Story Lady Blog

A few weeks ago, I attended a funeral. It was for my grandmother’s sister -Aunt Sis, as we affectionately called her.

If you want to talk about living, REALLY living, you can talk about Aunt Sis. She always had life around her, and it seems surreal that she isn’t… here anymore. She’s always been here, you know. Then she had the audacity to up and leave.
For a few years now, we’ve known that Aunt Sis had cancer. Cancer is such an awful word. There’s so many words out there that might be absolutely darling if they didn’t have horrendous meanings attached to them. Syphilis, for example.
Anyway, I was grateful to be able to attend Aunt Sis’ funeral. The program was perfectly put together, the programs were LOVELY, and I have to say that I thoroughly enjoyed her funeral.
Then it dawned on me: it’s because she PLANNED it.

Earlier that week, I sat next to my Grandpa Hansen on a Sunday evening as he finished off a bowl of ice cream.
“Are you going to Frances’ funeral?” He asked.
“Oh yeah,” I nodded.
“I’ll be there. Playin’ the organ.” Grandpa has a wonderful way of pronouncing it “arr-gun” that I just adore.
“Oh yeah?”
“I saw her a while back. I didn’t know she had the cancer. She stopped me and asked me if I’d play the organ at her funeral. I says, ‘If you’ll sing at mine!’ because I thought she was making a joke. Then I saw her a while later and she asked me again. She didn’t look sick. I didn’t know… and then your Grandma G.G. called, said Frances had passed, you know.”
“Yeah…”
“Said she left a paper with a note written that I was supposed to play at her funeral.”

Grandpa and I had a good chuckle because that is just SO Sis.
And so he played, and I sat in the congregation and listened. I love to hear Grandpa play. There’s really something about his big fingers going over those keys.
–On a side note, a few weeks ago my mother and I were talking about music. I remarked that, if she promised not to tell any of piano students, I’d tell her a secret: I could hardly stand listening to piano renditions of basically anything. She only laughed and told me Grandpa Hansen was the same way. Oh, how I love Grandpa. He’s my bud. —

I’m getting off subject. But as long as I am:

And before we get back:

NOW.
As I curled up in bed last night next to my favorite person in the entire world… we naturally began planning our funerals.

We want our funerals to come off as smoothly as Aunt Sis’ funeral did.
“At mine, I want two songs sung for sure. ‘Simple Gifts’ and ‘For the Beauty of the Earth.’ And if you can somehow make it happen, I want the youtube video of “The Lord’s Prayer” projected onto a big screen. Julianne can’t be asked to help do anything at the pulpit because she’ll cry and she’d hate that. Maybe you ought to ask Steven to handle the life sketch…”

I’ve always been attached to Simple Gifts. I happen to detest Allison Krauss, but it seems a combination of Yo-Yo Ma and Shaker lyrics can almost redeem her.

The song speaks volumes about my feelings. It’s a GIFT to be simple. It’s a GIFT to be FREE… ahhhhh. Perhaps when I’m dead, my children will belt those lyrics. “It’s a gift to be FREE!”
And then there’s For the Beauty of the Earth. Why do I love this song?

Gratitude. Gratitude is why I love it. There should be gratitude at my funeral. Har, har. Also: please don’t misinterpret my wanting “For the Beauty of the Earth” sung at my funeral to mean that I’m so arrogant as to presume my being buried in the earth MUST improve it’s beauty.
It would be a lovely thought, though. Plant me and watch flowers spring up!

I then asked my husband if he had any “switches”… something that got him instantly feeling the spirit when he needed to -even in the STARK middle of chaos. He said, “I dunno. Some songs, I guess.”
Ah, HA! Some songs! I then asked, “Why IS that? I mean, I know scientist have proved that music excites certain parts of our brain to react the way they do to music. Blah, blah, blah. I don’t want the scientific reason… I just want to know WHY, really WHY, music touches our souls the way it does. For that purpose, I’ll be glad to die. I somehow feel like being down here and being mortal is like a long drawn-out state of perpetual stupidity. When I die, I’ll KNOW things I can’t know here, and that will be so nice! That, and I’ll be able to finally see.”
My husband laughed because he knows JUST how blind I really am.
My husband also knows that I listen to this song at least once a day, and every day it takes me RIGHT to the peace I need.  It’s my switch.
I know I’ve posted this before, but please: if I die, see if there’s some way we can blast it at my funeral. There’s nothing I’d love more. Nothing at all.

The extent of my husband’s planning went something like this:
Me: What was that song you wanted sung at your funeral?
Him: I have no idea.
Me: YES! Yes, you do!
Him: I don’t think so.
Me: YEEEESSS because you TOLD ME you wanted it sung. What was it?
Him: Babe. I don’t know.
**I think I must be something of an irritation to my husband at times. Particularly when he’s trying to sleep and I’m prattling on about how stupid mortals can be.**
Me: It was a song. It’s your favorite, and you love it and one day it hit you hard and you told me about it and I fell asleep while you were telling me…
Him: I Need Thee Every Hour.

THEN he remembered! He’ll never forget my falling asleep in the middle of him sharing something special with me. And I’ll never forgive myself.

Me: That’s it. Okay. I’m going to write it down. I’m going to write mine down too because if you can’t even remember what you want for your own funeral, how are you supposed to remember everything I just told you?

Hence: a blog post titled “If I Die Before I Wake.”  All thanks to Aunt Sis.

May your pillow talk be just as sweet.

(**incidentally, facebook suggested I add Aunt Sis as a friend the day after I attended her funeral.  I had no idea she was on facebook, and of all the days facebook picks to suggest her?  Ah, the irony of social media…**)

As I’ve mentioned before, last year wasn’t my best. BUT I learned a whole heck of a lot. By far, one of the greatest things I learned was how futile whining can be, and BELIEVE ME I did my fair share. It isn’t like I didn’t already KNOW whining was a stupid thing to do, but it seems like we have to learn the same lessons over and over again. We’re human, after all, whether we like it or not.

In any case, I phoned a friend last summer and she listened patiently as I whined away. Even better though: I actually HEARD MYSELF whine away and that was horrid. I got off the phone, hated myself for a solid month and then I scooped myself up, put my big girl pants on and… ate my lemons.
You know what I mean.

The internet is abuzz with lemon quotes. When life gives you lemons…
make lemonade!
take them because hey, free lemons!

And on and on and on.
A little while back, my aunt posted my favorite rendition of the lemons quote on Pinterest. Here it is in jewelry form:

Now this MIGHT sound crazy to you, but I think about this quote all of the time.

You should know that I absolutely hate working out. I HATE it. My pants fit better, and I still HATE it! But I DO it because I NEED to. I absolutely need to. Vanity aside, my health requires me to work my body. I wake up in the morning and the first thing I do is say a prayer to help me eat my Jillian Michaels Lemon. or my P90X Yoga lemon.
I like the product.
The process? Bleck.

The same applies to my home. I’ve never been a stellar housekeeper, just as I’ve never been a stellar athlete. I don’t necessarily want the body of a stellar athlete, but I wouldn’t mind having the home of a stellar housekeeper, SO I work harder at housekeeping.

There’s a scripture in the Book of Mormon that tells us the Lord gives us weaknesses so that we may be strong. I love that scripture because when you read it you can practically HEAR the words shouting at you to get off your excuses and get to work.
“Eat them!” The words shout from the pages, “Eat the lemons and be DONE with them!”

A few years ago, my house was an utter. wreck.
It’s hardly a stretch to say I spent every waking minute either cleaning, thinking about cleaning, stressing about cleaning, or escaping into the media to avoid my housekeeping weaknesses.

You know the old saying, “If you don’t like where you are, change it”? Don’t you hate it when people say that to you? Like it’s the simplest thing in the world? Well, of course it is for THEM!
Oh, your pants don’t fit? Eat better! Go running! Just… change!

It’s true in theory, I know. But we all hate to hear it, particularly if the person saying it fits in their pants just fine. Again: we’re human.

I made very. slow. progress. as it pertains to housekeeping. I tried this and that. I worked harder, not smarter. But little by little, I became better. I changed.
Am I a good housekeeper now? Oh no. Not by a long shot, but am I a better housekeeper than I was 4 years ago? Yoooou betcha. Granted: I was sick, pregnant, and plastered to my couch 4 years ago, but hey. Don’t rain on my parade here.

I’m learning my limits. My strengths. My process. My routine. I’m learning what I need to stay sane, and I’m learning how to not only GET it but KEEP it.
I’m learning that having a clean house is LIFE CHANGING. It isn’t spotless, but it’s clean.  What’s more: it’s been deliriously satisfying to WORK HARD to improve.  I’m not satisfied while I work, but when I’m done? Oh, it’s like basking in Utopia.

Now: I clean on Mondays. I clean all day Monday. The past two Sundays have been cleanliness slaughter baths. I woke up yesterday morning and it took me thirty minutes to get the courage to GET OUT OF BED to face my very own home. You know what got me out? A little voice whispered to me, “If life give you lemons… just shut up and eat them.”
So I got up.
I worked out to Jillian Michaels.
I crawled back into bed and crocheted.
Then I got back up and cleaned my filthy, dirty, rotten house.
I wanted to text my husband and whine. I wanted to scream. I wanted to go back to bed and crochet some more, but if this last year has taught me anything, it’s that you have to do things you don’t want to do.
If you want the product, you have to endure the process.
You don’t have to enjoy it, mind you. Nevermind Mary Poppins’ spoonful of sugar, just down the medicine and be done with it.

Pinterest has been a great help to me in this area. A very great help indeedy.
I created a board I titled “A House of Order” to echo our family scripture, D&C 88:119.
CLICK HERE to see it.

Thanks to my board, my cleaning day goes by much faster. I don’t buy nearly as many cleaning products because I make my own, and my family life has improved significantly. The spirit is much stronger in my home, and THAT’S what I love most of all. I’d eat a bloomin’ crate of lemons to get that.

Today I’ll be sewing, something I enjoy doing. Because I used yesterday to clean, I’ll be able to get so much more done in the way of making aprons. Dinner will get on the table easier because my dishes are done. I’ll have the energy to stick next to my machine, thanks to P90X yoga. The house can take the mess of my fabrics because it’s ready for it.
It’s the product, people.
The product.
I enjoy the product.

The process can very well stuff it when I’m done with it. I could care less, so long as the product stays to play.

By the way, I found the above necklace on etsy.  It has since sold out, but HERE is the shop.

 

Last night I had THE most perfect dream. Every blessed once-in-a-while, I have dreams that read EXACTLY like a movie plot, and I’m not involved at all. Last night was one of those nights.
The past few nights, I haven’t been sleeping well. I’m a light sleeper -a natural byproduct of motherhood -and the past few nights have been noisy. I don’t need total silence to sleep… on the contrary, I actually sleep better with white noise, but once I’m out cold… any little cough, sneeze, sniffle, creak… and I’m up checking the kids’ breathing, making sure the doors and windows are locked, and getting a small drink.

It all caught up with me last night, and as I lay me down to sleep, I prayed the Lord to let me ACTUALLY sleep.
And I did.
For nearly an hour.
Then I was up with my daughter. She had spilled some water all over herself at midnight, which as you can imagine, was really uncomfortable for her.
After I had her situated and had checked that every household appliance was off… I went back to bed.

Aaaaaaand I dreamed. Of what? Of Margret. Margret was a college student circa 1965. She had a little money, and used it to take a hold of her freedom and go abroad to a place she’d dreamed of going all her life: Italy.
—It must here be noted that I’m DETERMINED to learn Italian, and I practice it with my daughter using a Learn Italian App on my phone. We’re getting very good. And by “very good” I mean… we can say “thank you” and “you’re welcome” back and forth all the live long day. Can you do that? Grazie. Prego.—

Margret only had enough money for a plane ticket OVER to Italy… not enough to fly home, but her independent spirit reigned the day. She flew over and took what little money she had left to feed herself and find a humble bed for the night. The next day, she set out to do what she’d dreamed of doing for YEARS:
PAINT. In Italy.
So she did. She gave little care to the world around her, and she painted. She had no idea that a local was watching her -a local MAN, of course. He tried to introduce himself, but he had a hard time seeing as how Margret’s Italian was even worse than broken. He was able to convey to her that his name was Roberto. She was able to convey to him that her name was Margret. He took her under his wing and introduced her to his mother, taught her the Italian word for “ice cream” and in due time (which is to say somewhere between the hours of 12 midnight and 4 am) Margret fell in love. She knew her Italian vacation was going to end soon, and she tried not to think about it.
But the day finally came. She dreaded it. Roberto dreaded it. They never spoke of it until they day they spent together picnicking by a lake. Even then, it wasn’t outright mentioned. Margret just started sobbing in a very brokenhearted manner, and Roberto UNDERSTOOD EXACTLY why she was crying without her having to SAY anything.
Because it’s a dream, right?
Her picked her up.
(It’s a dream)
And walked back to his home where he lived with his mother who was also 100% in love with adorably, artsy Margret.
Margret realized then what she’d suspected but I knew all along: she was in love.
“Is it possible?” She asked Roberto, as silent tears slid down her perfect face.
He didn’t answer. I’d LIKE to say it was because he was touched, but I’m more or less certain it was because he had no flipping idea what she’d just said.
I mean really: she’d only known Roberto for a small time. They didn’t even SPEAK the same LANGUAGE. Was it possible?
Once back home, Roberto’s mother was busy talking to the house help about how she wouldn’t be needed. Incidentally, I understood everything they were saying because my brain was the author of the dream. She told her she wouldn’t be needed anymore because her son Roberto was destined to marry the American Margret and that the only help that they would need would be The Mama.
As Roberto, The Mama, Margret, and The Lady Helper Girl sat in the kitchen together, they didn’t say much. They all knew Margret was hours from leaving them for good.
Roberto abruptly got up and left.
The Mama took Margret’s hands in her own, and they shared a tearful moment.
After a time, Roberto came back. He was riding a bicycle and carrying a small white box. What was in the box? A set of designer painting brushes (and, thanks to my brain, a random crochet hook). Roberto jumped from his bike, neverminding that it crashed into the side of the family barn, and with shaking hands pried open the white box. He pulled the brushes out, haphazardly arranged them in the shape of a bouquet, ran his fingers through his thick, dark hair and walked back into his kitchen.
Without a word, because even if he HAD spoken it wouldn’t have mattered, he got down on one knee by Margret’s side. She was stunned. She was afraid. She knew she had to be crazy to accept his proposal.
But she knew, deep down, that she’d be even MORE crazy to refuse. So she embraced him, and I assume they went on to have a lovely wedding with a large Italian reception where they served (what else?) ice cream to their guests.
I wouldn’t actually know since I was roused from my picturely perfect lush Italian dream where romance blossomed with every ticking minute… by my husband’s snoring.

Talk about OUCH!

I mean: don’t get me wrong. My husband is amazing, but to be roused out of such a perfect story by SNORING?! Damper!

So I did what I’ve done at least 6 times before, I got out of bed and I wrote my story down as quickly as I could so I wouldn’t forget it, and then I went back to bed. I was disappointed. We never want a good story to end: but this was especially awful on account of their being absolutely gone. Forever. At least when The Princess Bride is over I know I can pop it in on any given Tuesday and revisit it again.
But Robert and Margret? And The Mama? They’re gone. So I went to bed with a mixture of a heavy heart and a euphoric feeling -the kind that sweeps you over when the boy gets the girl.

It reminded me of church yesterday. It was my turn to do Sharing Time with the kids, and I spoke to them about their Heavenly Father. We talked about trusting in him because he is the SMARTEST. He knows more than we do which is why he asked Noah to build the ark and why he gave Sister Deets a baby boy when she thought she didn’t want one.
Heavenly Father knew what was best.
“I’m going to tell you a secret,” I said, leaning down into the microphone, “Are you listening?”
The kids nodded.
“You have people in your lives right now that love you. You will have more people in your lives when you get older that will love you. You will love them too, but you know what? They won’t mean to, but they’ll disappoint you. They might hurt you and they’ll let you down from time to time. But guess what? Heavenly Father NEVER will. You can rely on him because he is the smartest, he loves you, and he will never, ever, ever let you down.”
I poured my heart into my testimony, sharing my very soul with those kids. When I finished, a little girl in the front row raised her hand.
“Yes, Kellie?” The little girl pulled her top lip to the left and her bottom lip to the right.
“When I do THIS,” she said leaning forward so I could see, “I look like an elephant.”

I just had to laugh.
And just like my husband’s snoring that brought me back to earth, Kellie’s elephant lips pulled me right back as well.

In the meantime, I’ll have to immortalize Margret’s story so I can pick it up and read it whenever earth gets too… real. That means I’ve got to work beyond Grazie and Prego.

Ciao.

Because I take Sundays off from blogging and crafting, I HAD to get this posted quickly tonight! I can’t wait until Monday!
We had a GREAT visit from my in-laws today, and after they left I pulled my sewing machine out and whipped out a baby doll sheer apron. My mother in law has a talent for making everyone around her feel like they’re absolutely amazing. While she was here, I showed her some of what I’ve been making for the boutique. Naturally, she made me feel like I could take on the world with some rick-rack and a leeeeetle elbow grease. I finished this apron late tonight and I hurried to snap a few pictures with my cell phone. So keep that in mind, por favor.
For your viewing pleasure, here is a less-than-perfectly-shot sneak peek of …
Baby Doll Jane

She was created JUST in time for Valentine’s Day and will only set you back $20.

I stitched a glam button on. Da-gling!

It’s generously sized (L-XL), bigger than other baby doll aprons I’ve made in the past.

In the coming week, I’ll be making quite a little stash of these sheer baby doll Janes -each one will be a little different. Some will be black, some will be pink, some will be white with glitter…
But for now I’ll sleep soundly knowing I’ve done my apron for the day.

Good. Night.

We trekked to the city as a family yesterday to get some shopping done and to switch banks. I knew as I was getting dressed that we were in for a doozy of a day. We always are when we spend the day in the city. I wish we were one of those fictitious movie families that enjoys spending every spare minute together, but right now we’re at a less-than-lovely stage of life. I used to panic when I had to take my only child, an infant, shopping with me.
Ha.
I thought THAT was hard?

Now they’re out of car seats (read: NOT strapped down) and they’re sort of potty trained. More on that in a minute…

As we drive, we are regaled with “I NEEEEEEEEED to go potty!” and “Where is it? Is THIS it? Are we there?” and, new this last month, constant whistling from our daughter.
Her range is fantastic -her song choice: cultured. We’ve been serenaded with nearly the entire soundtrack from “Phantom of the Opera” and “Swan Lake.”
Constantly serenaded.
Constantly.

And my son is going through a phase where he tells me I’m beautiful at LEAST 20 times a day -at least, really.

Walking through stores is rather difficult as it is, but when you add fabrics to the equation… oh, brother. Our trip to the fabric store yesterday went something like this:

“Mom, I CAN get this out…”
“Lacy, put that back.”
“Mom, lemme go.”
“Trent, no. You need to stay by me, okay? Lacy get OVER here! Stop running off.”
“Mooommmmmmmmmmmmmmm…”
“Trent stop whining.”
“I can get this down…”
“Lacy, NO! Don’t get anything down!”
“Lemme GO!”
“Trent, NO!”
At this point, I was stuck between a struggling 3 year old and a five year old who had taken a bolt of fabric out of the rack (because she could, you know) and couldn’t get it back on. I let loose of the 3 year old, and attempted to help the 5 year old. But before I could, the three year old was pushing the cart into a rack of fabric.
I scolded the girl.
I snatched the boy up and scolded him.

And then a kindly old grandmother took my daughter under her wing and helped her replace the fabric bolt. I felt like a jerk for getting after my kids while someone had been watching.
I thanked the grandmother.
I told my daughter to thank her.
She did.
Then Lacy whistled.
My son smothered my face in kisses and told me I was beautiful. I felt even worse about getting after him, still fully aware that he tells me I’m beautiful whenever he’s in trouble.

Where was Dad? On the phone with the people who messed with our credit. More on that in a moment…
Do you think I ever got fabric picked out? It was pretty much a joke, but yeah. I finally did. As we made our way through the store, people were in awe of my children.

“Is that HER whistling?” They’d marvel.
“Yeah, she taught herself,” I’d say. I should have beamed, or something. But by the middle of a long day in the middle of an impossible shopping excursion… I was so far from beaming over Swan Lake.
“Trenton, STOP. Get outta that. Get over here. Look out for that cart! If you don’t come here… Yes, would you mind cutting 2 yards of each, thank you… TRENTON, STOP KNOCKING THOSE OVER. You better get -If you don’t -I’m gonna…” *snatch him up and plunk him on my hip even though he’s pounds too big*
“Mommy, yo’ byootiful.”
I don’t respond. I just stare straight ahead.
“Awwww,” the woman behind me gushes, “Isn’t he just the sweetest?”
“Yeah,” I sort of nod. But she doesn’t know. She doesn’t KNOW!

And so I go through my day getting looks from people who obviously feel I don’t appreciate just how AMAZING my children are.
I do appreciate them.
But yesterday, it was harder. MUCH harder than those blissfully nervous days where I couldn’t even buy diapers without my mom there to hold my hand while I pushed my infant around Wal-Mart in a cart seat sealed off from the world by at least 2 flannel blankets (out, danged germs!).
Simpler times, those.

These are great times too, but boy howdy. Harder.
I should also mention that the fabric shopping disaster happened directly after we’d left the bank and gotten some upsetting financial news. Not DEVASTATING. Just upsetting.
It compounded everything ten-fold.

By the time we left the store, we were all 100% SICK of each other.
After typing that line, I’m somehow tempted to sing, “We are a happy family!” Maybe I can teach my daughter how to whistle it…

We had one stop left. Sam’s Club. We put the kids in one cart. Usually we let them roam around, but after what we’d just been through? They were trapped in the cart.
About 2 minutes into our shopping, we found this:

He was out cold.
She wasn’t, but she knew better than to cause ruckus of ANY nature. She sat in the cart the entire time, only asking to get out about 4 times. She might have asked more if she hadn’t been busy whistling.
When we asked her please stop, she replied, “But my body just says, (she took on a high pitched nasaly voice) ‘Lacy, I NEED to whistle, LET ME whistle!’ So I need to, Mom.”

We went over budget by an alarming amount.
We never do that. Ever.
We really didn’t have any choice. We need toilet paper and diapers and fabric softener… it just so happened they all ran out at the same time.
Given the news we’d just gotten from the bank AND the going over budget, we drove home and reworked our budget as we drove.
THAT was terrible idea.

My eyebrows went down.
I thought about my pant-less son who had wet himself in Sam’s while he slept.
I thought about my sleeping daughter, who had also wet herself.
I thought about money.
I thought and I thought and I thought and my eyebrows knit farther and farther down with each thought.

We stopped on the way home at Wal-Mart. I hopped out to grab a few things before heading home. My thoughts were primarily on money.
And then I saw him…

Have you ever met someone and been instantly put on guard? You somehow feel in your skin and bones that you’ve got to STAY AWAY from that one person?
On the flip side, have you ever met someone you normally might walk away from but who makes you feel completely at ease? Safe, even?

He was a homeless man with a shopping cart full of his only possessions. He was laughing jovially with a Wal-Mart worker. And then he turned around and looked right at me. His eyes twinkled. I mean, they REALLY twinkled.
“Hello,” I smiled.
“Oh, darlin’,” he said, and walked away.

I don’t know what he meant by that. Maybe he was actually an angel who knew exactly the kind of day that I’d had. Maybe he knew I needed a happy homeless man in my life to remind me that my money troubles aren’t really troubles at all. Maybe he knew I needed to see someone living a life I was terrified of… and see that they were truly happy.
I came home, unloaded my CAR FULL of products, ate a hot dinner in my home and was humbled to my very core.
Whistle all you want, Lacy Lou.
Ram carts into fabric racks to your heart’s content, Trenton Too.

And that night, as I curled up to watch a movie with my husband, I was at peace. The kids were asleep by this point, which PROBABLY had something to do with it, but mostly: I was satisfied.
I hate how mortal my thinking is.
Someday I’ll quit thinking like a idiot person and start thinking like someone who really GETS it, you know? I realize that my actions yesterday toward my children weren’t the best. The thoughts, feelings, and attitude weren’t the best. I can’t give my BEST 100% ALL OF THE TIME, especially when “Angel of Music” is being whistled in my ear when I’m trying to add figures in my head.
BUT.
I keep trying my very hardest.
I’m forever grateful for the Perspective Angels in my life -the ones who pop up and scream at me to come back down to earth, calm my thinking, and get over my little worries that don’t deserve an OUNCE of my energy.
May you find your own homeless man in the near future.
May his eyes twinkle.

True to my word, I was up early. I got out of bed this morning and went to a Zumba class for the first time ever. My husband always teases me about having a “popularity complex.”

If everyone else likes it, he says, Alicia hates it.

Oh come on. He’s only MOSTLY right. And, as Billy Crystal has told us all time and time again, “It just so happens that your friend here is only mostly [right]. There’s a big difference between mostly [right] and all [right].”

Zumba has been sweeping the nation, and so, naturally, I shunned it. The novelty has worn off, and now I’ll venture out and explore. It’s 2005 all over again, when I wrapped myself up in the Harry Potter books even though everyone else had already read most of them. All it took was three entire books for me to say, “Hey, they’re great. I’ll watch the movies instead.” Nothing against the author. A million props to her! I just prefer boring books where the plot line is soooooooo sloooooowwww that you can speed read 3 pages before actually hitting something of significance. ALSO: I prefer to keep action in a book to a minimum. If it isn’t, it takes all the relaxing out of reading.
This, by the way, is also why I haven’t bothered with The Hunger Games. I can handle 3 hours worth of action in movie form. But stretching it out over days and possibly weeks?! Forget it.

Back to Zumba: I showed up to work out in my PJs. Truth: I don’t own any legit work out clothes. So there I stood in my pink plaid PJ pants (say it ten times fast. Dare ya) and my pink John Deere shirt… and I gangta danced to Latin music. Sort of. I mean, have you ever seen a farm girl try to shake it? I’ve only EVER shaken like that when a field mouse crawled across my bare foot. EEEEEEEEEEEEkkkkk!

I definitely need some new gear if I’m going to keep my work out routine up. I’ve wondered if I should for a few weeks now, but coming home with a blister today confirmed my fear: my shoes aren’t new anymore. I don’t know what my deal is, but when I buy new clothes they seem new to me for years afterward. I once whined that a pair of Charlotte Russe pants that I had JUST bought were wearing holes in the seat of them. My mother-in-law gently pointed out that I had purchased the pants over a year prior.
Wha…?
They weren’t NEW?
Confession: I’ve had the same hair brush for 5 years, and before my husband bought it for me, I hadn’t owned one since I don’t KNOW when. Gross, I know.
Confession: the last time I bought a good pack of socks was 6 years ago, and even then I only bought them because I was about to board a plane and realized at the last minute that my socks were at home. On the flip side, my husand buys new socks about twice a year, like a normal person.
Confession: I still wear some clothes from high school and completely forget that they are at least 10 years old.
Confession: I hate buying clothes for myself unless they fit perfectly and are extremely affordable. This means I shop exclusively on clearance racks. and Goodwill racks.

I don’t know what my DEAL is, but if I don’t work through this I’m going to wear holes in my “new” shoes that keep giving me blisters. In fact, yesterday I found a bloomin’ hole in the new shoes my husband gave me for Christmas 4 years ago!
The audacity. Shoes just don’t hold up like they used to. *sigh*

My issue maybe MIGHT stem from my being raised in Wrangler. After about 7 years of wearing a pair of good, sturdy, western Wranglers, you finally start being able to bend your legs at the knee.
FYI: Most every Western store has a clearance rack, but there are hardly ever any good western clothes on Goodwill racks. Why is that, do you think?
Western clothing is legendary. It never. dies.
On second thought, maybe I’ll stick with my John Deere tee as a work out shirt…

Completely unrelated and possibly SCADS more interesting than everything I just wrote: I came home from a personal morning devotional this morning (in the which I drove out to the Arizona desert equivalent of the Boondocks and watched the sun rise… sweet bliss) and cooked breakfast with my son. He is my BOY. We both love mornings, and we both love laughing.
This morning, I set him up on a chair and had him help me cook breakfast. Since I had tried Zumba for the first time, I decided to try something else for the first time: make frog-in-the-hole.
I didn’t get a picture, so I’ll borrow from Google.
Mira:

via kahakaikitchen.blogspot.com

My son’s imagination ran rampant with the whole “frog” thing.
“Frogs don’t pop out of bellies, huh Mom?” He asked.
“Nope,” I reassured him.
“Can I crack the frog and puddit inna hole?”
“Sure,” I handed him an egg and prayed a little.
It landed RIGHT in the hole with only ONE teeny tiny shell piece. No yolk breakage. He’ll be a regular Bobby Flay yet!
Once it had cooked, I plopped it on a plate for him and started cutting.
“MOM!” He started to slightly hyperventilate, “You can’t just CUT the fr- I can’t EAT the frog!”
I didn’t say a word… I just kept cutting the egg. I watched his brain work as it switched from imagination to reality, and it was downright darling.
“It’s jussa egg,” he remarked as he tilted his head thoughtfully and looked down at the oozing yellow frog.
“It’s just an egg,” I shrugged.
And just like that, I stifled his imagination. Because I’m an awesome mother.

At least I don’t fix his inside out jammie top that he put on ALL BY HIMSELF. So that’s something.

Growing up, I thought I was different and special.

Then I sorta GREW up and realized I was most definitely wrong. I didn’t come to the realization all on my own, mind you. It was brought to my attention by gut-wrenching experiences like miscarriage.
What? Miscarriage? Isn’t that something that happens to OTHER people? Certainly not ME.

Well, technically it was a “spontaneous abortion” according to the ER papers, but even the doctor nearly teared up as he explained not to give any credit to the technical term. Ouch.
I’ll only leave you with that one bright and happy example, but you get my point.

Anyway, I thought for years and years that I was different. I wasn’t one of “those” moms who needed alone time. I loved being at home, and whenever I had a spare minute (so rare!) I didn’t want to spend it alone. I wanted to spend time with my husband!
Well.
After years and years of emotional melt downs and self-loathing, I finally realized something that SHOULD have made me hate myself, but -oddly enough -it didn’t.
Guess what? I NEED alone time. And not just once a month or even once a week.
I NEED alone time… every. dang. day.

Does that make me selfish? Well, only if I don’t take it. Let me explain:
If I don’t wake up earlier than the rest of my family and take some time to spend absolutely alone, I spend the rest of my day trying to escape from life. I run to Netflix, to books, to hulu, to Pinterest… and I’m a complete grouch.
So as it turns out, I’m MORE than one of “THOSE” moms. I’m absolutely more high maintenance, and I repent 10-fold for my previous judgmental attitude toward them.

I mean, for crying out loud! I need time alone every day! Like I said, I WANT to try and hate myself for it, but mostly I’m just grateful that I’ve recognized my needs and how to meet them. My quality of life has improved drastically. I’m a better person, a better wife, and a better mother. And if being selfish it what it takes to get there, than so BE it!

*ahem*

HOWEVER, I have been sleeping in for the past week. Yesterday I sat in bed, browsing the web and trying to occupy my children any possible way I could that didn’t include attention from me. Isn’t that horrible? I know it is which is why I began to hate myself. I escaped into Pinterest and Netflix to make me forget how much I hated myself, but when the movie was over and the Pins all started looking the same, I had to face myself again, and it wasn’t pretty. I hated what I saw in the mirror. I hated the sort of mother I was. And then the hate sort of swarmed around me and clung to everything I looked at.
Oh, that wall paper. Could it BE any more AWFUL?!
Oh, that spot on the carpet. A good housekeeper would have cleaned it up rather than watched a movie.
Oh, that old bucket of paint.
Oh, oh, oh…

As the day crept slowly on, my own House of Hate started closing in on me, and suddenly a guardian angel tapped me on the shoulder and DECKED me.
You bloody idiot, it whispered (because, as I’ve mentioned before, angels CAN be rotten), All you need is to get out of the house and spend some time alone. You should have been doing it all week, but NO! You had to SLEEP!
And then it marched off into the air, shaking it’s fist as it went and muttering things like, Just when I think she’s learned…
I immediately picked up my cell phone, asked my husband to please stay home with the kids, and then I LEFT.
Is it fair that my husband had to pick up the pieces because I indulged in sleeping in? No. It’s not.

Also, our relationship (which has always been one of my favorite things) has sort of taken a back seat.
Okay, it’s taken a nose dive, but whose keeping track? Apparently, not us. I HATE that. After watching this video during Family Home Evening on Monday:

I just started crying. Crying, crying, crying. And then I was suddenly hungry -STARVING -for a spark. The absolute last thing I want in the WORLD is to have my relationship with my own husband be one of the many, many, MANY reasons I come to realize that I’m no different than anybody else. Because guess what? When it comes to our love, I feel we ARE different. His love for me and my love for him… it’s something great -it’s something amazing, and it’s something others spend their entire lives looking for.
I. HAVE. IT.
Right here.
Right now.
It sleeps next to me, and it snores. It leaves paper trails and sock trails and it plays video games until it gets headaches.
It fixes, it paints, it cooks, it laughs, it hugs, it kisses, and it genuinely CARES.

Years ago, I took much better care of it. I even wrote a “100 reason why I love Danny” list.
So yesterday, after icing my jaw, I curled my hair. I sat down at the computer, and I wrote another list. I took the time I had alone and I spent every dollar in my pocket (plus $10 from my bank account) on my husband.

Doing what?
Doing this.

I’m putting it together today along with an impromptu party. I’ve got strawberries to cover in chocolate, a chocolate cake mix, and sparking cider. The kids and I are going to throw Dad a party. What for? Because. That’s why. And he deserves every little sprinkle.

Today I’ll be creating yet another pin board. A DATING pin board. In the meantime, if you’re dating someone, please take a few minutes to read

THIS

article about dating. When I first stumbled across it, I thought it would be the same ol’ runnath’mill dating such-and-such, but it really isn’t. It is a good read, and heaven help me if I don’t PRINT IT OUT to use it as a reference sheet during my next date with my husband.

Thanks to my guardian angel, I’ll be waking up bright and early tomorrow. See ya then.

I took a bath a few days ago, and while I was soaking in my lavender epsom salts I got to thinking.
I could be wrong, but I don’t think I am: many-a-great idea has been thought up in the bathrooms of America. I once knew a few boys in college who kept a voice recorder near their toilet so as to record their thinking-time epiphanies. I never heard the tapes… nor did I ever want to, but that’s beside the point.

The point is… pantyhose.

I don’t even know what got me thinking about them. I hardly wear them. I THINK I own a pair. They might be shoved in the backest most part of my undies drawer. Nevertheless, I realized that the quality of my life would improve radically if I were to be more like pantyhose.
Now, I’ll say to you what I said to my roommates in college when I told them that the LDS church was like an unborn fetus.
“Hear me out.”

They did, and now they believe. Okay MOSTLY they believe I’m a nut job, but that’s okay. It’s not like I could hide it forever anyway.

Pantyhose are subtle.
They have a way of being in the room, improving it, but never making a scene.

Pantyhose are classy.
Pantyhose are timeless… though they may fall in and out of fashion with the youth, they’re aging effortlessly. Shall I go so far as to say, “They’re aging seamlessly?”

Pantyhose improve.
They have a remarkable ability to SEE the flaws of the person next to them, but they make every attempt to bring out the better instead.

Pantyhose adapt.
They’re delicate, to be sure. All it takes is a little snag for them to completely give up their station. What then? Well, if a little clear nail polish can’t mend them, they have the decency to admit their defeat, and they go on to serve in other ways.

See?

Pantyhose are versatile.
They’re ready to suit a variety of needs. White? Black? Knee high? Queen size? Thigh high? Nude? You’ve come to the right product.

When they want to be, pantyhose are chic -almost daring.

Now, you still might think I’m crazy, but apparently pantyhose already are everything I hope to be, socially. Someday I’ll sit and write a funny poem about it, but today is not that day. Today is the day where I teach preschool and squeeze in a work out and shower. Today is the day where I am NOT chic or daring. Preschoolers don’t need chic and daring, you know.
They need versatility.
They need adaptability.

They’re good practice for me, you know. And then someday, when I’ve mastered the Arts of the Pantyhose and can enter a room only to improve it… I’ll reward myself with a little daring/chic -designer style.
For now?
Let’s make it a nude knee-high day. Ole!
(Hey, there’s my poem!)

 

Lacy used some of her birthday money to buy The Smurfs Movie, and the kids have loved it. They mentioned to Grandpa that they had it, and Grandpa got a wonderful, awful idea. He had his grandkids up for a Smurf party!
The kids were really excited.
We made smurf cookies for the occasion (we added blue food coloring to our chocolate chip cookie dough).

Then I whipped up some homemade face paints and, per the kids’ request, turned them into Smurfette and Clumsy Smurf, respectively.

The girl loved being Smurfette.

…for like 3 entire minutes.

Then she begged to be just a butterfly. Because I didn’t want Smurf tears all over my kitchen floor, I transformed Smurfette into a butterfly, and then all was right with the world.

I had the kids convinced that the cookies had essence of Smurf in them, and Lacy loved it.
“Time to get our Smurf on!” She kept saying.

Once up at Grandpa’s and Grandma’s, we were fed a fried chicken feast and then we watched our movie. I didn’t get any pictures because I was having too much fun.
It was the second best part of yesterday. The first best part?

We got a new nephew!!

***The MINUTE he woke up this morning, my son reached up to feel his face. The paint had worn off. “Hey!” He whined, “My Clumsy face is gone!”
This means I may be painting their faces blue again today, so if you see us out and about… please call him Clumsy. He insists.
And I’m now Painter Skater Mom. So cheer.

Yesterday I woke up and spontaneously decided to do absolutely nothing.
It. was. glorious.

In the past when I’ve executed lazy days, I’ve always felt a tremendous amount of guilt… so much so it completely sabotaged any joy I was trying to juice from day-long Austen Movie Marathons. Well. Yesterday was an exemption. To add joy to joyous, the two piano lessons I had scheduled to teach called up and cancelled! It was like providence!

Aside from the usual daily ins and outs, I was free as a bird.
“Kids,” I said, gathering them around me in the morning, “Today is Relaxi-Day, okay? We’re going to have all day be rest day.”
THAT automatically made me the world’s uncoolest mom, but hey. At least she’s sane, ladies and gents. At least she’s sane.

On a side note, I think the Lord assigns special angels to survey the earth.
“Pin point stay at home mothers who are taking the day for themselves and then prompt everyone in town to go over and visit them…” and then they all have a good laugh watching us scramble to put up our hair, put away the blankets on the couch, get rid of the ice cream bowl, slab on make-up (and a bra, for that matter), light a candle (it SEEMS cleaner if it smells good, right?), and bark at the children (“underwear OFF the floor, you are NOT a dog, stop throwing, and do I have to ask again: GET THOSE UNDEROOS OFF THE FLOOR!”), and then politely sweep open the door to welcome visitors with a pleasant smile and a mouthful of apologies for the state of the house and the stench coming from the direction of my unshowered self.

I’d laugh my buns off watching that from above. Real-life comedy show. But then: most of reality is something of a comedy show… like the way I feel when my husband uses the lap top until the battery is borderline DEAD, closes the lid, and then leaves it for me to find. Which I do. After I’ve situated myself comfortably down on the couch. Of course the cord to plug the computer in is ALWAYS at the other end of the house. It’s got the same laughability effect as the whole “empty ice tray in the freezer” situation.
Ah, life.

My kids are champions when it comes to staying outta the way, mostly because they know they can get away with so much more when mom’s checked out for the day. Nutella sandwiches around! Conversation hearts for lunch! Make a fort from the kitchen table!

What did I do? Shuttling the girl aside, attending a preschool pizza party aside, and delivering my husband’s wallet to him at work aside?

I watched an 18-episode television show. Isn’t that ghastly? It was a terrible show about a family who ran a hotel in the 1920s. The first 8 episodes were absolutely gripping. The next ten? Soap-opera at best. I was spoiled with both great plot and good acting AND terrible acting and cheesy dialogue.
“Go ahead, Marcus. Tell them. Tell them what you’ve done. Tell them how you’ve been in love with their mother -your own brother’s wife and THEIR mother all their lives. Tell them how you pursued her!” Marcus’ wife would yell.
“ENOUGH!” Marcus would glare at his wife. Who, by the way, happened to fake a pregnancy and BUY a baby from a poor mother so far in debt she was reduced to selling her unborn child. Marcus had no idea, by the way. He was duped. Not like it mattered. He was too love sick over his brother’s wife to notice the pillow under his wife’s maternity dress.
All the while, there was a soldier son who had the audacity to fall in love with a chambermaid.

I’m telling you: it was all too wonderful and perfect. Hilarious.
By the end of the day, I had myself convinced I could write a scintillating soap opera that would be absolutely gripping to people who took it seriously and gut-wrenching hilarious to those who didn’t. I even started planning music cues to go with dramatic expressions.
You really ought to have seen it go on, you know, in my head…

Anyway, yesterday gave me just enough time off to make me feel ready to start today with renewed umph. Today will be much better.
No chocolate sandwiches.
No rejoicing over the treasure chest I found in the freezer (cookie dough I had frozen and forgot about -heh-ven!).
No sweats.
Today is going to be all sunlight, fresh air, and home cooked food.
And then, at the end of the day when I’ve showered and dressed, cooked and cleaned, I’ll look around and wonder why NO ONE bothered to stop by.
I blame those angels. Is it possible for angels to be rotten? Maybe just a little?

Before “over and outing” I’m going to leave you with a few pictures of our little Blu.
Blu is the bird Santa brought to the girl, and Blu is the bird we’ve all fallen in love with. It also happens that Blu absolutely hates strangers and bites every single one of them, but Blu loves us. Loyal little thing.

Blu goes everywhere with Lacy, per Lacy’s orders.
Blu even sits on me while I craft and poops on the shoulder of my new white shirt. Yay! Per Lacy’s orders, I am Grandma now.
“Come on, Blu,” Lacy’s says in a high-pitched voice, the kind you use to talk to babies, “Let’s go see Grandma…” and then she plops the bird on me.
It’s fine, really. She might as well call me grandma. Ever since we went ice skating, the boy insists on calling me “Skater Mom.”
Between being “Skater Mom” which makes me feel 15 and “Grandma” which makes me feel 50… I somehow feel all right with the world.

Oh, Blu. You patient little thing.