An audience for the voices inside my head

You do not want to be the "Dream Crusher"

2011-11-21T19:11:00.000-08:00

This is my new title. One could also substitute the words "Robber of Childhood Hope" or "Destroyer of Kids' Faith in Parental Honesty." All phrases would apply, and there are probably others as well.

Today, I broke my almost 11-year old daughter's heart, when I shared with her, over delicious DQ Blizzards, the truth about Santa Claus. It's something I've been planning on sharing with her for a long time now, and today we had an opportunity to have some time alone together, so I decided to go for it.

It was doomed from the get-go.

As I was building up to it, sharing with her that it was something I've been wanting to tell her about for a while now, but trying to find the right time to do it, her eyes got really big. She interrupted me before I could get to my main point, and with trepidition in her voice, she hesitantly asked, "Am I adopted?"

I was stunned. I still have no idea where that idea came from. Poor thing; she was seriously worried that I was about to inform her that I didn't really give birth to her, and was very upset by the prospect.

I immediately reassured her that she was absolutley born from my body; I have the stretch marks to prove it.

She was greatly relieved. However, that feeling was short-lived.

I explained that she was going through a sort of rite of passage and joining the ranks of all the grown-ups in the world with this knowledge. Then, I went on to divulge the role of mom and dad, in regards to Santa Claus.

The innocent little freckled face registered shock. Blue eyes immediately filling with tears, she barely squeaked out, "Mom, you're crushing my dreams!" before she burst into gut-wrenching fits of sobbing.

At that moment, I felt like the most horrible person in the world. I wanted to reverse time and take it all back. I felt a very strong urge to punish myself (if you've seen the movie "Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets," you may remember Dobby the house elf, and his intense need to punish himself when he did something he thought might be bad - that was me, wishing I could bash myself with a table lamp repeatedly right then and there).

But, it was too late. The jig was up. I couldn't go back and change it. And my punishment was just: I had to attempt to comfort my daughter, whose heart I had just broken into a million little pieces. Anyone who is a parent knows that, as a mom, you would do almost anything to spare your child pain. As that was impossible, and because I was the one responsible for causing this distress, I felt especially lower lifeform-ish.

Once the worst of the sobbing past, the questions began. "Do my older sisters already know? What about my friends? And what about the Tooth Fairy? Is that fake, too?" I answered each of her questions as honestly as possible. I explained that these were the only things that I have ever lied to her about, and why I felt compelled to perpetuate the falsehood up to now. We talked about how magical things are for little ones, and how it's the only time in life where people can believe in that kind of magic. I promised I'd not lie to her ever again, and asked for her forgiveness.

In time, she ended up being alright. She told me she is glad she heard it from me, and not someone at school. She mentioned that now it made sense to her, why her friend got five dollars from the Tooth Fairy, when she only got fifty cents (pile on more guilt for being cheap). And finally, she agreed to allow her little brother to enjoy the magic for a few more years, and help us all to make that possible for him.

But, she was so sad. And she didn't know why. I told her that I thought she was grieving, and explained what grief was. When we lose something that's important to us, whether it's a person or a home or a belief, it's really hard. And grieving is a normal, healthy part of the way we process things in life and that it was okay to be sad.

As I've been thinking about this all evening, I've come to the conclusion that I'm grieving, too. I'm grieving that I broke my baby girl's heart. I'm grieving that, as a parent, it's really hard to know sometimes when the timing is right to divulge certain things to your kids, and that I screw up and hurt them sometimes. I'm so sad that I can be trying to do something that I think is right, and the resulting anguish caused by my choices, although unforseen, could have possibly been delayed or softened, had I known how to manage it.

So, for now, I am resigned to being the "Dream Crusher" in the family.

I strongly recommend you leave this job to someone else, if at all possible.

Maturity

2011-11-11T09:45:00.000-08:00

Have you ever experienced something that made you suddenly realize you might be turning into your mother? And it scared you, just a little bit?

I remember when I was in high school and, for some reason, had the misopportunity to catch a view of my mother stark naked. Now, my mom was by no means grossly obese or disfigured or anything like that. But, in my 17 year-old mind, with my seventeen year old body, I thought to myself, Ew! And, something along the lines of, please don't let me ever, ever look like that when I get old! All wrinkles and excessive dimpling and extra flesh around the midsection; yuck!

Fast forward to the present.

Recently, I was dismayed when I went to give my sixteen year old daughter a hug. She was stiff-armed a little bit, and wouldn't let me get too close to her, and I was wondering what the heck was wrong.

Upon inquiring, the aforementioned sixteen year old informed me that she
didn't want me to squeeze her so tight because, when I did, my poo-chi, which as a result of my Nutter Butter addiction, now sticks out further than my underwhelming A-cups, and she informed me that it "creeped her out a little bit" as it squished into to her flat little stomach while I tried to hug her.

Huh. Well then. How 'bout that?

My response, of course, was to tell her to enjoy her flat stomach while she can; genetics (or perhaps a genetic Nutter Butter problem) would be coming to catch up with her some day.

Her response: the obligatory eye roll, accompanied by a long-suffering heavy sigh, and immediately followed with an extremely un-heartfelt, "Thanks Mom."

My always-mature reply wasn't long in the making: I snottily snapped out, "You're welcome."

And when she wasn't looking, I stuck my tongue out at her.

I am now patiently waiting for her to reach her 40's and realize I am right. And I will have my evil laugh cued up and ready to roll when it happens.

I Am a Camper: Day 1

2011-10-25T12:06:00.000-07:00

I recently had the great opportunity to spend some time with my mom and some of her family. My mom and her husband Dean and I drove from their home in Olympia, WA for ten long hours to a tiny place in Northern California called Happy Camp. This region in California is an area that was part of "gold country" over 150 years ago, and is one of my folks' favorite places to go "prospecting" for gold and camp. Prospecting is their favorite thing to do (not mine, as it turned out,but that's okay), so I was looking forward to sharing this experience with them, getting to be out in nature, and away from the normal day-to-day routine.

Now, the name of the truck we drove down in is Doggie. And the name of the camping trailer that was attached to the truck is Gracie. I'm not sure why these things have these names, or why I needed to share this information, except so that it is understood that when I henceforth refer to Gracie, it will be understood that Gracie is not an actual person, but a camping trailer. Yeah, my folks are kind of weird like that; they name all kinds of inanimate objects for who-knows-what reason. But, I digress.

We arrived at our little spot in the woods late in the afternoon, and unfortunately for me, Mother Nature was immediately calling. There is a toilet in Gracie, but it had hitherto never been used by my folks; they generally set-up their own little outdoor outhouse whenever they camp and use it (well, my mom uses it; Dean just uses nature). However, since we had just arrived, there were no "facilities" available anywhere, and I had to go. Dean handed me a shovel and a roll of toilet paper, and sent me on my way.

Right.

I can do this.

I marched away from the campsite, far enough to not be seen or heard, and looked carefully around me. Several times. I think I was afraid there might be some random woodland creatures secretly watching me, and I was feeling modest. Anyways, I dug a hole, finished my business, covered up my business, and felt like a new woman afterwards. Aside from the physical relief, of course, I felt like I had really come into my own as a camper. I was hardcore now; like a bear, I pooped in the woods. How cool is that?!?!

I strode back to camp with a smile on my face and a spring in my step. I was a real camper now. Boo-yeah!

Since my Mom and Dean have done this so many times before, they've established a bit of a routine for how they set up camp. I was trying to be helpful, but I felt like I was getting in the way more than anything. I pestered someone to please give me a task, and was told to inflate my air mattress. The grown-ups were sleeping in the bed in Gracie, and I opted for sleeping in a little 2-man tent nearby, so we could all have a little space and privacy. But, I would have the luxury of a queen size air mattress to put my sleeping bag on, and I was excited about that. The little air compressor had a car adaptor, so it was easy to pump up my mattress and fast.

Check. Solo task one completed.

Dean had me gather firewood, but other than that, I didn't do much at all that first day. It cooled down a lot that night, and the weather forecast was predicting rain. I wasn't concerned. There was a rain fly covering my tent, plus a tarp stretched out a couple of feet above that and tied to nearby trees, so I knew I would be protected from the rain. Besides, I was coming from Texas, which was many months into an extreme drought, and I actually was looking forward to being wet and cold. I honestly couldn't remember what either of those things felt like, it had been so long.

One should always be careful what one wishes for.

Bedtime for the folks is pretty early out in nature. Although they have a campfire in the evenings, they put the fire out and go to bed probably within an hour after the sun goes down. So, it wasn't even eight o'clock and I found myself in my tent, getting ready to go to sleep.

The mattress seemed a little softer than it ought to have been, but I didn't worry about it too much. I snuggled down, read my book for a bit by lantern light, and tried to go to sleep.

It was kind of cold, I noticed. But, I liked it. Feeling cold was wonderful. I simply added another layer of clothing to what I already had on (my long johns) and knew it would warm me up. And it did.

For about five minutes.

I was thinking, wow: this is so awesome! I love that it's cold! I turned on my flashlight and dug out another jacket and zipped it all the way up, then hunkered back down under the sleeping bag.

This went on for a while. 'Bout an hour later, I was also wearing insulated winter socks, slippers over that, a knitted stocking cap pulled down over my ears, gloves, and was all wrapped up in two layers of sleeping bags. The only skin visible on my body was between my eyebrows and my nose; everything else was covered in blankets or other body-warming devices. I smiled to myself; I wish I could have taken a picture, because I'm pretty sure I looked completely ridiculous.

As is normal for me, I don't usually sleep too well the first night away from home. I was finally warm, except for my bum cheeks, and I still haven't figured that one out. How could everything else on my body be cozy and warm, but my bum be frozen? If someone can explain this phenomenon to me, I would be grateful.

I curled onto my side and realized that my mattress had less air in it than I originally thought. Oh brother. For some strange reason, I had three pillows in the tent with me, and I finally discovered why: two of those pillows had to go underneath my body to cushion me from the cool, damp earth, since I had epically failed my one and only solo task of blowing up my air mattress properly. I was grateful for three pillows right then.

Sleep continued to evade me. I was awake so long that I started thinking about having to go potty. I found it ironic; earlier that day, on our drive down, we made many potty stops along the way. I bragged that I had, for some strange reason, been blessed with a very strong bladder, which is unusual particularly for someone who has birthed four children. So, I was lying there in the tent, bundled up like a triple layer burrito, smiling at the situation.

It began to rain.

I love the sound of rain. It's fantastic to listen to, particularly when you are out in nature. It was a steady drizzle and I loved to hear it.

I'm lying there, starting to wiggle my feet, feeling that urge to go potty, but knowing I am just making a mountain out of a molehill out of the situation. I tried to think of something different, and eventually drifted off to sleep.

I awakened in the dark, hearing the steady rain coming down, to the sound of some strange bug I've never heard before. It made a really high pitched noise, not really like a cricket or a cicada, but sort of like them. It reminded me a little bit of a zipper opening and closing really fast. And it was right behind my head. And loud! Crazy freaking bug! I was bummed, because I had fallen asleep. But, I refused to get upset; I reminded myself that I was camping out in nature and to be grateful. So, I just listened to the bug. For a while. Until I couldn't take it any more. I found my flashlight, turned it on, and looked for the little pest. I wasn't sure if it was in my tent, or just outside of it. I ended up not locating it, so I just beat on the back of my tent and told it to shoo! Miraculously, that worked! It finally stopped all the racquet.

I immediately got back under my two sleeping bags; it felt like it had gotten colder. I took a deep breath, and realized again that my bladder was filling up more. Aw crap! It was so cold out now. And raining! I really didn't want to go out in it. I would freeze my little naked butt off, after stripping off the sixteen layers of warmth I had covering it. I could have walked across the campsite to use the toilet in Gracie, but I really didn't want to wake up my Mom and Dean if they were asleep. I figured it had to be getting close to sunrise at this point; it felt like I had been in the tent forever.

My ironic "strong bladder" comment felt like a little demon, jumping up and down on my lower abdomen in glee.

And then, I hear a rush of water hitting the ground right outside my tent. You know, kind of like the sound of when you go potty in the toilet? The tarp over my tent was releasing some of its water load, so it could refill and repeat. I couldn't believe it; just what I needed. A few minutes later, I heard the rush of water again. Great. Just fantastic.

With trepidation, I pulled off my gloves and pushed the little button to light up the face of my watch, mentally willing it to say sometime after 6:00 a.m. The clock ready 1:13 a.m.

I almost cried.

How can it possibly be only 1:13 a.m.? I have been out here in the freaking cold rain, nearly wetting the bed for at least ten hours now, haven't I?

I am never going to make it.

Whoosh; the rush of water off the tarp again.

Naturally, at that moment, I start to hear other sounds. I remembered a conversation from earlier in the day. I had asked Dean about bears. I had some concerns about having an encounter with a bear at night, since I was alone in the tent and my folks were tucked up tight in their trailer. Dean assured me repeatedly that we weren't going to see any bears, because there was nothing for them to eat in the area we camped. However, he couldn't help himself by adding that all I really needed to listen for was the sound of teeth chomping. And, he continued, if I felt a snout of prodding me through the tent, accompanied by the sounds of snuffling, that I might want to lie very still.

Ha ha ha.

Well, of course I started hearing snuffling! Right next to my tent!

I was thankful for my lamaze classes I took during my first pregnancy, because I needed to implement the deep-breath-in-through-the-nose, exhale-out-the-mouth thing to calm down.

Which, by default, put more of a squeeze on my bladder again.

And now we've come full circle. Fantastic.

Another whoosh of water comes off the tarp.

By some piece of magic or luck, I made it through the night without wetting myself. Albeit, I was in an adequate amount of pain from exercising my rocking bladder muscles so well all night. It was uncomfortably challenging to get myself out of the tent, make my way to the toilet in Gracie, and undress enough to use the facilities once daylight arrived. The relief once event began was, in a word, exquisite. I can't remember ever feeling so thankful for the ability to empty my bladder. I actually offered up a short prayer of gratitude to my Heavenly Father for it. I'm not kidding!

One day down, and only four more to go. I am a Camper.

The "No Soliciting" Sign

2011-08-25T14:01:00.000-07:00

August 25th, 2011

Why have just a “No Soliciting” sign by your front door?

Like the majority of people I know, I do not appreciate solicitors knocking on my door. There are, of course, many reasons for this, which include the fact that I have a hard time saying no to anyone because I feel bad for them, slaving away in the hundred degree weather attempting to earn their living in such a crappy way, and likely having many doors slammed in their faces. I mean, there are starving children in Africa, and supporting the fireman’s gala can’t be a bad thing, right? And, am I really opposed to helping protect the environment or supporting the Girl Scouts of America? Plus, maybe it’s just me, but doesn’t seem like solicitors always come when you’re trying to get dinner prepared? That is so aggravating! And then, of course, there is the basic truth that if I need something, I generally go out and purchase it myself, without someone coming to my door trying to sell me that item. Duh!

Just the other day, a lady stopped by and knocked on my door. I know it's naive, but, initially at least, I always try to think the best of others, that most people are decent human beings who will honor the request on our posted “No Soliciting” sign located just to the left of our front door at eye level and in plain sight. Time and again, however, I learn that I am setting myself up for disappointment in humanity. And yet it never ceases to amaze me when people so blatantly disregard my wishes. As I was saying, just the other day, a lady stopped by and knocked. I answered the door, and this time I was greeted with one of my all-time favorite lines: “Hi, my name is Andrea. I see (she was pointing to my sign) that you have a “No Soliciting” sign, but I was wondering if I could just have a few seconds of your time.”

At this point, my eyebrows rose up and my eyes bulged. Are you kidding me? Really? You actually read the sign and you are still going to ignore it and attempt to sell me something me anyways? Really, really?

Andrea then began saying something about pest control services, and I’m sure my eyes visibly glazed over. I wished right then that I was the type of person who could be outwardly rude to people who were outwardly rude to me. Sometimes, it really sticks in my craw that I get these frequent reminders (in the shape of thoughts in my head) that every single person is a child of God and should be treated accordingly.

Well, this particular daughter of God started asking me questions about my current pest control services, and I hastily informed her of the fact that I have had a “bug guy” (as we call him in my family) for years, and have no desire to stop using his services. I mean, Domingo talks a lot (I mean a lot, and he doesn't require many responses), but he does a fine job keeping the little pests at bay. Then I thanked Andrea for her offer to make my world significantly better via her life-changing pest services, but told her that I needed to go finish working on dinner now. As a last ditch effort, she asked me what chemicals were currently being used by my bug guy. I guess you’ve gotta give her props for her persistence. As I slowly closed the door in her face, I said to her that I had no idea, and nor do I care, and please be sure to have a lovely evening.

I have decided that I need to replace my current “No Soliciting” with a new one, which reads:

“STOP RIGHT THERE!! Don’t you even think about knocking on that door or ringing the door-bell, unless you have already received a personal invitation from someone living within this dwelling. If you are selling anything, which may include, but is not limited to, cookies, paintings, pest control services, coupon books, life insurance, investment banking services, wrapping paper, candy, athletic club memberships, etc.; or if you are trying to raise awareness and funding for any type of organization or in need of political support for a cause you feel deeply about; or if you are feeling compelled to save me from damnation; or if you want to get more signatures for your petition to correct something terribly wrong in the world, then these words are for you. I DON’T WANT TO TALK TO YOU! I don’t want to stop what I’m doing right now and become enlightened by your vast knowledge on some subject I am obviously uninformed about. I don’t need your goods or services; if I did, I would have already taken care of it myself. I don’t care enough about all the causes in the world to want to help you out. I am okay with my cold heart. I am also perfectly happy with my religious denomination; in fact, I’ve got a Book of Mormon right here, if you’d like to accept it. (And, yes, I am aware of the irony in the last sentence. :)) I already donate a large portion of my income to help others, and I know that money really is going to relieve pain and suffering in the world, and not making anybody rich. I respect and honor your work ethic and efforts to do something productive in life. Now, please kindly remove yourself from my front porch.

“Have a lovely day!”

The Snake Incident

2010-04-22T05:49:00.000-07:00

After dropping off my two littlest ones at the elementary school this morning, I drove home, and opened the garage door. As it went up, I happened to see something out of the corner of my eye, on the side of the door before it finished going up. I stopped the van before pulling into the garage, and got out to investigate. With a shudder, I realized it was a snake. It was a long snake, too; although it wasn’t big around, it was probably between 3 ½ and 4 feet long. I opened the door inside of the garage and told #1 child to get me the phone. Unfortunately (or fortunately, from his point of view), my husband was gone to work already; it was just as well, since he doesn’t do snakes. (That’s not to say I’m fond of them or anything, but they don’t bother me quite as much as they do him.) Anyways, #1 child asked what was wrong, and I told her there was a snake in the garage. Then, #2 child, from somewhere else in the house, yells at me, “Mom! Close the door NOW!” I get the phone from #1, who comes out to look at it with me, while #2, who refuses to look at it, continues yelling from somewhere else inside the house. I tell her to be quiet, and, no, I am not going to close the door; I’m going to keep my eye on that thing until it ceases to exist.

I immediately call my dad’s house (Have I mentioned lately how grateful I am to have my dad and wicked step-mother (w.s.m.), as I lovingly refer to her, living just around the corner from me?) and my w.s.m. answers the phone. I ask to talk to my dad, and am told he’s in the shower. I repeat that I really need my dad right now. When she asks me what’s wrong, I appraise her of the situation. She promises to let him know right away. I hung up the phone, and saw one of my neighbors in our cul-de-sac pull in. I walked out and asked her if any of her kids had a pet snake, and she said no; I told her I was glad because it was going to die soon and I would feel really bad if I killed someone’s pet. She wanted to see it, so I showed her. She grew up in Texas, and has had plenty of snake encounters, so this didn’t freak her out. In the mean time, my dad has called me back, but since I’m speaking with the neighbor, my #2 child proceeds to answer the phone, and hysterically tells Papa he needs to come over NOW and kill the snake before it kills us. My dad, who quickly tires of listening to the hysterics, tells her to have me call him back when I’m done talking to my neighbor. And, my neighbor, bless her heart, said if my dad couldn’t help me out, she’d be happy to come and terminate the scary slithering snake's life for me. Aren’t neighbors the best?!?!

She went home and brought back a long wooden shovel handle and a separate spade, and then my dad and w.s.m. pulled into the driveway. At this point, #2 has decided that the only safe place for her is in on the kitchen counter, and so she proceeds to perch there and refuses to move until the beastie is dead. #1, meanwhile, rolls her eyes at her sister, and watches cautiously from a distance as the carnage begins. After retrieving a second shovel from my back yard, my dad decides first to use the wooden stick handle my neighbor brought over, and coax the thing out of the garage before decapitating it. It was a good idea, in theory, but the darn thing started coiling its body around the aluminum runners and through the little holes, making it impossible to dislodge. At this point, I realize my w.s.m. has brought her camera and is madly taking pictures like the paparazzi. I start laughing, loving that she remembered her camera for an event such as this. She also whips out her little Texas critters identification book, and starts trying to decide what kind of snake we’ve got on our hands here. It is decided all around that it’s a rat snake, and not venomous. For some reason, this provides little comfort.

Unable to coax the critter out of its tangled lair, my dad has moved on to bludgeoning the snake to death with the dull end of the stick, and the bloodbath begins. The vermin doesn’t particularly like being attacked by Dad the Stick Wielder, and hisses his anger vehemently. But, to no avail; after valiantly fighting to stay alive, he eventually gives up the ghost. I can hear #1 (who is still standing at the door inside the garage) saying “Eeeewwwwww” as she watches on. When it’s finally done twitching, #2, who now has to leave the house to go to school, sets a world speed record as she bolts to her grandma's car, refusing to look at the snake guts on her way, and hurls herself into the vehicle, slamming the door shut almost simultaneously. As my dad finally manages to get the dead reptile unwound from its perch, I hear #1 utter the words, “Well, at least I know what I’ll write about in my journal tonight.”

That made me laugh out loud.

My dad chased my w.s.m. with the snake for just a minute, as she took a few more pictures, then he dropped it on the driveway pavement. I got my barbecue tongs and put the thing in a plastic bag, tied it up, and tossed it in the garbage can, grateful that today is garbage day. I am so thankful for my dad, who has honorably earned the title Snake Killer, for coming to our rescue, and for my dear w.s.m. for her unfailing instincts to capture the moment with her camera for all of us to share. I have decided to leave the small smattering of snake blood on the wall of the garage, in memoriam of this exciting event, and for future generations of storytelling. My husband, of course, does not approve of this.

And, as soon as I can figure out how to upload the fabulous pictures, I'll post those, too.

The second child

2009-06-02T08:39:00.000-07:00

My #2 child is, without a doubt, the clown of the family. She is always saying something embarrassing or inappropriate or just downright hysterical. I recently e-mailed her something, saying that I can't believe she's almost 12 years old now, commenting that I must be getting old. She replied back to me, "No, mom, you're not old. You just have a bit of extra skin....that folds." This is the same child who informed me one time, when I was lamenting the excessive weight I had recently gained, "Mom, you're not fat; you just haven't lost your winter blubber yet." I'm so thankful my self-esteem isn't based on her opinion of my appearance.

#2 doesn't mean to make degrading comments; she just can't seem to stop her mouth from spewing forth any thought that enters her head. A good friend of ours was at our house a while back, and #2 made some comment that wasn't meant to be offensive, but it certainly came across that way. This good friend, who seems to have great patience and understanding for #2, carefully explained why it's important that each of us has a gatekeeper in our minds that we listen to before we speak. She explained that this gatekeeper helps us to consider what we're saying, so we don't say things that may be hurtful or embarrassing to others. After listening intently to this explanation, #2 proceeded to ask if her gatekeeper could wear a bikini and high heels and have long curly red hair and wear sunglasses.

Consequently, #2's gatekeeper is really hot looking, but not very good at her job.

We love #2 and wouldn't change her for anything in the world.

The engineer and his wife

2009-05-08T11:39:00.000-07:00

So, last night I made French Toast for dinner. I asked my daughter to grab a can of frozen concentrated orange juice out of the freezer, and gave her instructions on how to thaw it out in the microwave.

About the time she was finishing up, my husband, henceforth referred to as "the engineer," got home from work. My daughter opened up the door to the microwave, and the engineer noticed some orange juice puddled in it, a typical result of the orange juice thawing process. In a bit of a sharp voice, the engineer questioned his daughter, "How long did you put this thing in for?"

Before she could reply, I immediately came to her defense, and spoke up. "She was just following my instructions, dear," I informed him, my dander slightly up. What did he care, I thought to myself? I'm the one who will clean up the mess anyways, right?

His tone softened, and he asked again, "How do you thaw it out? Because, I always thaw it out for two and half minutes on power six, and it never spills."

Well, goody for you, I thought caustically. But, instead, I responded in a defensive manner, "Well, I thaw it out for three minutes at power seven, and I have a paper towel under it so when it spills, it's easy for me to clean it up!" There; take that, I thought triumphantly. There's more than one way to skin a cat, or defrost the orange juice, as the case may be. (Okay, in all honesty, I never actually considered using the microwave on a lower power to defrost the OJ; I am a blonde, after all.)

At this point, he burst out into ridiculous laughter, which went on for far longer than the incident warranted. How rude! I don't understand why my way of doing things is so funny to the engineer; just because my way is a bit messy, I do make provisions for this little inconsequential result, after all. Sheesh! If a procedure is more logical, does that then automatically mean it's the better way to do it? In his defense, the engineer comes from a long line of people who don't hesitate to point out, 'You're doing it wrong,' so he does come by the "proclivity-for-seeking-maximum-efficiency-in-all-things" naturally, poor thing.

Okay, readers of this anectdote, I welcome your input here. Which person needs more therapy: the engineer or his wife?

'Twas the day after Christmas....

2008-12-26T15:01:00.000-08:00

'Twas the day after Christmas, and I stretched in my bed;
I considered getting up, but rolled over instead.

See, I ate so much for dinner last night, I felt like I'd probably hurl;
I went to bed feeling sick in my guts. The contents of my stomach did swirl.

Then, somewhere in the house, there arose such a clatter;
I propped up on one elbow, trying to hear what was the matter.

From the noise I could tell there were two kids awake.
They were fighting quite loudly; I could feel the walls shake.

I took a deep breath, counting backwards from ten;
Before I settled things my way: by choking both of them.

I rolled slowly out of bed, and put on my pajama pants
And wished, for once in their lives, my kids could just give peace a chance!

As I walked out of the bedroom to break up the fight,
I inhaled sharply, overwhelmed by the sight.

It looked as if the house, by a tornado, had been struck;
Or some vandals broke in, and had run all amuck.

There was wadded up wrapping paper everywhere, wall-to-wall;
Empty boxes and ribbons and bows filled the hall.

Candy wrappers were littered, strewn about on the floor.
A six foot pile of garbage seemed to block the garage door.

There were computer games and jewelry lying carelessly around;
Superhero figurines and naked Barbies all over the ground.

The carnage of Christmas left its mark everywhere;
My house was a pigsty, but the kids didn't care.

They were still busy yelling, about what? I don't know.
I was planning my escape, wondering where I could go.

My first stop, of course, was my Zoloft to take;
Swallowed it with some milk, chased by a big piece of cake.

"Mom, she ate my candy!" I did hear one complain.
"No I didn't, you liar!" was the other's refrain.

Then I heard a loud thud, and a child start to cry.
I ran quickly upstairs, so to ascertain why.

The child in question was found crying and scared,
Having tripped on her rollerblades in her descent down the stairs.

Giving comfort and kisses, I explained without heat,
Of the wisdom of walking down the stairs in bare feet.

As I caught just a whiff of the injured offspring,
I realized that neither she nor her siblings

Had taken a shower in who knows how long,
And needed some bathing; that smell was just wrong!

Then the nagging began, and the floodgates sprang wide:
"Mom, I need to exchange these; they're all the wrong size!"

"Can I please have someone over here to play with me?"
"You promised to take us to see High School Musical 3!"

"Mom, let's take down the decorations today!"
"Mom, make her leave me alone and go away!

If only they knew that, if I got to choose,
I'd go back to my bedroom, lock the door, take a snooze.

Good sleep is a luxury that avoids me at all costs;
Snoring hubby, kids with nightmares, bed wetters - all is lost.

I then encourage the kids to write notes of thank you;
It doesn't seem like that's too much to ask them to do.

They act as if I asked them to eat their own liver
Or gnaw off their right hand; so dramatic. Go figure!

And it goes this way here at Christmas, the day after,
So to keep me from crying, and perhaps create laughter

I write down this poem, thought it up in a snap,
To restore mild sanity amidst all this crap.

If I can survive this day, without maiming someone I know,
It will be a miracle in word and deed....Yeah, right....Ho Ho Ho.

Fixin' and Premature Aging

2008-11-04T18:52:00.000-08:00

Now, don't get me wrong, I love old people. They are some of the neatest people I know. I have every intention of being one myself some day. However, let me just put this out there: I'd like to think I'm not old yet.

But, I'm beginning to wonder. From my perspective, one of the tell tale signs that a person is getting older is when one's health and medication usage becomes the prevalent topic of discussion in most circles. No offense to the old people who might read this, but I haven't known a person in their 70's or 80's who isn't enraptured by what's happening to their bodies, and delights in delving into deep conversations about it. No doubt, I will understand that better myself some day.

For now, though, a thought occurred to me, and I realized I need some input from the outside world. As I was getting ready for bed tonight (my husband calls it "fixin'" - defined as the time in preparation spent before actually engaging in the announced activity one is about to participate - I do a lot of fixin' before I shower or get ready for bed, according to my husband) - as I was saying, as I was fixin' to go to bed tonight, I started to notice just how many ridiculous steps I take to prepare myself for the nighttime rest. And I wondered if this is a normal amount of fixin' compared to others or rather on the obsessive side of fixin'. I leave it to my readers to let me know.

Be warned at this point: I am about to go in to gross graphic detail, so if you have a weak stomach, you may want to consider ending your reading here.

I have asthma. I manage it by using preventative medicine via an inhaler called Advair. I take one puff at night, and one in the morning, every day. I have to do this before I brush my teeth, because the inhalant powder contains steroids; therefore, I have to rinse my mouth out after using it, so I always brush my teeth after I inhale.

Since I have a dentist appointment coming up, I feel compelled to floss my teeth daily to toughen my gums up enough so they don't bleed profusely when I go in to get my cleaning. I usually try to start doing this for about a month before I go in for my cleaning, which gives me enough time strengthen my gums, as well as answer honestly that, yes, indeed, I do floss my teeth daily, when the dentist asks me the inevitable question at our biannual meeting. I stop flossing immediately following my dental appointment, and pick it up again in approximately five months.

So, I inhale, floss, brush. I don't know about you, but I always go potty right before I go to bed. It usually prevents me from an embarrassing bedwetting incident in the middle of the night. Usually. Afterwards, I always wash my hands; I am quite fastidious about that. When my hands are dried, I always put lotion on them, rubbing extra on my elbows because they, too, seem to always be dried out. Know what I mean?

Then, I spray my toes with Tinactin. This is not something I do every night, but only during times when my feet begin to drive me crazy with itching from the athlete's foot I got in tenth grade, when I loaned my canvas sneakers to a fungus-laden ninth grader named Gina for volleyball practice one day. She returned my shoes after practice, leaving me with the gift of foot fungi, which I've had to deal with ever since. See what you get for being nice?!? Warning to others: do not let people borrow your shoes unless you've screened them for foot fungus beforehand. It's no fun.

If I happen to spray some of the fungicide on my hands, I have to wash my hands again. Lotion, again. Staying with the foot theme, my heels have been cracked and dry lately. So, I bought this stuff called Heel Rescue foot cream, and I rub a little bit of that in each night as well. I haven't noticed it helping yet, but I haven't given up on it.

As fate would have it, while my dad was in town last week, moving some of his stuff down here (he and my stepmom bought a house right around the corner from where I live and will be moving in soon); anyways, by day three after his arrival, a huge cold sore sprang up on my mouth. I'm not saying my dad's being here caused me to get one; I'm sure the stress of his coming was simply coincidental to the timing of the aformentioned lesion on my lips....well, anyway, that stupid little sucker hurts, and it won't seem to go away. So, I keep trying different things to make vanish. I took Lyseine (my stepmom swears by it - it does nothing for me), used Abreva (nada), put hydrogen peroxide on it to draw the infection out (I get lots of little tiny white bubbles, but that's it). Nothing works. It cracks and bleeds and hurts still. Tonight, after the rest of my ablutions, I decided to try Neosporin ointment; it's an antibiotic plus pain relief all in one. Plus, if it keeps the booboo moist, maybe it won't crack and bleed and keep hurting me, right? Yeah, we'll see how that one works out....

So, anyways, I apply my stick of Mentholatum Natural Ice to the remainder of my lips to keep them smooth and soft the whole night through. Then, finally, I think I'm ready for bed. No contacts to take out tonight, since I wore my glasses all day. I showered this evening and my face is all clean, so there's no need to wash that again.

By the time I'm finished doing all this crap, I'm exhausted! You would be too, right? Tell me, in your humble opinion, am I a neurotic pseudo-elderly-in-training freak, or do I seem perfectly normal to you? Do most people have crazy "fixin'" rituals, or is it just me? I suppose, since I've actually written all of this down, verbalizing in detail the gory nightly procedure, I've probably already sentenced myself to sitting alone in my Sunday school class next week. Who would want to sit by the asthmatic, faux-flossing, fungus-infested, lesion-laden person with dry skin? Not me, that's for sure. Ew!

Malfunctions: The inevitable things that happen when one's husband is out of town

2008-10-07T05:38:00.000-07:00

As I lay in bed last night, listening to the chirp of one of the smoke detectors in the house, signaling that its battery is low, I had to smile. It always happens this way; when the husband is away, everything goes astray. I started making a mental list of the things that seem to coincide with my husband's absence and decided I had to turn on the lamp and write it all down before I forgot.

1. As mentioned above, it never fails that the smoke alarms always need new batteries when the person who is six foot two is out of the state, leaving the person who is five foot one-half inch tall to remedy the situation. Even on the tallest stool, it is not an easy reach. Not to mention the fact that I inevitably set off the smoke alarm to full-blown siren level in the process of trying to detach it. And, naturally, the majority of those occurrences happen in the middle of the night, such as last night. Usually, I get up, swearing under my breath, and deal with it, since it's so annoying. Last night, I decided to shut my bedroom door and turn the fan up to jet engine noise level and ignore it, out of spite.

2. Math homework stops for no one. And, although I am a college graduate and by no means an idiot, my capacity to assist their children with their math homework ceased to exist by the time the kids moved from elementary to middle school. Geometry, the most hated of all math subjects of mine, is what my eighth grader is taking right now. I was in tenth grade when I took it, for crying out loud! Anyways, my daughter currently trapped in that horrible class doesn't even bother to ask me to look at her work anymore; she realizes it's a waste of both our time. Even the sixth grader yesterday was asking me for help; after I analyzed the question she was trying to answer, I decided it was just stupid and useless and confusing, and couldn't understand why she was being asked to do it. I informed her that she would never need to use this kind of crap for anything in her future. Then, we promptly called her dad on his cell phone for a long distance math tutorial. Problem solved.

3. Is it just me, or do children wait for their dad to disappear to become ill in the most messy ways? Is there some mathematical correlation that states that the volume of vomit and diarrhea produced by a child is inversely proportionate to the distance that child's father is from their home? (Hey, that sounded pretty brilliant; I wonder if I said it correctly.....)

4. Vehicular functionality decreases as well with the absence of one's husband; it is a truth according to the law of physics. Just ask my husband. Same thing applies to computer and television problems; it's as if the inanimate objects are just waiting for him to leave, knowing full well I don't have a bloody idea how to fix them!

5. It may just be my imagination, but the children seem to malfunction when dad is gone, too. Perhaps it is just that my level of tolerance decreases during the small-scale jaunts of single parenting, but I don't think so. I am convinced that there is more fighting among the little ones than normal. I am absolutely sure that there is more talking in general when dad is gone; it's like it never stops! And, everybody gets more touchy-feely; two nights ago, my second and third daughter both begged me before bedtime to let them sleep with me. I flatly refused, knowing I never slept well with kids in bed. Besides, I didn't want to set a bad precedence. To my dismay, the next morning when I awakened, which was around four, I had the firstborn and last born wedged on either side of me. I never went back to sleep; the oldest was complaining of some stomach pain mumbo jumbo, while the little one wielded his greatest weapon against me: his cuteness. "Mommy, I want to snuggle you." It gets me every time. I'm such a sucker.

I am sure the list goes on, but that's enough for now. My husband has learned that, with the now common usage of cell phones, you can go away, but you can't hide. Yes, he could ignore the multitude of calls he gets from his wife and/or offspring, but he has come to realize that that would be to his detriment as well as ours. As he has been quoted as saying before, you don't want to incur the wrath of the five foot one half inch blond.

So, husbands out there, the ones who travel frequently, if you ever wonder why, when you return home from your trip, anxious to be embraced into the bosom of your family, and your wife doesn't seem to respond properly to your amorous advances, it is because she is still mad at you for one or several of the above aforementioned items that, like it or not, you are indeed responsible for, and will now be held accountable. It would be in your best interest, upon returning home, to bring some really decadent chocolate.

Political update

2008-10-01T17:23:00.000-07:00

Today, my seven year old asked me an important question at the dinner table. Okay, let me back up a little bit.

At this point in my life, I would describe myself as apolitical, if that's a word. Back in high school, and especially in college, I used to love talking politics and getting into discussions with others. My second major at WSU was Political Science, and I really enjoyed learning about the way a government works, both within the US and throughout the world. I would say that, on the political spectrum, I was about as far left as they come, before 1993. That's when I joined my husband's politically-uber-opinionated family. I can't recall the exact events that led to my self-induced banishment from all things political, but I know it had something to do with the saturation of vehemently vocalized 'truths' wearing on me. With right-winged talk radio on loudly and all the time, and a brother-in-law (also a poly sci major, like myself) who liked to argue with me and enlighten me as to the errors of my liberal ways, it didn't take long for me to shut down. I looked at it as self-preservation.

Since then, I have more or less steered clear of campaign rhetoric as much as possible, which is no easy thing. I don't get into political discussions at all, if I can help it. But, now I have children who are learning about things at school and talking with their friends. I guess I can't hide forever, especially with a big election only a month away.

Now, back to my story. Today, my seven year old asked me an important question at the dinner table. She queried, "Mom, who are you voting for to be president? John McCain or the brown guy?"

Biting my lower lip and trying desperately not to laugh, I replied a little shakily to her, "You mean Barrack Obama."

The seven year old immediately shouted out, her voice filled with shock and outrage, "You're voting for the brown guy?!?!" I'm not sure where that reaction came from, but wow!

Before I could clarify for the seven year old, the four year old, having a burning desire to add his two cents into the conversation, chimed in right at that moment, "Bronco Bama, oh yeah!" in his best impersonation of a rapper.

I decided to remain silent, grieving that my husband wasn't here to truly appreciate this moment. If you couldn't deduce it from the children's responses, my husband is a conservative Republican and avid Denver Broncos fan. Apparently, so are my children.

A lesson learned: read the fine print

2008-08-21T03:36:00.000-07:00

As with most parents I suppose, there has been an endless list of "fine print" that I neglected to read before giving birth to my first child. One of the very telling lessons, that at the time unbeknownst to me, would be the beginning of a decades-long trend, happened shortly after bringing child number one home from the hospital.

My husband and I had recently moved back to the northwest, and were living a couple of hours away from all of our extended family. I had invited my dad and stepmom to come and spend Father's Day with us, and join us for dinner. However, with the surprise early arrival of bundle of joy numero uno, I wasn't exactly up to the task of hosting and food preparation. At that point, I was a bit of a mess; I looked like a freak, having burst a multitude of blood vessels in my head and chest in my attempts to bring forth that little miracle into the world, and as a result covered in little purple spots from mid-torso up. Add to that the delightful pain of healing taking place between my legs, the result of episiotomy stitches and hemorrhoids from pushing so damn hard to get the kid out. And then of course there was the phenomenon known as engorgement; my breasts, overflowing with milk, had swelled to five times their original size (which notedly isn't that impressive, but to me, it was truly amazing), and they were hard as rocks and hot as lava, and not just a little tender to the touch.

Wanting to spend time with their firstborn grandchild, my dad and stepmom came to see us anyways, and graciously brought all the food with them. I was so happy! They brought steak and baked potatoes, and they prepared everything. I was salivating with anticipation; I was going to get a delectable steak dinner, without having to lift a finger. The aroma of that blessed piece of meat still lingers in the annals of my mind today.

When dinner was finally served, the four of us adults sat down at the table to begin partaking of the feast. It was at that exact moment when my newborn decided to awaken, feeling the pangs of hunger herself. I felt what can only be described as panic. What was happening? She can't cry right now; it's dinnertime and I'm hungry. The food is hot and ready to eat, and so am I, damnit! This moment in time has remained vivid in my mind: it was the dawn of realization of the level of sacrifice having children was going to impose upon me. I can honestly say, I had no idea before then that anything would ever come between me and my dinner, and I was shocked and appalled. How come no one told me that I'd be giving up eating on my own terms when I had a baby? We're all hungry; we all need sustenance. In fact, nursing mothers are supposed to have additional calories while breastfeeding; I was certain I had read that somewhere. I remember looking at my husband, feeling disturbed and conveying silently and telepathically to him, "Make it stop crying right now! I need to eat!" Alas, I was having one of those experiences where you gain insight through trauma. I was the only lactating individual at the table, and hence the only one who could really take care of the mewling infant's needs.

I grudgingly got up from the table and sat on the couch in the family room, with my back to the happy steak eaters behind me, and began the exquisitely painful task of nursing. Anyone who has ever experienced engorgement and cracked and bleeding nipples does not need an explanation for what this feels like; for those who have not had the opportunity to feel this sensation, I'll just let you use your imagination. I sat on that couch, with my baby pressed to my bosom, tears sliding down my cheeks from the pain of it all, and listened to my husband and parents talk and enjoy the consumption of their HOT meal behind me, with such anger at the unfairness of it all. It was what can be described as an educational experience for me; the start of sacrificing grudgingly the things which I had taken for granted only days before; the beginning of my realization that my needs weren't quite as important as someone else's needs any more. It totally sucked! Apparently, I got over it, though; four kids and thirteen years later, and I still don't get to enjoy a hot meal any time I want it. Just one of the many little treasures I've learned; the fine print of parenthood that I neglected to read in advance.

Future parents, beware.

Ode to a husband

2008-08-20T07:22:00.000-07:00

A couple of months ago, my husband and I celebrated 15 years of marriage. In honor of this momentous occasion, we went to Sonic drive-in, and he ordered a milkshake while I ordered a strawberry limeade. That was our dinner. And we talked for about an hour or so in the car, and then went home. You see, at that particular moment, my beloved man was feeling especially stressed about spending money. Going out to an expensive dinner was not going to help the situation, in spite of the fact that it was our anniversary. Now, that being said, I must add here that we already celebrated our anniversary when we vacationed for ten days in the Caribbean in April, spending far more money than a nice dinner would have cost on our 'official' anniversary. But it really didn't matter, to either of us. We've become a little more in tune over the years with one another about what really matters, and it's acutally quite nice.

Here's my take on marriage. Marriage is hard. It takes a lot of commitment and work to be contented with it. It's not quite the fairytale you thought you signed up for. It can be stressful and ugly and smelly and uncomfortable sometimes. Most of the time, it is not romantic, exciting, thrilling and fulfilling beyond imagination. I'd like to think it's not just my marriage; if so, I think I'd prefer to remain ignorant of that fact.

To be fair, however, marriage (or my marriage, at least) has many distinct privileges/advantages/blessings - whatever you want to name them - that couldn't be enjoyed in any other way. There is something very satisfying about being able to trust another person with your most secret things (such as what your breath smells like in morning or the fact that you still occasionally wet the bed) and know that they love you no matter what. What a joy it is to never have to worry about helping my daughter with her algebra (since I am incapble of doing so) because her dad can. It is a comfort to know that I never have to change the oil in my car if I don't want to. And, for some bizarre and unexplainable reason, it amazes me that, no matter how I look, feel, smell, etc., my dear husband still desires me and finds me attractive (that's the big baffling one to me). It is a feeling of bone deep knowledge, marriage for me, that someone loves me enough to go to work every day and earn money to pay for a roof over my head, feed and cloth myself and our offspring, unplug the toilet when needed, and never comment on the condition of the homefront when I've been reading a novel all day, completely ignoring children and household to partake of a delightful little escape.

And so, it is with many words that I present to you a list of reasons why I love my dearest man. Hence the title, Ode to a husband.

1. He never smells bad. Even when he's sweaty and unshowered. Never - not his feet or his armpits or anything. It seems a bit unfair that I stink enough for the both of us, but there it is. My husband always smells delicious.

2. He's quite tall. I can't explain the feeling of being so miniature all my life, and to have married someone who towers 13 inches over me. When he hugs me, it's like he's the bread and I'm the pb&j squished inside, and I love it. I like feeling small next to him. Weird, huh?

3. He's hairy. Okay, I know this really bothers some people. But I've got to be honest: when I see a man's chest without hair on it, I think to myself that he's either: A. pre-pubescent; B. shaves or waxes away his chest hair for assorted reasons, none of which make any sense to me or appeal to me on any level; or C. he's potentially not really a man. Let's face it: people have hair. And, while chest, armpit, and facial hair aren't extraordinarily attractive on the female body (at least in my opinion), they seem quite in place on the male body. I like my husband's hairy chest. I like resting my cheek against it. It's soft and fuzzy and male and I like it.

4. He's kinda nerdy. He's a computer science graduate, for crying out loud! He speaks strange, unknown technical languages and can fix computer glitches in a single bound. He has strange hobbies, such as golfing and watching CSI. He's the most meticulous financial record keeper in the known history of mankind. He abhors paperwork and wants all things in life to be digital and wireless, or something like that. He remembers every football stat having to do with John Elway. His favorite store to go shopping with me on a Friday night is Fry's Electronics. He can tell you the date, time, location, inning, and weather conditions of every home run he ever hit. He's a quirky little sucker, and it's endearing. Something about the way he looks when he's playing with his Blackberry or IMing four people at the same time, it just gets me every time (sniff).

5. He loves his kids. Why this is so wonderful to me, I am not sure. But, I take great delight in watching this very large man wrestle, tickle, tease, hug, kiss, cuddle, and in all other ways lovingly care for his children. It always puts a smile on my face and makes my chest feel all warm inside when I witness him giving his attention and affection to one of our brood.

6. He's still pretty damn nice on the eyes. Sometimes, I'll look at him, with his nice suit and tie on at church, and feel the compulsion to text him with some naughty remark and waggle my eyebrows at him. He's always had a beautiful smile, a sweet backside, and legs that would look quite fetching in a kilt, I think. He's still got it.

7. He cares about people. I mean really, deep down feels compassion and empathy for people. He loves and honors his parents, and always has. He respects and enjoys the people he works with, and is uplifted from the associations he's made. He has an honest concern for the welfare of those within his sphere of influence. He believes the best in people. He likes being around others. It's a wonderful complement to his cynical, moderately loner-ish partner-in-life. I have seen firsthand, countless times, how affected he can become by others sufferings, and I think it's a great and wonderful gift he has.

8. He's smartalented. This one, I'll admit, tends to get my dander up from time to time, but it is true nonetheless. He knows things. He's able to do things. And, if there is something he doesn't know or cannot do, he generally will do what he needs to remedy that situation. He likes to be good at what he does, and he does what it takes to make it so. Sometimes I wish I cared that much, but usually it seems too exhausting an undertaking, and I'd rather not put forth the effort. But, I do admire that about him. Usually. Unless, of course, it's learning to beat me at pool or darts or something like that; then it kinda pisses me off. Otherwise, it's pretty cool.

And so, ladies and gentlemen, raise your glass with me, and toast a guy who rocks my socks off. Ooolahlah!

Great praise, coming from a four year old....

2008-06-16T06:40:00.000-07:00

My little one, who is four, had his best buddy from preschool over here to play recently. While I was in my bathroom, putting my make-up on, the two little boys marched in to speak with me, with what was obviously a serious matter to discuss. The little friend, in hushed tones, said to me, "Um, Miss Shannon, um, I have to go potty."

I replied that he was welcome to use my bathroom, or that my son could show him where the other downstairs bathroom was.

He then continued quietly, shuffling his feet from one side to the other, twisting his hands nervously, "Um, Miss Shannon?"

"Yes?" I replied, patiently, turning my attention more fully to him now.

"Um, Miss Shannon, I have to go poo poo and potty," he informed me cautiously.

Trying to hide my smirk (and thinking to myself that my preferred response at that moment would have been, 'Thank you for that information'), I calmly responded by smiling encouragingly at the anxious little redhead, saying, "Alright, sweetie. If you need help, just let me know."

Feet still shuffling (I realized now this was his version of what is referred to in our house as 'doing the potty dance'), he then said, "Yeah, 'cause, Miss Shannon, I, um, I'm not very good at wiping myself."

I grinned openly now, trying to reassure the poor little guy it was all going to be okay. I told him, "That's okay. You just let me know when you're finished, and I'll come help you if you need it."

Obviously receiving the validation he needed, he nodded his head, and murmured something under his breath, and turned to leave the bathroom with my son, apparently choosing to do his 'business' in the other bathroom. I turned back to the mirror, continuing the process of putting my face on for the day, and heard my son saying very seriously to his little friend as they walked away, "It's okay; my mom is REALLY good at wiping butts."

Had I been drinking a soda at the moment, I have no doubt it would have exploded out of nose. Kids crack me up....and yes, the pun was intended.

The maximum legal limit of Zoloft: Why anti-anxiety medication is a good thing for some of us

2008-06-09T03:39:00.001-07:00

If my husband had never brought me kicking and screaming (figuratively speaking, luckily for him) to Texas almost seven years ago, I would have never discovered the delight which is Zoloft.

We moved into our new home on my 30th birthday, and I mark that day as the beginning of a very dark and dreadful year in my life. (As a side note, my dear husband, being the man that he is, couldn't begin to understand why I wasn't perfectly appeased with receiving a brand new home for my birthday - but I will save the differences between men and women for another time.)

To make a long story somewhat short, through the support of a few dear friends, the persistance of my mother, and the desperation of the aforementioned husband, after several months of abject depression, I allowed myself the privilege of seeing a therapist and began my foray into the experimentation of legal drugs.

Fast forward a month or so, I find myself one afternoon in need of a trip to the grocery store. Now, let me set this up for you properly so you can fully appreciate the scenario. My oldest child was in first grade at the time, and attended a school where there was no bussing. Hence, I had to pick her up in the most-hated car rider line each afternoon at 2:45, bringing the four-year old and the one-year old along. Often, this required waking one or both of the younger children from their naps, which is one of the last things on earth I ever want to do.

Now, back to the grocery store. I packed up the two little ones, strapped them in their car seats, and motored off to the market. (By the way, please know that I abhor taking my children to any store with me; this must have been a time of desperate need if I was going to get groceries in the middle of the day.) After parking the minivan, I fetched both children from their car seats, walked into the grocery store, carrying the one-year old on my hip, and holding the hand of the non-stop chatty four-year old, selected one of those ginormous shopping carts that you can buckle two children into at once, and bravely entered the store.

Upon entering, I dug in my purse to pull out my shopping list. Please understand, I must have my list when I shop. I am not the sort of person who can just peruse the aisles and remember everything I need. I have limited space in my brain for things that aren't crucial in my life, and so must write down most mundane things if I am to successfully remember them. This includes items necessary to feed and care for my famlily. Without a list, I inevitably forget several crucial things, and horrifyingly have to return to the store again to fetch them later. Perhaps I should mention here also that I hate shopping; not just grocery shopping, but all shopping. I find no joy in this, what seems to many females, blessed event.

Returning to my story, I dig in my purse, without success, searching frantically for my all-important list, and come up empty. Damnit; I left the bloody thing at home on the kitchen counter. After taking a deep breath to compose myself, I turn around the mammoth grocery cart and return to where my minivan is parked, remove my duo of daughters from the cart and securely buckle them back in their car seats, push the vahoometh cart to a non-threatening nearby area, and get back in the vehicle, starting it up, buckling myself in, and proceed to head back to my house to obtain the stinkin' grocery list I forget to put in my purse.

Approximately thirteen minutes later, and, I might add, with a minimum amount of grumbling and swearing under my breath, I am back in a parking stall at the grocery store. Removing the children once again from the safety of their carseats, I happily discover the oversized cart right where I had left it before, and secured the offspring once again into the monstrosity. I pushed the cart back into the store, ready to really begin the task at hand. I reached into my purse again, and gasped. No, this can't be happening. Shaking my head in disbelief, I realize I have left the all-important grocery list back out in the minivan. Heavy sigh. Major eye-rolling.

Once again, I turn the cart (that should be proceeded by a sign with flashing lights that reads "Caution: Wide Load") around and go back out to the parking lot. I glance at my watch, and realize it is getting closer and closer to the time when I must get myself to the school to pick up my first grader. In a rush, I speed to where my vehicle is parked, unlock it, peek inside, and find the culprit list lying on the floor next to the driver's seat, right where I left it. I snatched it up, slammed the door shut, and clutching the list in my teeth, pushed the big cart back into the grocery store for one more go at it.

The automatic doors slide open, leading me directly to the produce section. Giving my cart a push, I quickly remove my list from my mouth to see what kinds of fruits and vegetables I need. (I know some of you reading this are probably coughing, and thinking to yourself, "Yeah, right, like you buy vegetables;" my snitty response to that thought is yes, by golly, sometimes I do indeed purchase green leafy things! So there! I am sticking my tongue out at you).

Remember me mentioning the size of the grocery cart? This is the point in which that becomes significant. I am not very good at judging distances, particularly when it comes driving my vehicle over curbs; my husband would be happy to attest to the turth of this statement. Apparently, this anti-talent extends to large grocery shopping carts as well. Without any concious effort, I somehow managed to push my empty cart (empty except for my children, that is) directly into the free-standing table display with grapes covering it. It must have had quite an impact, because I managed to send what appeared to be several hundred pounds of little green and red grapes rolling across the length of the floor of the produce section at warp speed.

I was frozen, just staring at the fruit-in-motion, which had the appearance of moving in a slower than normal fashion, as all unpleasant things do. My mind couldn't believe what my eyes were watching. What the freak?!?!

I took a deep breath, flushing furiously, and moved around the front of the cart to begin picking up the errant little green and red orbs. I am sure there were people around me, either laughing or stifling laughter, but I didn't notice. I was too embarrassed and frustrated to care. Out of nowhere, no fewer than three employees in the produce section magically appeared, who immediately began to clean up the mess I made and comfort me. There were no dirty looks, only smiles (but I heard their thoughts, distinctly chirping "cuckoo") as one of them patronizingly patted my shoulder and told me I didn't need to help with the clean up.

I apologized profusely and immediately turned my cart around and left the store; there had definitely been enough carnage for one day. And, besides, it was almost time to pick up the six-year old from school. In a somewhat numb state of mind, I managed to get the two little ones out of the cart and safely buckled back into their car seat, miraculously without injury. I turned the van on, buckled myself, and immediately flipped my cell phone open and called my husband. Not trusting myself at this point to be able to drive and talk on the phone simultaneously with any degree of safetly, I stayed unmoving in the parking stall, and recounted the entire story on the phone, not needing to add any drama to make it more interesting to the listener.

When I finished, my husband was quiet for the briefest moment, then said, "Honey, I think the Zoloft must be working, because you're not crying." It struck me, like lightening, that he was right! This sort of episode, had it happened a couple of months back, no doubt would have sent me into either a crying or raging fit, from either of which the spouse would have to absorb the fallout. But, I was actually laughing about the encounter, and it surprised me indeed.

It is from this experience that I have gained a testimony, if you will, of the great good that prescription anti-anxiety medication can do in one's life. I have since offered myself willingly to be the poster child for Zoloft. I recommend it to all my friends who do not consume alcohol to soothe their anxieties. Legal drugs, bless them, have become quite dear to me. My husband, children, and I are all recipients of the delightful consequences of them in my life. Yay Zoloft!!!

Seven random and weird facts about me....

2008-05-29T11:15:00.000-07:00

Okay, this is for my friend, Karla, who told me I have been "tagged" (whatever that means) and had to list the stuff mentioned above. Here it goes.

1. I swallowed a thumbtack when I was nine years old. It lodged itself in my food pipe; hence I am still alive today. While in the hospital, awaiting for whatever it was the doctors were going to do to get the thing out, another girl was brought into my room. By an odd coincidence, this teenager had also swallowed a thumbtack. Her reason for having the tack in her mouth? She was putting up posters in her room, keeping the tacks in her mouth so she could use both hands. I thought my reasoning was far superior. I was checking to see if the tack would be drawn to and stick to the magnet that was also in my mouth. It didn't, by the way. Eventually, when the doctors had time to see me, the put me under with anesthesia, strapped me on a board and turned me upside down, pulled my tongue way out of my mouth, and it rolled right out. Cool, huh? My dad didn't think it was very cool at the time, but I think he's gotten over it....

2. I think shaving your feet and toes is just bizarre.

3. I have to use nitrous oxide at the dentist, just to get my teeth cleaned. Otherwise, it turns into a full blown panic attack.

4. I am shorter than most fourth grade girls.

5. I have never ever dyed, lightened, or colored my hair.

6. I am a college graduate, mother of four, and I still have no idea what I want to do with my life.

7. I have never had any part of my body waxed, and plan to keep it that way, thank you very much.

Are those weird and random enough, Karla?

Dinnertime: If it's such an important time of the day for the family, why do I dislike it so much?

2008-05-27T12:11:00.001-07:00

Dinner. That six-letter word that plagues me on a daily basis; the time of day when, in theory, you gather 'round the dining room table with your family over a lovely meal and discuss the day's events, purportedly bonding in a mystical way that cements the ties a close-knit, non-dysfunctional family ought to.

In my opinion, this is one of the biggest bunches of baloney I've ever heard. Or, perhaps I just haven't figured out how to properly enjoy this wholesome family time. Pray, let me explain just why this is.

For starters, and I do not believe I am alone in this when I say, I strongly dislike, very nearly loathe, having to decide what on earth I am going to feed the hungry ones each night. My sweet husband, always trying to support me with his fine ideas (yes, you did correctly detect a tiny bit of sarcasm in the previous phrase), has suggested on a number of occasions how I might consider putting all of my meal ideas into some sort of computer program that would essentially tell me what I should cook each night. I strongly resist this for a number of reasons. First of all, this is the way he would do it, and I'll be damned if I'll do it the same way. (That's gratitude for you, isn't it?) Secondly, something inside my being is strangely uncomfortable with involving a computer in this situation at all. It's just wrong, alright? And, third, there is such a small number of things that my children will cheerfully eat, I fear the results would be depressing.

And so, we move on to the children. The little rats are so picky; I know most mothers out there have at least one child like this, and so they understand. Whenever I dare to try something new, I can just about guarantee at least 50% of said children are going to despise the creation. Oh the joy. I think there may only be about five meals I make that all four of my offspring actually like, so cooking to please the masses is an impossibility.

My oldest child (who also happens to be my laziest child; go figure) just the other day made a whopper of a statement that angered me to a new level of pissedoffedness. She asked me what was for dinner, and when I told her, she sighed, commenting under her breath, "Oh; not that again."

Just for the record, I can guarantee that she will never, not ever, utter those unholy words again.

Moving right along, once the boring, unwanted food is prepared and set at the table for consumption, I announce in my June Cleaver voice, "Dinner's ready" to all who reside here. This usually illicits what I'll call the anti-response; rarely anything happens, unless of course they are starving and anxiously awaiting the glorious event. Usually, they have to be told a multitude of times to go and wash their hands and come to the table. Next comes the comments about what's being served, which are varied and many. Following that, my husband will ask someone to offer a blessing upon the victuals we are about to consume; never a bad idea when it's something I've prepared, in my opinion. One of two things happens. Either the offspring asked to say the prayer will complain about having to do so, or an argument will ensue with one or several more of the offspring, ranging from, "But I wanted to say the prayer" or "But she got to say it last night" or "I only want seven green beans, because I'm seven" or "Mommy, I don't like this; can I please have chicken nuggets" or "Stop touching me" or assorted other things. (I sincerely hope at this point, mothers are out there reading this, nodding their collective heads, recognizing this scenario from their own lives. I've convinced myself it's not just me and my family; please do not inform me if your truth is contrary to mine.)

When finally the arguments cease, the blessing is offered. If the youngest of our brood is saying the prayer, it's always interesting to hear what is spoken. Sometimes we hear about knights and princes, sometimes a plea is made that no one be allowed to die, and rarely is there ever any mention of food. If the oldest says the blessing, we know in advance what will be said; it is the exact same prayer she says every time she's asked to do it. Creativity and variety are not her forte when offering prayers. At the close of the prayer, there is occasionally a comment made about "She didn't close her eyes" followed by a rebuttal of "How do you know" and a minor scuttle ensues. Finally, it is time to eat.

There is a frantic rush to be the first one to eat. Thankfully, we have arrived at that blessed place where our two oldest can completely fend for themselves. So, we have only to prepare plates for the two younger ones. A steady stream of talking continues, one person interrupting another, with no pause for chewing and swallowing; it all happens simultaneously. In vain, my husband and I attempt to talk about the day. It is pointless, since the kids become exceedingly interested in their father's business at that very time, and ask an unending laundry list of questions that they really don't have the patience to listen and hear the answers to. It is the continuous interruptions and ever-escalating volume level that drive me to near insanity each night at this time.

And so we come full circle. This nightly ritual, being the norm in my home at least, leaves me wondering why I keep hearing that having family dinner together each night is such an important event. It drives me insane. I ask you: How can that be good for the family?

Remind me again: Why do I have four kids?

2008-05-19T13:34:00.000-07:00

There’s a reason why I don’t like to play with children. Truth be told, there are a multitude of reasons I don’t like playing with children. My children or anybody else’s children; I don’t discriminate. It’s simply the fact that to play with children, from my perspective, inevitably ends up turning into a chore, and an un-fun one at that. Here’s today’s example.

My three older girls were all gone doing things with different friends after school. So, per my four year old son’s request, I invited a little friend over to play with him for an hour and a half while his sisters are gone. I figured, heck, maybe I can get some reading or writing done for the tiny bit of time they’re playing before I have to put back on my mom cap and take care of everyone else’s needs.

I find that I habitually delude myself into thinking, if my kids have friends here to entertain them, then I can focus on other things easier. Ha. That is such a falsehood.

I picked up said little friend to come over to play with my boy, and we drove the minivan home. They wanted to play a game out in the culdesac that they have apparently played before, involving driving battery-operated cars and riding bikes, ramming into one another in some battle-like fashion. I tried to dissuade them from playing out front, because that means I need to be out front to supervise, since none of the older siblings are present to chaperone. I’m not yet comfortable leaving the four year old alone outside, even with his six year old friend accompanying him. Call me crazy…..

Anywho, of course the battery in the Barbie jeep is dead. No one but me ever thinks to take it out and recharge it when it’s dead; hence, frustration ensues all around. So, with no automated driving machine available, they’re only choice was to resort solely to using the bikes. The little friend had to use an old pink bike which was not to his liking; when he verbalized his complaint about the femininity of his mode of transportation, I politely informed him that was his only choice if he wanted to ride (and thought loudly in my head, quit your whining!) My four year old has a very cool little dirt bike with training wheels that he got for his birthday that we pulled out of the garage with some difficulty; if you could see our garage, you would understand why. It’s a minor disaster zone, as (I have convinced myself) are most people’s garages (right?). The bike, of course, has a flat front tire. Crap.

This means, due the lacking presence of the person who should perform this function (i.e., my husband), I have to use our new fangled air compressor pump thingie that I’ve never touched before. The upside was that I located the monstrosity right away, in and of itself a miracle in our garage. The downside, however, was that the frickin’ thing weighed like ten bajillion pounds. Using all the strength acquired from doing my yogalates workout for the last three days, I managed to lift it up and carry it from the garage to my front porch, where an electrical outlet is located. Scooting the cell phone, home phone, Ipod and earphones, laptop and adapter out of the way (which I had carried all outside, ridiculously thinking I would be able to do something with my electronic devices while the children played), I managed to get the aforementioned monstrosity plugged in. Next was attempting to figure out how the stupid thing works.

Now, I have used a hand pump before, to pump up balls or bike tires. I’ve never had any trouble, to speak of, in the usage of these. They’re pretty straightforward, right? Okay, this big fat thing on the porch had NO directions on it, other than the lovely warning label on the back which read “Read all instructions before operating this machinery,” or something similarly useless. Great. Oh well; I can figure this out, I told myself. I graduated Phi Beta Kappa in college; surely that’s good for something, right? I managed to find out where the cord dealybopper was tucked away, and actually got it hooked up in what seemed to be an appropriate manner. Now what?

My son’s little friend quietly suggested, “How ‘bout you flip that little switch on right there?” Right; the on/off switch. Check. Friggin’ smart aleck six year old. After turning some magical dial up, we finally had a sound that resembled an obnoxiously loud vacuum cleaner, and I assumed that was good. Now, I had to find a way to connect the skinny hose thingiemajig to the bike valve stem-mabobber and put air in the tire. After attempting to mate these two things multiple times, I finally consummated their relationship, and recognized immediately the fruit of my labors: the tire was swelling like a pregnant belly. Yay for me!!!!

After what seemed like a suitable length of time and firmness of tire pressure, I removed the air hose dealthing and quickly tried to screw the cap back on the valve to close it off, but to no avail. For whatever reason, I could not seem to get that damn thing screwed back. I had to repeat the process of intercourse multiple times, as the pregnant tire deflated immediately when I couldn’t get the cap screwed on tight enough. After about five attempts, I finally succeeded in my efforts.

As a reward for all my hard work, my son was no longer interested in riding his big boy bike, and pulled his tricycle out of the garage, deciding he’d rather ride that instead. Right. Okay. Fine. Don’t mind me; I’m only sweating buckets here, since the humidity is like 673% outside. Deep breaths; remain calm. I will not throw a fit in anger, no matter how badly I want to right now.

I unplug the air compressor, wind up the cord, figure out how to detach the hose thingie, roll it back up and stuff it in the little cubby it came from, and strain my groin muscles to lift it back up and carry it to the garage, putting it back where I found it. Setting it down on the cement floor, I realized for the first time that there were wheels on the bottom of it, and an extendable handle on top. Son of a……. Deep breaths, again.

I came back to the front porch, bringing with me a folding camp chair, and carefully opened it and put it in the shade. As I sat down, reaching to pick up my laptop, my son’s little buddy rode the pink Barbie bike up to me (we have lots of girl things around, much to the dismay of my sons little friends). He boldly informed me that the front tire of his bike was flat. I just stared at him, with a look on my face that was something like, “You have got to be kidding me.”

Feeling more than a little bit perturbed, I hoisted my butt up off the camp chair and traipsed back to the garage, sighing. At least I knew what I was doing this time, and I didn’t have to carry it. I pulled out the extendable handle on the air compressor and pulled it part way out of the garage, before realizing that there was no way in H-E double hockey sticks it was going fit between the tiny space left between the garage door and the rear end of my minivan. Clearly, I was going to need to do more yogalates, lugging the big thing up again and giving myself a small hernia in the process.

After finishing the second bike, feeling exultant and pissed off simultaneously, I put things away again. On my way back out to my chair, finally done with ‘helping’ the kids, I was then promptly told from the two miscreants that they were done playing outside, and decided they were going inside. I grinned; why am I not surprised? The kids ran in the front door, while I patiently put my camp chair back away, then gathered up my cell phone, my Ipod and earphones, the house phone, my laptop and adapter, and drug everything back in the house. I plopped down on the floor of the living room, dropped everything gently, and wiped the sweat off my face with my shirtsleeve.

And, I ask myself again, why do I have four children? And why do I invite their friends over to play? And why, for the love of Pete, have I made a promise to never drink an alcoholic beverage again? What is wrong with me?

The beginning....

2008-05-19T13:31:00.000-07:00

I think, perhaps, if I give the voices in my head an outlet, then I won't feel like I'm going insane. On the other hand, this exercise may result in written confirmation that I am, indeed, certifiably nutters. Oh well. Either way, I can't seem to get the voices to shut up, so I guess I'll give them an opportunity to speak in a manner that isn't too terribly destructive or harmful to myself and my offspring. They are, after all, the people to blame for the voices inside my head (my children, I mean). It's amazing, when you think about it; not only are they annoying loud on the outside, but they tend to produce a resonating noise inside my head that reveberates for varying periods of time, even after they've stopped making external noise. I wonder why....

Anyways, I suppose writing about my frustrated comical experiences is better than experimenting heavily with illegal substances myself or causing bodily harm to said offspring, which, I admit, I have been tempted to do (both) when I find myself in particularly strained moments.

There is one undetermined factor in this. I have yet to decide whether or not I want to share some or all of this babbling with others. Considering it right now it feels very much like I do when I'm having a nightmare; the one where I'm either partially or completely naked in public, usually back in high school again, and can't seem to hide it. What will people think? And, more importantly, how much do I care about what others' opinions are of my writing? I know my mom will love it; she's been encouraging me to write forever now. Besides, she's my mom; by default, she is required by to be my number one fan. And, my husband will be supportive. He supports anything the causes his wife to feel more stable and sane; a wisdom acquired from 15 years of marriage to someone always on the verge of something nearing psychosis. Oh well. I guess no one else will be compelled to read my musings. I have to confess that thinking about writing all of these things down has sparked a little something inside of me that has felt dead for too many years. It's something that has been stuffed deep down inside of me, tucked away, ignored, drowned out by the demands of life. That little something, I think, is me. And, I think I am finally ready to let that little individual (that used to belong to solely to myself, but has long since signed up to belong to a multitude of others) speak up. Watch out world! The voices inside my head have now officially been loosed. You have been warned.