress. <i> (And you should go ahead and schedule that ASAP.)</i><br />
<br />
Listen, at the end of the day, our issues may not be exactly the same. For instance, my girls drive me bonkers on Tuesdays because that's the day they only eat orange food. And also? They've recently started growling at me like wild animals when they don't get what they want. But, you know what? I bet your kids are driving you crazy, too. And it doesn't matter. Because I can<i> </i>be empathetic. I can care. I can laugh with you about the insanity of parenting. I can give and/or ask for advice on raising children and staying mostly sane. I can cry with you over a beer. I can tell you that it will get better... and then that phase will be over and it will go back to sucking until the next stage... and the cycle repeats itself over and over and over until you die. <i> But it's okay! </i> I can let you lean on me when it gets to be too much and you're ready to crumble. Because I'm going to need you to do all of that for me sometime. <br />
<br />
That's what friends do. Screw that. That's what <u>moms</u> do. In some form or another, we do that for our children every day <i>(minus the beer)</i>. Why can't we do that for other women who we have a sisterhood with simply because we're moms? I don't even need to know your name to empathize with you because I know what you're going through. We're in the trenches together. We should celebrate each other and our successes! Guess what?! The kid made it to another birthday mostly intact! TIME TO PARTY...<br />
<br />
<i>.... but not too late because the kids wake up early on Saturdays.</i> <br />
<br />
Seriously, let's celebrate our motherhood. Let's revel in the power of our existence and our experience. Let's harness that and figure out a way to put our combined expertise to work for the good of humanity... and the good of our psyche.<br />
<br />
No more labels.<br />
<br />
No more qualifiers.<br />
<br />
No more "just".<br />
<br />
We are mothers whether we have 1 kid or 100... whether we work in the home or outside of it. The knowledge and experience we possess right now is staggering, so stop the comparisons. Stop the worrying about what someone else is doing. You! With the circles under her eyes and the vomit on her shoulder... the one traveling alone with her kid across the country... the one who hasn't slept in months. You're doing a great job. You deserve - <i>we all deserve</i> - a <strike>big round of applause</strike> STANDING OVATION. <br />
<br />
End of story.<br />
<br />
Now, recline that seat two inches and take a nap... I'll watch Izzy for you. <br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i><br /></i></span>
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>*Name changed in case her mom reads the blog and is all: Yea! You really did have bad breath! What was THAT about!</i></span><br />
<br />Jayneehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18043652983678073891noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4596873703371227243.post-22351750147897570842014-02-24T10:45:00.002-08:002014-02-24T11:22:21.432-08:00FerbertsLast night, while we were waiting for the tubby to get ready, The Bird sat on my lap and gave me ferberts on my neck to make "tooting noises".<br />
<br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i>"Oh no!"</i> </span>I said. <span style="color: blue;"><i>"You tooted on me! Gross!!!"</i></span><br />
<br />
This made her giggle with the innocence of a kid blowing ferberts and having that be the best thing EVER. Better than Disneyland. Better than ice cream. Better than a new dress. She continued to blow ferberts on me and I continued to make her laugh by saying she was tooting on me.<br />
<br />
After a while, I started to tickle her when she leaned in to give a ferbert and she erupted in a fit of giggles. This went on for five minutes. There was so much laughing and bonding... it was a beautiful moment for me. There was no better place in the world at that moment than sitting in our kitchen, listening to my 4-year-old's laughter, while her sister sat next to us and watched and laughed. The Bean never made a move to get in on the action, suprisingly. She just sat there with her blankie and laughed with - <i>and at - </i>her sister.<br />
<br />
After a while, I told The Bird to go give daddy a ferbert<i>.</i> As she ran off to make toot noises on his shoulder, The Bean climbed on to my lap. She smiled at me and leaned in for what I expected to be a ferbert on my neck.<br />
<br />
Instead, she lovingly put her head on my chest, patted me softly on the shoulder, sighed deeply...<br />
<br />
AND FARTED.<br />
<br />
A full-on, no holds barred FART. At first, I was confused. Did what I think just happened... JUST HAPPEN???<br />
<br />
And then she leaned back, looked at me with a twinkle in her eyes... and threw her head back and laughed like the evil genius she is.<br />
<br />
Lest I think that it was a coincidence, she did it two more times. Sheer will-powered farts on my lap. Followed by hysterical laughing. Both hers... and mine.<br />
<br />
<i>Because I'm a good mom that way. </i><br />
<br />
Later that night, when I was recounting what happened to Benny, I admitted that I really shouldn't have been surprised. <i>She is HIS daughter, after all. </i>He had the nerve to be offended that I was suggesting that he, himself, was able to toot through sheer willpower.<br />
<br />
For about 15 seconds.<br />
<br />
Before he demonstrated that it was, in fact, true.Jayneehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18043652983678073891noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4596873703371227243.post-74111809754299377542014-02-19T11:53:00.001-08:002014-02-19T12:33:22.870-08:00Nytro<i>F<span style="color: #38761d;">inding my cat's old collar in the console of my car last week got me to thinking about her... and I haven't been able to <u>stop </u>thinking about her. </span></i><br />
<br />
<i><span style="color: #38761d;">I got Nytro from a shelter in Huntsville when I was in college. My roommate and I both decided that if no one would date us, </span></i><i><span style="color: #38761d;"><i><span style="color: #38761d;">we may as well start being the Crazy Cat Ladies and really sell the crazy. </span></i>And yes, we also started The Boys Don't Like Me Club. I believe I was President because I was the oldest, and I'm told that's how things work.</span></i><br />
<br />
<i><span style="color: #38761d;">It was a good plan. </span></i><br />
<br />
<i><span style="color: #38761d;">Shortly thereafter, I met Benny... who wasn't exactly a fan of Nytro (nor she of him) but because they both loved me, they found a way to make it work.</span></i><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #38761d;"><i>I had her for 13 years. She died in 2010, when I was about 6 months pregnant with The Bean. </i></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #38761d;"><i>A lifetime ago. </i></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #38761d;"><i>The day after she died, I went to the coffee shop with my laptop and big belly, and poured my heart into a blog. Cheap therapy.</i></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #38761d;"><i>When I found the entry today, it made me think about things from a different perspective than I had before. I guess that's what growing up does for you. </i></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #38761d;"><i>I had Nytro for longer than I've been married, and yet... I got too busy for her. When I became a mother, she became an afterthought. I began rushing through so much of my life, that I didn't notice parts of my life were being neglected and withering away. As I read this, I realized there are so many things in my life that I haven't been attentive to. When you've got two kids under the age of 4, well, you get caught up in just living that life. Surviving each day. You're trying to soak up every moment ... and at the same time, trying not to let those moments drive you insane. And it just seems like we need to slow down. We need to take care of the things and people around us who matter. Who sometimes become a low priority because you've got kids who need you to wipe their butt or their nose, who need you to 'watch diss!', who need you to feed them and read them a story and cuddle with them and take care of them when they're sick. They're the vocal ones. They NEED to be vocal to survive. You just can't ignore them because they won't LET you. You're not allowed to have adult conversation in front of them because it's all about them. But there are others - other people, other things - that don't speak up. They may not be dying, but you're losing touch with them. You're losing touch with things that fulfill your soul and help make you complete. Gardening, reading, writing, date night, girl's night out. All of these things... you need them in your life. </i></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #38761d;"><i>Nytro... she was never vocal. And I lost her. And in doing so, lost a part of myself. </i></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #38761d;"><i>I need to remember that. </i></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #38761d;"><i>-------------------------------- </i></span><br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="color: blue;"><i>November 27, 2010</i></span><br />
Dear Nytro,<br />
I wish I had left you there. Under your favorite bush.
The one that always seems to be in the direct line of the sun, and you
would doze for hours under. The one that also served as camouflage when
you didn't want to be found.<br />
<br />
If I had left you there, maybe things would have been easier.<br />
<br />
For you.<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_fQJtFtDH_Nw/TPFzzS-DzYI/AAAAAAAADwA/gqBHgPHXKf4/s1600/P1010386.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_fQJtFtDH_Nw/TPFzzS-DzYI/AAAAAAAADwA/gqBHgPHXKf4/s320/P1010386.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5544339941372448130" style="float: right; height: 181px; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
<br />
For me.<br />
<br />
Even for Benny.<br />
<br />
But
I didn't. When we got home from our Thanksgiving trip to the farm, we
found you laying under that bush, just like you always have.<br />
<br />
Only you weren't sunning yourself. It was 30 degrees out. And you weren't moving.<br />
<br />
I thought you were dead.<br />
<br />
I
called out your name, and you didn't even flinch. I touched you, and
your tail only lightly twitched. And you still didn't raise your head
or open your eyes.<br />
<br />
I wish I had left you there. I wish I had
gone in, grabbed a blanket and a hot pad... and let you die
the way you lived life. Comfortably and on your own terms.<br />
<br />
I
could have sat there with you in the garden, by your favorite bush. It would have been a
cold, yet peaceful passing.<br />
<br />
Instead, I took you from your chosen
location, wrapped you in a towel and rushed you to the vet. To the
place you hated most in this world. To a world full of stainless steel
tables, IV's and vet techs rushing around trying to stave off the
inevitable.<br />
<br />
Has city living really taken that much of the farm
out of me? I grew up understanding clearly the circle of
life. I had never seen a pet actually die in front of my eyes, but I
have heard the sound of the rifle when a horse had to be put down. I saw the anguish in my parents eyes when they had to tell us that
they accidentally ran over the dog or the cat.<br />
<br />
And all of that
sucked. But I got over it and moved on.<br />
<br />
After all, this is how life
works. Rarely did a dog or cat live past five years on the farm.
Exposure to the elements, dangers from the highway, coyotes or even
neighbors who have too much time and bullets on their hands....
this was all a part of having pets.<br />
<br />
But you... you were
different. 13 years old. <i> I can't believe you made it that long.</i> I
can't believe that the little kitten I brought home from the shelter 13
years ago and who had nothing but attitude from day one was still around
after graduation from college, marriage, a new house, a baby and
another pregnancy. It was my new instinct to do whatever I could to
help you. You were only 13... you still had a few more years left.<br />
<br />
On
the drive there, in the back of my mind I knew that when older animals
are ready to die, they usually find a quiet place to go - like a
favorite bush - to make the transition. And I blew it for you. But I
wasn't ready yet. One day later and I'm still not ready.<br />
<br />
As we
sat there with you in the room, and the vet talked about things like
kidney failure and total body shutdown, I just looked into your mostly
lifeless eyes. You never blinked. You were already gone, weren't you?
Your body hadn't quite stopped working at that point, but you were
ready to go.<br />
<br />
Benny says that you held on as long as you did so
that you could say good-bye. I don't know if that's true or not. See,
for the rest of my life, I'll believe that I'm responsible for your
death. I will never believe that it was your "time to go".<br />
<br />
While
yesterday was pretty much a blur, I remember the vet asking me when you
started to lose weight. He asked how long you had smelled so bad. He
asked if you were drinking water. He asked when was the last time I noticed that you were "normal".<br />
<br />
I didn't really have an answer for any
of those questions. Had I noticed you had lost weight? Yes. On
Monday I picked you up and thought you felt lighter. But in my haste of
being a Mommy, I attributed it to the fact that my "normal" these days
is that of a 28 pound toddler. I noticed that day that you seemed a
little sluggish. But I thought it might just be the cold and since you
were getting older, it was effecting you more.<br />
<br />
When was the last
time you were <i>normal</i>? When was the last time I did more than give you a
passing pat on the back or rub on the head as I was feeding you? When
was the last time I did more than acknowledge your existence when Hazel
was petting you before I rushed her into the car to go to the store or school or a play date?<br />
<br />
Weeks?<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">Months? </span><br />
<br />
I failed you, Nytro. In the worst way.<br />
<br />
While
we sat in that room hoping your body would warm up, I rubbed your
ears. I scratched your chin. I told you that it was okay if you had to
go. That you had lived a good life. Your eyes sparked a little when I
scratched your chin. That always was your favorite. You had lost your
voice, but it seemed like you were trying to talk to me. But they said
that it was just spasms.<br />
<br />
When the vet was finally able to get an
IV in after 30 minutes of trying due to your collapsed veins, I
started to think that maybe you were going to pull through this. You
always were a fighter. You rarely backed down from a fight with
the neighborhood strays that sometimes ventured onto our property. Of
course, you also knew that in any fight, Benny or I would soon be
bursting through the door in our bathrobes ready to take out whichever
cat was messing with you that night.<br />
<br />
So, when you started to perk
up after they got some fluids in you, I felt myself relax with relief.
You were going to be okay. Just had to get some fluids in you... maybe
some meds... and pamper you for a little while.<br />
<br />
I thought that we had dodged a bullet.<br />
<br />
As
the vet talked about what was possibly going on with you, you started
to struggle... like you were trying to get up and move. At first I thought: <span style="font-style: italic;">There's my girl. Hates the vet!! </span><br />
<br />
But then, I knew... something wasn't right.<br />
<br />
<span style="color: red; font-style: italic;">"What's wrong?"</span><br />
<br />
The
vet listened to your heart. There was a rapid heartbeat, but you
weren't breathing. Suddenly, you gave one last huge exhale. Your
eyes dilated. Your heart stopped.<br />
<br />
And that was it.<br />
<br />
You were gone.<br />
<br />
Just like that. Right in front of me.<br />
<br />
Words
continue to fail me when I think about witnessing that event. When I
think about what you went through in those final moments... when I think
about the relief I felt mere seconds before you died... my heart breaks
into pieces.<br />
<br />
I remember looking at the vet and asking him if he
was sure you were gone. I couldn't believe it. Just like that. So
fast. <i>Gone</i>.<br />
<br />
It's so unfair.<br />
<br />
I want a chance to make it up to
you. I want the chance to sit with you on the porch and rub your belly
again. I want the chance to take you to the vet the second I noticed
your weight loss. I want to hear the little bell on your collar jingle
outside the door to remind me that it was 5 minutes until dinner time
and you wanted to let me know that you knew this.<br />
<br />
I want you to meet
our new baby in February.<br />
<br />
I could have prevented this. And I
didn't. Because I was busy. Because I felt like you could take care of
yourself. Because life got in the way.<br />
<br />
And for that, I'll never forgive myself.<br />
<br />
After
you passed, we were left with the decision of what to do next. It's
too cold here to bury anything in the ground, and I decided I didn't
need your ashes. I wouldn't know what to do with them. I said
good-bye to your spirit... I was in the room when you made the
transition, and didn't need anything else. I even refused the paw-print
ornament that they offered to make. I don't know why... other than
the fact that I already have a lifetime of memories of you, and more
pictures than I know what to do with. An ornament doesn't really seem
your style, you know? A framed hairball seems to be more you. But,
I'll settle for your collar and bell.<br />
<br />
It breaks my heart to know
that when we go out in the mornings to get into the car, Hazel will look
for you, and you won't be there. She will never again point at you,
say <span style="color: purple;"><i>"Kee-Kee!" </i></span>and then excitedly walk over to you while you are eating
and softly pet you. She won't remember you. She'll never get to laugh
at you when you get another haircut in the summer. She'll never get to
snuggle with you and hear you purring.<br />
<br />
But, I'll remember all of that. I'll remember those 13 years with fondness. Both the good and the bad.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_fQJtFtDH_Nw/TPFy90ZQG_I/AAAAAAAADv4/grz9cxtmy5U/s1600/IMG_1392.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_fQJtFtDH_Nw/TPFy90ZQG_I/AAAAAAAADv4/grz9cxtmy5U/s320/IMG_1392.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5544339022631934962" style="float: left; height: 214px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 320px;" /></a>I'll
remember how you never wanted to drink out of your water dish...
preferring instead my glass of water. I'll remember how you never ever
got aggressive with us... but let us know of your displeasure by peeing in
our shoes or the closet. I'll remember how when you were little, you
would wait for me to get home from practice and hop in the
shower, and would then jump on the counter, grab my elastic band I had
just taken from my hair and take it to my closet and hide it in an old
pair of shoes I never wore. I found those hair bands 9 months later
when I was throwing those shoes out. I'll remember the exact day when I
realized that I didn't own a cat, but that my cat owned me. It was the
day I ended up apologizing to you for yelling at you for knocking over
my drink. I'll remember the first night I brought you home and you
snuggled up in the crook of my neck and slept there all night. I'll
remember how you were a one-person cat who didn't really need anyone
else in her life. I'll remember all the days we made fun of your cow
bag... especially after a haircut. I'll remember how much you hated
getting a haircut, but how
much you enjoyed it after the fact. I'll remember how you used to look
out the window at the birds and smack your lips. I'll never have a
Christmas where I don't remember you sleeping under the tree for a
month. I'll remember when you caught a baby quail and brought it into
the house to play with... and then got bored. Watching me chase that
baby bird around the house was definitely entertaining for you. I think
I even saw you smile, before regaining your composure and feigning
indifference. I'll remember the day I found a rat in the house... a rat that was bigger than you. You took one look at it, then me standing on the bed with a broom over my head screaming... and then slowly turned around and left me to fend for myself. I found you later on the couch dozing. I'll remember how you never got too excited or upset
about anything. EVER. You had the most calm demeanor of any cat I've
known... except if dinner was late.<br />
<br />
But I'll never forget the
fact that you were there for me during some rough times in my life.
When all you had to do was curl up in my lap and start purring and I
knew that things would be okay. The weekend when both Benny and my roommate moved away. When I was broke as a joke and couldn't afford to fill up the car with gas, much less give you as much food as you wanted. As long as I had you, everything was
fine. The therapy you provided me in those days was amazing and those
who don't have pets... will never understand.<br />
<br />
I'm sorry that I
failed you in your time of need, Nytro. I will never not feel guilty
about the role I played in your passing. And the fact that your passing
wasn't what you had hoped for.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_fQJtFtDH_Nw/TPFxovK9iwI/AAAAAAAADvo/aQXkuUz8XQs/s1600/P1010387.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_fQJtFtDH_Nw/TPFxovK9iwI/AAAAAAAADvo/aQXkuUz8XQs/s400/P1010387.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5544337560940940034" style="display: block; height: 226px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a></div>
But thank you for hanging on long
enough to say good-bye.<br />
<br />
I will always love you.Jayneehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18043652983678073891noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4596873703371227243.post-23340762019208861662014-02-16T10:37:00.002-08:002014-02-16T10:38:10.690-08:00The Styrofoam PerspectiveThe morning started off a little hectic. Someone didn't like that we were having Cheerios with milk. And she also didn't like that she had to wear a nice sweater with 3/4 sleeves, rather than the tank-top she had her heart set on while it was 30 degrees outside. So, when Mommy turned her back, guess who accidentally-on-purpose spilled her milk ALL OVER HERSELF?<br />
<br />
Someone else was upset because she wanted 500 ponytails, and Mommy only gave her two.<br />
<br />
Someone else was upset because he'd left his car at the office and couldn't get out of the chaos sooner because he needed a ride to work.<br />
<br />
And then someone <i>else </i>was all: <span style="color: purple;"><i>"What's the big deal? I call this a Tuesday!"</i></span><br />
<br />
Luckily, things calmed down rather quickly <i>(as they always do on Tuesdays)</i> and we piled in the car to head to day care. I had forgotten that it was Show and Share Day, but The Bird had apparently remembered and Daddy had helped her pick out something to take. <i> Can't remember to put on underwear every day, but totally remembers Show and Share Day every Tuesday</i>... <i>but, whatever.</i><br />
<br />
We were almost to day care when The Bird started screaming and sobbing. I looked in the rear view mirror and...<i> yes, yes indeed.</i>.. her face is melting off. This isn't exactly out of the norm for her, but it wasn't clear this time what the deal was until Benny turned around in his seat to address the face melting.<br />
<br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i>"It's okay, sweetie! Look! Now you have two pieces of styrofoam. And two is better than one!"</i></span><br />
<span style="color: purple;"><i>"Um... styrofoam?" </i></span><br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i>"Yea. It's Show and Share Day."</i></span><br />
<span style="color: purple;"><i>"And you gave her styrofoam?"</i></span><br />
<i><span style="color: blue;">"Hey! She picked that piece out all on her own! What's the big deal?"</span><br /><span style="color: purple;">"The big deal is that it's styrofoam. And not even a solid piece of styrofoam! No... it's two pieces of broken styrofoam! Who brings broken styrofoam for show and share? I normally don't care what people think, but surely we can do better than two pieces of broken styrofoam! PEOPLE WILL TALK!"</span></i><br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i>"No way! She loves it! She wants to share it with her friends."</i></span><br />
<span style="color: purple;"><i>"She is NOT sharing styrofoam at Show and Share."</i></span><br />
<br />
And thus began the mad scramble of digging through the console of the car to find something acceptable to share with The Bird's class.<br />
<br />
<i>Found:</i> Half bottle of tums, knock-off Louis Vitton clutch, phone charger cords for phones we no longer own, a half-dozen receipts for airport parking, the collar my cat used to wear which I've been apparently holding on to <i>since she died 3 years ago</i>, a Cadbury egg that someone had hidden from me at least 2 years ago, one earring, a kids toothbrush, STAMPS!, a baby sock, half-eaten bag of Jalapeno Cheetos, parking ticket from WSU, a DVD of an ultrasound of The Bean in the womb, an empty CD case, a wash cloth, Bonnie's fish collar from when she was just tiny and didn't make my brain bleed, MY DISCOVER CARD!, 87 cents in pennies and nickles, a looney from our trip to England 7 years ago... and Jimmy Hoffa.<br />
<br />
I know. It's a big console.<br />
<br />
<i>Not Found:</i> Anything "shareable". So...you better believe I sold The Bird on taking Bonnie's collar to class. <span style="color: purple;"><i>"Look! Look at the fishies on her collar! Those are Daddy's favorite animals! Can you remember when Bonnie was so small that this fit on her neck?"</i></span><br />
<br />
The more I think about it, I'm not sure why I was so upset by the styrofoam. I mean, the woman writing this? As a little girl, her parents brought peacocks to Show and Tell when she was in 1st grade... Live peacocks. Plural. More than one. And she then had to help chase said peacocks down when they got loose in the school.<br />
<br />
The SAME little girl also introduced her school to lice in the 2nd grade because her parents had caught a rock chuck and kept him as a pet... and did you KNOW that animal lice can live on humans, too? <br />
<br />
<i>(Side note: When The Biologist I Sleep With heard this story, he told me to change rock chuck to yellow-bellied marmot because it's the same thing as a rock chuck, but sounds soooo much worse. <span style="color: red;">"I mean, WHO KEEPS A YELLOW-BELLIED MARMOT AS A PET, BABE?"</span> I told him he was getting to biologist-y on me, and people around here? They know what a rock chuck is... and they'll be asking themselves the same. exact. question.) </i><br />
<br />
You know what? Styrofoam would have been absolutely fine. Jayneehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18043652983678073891noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4596873703371227243.post-70390498455354515462014-02-09T08:51:00.000-08:002014-02-09T08:52:42.631-08:00One Billion RisingI've had a lot of response from friends about performing in the Vagina Monologues. Most of it centers around the: <span style="color: blue;"><i> "That is so cool! I would never dare get up in front of people to do something like that!" </i></span>variety.<br />
<br />
I don't blame them. Truth be told, I'm absolutely terrified of doing it. For one, I've struggled with a slight speech impediment my whole life. Most people don't notice it or if they do, they pretend that they don't... because they're nice people. But <b><u>I</u></b> know it's there. And I work hard to make sure it doesn't slip out when I'm speaking in public. Most of the time I'm successful... but sometimes the lisp shows up and I suddenly sound like I'm drunk... and you're my new best friend.<br />
<br />
Secondly... well, I've never been on stage before. I've gotten up and spoken to rooms full of college coaches and AD's and it's no problem. Because I speak their language. I have played basketball in front of thousands of people and that's no biggie either... because I grew up on a basketball court. But a stage? OMG. Do you know that they shine bright lights on you on a stage? And that everyone - <b>EVERYONE </b>- is focused on you on the stage? There's no hope that they're looking at your coach or your teammate. There's <i>no chance</i> that they won't notice if you pick the wedgie out of your butt. <br />
<br />
It's just you and the audience.<br />
<br />
<i>And I should probably stop because I'm about to talk myself out of this.</i><br />
<br />
But with all the congratulations and words of encouragement my friends have expressed, no one has ever asked why. Which is totally understandable. I mean, how much of a douche do you have to be to go up to someone who is currently trying to <a href="http://greenboogersandoatmeal.blogspot.com/2014/02/resolved.html" target="_blank"><i>grow</i></a>, and be all: <span style="color: red;"><i>"Why are you doing this? Why 'grow' in this way?"</i></span><br />
<br />
And the very simple answer to the question no one has asked is this: <i> </i>I have daughters.<i> </i><br />
<br />
Do you realize that 1-in-3 women will be beaten or raped in her lifetime? <br />
<br />
That's 1 billion women. That's so many zero's I'm not even going to bother and figure out how many. But I do guesstimate that that number is only slightly less than the amount of questions my 2YO can ask in one day.<br />
<br />
I have never been a victim of physical violence. But, I have friends who have been.<br />
<br />
Too many friends. <br />
<br />
Women who I admire more than they will ever know... who faced horrors that no one should ever have to experience. Most people who know these women will <i>never </i>know what they've been through, and I'm blessed that they felt enough trust to share their experiences with me. And humbled. And honestly? More than a little pissed off that they were ever hurt in such a way. I want to throttle the people that did this to them. I want to set their faces on fire and kick them in their polar vortex. <br />
<br />
So, when <a href="http://www.goodcotheatre.com/" target="_blank">Good Company Theater</a> asked me to appear in a production of The Vagina Monologues, how could I say anything but yes? <br />
<br />
Eve Ensler, the woman who wrote the Vagina Monologues, based it on dozens of
interviews with women. Her play addresses women's
sexuality and the social stigma surrounding rape and abuse. In 1998, she established V-Day, which advocates that violence against women and
girls must end. To do this, once a year
groups around the world are allowed to produce a performance of the
play, and use the proceeds for
local charities and programs that work to end violence against
women and girls.<br />
<br />
Enter Good Company Theater, stage right.<br />
<br />
And the beneficiary of the proceeds, <a href="http://www.yccogden.org/" target="_blank">YCC</a>, stage left.<br />
<br />
Add a few professional actors and a couple of complete novices who just happen to visit the coffee shop where the owner of GCT works on the side... and BOOM! You have the ingredients to change your little corner of the world.<br />
<br />
I've read all of the scripts and there were some that were just... well, it was too hard to think about my friends going through what was so plainly written on the paper. It was too much. So, I chose something that I could identify with. Somewhat. Maybe next time, I'll have more courage to step into a role of which I have absolutely no experience with and speak their truth. For now, I'm still adjusting to the fact that I'm on stage with a group of amazing women who are going to kill it... and I'm just hoping I can keep up.<br />
<br />
The Vagina Monologues and the <a href="http://www.onebillionrising.org/" target="_blank">One Billion Rising</a> movement are important. They're important to everyone... not just survivors. They're important because of friends that were abused... the ones we know about, and the ones we <i>don't. </i> They're important because of our daughters. Daughters who have so much that they'll already have to overcome and fight for in this world simply because they're female, that adding the threat of violence against their bodies and their minds is appalling. They're important because of our sons. The boys we raise alongside our daughters, and what we teach them at home... what society teaches them... what their friends teach them when we're not looking about what it means to be a man. It's important to all of our children to see us treat each other with respect, and stand up for ourselves... and for those too hurt to do it for themselves. <span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">If we do that - if we change our culture in our little corner of the world - it will spread. And it will make our world better. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">That 1 Billion Rising? It starts with one. </span><br />
<br />Jayneehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18043652983678073891noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4596873703371227243.post-22232262355565460242014-02-06T11:10:00.001-08:002014-02-06T15:40:54.659-08:00How You Can Tell If Your 2YO Is A SociopathDuring dinner last night, I was visiting with the girls about what they did at school that day. Usually, the answer is "nothin'"... when I KNOW that they painted with apples, or played tagged or poured water onto their bed and got sent to timeout.<br />
<br />
So, lately, I've been changing the questions to spark their memory.<br />
<br />
Me: <span style="color: #e69138;">"Bird, what was your favorite thing you did at school today?"</span><br />
<br />
The Bird: <span style="color: #741b47;">"I made a heart and colored it. </span><br />
<br />
Me: <span style="color: #e69138;">"Oh yea?"</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="color: black;">The Bird: </span>"Yea. But I didn't get to paint it <i>(quivers lip).</i> Miss Jennifer said I couldn't paint it today. And I couldn't put stickers on."</span><br />
<br />
Me: <span style="color: #e69138;">"Oh. Maybe you can do that tomorrow?"</span><br />
<br />
The Bird: <span style="color: #741b47;"><i>On the brink of tears...</i> "Maybe.<i></i>"</span><span style="color: #741b47;"></span><br />
<br />
Me: <span style="color: #e69138;">"Bean, what was your favorite thing you did at school today?"</span><br />
<br />
The Bean: <i>Slyly looks over at her sister before announcing</i> <b><span style="color: #351c75;">"I made a heart AND painted it AND put stickers on."</span></b> Continues munching her carrot as though her sister's face isn't melting off right in front of us. <br />
<br />
At this point, not sure if I'm more concerned at the delight that The Bean takes in her sister's misery... or the fact that she COMPLETELY MADE THE WHOLE THING UP.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Jayneehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18043652983678073891noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4596873703371227243.post-78086865974459113082014-02-02T19:40:00.003-08:002014-02-02T20:50:31.269-08:00ResolvedI'm a little late on posting my resolutions for 2014. Every time I sit down to think about what I'd like to accomplish this year, someone needs their butt wiped... or has spilled some milk... or is mad because someone else is <i>looking </i>at her.<br />
<br />
But to be honest, I'm just not a big fan of the idea that I need a list of things that I need to accomplish in 12 months to make me a better person...a happier, more fulfilled, slightly less heavy person. Look, we ALL know that there's no way I'm going to stop popping my zits, no matter how many times I end up looking like I got hit with shrapnel getting ready for work that morning. We ALL know that I will continue to procrastinate... because at this point, it really is an art form. We ALL know that keeping up with the laundry is for women who I simply can't be friends with. We ALL know that I'm not going to give up chocolate or Coke or any of my many other "vices". Because deep down? I really don't want to. I love my vices. <br />
<br />
So, no lists. <br />
<br />
But, that doesn't mean that I haven't been thinking about my life. About where I am, where I thought I would be and where I want to be. And I keep thinking of the typical resolutions and how it's so easy to get overwhelmed by lists and goals. <i>Please</i>.... I know me and I know that within a couple of months, I'll forget my resolution. Probably because the kids will be fighting and all semblance of self-control will be out the window and I'll find the nearest mirror <i>(preferably in my own home, but it could be at Target)</i> and start popping zits. Resolution be damned. <br />
<br />
The other day I ran into a woman, a Presbyterian minister, who told me that her resolution this year was to live ferociously. <i>Ferociously</i>. Wow. What can anyone say about that? Nothing. And you know why? Because it's perfect. She's out there living her life... ferociously. And we should all take note that we, too, should be living ferociously. If only to say: <span style="color: #0b5394;"><i>"Hi, I'm living ferociously! And you are....?"</i></span> <br />
<br />
OMG. That - THAT RIGHT THERE - is poetry. In word and in action. <u><b>POETRY</b></u>. I'm a big fan of this woman already. She took one word and has owned it. She has let it guide her in her decision-making process and it is helping her break down walls that she had up before deciding to live ferociously. <br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
So, I started thinking about the one word that has kept coming up in several areas of my life lately, and I've decided to follow her example and harness the word that I can't seem to escape as my word for 2014<span style="font-size: small;"><i>: </i><i>Grow.</i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #351c75;"><span style="color: black;">I know. Pretty anticlimactic compared to <i>"ferociously"</i>, but screw it... that's my word and I'm sticking to it. </span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I often look at myself and see a one-dimensional being. I can do a lot of things well, but those things all have one thing in common: athleticism. I can do some nice things with a basketball or a volleyball and have played both competitively. I can swim, run and bike and have competed in enough triathlons to make me seriously question my sanity. I can pick heavy things up and put them down, which makes me feel uber feminine. And I can catch a dirty diaper thrown 90mph across the room with my left hand, while I stir marinara on the stove. For the love of Pete, I even work in college athletics because that's what I know... it's what I have the skills for. </div>
<br />
But those are things I've been doing since I was a kid <i>(minus the dirty diaper skill... that's a newly aquired skill).</i> And they come very easily to me. The old saying<i> </i>if you always do what you've always done, you'll always get what you've always got rings so true for me. And in the past, I haven't dared step out of my comfort zone to try something new. If something intrigued me, I was fine to acknowledge that I was intrigued, and then go play some volleyball. I would blow it off as not worthy of my time or energy to try. Because, you know, I <i>might </i>not be good at it. I might fail. I might fall so hard on my face that it leaves an indent in the floor. And for me... failure is not an option. <i>Ever</i>. <br />
<br />
No more.<br />
<br />
In 2014, I'm going to be open to any and everything. I'm going to reach. I'm stepping outside my "normal" and not letting fear stop me. How can I tell my daughters to grow and try something new... if I won't? They see <i>that</i>. <i>They see everything</i>. They know that I only do the things that make me comfortable... where there's no room for growth. And I have a healthy suspicion that <b><u>that</u> </b>is why they won't eat their broccoli.<br />
<br />
To that end, I've been asked to perform a reading in the Good Company Theater's production of The Vagina Monologues this month. All proceeds go directly to the <a href="http://www.yccogden.org/" target="_blank">YCC</a>. If you are interested in tickets, go to the <a href="http://www.brownpapertickets.com/event/558302" target="_blank">Good Company Theater's site</a>. The show runs February 20-23, and I am in the Friday/Sunday cast. I'm so honored and proud to be a part of something that empowers women and does so much good for our community.This is so far outside my comfort zone that I'm not sure we're even in the same galaxy. And falling on your face in front of a room full of friends and/or strangers... well, you know what they say: Go hard or go home. I'm going hard.<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<i><span style="font-size: small;">Grow.</span></i></div>
<br />
I read <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/rebecca-lammersen/sometimes-i-hate-being-a-mom_b_4562101.html" target="_blank">this article</a> today and it spoke to my soul. Especially these two quotes: <br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="color: purple;"><i>Most of us become mothers before we become ourselves.</i> We don't grow into our minds, hearts or bodies until our 30s when we've already been parenting for years.</span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="color: purple;">I feel like I'm failing as a mother most of the time and I'm not succeeding as myself either.</span></blockquote>
I could have written those words. I <i>should </i>have written those words. For years, I have been subconsciously fighting a... <i>well, a calling</i>. For some reason, I have found it unacceptable to acknowledge that I want to write... that I think I have important things to say. I read too many blogs and question whether or not my voice matters. I have made excuses as to why I haven't been writing: writers block, don't have enough time, don't want our friends to see how crazy I really am, no one cares what I have to say or what I think, how can I compete with all of those amazing women writing blogs? But, in the last few months, a few friends and the man that I sleep with have been prodding me to make a decision on this little hobby of mine. Fish or cut bait, as Benny would say. <br />
<br />
<i><span style="font-size: small;">Grow.</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></i> <br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
I have never thought about writing as a career... <i>but maybe I should. </i> Stranger things have happened, so why should I limit myself? To that end, I'm going to say out loud - <i>for the first time ever</i> - my <strike>dream</strike> truth. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I'm a writer. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<i><span style="font-size: small;">Grow.</span></i> </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I'm making a personal commitment here and now to dedicate more time to my craft... my passion. Who knows what it will bring? Maybe nothing. But I am finally acknowledging that I never will know unless I put my neck out there and...</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<i>Grow.</i></div>
Jayneehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18043652983678073891noreply@blogger.com1