Nails

I have an entire drawer in my house brimming full of nail polish, cotton balls, polish remover, and files. This drawer gets used almost daily. Makenna has actually become quite a master at creating those tiny works of art worn to enhance the manicure. Emery is quickly perfecting the art and spends days performing each step so the end result is perfect.

Then, I happened to glance at Drake's thumb nail.  A deep gouge crossed it, and my stomach churned as  I envisioned what may have been the cause.  I thought that he might have bent it backwards.  Or he might have gotten it caught in one of the machines they use in his tech ed class at school or smashed it in a window.  I was sure it had to have hurt badly, and was surprised that he hadn't told me about it.

"Drake," I asked, dreading the answer, "what happened to your thumb nail?"
"What?" he looked at me blankly.
"Your thumb nail!" I gingerly grabbed his hand and winced at the gouge. "What happened?"
"Oh, that," he smiled. "A while ago I used a knife to saw a line across it, and I have been measuring it everyday to see how fast it grows."

Horrifying or brilliant? Still deciding.

Terrifying Traffic

Driving alongside semi trucks is a bit intimidating. I learned, today, that driving alongside semi trucks in a double turn lane is like asking for death.

Thankfully, my husband was driving. I react.

First of all, double turn lanes freak me out. There are cars beside you and cars coming toward you as you try to perfectly navigate the geometrical challenge. It is terrifying. In our case, though, there were semi trucks next to us and semi trucks coming at us as we attempted to defy death. The truck next to us needed much more room than his lane allowed, so he decided to find that extra space in the lane we happened to be in. He just came right on over smashing us into whatever they call that wide curb in the middle of the road that separates traffic moving in opposite directions.

I did what anyone would have done. I grabbed a fist full of skin from my husband's bicep and screamed, "THIS IS ALARMING!" I blame the next part on the adreneline coursing from my hair follicles to my toenails. I laughed. And I mean I belly laughed. I laughed so hard I couldn't speak and I could barely breathe.

"That huge semi is only mildly frightening compared to your scary reactions," my husband said.

That made me feel powerful.

Thank You, President Bush

I have recently come to grips with the fact that I no longer own my bathrooms. Yes, bathrooms. I have plural. I own neither. And it is all on account of the fact that I have girls.

In my opinion the bathroom, being the smallest room in the house, isn't the logical choice for a lengthy stay. But, I stand corrected. My girls go into the bathroom and conquer it. They use it for showers and make up, which is fairly expected. But then they branch out into new areas of bathroom activity. They blast music from their iPods and write song lyrics on the mirror with markers. They lay across the counter with their head dangling above a sink filled with steamy water for a self administered "Facial." They sing like they are rock stars. Sometimes both at the same time - different songs, different bathrooms. During those episodes, the rest of us are subjected to a conflicting concert nobody should have to endure.

Just to balance things out, though, I have a couple of boys. They live according to a strict code in which the bathroom serves only one purpose - bragging. Since I am the kind of person who finds the bragging disgusting instead of  impressive, they whisper their brags to each other. One will go in, come out later, run to his brother, and whisper something. Then they both go running back in, erupt in violent laughter, flush, and return to us looking highly pleased.

Don't ask, don't tell.

Fuzzy Socks

I love fuzzy socks and I don't care who knows. They make my feet happy. They feel warm and glorious, and they come in so many cute colors. I am addicted.

I know that I am addicted to them because I look forward to wearing them with a level of anticipation that cannot be healthy. I might be shopping and enduring the massive crowd's endless pushing, I MEAN CHRISTMAS CHEER, and I will say to myself, "When I get home I will put on my fuzzy socks and then everything will be better."

So, when I got dressed for church on Sunday, I was sad. It was cold, rainy, and cold. And it was cold. Cold. COLD. I am not speaking to the cold because I hate the cold. But I love church, so I decided to look as presentable as possible and brave the cold. I have a very cute pair of boots that I chose to wear that morning, and, as I grabbed them, I was struck with brilliance.

SINCE NOBODY WILL SEE, WEAR THE FUZZY SOCKS INSIDE OF THE BOOTS!!

I did. I walked around church like my feet were surrounded by clouds. I looked church appropriate AND I was warm and comfy.

I love it when that happens.

Games

My family isn't prone to acting and other such demonstrations of artistic creativity. Therefore, games such as Pictionary and Charades, while a fun challenge to most, leave us confounded. We played Pictionary last week and the only reason anybody made it off of the first square at all is because my two boys were on a team together, and they are linked at the mind in some unnatural way. Drake drew a circle and Josiah immediately said, "Campfire!" Then Josiah drew a dot, and, while the rest of us were still setting the pencil to the paper, Drake cried out, "Spider!" We all gave them the stink-eye, but they won without any real contest.

Next game night we decided on charades. The boys are terrible actors, so the other four members of the family were giddy about this opportunity to avenge themselves. Emery had her cousin, Brooklyn, spending the night, so we put them in charge of organizing the game. They got the kind of excited only ten and eleven year old girls can generate, and spent the next hour cutting paper into squares, giggling, writing on the squares, and giggling more. That should have been a sign.

I first knew that this game was far beyond my acting ability when I drew my paper out of the hat and read, "Meeting a person for the first time who is mean." Half an hour later, with sweat running down my back, I plopped into my chair and caught my breath as Drake drew his paper out of the hat. He tried valiantly to try to get us to guess, "Woody, Toy Story." Comma included. We called it quits after Josiah spent an eternity trying his best to act out, "A person who is learning karate but isn't very good at it yet."

This is why the act of watching movies was invented.

Santa Spotting

I get a thrill out of seeing Santa in unexpected places. I can't explain this. When it happens, part of me wants to run over and tell Santa everything that I want, while part of me wants to laugh, and part of me logically asks, "Why is Santa buying beer?" But, of course, it is for the reindeer.

So when I saw Braveheart Santa wearing a Packers hat at Panera, I had conflicting emotions. First off, I learned that Santa likes bagels. Noted. Also, Santa must be a Packers fan. But, why did Santa have his face painted like a Scottish warrior defending his land against the English? The question plagued me. Surely, Santa is nonviolent. And why the odd combination? Face paint, football gear, bagels, and Santa?

My husband, may he be blessed among men, heard all my questions and said, "I will just go ask him." That is why I love that man. He does things like talk to random people to find out things I want to know. After a lengthy conversation in which my husband joined Santa for tea and they exchanged life stories, Mike came back to me and explained, "He is dressed like that because there was a race this morning." Like that explained everything. A race. Of course. Doesn't everybody want to dress up like Braveheart Football Santa when there is a race on? Maybe because of the contortions my face went through, my husband sensed my disappointment so he quickly showed me something that made me want to dance. He got a picture for me! I love that man.

What Not To Say

I love date nights. I'm always on my best behavior. Well...

It was not good. I'm not going to sugar coat it.

It was a simple dinner and movie kind of date with my husband. After the movie we decided to get a hot apple cider at one of our favorite coffee shops. As we were conversing my husband changed his mind on the issue at hand no less than four times. Always one to laugh at himself, he made the comment, "I am like a man blown in the wind."

There were so many things I could have said in response. A simple nod would have been a brilliant idea. But my mind reached back into the far recesses of long forgotten inside jokes and pulled out a comment that was relevant to absolutely nobody, barely even to me. There is a verse in the Bible that talks about a man who sees his reflection in a mirror and when he walks away, he immediately forgets what he looks like. Years ago Mike joked that this verse was for me because I always have such a hard time sticking with the decisions I make. Then we had babies and all normal conversation was wiped from our minds. Our conversation that night, though, took me back to that long forgotten time, and I was reminded by Mike's indecision that we had a joke about that. So, without explaining my mental gymnastics, what I said to his, "I am like a man blown in the wind," was, "Have you seen yourself  in the mirror lately?" I understand, looking back on it now, there is no way to take that comment except as a fat joke. Which he did. "Are you saying that if I looked at myself in a mirror I would know that I am way too huge to be blown by the wind?"

That is when I pretended to be asleep.

Ahh, Sweat Pants

Ahh, sweat pants. Such an addictive fashion nightmare. Since I currently own more than 2% body fat, sweat pants are a hideous fashion move, and I know it. However, I often put them on and spend the entire day wearing them. I sometimes even put them on knowing full well that I will be encountering the public and revealing my subpar fashion sense to the wide world. I admit that I smile as I do so. It is not that I really desire to be known as the woman who looks horrible, I'm just addicted to my sweat pants.

So, as I was hunting and gathering at Wal-Mart for this holiday season, the sweatpants called to me, hypnotized me, and forced themselves into my cart. As I bought them I realized how smart I was because this season is really the perfect time of year to own a super soft pair of comfy pants. When I took them out of the bag I noticed that they were wearing a sticker. Because I haven't yet grown up and find childish things amusing, I secretly placed it on my daughter's back as she walked past me. That is how it began.

I spent the rest of Thanksgiving taking pictures as the sticker mysteriously appeared in unexpected places. I honestly can't say who moved it around since it is all cricket chirps when I ask about it, but I found myself thoroughly entertained. Maybe too entertained. It is just a sticker. A sticker that makes me laugh!

Furious Mad

I rarely ever see my husband furious mad. He gets frustrated, out-of-sorts, and sometimes, upset. But it takes an awful lot of really get him furious mad. Or just one puppy.

My dog is beautiful. That is really the problem. Even we who are used to his beauty have a hard time being anything other than mesmerized by him. He wields his stunning blue eyes like an invisibility cloak in the hands of Harry Potter.

But, inside that gorgeous, fluffy body lives a naughty, naughty puppy. It was inconsiderate of him to eat a steak right off of Josiah's plate, and shredding my glasses was just uncalled for. But the first time Mike was furious mad was when Arrow ate Mike's top of the line, no expense spared, 30 below, down filled, sleeping bag. He managed to scoot, while safely locked inside a secure dog crate, across the room to the stored camping supplies. Then he pawed at the sleeping bag until a bit of the fabric slid between the bars of his crate. The rest was easy. When I found him he was so covered with soft, fluffy feathers that I thought a polar bear was sitting in the dog crate. He had feathers in his ears, all over his tongue, and blowing out of his nose. The wind from his wagging tail kept the feathers dancing in the air, and my laundry room was transformed into a winter wonderland.

Mike was mad. I called him at work, and I was unsure of what he was saying but it went something like, "stupid dog...to the pound...why...box his ears...get rid of...so mad...throddle...bad...".

Then that cute puppy was even naughtier. I looked out my back window as I was making supper and saw him standing on top of the hot tub. I noticed right away that he had ripped the vinyl cover open and was eating the styrofoam that keeps the water nice and warm. Did I mention that the cover was new? I would just pop out and get a new one but the starting price is $400.

That did it. Mike was furious mad. He went out and got an electric fence. He put the collar on the dog and erected a barrier of warning flags around the hot tub. The idea is that the dog will not cross the flags due to a high pitched, annoying beep with an electric shock the collar produces when the dog approaches the off limits area. It beeps first to warn the dog, but, if the dog persists, the collar delivers a fur sizzling jolt. Ok, it is not that bad. The dog gets a small zap. But it is still annoying.

Mike worked with the dog training him to not go near the flags. Arrow did very well and learned quickly to avoid the flags. We thought.

Just after the training session, as Mike was returning to the house, Arrow walked nonchalantly to the flags. The collar began beeping, but Arrow kept walking. The collar beeped piercingly and relentlessly, but Arrow kept walking. Then it began zapping. Arrow kept walking. With the collar on full zap and utter beep, Arrow strutted to the hot tub, laid down right on top of it, and YAWNED! Yes yawned.

The electric fence device is now packed up in our closet and we know who is boss.

Bedtime Alligator

My husband and I aren't that strange. I chant that to myself over and over. We do a lot of normal stuff, so I am pretty sure it is true. We're just regular people going about life in a regular sort of way. But sometimes...

It happened in the dead of night while I was sleeping soundly, happily enjoying my dream world. My husband rudely awoke me with shouting. He shouted over and over, and, when that was clearly not enough panic, he began clawing at the mattress, throwing pillows, blankets, and the pried off sheet.

It takes a lot to wake me up, but this method was effective. I was ripped from my peaceful dream into an instant panic induced terror. Because I am a caring, comforting wife and human being, I compassionately rose to my knees and yelled, "WHAT THE HECK IS GOING ON?"

He had an unexpected response to my caring inquiry, and it terrified me.
"An alligator!" He shouted, eyes wide open. "A giant alligator! It is almost here!!"

There is nothing like the threat of an imminent alligator attack to get the blood pumping. I had no desire to be consumed by an alligator in the middle of the night, so I grabbed my pillow and began beating, well, anything. I beat the headboard; I beat the mattress. You can never be sure where the alligator will strike from, so I also beat the foot of the bed, and, just to be safe, I pillow-beat my husband.

Suddenly it struck me that alligators are not common in Iowa. Or in bedrooms. And a pillow is not the most effective weapon against an alligator. And my husband might not deserve the beating he was receiving. So, gasping for breath, I began to reassemble the bed. Mike must have felt satisfied by our alligator attack skills, because he had snuggled down into a peaceful coma and could not be budged no matter how badly I desired to put the sheet back on.

"I think I had some bad dreams last night," Mike said the next morning. "Something about being beat up. I think I was being hit over and over."
"Oh, really?" I answered him calmly. "I didn't notice anything."

Don't Like It

I'm the kind of person who likes to laugh. I like to find the funny in unexpected places and draw amusement from it. I usually take all the feelings and thoughts that don't bring a smile or a laugh and shove them into the back corner of a closet in my mind. Then I like to throw hoodies and towels on all those darker thoughts to keep them covered up. Yes, I have a closet in my mind.

Sometimes, though, the thoughts I shoved into the shadowy corner bust out and boss me around. This usually happens at strange and inconvenient times. Like in the middle of the night when I wake up and my pillow is wet with tears. Or when I see a picture. Or hear an old church hymn. Or type these words.

I know I am unusually blessed to have enjoyed all of my grandparents until I reached the ancient age of 40. But, now I am sad. I lost my grandma in March, and two weeks ago I lost my grandpa. I know that it is incredibly rare that I am experiencing the first death of a grandparent this late in life. Still, I have lost my grandma and my grandpa in the last eight months. I am not pleased.

My grandpa was 91, and he was special. I never needed to call ahead - no matter when I stopped by Grandma and Grandpa would be home and Grandpa would pop popcorn. Even if it was 9 A.M. It made me feel like my arrival at their home constituted throwing a party. It seems impossible that all my memories of them are now the past. I want to go into the past and pull these memories with me into the future. It seems impossible that if I stop by their house these two people who I have known all my life will not be doing their normal activities. It seems impossible that they won't be there at all. That they won't be anywhere.

It feels vacant. Empty. Wrong.

They were, and now they're not. They're just not.

It makes my breath clog in my throat. I don't like it.

Fluffy Nap

When it is a cold, rainy, gray day, I look at my fluffy Husky and think only one thought. Nap. So I decided to teach my puppy to keep me warm with his massive amounts of fur while I snuggled myself into a zombie-coma. I put him in my bedroom and closed the door anticipating cozy, drifting, dreams.

I'm not sure why I thought this would work. He is not the kind of dog who sleeps in beds, mostly due to his humongousness.

I laid on my bed and assumed he would jump up there with me. But what he did was double pounce me in the face with both of his massive front paws, one lickity split after the other. Immediately after that move, he ninja jumped onto my chest and sat down. This seriously hampered my inhaling, a part of my routine I usually take quite for granted.

Then I thought that if I could get him to lay on the bed with his warm fur pressed against my back, it would feel wonderful. After a fair bit of tugging and shouting commands he has never heard before, I finally managed to arrange him into an ideal position with his back against mine. With a smile on my face, I snuggled down for a blissful slumber, when he owled his neck completely backwards and bit my hair. Hair has no nerves and should not hurt. Turns out, however, that there is nothing less restful than when your hair becomes a dog's chew toy.

I flailed my arms in protest of the hair move he was pulling on me, but, since they were still under a blanket, he must have thought a homeless squirrel lived under that blanket. I think he was determined to smash that homeless squirrel to the thickness of a pancake and then swallow it whole. Apparently screaming only intensifies a dog's determination to succeed in his project.

So, I am still tired. But not really very cold.

Lessons From The River

My boys recently went on a camping trip with some other boys. When I say my boys, I mean my husband and my two sons. When I say some other boys, I mean another father and his sons. They took canoes down a river in Arkansas to a sand bar on which they camped.

It was the perfect boy trip. There were no showers. No girls. Lots of wildlife. Lots of burping. They were in heaven.

The first fun-filled day left the two grown up boys a bit tired, so my husband decided it was time to douse the fire and go to sleep.

"I can put out the fire," one of the boys offered. "I'll just pee on it."
What my husband said to that was, "No, that smells awful. You should only do that if you are about to leave a place immediately afterwards." What four adolescent boys heard was, "You SHOULD TOTALLY do that in the morning right before we leave this camp site!"

The first alarming thing is that my husband seems to be an expert on peeing on fires. A skill I had no knowledge of.

The second alarming thing was what happened that next morning. Since I am a girl, I am not allowed into the confidences of the happenings on the river, but I have it from a good source that these four boys woke up in the morning and reminded each other not to relieve themselves but to save it up for the fire. Then they encouraged each other to drink as much as possible so that the dousing of the fire might be all the more spectacular.

The fathers may or may not have noticed four boys groaning from the pain of full bladders. They may or may not have wondered why these normally restless and active boys sat barely moving, scrunched faces turning all shades of red.

Finally, the magic words were said. "Time to go."

Before either father knew what was happening, four boys stood in a circle around the fire and doused it. The problem these poor boys soon encountered was that it did, indeed, smell horrid. But, their bladders were mighty full, and there was no way to stop what had begun.

"I can't breathe!" one of the boys shouted.
"It's horrible!" another boy declared.
"I can't run away," someone else announced. "I have so much peeing left to do!"
"Me too," they all agreed.

"The river taught me a lesson," one boy summed up the experience. "Sometimes you are stuck smelling your own stink."

Well done, River.

Candy Scaries

We put my two sons in charge of handing out the candy this Halloween. That is when things began to go awry.

We filled a large bowl with tiny bags of Skittles and Reeces Pieces, but that just seemed too predictable to Drake. "Hey," he suggested, "What if we put a raw potato in there? Do you think anybody would take it?" Josiah thought Drake's question was absolutely brilliant, so the potato led to lime juice which led to an outlet cover which led to a bottle of mustard. You see the pattern.

They barely contained their laughter as they opened the door to a large group of kids expecting the small innocents to screech in disgust and disappointment. Instead the first one politely took the lime juice and said thank you in a very sweet baby voice. This unexpected event brought on all kinds of high fiving between my boys, and some canned lasagna was added to the bowl. Where did they even get canned lasagna? Do they even make lasagna in a can? Who does the grocery shopping around here anyway?

When boys behave in such a way, what is a mom to do but sit laughing at the kitchen table taking pictures?

Makenna saved the day by coming home from work with four dozen warm Krispy Kreme donuts and we went from being the scourge of the neighborhood to Most Loved Halloween Neighbor.

And that, my friends, is the difference between boys and girls.

Health

Health is in. It's the thing to do. I see people jogging even when the temperature plummets to below freezing. My gym is always crowded. Half the commercials I hear on the radio are about diets. Even I, a long time hater, recently succumbed to the lure of jogging. Then I broke my ankle. Now I suffer.

I was recently given a pamphlet that listed symptoms of living in health. I admit that I scoffed a little as it was given to me. I know the symptoms: Not suffering from frequent heart attacks, eating oatmeal, saying no to candy, missing out on all joy, looking mad. See - I am clearly an expert.

So, I was a little surprised when I read the list:

frequent, overwhelming episodes of love
frequent attacks of praise
feelings of gratitude for life and the people in your life
seeing people as companions, not as competitors
contented feelings of connectedness with your family
playful and joy-filled attitudes
being awake to life
enjoying the moment
loss of the need to be right all the time
loss of need to worry
loss of interest in arguing
loss of interest in being critical

According to these standards, I have a lot to learn from my dog.

Grandpa's Car

My daughter just got her school permit which enables her to get behind the wheel of a real live automobile and drive away without any supervision. None. She must drive only to school, and she must drive alone, but drive is what she does. DRIVE! Like a grown up.

So, as responsible parents, we gave ourselves the job of finding the best car for her. We found it in my grandpa's driveway. It is old. It is big. It is made out of pure metal with no plastic located anywhere. Perfect.

When your daughter hears that you are giving her a car, she is delighted. When she hears it is grandpa's old car, she is less delighted. I haven't even told her yet that I am looking to have a boy repeller installed.

My grandpa was full of wisdom when we went to pick up the car.
"Makenna, cars are dangerous," he told her. "Don't race. I did that, and it was stupid."
"I won't Grandpa," she promised.
"And don't throw things at cars when they drive past you."
"Did you do that, Grandpa?"
"I did."
"Why?"
"I was being mean."

So, that's all cleared up.

Privileges

I cannot recommend breaking your ankle. I must sit with my foot elevated. I must ice. I must not walk around like a normal person. I must not do the cha cha. I must not kick a soccer ball. So many restrictions.

The kids are taking turns doing the laundry and carrying the clean, dry clothes to me because I am capable of folding. The kids are cooking. The husband is doing the shopping. 

The first two days would have been bliss if I hadn't been so painkillered up that I thought I was in a Disney musical. It was a lovely musical where animals spoke and real hearts were in the shape of hearts.

I have to admit that I have done some off limit activities while nobody was looking. I usually end up falling. Yet I persist. I try to be good, but I can't. The dishwasher taunts me. It sits there loaded with clean dishes, and I am unable to resist. I must unload. I am a robot at this point and have no choice. 

Just as I was using one crutch to stabilize myself on tiptoes so that I might kick the bad leg out behind me in effort to reach the top shelf, I was discovered. 

"Mom!" Emery shouted as she grabbed my arm and drug me to the couch. "You are NOT supposed to be doing that!"

"Do you know you have amazing strength for such a tiny girl?" I asked.

"I'm sorry," she responded, "but I am going to have to take away your privileges." She grabbed my crutches and walked away, leaving me stranded on the couch. Helpless. 

Privileges revoked.  

Love To Cry

The boys are gone. The oldest girl is gone. This weekend is all about me and my baby girl. Who is 11, but will always be my baby girl.

Since I am ordered to sit with my foot elevated, she made the homemade pizza. It was excellent. A cheesier pizza has never been created.

Then she said she wanted to watch a movie that would make her laugh. She picked Little Women. That movie never fails to turn me into a blubbering mess of tears. Since we are used to sharing the couch with six people, we sat smashed against each other, holding hands, and sobbing into each other's shirts. The movie lead us through anger, joy, fear, and intense sorrow. It left us splotchy-faced wrecks of girly emotion.

"Remember when I said I wanted to watch a movie that would make me laugh," Emery said. " I guess what I really meant was that I wanted to cry. Sometimes I love to cry! Let's watch home movies from when we were babies so we can cry some more."

Girl time. Nothing else even compares.

Illegal Surprise

I should have known that taking my family to the police department was risky.

We recently had the opportunity to participate in a class designed to enlighten teenagers to the importance of community involvement and social work. Although it was at the police department, it was not designed to be a one way trip.

The kids were supposed to bring one item that symbolized themselves and one item that symbolized their family. Trying to get a family of six out of the door with all their items for sharing while on crutches is an exercise in chaos. It is like trying to organize a tornado. On crutches. Therefore, I never pre-approved, or even noticed, what items the kids had selected.

The feeling was a little intimidating as police officers, school officials, and social workers gathered us into a circle. I relaxed a little as the sharing began and even felt pretty good as my family began its turn. Josiah brought a Livestrong bracelet because our family is flexible and strong. Makenna brought a deck of cards because our family has a lot of fun together. But then Drake took his turn.


He reached innocently into a bag and pulled out AN ILLEGAL EXPLOSIVE! He said his family was loud and fun, so he brought a firecracker. Although entertainment through the means of pretty mini explosions is illegal in our state, he probably could have gotten away with bringing a sparkler or even a small bottle rocket. But what my son called a firecracker could barely be held with one hand. Apparently he found this item while playing in the woods, thought it was glorious, and stored it under his bed. I was torn between claiming no knowledge of the identity of this strange boy and just renting him a jail cell.


It was a close call, but I got to keep my son.

Postal Terror

Our mailman - He puts up with a lot.

We first realized the extent to which he suffers when we had a house full of college kids we know who were home over Christmas break. As we talked in the living room, Emery suddenly stood straight up, much like a dog responding to a dog whistle, and said, "Oh! It is time to go scare the mailman!" We all stared in confusion as we watched her run to the row of bushes by the side of the driveway and crouch down. We all crowded around the window and saw the mail truck slowly pass her and stop by the mailbox just past our driveway. As the mailman focused on gathering envelopes with our address on them, Emery snuck quietly and crouched just below the window in his door. He reached to open the mailbox, and Emery struck. She jumped up, screamed, and contorted her face into something monstrous.

From inside the house we heard the terrified postal shriek and watched mail fly around inside the truck.

Everyone in the house laughed until they cried as I tried to decide if I was embarrassed or impressed.

I was unloading groceries from the back of my Jeep when I heard the familiar shriek again. I considered crawling into the back of the jeep and hiding, but I faced the music and turned around. I was surprised to see the mailman laughing and chatting in a friendly manner to my scary daughter.

"Everyday I remind myself that this is the street where that sweet little girl scares me, but I am never prepared for her. She gets me every time!" he told me as he drove away.

"How often do you scare him?" I asked.
"Well," she explained, "I don't want to do it everyday because then he would grow used to it and it would stop scaring him."

I think I am impressed.

Nasty Walnut

I hate jogging. I know people who jog, and they amaze me.

I have a husky. And what I mean by that is that I have a puppy with boundless, inexhaustible energy who destroys things when he is not utterly worn out. Also, it is October and 80 degrees. These two facts compel me to take that puppy on walks.

I love walks. Especially walks in glorious weather. But when I walk with Arrow, my husky, we jog. He was meant to pull a dogsled. I have no doubt he could do so without even trying. So we jog. We also chase squirrels. The me part of we has no choice in this matter. We chase them up trees.

The first day he took me for a jog I thought I was going to die. We went half as far as I usually go on a walk with my compliant, gentle puggle, and I was so sore that evening that I walked like a granny. But, we've had a string of beautiful days, so the last time he took me on a jog things went much better. I went farther than I planned, and, even when we turned around to head home, I felt pretty good. In fact, I felt pretty proud. I was smiling, my hair was blowing in the self created breeze from my brisk pace, and I was confident that I would make it home well before the collapse in the grass and cry state hit me. Except for occasional dashing off of the bike trail into the woods to tree a squirrel, we were jogging like real joggers.

But, there was a walnut. It had fallen from a tree and hidden itself on top of the concrete. So, I should have seen it. But, I was smiling proudly at my puppy. We were rocking it!! We were glorious!! WE WERE JOGGING!! So, I stepped on the walnut. That freaking walnut was the size of an orange.

Then the collapse in the grass and cry state hit me. Suddenly and powerfully. I hit the ground. I released the leash and didn't care. I actually cried out loud like a school kid. When I am hurt I have two reactions: rip things or squeeze things. Arrow must know this about me because after a short moment of running free, he returned and laid down next to me. I squeezed him like an accordion. He didn't care. He could pull a dogsled with no effort.

I was far from home, so I eventually stood up and hobbled in the general direction of my house. I walked like a crazy drunk, and finally knew it was hopeless. I called my husband 100 times.

I've never been more happy than when he found me crying hysterically in the grass by the side of a road.

So my proud moment of accomplishment turned into an adventure in which I broke my ankle, wound up in a cast and on crutches and am restricted from activity for 6 weeks. But my dog is fine.

Next time we go jogging I think I will do so from a sled.

Flinging Moles

I am not a fan of dead, soggy animals. I love swimming all summer long in my own backyard, but dead critters are a definite drawback.

Yesterday I came home and moaned when I saw a mole floating, dead, in the shallow end. I put the net on the longest pole money can buy and held it from the very tip top. I cannot stress how important it is that I do not come in contact with dead moleness. I got the mole into the net, and climbed onto my deck. Since my deck is much higher than my driveway, I planned on just tossing that soggy guy right from the net at the end of the very long pole, over the driveway, and into the bushes. However, at that exact moment Mike drove into the driveway and got out of the car.

Because I had no desire to hit my husband in the face with a soggy, dead mole and because I don't always think things through, I shouted, "MOLE FLINGING!! DUCK!"

It may have been the extra energy I used to shout out a warning. Or it may have been a sudden gust of wind. Whatever it was, that soggy, dead mole flew through the air as if it were a feather. It flew over Mike's head, over the bushes, over the fence, into my neighbor's backyard, and onto my neighbor's grill.

That happened.

Of course I instantly threw my body to the deck floor and army crawled into my house, leaving Mike to take the heat from the neighbor I call Hitler, because that is how nice he is. Also, he wears a Hitler mustache, which should not be allowed.

"How necessary was it," Mike asked after stomping into the house awhile later, "that you loudly proclaim that you are flinging moles just before leaving me standing alone?"

I admit, the man raises a valid point.

20

October 4.

The day of my wedding. When I look back on it now, I am astounded at how much I did not know. When I said I do, I thought the most stressful part of being married would be planning the wedding.

I think twenty years of marriage is something to celebrate.

My marriage has brought me romantic trips to Costa Rica and Hawaii. Long bike rides. Deep conversations. Teamwork. Someone to take care of me when I am sick or tired. Laughter. Lots of laughter. A soul mate. A different perspective. A full heart. A true companion.

Arguments that made me want to spit. Differences of opinion that seemed insurmountable. And agony that ripped the breath from me.

There have been times I was certain beyond any doubt that our marriage was over. There have been times I wished our marriage was over. But, always, there was just a little something to fight for. Sometimes that little something was no more than a small hope of friendship. Sometimes it was pure desperation and the stubborn hatred of giving up. Sometimes it was four small faces. And as we struggled and worked, that small little something would grow.

We have painted our life with the most vibrant of colors. At times, we wielded a dark crayon of hard work and tough conversations. Other times, we chose the bright crayon of playful dates. We used the pretty crayon of truthful and encouraging words, and we took the ugly crayon of harmful comments, broke it, and threw it away. But, when I step back and look at the picture we have made, the only thing I notice is an old brown cross.

The brilliance is almost blinding.

Bloody Mess

My husband is a large, tough man. He once was bitten by a brown recluse, and the brown recluse was sorry. He sawed his finger lengthwise in a table saw and drove himself to the hospital in a truck with no power steering.

But, a small kidney stone knocked him on his butt. He has been in pain since July, but this week things got wack. He couldn't sleep, and he writhed in pain constantly. Then he had a very important meeting with some very important people. During the meeting he squirmed in his chair like a small child. A small child howling in pain. That is how we knew something must be done.

Yesterday we spent the entire day at the hospital preparing for surgery, having surgery, recovering from surgery. Preparing for surgery must be very important because that was the longest part of the day. They stuck the two of us in a room and told Mike to put on a pretty gown. Apparently they thought that would take about five hours because that is how long we sat in that room. When the nurse had to ask us to keep our laughter quiet, she decided that we really have fun together. Actually, we were just on the brink of insanity. We don't like small rooms.

The surgery went fine and we were instructed to let Mike sleep off the anesthesia as long as he wanted. He slept as if dead for 45 minutes and then stood suddenly shouting, "Let's go home!"

"Ok," I told him. "Let me go find the nurse so she can remove your IV."
"I will just pull it out myself."
"NO!" I said in a panic. "That is a VERY bad idea! I will get the nurse."

I walked away to get the nurse, but when I glanced back I saw Mike tugging at his IV.

"STOP!" I shouted as I ran back to him. "I will find the nurse."
"I just want to go home."
"I know. Just wait two minutes, and I will get the nurse."

Again I walked away to get the nurse. Again I glanced back to see Mike tugging at his IV.

"STOP STOP STOP!"

Apparently he must have thought I meant the complete opposite of stop, because what he did was to continue. I knew I was fighting a losing battle because my husband was a deadly mixture of very tough and drugged up. A bad combination. For a second I thought to myself that it would probably be fine if he just ripped it out himself because I had watched TV and the tough guys on there always rip their IV out and it all turns out just fine.

TV is a lying beast. As soon as he pulled the needle out of his skin, blood sprayed EVERYWHERE! Blood poured from the back of his hand down his arm and dripped from his elbow. The chair he was supposed to be sitting in was covered with blood. The floor was covered with blood. The table and the Kleenex box was covered with blood. It looked as if we had sacrificed a chicken.

Blood makes me all fainty.

The nurse didn't like us.

Bathroom Nonsense

All I am saying is that using the bathroom in the wee hours of the night is complicated. It is not to be attempted by the faint of heart.

I couldn't help it though. I woke up and knew I would need to make the trek through the bedroom to the bathroom. A treacherous walk. There are numerous obstacles placed in the pitch dark just waiting to take me down. So I was already mad. Angrily, I kicked the unknown objects out of my way, only stubbing my toe once.

Then things just got bizarre. I sat in the logical place, on the toilet. But things just felt wrong. Very wrong. Unfortunately, the message telling me STOP! SOMETHING IS WRONG!! took about thirty-nine seconds to reach my mind. Thirty-nine seconds is too long. The deed was done.

I had peed my pants on the toilet.

Apparently, middle-of-the-night logic told me to just sit down and get to business and neglected the part about first removing the pajama pants.

I was stuck. I considered my options carefully. There weren't many.

"Mike! Help!"
"What do you need?" his sleepy voice called from the paradise of his pillow.
"Help me!"
"What happened?" I heard him making the stumbly voyage across the dark obstacle course of the bedroom floor.
"I peed."
"Well, that seems logical," he said rubbing his eyes.
"Yeah, but I forgot to pull down my pants first, so I peed my pants on the toilet."

I cannot explain in words the look upon his face at that moment. It was kind of a mix between WHAT HAVE I DONE TO DESERVE THIS and YOU HAVE GOT TO BE JOKING.

"What would you have me do about this situation," he asked.
"Fix it." DUH.

Ironic

Have I mentioned that I am really bad at math? For this simple reason, I have never been the one in our family to handle the finances. When I say never, I mean only once.

Mike has a very complex system he uses to organize the flow of monies in and out of our account. One time when he was starting a new job and was very busy, I suggested that I take over the accounting since I was staying home with small children. We sat down at the table and he explained his system to me. He got out paper and drew numbers, dates, charts, graphs, hieroglyphs. He wrote out complicated formulas and theorems. He color coded, tabbed, and labeled. I nodded and mm hmmed.

When I sat down and opened the statement with the checkbook, I tried to recall the formula. I thought and concentrated, but all that happened was a picture of a monkey popped into my mind. One of those toy monkeys that claps his hands. It was funny.

I wrote checks and mailed them away. But the formula DID NOT work. One month later we owed the bank more than $500 in fees. Mike grabbed his charts and graphs and put them somewhere special. Someplace that I will never be able to find them.

So it is with great trepidation and out of sheer desperation that he has enlisted my help again. I am to manage the account out of which we buy family stuff, like groceries and school supplies. It makes sense because I am really the only one using that account. He manages the big expenses, like the mortgage and insurance, out of another account.

For a month he checked the account every night to make sure I had a handle on it. We decided to use a checkbook program and downloaded the free trial to make sure I could work with it. Things went great. I worked it and nothing bad happened. This week I officially took over management. I wore my best sweat pants and called a board meeting with myself. My first act as manager was to buy the checkbook program I had been using. My free trial was over, and I had successfully navigated it for a month. I called the IT guy (me) and had the program downloaded to my computer.

One problem. Buying the checkbook program overdrew my account. Ironic, no?

I haven't told Mike yet.

That monkey sure is funny.

Missing Motorcycle

It is a weird feeling when you walk out your front door to where your vehicle used to be. The place where it should still be. The place that is now empty.

When something is stolen from you, it makes you feel as if the earth has tilted just a bit. Just enough to make you wonder if the problem is actually in your mind. You start to wonder if you just misplaced your motorcycle. You start to think things like, Maybe I parked it in the street or Maybe it fell between the cushions on the couch. 


The motorcycle is the third vehicle to be stolen from right out of our driveway. The first two were trucks. When the first truck was not in the driveway where we had clearly left it, we stood there scratching our heads and looking up and down the block, like we might have accidentally left it in a neighbor's yard with our newspaper. We finally gathered our wits and called the police who found it about five blocks away. What happened next is unexplainable.

Whoever stole the truck left it in a parking lot but took the key. We only had one key, because we are brilliant like that. My husband opened the driver's side door, sat in the driver's seat, and attempted to turn the wheel. Since he didn't have a key and could not start the truck, the wheel would not turn. He gave it a bit more force. AND RIPPED THE STEERING WHEEL CLEAN OFF OF THE DASH! I am not kidding. It fell into his lap.

He walked across the parking lot with the steering wheel in his hands. When we looked at him with puzzled expressions he explained, "I nudged it."

I love him.

Middle-Of-The-Night Logic

I know some families probably tuck their children in to sleep, turn off the lights, and enjoy a nice quiet sleep until the light of a new day wakes them from their blissful slumber. Not here. Ever since four babies popped into our life in a very short period of time, sleeping through an entire night has been more of a theory than a reality. A wonderful, appealing theory. Like the theory that if you save your money you will someday not live paycheck to paycheck. Or the theory that if everybody just puts their own stuff away, your house will always be clean.

For us the middle of the night is full of chaos and slow-motion, confusing, melodrama. Like when Emery woke me up to tell me she had had a bad dream, and, my middle-of-the-night logic made me tell her that everything would be okay if she would just walk back to her bedroom backwards, and her middle-of-the-night logic made her do as I had said.

Sometimes, though, your quiet, peaceful body can be seized and possessed by the middle-of-the-night terror.

My husband must have had a nightmare. I say must have because of how he handled it. In the dead of night, he bolted upright in the middle of the bed, stared straight ahead, and screamed at top level. I had several options available to me at that point. I could have gone all wild ninja on him like I so would have done had I been using middle-of-the-day logic. I could have been concerned about him and tried to comfort and reassure him. I say that is an option mainly to make myself feel better because there is NO WAY middle-of-the-night Sharla would ever have such a sane reaction. What I chose to do was to copy him. Exactly. So there were two of us sitting in the middle of the bed, staring straight ahead, screaming. Joining my scream to his terrified him further, so he doubled his screaming volume. His increase in volume convinced me that screaming into the dead of night was the most important thing I had ever done.

Our scream party caused all kinds of excitement for the children who swarmed into our room and surrounded our bed. Their sweet, terrified faces splashed me with a dose of reality, and I soon saw the absurdity of side by side screaming into the night. I began to laugh. Then Mike laughed, and, because we have successfully warped our children, they joined in the laughter.

I don't know if it is a sad reflection of our acceptance of the bizarre or proof of our strength of mind, but ten minutes later we were all sound asleep again. That's how we do things around here.

I'm Crazy

My kids constantly astound me. When I say astound, what I mean is terrify. I don't understand why they do the things they do. They are full of ridiculous and unpredictable behavior. What would cause them to want to climb up a tall building and get stuck up there? What makes them shake their bellies at wedding guests? Why do they put containers full of bugs in the refrigerator?

These are the questions that plague me.

Then I remembered that Drake explained this erratic behavior to me when he was three years old.

"Mom! Dad!" Josiah yelled as he ran into the kitchen pointing to a red splotch on his arm. "Look what Drake did!"
"How did he do that?" Mike asked rubbing the red spot. I don't know why, but parents tend to rub whatever owie they are shown. It is like we have all, universally, decided that the fastest way to eliminate pain is to rub the effected area. It never works, and it sometimes makes the problem worse. Yet we persist in our rubbing.
"He pinched me!"
"Drake," Mike turned and looked into Drake's soul with his I am your father and you are in trouble eyes, "why did you pinch your brother?"
"Because I am crazy," he explained.

That about sums it up.

And Furthermore...

Speaking of reacting violently when scared...

Usually, right before falling asleep, Mike and I discuss the crazy driving chaos of delivering four kids to four different schools. We divvy up the routes and plan our schedule of attack.

One night I was lying on my back with my hands folded behind my head, and Mike was lying on his side facing me while we discussed these morning issues. Unbeknownst to either of us, Emery, who was supposed to be sound asleep in her bed, entered the room and silently approached us. Since we didn't hear or see her or have the faintest idea she was there, she decided to alert us to her presence by tapping me on the shoulder. I have already admitted that when scared I become a wild ninja.

Thankfully, the voice of reason told me that the terrifying creature who had assaulted my shoulder was my small, innocent daughter. So, instead of pummeling her, I just screamed like a maniac, and reached the arm closest to her around her waist and held her tight. However, white-hot fury was racing through my body and needed an escape. Luckily, Mike was available for that.

Using the arm closest to Mike, I reached around his head, grabbed onto his ear, and yanked it violently back and forth, still screaming. Why did I grab his ear? It is just so grabbable. Since he still didn't know Emery was present and had no idea why his wife was suddenly screaming and attempting to rip his ear from his head, he yelled. Yelling scares me. So, I redoubled my efforts and screamed and yanked with renewed strength. Until the panic died down, and I realized the hilariousness of the situation. Then I began to laugh. Emery looked at me, quite confused. Mike, the whole right side of his head bright red and throbbing, looked at me like I had tripped over the edge of sanity.

Emery will probably never do that again.

Wild Ninja

When people get scared, they express their terror in many different ways. My mom sucks in as much air as possible and then holds her breath. Yep, she is strange. When my husband is scared he flails his arms and screams. He doesn't realize at that moment that he is a large, strong man; he just believes he is about to be squished by a monster. But, when I am scared the only emotion I feel is intense and violent rage. Apparently I hate being scared above all other situations on earth.

I have been known to react in many different ways, but they are all mean.

I am not normally a person who over-reacts. I don't experience road rage. I don't yell. I don't hit walls or throw things. But, when fear is coursing through my body, I turn into a ninja. Not an artful, graceful ninja. A wild ninja.

In college my friend, Lori, snuck into my dorm room and scared me from behind. I palm struck her in her face. She fell to the ground with a bloody nose.

My kids find this reaction fascinating and are forever putting me to the test. I have tried my hardest to tame my violent streak, and I have done a moderate job. I no longer aim for the face. When the white-hot fury tells me KILL THE SCARY, I launch into ninja attack, but, the voice of reason tells me THE SCARY IS JUST A SMALL CHILD, so, at the last second, I adjust my aim for chest level. This backfired on Josiah one day. He jumped at me from behind a corner, and thinking to avoid a pummeling, he ducked. He got hit in the face that time, but by then he outweighed me and could take it.

When Makenna scared me recently, I just grabbed her face with both of my hands and screamed at her from a quarter inch away. It terrified her, so she screamed back at me. Her scream made me scream even louder and longer, so we just stood there, nose to nose, screaming at each other. It scared her worse than it scared me, so she may have learned her lesson.

Emery has it figured out the best, I think. She and Drake hid behind a wall, and when I walked around the corner she screamed like a deadly swamp monster and then immediately fell to the floor. Drake, who did not realize that the plan he was a part of included scaring his Ninja Mom, received the jab, cross, jab intended for the swamp monster while Emery rolled around, laughing, on the floor.

Maybe I need relaxation exercises. Or maybe everyone should STOP SCARING ME!!

Reboot Torture

My husband and I recently watched a movie on Netflix called Fat, Sick, and Nearly Dead. Optimistic, I know. The guy in the movie has a good point. He says a lot of our health problems are due to the foods we eat. I already knew that, but hearing him say it for an hour and a half  made me a true believer. He put himself on a 60 day juice fast to reboot his system. After that time his body only really wanted nice healthy foods like salad and fish. I have never in my life eaten salad and fish because I PREFER it above all other foods.

"I want to do it," Mike said to me after the movie was over.
"Do what?"
"That sixty day juice fast."
"Whata heda huh??" I'm not eloquent under pressure.
"Will you do it with me?"
"NO!"
"Please?"
"NO!"
"It would be a lot easier if we did it together."
"NO!"

But, somehow I ended up saying I would do it for ten days to help get him off to a good start. I like to think I did so because I am a good wife, but in reality I know it was due to some kind of Jedi mind trick he put on me. So, I pulled my Jack LaLanne Power Juicer out from its spot in the laundry room where it benefits our family by remaining out of sight. I went to the store and obtained all the green vegetables the guy in the movie made into some sort of drinkable shake. And I spent the next ten days of my life experimenting with making juice from things I don't even enjoy eating.

I drank spinach, kale, carrot juice, which made me want to scrape my tongue with my fingernails to remove the horrid. I tried spinach, cucumber, tomato. Who knew you could take perfectly gentle vegetables and turn them into something from your nightmares? The fruit juices were better, so I tried hiding a bit of spinach in some of those concoctions. That was drinkable, but only if you were starving. Which I was. Then I had Dr. Pepper because I figured it is probably just juice of the pepper in that can. Then I had oatmeal juice. That one wasn't juice per se so much as it was a cookie. Then I had chicken, which was just outright cheating. And then I just danced along the cheating path. My husband, though, is still going strong.

Will power, obviously, is not an area in which I excel.

Geometry Flashback

I looked my my son's super-sized geometry text book, and I had a flash back. I was transported to tenth grade sitting in my wooden desk listening to Mr. Luscombe talk about angles and lines and shapes and degrees and blah and blah blah. In my tiny school the geometry class consisted of nine people, all of whom were staring blankly at him. This routine of him talking and drawing and us staring blankly went on for a couple weeks. Then, one day something changed. I don't know what caused this miraculous change. Maybe I took my vitamins that morning, or maybe Mr. Luscombe mind melded with me and I obtained all his knowledge. But, I suddenly understood everything he said. In an instant, geometry transformed from a muddy puddle of goo in my mind to a neatly structured phenomenon.

I started working on my homework right there in class and flew through the problems as if they had not baffled me for all of my life. A kid next to me asked Mr. Luscombe a question and I spoke up and answered it. Every blank face in the room looked in my direction. So I continued explaining. I took liberties and explained problem after problem to my peers. Finally, Mr. Luscombe, with a look of pure amazement on his face, asked me to come to the front of the room and explain to the class on the overhead all that I was talking about. I drew shapes on the overhead. I labeled. I measured. I did geometry.

Mr. Luscombe smiled the smile of a proud teacher who had finally broken through to the most lost case.

The next day I confidently entered geometry class and listened in anticipation as Mr. Luscombe reviewed our lesson from the prior day. I didn't understand anything that man was saying. Nothing. I rose my hand and asked a question. He explained in Swahili or something because I did not understand a word he said. With a confused look, he told me he was just going over the exact thing I had explained to my class the day before. He told me I understood. But I didn't. The knowledge was gone.

Maybe I forgot to take my morning vitamins. Maybe Mr. Luscombe broke the mind meld. But after that day I was never a math genius again.

I'm glad I'm not in tenth grade anymore. So is Mr. Luscombe.

Bass Drum Cockroach

My son continues to make all my dreams in life come true. I sincerely love him for sacrificing himself for my entertainment. He is a good boy.

Josiah is the dooer in our family. He volunteers. He signs up. He auditions. He competes. The other three children prefer to do less. Like nothing. I like the nothing route because it is mostly lazy, and I am pro lazy.

One of the things Josiah is doing right now is marching band. He is also doing football, which will become clunky at some point since the marching band does its marching thing during half time, but for now it works. I know there have to be other people out there who have marching band dreams, like I do. Not to be in the band. NO! But to witness the singular most entertaining marching band event to ever transpire. Every time I see those guys marching around wearing a drum the size of an airplane engine on their bellies, I just hold my breath in the anticipation that one of them will fall backwards and end up pinned to the earth, arms and legs flailing. Like a cockroach stuck on its back. It would be hilarious, right? Yes, it would be hilarious.

MY SON DID THAT!!!

Unfortunately, I was not around to see the event transpire. I was home doing mom stuff when he walked in the door and related the story to me.
"That is so awesome!" I shouted. Because my dream had come true.
"It wasn't awesome. I couldn't get back up."
"YES!! I wish I could have seen it."
"You're weird," he told me, needlessly.
"Are you okay?" I asked, because I am first and foremost a good mom. Sometimes.
"Yeah, but I have a huge bruise," he said, pointing to a black and blue patch the size of a grapefruit on his thigh.
"So worth it!" Sensitivity is not something I excel at. "Did everyone laugh?"
"Yes."
"You know I love you even though I think it is really funny, right?"
"I know," he rolled his eyes. "That is the kind of mom you are."

We understand each other.

TV Time

When my kids were little I religiously gave them naps everyday after lunch. Except when I didn't feel like it. When it was sunny and warm outside, I had a hard time enforcing my own rules, and I have been known to play outside all afternoon and skip naps.

I knew I would pay for it later, but one day we just blew bubbles and caught crickets all afternoon long.

I knew the grumpiness would strike shortly after supper, so I planned on putting the kids to bed early. But I didn't do that either. Sometimes I work against myself.

In an astounding display of weakness and a complete breakdown in mother logic, I let them pick out a movie and stay up late watching it. Hoping to display a little common sense, I put them to bed immediately after the movie and informed them that they were not allowed to wake up before 8:00 the next morning.
"But how will I know what time it is in the morning?" Makenna asked.
"Look at the Sponge Bob clock that Drake got for Christmas."
"But what if I am awake and can't fall back asleep?"
"Then do something quiet, but don't turn on the TV or anything else that would wake up the other kids."
"Okay!"
Then I confirmed, "Does everybody understand that? No TV before 8:00!"
"Okay, Mommy!"

I went to bed that night feeling very satisfied that my children would be well rested and in cheerful moods due to the extra sleep I had ordered.

When I woke up to silence at 7:30 the next morning, I felt a wave of motherly pride wash over me. I felt satisfied that they had obeyed like dolls and would be well rested because of it. I rubbed my sleepy eyes and walked to the kitchen to start breakfast when I noticed all four kids, awake and still in their pajamas, sitting in silence on the couch surrounded by their stuffed animals. Drake held his Sponge Bob alarm clock on his lap and intently watched it as the time neared 8:00, the time he had set the alarm to ring. Josiah sat with the remote aimed at the TV, finger hovering above the on button. Four little faces gazed in anticipation at the blank TV screen. 


I vote that we return them to that age and use the freeze ray on them.

Lightening Football

When Valley High plays football, they take it seriously. They should probably stop calling it a game and call it what it really is - a battle.

Since my son is on the freshman team, this is our first year to experience the intensity first hand. That is why when storm clouds rolled in and took over the sky, I was naive enough to wonder if the game might be canceled. As kick off time approached and no word of canceling was mentioned, I dug through our camping gear and covered myself in my husband's XL rain poncho. I grabbed the umbrellas and dashed through the lightening to my Jeep wondering, "What in the world does it take for Valley to call the game?"

Then I found out. Pouring rain and nonstop lightening displays is not when Valley calls the game. When the fans sit on metal bleachers raising their lightening rod umbrellas in the air is not when Valley calls the game. When our sons run around in a wide open space as the sky illuminates their moves like a strobe light is not when Valley calls the game. Even though if they pulled that nonsense at home they would get called inside this very instant.

It is when lightening strikes straight down from the point directly above our very head and every mother sees her son's skeleton illuminated by the brilliance of the flash and the retinas of every fan are burned crisp that Valley High calls the game. And when I say they call the game, what I mean is that the Valley Tigers give God fifteen minutes to change his mind about His lightening fit. We wisely leave the metal bleachers and huddle around the concession stand as the players seek safety in the locker room.

As I stood huddled under my umbrella, which did very little good, and watched the lightening race from one end of the sky to the other, what the coaches must have done was roll some dice and decide that we might not die if we play more. So, GAME ON!

At the defiance of the Tigers, however, God became even more serious and pulled His impressive retina burning lightening trick over and over until even the Valley Tigers had to admit how puny we really are compared to violent electricity crashing to earth from the Heavens. Maybe the principal was concerned for the safety of the students, or maybe some over protective mother threw away the coach's dice and made the decision herself, but the rest of the game was postponed until the next day.

So, now I know. Immediate and certain death is when Valley calls the game.

Wedding Crashers

"Hmmm," I asked myself. "Why are my boys lying on top of the garage roof staring into the neighbor's back yard?" I might be out of touch with teenage culture, but it struck me as an unusual activity. But then, like a super great mother, I walked into the house and forgot about the strange activity happening on the garage.

I was distracted by the fact that Wal-Mart had invaded my house. After carrying too forcryingoutloud many bags into my house, my entire kitchen was buried under a mountain of Elmer's glue sticks, #2 pencils, wide ruled paper, and Purell hand sanitizer. Does anybody else besides me think that school supply lists have gotten a little too specific and ridiculous?

Then my boys crashed into my reality and reminded me that they were up to no good.
"Hey, what were you guys doing on the garage roof?" I asked responsibly.
"The people who live behind us had a wedding in their back yard."
"You watched the wedding?" I smiled, thinking they were such tenderhearted little guys.
"No!" They guffawed. "We stood up one at a time, lifted up our shirts, and jiggled our bellies at the crowd. If anyone waved at us, we took a picture."

I had no idea wedding crashing was part of a male's DNA and began at such a young age.

School really couldn't start soon enough. Someone needs to teach these boys some stuff.

A NEW CAR!!

Let's face it - some people are complete dorks. But, this is not about them. This is about people who make me proud to be a part of the human race.

This week, someone called my husband and said, "You know how your sister has a family of six but an unsafe, rust bucket of a car that will only fit five? Well, I want to buy her a nice minivan, but I don't want her to know that it was me." Thus began the event in which we were able to bring a sparkling, clean minivan to our house and deliver the good news to Mike's sister, Lori.

It was one of the most fun and exciting things I've ever been a part of, and I am honored that I was able to be involved. Watching someone who works hard and is in desperate need recieve something they could not possibly buy for themselves is humbling and touching. I couldn't be more excited for Lori and her family.

And people who bless others like this make me hopeful that love is still the most powerful force on earth.

Rooftop Parade

Ever find yourself sitting in bed quietly reading a book when you suddenly wonder, "Why is there a parade marching across the top of my house?" Me too.

We have a Friday night tradition. I make homemade pizza and we all watch a movie or play a game together. Friday nights of the past hold some of my fondest memories.

But, the kids are getting older, which means busier. So, this Friday didn't go according to plan.

First we started with a high school football game. We all went to cheer on #58 because he happens to be the world's most excellent defensive lineman. I just learned that title. I don't even know if it is right. But he owns the field with his awesomeness, and since I believe that pretty much everything he has done from birth till now is dang noteworthy, I drag all whom I know to his game so we can scream and wave things in the air. I mean, where else can you act like that?

Then, after he dominated the field, he informed me that he was totally sick and needed to go home right away. Makenna begged to stay for the rest of the football games, and, knowing how much she loves football and pays attention to every play, we told her she could ride home with some friends after it was all over. The rest of us grabbed a movie and some pizzas and hit the couch.

Midway into the movie Makenna called to say she needed a ride, so I happily threw on my slippers and marched my pajama clad self into the car and grumbled all the way across town. When we returned a bazillion hours later, the movie was nearly over. So as not to ruin the ending for myself, I grabbed a book and settled into my bed intending to watch the part of the movie I had missed at a later time. And I did not complain because moms do not complain. I may, however, have mumbled.

Just as I became wrapped up in the plot of my book, a parade marched across my rooftop. I gave my ceiling the evil eye, but the sound continued.

No worries though. It was only my precious offspring being hoisted onto the roof by THIER FATHER. My first thought was, "Why must we hoist our children onto the roof at midnight?" My second thought was, "Who decided this man was old enough to raise children?"

Then I was distracted by a lovely vision of my youngest daughter gazing at the stars, enjoying the breeze, and dancing in the moonlight. But when I mentioned this she told me, "Mom, I'm not dancing. I'm shaking out my weggie."

So, now I know: Fine entertainment is why we hoist children onto the rooftop at midnight.

Swimming Trunks Ablaze

Ever notice how sometimes funny stories are just a smidgen away from total disaster? It is enough to cause a sweat to break out on my forehead.

We had a house full of people this week, and it was great fun. The characters in this event didn't all necessarily know each other, but are all super cool. Our regular Wednesday night visitors, who come week after week and are the kind of people who rock this world, were here. Also, because fate smiled on us, we had our long lost son who is not our real son but we love like a son, Franke Bates, over because he is home visiting. He is in the Air Force and has been stationed in WayTooFarAway, Texas. He brought his younger brother, Everett, and our other long lost son who is not our real son but we love like a son, JP.

It was the perfect set up for either hilarious laughter or disaster. Or, as it turns out, both.

The regular Wednesday night people grabbed their swimsuits and headed to the pool out back, because that is our tradition. I scrounged up spare swimming suits for the other three guys, who, by the way, couldn't possibly be more different in size. So, I grabbed every spare set of swim trunks I could find, and dumped the pile on the table. JP saw this as an opportunity to grab the nearest trunks and pummel Everett with them. Endlessly. Everett got fed up and ripped the trunks from JP's hands. Then inspiration struck him and he extracted his revenge by throwing the trunks back at JP.

Admittedly, when a 14 year old skinny kid throws soft, fluffy, swim trunks at a large man, it is not very threatening. In fact, it is so non-threatening that JP didn't even notice Everett's act of revenge and simply walked out of the room.

Which left Everett standing in the kitchen alone. That is when he noticed that the carefully aimed trajectory of the swim trunks had missed its mark. Instead of landing on JP's head, the swim trunks had landed on top of a burning candle. By the time Everett figured out what was happening, the trunks had caught on fire and the flame was about a foot tall. He handled the situation like a pro and began shouting, "I NEED AN ADULT!! I NEED AN ADULT!!"

So of course, Makenna came running. She is fifteen. But, she completely saved the day by instantly comprehending the situation, grabbing the swimming trunks with her bare hands, running into the back yard, and throwing the trunks into the swimming pool. And shrieking. Without end.

No adults ever responded to Everett's cry of help, and we were only informed what happened well after all danger was completely over.

So, I've asked Makenna to be our babysitter from now on. We need her.

Milkathon

When I opened my refrigerator after returning from vacation, my first thought was that I had gone through a time warp and ended up back in elementary school. Then I wondered if my parents, who had stayed at my house, had become closet milkaholics. The kind of milkaholics who like to drink from tiny containers.

Then I remembered Grandpa. He simply cannot bear to see a single food item go to waste. He used to load me up with bananas that were, "perfect for banana bread," which is a nice way of putting it. He sometimes handed me a sack of apples that needed to be eaten, "probably before tomorrow would be best." One time he sent me home with no less than thirty plums.

Since he has moved into his retirement home he has a serious problem. There is so much food being served, he can't keep up. He is not hungry enough to consume it all, so he takes it to his room and sends it home with his visitors. Every time I visit him I leave with a plastic bag full of left over food, "for the dog." Not kidding.

Now it is milk. He gets a carton of it for each meal, but doesn't always drink it. He takes it to his room, places it in his refrigerator, and then worries about it. Who will drink the milk? Will it go bad before someone drinks it? Who should the milk go to? How soon will someone take this milk?

So, that is how I ended up with a refrigerator filled with small cartons of milk. Most of it expired. Got to love Grandpa!

Oh Puppy!

My puppy was naughty while we were gone on vacation. He really loves us. He really wants to spend every waking minute with us. We went away. He was mad.

My parents so generously offered to watch our puppy, and we felt so happy. We were glad that he would not have to spend a whole week in a kennel, but, rather, receive attention from two retired grandparents who are loving and kind.

He spent the week terrorizing them. He barked and howled. He sat on the furniture, which he is NOT allowed to do, with a defiant attitude. He peed on the floor. He ate a blanket. He ate a raincoat. He pooped in his crate. He tore his crate apart from within and escaped. After he ate a bird. A baby bird that was born in a nest in our backyard. A sweet little bird that we watched hatch and grow. We watched its mother feed it, and we watched it grow feathers. We watched it begin to learn to fly. Eaten. By my naughty puppy.




But when we drove into the driveway, Drake jumped out of our moving Jeep to run and tackle the naughty puppy. They wrestled and hugged, and Arrow licked Drake's face a thousand zillion times. If his tail had wagged any faster, it would have broken the sound barrier. Then he loved all over the rest of us.


Each time I drive into my driveway, I see this naughty puppy hanging his head over the side of the deck in anticipation of my return. As soon as he sees me he begins howling. He howls until I hug his neck. I love that stupid, naughty puppy.