thursday afternoon

It's cold today. It's one of those day-after-a-storm days and the sky is bright blue with a few lovely poofy clouds here and there. There is just the slightest of breezes blowing, but it's a cold one, reminding my fingertips and nose that winter is coming sooner than I'd like.

You know, why doesn't someone make a nose warmer? Not a scarf, because that has to wrap all the way around your head and cover up your mouth to warm your nose. They have ear muffs, why on earth not a nose muff?

I suppose you'd look stupid.

But I digress. Shocker.

I'm sitting at the dining room table with a view of the Western Flutter-Leaf trees (a.k.a. Aspens) in the yard behind my house, fluttering their leaves as they should. They're best this time of year, since there's only 4 of them, and 3 of them are mostly dead. In the summer they're only half-clothed in green leaves, except for the one healthy one, which takes its role of Show-Off Healthy Tree quite seriously. This makes the other ones look absolutely pathetic until fall, when the brilliant one is yellow and losing its leaves and the dead ones just look like over-achiever Leaf Losers. PS. Photo below is so NOT a pic of my neighbor's trees. It's just a gorgeous reminder of why I love fall.


The point (Yes, there is one): It's a gorgeous afternoon and I adore this season. A few days ago I got out of the car and stepped into a gutter full of leaves. I couldn't help it: I ran through them, dragging my feet so it would kick up the leaves even more. I ran back and forth 3 or 4 times, then realized I must have looked fairly ridiculous -- not only because I was a 34-year-old mommy running through the leaves in the gutter, but because I was swinging my purse around while I was at it.

Caution: Leaf-filled gutters may cause rampant leaf-running, unabashed purse waving, and absurdly huge grins.

And then to top it all off, I grabbed a huge handful of leaves, stuffed them in my face and... inhaled. Deeply. Deliciously. Oh, I LOVE the smell of fall leaves!! It was just about the most perfect 8 minutes of my week.

Just thought you'd like to know.

Happy fall. Again.

toothpaste on the mirror

The bathroom: A fine, practical, utilitarian sort of space. Oh I know, some people have a spa for a bathroom with a 10-foot wide, 5-foot deep bathtub and a fireplace with candles all over the place. Some people, I believe, would call their bathroom a sanctuary.

At my house the bathroom is the room an inch larger than a closet that just barely fits the necessities, the end. You walk into the sink, take a step and hit the bathtub, and wedged in between the two is the toilet. Apparently, when my house was being built in the 70s, no one could think of a reason that you'd want to actually like that space, or heaven forbid, move around more than 2 feet.

So I like to honor the builders of the 70s by treating my bathroom just as they intended: get in, get done, get out. Showers? 5 minutes. Tooth brushing? Keep it to the maximum 2 minutes. Hand washing? Just long enough to sing my ABCs.

My children are another story -- particularly the 3 youngest. For them, brushing your teeth is a group activity; in fact, if you send one of them up to get it done without anyone else, they'll stop and tell you they can't...because...well, no one else is in there...

Oh, I'd LOVE to know what goes on when they're all in there. For example, why in the world is there a blob of toothpaste on the wall every morning? The wall. Sure, the sink. They're kids, there's bound to be a little toothpaste in the sink, on the counter, or even the faucet. But what, pray tell, are they doing to get toothpaste on the wall every day?

Or in the evenings, after everyone's gone to bed and I head up to take care of my ablutions and other various bathroom activities, why is it that when I go to use some toilet paper, it's all wet? Not sopping, mind you, just wet enough that when you pull on some, a little bit stays on the roll and there you sit holding a scrap of damp, clinging paper in your fingers.

What could they possibly be doing? There's not really water anywhere else, not on the floor or the sink, or the toilet or walls. It's just there on the toilet paper roll.

Then there are the baths. These, unlike the tooth brushing, are one-man jobbers. The Boy, in true "man-form," prefers the shower, and is in and out in seconds. Just long enough, I believe, to barely wet himself, run a bar of soap up and down his body, rinse, and get out. Seriously. I think it's about a minute.

But the girls all love a bath. And I have no idea how they do it, but there are always, always gallons of water on the floor when they're done. I don't know what they do. Are they laying down and swishing the water back and forth to make great waves plunge out of the tub and all over the floor? If they are, I never hear the wave-making, and even in those moments when I have to run in and get something, I hear nothing. The shower curtain is closed and there is no sound whatsoever, save for perhaps the stray drip from the faucet.

I've decided that maybe they just take the first 3 gallons that come out of the faucet and scoop it onto the floor before they turn off the water, so I'll be none the wiser. Who knows?

All I know is I'd love to be a fly on the wall to see what's really going on in there when I'm not around. Then maybe I could at least protect the toilet paper.

Oh well, we can't know all the mysteries of life, can we?

mars & venus

I don't think there is anything in my life that compares to being in absolute and complete, this is for real and forever, I cannot breathe without you, love. It's something I think most girls dream of and imagine their entire lives and then one day you wake up and it's happened to you and you're marrying that one person you cannot live without. The thing is, you don't realize then that you haven't really got a clue what it really feels like to be deliciously in love. I mean, yes, you're crazy in love, but if you could catch a glimpse of yourself in say, 10 or 14 years, you'd laugh at what you were feeling then. If you just got married a year or two ago, you think I'm nuts. But if it's been a little longer, I know you know what I'm talking about.

We just celebrated our 14th anniversary by skipping out of work and spending the day window shopping and playing Rumikub and Scrabble. Yeah, I know, to a lot of people that sounds like the lamest excuse for an anniversary celebration in existence. I'm sorry to say, it's just what I love. But truthfully, even if it wasn't, I could watch a rock in the dirt for days as long as I'm doing it with Dave. He's just so dang funny that the ordinary is simply not. What a great, beautiful thing to be so happy just being with someone, that the ordinary becomes quite deliciously unordinary.

So in honor of the big 14th, I thought I'd share a coupla reasons why I'm so in love with my Dave.

Dave is a self-employed masonry contractor. Self-employment brings with it funny quirks. He's generally able to choose his hours, which is really nice, and when we're crazy busy, it's really good. However, we have had times when we haven't had enough work, which is really not so good. Most of the time we're somewhere in between crazy busy and absolutely-I'm-afraid-we're-selling-the-house-and-moving-to-that-box-on-the-curb, no work. Lately we've been on the skinnier side of busy. Just busy enough. And that's good enough.

Several months ago, we were experiencing one of those closer to the skinnier side of the skinnier side than I'm comfortable with. Dave hadn't been very chatty that morning, and seemed preoccupied as he got ready for work. I watched him and began to worry a bit for him. I mean, if I don't like the no-work times, it's even harder on the man who can't find the work. I tried to keep up the happy level on my end, and chit-chatted about nothing in particular until it was time to kiss him out the door. We walked into the mudroom and he opened the door and kind of slowly backed out. His focus was blankly off of me, out into the garage at nothing in particular.

And I watched him and my heart just broke for him. That's my whole heart right there, and he's unhappy, and I can't stand it! And I thought, Oh, he's having a hard morning, he's worried, he's stressed out, I gotta do something for him... I gotta go pray for work. Pray for help. Pray for him... And I smiled and wished him a great day at work.

His mood seemed better later in the day, and I was relieved that things must be looking up. A few days later, I brought up the work topic. Condescendingly, I told him I knew he had been worried, so I had been really worried for him. I mentioned that morning, and how I knew his mind was going, trying to think of a way to get us some more work. I told him how I can't stand when he has to worry about things, and how I wished I could take some of that burden from him. Really, I believe it was quite a moving little speech.

He smiled and told me he thinks I'm great, and how glad he is that I love him so much. That's right, Marianne, you know how to take care of your man.

And then a few days later he told me the truth. As I was getting out of the suburban one day, I noticed a yellow smiley-face that had been spray painted on the wall in the garage. I laughed and went in and asked him about it. That particular morning that I had worried over my Dave as he distractedly backed out the door, he was, in fact, distracted by something completely unrelated to work. On the shelf he had caught a glimpse of a small can of glow-in-the-dark spray paint, and as I assumed his mind was off somewhere meeting contractors or something, he was pondering the many great uses of such a treasure. After he closed the door on his little doting wife, he grabbed the can and painted a smiley-face on the wall.

Good thing I was so concerned.

Here's one more glimpse into why I love him so much. We're huge Iron Chef fans at our house, especially the original ones from Japan or wherever they are. Several times this past year, we've have a family Iron Chef competition, with two teams, a secret ingredient, and 45 minutes to make a meal. For the first 2 or 3 competitions, Dave and I were the judges, but when Dave got home one Saturday morning and announced the next Iron Chef competition, he decreed that he and I would also be competing. Since he had already decided on the secret ingredient, he told me it would only be fair if I knew what it was as well: Curly Noodles. AKA: Ramen.

Okay, I thought. I've got 6 hours to come up with some good ideas for Ramen. All day I thought. I mentally went through my most spectacular recipes and tried to think of ways to substitute Ramen. I tried and tried to come up with something that would be both delicious and creative, and racked my brains for inspiration for something that would plate well.

At 4:00 we all met in the kitchen and divided up into teams. And then we began. Alas, after half a day of thinking, all I had come up with was uncooked chocolate-drizzled Ramen for dessert, and a salad, a spinach salad, with uncooked Ramen all crumbled up on top. That was it. Crumbly and chocolate ramen.

Contrast this to the ridiculously impressive main dish that Dave invented. Stupid as is seems, he took dry ramen and pulverized it in the blender with the dry ramen seasoning. Then he coated slices of chicken with it and fried it in just a little butter, and served it over cooked Ramen. And seriously, it was so dang good -- so good, that RyBread insists on making it about every other Sunday for lunch; so very good, in fact, that I always want some when she makes it.

That's the difference between Dave and me. He's making Ramen Chicken a la noodles, and I'm smashing dry ramen on lettuce and calling it a salad. He's spray painting smileys on the garage wall and I'm planning our going-out-of-business sale. Dave brings a delicious liveliness to my days. He helps me lighten up a bit and makes me laugh all the time. It's unfair, really, I'm always on the receiving side of the laughter -- he's always providing it for me.

So after 14 years of marriage, I'm tempted to say that it doesn't get any better than this. But the funny thing is, I know it will. I know that woman who's been married 25 years is smiling over this and thinking, She hasn't really even discovered how much in love you can be. And that's what I love best about being married to my Dave. It just keeps getting better.

Happy Anniversary DaveyBoy.

mary, mary quite contrary...

I don't think it's just me, I think everyone has at least one of these: something you love but you're terrible at. Mine's gardening. Actually I couldn't even go so far as to say I love it. I guess what I really love are other people's gardens. I love flower gardens and vegetable gardens, although if it's too big a plot, I admit I don't like it as much -- too many weeds waiting there between the zucchini and tomatoes, I know it. But I love big, plant-filled backyards, with little "outdoor rooms," and "pretty-ish sort of wildernesses" that make you want to explore them. I love all the gardens in my magazines, even the xeriscaped yards. ...No, I don't believe I like my own garden at all.

Okay, really I love my little gardens once a year: at the very first turn of the soil in the spring. I love that delicious moist dirt smell as you break your back trying to soften it all up again. I love the first planting. I even kind of like the first weed-out of the season. And then it ends. Oh, sure, I keep weeding and adding annuals and occasionally trimming back the dead heads. ...For a while, anyway.

It's almost the end of September now. I quit pulling weeds a month ago out of principle, and I must say, if you just let them go, they'll really find a way to become the star of the planter. I have all the usual smaller weeds that only ever spread out, but not up; I've got Morning Glory attempting a hostile take-over of the Black-Eyed Susans; a distant relative of the dandelion is sprouting up nicely (and fluffily) between the faucet on the house and the evergreen-whatevers growing a few feet away; and some fleshy-looking, spreading thing my father-in-law once sampled as a snack and invited me to try as well (as it's an apparently integral part of someones dinner salad in Ecuador or something), is thriving everywhere else.

Meanwhile, over in the veggie patch, my tomatoes are barely going to have turned red by the time the first frost hits. I'm about ready to try some fried green tomatoes just so I can say I got to eat my very own tomatoes this year. The yellow squash produced one perfect, summery squash, and the rest shriveled on the vine long ago. Right next door, the zucchini are producing far more than any family should have to eat in one summer. So for all those reasons, as well as the fact that the morning glory have really outdone themselves on the tomato cages, I'm calling it done pretty soon here -- I'm thinking another, oh, day or so, and they're coming out. Fall is the most delicious time of year anyway, so I say, bring on the dead leaves. Come on, crispy mornings. Hello to the end of dragging my sprinkler around the yard every other day. No more dirt under the fingernails til Spring.

I love the fall, and the end of my growing season's just another fantastic reason to celebrate it. You know, I think I'd have made a lousy farmer. Lucky my livelihood doesn't depend upon my ability to garden. Oh well, even if it did, I seem to be really good at cultivating those salad-green weeds from Ecuador. Looks like I'd be okay after all.

Happy Fall.

cooler than you think

There's something in me that wants to think I'm still cool -- If I ever was, that is. I'm always shocked when someone acts as if I'm older and less cool than I feel. Like the time my friend's 16-year-old came over to interview me for her financial literacy class (I failed, by the way), and asked me how old I am. "34," I said. "34?! Why you're so young!" she said. "You've still got your whole life ahead of you!", as if I'm considering throwing what's left of my miserable life away because I'm so terribly old already. And she said it in the same way that people sometimes talk to old people, like they're 4 years old and incapable of understanding adult conversation. Oh, I love her to death and she was really kidding (...I hope), but I can't help but wonder if she secretly thinks 34 is as good as 93 and I'm really teetering into the grave.

It's all relative, I guess.

Just like coolness.

I drove over to my favorite little antiques shop a few nights ago, hoping it would still be open. It wasn't. Dang 6:30. I ended up driving home behind a particularly obnoxious vehicle. To call it pimped would have been an understatement. It was shiny blue and very sparkly with dark tinted windows. It had several exhausts -- okay, probably just 2, but when he stepped on the gas, it sounded like 20. And I doubt it was more than 3 inches off the ground. It was a real beauty...Well, to someone, anyway. And on top of it, the entire neighborhood was shaking in beat with his woofers and subwoofers and tweeters and whatever else they have to make your music everyone's music.

I'm looking at this car and I'm thinking what I always think when I drive by these kinds of cars: This guy thinks he SO cool. Oh, look at me in my cool pimped ride! I'm so cool with my super loud music with the thump thump and the bass! Move out of the way, uncool people. (Isn't that what cool people say? I'm sure it is.)

Happily, I'm still only 34, so I didn't feel the need to yell at him to turn that racket down, there's people trying to drive here, and then add under my breath, Dang kids these days, think they own the world! That'll probably come when I'm about 35, but I'll check with my neighbor's daughter, she'll know for sure.

But I was reminded of a day a few years ago when I had the suburban filled up with our kids in car seats. It was one of those first yummy spring days of the year, when you have to roll down the windows and turn the radio up and breathe in the absence of winter. We were on our way to the library (which was usually a bad idea when I had two 1-year-olds, a 3-year-old, a 5-year-old, and a 6-year-old, but that's another story) and stopped at a red light. We had been there only a few seconds when we heard, rather than saw the car coming up behind us on our left. Then, of course, we felt him, and next moment, there he was in all his lowered, shiny red, tinted windows, thumpin' bass glory. We all looked over at him, and' although I didn't say anything, I thought it. Oh, look at you in your cool lowered car with your cool super loud music and your stupid tinted windows. You are so cool, Stud.

And then I turned my attention back to my stereo, which was also playing rather loudly, since of course, the windows were down and we had to be able to hear over the wind. It was then that I realized cool is relative. Because there I was, in my car seat-stuffed suburban, sunglasses on, bottles of formula in my bag, and the music blasting Goofy, singing "I'm Bringing Home a Baby Bumblebee."

Now that's cool... At least to my kids. So I guess Mr Fancy Ride is cool to someone, and so am I. I'm sure we didn't make each other's cool lists, but at least I made it onto someone's. It probably won't last though. From what I hear of teenagers, I have a very short cool life, and I think it's already on the way out. Oh well, it was cool while it lasted.

the wisdom of youth

Well we're officially a week into the new school year. A week! I swear, we were robbed of summer this year! I mean, really, starting school in mid-August? Please. It's still summertime! I know, some moms think I'm crazy. But I love having my kids around, I love the constant noise and play and music and laughter and the house that never seems to get clean. Oh, sure, I love a quiet, clean house too, but I love when my kids are home. I really hate it when school comes along and makes me give them back to their teachers for 6 hours a day.

Incidentally, I was having this same conversation with one of my friends, but as we were talking about how short the summer was, I said, "We were robbed!!" And she thought I meant, you know, robbed. Stolen from. Burgled. Love that word. It was an odd few seconds there while I tried to explain myself. I suppose I should watch that dramatic speech I fall into so often. But I'll probably just watch it and not really change it. I love it, almost as much as I love commas. Delicious. ...There I go again.

So anyway, we've already had several humorous conversations with the kids about school, so I thought I'd share my favorites from the last week and a coupla the best ones from the past.

First: At dinner the other night, Kam announced that her cousin would be taking Chinese this year in school, which would open up the likelihood of her going on a mission to Japan. This was a promising beginning.

Then Ry piped in and said, "There was a girl in my class last year, she was Japanish... Japeeze... Ja... what is it?" We were still laughing too hard about the Chinese speaker in Japan to answer Ry.

The next night, I believe, Morgs started to tell us about a boy named Daniel in her class. Before she could get to the point, she was interrupted by her twin, The Boy, with, "You have a Daniel in your class?! Me too!! ...'Cept it's Dillon. His name's Dillon." Come to think of it, I know a guy named Daniel, too. Except it's Clarissa. And she's a girl. ...Love that.

Now to fully understand these next ones, you should know that we're a praying family. Every morning and night, we kneel and pray together, with everyone eventually getting a turn to offer the prayer as we proceed through the week.

Now, apparently my children have a very vague idea of what exactly it is that I do after they all leave to school. This is, of course, no huge surprise, since many of my children's teachers are under the impression that stay-at-home moms whose children are all at school probably just sit around catching up on General Hospital and The Barefoot Contessa while eating chocolate Dibs all day. Heaven knows who's doing the laundry and shopping and house cleaning and the secretarial work for the husband's construction business and whatever millions of mindless errands there are, and volunteering in the kids' classrooms and helping out the PTA occasionally, as well as trying to improve her talents on the piano and teach herself guitar and maybe if she's lucky get some time to write; because it certainly couldn't possibly be the stay-at-home mom!

Don't get me wrong. I have a healthy amount of respect for moms that can juggle the crazy life of career and family. That's just not in me. I'm capable of one career: motherhood. It's all I've ever wanted and frankly, all I can handle for now, even with all the kids in school all day.

But now I've gone and gotten off the point. So Kam was offering the prayer one morning last week and had said, "Please bless Dad at work today, and all of us at school. And bless Mom... to... be safe?" (Yes, it was a question) "...at home?" (again) "in her... responsibilities?" Did I mention the vagueness?

I laughed because it reminded me of a day sometime last year when Kam was offering the prayer again. She had just asked for the blessings of Dad and all the kids at school, and then said, "And please bless Mom that she can be safe in...whatever it is that she does." Silly girl. I sit around all day eating chocolate Dibs and catching up on General Hospital and the Barefoot Contessa. Duh. Bless Mom as she veges all day on the couch with her ice cream and soap opera addiction.

I guess I ought to consider letting them skip a day of school and just sit and watch what I do. ...Nah, let 'em wonder. Let's see how good the prayers get.

And finally, I leave you with the wisdom of my Morgs. A coupla years ago, she came into my room, looked me straight in the face and said, "Mom, if you ever see a guy, and he's got scars on his face, and he's wearing a striped shirt and those braclet things on his wrists from the police, he just might be a criminal." A sage warning from someone who clearly knows a criminal when she sees one.

the view from next minute...

A month. It has been an entire month since I've been able to actually sit down long enough to complete a posting. Oh, sure, I have several in the works -- and they're good ones -- but there they sit, in the works.

What a month. No, what a week. I learned in the most painful way last week that sometimes you can't go as far ahead as next Tuesday for a better view. Sometimes you can't go farther than the next minute. ...Breathe. Breathe again.

I learned last week that even though it seems like the world should stop and take note of your own particular upheaval, it does not. You wake up the next day and life is still moving, with or without you.

I learned last week that sometimes life is a little less real and a little more like a badly written mini-series than I ever thought possible -- So much so that if I was watching it, I'd be like, "Who wrote this?!"

But I also learned that a few of the people I really really love and have always expected to shine in life are capable of far greater things than I ever imagined. I learned that sometimes the strongest person is the one who should have been the broken one. And I learned that there is always hope in next Tuesday, and that if I can just get there, surely today will not feel quite so achingly painful.

And really, I have hope in next Tuesday because I have hope in Christ. And there it is.

So to those people whom I really really love and are starring in a horribly written mini-series (you know who you are): You make me want to be braver and wiser and funnier and a little bit more like you. Thank you for who you are. And PS. Dang, I love you.

In case of an emergency, hit me.

So I spent the greater part of my morning in the Insta-care -- Utah's local alternative to the ER. Last evening The Boy managed to fall on his arm wrong. He cried some, but not tons -- that's a good sign, right? His arm was swollen at the elbow, and he had no desire whatsoever to straighten it out, so it wasn't just a little owie. But I, going against my Injuries & Crises history, waited til this morning to take him in. That's a bigger deal than you realize. In my earlier first-aid moments, I'd have rushed him, cradled in my arms, straight into the emergency room, not even bothering with a car. I'd have run him there. On foot. Lots faster than a car. Okay, so there's a little drama in my blood. What can I say?

Don't worry, it was a good call. It turns out nothing was broken, it was probably just "a good sprain," whatever that means. I mean, really, is there such a thing as a good sprain? The very definition of a sprain is

"a violent straining or wrenching of the parts around a joint, without dislocation." (Thank you, dictionary.com.)

Those aren't good words. Violent. Straining. Wrenching. If I'm understanding it correctly, a sprain is the moment right before the break. How's that good?

But I digress. Apparently, I've been known to freak out a bit. Oh, I never felt like I was freaking out. In my head, I was calm and collected, the very image of strength and stability in a time of stress. Ha.

Let us consider a day two years ago -- almost to the day, ironically enough -- when The Boy incurred a similar injury. All of the kids and Dave were in the living room, playing some game that I'm still a little vague on. I know it somehow involved marshmallows and jumping off the back of the wing chair, which of course, sounds really stupid. I mean, duh, let your kids jump off the furniture and someone's bound to break an arm. But since it was "supervised" by dad, how bad could it be?

Well they're all playing and laughing their heads off, when after one particular thump, I heard crying mingled with the laughter -- obviously someone was hurt (bad, by the sound of the crying), and no one had else realized it yet. And then I hear Dave repeating The Boy's name several times and saying, "Just let me look at it." I listened for what I thought was probably 4 or 5 minutes before bursting in to save the day -- plenty of time to let Dave take the lead in this thing. After all, there was no need to go rushing in too soon to come to the rescue.

In all likelihood, I actually waited 4 or 5 seconds. When I came into the living room, The Boy was standing with Dave's hands supporting him a bit. He was still crying and holding his arm, but just as I entered the room, he kind of just slumped over. Dave, of course, still had him, so he carefully lowered him to the floor, where I went directly. I've never seen one of my kids pass out, and I admit, it was a little disheartening. But I mustered my coolness and assessed the situation. Calmly (I thought), I smoothed his hair back and rubbed his cheeks softly as I said his name. His response was to roll his head and eyes a bit. Just as I suspected. Now was my moment to shine. Feeling perfectly cool and in control, I announced to the room in general, "He's in shock!" Dave, of course, is thinking, "Really? Brilliant! Thank heavens you told us!" and the kids all freak out. The oldest girls start crying, the younger girls are asking, "What does that mean? Is he gonna be okay?" And I'm thinking, "Hey, hey, guys. What's the problem? No need to panic."

It wasn't until later that I realized that the kids were actually all fine until I showed up to "diagnose" the situation. Everybody, he's in shock! Well that's helpful. I think they picked up on my freaked out vibes and all hope for a calm situation was out the window. Good thing I was there to give them the cue to panic.

Yeah, that was pretty good (in the good sprain way?), but another time, my oldest, Kam, had her best friend over. It was night-ish, 9 or 10 or so, and the doorbell rang. I answered it to find the best friend's oldest sister. She briefly told me that her dad had blown out his knee playing Church Ball, and they were heading to the emergency room. My job was to have her sister stay here until they could get back. Got it, I said, and headed downstairs to do my duty. Here it comes. Everyone, he's in shock!

"L," I began. Not wanting to forget anything, I paused and then in one breath said, "I don't want to freak you out or anything, but I guess your dad blew out his knee playing basketball and your sister just stopped by to tell me they're on the way to the emergency room and you've gotta stay here til they get back, I'm sure he'll be fine, but it could be pretty late, you know how those knees can be, painful and hard, so just get comfy, you're gonna be here awhile."

She stared at me blankly for a second and then said, "Okay, what?" And then I did it again! Instead of finding some more delicate, less hurried approach to the whole thing, I pretty much just repeated the mindless truth!

And now, the spokeswoman for delicacy, me.

Then there was the time I followed the wails of my RyBread to her room to find her covered from nose to toes in blood. She'd been pulled off her bed and had hit her nose, and I, in the He's in Shock Tradition, announced, "Oh, it's broken for sure!!" Helpful.

There are a thousand more of these stories, one for almost every first aid emergency at my house. I think I should just stick to the band-aid on the finger and a kiss on the owie and leave the diagnoses to the capable hands of my Dave. I'm just glad I'm easing up on the whole thing -- I can tell the freak-outs are lessening with time... at least I hope they are. I know it's not gone completely, though. Last night I asked Dave if it was time to make the announcement. It never was. He never went into shock. ...Now what?

Eeny Meeny Miny Moe

It was Sunday yesterday. I love Sundays. I mean, they're a busy day with church meetings and after-church meetings and big fat yummy dinners. But I love Sundays because it's the one day my kids always end up playing together. All of them. Every Sunday. This is no small thing, of course, because there are 5 of them, between the ages of 7 and 12 -- they're the "my 5" on my Favorite Faves list, and they're delicious fun; but not in the weird-crazy-witch-lady-from-Hansel-&-Gretel delicious fun; more like that "you are so dang fantastic, I could eat you. But I won't. Because you're not food" kind of delicious fun.

So yesterday they were playing "So You Think You Can Dance, Piano-Room Edition," where they each get a turn dancing to a 20-second demo from the digital piano and then get judged on it. I like to watch them when they're not looking, because really, I don't know that any of them can dance. Well, maybe a couple of them can. But the other ones are just trying to imitate moves they've seen real dancers do (not on the actual show, by the way; I don't think any of them have seen it. Not even 5 minutes of an episode. I don't even think they could tell you when it comes on). Sometimes I'll peek in to see arms flailing and feet moving, almost like Elaine from Seinfeld, and think, yeah, that's about how I look when I think I'm dancing. The Boy (my youngest, but only by 2 minutes) will sometimes just hop in place to the beat of the music and call it a dance, and who am I to argue? It's not like I really know. I practically got kicked out of a community ballroom dance class due to my terrible dancing abilities. But that's another entry.

What made me laugh was the "Not It" that officially called everyone to play. "Let's play 'So you think you can dance,' who's gonna be the judge? Not IT!" This, of course, is followed by a unison chorus of "Not ITs," which then begins the battle for who has to be IT. Inevitably, one of the oldest girls will announce who's IT and everyone will go along with it because, well, they're the oldest. If it had been me and my siblings, we would have immediately launched into Eeny Meeny, followed by all of Eeny Meeny's relatives: "My mother and your mother were hanging out clothes..." "Engine, engine, number 9," or of course "Inka Binka bottle of ink." If we were short on time we'd opt for "Bubble gum, bubble gum in a dish," since we could put a limit on the number of pieces you wish for and it would go faster. And of course in that case, we'd finish it with "and you are IT," as opposed to "And you are NOT IT," which would require several more rounds.

Funny, my kids haven't really stepped into the world of Eeny Meeny so much.

So as I stood there rolling out what would later become some exceptionally spectacular rolls for our big yummy Sunday dinner, I thought about all those little kid things that we grow up with and then eventually grow out of. I remembered a day a few years ago as my family walked to the school playground one hot-ish summer evening. Dave and I hung back a bit as we talked and pushed the twins in the stroller; the three older girls had run ahead and their sing-song chanting was our white-noise background music. I watched as Mak would jump and stomp every few feet, almost in rhythm, and it wasn't until a quiet spot in our conversation that I stopped and really listened to the girls -- in absolute shock. "Don't step on a crack or you'll break your mother's back!"

And there was Mak stomping with all her might on every crack she came upon.

What, was she testing it out, trying to find out if my back's really gonna break? I never put much stock in those kinds of things -- you know, "if you swallow gum it'll take 7 years to digest;" "if you sneeze with your eyes open they'll pop right out of your head;" "every time a fly lands on you it's barfing and then eating it's barf." Come on, that's all just a bunch of kid rumors that your mean older brother tells you to keep you up at night.

But suddenly my faith -- or lack of it -- in all kid rumors was being shaken; suddenly I felt differently about all these silly kids-tales. Could it be there's actually truth to this? ...What's that funny tingly feeling at the base of my spine? And my stomach, suddenly there's this rock-kind of feeling right in the pit of my stomach; is that some wad of gum from 1997? And what's with that smallish sticky feeling on my arm? Did some fly just land there and barf and eat it while I wasn't looking?! What is happening??

And then there's Mak. What in the world was possessing her to keep going and stomping so mercilessly like that? Was she feeling a bit of animosity towards me for some parent-inflicted chore I'd put her up to earlier? Or did she just like the feel of the beat: DON'T (jump) step on a CRACK (jump) or you'll BREAK (jump) your mother's BACK (jump)!

Whatever it was, it was too much for me. The back thing, with the breaking, and it's MY back we're talking about... I mean seriously, should we really be tempting fate so brazenly?

I had the sudden urge to run after her, screaming, "Stop!! Please! For the love of all that is good and pure in this world, STOP STOMPING ON THE CRACKS!!" I didn't, but then found myself seriously considering a heart-to-heart with her about it: "You know, Mak, sometimes people really get hurt when you're playing what may seem like a harmless little game."

No, don't be silly, it's just some childish thing she'll grow out of, I assured myself. She doesn't mean anything by it.

And then I blinked, and it had all passed, and she had grown out of it. And I'm standing in my kitchen 5 years later, listening to my kids debate the ITedness of their game while I roll out dough and chant, "My mother and your mother were hanging out clothes. My mother socked your mother right in the nose..."

And dang, I miss it. I miss the little kidishness they're all growing out of. Now when we walk somewhere, Mak doesn't run ahead, but stays with me and grabs my hand in her 11-year-old-let-me-be-your-friend-and-we'll-walk-and-talk-and-laugh-together attitude, then asks how I slept last night.

Pretty good, I say. Except my back's been bothering me for years now...

The view from next tuesday...

So... the title of my blog. What's the deal with that? I seriously spent about 3 weeks contemplating names for this dang thing, and easily another oh, hour or two checking availability on my different ideas. I considered the usual -- you know, something with my name, or something catchy about what I do: "marianne's life," or "life as the super mom -- it's what I do." I could have gone with a clever one that hints at (or maybe screams) my interests: "the mommy-accordion lover- marathoner-snowboarder-mt.everest hiker-scuba diver-and all around great gal blog." Or of course there's just the ever popular and right to the point, "My Blog." They were all very good, very REAL possibilities... Well, except for the accordion-loving mt.everest hiker one... You know, since those interests don't actually belong to me.

I ended up choosing the name a coupla days ago, when for no reason at all, I was wide awake at 3 o'clock in the morning. Maybe it was because my husband's out of town and the bed just isn't the same without him. Maybe it was the fact that both of our Italian Greyhounds (obviously pictured above) honestly believe my bed is their bed and they're just tolerating my presence there but are secretly plotting my removal from that place as they slowly shove me out of it. Whatever the cause, I was wide awake and thinking. Okay, worrying. I spent a good hour fretting about whatever (I won't get into that because it turns out half of my concerns were actually part of a sleepy-funk and not really real concerns), then finally allowed my mind to wander elsewhere for another hour. By about 4:50 I decided I might actually be tired enough to fall back to sleep; but then I realized the rec center opens in 10 minutes, and I could just run over there and get my weights done. So I did.

POINT: Yes, there is one. As I walked into the weight room, I realized that I should completely ignore most thoughts of worry that occur to me between the hours of 11 pm and 5 am. I have to wait until it's actually morning before I freak out about things, because light, you see, has a knack of bringing with it... well, light. Understanding. Reality. Wakefulness -- that one's kind of key. And once I have light, I gain real perspective.

So when I realized I just needed morning perspective (as opposed to the crazy half-awake non-reality), I knew I had found my title. It's my happy reminder to myself that perspective just depends on where you're standing. Don't like your perspective? Try shifting to the right just a bit. Wait for the sun to show up. Or better yet, move to next Tuesday and you'll probably love the view.

And so it begins

Well it's about time I join the world of blogging. I finally succombed to the peer pressure: "Oh, I just posted it on my blog." "So I was bloggin yesterday and..." "Oh, don't you blog?" Blog, blog, blog, blah, blah, blah.


And yet, here I am. Huh. ...Well do with that what you will, and welcome to my life and my musings about it. I doubt this will be as journally as most of my friends' blogs. Well, who knows what it will morph into; for now it will just be a happy collection of my random thoughts, my mindless babblings, my flapdoodle and bosh. I think I already like it.


But I'm going to bed.