I Don't Want To Go On the Cart!

So. I'm not dying.

(Don't laugh. There was a moment or two this last week where my impending demise seemed...well...impending.)

By a small miracle I managed to haul myself to the doctors office where I was plied with many wonderful medicinal wares. The Canadian in me was, of course, overcome with gratitude. It really is so much better to be able to take whatever you want when death approaches. (An open apology to my friends who recently faced their own illnesses while expecting bambinos: Sorry. That sucks.)

Today I:

• made my bed
• showered

(And believe me...those two items thrilled me beyond belief.)

Tomorrow I hope to:

• make my bed
• shower
• AND start catching up on my blog

I know. Awesome.

Stats

I never took Statistics in school. From what I've heard, I didn't miss much.

Tonight, however, I decided to satisfy an odd curiosity and ended up with some stats that were interesting. (To me--not necessarily to you.)

1) Number of books currently in my library: 369

2) Number of those books I've read: 153

3) Number of books I am missing: 15 (that I know of)

4) Number of books I've tossed: 6

5) Number of books currently on loan: 13

6) Number of books I've started but haven't finished: 15

I'm no statistician...but this data speaks to me. Do you want to know what it says? (Again, to me--not necessarily to you.)

a) I've spent a lot of money on books.

b) The Books Owned to Books Read ratio is rather pathetic.

c) I don't keep track of my investment(s) well enough.

d) I should probably borrow more books from the public library.

e) I'm glad I have friends/neighbors who share my love of literature.

f) I'm behind on a lot more than my house-cleaning.

Side Note: I have to clarify one tiny detail...because I have to. I do. It's a compulsion:

The data collected does not include church books, coffee table books, children's books, picture books, scriptures, manuals, how-to collections, or other such publications.

Confession

I've been spending an absurd amount of time lately with these fellows:

(I don't know how they got me...but they got me. Grrr.)

Maturity and My Couch

***WARNING***

If you have a sensitive gag-reflex you may want to skip this post.

I discovered something about myself tonight. I think I have finally grown up. (I'm sure I ought to have been influenced by my age long before now...but I haven't, and what's done is done, right?)

Earlier today I sat on the couch watching a movie with Curtis cuddled up, oh-so-sweetly, on my lap. I glanced down and noticed that he had drifted off to sleep. I was about to mention to Ian that I didn't think our little boy was feeling well when, lo-and-behold, he jerked awake and began to...how shall I say it? Puke? Ralph? Spew? Hurl? Blow chunks? Well...he began to lose his lunch. And his breakfast. (And perhaps some internal organs...I can't be sure.) I quickly yelled at Ian to grab a towel while I strategically positioned myself between the forthcoming offense and my couch.

That's right...I allowed myself to be completely saturated in unmentionable disgustingness in order to protect my sofa from a defilement it never would have recovered from. A younger version of myself would most likely have run, screaming, in order to be as far away from the mess as possible. But the 37 year-ol Amy knew that a couch covered in that much wretchedness would need to be replaced...and it's just not in the budget for January 2011. If that doesn't demonstrate some frugality and responsibility, I don't know what does.

Hello adulthood...it's nice to meet you.

Have I Mentioned....

that my husband totally rocks?

Yup. Tonight he returned from an overnight trip to Canada and brought with him...

Timbits. Little donut holes of DELICIOUSNESS from my favorite place.

What a great hubby, right?

Confessions of a Slacker Mom

I suffered a brief moment of clarity this afternoon. I emerged from the noisy-child-induced fog (in which I have cowered for these last few weeks) and suddenly realized, "Oh crap...school starts again in 2-ish weeks."

I uttered "crap" because (apart from a sincere attempt to cut back on the real expletives) I suddenly realized that all my grand plans for the summer of 2010 (plans which, at one point, sported the ridiculous label of "Jones Academy") had never actually come to fruition.

I did a quick mental scan of my long summer to-do list:

Zoo: nope

Aquarium: nuh-uh

Horse-back riding: nada

Hiking: nil

Weekly library visits: don't make me laugh

And the unfulfilled list continues...

Why? Well, here's a simple fact for you: I'm a slacker. Don't argue with me. I've made my peace. My name is Amy and I am a slacker mom.

And I'll tell you why. Kids are work. No, really...lots and lots and lots of work. Since the normal at-home motherhood is plenty exhausting...the thought of taking my little Insanity Circus on the road? Please. If the mental exertion of dealing with two girls didn't kill me off, the physical demands of chasing after a two-year old Houdini probably would.

So, the beginning of the school year has ended up looking quite a bit like a bright light at the end of a dark tunnel. I look forward to sitting in a quiet(er) house, sipping a diet coke, and only occasionally remembering to wonder where my son is (as he runs/rides/scoots down the street as fast as his little legs can go. Don't judge...it's not my idea).

And, while I'm sure I will eventually enter a stage of life where my slacking is simply not possible, I plan to enjoy this phase of life as much as I possibly can.

Hopefully with a good book.

And a diet coke.

(And a multitude of adorable two, five, and seven year-old X's and O'x. I do love those sloppy kisses.)

A girl can dream...

And More Birthday Stuff

We had a fabulous birthday. We celebrated the day with some of our favorite things.

• A nice lunch at Olive Garden without kids, with friends, and with a gift certificate.
• A visit from a friend with this amazing gift...which will adorn my table for a long time.
• An entertaining movie without kids and without teenagers texting behind us.
• A visit from the UPS man with my incredible birthday present (thanks again, Ian).
• A "mailbox" of handmade paper craft gifts from our adorable little girls.

AND

• A trip with the kidlets to our local Chili's where we feasted on this:

When I say feasted, I mean FEASTED...(it was a good thing we ordered two):

And we only had a few moments of chasing the little beast around a public place.

All in all, it was a great day. I think we only had one birthday wish that didn't come true: We didn't get to sleep in. (Apparently Curtis just couldn't wait to extend birthday wishes and decided 6:00am was the perfect time to do it. What can you say about such a boy? He's cute even when he's driving us crazy.)

Until next year.

Youth and French Fries

My Story: Take Two

The whole concept of a "story" is overwhelming, when you think about it. In truth I find it impossible to define myself with a simple hodge-podge of words typed on a computer. Because personality and character (or what have you) are often fleeting. People change. Stories change. What makes me who I am today will be altered long before the words fade away.

My faith in this alterable state of identity has firm roots. I can sum up one such root in two words: French Fries. (Bonus points for any one who said "Frawnch Fries" a la Jenny Meyer).

I feel I can suggest this with certainty because I can distinctly remember a 22 year-old version of myself doing something incomprehensible:

Picture in your mind a drive-through. Not just any drive-through, THE drive-through. A heavenly assortment of all things fried and greasy at your fingertips...the options are limitless.

Now, picture me ordering the following:

One small fries.

And. Nothing. Else.

"NO!", you shout, "It's not true!"

My dear friends...I tell no lie. But, it gets worse. I also remember eating most of those sinfully delicious fries and suddenly declaring myself FULL!

Incredible. Unbelievable. And thoroughly NOT the 2010 Amy we all know and love. Because as much as I feel I am betraying my devout viewership of "The Biggest Loser", I simply cannot accept that food is nothing more than fuel. If God didn't want us to enjoy it, why'd he make it TASTE SO GOOD?

So believe me when I tell you: if I could shout out to that younger version of myself as she stood pondering her menu choices, I would harass her to order the # 6 Combo with large fries and a Diet Coke, and tell her to relish it while the metabolism is still working in her favor.

See? People change. It's a cold, hard, french-fry-hoarding truth.

Memories

I may not always have stories worth repeating. Most of them are simply the day-to-day musings of a stay-at-home mom. But before I was the well-rounded adult you all know now...I was a single girl, over the age of 21, living in Utah Valley. These 3 facts led to one of the most memorable nights I've ever experienced.

It all began with a phone call from a desperate woman. A mom. A kind woman looking for her son's soulmate. And somehow it happened...for better or for worse I was going on a blind date. Friday at 7:00pm.

I sat in my front room, primped and ready to go, promptly at seven. I watched as the minutes ticked by...7:15, 7:30, 7:45. Finally at 8:03pm the phone rang. He was held up at work. An unforeseen delay...but he'd be on his way shortly.

At 8:45 the doorbell rang. When he announced, "Well, you're prettier than I thought you'd be," I had a feeling my night was doomed. (Had I known how far we'd slither down the rabbit hole of blind-date craziness, I'm sure I would have slammed the door on his face--a face which, as a matter of fact, was NOT as good looking as I'd thought.) Two red flags popped up immediately...a license plate frame which read, "Oh her? She's my sister." and an Ernie doll (Sesame Street) glued to his dashboard. Ernie is his hero "because he's a drummer"...I kid you not. Those red flags were piled on top of the previously ignored flags...and off we went.

He had big plans. A jaunt up the canyon to roast marshmallows and get to know one another. We pulled into his picnic-site of choice only moments before the official closing time. "Not a problem" he declared optimistically, "let's just start the fire. No one will show up." I began gathering kindling from the surrounding area and returned just in time to see him getting into an argument with a couple of rough-looking, shady characters in a jacked-up truck. After a few tense moments the truck drove off, leaving me alone with Captain Boy Scout.

We worked together to make a decent pile of sticks and he set a match to a wad of newspaper I'd thrown in the middle. As I leaned over, blowing faintly at the tinder in an attempt to get it roaring I was jolted back by a sudden ball of fire. Sweet mother of a badger!...he'd snuck in from behind and tossed in a stream of lighter fluid! Swatting the flames from my eyebrows and hair, I stood to witness his triumphant smile. He had made fire.

And that's when the police arrived to kick us out.

The rest is mostly a blur. I'm not sure if I was in shock from nearly being roasted alive over an open flame or from the after-effects of a date gone wrong, but the truth is I only remember one thing from that long drive home: Me. Staring in disbelief as he reached down, situated a puppet (yes, you read that right...a PUPPET) on his right hand, and asked me (with said PUPPET) if I would come watch his band play the next night.

I'm pretty sure I said no.

My Story - Post Edit

Confession: I entered a contest. Oh, I did. And, truth be told, I really want to win. It isn't a half-hearted attempt to join a throng. Nope, it's an all-out, fingers crossed, "pleasepleasepleaseplease let me win" kind of thing.

But in contests, as in life, there's always a catch. The hitch in this particular instance is twofold. First, I need to convince (bribe? cajole? trick?) as many people as possible into voting for me. Big enough task, right? But then comes hitch # 2: I was told to tell my story.

My story? Really?

This seems to dictate some type of tear-jerking, heartstring-pulling autobiography.

So I have to admit: I'm nothing special. (Now, before you fall all over yourselves to contradict, I assure you I'm okay with it.) Because I don't have to look far to see others with their own stories to tell. Their own heartstrings to pull. And even on my hardest days there's nothing much to separate me from them (you?).

Sure, I could dedicate a whole paragraph to the various substances that have been spilled on my carpet. I could write a chapter on the nuances of raising a 7 year-old. I could disclose my weaknesses or divulge my embarrassments. I could chronicle my many failures and accomplishments, my heartaches and joys. I could. But I know, as do you, that you'd all be nodding in understanding.

Because we've all been there.

In this great big world we all have a story to tell. And while those stories make us who we are individually, they also make us part of something. Something much better than being an individual. It makes us part of a family. And, in my book, being part of this human family is about the best thing I can imagine.

So maybe, just maybe....that's my story.

Post Edit: While I stand on what I said...a good friend reminded me that even in the midst of a normal life there are stories worth sharing. But not today. I'm afraid the normalcy of my life is taking up more than it's fair share of minutes today. So, as a peace offering to Emily, I'll be offering up one of those worthy moments in my life. Soon.

About Resolutions

What is it about January 1st that makes us resolve to change, to do better, to be better? Is there some unseen, yet magical, moment that occurs during that anticipated countdown to the new year that makes it more special than any other day? Because I don't get it. For me, the only difference between New Years Eve and New Years Day is whatever amount of sleep I got in between.

Perhaps it's because my life seems laden with resolutions already. Daily. Hourly. I make them...then I break them. I begin, only to fail, redraft, and resolve again. And life changes. Situations and circumstances are hurled about and I'm typically forced to rethink enough as it is. So, I say resolution, shmesolution!

This year I've decided to let go. I spend enough of my time beating myself up for my imperfections that I've resolved to seek less perfection. That's right, people, I'm shooting for mediocrity! (So far, so good...if I may say so myself.) And though I don't think I'm supposed to admit to this--there's a lot of pressure in our society to at least pretend we're perfect even if we're not actually achieving it--please know that if you find me in my pajamas in the middle of the day, eating chocolate, in a mess of a house, with my children beating up on each other, while food boils over on the stove...I'm working on being "at one" with it. So just smile and back me up.

Please?

Nostalgia

As a kid I loved summers. And not just because school was finally out. I loved summers because I knew there would be a couple weeks spent with grandpa and grandma in Idaho. Mom and dad would pack us up in the pea-green Ford Maverik (yea...it was awesome) and drive 10 hours to foist us on our maternal grandparents.

Those summer days of my memory were full of magic. We would spend hour upon hour exploring the farm and all it's nooks and crannies, building dams in the river, catching frogs, sneaking fresh peas and carrots from grandma's garden, shooting cans off the fence with bb's, and basically living the care-free life of children. Grandma and grandpa were strict, but in different ways than our parents. And they did allow us little concessions that would never fly at home. My favorite concession was that each child got to pick out one box of cereal. Whatever cereal we wanted. And, as you can imagine, we came home with the most sugary-sweet box we could find. My brother's pick: Captain Crunch. Mine: Froot Loops. Seriously awesome.

The other day I happened to pick up a box of Froot Loops (because they were on sale and I'm not as smart as my mom). This morning I told the girls they could have some. I cracked into the box and opened up the bag. And, the second I did, the smell of those sugar-filled loops made me homesick. Homesick for the farm. Homesick for the smell of the woods. Homesick for my grandparents.

It was at that moment I realized that while I was having the time of my life, there was also a fantastic side-effect. I got to know grandpa and grandma in a way I never would have any other way. And I'm so lucky...and grateful.

Grandpa, I miss you. I know you're in a much better place, but the world isn't the same without you and your "bang!" to keep us hopping.

Grandma, it's been an incredible blessing to have you around to meet my children. They love you...almost as much as I do. And we all hope to see you real soon.

Uh Oh

For those of you who don't know...I have a bad habit. Okay, I have a few bad habits. Alright, alright...I have several bad habits, but we're only going to discuss one tonight, okay? Sheesh!

(Deep breaths. Breathing in. Breathing out.) I'm okay now. Let's just skip over the introspection-caused breakdown and move on to the part where I actually get to the point.

I like TV. No, I love TV. I don't know what it is about that little magic box, but I am the poster child for couch potato-ism and normally I make no apologies. But tonight I found a flaw in my stolid acceptance of the TV world.

As I sat making a list of all the shows I love, and the shows I think I'm going to love, along with their nights and times (yes, the OCD makes me do this) the following realization slowly sunk in: I have just mentally committed myself to 11 hours of TV PER WEEK!

Is it any wonder that Lindy announced in Primary a couple weeks ago that our family likes to watch TV?

No. No, it isn't.

It Ain't Just a River in Egypt

I'm not a fan of introspection. I don't like falling short and introspection always shines a light on the many areas I flounder. It's no wonder that I've become somewhat of an expert at DENIAL. It's the backbone of my existence...the philosophy I have long subscribed to.

A prime example of this denial is my staunch refusal to accept the fact that my 36 year old body (post 3 children) isn't capable of the same freakishly insane things my 25 year old body was. Early on in life I earned the label of "Night Owl". I like the night life. I like to boogie. And it used to all work out fine. But now? Now I find myself puttering around until past midnight every night and wonder why at 7:30am I'm just a mumbling, tottering, mess of a person.

Some would think I didn't know better. They would be wrong. I know there are consequences...I just don't want there to be consequences. Shouldn't that be enough?

Motivation

I never used to have trouble staying on top of housework. Having been raised by a father slightly OCD in nature I've always found cleaning to be enjoyable...even therapeutic. Then I went and had children. And, wouldn't you know it, the hours of the day are somehow consumed by three little rugrats and I find less and less of it left over for my ever-so-missed hobby of cleaning.

To compensate I've contrived a Housekeeping Priority List (all in my head...not on paper). The kitchen is number one, particularly the counters. The family room and living room are neck-in-neck for second place. After that the rest of the rooms in my house all garner attention based on a) their likelihood to be seen by a person outside of my family and b) need. I'll be honest...the List, with it's variables of "a" and "b" have led more than one room in my house to be severely neglected at times. Here's where it gets interesting: if any one room has been slighted for too long I find I am often provided with compelling motivation in the form of a child.

Case In Point: If the hallway bathroom has been left too long to it's own devices and is in need of a good scrubbing I will be faced with either:

1. A toddler picking "something" out of an un-flushed toilet and smearing it on the walls and floor

or

2. A three year-old standing on a stool in the middle of the bathroom floor watching (quietly) as water gushes out of said un-flushed toilet.

Both of which have happened in the last 10 days. True story. Now, these little "reminders" to scrub and disinfect one little room in my house may have caused less-than-kind words to be hurled at my sweet little ones...but, I certainly have one spotlessly clean bathroom. All in spite of my incomplete housekeeping list. The glass is half full, people. Half. Full.

You Just Can't Have It All

Yesterday I woke up and decided to use my OCD to my advantage. (I'm going to start referring to it as CDO--the letters in alphabetical order...the way they are supposed to be).

Apart from doing the normal day-to-day routine of feeding, clothing, carpool, and changing diapers I was able to:

Vacuum

Dust

Clean the blinds and windows

Clean behind/under fridge & stove

Mop kitchen/bathrooms/entryway

Rid showers of soap scum

Clean toilets

Water plants

Remove science projects from refrigerator

Organize pantry

Finish laundry for the week

Wash walls and baseboards

Put final touches on paint in bathroom

AND...

Completely neglect any form of personal hygiene.

On the flip side...today I woke up and showered. I then went on to accomplish nothing.

Awesome.