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.

Happiness is...

Drawing with sidewalk chalk.

Jumping on the trampoline.

Playing with your siblings.

Letting the kids run around outside so I can do this:

In Other News

First Grade Teacher Blamed For Emotional Trauma

Sources tell us that an emotional fiasco erupted in a local elementary school after a first grade teacher took a day off for "personal matters". It is unclear if the teacher was aware that her nonappearance would send a classroom of 24 children into hysterics but, upon hearing the news of her absence, the tears flowed freely and many children took to whimpering and moaning for the remaining several hours of the day.

One parent stated, "I don't know what to do with her...she just won't calm down!" After questioning the alleged trauma-inducer, she stated that her trip was necessary as she had to help her parents move into a new house...600 miles away. Reports of the devastation seem to have died down now that she has returned to her role as teacher following a short one-day absence.

Strange Weather Patterns Damages Home

While many states have had to deal with the devastating effects of a colder-than-normal winter this year, one family watched as warm weather destroyed an igloo built only a few short weeks ago. Despite the assurances that they were destined for 6 more weeks of winter, a local family was unable to save the snowy home they worked so hard to create.

It remains to be seen if another igloo will be forthcoming this year. "We may have to wait a whole year to begin repairs," states the construction crew, "it is a devastating loss, but one we hope to recover from soon."

In addition to the loss of their miniature eskimo abode, the warm weather seems to be encouraging their young children to run willy-nilly through the backyard, unconcerned about their mother's wish for a photograph.

So, what's new with you?

My Boys

Seriously...aren't they cute?

I know, I know...adorable.

You Want What?

Tonight at dinner Ellie somehow managed to poke herself in the eye.

She was, of course, upset. Once the tears subsided she asked if she could have a nickel or a quarter. When I asked why, she replied, "So I can have something cold to put on my eye!"

Huh?

My Hero

While reading a friends' blog a couple weeks ago I saw that she had posted a picture of her daughter (Lindy's age) holding up a school assignment titled "My Hero". This adorable little girl had chosen a most incredible hero: The Holy Ghost. Why? Because he helps her to not have bad dreams while she is sleeping. (Seriously, how cute is that?)

"Oh my," I thought and my mind raced. Not only was I absolutely certain that Lindy wouldn't choose the Holy Ghost as her hero...I figured there's a good chance she wouldn't know who the Holy Ghost was. Why? Because sometimes I'm not a great parent. There...I said it. Our Family Home Evening nights have been sporadic (at best) and, well, I realize that I've probably spent more time on "remember to shut the bathroom door so Curtis doesn't play in the toilet" than I have on "the Holy Ghost is given to us as a gift from our Heavenly Father". Oh the shame.

But then.

"This hero award goes to my mom. You are my hero because you take care of me and I love you mom."

And for a split second I felt a twinge of guilt that I would dare feel good about upstaging the Holy Ghost. But oh, if felt good.

Post Edit: Okay...so she does know who the Holy Ghost is. I asked. And she rocked that pop quiz! Awesome.

Once Upon a Time

As a parent I've found I gravitate to parenting methods that provide the most reward with the least amount of effort. This usually means I spend a lot of time dreaming up creative forms of bribery in order elicit "appropriate" behavior from my brood. (Don't judge me...you know you all do it too!)

One form of bribery that I proudly admit to comes in the form of a bedtime story. It started about 4 years ago with Lindy. To ensure a peaceful, whine-free, bedtime I would entice her with a "Lindy Story" (a made-up story with Lindy as the main character). We have since graduated to "Lindy, Ellie, and Curtis Stories" which chronicle the crazy and wild adventures of our carefree children. And it works like a charm! They absolutely LOVE them. Ian has now joined me in the story-telling (and truth be told they prefer his narratives over mine) and the girls practically grovel each night for one of us to continue the fun.

While driving today I laughed as I heard Ellie attempting to share her own story. She came up with the following gem (retold as well as my suffering mommy-memory allows):

"Once upon a time there were three kids. Lindy, Ellie, and Curtis (read "Turdis"). One day they were walking and talking. They walked down a long, long, long, long river that had no alligators and no frogs, just fish. The fish had pointy things on their backs. (They're not sharks...I asked.) The fish were very hungry and wanted some food. The lovebirds came over to the river and brought them food. Lindy and Ellie and Curtis watched the fishes eat their food. They watched the lovebirds fly in the sky around and around and around. Then Lindy and Ellie and Curtis walked around some more and saw some prairie dog holes. The prairie dogs poked their heads up. Next to the prairie dog hole were a bunch of carrots and leaves. Every time the prairie dog poked his head out of the hole he ate some more carrots. Lindy and Ellie and Curtis watched the prairie dog eat the carrots then he popped out of his hole and ran away. The End."

Although her big sister wasn't as patient with the plot line (she kept yelling "Then they went home! The End!" from the back seat) it was such a treat to listen to my little four year old scratch the surface of her story-telling abilities.

She really is such a ham. I just love this girl!

Winter at the Joneses

To answer your question: Yes. That is an igloo in my front yard.

Why is there an igloo in my front yard?

It's like this: Every winter my husband declares his intention of building an igloo. (I don't know where this ambition comes from because I, on the other hand, tend to hunker down, envelop myself in multiple, so many, layers of fleece, and vow to hibernate until the weather resembles something a little less...well, Canadian.) And every year his attempts have ended in less than perfect specimens. Until now.

This year Ian found the perfect tool: a square 5-gallon bucket. This acquisition led to a several-hour, sweat-inducing, back-breaking, production which has been the delight of his three children and neighbor kids alike.

Bets are being made as to how long this fine eskimo home will adorn my front lawn. Since it's in the shade and surprisingly sturdy, it might be here for the duration.

Not to be outdone by their father, Lindy and Ellie proudly assembled this beautiful snowman all by themselves. (Ellie isn't in the picture because she has a little more of her mother's blood in her and is inside the house, bundled and shivering.)

Happy winter, everyone!