Christmas Fire

Ah, Christmas.

Cookies and pies. Movies and games. Blizzards and family. No place to go. Hot apple cider and cocoa. Good tidings of great joy. Soft blankets. Warm fires.

Except the warm fires are usually toasty and pretty. And they are usually in a fireplace. This year our Christmas fire surprised us by happening in our electrical outlet.

Nobody was hurt. The smoke pouring out of the wall was a dead give-away that something was wrong. The horrid smell confirmed any suspicions we had.

Mike, who knew nothing about home maintenance when I married him and is now somehow a genius at it, worked his mojo on the power and took the cover off the outlet and put out the hopeful flames that were trying to dominate that space.

Like the pioneers of old, we were forced to improvise, so we made pancakes on one griddle instead of two, causing the grumbling stomachs of four teenagers no end of despair as they waited for sustenance far longer than they believed possible.

With freezing air pouring through the opened windows and a lot of Febreeze, the smell eventually dissipated. The teenagers survived until the pancakes were available; gifts were opened and appreciated.

Merry Christmas.

Fire and all.

Probably Pizza

"This day has been crazy!" I told Mike on the phone.
"I know. I've had a hard day too."
"I haven't even started cooking supper, so we will be eating late."
"I'm super hungry though."
"Yeah, the kids will be too."
"Let's just order pizza."
"Yeah!! I'll make the phone call!"

So I told my phone to find the phone number for Casey's. It did, and I called in our order. Three minutes later Mike drove into the driveway.

"You're home already?" I asked.
"I was about to drop all this brush off in our burn pile. Then I'll go get the pizza."
"I'll go with you," I said, hopping up into his huge truck while he unloaded the back.

"Pizza for Hintz," Mike told the guy at Casey's when we walked in.
"We don't have a pizza for that name."
"But I called it in half an hour ago," I explained.
"Are you sure you called this location?"
"This is the location we always go to."
"Do you know what number you dialed?"
"No. I just told my phone to find the number, and it did. That is the number I called."
"Why don't you just look on your recently called list and see what number you called?" the pizza guy suggested. "I can tell the location by the number."
"I left my phone at home."

And that began our pizza scavenger hunt around town to find our supper. It was found. It was not near our house. Or anywhere we ever go. It was cold. It was late. It was delicious.

Concert Chaos

You know it's the most wonderful time of the year when the plan for the evening is to get Emery to her orchestra concert by 5:30, watch the concert at 6, rush over to Josiah's school to watch Josiah's band concert at 7, and pick Drake up from swimming at 7:30. Because what brings more Holiday cheer than rushing from one concert to the next?

"Mom," Emery said at 5:05, "we have a problem."
"I'm not accepting problems. It's time to go."
"Well, my door locked behind me, and I'm locked out of my bedroom."
I fought down a moment of panic, and then noticed that she was already dressed. "We can deal with it when we get home since you already have your concert clothes on. Let's just leave."
"That brings me to the problem. My violin and music is in my room."

After three calming breaths, I remembered we had a pointy tool used to open locked doors. I grabbed it out of the laundry cupboard saying a prayer of thanks that I actually remembered where it was just when I needed it. I poked it into the small hole on my side of the doorknob, but nothing happened. I poked again. I poked at an angle. And another angle. Then I shoved and rammed the thing in every direction possible. Then Emery tried. The lock was not to be picked.

"There is only one solution I can think of," I told Emery. "Grab a screwdriver. We will have to take off the doorknob."

I would like to state for the record that the screws used to hold doorknobs together are long. Not just kind of long, but so long you can't believe how much time it takes to get them unscrewed. It was like they were screwed all the way into the next room. Which, I guess, technically, they were.

So another concert has come and gone, and I have a new twitch.

Oh Drake

I actually saved the printed orchestra calendar that came in the mail way back when the temperature was acceptable. And then, having learned from past December chaos, I actually planned ahead, texted the time and location to all grandparents, and told Mike to be home by 6 so we could eat dinner and be at Drake's 7:30 concert. I was cool and collected. Everything was on schedule.

And then my phone rang.

"Mom?" Drake's voice said.
"Yes? Do you need something?" I asked calmly because my schedule was running perfectly, and I had plenty of time to cook dinner and make it to the concert without breaking a sweat.
"Yeah, I forgot to tell you - my concert is at 5."
"5:00?" I shouted.
"Yes."
"5:00 tonight?" I wailed.
"Yes."
"It's 4:15 right now! And we live 20 minutes away!"
"Yeah, that's why I'm calling you now," the always unshakable Drake said in his perpetually calm
voice.
"But, the entire family is planning on showing up at 7:30. The calendar from the school says it is at 7:30."
"I guess it changed."
"Okay," I said out of breath from changing clothes with one hand. "I'll leave as soon as I get supper in the oven, and I'll call everyone on the way."
"Oh, and Mom?"
"Yes?" I huffed.
"I forgot my white dress shirt, and I need it by 4:30. Can you bring it?"
"WHAT?"
"I really need it. Sorry. I didn't know it wasn't in my bag."
"Do you even have a white dress shirt?"
"I don't know. I usually just shove all my dress clothes on the top shelf of my closest. You can look there."

And that is why my son wore a white dress shirt to his concert that was a wrinkled mess everywhere except the very front where I ironed it in 30 seconds while also applying make up. And we ate chips for supper at 9 PM.

Caterpillar Toe Jam

It gets muddy in the country. My dog doesn't mind. I do.

Because of his past behavior of terrorizing horses, trapping raccoons on neighbors porches, and eating chickens, Arrow now has to be on a leash when he is outside. It is annoying to him all of the time, but it is extremely annoying to me when I have to step through mud to get him hooked on his leash. My shoes get coated with clumps of gooey mud, and I cannot get them clean again.

Then I found the wonderful invention of hard soled slippers. I could leave them by the back door, use them to tromp through the mud, and then just slip them off when I went back inside. Brilliant.

One day though, they were extra muddy, so I left them outside by the door instead of inside by the door. They were right next to the house, so I figured they would be fine.

With not a care in the world, I held Arrow by the collar as I slipped the muddy slippers on my feet the next day and began the trek to his leash. After a step or two I felt an unspecified object in my slippers near my toes. I wiggled my toes in a scientific attempt to gather data about the unknown object. But the object, being more fragile than I reckoned, could not endure the wiggling. I felt a small pop. Then a gooey lotion coated my toes.

I let go of the dog, because who cares what he does when an unknown lotion has just coated my toes, and kicked the slippers, both just to be safe, far from me. After gathering my wits, I found the slippers and tipped them upside down. Because I just had to know.

A small family of caterpillars, minus one who was no longer solid, fell from my slippers.

I will never, ever again leave any sort of footwear outside. Never, ever. Ever.

Never.

The Iowa Way

"I'm trying to buy some straw to cover some grass seed I put down so I thought I would check to see if they sell it where we buy the chicken food," Mike whispered to me as he waited on the phone for someone at the farming supply store to answer.
"Hello?" a voice from the other end responded.
"I'm wondering if you sell straw," Mike asked.
"No, but Jim, who shops here, usually has some. Oh, he just walked in. I'll let you talk to him."
"Hello?" a loud second voice said.
"Do you sell straw?" Mike asked.
"I'm gonna have to let you talk to Charles again. I have a hearing aid and can't hear on these darn phones."
"Hello," the first voice said again.
"Can you ask Jim if he has straw for sell?" Mike asked.
"Hey Jim, do ya have any straw?" Charles shouted. "He says he does."
"Where can I get it?" Mike asked.
"Oh, it's in his barn."
"Okay. Where is his barn?"
"Well, ya take exit 70 south and turn in front of the old Imes Bridge. It's the only house on that road."
"Is there an address?"
"Hey Jim, ya got an address?"
"I ain't got no address. It's the only house."
"When will he be there so I can pick the straw up?" Mike asked.
"Oh, ya just drive your truck up to his barn. It's open. Load up how much ya want and leave the money in a jar."

And that is why raising your kids in Iowa is not such a bad idea.

Four Exclamation Points

Being a parent means living in a constant state of change. I plan, look ahead, schedule, organize, nail it down, pencil it in, wrap it up, and cover the bases. But still I had three roasts cooking when the kids called to say they would be eating at their friend's house. The next week, when they all had plans, I fixed a steak that Mike and I were sharing when they all suddenly came home asking for food in the middle of our romantic dinner.

The school nurse has seen me in my exercise clothes, still wet from a shower her call interrupted, dressed up to attend a midday ballet, and so sick I could barely made the drive to school to pick up my sick kid.

Sunday I arrived at church, talked to some friends, sang some songs, and sat down with the rest of the congregation to enjoy a half hour of bettering my soul. At that precise moment Drake and his cousin were downtown sending a text stating that instead of picking them up at noon I should pick them up now. I stood up and walked out in front of everybody. 

"I'm here," I texted Drake as I parked my car.

"Be down in 5," he texted back.

"Ok," I texted as I opened my Facebook app to pass some time while I waited.

"I love you!!!!" he texted me out of the blue with no prompting from anyone. With four exclamation points. Four. 

Constant state of change - worth it.

43

I turned 43 yesterday. My son, Josiah, gave me an extra squeezy hug and my son, Drake, gave me the highest of fives. I got some nice cards, including one from my grandma that was left completely blank inside.
"My cousin, Debbie, made that card," my mom told me.
"Grandma, you forgot to write inside the card," I said, showing it to my grandma.
"What?" That is always her first response.
"You forgot to write inside the card you gave me."
Then she stared me down, and I lost.
"It's pretty though. Debbie made it." I said to let her off the hook.
"Debbie made what?"
"This card," I said, showing it to her again.
"Oh, that's a pretty card."

 And that is when I learned that Grandma's ways are beyond me and not to be questioned.

The Mystery of Girls

During a game in which the boys were asked questions that, typically, girls would know the answers to and girls were asked questions that boys would know the answers to, the boys received this question: "During which season is it traditionally unacceptable to wear white shoes?"
"Why would it matter what color your shoes are?" Drake asked. "That's just crazy."
"That's a real thing?" Mike asked. "There's really a season when you can't wear white shoes?"
"It wouldn't be winter," Josiah stated, "because white shoes would match the white snow. That has to be allowed."
"Maybe summer," Drake suggested, "because you might step in mud and they would get dirty."
"Oh! It has to be either fall or spring because that is when it rains most and they would get the dirtiest," Josiah agreed.
"Let's go with spring," Mike suggested. "I think that is when it is the muddiest outside."
"The answer," Makenna announced, reading the back of the card in her hand, "is from Labor Day until Memorial Day."
"What?" they all sputtered together.
"That isn't a season!" Josiah shouted.
"Would that be winter?" Drake asked.
"No," Mike answered. "It's technically part of all the seasons."
"It's just traditional," I tried to explain, "to only wear white when it is warm."
"That's not a season!" Drake stated.
"I will never understand girls," Josiah said.

I kind of see their point.

Kitty Love

"I'm going to get some kittens to keep the mice away," I told Mike at the beginning of summer.
"I hate cats."
"I hate mice."
"I can see how this will end. Just please keep them away from me."
"They will be outside cats. You won't even know they live here."
"I hate cats."

So imagine my surprise when I walk into my front yard and see my cat-hating husband snuggled up in the grass with my kitten. I'm not calling my husband a softie. Not out loud so he can hear it, anyway.

To be fair, that kitten is irresistible. 

Wow Internet

"I didn't know my personal, private card that I gave you for our anniversary would end up on the internet," Mike said.
"Well, you'll have to be more of a jerk if you don't want stuff like that to happen."
"I already tried that. I still ended up on the internet."
"Good point. I guess it's your destiny."
"What other things that I do are going to show up on the internet?" he asked.
"Probably this," I told him as we steered our car through the maze of rural southern Illinois backroads. "How do we know this guy isn't some serial killer?"
"He seemed really nice on the phone," Mike confidently assured me.

Finally, around 11 PM, we found the remote location of the man Mike had located earlier that morning when he scoured Craigslist postings from the cities and towns along our route home from Nashville to Des Moines.

He wasn't a serial killer.

He was, in fact, super nice. He sold Mike the banjo of his dreams and spent the next hour showing Mike how to play. His surprisingly young wife and I made friendly chit chat, and I found her delightful. I was mesmerized by her horn rimmed glasses and bouffant hairdo. We all exchanged phone numbers and promised to keep in touch.

We left with an old banjo and some new friends.

Wow Internet. Wow.

Lucky

On our first wedding anniversary, we bought each other expensive, frivolous gifts and went out to eat at a restaurant we couldn't afford in fancy clothes we borrowed.

On our fifth anniversary we attended the ballet.

On our tenth we splurged for a night in a fancy hotel.

On our fifteenth we were in a marriage crisis and barely smiled.

On our twentieth we told God thank you for the miracle of saving our family, bought each other expensive, frivolous gifts and went out to eat at a restaurant we couldn't afford in fancy clothes that we should have borrowed but didn't.  

Friday we celebrated our twenty-second anniversary. By now we have actually had a chance to experience all those things you say in your vows. We have had and held from that day forward for better and for worse. We have been through sickness and health. We did richer and poorer. And then much poorer. We were clumsy about it, and we took a crooked path to get where we are.

To celebrate I bought my husband a wok the size of a bathtub because we regularly cook for a small army of teenagers. He bought me a DVD player because our dog ate the remote to our last one. We went out to eat at an affordable restaurant and returned home to find our house full of teenagers who wanted to join us in watching the romantic movie we rented.

Just when I thought it couldn't get better, Mike handed me a beautiful and sentimental card that sent love ripples through my heart.

Perfect.

Voice Mail Woes

Drake told me that he was thinking about joining the wrestling team for school this year. As I was sitting in the carpool lane to pick him up from school, I thought it would be smart to call the school and find out when wrestling started. I called, and the front office transferred me to the head coach's voice mail.

Drake and his friends entered the car at the exact moment the beep to leave a message sounded in mygreet the kids after not seeing them all day voice I use when I see them.
ear. Somehow, the two experiences combined in my head, and I began talking into the phone in the

"Hey!" I said, overly friendly. "This is Sharla!" As if we were old friends instead of complete strangers. Rattled, I continued. "My son, Drake Hintz, who is a sophomore this year, is interested in Wendy."
"What?" Drake asked from the back seat.
"Who is Wendy?" his friends asked.
"I don't even know a Wendy!" Drake said.
"NO!" I shouted at the voice mail. "Not Wendy! Wrestling! He is interested in wrestling."
And then, fearing further action, I hung up.

"Well, Son," I said to his red-faced reflection in my rearview mirror, "I've done all I can do."

Mile High Bed

Twenty-two years ago, when Mike and I were first married, my parents said that they were throwing away their lumpy, old, horrible mattress. Being broke newlyweds, we told them that lumpy, old, and horrible sounded free to us so we would take their mattress.

Two months ago we decided that it was finally time to purchase a nice mattress for our middle-aged backs. Memory foam is all the rage these days, so we forked over the much-more-than-expected money and proudly hauled the heavy thing home. The next morning we smiled at each other in silence and stiffly limped about our breakfast ritual. Six days later we were watching TV well past our normal bedtime.

"Is there anything else you want to watch?" I asked when the late-night show ended.
"No," Mike moaned.
"I guess we should go to bed," I sighed.
"I can't!" Mike fairly shouted. "I just can't take it! I hate that mattress!"
"Thank God! I hate it so much!"
"We will return it tomorrow."
I put our old 4 inch mattress topper on the horrid memory foam, and we slept uncomfortably, but peacefully knowing it would be the last night we had to endure such sleeping conditions.

We overstayed our welcome at the mattress store the next day. The store offered only one chance to exchange the hated memory foam for something else, and we wanted to make sure we made the right choice. We finally settled on one, and, even though we had to pay extra, we smiled knowing it couldn't be worse.

"Did that mattress look super tall to you?" Mike asked over the phone the next day.
"No. Why?"
"I just dropped it off at home, and the pillow top on it is so big you can hardly see the headboard anymore."
"Well, at least it should be nice to sleep on!" I said, looking forward to finally sleeping soundly.

The next morning we smiled at each other in silence and stiffly limped about our breakfast ritual. Six nights later we stood silently by the bed, hanging our heads in dread, as we were about to climb in for the night.

"I can't do it!" I fairly shouted. "Thanks for buying such a nice new mattress for us, but I just hate it!"
"Thank God! I hate it so much!"

I dragged out our old 4 inch mattress topper and piled it on the mattress. Since the new height of the mattress was well above my belly button, Mike had to climb in first and then pull me up.

And that is why our fancy, new mattress is leaning against a wall while we sleep soundly on the lumpy, old mattress we know and love.

Text Pranks

I clearly have a texting problem. I have embarrassed myself countless times through the medium of text. It was already a problem. I didn't need any further help in order to eventually text myself into hiding. But my husband has discovered a way to make my problem even worse.

Apparently our smart phones have assimilated each of us into a collective in which actions done to one phone also take place on the other phones in the family. Resistance is futile. 

Mike discovered a way, which is complicated and outside of my grasp of understanding, to make certain words auto correct to other words when they are typed. When he makes this change on his phone, each phone in our family suffers the consequences. He decided it would be hilarious to "booby trap" words we use often. He does it randomly and without telling us it will happen so we never are able to protect ourselves. 

The first one he changed was "ok." A tiny, innocent phrase, "ok" suddenly became, "I went poo poo in my pants." This little phrase is apparently used by each of us more than might be expected. We have each fallen prey to this prank. We have sent it to many people, but Drake suffered the worst when he sent it to his boss. 

Then "Drake" became "Mr. Stinkerpants." This one trips me up most often. I have sent questions about "Mr. Stinkerpants" to almost everyone who knows me. 

Then "me" turned into "aliens." While funny, if Big Brother is listening in, I may soon end up imprisoned in a bunker below ground somewhere in Nevada due to all my activity with aliens. 

Just when I trained myself to type "okay" instead of "ok" to avoid the embarrassing poo poo auto correct, my son, Drake, who is too smart for my own good, changed "okay" to "no." That will confuse people.

My family, who knows me well, should understand that I am a danger to myself already. I don't need their help to complicate things. 

Old Man Mug

I set a challenge for myself awhile back. I wanted to learn to like coffee. I felt left out of the coffee hype, and I hate being left out.

For the last nine months I have had coffee every day. I vowed to only drink it black, so I never monkey around with it by adding cream or sugar. I still do not love it, but I do admit to a sense of satisfaction when I drink it. It is calming and comforting.

During this process, I have discovered some things:
1. Coffee gives you bad breath.
2. Coffee makes you crave a sweet dessert.
3. Brewing coffee makes the house smell comfortable.
4. When I make coffee, people start smiling.
5. Coffee is best when drank from an old man mug.

I had several mugs from my tea drinking days. However, when I made the switch to coffee, these mugs

just didn't satisfy me. I found myself reaching time and time again to a cheap mug I had purchased on a whim while at Dollar Tree. It felt right. I decided the reason the mugs felt right was that they were cheap and simple, like a group of old men might use while drinking their coffee black.

Thus began my obsession. I have been to nearly every Dollar Tree within reasonable driving distance in order to collect each old man mug Dollar Tree sells. I have five mugs now.

I think choosing the right mug might be the most important part of my coffee drinking. 

Too Bad

"You know what is too bad about me?" I asked Mike as we left the house on a rare opportunity to spend the evening doing whatever we wanted to do.
"This sounds like a trick question," he answered.
"With our location and our huge front yard, I could grow plants and sell them. I could probably run a very successful greenhouse."
"How is this bad?"
"I don't like to grow stuff. That is what is too bad about me."
"So you brought this whole conversation up just to let me know how you could be making us a lot of money but you aren't?"
"I guess that is another thing that is too bad about me."

"Don't forget about the parents meeting this Tuesday," I told Mike later that evening.
"I didn't know about a parents meeting,"Mike said.
"I told you about it on Sunday."
"I don't think you did."
"Yes, I did. I remember the exact conversation word for word. You were wearing your blue shirt and we were at HyVee in the dairy section."
"You know what is too bad about you?"

I think I'm going to regret bringing that phrase into our life.

Naughty Dogs and Dream Jobs

My dog was made to pull a sled through snow. So he has a pretty easy go of it when he runs through fields of hay. Out in the country, people let their dogs run loose. We did that until he caused trouble. There was the fact that he looks like a wolf and scares small children when he tries to hug them. There was also the time he trapped a raccoon on our neighbors porch at 3AM and woke their household with
his proud barks. Then there was the time he killed some of the neighbor's chickens. That time did it. We bought some heavy duty cable, and now Arrow spends his days straining and tugging against the cable. He lives at the edge of his leash.

Then he figured out how to bust out of his collar. He must have been thrilled at his new freedom and ran like the dickens with the wind plastering his ears to his head. He must have sniffed out the water in the nearby creek and sprinted his way through the forest behind our pond. When he infiltrated the horse farm, he must have thought to himself, "What glorious creatures I see! I should play with them!" He crouched, tail wagging, and, when the horse finally noticed my puny dog, Arrow pounced. Horses don't like pouncing dogs.

I got a phone call and arrived at the farm minutes later. I hung my head in apology as I introduced myself to the lady who could have but did not shoot my dog.
"He's such a nice dog," she said, "but he scares my horses and it's dangerous for both of them." I couldn't apologize enough as I took note of her beautiful farm. Three gorgeous horses held me in their lazy eyes as they nibbled on hay in the sun.

"My daughter would love to come see your farm," I told her. "She loves horses."
"I always need help around here. Is she looking for a job?"

And that is how my naughty dog got Emery the job of her dreams. 

Chicken Crazies

It is my personal belief that owning and raising chickens should not turn us into raving lunatics.

We knew when we filled our chicken coop with over twenty living chickens that we were embarking upon a journey that would stretch and challenge us. We knew we might need to do things we had never considered doing before. Things like frequent the feed store or save our table scraps.

I didn't really foresee the necessity of "removing" certain chickens. Apparently they can go nuts. When a chicken goes nuts, it tends to believe it is continually laying an egg. It sits in it's nesting box just waiting for that egg. But the egg never comes.

Unfortunately, when this happens, all the other chickens find it disturbing. They find it so disturbing, in fact, that as a group they all go on egg production strike. No eggs are laid until the sad, crazy chicken is gone.

I refused to be a part of this removal process. My husband undertook the job and removed the chicken. By that, I mean he removed the chicken's head from the rest of it's body.

It is my personal belief that when a man must, for the sake of his family, undertake head removing jobs, he should most definitely not place the headless chicken in the deep freeze for his wife to unsuspectingly find when forging for food.

NOT NICE.

100 Shades of Green

Mike and I looked at each other across the kitchen about 5:00 PM last Saturday night and realized something. We were alone. All the kids had returned from work, showered, shoveled food into their mouths, and, in a flurry of flying outfit changes, left the house to meet up with their friends.

We seized the moment to have an impromptu date. Since the weather was gorgeous, we decided to see the Iowa countryside atop the Harley Davidson. And I have to say that some cosmic event planner deserves a standing ovation because we happened upon Winterset on bike night. We poured into town with hundreds of other motorcycles and parked in the Harley section like that was what we intended all along.

We were told the Northside Diner was the place to eat, but when I entered a very average looking diner, my expectations plummeted. At the first bite of fried cheese curd, the restaurant totally redeemed itself. I ordered an avocado sandwich, and my mouth felt like it had won the lottery.

Then we strolled around Winterset enjoying the biker crowd and the small town feel. I bought a Harley Davidson t-shirt, and then Mike suggested we ride the motorcycle along the country roads before the sun set. I think he feared a shopping spree.

There aren't many things that can compare with the colors that Iowa produces in the summertime. I think I saw a hundred shades of green that night. When I'm surrounded by tree farms, corn fields, ponds, and prairies, I like to breath as much as I can. I breathe deep and often, and it feels as if my lungs are throwing a party.

We returned home to piles of laundry, dirty dishes in the sink, and about a hundred text messages from the kids asking if their friends could spend the night, could we pick them up and supply them with pizza.

And it struck me. Right now is the good 'ol days. 

I Feel Better Now

You know how nice people notice the things that might embarrass someone and then pretend to have that same struggle so the other person feels better? Like when you trip and then someone else mentions how they nearly tripped over the same thing? My husband did that for me.

When I attempted to mow for him as a surprise and, instead, I crashed the mower into the go-kart damaging both, I felt bad. But then Mike totally redeemed me!

"I need the keys to the truck!" Mike hollared at me as I sat in the grass playing with the new kittens whose adorableness I find very distracting.
"What's wrong?" I asked, alarmed at his urgency.
"The mower is in the pond!"
"What? How did that happen?"
"I was mowing on the bank and just got too close I guess. It started to slide, and I couldn't do anything to stop it." He tore off in the truck not even bothering with the driveway, but just driving straight over the grass toward the pond in the backyard.

And it worked. I do feel a lot better about my mowing fiasco now.

Walmart Talk

I am not making this story up. I wish I were.

When my kids prepare to go to camp, a serious Walmart trip is necessary. Which is why I was pushing my loaded cart down the shampoo isle scanning the shelves for small, camp-sized bottles of Prell. I passed a woman in a Walmart uniform as she loaded conditioner onto the shelves, and I steered my cart to the side of the aisle.

"Excuse me," a deep, male voice behind me addressed the conditioner stocker, "where would I find the Preparation H?"
"Triste," she said in her heavily accented voice, "que?"
"Preparation H," he said louder. "Where is it?"
"Um," she hesitated, "I no understand. So sorry. What is it?"
"Preparation H," he enunciated slowly.
"No hablan. I not hear of this thing. What is it to be used for?"
AND THEN HE TOLD HER.
And I was wishing that I also could not understand English.

Seriously, are there cameras around recording this stuff?
BECAUSE THIS IS NOT NORMAL.

Boys About Girls

Vacations are fun and exciting, but what I really love are the conversations that happen after spending countless hours together. One such conversation happened during a game of Battle of the Sexes on our last night in Mexico. The girls drew a card and asked the boys the question written on it: How does a girl stop a run in her pantyhose? The boys discussed this question at length and came up with many possible solutions including: cutting the legs off and having pantyshorts, using a blowtorch to melt the fibers together, and covering the spot with duct tape.

"No," I told them, "the correct answer is to paint clear nail polish around the area."
"What?" Drake yelled. "That is ridiculous!"
I smiled thinking he was surprised that it was a good idea to purposefully put nail polish on clothing.
"That's crazy," he continued. "Who in the world would have such a thing as clear nail polish?"
"Yeah," Josiah agreed. "Whats the purpose of clear nail polish?"
"It would be for people who just like the feeling of paining their nails but don't want them to actually look any different," Drake laughed.
"Yeah," Josiah added, "they would sit and paint their nails and then show all their friends how they looked exactly the same as before they started."
"Look!" Drake mimicked in a girly voice, "I just spent the afternoon painting my nails and you can't even tell because the polish is CLEAR!"
"What a waste!" Josiah agreed. "Nobody would do that!"

And I have to admit, their logic was actually pretty solid.

Nature Channel Living

I'm not a cat person. Never have been. Which is why I cannot explain the collection of kittens I now have.

I had a cat named Fred when I was in college. Even though I had never loved cats, I loved him because he could fly through the air and land in my face as I opened the front door. That's cool. 
After Fred, I said goodbye to cats. I had had one cat, which was much more than I had ever wanted.

Recently, though, some mice came into my house. Cats are better than mice, so we decided to get a kitten. What took me by surprise, though, was how utterly adorable kittens are. They can jump straight into the air from a sitting position all because of a tiny noise. And when they want to be scary, they fluff their tail, stomp their itty bitty paws, and make a hissing noise. They think they are fierce, but they are just really hilarious.

So I took two. And then I took another one. Then another.

Yes, I have four kittens.

Please stop me.

And then my son said something terrifying, "Mom, don't freak out." When you tell a person not to freak out, that pretty much guarantees that they will freak out. And then something astounding happened. Josiah tiptoed to the garage, grabbed a kitten, and put it in my living room. Then, that small, adorable kitty moved faster than my eyes could really keep up with. It did something that looked a lot like ninja wrestling a horrible rodent until that rodent was gone.


In my living room. Where I do my living. Not my naturing.

Then that fluffy kitty began to play with a towel in an adorable fashion that would make you think she had not just swallowed a mouse.

I stood transfixed, torn between total disgust and amazed wonder. I can't decide if she is more disgusting creature or brave champion.

But I have four of them. 

Why Not?

"Mom, can we ride the go-kart in the grass?"

"Why not? We live in the country." Who needs a perfect yard out in the country anyway?

"Mom, can I raise chickens and sell their eggs?" 

"Why not? We live in the country." Fresh, homegrown food is one of the most obvious reasons for living in the county.

"Mom, can we explode cans of deodorant in our bonfire?" 

"Why not? We live in the country." Nothing is close enough to be damaged.

"Mom, can my friends park their cars in our front yard?"

"Why not? We live in the country." The neighbors won't complain, like they did at our last house.

"Why not? We live in the country?"

It has become my motto.

So, when I adopted two tiny kitties it was no big deal because we live in the country. There was a black boy and a gray girl, and I thought they would make adorable black and gray kittens when they grew up. Part of life in the country is things like litters of kittens, and I was excited for my kids to experience that. But then the black one died, and it was tragic for us all. We had fallen in love with him. The tears were flowing freely, and parents do crazy things when that happens. 

"My sister's cat had kittens that are about 7 weeks old," Mike told me, holding the phone away from his face.

"Ask her if she has any we could have," I told him, anxious to stop the flow of tears in our house.

"She says she has two left that aren't spoken for. Do you want two?"

"Why not? We live in the country."

So the tears stopped and two orange kittens joined Koda, the gray kitten. But I worried that orange and and gray cats would make ugly kittens. I want my kids to experience a litter of kittens, but then I want to give them all away. So they have to be cute.

"I found a black male kitten for free," Lori, my sister-in-law told me. "Should we go get it?"

"Why not? We live in the country."

So we brought home an adorable black boy kitten to make beautiful kittens with Koda. We loved him instantly.

"Remind me again why we have four kittens?" Mike said.

"The two orange ones are because we were sad when the black kitten died. And the new black one is to have cute kittens with Koda."

"But he won't have kittens with Koda," Mike argued.

"Why not? They are from different litters so they're not related."

"That's not the problem. The problem is mostly that Koda is a boy."

"WHAT????"

Now we need a gray female.

Father's Day?

My husband is the world's most  excellent gift giver. For Mother's Day he transferred all of our old home videos to DVD and made a new video of the kids reminiscing about some of their favorite memories and inserted the corresponding video footage. It was thoughtful and time-consuming. It was sweet and meaningful. Oh, and he also gave me a trip to California with Mumford and Sons concert tickets. How can I compete with that?

Not brilliantly.

I searched the recesses of my brain for a great Father's Day gift idea for him, and, after hours of agonizing and fretting, I came up with an idea. I decided to do his to-do list. I decided to do one thing each day of the week prior to Father's Day.

On day one I cleaned the garage, which he always does because I do not want to.

On day two I returned the recycling, which he always does because it is gross.

Day three. Let's talk about day three.

Mowing is a big job around our house. We have seven acres of green, healthy grass. It grows
constantly. Mike always mows because it is sweaty. I decided to mow for him. I had to call Josiah twice just to figure out how to get the riding lawn mower to turn on. Josiah was very helpful, but he neglected to mention that our lawn mower was not a simple riding machine, but, instead, a tractor of fury.

The power of the tractor took me by surprise. Instead of easing into relaxing chore, I tore out of the shed like a tornado. I realized in a split second that, due to my lack of knowing what was going on, I would most certainly crash. Such knowledge is terrifying, and it sent me into a non-responsive panic. I'm not sure how, but I ended up going in reverse at a terrifying speed. I barreled into a couple trees, luckily avoided the garden, and was finally stopped with a loud crashing and screeching noise, which ended up being the go-kart.

Happy Father's Day...?

I wonder how soon Mike can get around to fixing that go-kart. 

The Flap

I am deathly afraid of our chickens.

I know. They can't hurt you. They aren't dangerous. They are nice. I know. But they terrify me.

It's the flap. They flap their wings suddenly and unexpectedly. And their wings are huge and likely to flap in my face. Therefore, I never go near them. Emery takes care of all their needs, and I avoid them.

"You're not going to like this," Mike said over the phone one glorious afternoon a few weeks ago.
"What's up?"
"The guy is coming to spray for dandelions, and the chickens have to be put into the coop. The chemicals can kill them."
"So are we getting Emery out of school so she can come home and do that?"
"He is on his way right now."

I looked around the empty house and wondered why in the world we didn't homeschool our kids just so one of them would be home at all times for emergencies like this one. With great trepidation, I climbed into the chicken pen and began telling twenty-seven hens to please hurry into their coop. That was ineffective. Then I began to shoo them. But they gave me the crazy eye and easily side-stepped me to pursue their freedom. I yelled at them. I commanded them. I ran at them. I roared at them. It was terrifying. For me.

Finally, with a groan and some tears, I accepted that I would have to catch them.

Catching them, though, is nearly impossible. They can't fly, but it seems as if they can. My strategy was to pick one and chase it into a corner. Then I would grab it, but it pulled out it's secret weapon - the flap. It would flap, and I was undone. Wings in my face, feathers in the air, but no chicken in my hands. I ran a marathon in that pen, and still only managed to catch a few. I roared at the sky and pulled on my hair. I was a tear-streaked, mud-covered mess.

The weed guy had probably never encountered a more distraught homeowner.

Stupid school.

Silent P

"Did you know the word pneumonia starts with a P?" Drake asked as we sat at the table eating supper.
"It is a silent P," I explained.
"P's aren't silent," Drake argued. "Pneumonia can't start with a P. It has to be an N."
"It does start with a P," Josiah answered.
"A P?" Drake asked, incredulous.
"Yes," Josiah confirmed.
"A P? As in pop?"
"No," Josiah explained. "A P as in pterodactyl."

It's A Thing

"Guess what Emery wants to do for her birthday," Mike told me.
"Go to a movie?" I guessed.
"She wants to go to a chicken auction and buy some chickens."
"Chicken auction? That's a thing?"

Apparently that's a thing.

And now we have 27 fancy chickens.

As the chickens were making themselves at home, I tried to figure out just when I had lost all control. I decided it was 17 years ago when the doctor said, "You're now a mom."

Worth it.

Thirteen

My sweet daughter is about to turn thirteen. She is my baby and has no right becoming a teenager. I am quite upset by this.

In spite of my anger, I asked her to write down a few things she might want as presents. Here is her list:  macaroni, 2% milk, socks, fix the broken window in my room, lotion, crackers, Mt. Dew, fruit roll ups, candy, beef jerky.

If your daughter's birthday list looks like a normal grocery list, I believe you can rest assured that she is not spoiled.

And you begin to question past birthdays. 

Kitty Eyes

I am not cut out for country life. It becomes very clear about this time of year. I love the fresh air, bright stars, silent evenings, and vast, empty fields of the greenest grass to ever grow. I do not like the mice who believe my house is ideal for them.

Country mice are bold. They will enter by any means possible. One even ran in through the front door along with my son as he returned home from school. In the bright daylight! In front of my eyes!

So it has been decided that we need a cat. Not one of those spoiled indoor cats who shed on you and demand their way, but an outdoor cat who never smells up the house and spends all of her time catching country mice.

Some very helpful friends told us that their cat just had kittens and we could have one as our mouse bouncer. So we innocently drove to their house and asked politely to see the mice catchers. We had no idea the tiny creatures were overwhelmingly adorable. Their cuteness overpowered me, and I grew giddy. I considered how hard it would be to leave such a delightful creature outside. I wondered if we would be able to stand strong against it's charm. I just couldn't bear to bring one home. I brought two home.

But they are definitely living outside. We did create a small bed and play area for them in our garage until they get big enough to defend themselves. But we will not bring them inside under any circumstance. Well, unless they need a bath. Which they did. Seven times. But then it was straight back out to the garage with them. They will definitely not be inside again. Unless they look at me with their irresistible kitty eyes. Then maybe they can come in for a bit just to feel safe. And maybe to snuggle a little. And play with string because how is it possible to be so cute while playing with string?

I guess I'm just cut out for country life.

Just Stop

The Hintz family has had a rough week. Instead of attending her prom, Makenna had her wisdom teeth pulled. Her face swelled up like a helium balloon, and she threw up for two days straight. Then she had to be treated for dry sockets, which is the worst thing I've ever watched happen.

Josiah broke his hand during a rugby game and is out for the rest of the rugby season. That doesn't bother him nearly as much as not being able to drum until his cast is off. The boy who drums on the countertop, his dinner plate, and when all drummable surfaces have been removed, his chest, is no longer able to drum. He may explode.

Even more disconcerting though, I have to write his homework for him. His handwriting is barely legible under the best of circumstances, so having him write with his left hand is laughable. I now get to spend my evenings drawing wavy physics graphs, writing in Latin, and writing complicated trig equations. I don't understand a single thing.

Hoping the madness was settling down, I went to the gym and enjoyed a stress reducing workout after all the kids left for school. When I was done, I noticed I had a text on my phone. It was from Josiah, which is not a good sign since he was at school. I unlocked my phone and read, "The plastic part of my headphone came off in my ear and I can't get it out."

I have just one thing to say to my kids.

STOP IT.

Hemi

My husband sent me to the auto store to pick up an air filter for my Jeep. I walked in confidently with my daughter and tried to pretend that I knew my way around. I saw a sign that said, "Filters," so I felt sure that my shopping experience would be short and painless. However, although the boxes stretched to the ceiling and down the length of the aisle, they all stated that they were specifically oil filters, not air filters.

Humbled, I approached the front counter and faced the large, sour-faced man guarding the cash register.

"Whaddya need?" he asked, and from his tone I could tell that I had interrupted some very important activity he had been doing. He was probably just about to set a new record for standing in one spot.
"I need an air filter. Are they with the oil filters somewhere?"
"I have to look it up," he grunted, and moved reluctantly from his record-setting spot to the computer. "What's the make and model of your car?"
"Jeep Commander, 2007," I answered, proud that I knew the information.
"What's the motor size?" He asked and yawned at the same time.
"Motor size?" I panicked and searched my mind for the knowledge. I begged the recesses of my brain to dig deep and find the motor size quickly.
"Motor size," he restated.
"Um," I deflated, "is there a way I would know that? Like, does it say it somewhere in the Jeep?"
"I'll have to pop the hood and take a look," he growled with a roll of his eyes.

We walked to the Jeep, and I spent the journey begging God to infuse me with knowledge on how to pop the hood with confidence. He waited at the front, unwilling to waste extra steps, while I took Emery with me to the driver's door and quickly found the lever with a picture of an open hood on it. Thankfully, I did the trick right, and the motor size was quickly discovered. Grumpy man waddled back to the computer and entered the unearthed information.

"Oh!" he said, staring at the computer screen. "You have a hemi."
"Yes, I do," I answered because I had seen that word on the back of my Jeep as I loaded groceries.
"A hemi," he nodded and raised one eyebrow. He looked out the window at my Jeep, and then he gave me a thumbs up.

I gave him my credit card, and he chit-chatted with a smile as the computer settled my bill. He waved to me and winked at Emery as we exited the store.

"What is a hemi?" Emery asked I started the Jeep.
"Apparently it is something that makes you awesome."

Later that same day I dropped my iphone in water. "It was completely submerged," I told Emery, "and look - it is still working!"
She looked at my phone, tested some of the apps, nodded, handed it back and said, "Maybe it has a hemi."

Farm Folk

It happened. We are farm folk.

I apparently lost all control awhile back, and now baby chickens live in my bathroom. We started with 10, but now we have 9 because we also have a chicken-loving husky. I'm not sure how it happened, but I'm pretty sure this wasn't my idea.

Nine baby chicks in my bathroom wasn't enough though, so my husband decided to build a chicken coop. I thought he was going to build a small, safe place for the baby chicks to live. What he did instead, though, is built a mammoth chicken mansion and filled it with grown-up, pecking, clucking chickens.

"Well," I sighed when I saw it, "at least the baby chicks will finally be out of my bathroom, and I can stop guarding them from Arrow all the time."
"Oh," he mumbled, "actually the baby chicks can't live out here."
"They can't?"
"No. The big ones will end up killing the little ones if we mix them."
"So, where are they going to live?"

They are in my bathroom. I'm guarding them.

Sense of Humor

Some families go to exciting, exotic places for spring break. We went to the Ozarks in Missouri where it rained and snowed the entire time. We chose to go there because it was cheap. For obvious reasons. During those four days we watched more movies and played more games than we will from now till Christmas.

After a particularly rowdy card game one evening, Emery was staring at me as if she was trying to solve a mystery.

"Is something wrong, Honey?" I asked, smoothing her golden hair.

"You were really funny tonight," she answered, bewildered.

"Um, thanks?" 

"No, it's just that you were really funny."

"Um, thank you?" 

"I've just never really thought you were funny."

"Maybe you just don't get my humor sometimes."

"People have always told me that you are really funny," she explained, "but I have always thought that they must have a really dull sense of humor."

Thanks for making that perfectly clear, Sweet Honey Child.

Love Eggs

Saturday my church sponsored the Special Egg Event. It was a customized Easter egg hunt for kids with special needs. Kids who were unable to walk were able to use a wand with a magnet on the end to pick up magnetized eggs all by themselves. Kids who were unable to see were able to use their sense of hearing to find eggs that were beeping. There was a quiet egg hunt for kids who were anxious about noise and commotion. There was a general egg hunt for kids who could do it all just fine, but just didn't want to compete against kids who were quicker.

We were able to have the event at Drake Stadium, so there was plenty of room for the 1000 plus people who turned out, and, thankfully, the rain decided to come again another day. As a bonus, Famous Daves fed everybody, Blank Park Zoo set up a petting zoo, the Easter Bunny was available for pictures, crafts were available, and Mrs. Iowa spent time loving on kids.

One time I spent my afternoon getting a pedicure. I loved it and felt great when I got home, but by the next day I had lost that lovin' feeling. Saturday I stood on concrete loading meat onto buns, and when I got home I was tired and teary-eyed. And I thought to myself, "That was a day I will remember till I die."

The Special Egg Event wasn't only special because it was for kids with special needs, it was special because it was an honor to be a part of it.

Butt Water

The garlic bread was a dark shade of midnight, the oven had not preheated, and the washing machine had sprung a leak squirting soapy water all over the floor of the mudroom and kitchen when I finally took a moment to race to the upstairs computer and proofread a paper Josiah needed to email to his teacher by 6:00.

"Josiah," I vaguely heard Drake say as I concentrated on capitalization, "did you use my towel?"
"Maybe. I don't remember," Josiah answered.
"Don't use my towel," Drake told him.
"Why not?"
"I use it a couple of times before I put it in the wash, and I don't want to use it if you have used it too."
"It's not a big deal. I'm clean when I get out of the shower, so it shouldn't matter if you use it after me."
"I think it is a big deal, and I don't want you to use my towel," Drake said.

"Well, I think it isn't a big deal."
"Well, it is my towel, so don't use it."
"Josiah," I spoke over my shoulder after deciding that Josiah's logic in declaring that The Enlightenment was only somewhat enlightened needed a little tweaking, "don't use Drake's towel." Thinking my statement would shut down the argument that was brewing, I returned to the essay to insert some badly needed commas.

"I probably will," Josiah whispered just loud enough for the sound to penetrate my proofreading trance.
"Josiah!" I spun around, abandoning the proofreading and glaring at him with my frazzled mother stare. "I don't want you to use Drake's towel. Why is this an issue to you?"
"Well, I just think you guys are overreacting."
"Overreacting?" I took one deep calming breath. Then I launched. "Well, Mister, I'm not overreacting. It is hygienic. Don't use other people's towels. Hopefully you are clean when you get out of the shower, but you still use the towel to clean all your gross parts. And that water gets onto the towel. Drake doesn't want to use a towel that is full of your butt water. And you shouldn't use a towel full of his butt water."
"She said butt water," Josiah told Drake.
"You did, Mom," Drake laughed. "You said butt water."

They didn't stop laughing for a long, long time.

I sometimes work against myself. 

The Alternate Me

Sometimes, when I am home alone, I put on some classical music and take a long, hot shower. Then I contemplate which elegant dress I should wear to my dinner reservations, and I pretend that I know which wine to pair with dessert.

Then I laugh and laugh, pull on my son's sweatpants and attempt to take pictures of my hyperactive dog. After looking at the picture it becomes clear that, not only am I NOT dining at a fancy restaurant, my choice in outfit is apparently an attempt to offend the visual senses of anyone who isn't colorblind.

Maybe that IS why I'm not taken to many fancy restaurants. I believe that I should pay closer attention when dressing.

But I probably won't.

Dog Digs Dirt

Since chickengate, Arrow has had to be chained up. This comforts the neighbors but tortures my dog. And it tortures me because Arrow likes to dig. He digs like he is trying to get to China. This makes him a muddy mess and pretty much guarantees that I will accomplish almost nothing except to sweep up dirt.

One day it was wet and muddy, and I just couldn't deal with another muddy mess. So I made Arrow stay inside almost all day. He has too much energy to be inside all day. He ping-ponged around driving himself and me crazy.

I wrestled with him, chased him, threw a ball for him to catch, and I sweat more than I ever wanted to. Finally, he settled down, so I seized the opportunity to get some housework done.  

But what I thought was the glorious silence of a dog taking a nap, was actually the silence of a dog being very naughty. Because he found more dirt. It didn't matter to him that the dirt was in a pretty pot or helping to grow a pretty green plant. 

So Arrow got booted back outside for better or for worse. I feel guilty and he feels sad. Unless it snows. Then he feels deliriously happy. He plays with it, tries to eat the falling snow right out of the air, rolls in it, and naps in it like it is a comfy bed. It makes us all happy.

Chickengate

No amount of squeaky toys or tennis balls can persuade my dog to stay away from chewing items I consider completely off limits. He chews things that cause me to run away screaming.

When we moved to the country this behavior elevated. Not only did it happen more often, it got strange. One time I found him with a fish in his mouth. Another time it was the entire hindquarter of a deer. Then, months later, a rack of antlers.

My grandpa used to tell me a really gross story about a sly fox finding a chicken and consuming it voraciously leaving blood and feathers everywhere so that he could take a nice long nap. My grandpa was right. I think that fox is my dog.

My neighbor called and said something like, "Your BLEEP dog BLEEP BLEEP my chickens BLEEP dead chickens BLEEP BLEEP blood and feathers everywhere." Not a proud moment for us. Since we were out of town, my cousin had to go pick my bad dog up from my angry neighbor. He said it was hard to defend Arrow because there were feathers sticking out of his fur at all angles. A lot of feathers. It was as if he was planning on attending a costume party and wanted to dress as a chicken.

Not a proud moment.