For Mr. Williams of Provo High School, who shared the following with us as the perfect example of a run-on sentence.
NINE LITTLE PIGGIES ON THE MOUNTAIN TOP
It was in Miss Bechter's 5th grade class at Lyndale Grade School that we were all commanded to learn a poem by heart and be ready to recite it the next day in front of everyone and some of us remembered to learn a poem but most of us didn't but Ronnie Robertson saved the day for a few of us at least for a little while because when it was his turn to recite he just said something he'd known forever which went TEN LITTLE PIGGIES ON THE MOUNTAIN TOP/COME LITTLE PIGGIES AND EAT YOUR SLOP and he sat down and folded his hands and looked straight ahead and nobody giggled out loud and Miss Bechter went right down the row to the next one who was Carol Nelson who snapped up straight and said TREES BY JOYCE KILMER and then said the whole dumb poem without a mistake though she went too fast but when she tried to zip by the part about the tree being pressed to the earth's sweet flowing breast some of us whisper-giggled and Bob Essler said a bit too loud that he'd like to see a tree growing out of a tit which made Miss Bechter say TIME TO GROW UP REMBEMBER BOYS SOME OF YOU ARE GOING TO BE 6TH GRADERS SOON SHALL WE GET BACK TO BUSINESS but as soon as we got back to business a girl tried to get away with TWAS THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS WHEN but that's all she got out before Miss Bechter said that wasn't the sort of poem she had in mind and that the girl had better look for a different poem and try again tomorrow and then it was Jerry Beckley's turn which made everybody wonder what he'd try to get away with this time and this time he just yelled TEN LITTLE PIGGIES ON THE MOUNTAIN TOP/COME LITTLE PIGGES AND EAT YOUR SLOP and grinned at Ronnie Robertson but Miss Bechter interrupted his grin by saying Mr. Beckley was supposed to stand when he recited so Mr. Beckley jumped up and yelled it again and Miss Bechter let it go because it was Jerry and because she'd just been cross about TWAS THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS but pretty soon she was also cross about the piggies poem because when the next guy tried it she made a noise with her foot and said THAT WILL BE THAT which we all knew meant no more about the piggies and we were on our own but Early Kinard who was a kind of daredevil and didn't care too much about his future and getting into 6th Grade didn't give up right away and when it was his turn to recite he gambled on NINE LITTLE PIGGIES ON THE MOUNTAIN TOP/COME LITTLE PIGGIES AND EAT YOUR SLOP and won and ended up in 6th Grade.
(Keith Gunderson, 25 Minnesota Poets, edited by Seymour Yesner, Minneapolis: Nodin Press, 1974)
Wednesday, May 31, 2006
Wednesday, May 17, 2006
Monday, May 15, 2006
My Mom Is Better than Your Mom
From son #2, I received the following card, listing my traits:
Not exactly accurate, but still sweet.
From son #1 came the following talk, written by himself with a little bit of help from his dad, delivered in Sacrament Meeting:
My mom's name is Julie .
She is 50 years old and weighs 60 lbs.
She has blonde hair and brown eyes.
Her favorite food is tacos .
She likes to snuggle with me .
She doesn't like to go Lego shopping with me .
My favorite thing about her is that she's nice to me .
I love her because she reminds me to play violin .
Not exactly accurate, but still sweet.
From son #1 came the following talk, written by himself with a little bit of help from his dad, delivered in Sacrament Meeting:
Mother's Day Talk
May 14, 2006
Why did God create woman?
Because he looked at Adam and said: "Oh, I can do better than that!"
A few days ago I was asked by Brother H-- to give a talk about Mother's Day during Sacrament Meeting. Hey Mom? Do me a favor and try not to be too embarrassed...…
The theme of my talk today is how my mom and my grandmas have created an example of sacrifice and endurance for my brothers and me.
A few months ago my Mom got hooked on blogging. Blogging has now become almost a daily routine (note that I said almost). I have learned that you will be much better off to make sure to never disturb her as she writes her strange stories and comedies. Otherwise, you can usually expect her to behave like an angry cat. I think blogging has become her escape when the pressure of raising kids causes her to want to bring back the law of Moses and turn one of us into a burnt offering. I'm grateful that in this way my Mom is teaching me sacrifice and endurance.
After a long, long day of patiently helping and teaching me and my brothers, my Mom and Dad knelt together to say their evening prayers. Mom, being so tired from the efforts of the day, obviously wasn't thinking quite straight. She said, "We are grateful for the clothes that we have to eat and the food that we have to wear..." This story taught me that raising kids can be a demanding job but my Mom always does her best to remember to do what is most important.
Switching gears, let me tell you a little about my Grandma A-- when she was a kid. One day, the Relief Society decided to hold a meeting at her house. She was playing outside and caught a bucketful of mice. She thought they were so cute that she brought them inside to show to all the Relief Society ladies. Once inside, Grandma accidentally tripped and fell, spilling the bucket of mice everywhere. All the Relief Society ladies immediately jumped up onto their chairs and began screaming. The mice were scared from all the noise, so they all ran right back into the bucket. My grandma picked up the bucket, carried it back outside, and let the mice go free again. To this day, she still picks up snakes. Whenever she finds spiders in her house, rather than squishing them, she gingerly picks them up and carries them outside to set them free. This story has taught me to be kind even to things that some of us might find repulsive or scary (not that I mind snakes, but in my opinion spiders are totally evil).
My Grandma S-- has also left me with a legacy of sacrifice and service. Let me tell you two stories about her:
My Grandma and Grandpa S-- lived on a farm in Kansas. Grandpa always carried a rifle on his tractor to take care of the jack rabbits that would devour his crops. One day while driving over a particularly bumpy spot, the rifle accidentally went off. The bullet shot out straight towards his head. At the time, my dad had not been born yet and was still a twinkle in Grandma's eyes. My mom says that's why the bullet hit Grandpa in the teeth rather than killing him. I can just imagine my mom's spirit saying to my dad's, "O.K., you slow down the bullet and I'll wreck the aim!"
So, with blood streaming out of his mouth, Grandpa raced back to the house to get help. My Grandma S-- refused to take him to the hospital until she had a chance to put on some makeup. She always wanted to look her best.
Twenty five years later my Grandma S-- was cleaning up the basement in her house and found what she thought was an old board leaning up against the wall. She decided to vacuum behind it. The board was really a thick and very heavy piece of steel. So when she grabbed the top to move it, it's huge weight carried her hand and smashed it through a nearby wall. With several bones broken and blood streaming from her hand, she again refused to go to the hospital until she had a chance to put on makeup. Once again, she wanted to look her best despite the trying circumstances.
While living on the farm in Kansas, neither of my S-- grandparents were members of our church. One day the missionaries knocked on their door and gave them a Book of Mormon. My grandpa agreed to read it but only to prove that it was wrong. A few months later he was baptized into the church. So much for proving it wrong... My Grandma S-- had a harder time. You see, her dad was a Lutheran minister and the rest of her family were devoted Lutherans. Over time and through an experience that is too sacred to share now, my Grandma S-- came to know that the church was true. However, she was torn between honoring her parents and honoring her newly found beliefs. Eventually, she decided to get baptized a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. She found ways to still honor her parents while beginning a legacy of following truth that affects me even to this day.
Through their examples of sacrifice, endurance, and many other things, mothers play an important role in all of our lives. They always have, and they always will. Today is our chance to honor and respect mothers around the world. I know that despite anything, we should always love and respect our mothers. They deserve it. I bear witness to these things humbly in the name of Jesus Christ, Amen.
You had to have been there to see him deliver it publicly. It was awesome!!! (And I'm not biased at all. You can ask Lorien, Dalene, and Melody.)
Happy Belated Mothers Day, everyone!!!
Tuesday, May 09, 2006
My 7 Sevens List
As requested by Elizabeth-W, whom I don't yet know.
7 things I want to do before I die
7 movies I could watch over and over (or really like a lot--who has time to watch a movie over and over?)
7 People I'd like to hear 7 Sevens from (only seven?!?! Sheesh!)
7 things I want to do before I die
- See all of my children and their spouses together in the celestial room of the temple.
- Tour my husband's mission with him (Japan).
- Go on a mission with my husband.
- Be a better friend.
- Travel through Europe (specifically England, Ireland, Scotland, and Wales).
- Live in a completely finished house.
- Build a treehouse in my yard.
- Grow a beard. (Give me 20 years, though, and I might be able to do it.)
- Ski.
- Crochet.
- Walk on a tightrope.
- Plumbing.
- Wire a house.
- Lift my van.
- He's tall, dark, and handsome.
- He has a great sense of humor.
- He loves to play with children.
- He's not afraid to cry.
- He is humble.
- He teases kindly.
- He loves me.
- Who are you in charge of?
- Holy cow!
- Take care of each other, walk safely, and remember who you are. (To my boys as they leave for school)
- Uh-oh! (courtesy of Love and Logic)
- I love you.
- Oh sh**!
- Is your homework done?
- I Came to Love You Late, by Joyce Landorf
- These Is My Words, by Nancy Turner
- Anything by Robin McKinley
- The Dark Is Rising series, by Susan Cooper
- Harry Potter
- The Magic of Ordinary Days, by Ann Howard Creel
- Whatever I'm currently reading
7 movies I could watch over and over (or really like a lot--who has time to watch a movie over and over?)
- The Princess Bride
- Anne of Green Gables
- Shrek (1 and 2)
- The Emperor's New Groove
- Whale Rider
- Music from the Heart
- Christmas Story
7 People I'd like to hear 7 Sevens from (only seven?!?! Sheesh!)
Tuesday, May 02, 2006
Monday, May 01, 2006
Learning Spanish
My second son said this yesterday to his aunt:
"Sometimes my mom wraps me up in a blanket like a burrito, and then I pretend to eat my way out. But I don't know whether a burrito is a food or a bug."Yo tambien, mi hijo, yo tambien.
Sunday, April 16, 2006
To Be Righteous in the Dark
On a more serious note (yes, that is possible for me), someone gave us this quote several weeks ago. For one who struggles with depression, these words hit home for me.
When asked why we are sometimes left alone and often sad, President Brigham Young's response was that man has to learn to "act as an independent being...to see what he will do...and try his independency--to be righteous in the dark." (Quoted by President James E. Faust in his October 2005 General Conference talk entitled "The Light in Their Eyes.")
Wednesday, April 12, 2006
Ack...the irony!
I've already mentioned this before, but I exercise at Curves. This morning an elderly lady came in and started exercising right next to me. She's a very nice lady who is in her 80's or so. I was focusing on my workout when I caught a whiff of something nasty. Sweet little old lady had just eked out a message from within. Now I know it's normal and all for that to happen, but what struck me as funny was her T-shirt. The back of it said "Lifeguard" and had the red cross on it, which I thought was unusual for an 80-year-old woman. Then, on the horizontal part of the cross, it read "AROMA."
Monday, April 03, 2006
Messages From Within
I was at ShopKo a few weeks ago with sons #2 and #3. As we walked past the end of one of the aisles, I saw something that caught my eye: self inflating whoopee cushions. Knowing son #1 the way I do, I just had to get one for him. Of course, I had to get one for son #2 as well. Then the fun began.
As I pushed the cart through the store, finishing my shopping, son #3 (who is 2 years old), discovered the joys of sitting down hard on a whoopee cushion. Just like the cushion, he and son #2 erupted--in fits of giggles. I got some interesting (and withering) glances from my fellow shoppers, as my sons persisted in making fart noises and laughing at my embarrassment. Granted, I brought it on myself for even putting the things in my cart, but still.
Speaking of flatulence...not even a week after the ShopKo incident, I was watching Animal Planet's "The Most Extreme." They were doing a show on the most disgusting things that animals (including humans) do. I was educated to the fact that human beings experience an average of 10 "messages from within" per day. That's 3.5 PINTS of gas per day, folks. (Cows are the worst producers of methane, by the way.) And if you want to increase your degree of nastiness, your diet should include beans, broccoli, cabbage, and onions.
Why is it that people are so troubled by these "messages from within"? Everyone does it, but few want to admit it publicly. Eddie Murphy makes boo-koo bucks from potty humor. The only benefit I ever got from flatulation was a means of comfort for son #2. At one point in his young life, he was afraid of monsters. So, using my expert parenting skills (you know--the special ones you have to use when you're thinking on your feet), I told him that there were no monsters in our house because monsters don't like farts or burps, and every time anyone in our house did that, the monsters would run away. And since farting and burping happen a lot in a house with three boys and a grown man (all right--and a grown woman as well), he had nothing to worry about.
Hey--don't laugh. It worked. For weeks after that, anytime anyone expressed a message from within, son #2 would let us know that we had just cleared the house of monsters. (Of course, if my husband has been eating Mexican food, he can clear the house of people as well.)
So here's to messages from within. May your 3.5 pints of gas per day clear your house of all monsters and menaces, and may you always come off smelling like a rose!
As I pushed the cart through the store, finishing my shopping, son #3 (who is 2 years old), discovered the joys of sitting down hard on a whoopee cushion. Just like the cushion, he and son #2 erupted--in fits of giggles. I got some interesting (and withering) glances from my fellow shoppers, as my sons persisted in making fart noises and laughing at my embarrassment. Granted, I brought it on myself for even putting the things in my cart, but still.
Speaking of flatulence...not even a week after the ShopKo incident, I was watching Animal Planet's "The Most Extreme." They were doing a show on the most disgusting things that animals (including humans) do. I was educated to the fact that human beings experience an average of 10 "messages from within" per day. That's 3.5 PINTS of gas per day, folks. (Cows are the worst producers of methane, by the way.) And if you want to increase your degree of nastiness, your diet should include beans, broccoli, cabbage, and onions.
Why is it that people are so troubled by these "messages from within"? Everyone does it, but few want to admit it publicly. Eddie Murphy makes boo-koo bucks from potty humor. The only benefit I ever got from flatulation was a means of comfort for son #2. At one point in his young life, he was afraid of monsters. So, using my expert parenting skills (you know--the special ones you have to use when you're thinking on your feet), I told him that there were no monsters in our house because monsters don't like farts or burps, and every time anyone in our house did that, the monsters would run away. And since farting and burping happen a lot in a house with three boys and a grown man (all right--and a grown woman as well), he had nothing to worry about.
Hey--don't laugh. It worked. For weeks after that, anytime anyone expressed a message from within, son #2 would let us know that we had just cleared the house of monsters. (Of course, if my husband has been eating Mexican food, he can clear the house of people as well.)
So here's to messages from within. May your 3.5 pints of gas per day clear your house of all monsters and menaces, and may you always come off smelling like a rose!
Monday, March 20, 2006
Saturday, March 04, 2006
When What to My Wondering Eyes Should Appear...
Last month I traveled to Salt Lake City with some sisters in my ward to attend the new Legacy Theater movie about Joseph Smith. It was a nice drive, and the movie was very well done. We drove home on a spiritual high, discussing various aspects of the film. Then I saw it.
The truck in front of us had some strange appendages attached to the trailer hitch. I couldn't figure out what they were or the purpose they might serve, but I turned to Lorien, who was driving, and pointed it out.
"Does that look like what I think it is?"
"Where?"
"That truck there. It looks like it has a package on the trailer hitch."
Sure enough: someone had masculated their truck with what appeared to be metallic testicles. Now I can understand the whole fuzzy dice from the mirror, hula dancers on the dash board, and even the peeing Calvin sticker, but a fake scrotum? Puh-lease! It's bad enough when men put risers in their truck or buy really big pickups to assert their manhood, but must we put male body parts on the bumper?
I suppose it correlates somehow with that whole bra thing that used to be popular on cars. (Maybe it still is popular, but I wouldn't know--cars are colors to me.) At least the bra is merely an item of clothing, although an intimate piece of apparel at that. Perhaps I should seek out this truck and put a jock strap on it. I mean, this person is obviously seeking approval & support for something. No need to put the family jewels in jeopardy on a road with all those aggressive drivers asserting their manhood, right? Maybe a cup would be a better idea....
The truck in front of us had some strange appendages attached to the trailer hitch. I couldn't figure out what they were or the purpose they might serve, but I turned to Lorien, who was driving, and pointed it out.
"Does that look like what I think it is?"
"Where?"
"That truck there. It looks like it has a package on the trailer hitch."
Sure enough: someone had masculated their truck with what appeared to be metallic testicles. Now I can understand the whole fuzzy dice from the mirror, hula dancers on the dash board, and even the peeing Calvin sticker, but a fake scrotum? Puh-lease! It's bad enough when men put risers in their truck or buy really big pickups to assert their manhood, but must we put male body parts on the bumper?
I suppose it correlates somehow with that whole bra thing that used to be popular on cars. (Maybe it still is popular, but I wouldn't know--cars are colors to me.) At least the bra is merely an item of clothing, although an intimate piece of apparel at that. Perhaps I should seek out this truck and put a jock strap on it. I mean, this person is obviously seeking approval & support for something. No need to put the family jewels in jeopardy on a road with all those aggressive drivers asserting their manhood, right? Maybe a cup would be a better idea....
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
Hullo, my name is Fil, and I'm a wipe-aholic...
We went out to dinner the other night to a barbecue place with some of Phil's coworkers. After the food was gone, the hand wipes came out. I noticed a few of Phil's buddies giving him sideways glances and looking meaningfully at each other, but didn't think much of it until Phil opened up his first wipe.
Of course he used the wipe to clean his fingers, but then the man I know and love came shining through. The lemon-scented wipe went up his nose. (And I mean that literally: he shoved the wipe up his nostrils.) Judging by the reactions of our dinner companions, I gathered that somehow this behavior was supposed to be a shock to me. It wasn't.
Yes, I have known for years of Phil's addiction to lemon-scented hand wipes. Each time those wipes appear at a restaurant, I know what's going to happen next. He's going to put each one up to his nose and breath deeply for several minutes, after which he'll express his wish that he could eat them.
I suppose I'm an enabler because I, too, admit to loving that smell. When I was a lot younger than I am now, I had a lemon-scented chapstick that smelled (and tasted) just like those hand wipes. I rationed that stick out for years because I loved it so much. I've never found another one.
So this gets me thinking and wondering what smells do I love? Here's my off-the-top-of-my-head list:
1. Wet concrete, especially in the summer. It makes me think of running through sprinklers with my friends when I was little.
2. Sawdust. The smell of woodshops is comforting. Dad was a woodshop teacher for years and taught my brothers and my husband those skills as well.
3. Homemade bread. Mom used to make bread and rolls a lot while I was growing up. One of our favorite treats was hot bread, fresh from the oven, slathered in butter.
4. The smell of fall means it's time for school. I loved school! (See, Leah? I told you I was a weird kid.)
5. Cinnamon & sugar. Mmmmmmmm. 'Nuff said.
6. The smell of my babies in the morning, but only if they don't have stinky diapers. That whole wet diaper, morning breath thing, combined with the fuzzy hair and sweet smiles, just gets to me.
7. That cold smell just after a good snowfall. Crisp, clean, and no caffeine.
8. Rain. I love the smell of a pending rainstorm and the smell after it rains.
9. Books. Libraries smell sooooo good! I love to read, so it's a natural connection.
10. Hmmmm. Thinking...ah! Got it. The smell of leather. I don't really have any associations with it, but I love it.
So how about you, dear readers? What are your favorite smells?
Of course he used the wipe to clean his fingers, but then the man I know and love came shining through. The lemon-scented wipe went up his nose. (And I mean that literally: he shoved the wipe up his nostrils.) Judging by the reactions of our dinner companions, I gathered that somehow this behavior was supposed to be a shock to me. It wasn't.
Yes, I have known for years of Phil's addiction to lemon-scented hand wipes. Each time those wipes appear at a restaurant, I know what's going to happen next. He's going to put each one up to his nose and breath deeply for several minutes, after which he'll express his wish that he could eat them.
I suppose I'm an enabler because I, too, admit to loving that smell. When I was a lot younger than I am now, I had a lemon-scented chapstick that smelled (and tasted) just like those hand wipes. I rationed that stick out for years because I loved it so much. I've never found another one.
So this gets me thinking and wondering what smells do I love? Here's my off-the-top-of-my-head list:
1. Wet concrete, especially in the summer. It makes me think of running through sprinklers with my friends when I was little.
2. Sawdust. The smell of woodshops is comforting. Dad was a woodshop teacher for years and taught my brothers and my husband those skills as well.
3. Homemade bread. Mom used to make bread and rolls a lot while I was growing up. One of our favorite treats was hot bread, fresh from the oven, slathered in butter.
4. The smell of fall means it's time for school. I loved school! (See, Leah? I told you I was a weird kid.)
5. Cinnamon & sugar. Mmmmmmmm. 'Nuff said.
6. The smell of my babies in the morning, but only if they don't have stinky diapers. That whole wet diaper, morning breath thing, combined with the fuzzy hair and sweet smiles, just gets to me.
7. That cold smell just after a good snowfall. Crisp, clean, and no caffeine.
8. Rain. I love the smell of a pending rainstorm and the smell after it rains.
9. Books. Libraries smell sooooo good! I love to read, so it's a natural connection.
10. Hmmmm. Thinking...ah! Got it. The smell of leather. I don't really have any associations with it, but I love it.
So how about you, dear readers? What are your favorite smells?
Monday, December 26, 2005
Move Over, Billy Joel!
I love Christmas music. I like to start listening to it and singing it sometime near the end of August. (Sorry Lesleigh, you'd hate it at my house.) I also enjoy playing Christmas music on the piano. One of my favorite pieces to play is "Trinity Chimes." It's awesome because it really does sound like chimes, and it sounds especially amazing on the Steinway in our chapel. I've been playing this piece since probably 8th grade, and I was excited to have the opportunity to play it as part of our Christmas sacrament meeting program.
Fast forward to Christmas day, sacrament meeting. Phil and I were sitting on our "assigned bench" in the back of the chapel, near my parents and my older brother. After the sacrament, I headed up to the stand for the program, leaving my three sons in the care of their dad. This has never been a problem before. When it comes to wrestling kids in church, Phil is the master. He takes our two-year-old out into the foyer and helps him rock climb the stone walls. I would never do it, but hey--it keeps both dad and baby happy, and I get to listen to the speakers.
The program started and I, blissfully unaware, accompanied the choir for their first couple of numbers and stayed on the stand for the speaker. Then my turn came. I sat down and began the piece, feeling relaxed and confident. I moved through the beginning to the middle part of the song, which can be tricky to remember. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the top of a little blond head coming up the aisle of the chapel. I remember thinking, "Hmm. That couldn't possibly be T-- because Phil has him in the back." Not half a second later, I could hear little feet coming up the stairs and recognized the red sweater and my two-year-old's arm holding on to the wood paneling for balance. Next thing I knew, he was at the piano, trying to climb into my lap.
The first words through my mind were, "Oh sh--! Where's Phil?" Then, "What am I going to do if he messes me up like he does at home?" Thankfully, a member of our bishopric saw what was happening and came over to get my cherub, and I didn't miss a beat. My dear husband didn't notice a thing until he saw Brother H-- coming down the aisle with babe in arms. I was just glad I could finish my song without further interruption.
Phil was mortified. I thought it was hilarious, especially since I didn't mess up. And it makes for a good story to tell for years to come.
Fast forward to Christmas day, sacrament meeting. Phil and I were sitting on our "assigned bench" in the back of the chapel, near my parents and my older brother. After the sacrament, I headed up to the stand for the program, leaving my three sons in the care of their dad. This has never been a problem before. When it comes to wrestling kids in church, Phil is the master. He takes our two-year-old out into the foyer and helps him rock climb the stone walls. I would never do it, but hey--it keeps both dad and baby happy, and I get to listen to the speakers.
The program started and I, blissfully unaware, accompanied the choir for their first couple of numbers and stayed on the stand for the speaker. Then my turn came. I sat down and began the piece, feeling relaxed and confident. I moved through the beginning to the middle part of the song, which can be tricky to remember. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the top of a little blond head coming up the aisle of the chapel. I remember thinking, "Hmm. That couldn't possibly be T-- because Phil has him in the back." Not half a second later, I could hear little feet coming up the stairs and recognized the red sweater and my two-year-old's arm holding on to the wood paneling for balance. Next thing I knew, he was at the piano, trying to climb into my lap.
The first words through my mind were, "Oh sh--! Where's Phil?" Then, "What am I going to do if he messes me up like he does at home?" Thankfully, a member of our bishopric saw what was happening and came over to get my cherub, and I didn't miss a beat. My dear husband didn't notice a thing until he saw Brother H-- coming down the aisle with babe in arms. I was just glad I could finish my song without further interruption.
Phil was mortified. I thought it was hilarious, especially since I didn't mess up. And it makes for a good story to tell for years to come.
Wednesday, December 21, 2005
Out of the Mouths of Babes
My favorite kid quote from within the last month comes from my second son, but you'll need some background first. He brought home one of those Scholastic "newspapers" sometime around Thanksgiving. It showed images of a Native American family in their home participating in a variety of domestic activities. My son was showing me the paper and explaining what each person was doing.
Here's my favorite quote: "The moms take their girl sons outside to teach them how to cook and the dads take the boy sons out in the woods to teach them how to hunt!"
I think I need to have a daughter.
Here's my favorite quote: "The moms take their girl sons outside to teach them how to cook and the dads take the boy sons out in the woods to teach them how to hunt!"
I think I need to have a daughter.
Tuesday, November 29, 2005
I've Been Tagged
And not with spray paint. I was tagged by Compulsive Writer, which means I have to "List 5 things people may not know about [me] and tag 5 people to do the same." Could be interesting, so here we go.
1. I once interviewed for a job as Barbie for a Toys R Us store opening. You had to have certain measurements to fit into the dress. I don't think I got it because I was (still am) too small up top. I've never liked Barbie, to tell the truth, so I'm glad I didn't get it. I doubt my brothers would ever have let me live that one down.
2. I went to "modeling school," if you can call it that. That's where I got the interview for Barbie.
3. I used to clog, and I really liked it. I can still shuffle step and chug with the best of them, if I do say so myself. (Chug is a clogging step, not what you do with a beer.)
4. I was born and raised in Utah and have never, ever been skiing.
5. I am one class shy of a Math minor, but I graduated with a degree in English. Go figure.
I'm tagging Leah, Lessel Peeper, Nihao, Lyle, and, since she hasn't done it yet in spite of being tagged, Lorien. Happy blogging!
1. I once interviewed for a job as Barbie for a Toys R Us store opening. You had to have certain measurements to fit into the dress. I don't think I got it because I was (still am) too small up top. I've never liked Barbie, to tell the truth, so I'm glad I didn't get it. I doubt my brothers would ever have let me live that one down.
2. I went to "modeling school," if you can call it that. That's where I got the interview for Barbie.
3. I used to clog, and I really liked it. I can still shuffle step and chug with the best of them, if I do say so myself. (Chug is a clogging step, not what you do with a beer.)
4. I was born and raised in Utah and have never, ever been skiing.
5. I am one class shy of a Math minor, but I graduated with a degree in English. Go figure.
I'm tagging Leah, Lessel Peeper, Nihao, Lyle, and, since she hasn't done it yet in spite of being tagged, Lorien. Happy blogging!
Tuesday, November 22, 2005
Yawning in Technicolor
At 2:30 am this morning, my son woke me with the words every mother loves to hear in the middle of the night: "Mommy, I barfed." Those words work like a cattle prod for a mother who is deep in sleep, and it's amazing how quickly one can literally leap into action.
As I'm escorting barf boy to my doorway so we can get him cleaned up in the other bathroom, I asked him where exactly he barfed. "Well, it was all over my bed and in my bedroom. I don't think I got it anywhere el....hhbblloooork!" Mmmmmmmm, tasty. Yet another mess to clean up. This time it was smack dab in the middle of the hallway at the intersection where all the bedroom doors open up. And it wasn't in a nice little puddle either. All I could think of, as I looked down in horror, was that poorly written sentence from high school English: "McBride fell 12 stories, hitting the pavement like a Hefty bag filled with vegetable soup." (Actually, it was tomato soup with melted cheese sandwiches.)
It's overwhelming to be awakened from a sound sleep and have to face that kind of cleaning job. I just stood there in my bare feet and wondered how the heck I was going to clean it all up by myself. Then I remembered that I had a sleeping spouse who might be willing to help. Thankfully, he was, and he was absolutely wonderful about it. We put Barf Boy in the tub, much to his surprise ("Am I allowed to take a bath in the middle of the night, Mom?"), and divided ranks. I worked on the bedroom mess and Phil took the hallway. Between the two of us, we were able to make relatively quick work of the whole thing.
I'm left wondering today why is it that no one teaches you how to clean up after your kid tosses his cookies? What's the best way to get stuff like that off the carpet? (and walls and furniture) With my first child, I counted myself so lucky that he had never thrown up--I had no desire to clean that kind of mess. But, as we all know, pride cometh before the fall: he turned 5 and got his first case of stomach flu. The scenario was slightly different than last night's: he tried to clean it up himself, I heard him hurling in the bathroom, and I got up to help. I was amazed that such a little kid could throw up that much! It was EVERYWHERE! It was on the wall BEHIND the head of his bed. (Did you know you can vomit backwards?)
Phil had a great idea: barf drills. Teaching your kids how to make it to the bathroom in time or at least how to contain it in the bedsheet is as crucial as teaching them how to exit the house in case of fire. I mean really--you don't always have advanced warning of an upset tummy at bedtime. If the kid knows his stomach feels sour when he heads to bed, you can at least give him a barf bucket. It's when it comes on without warning that you have a problem.
So here are some of my favorite terms for vomit. Feel free to add your own to the list.
1. The technicolor yawn
2. Worshipping the porcelain goddess
3. Hurl
4. Tossing the proverbial cookies
5. Blowing a rainbow
6. Upchuck
7. Hork your guts out
8. Heave
9. Retch
10. Spew chunks
And, on that note, I bid you all a Happy Thanksgiving. May your turkey day meal stay where you put it and not end up on the carpet at 2 in the morning.
As I'm escorting barf boy to my doorway so we can get him cleaned up in the other bathroom, I asked him where exactly he barfed. "Well, it was all over my bed and in my bedroom. I don't think I got it anywhere el....hhbblloooork!" Mmmmmmmm, tasty. Yet another mess to clean up. This time it was smack dab in the middle of the hallway at the intersection where all the bedroom doors open up. And it wasn't in a nice little puddle either. All I could think of, as I looked down in horror, was that poorly written sentence from high school English: "McBride fell 12 stories, hitting the pavement like a Hefty bag filled with vegetable soup." (Actually, it was tomato soup with melted cheese sandwiches.)
It's overwhelming to be awakened from a sound sleep and have to face that kind of cleaning job. I just stood there in my bare feet and wondered how the heck I was going to clean it all up by myself. Then I remembered that I had a sleeping spouse who might be willing to help. Thankfully, he was, and he was absolutely wonderful about it. We put Barf Boy in the tub, much to his surprise ("Am I allowed to take a bath in the middle of the night, Mom?"), and divided ranks. I worked on the bedroom mess and Phil took the hallway. Between the two of us, we were able to make relatively quick work of the whole thing.
I'm left wondering today why is it that no one teaches you how to clean up after your kid tosses his cookies? What's the best way to get stuff like that off the carpet? (and walls and furniture) With my first child, I counted myself so lucky that he had never thrown up--I had no desire to clean that kind of mess. But, as we all know, pride cometh before the fall: he turned 5 and got his first case of stomach flu. The scenario was slightly different than last night's: he tried to clean it up himself, I heard him hurling in the bathroom, and I got up to help. I was amazed that such a little kid could throw up that much! It was EVERYWHERE! It was on the wall BEHIND the head of his bed. (Did you know you can vomit backwards?)
Phil had a great idea: barf drills. Teaching your kids how to make it to the bathroom in time or at least how to contain it in the bedsheet is as crucial as teaching them how to exit the house in case of fire. I mean really--you don't always have advanced warning of an upset tummy at bedtime. If the kid knows his stomach feels sour when he heads to bed, you can at least give him a barf bucket. It's when it comes on without warning that you have a problem.
So here are some of my favorite terms for vomit. Feel free to add your own to the list.
1. The technicolor yawn
2. Worshipping the porcelain goddess
3. Hurl
4. Tossing the proverbial cookies
5. Blowing a rainbow
6. Upchuck
7. Hork your guts out
8. Heave
9. Retch
10. Spew chunks
And, on that note, I bid you all a Happy Thanksgiving. May your turkey day meal stay where you put it and not end up on the carpet at 2 in the morning.
Friday, November 18, 2005
Torture Chamber
On Tuesday, my sons and I played "torture chamber." Oh, yes, it started out innocently enough. T--, the 2-year-old, was still in his pajamas, watching Barney in the living room, adjacent to the kitchen, while delicately slurping chocolate milk out of his sippy cup. He had that "just woken up" smell and was cocooned within his blanket and snuggle, reclining gracefully on a pillow. Such the picture of tranquil domesticity.
Now, picture a madwoman carrying a chainsaw (a.k.a. hair clippers) entering the kitchen. With an insanely evil laugh, she captures said 2-year-old and removes his jammies down to a top and a diaper. Suspecting nothing, T-- giggles and gives the woman a hug as she carries him to the electric chair (a.k.a. the high chair). Upon realizing that he is going to have to sit in said chair and (heaven forbid) be STRAPPED IN, he begins his struggle.
Alas, he is firmly entrapped! [sharp and prolonged intake of breath] The madwoman plugs in her torture device and gets to work. Ah ha ha ha ha ha!!!! As the hair flies, the tears and boogers flow as quickly as the chocolate waterfall in Willy Wonka, although the river is perhaps not as sanitary or palatable. The ensuing screams would bring forth a compassionate response from most mothers, but this is no ordinary mom. This is a mom with hair clippers, scissors, and a mission. [cue Mission Impossible music] The mission? To give the 2-year-old a haircut before he looks like a girl or self-destructs, whichever comes first.
The results were pretty decent, if I do say so myself. And it would have stayed that way if he hadn't grabbed the scissors about two hours later and cut a huge chunk out of the front. Of course I had to fix it, much to his dismay. He was thrashing around so much this time that in the end I just had to give him a buzz cut (using the longest setting I could--I didn't want him bald). It was bad enough the first time to watch parts of his curls fall to the floor, but they practically disappeared the second time around. However, after 9 years of doing my boys' haircuts (yes, that includes their dad as well), I know that the only way to get the job done is to strap 'em down, work really fast, and ignore the shrieks of "NOOOoooooo! Mama! NOOOooooo! Hair owieeeeee!"
You'd have thought I'd had enough hair cutting by then, but no...we moms must be either long-suffering or forgetful: I decided that S--, the 6-year-old, needed a haircut too. His hair was even longer than the baby's. I could have put it in little pigtails all over his head and made him look like a Koosh ball. (I actually threatened to do this, but for some reason he was not amused.) He was long overdue, and it was going to be more than a trim.
I'd been easing S-- into the idea for weeks now, but you'd think I had sprung it on him without warning. He pleaded with me to please use just the scissors. I calmly explained that his hair was too long: he'd refused to let me cut it earlier when I could have just trimmed it with scissors. Now we were going to have to use [dum dum dum, long pause] the buzzers. [Enter Mrs. Norman Bates with hair clippers in hand; proceed with high pitched screaming.]
The screaming lasted from the moment I turned on the clippers until the second I turned them off. Any eavesdropping passersby would have thought I was trying to perform an appendectomy on the child using my dullest serrated kitchen knife. Then, as I was finishing off with the scissors, he kept asking me, "Aren't you done yet, Mom? This is taking way too long." Grrrrr. It would have taken much longer to do the whole thing with the scissors (which is why I ousted that option), but it would have been much faster to buzz the whole thing (which he absolutely refused). Here I was trying to compromise and I was getting COMPLAINTS about how long it was taking?!?!?
Maybe next time I should take them to a barber.
Now, picture a madwoman carrying a chainsaw (a.k.a. hair clippers) entering the kitchen. With an insanely evil laugh, she captures said 2-year-old and removes his jammies down to a top and a diaper. Suspecting nothing, T-- giggles and gives the woman a hug as she carries him to the electric chair (a.k.a. the high chair). Upon realizing that he is going to have to sit in said chair and (heaven forbid) be STRAPPED IN, he begins his struggle.
Alas, he is firmly entrapped! [sharp and prolonged intake of breath] The madwoman plugs in her torture device and gets to work. Ah ha ha ha ha ha!!!! As the hair flies, the tears and boogers flow as quickly as the chocolate waterfall in Willy Wonka, although the river is perhaps not as sanitary or palatable. The ensuing screams would bring forth a compassionate response from most mothers, but this is no ordinary mom. This is a mom with hair clippers, scissors, and a mission. [cue Mission Impossible music] The mission? To give the 2-year-old a haircut before he looks like a girl or self-destructs, whichever comes first.
The results were pretty decent, if I do say so myself. And it would have stayed that way if he hadn't grabbed the scissors about two hours later and cut a huge chunk out of the front. Of course I had to fix it, much to his dismay. He was thrashing around so much this time that in the end I just had to give him a buzz cut (using the longest setting I could--I didn't want him bald). It was bad enough the first time to watch parts of his curls fall to the floor, but they practically disappeared the second time around. However, after 9 years of doing my boys' haircuts (yes, that includes their dad as well), I know that the only way to get the job done is to strap 'em down, work really fast, and ignore the shrieks of "NOOOoooooo! Mama! NOOOooooo! Hair owieeeeee!"
You'd have thought I'd had enough hair cutting by then, but no...we moms must be either long-suffering or forgetful: I decided that S--, the 6-year-old, needed a haircut too. His hair was even longer than the baby's. I could have put it in little pigtails all over his head and made him look like a Koosh ball. (I actually threatened to do this, but for some reason he was not amused.) He was long overdue, and it was going to be more than a trim.
I'd been easing S-- into the idea for weeks now, but you'd think I had sprung it on him without warning. He pleaded with me to please use just the scissors. I calmly explained that his hair was too long: he'd refused to let me cut it earlier when I could have just trimmed it with scissors. Now we were going to have to use [dum dum dum, long pause] the buzzers. [Enter Mrs. Norman Bates with hair clippers in hand; proceed with high pitched screaming.]
The screaming lasted from the moment I turned on the clippers until the second I turned them off. Any eavesdropping passersby would have thought I was trying to perform an appendectomy on the child using my dullest serrated kitchen knife. Then, as I was finishing off with the scissors, he kept asking me, "Aren't you done yet, Mom? This is taking way too long." Grrrrr. It would have taken much longer to do the whole thing with the scissors (which is why I ousted that option), but it would have been much faster to buzz the whole thing (which he absolutely refused). Here I was trying to compromise and I was getting COMPLAINTS about how long it was taking?!?!?
Maybe next time I should take them to a barber.
Monday, November 07, 2005
Does This Make Me Look Fat?
Within the last month and a half, I've had three different people ask me if I was pregnant. I find this disturbing, especially since I started working out regularly at Curves 2 months ago. I haven't lost weight, but I have lost inches. I've never been one to obsess about my figure. However, I decided I was at a point where I needed to be more active. Diabetes runs in my family. I know what that entails, and I don't want to have to live that kind of lifestyle with its accompanying risks.
So I wonder what it is that makes people think I've got a bun in the oven? Is it bad posture? Bad wardrobe choices? I'm not sure. We've got three boys, and I often get questions about whether or not we're going to "try for a girl." Why does that matter? Don't get me wrong--I think it would be great to have a girl, but I'd be perfectly content with another boy. I love my sons, and after three of them I think I have the boy thing down. But why is it that people assume that because I have three of one gender I must necessarily have this obsessive desire to have one of the other?
I suspect that timing is a motive behind the pregnancy questions. My "baby" is two years old now. Apparently, that means it's high time to add to our band of ruffians. Who developed this timeline anyway? Sheesh. Do I have to follow the perceived "Mormon standard" of kids two years apart just because I belong to the predominant religion in Utah? Do the math with my other boys and you'll see that I've rebelled against that standard. My first son was 3-1/2 when son number two came along, and son number two was 4 when son number three came along. If I continue that pattern, I won't be thinking of bottles and newborn nappies for at least another year or more.
My sons have been their own form of birth control every since they were born. Neither my husband nor I do well when sleep deprived. I can't be a good mom when I'm grumpy and tired. And unlike those few lucky parents whose newborns sleep through the night from day one, our babies don't reach that milestone until they're at least 5 to 6 months old. Do you know how long it takes to make up for half a year of lost sleep? Those first smiles and coos are a great reward, but they don't give your body the sleep it craves.
Our first son has been a real challenge from day one. First children are always challenging in some way because as new parents you feel like idiots. You have no idea what you're doing or why they let you come home from the hospital with this new little person. What if you feed him wrong? What if you don't put the diaper on right? And heaven forbid you should have to give the kid a bath--you might break him or something. It's really scary. But then you figure it out and the baby survives and you realize that you CAN be a parent--at least until the kid turns about 17 months old. (At our house, the "terrible twos" start early.) Overnight, it seems, your angel child turns into the spawn of Satan. Then what do you do?
I distinctly remember an incident with my first son, A--, when he was about 2-1/2 years old. We were living in Layton at the time, and our back fence (which had blown down in a wind storm) bordered the driveway of our neighbor around the corner. A-- and I were in the kitchen getting lunch ready. We could see out the back door into the yard and onto the neighbor's property. We noticed that the neighbor, an elderly gentleman, was outside getting the mail or something. On his way back up to his door, he bent down to reach something on the driveway. About 5 minutes later, A-- asked me why that man bent down. I told him I didn't know--maybe he picked up some trash or something. I hadn't been paying attention that closely. This launched A-- into a FULL BLOWN FIT! I had never seen anything like it until that point. He literally screamed at me, "YOU HAVE TO KNOW!!!!" He wanted me to go over to the guy's house and ask him what he was doing when he bent down in his driveway. Yeah, right. You can imagine how well that conversation would have gone:
"Um, excuse me, sir. I'm your neighbor to the west. My son saw you bend down in your driveway about 10 minutes ago. What exactly were you doing? He's two and he just has to know."
That was the first of many similar incidents. Once, he asked me, "What does a chair say?" I told him chairs don't say anything. He insisted otherwise, which started a long afternoon (and several weeks following) of kicking, screaming fits about what noise chairs make. Is it any wonder, then, why we waited so long to have another child? Who wants to deal with two out-of-control children at the same time?
So here we are with three kids and questions about when/if we're going to have more. I wasn't offended by the questions--mostly because two of the three people who asked are good friends and the third is one of the girls in my Young Women class. It's only that it made me wonder why they would ask. How do you respond to that question anyway? "No, I'm not pregnant, I'm just gaining weight. Thanks for noticing, though." Kinda makes you uncomfortable. It's one of those "forbidden" questions, like "Do I look fat?"
So I wonder what it is that makes people think I've got a bun in the oven? Is it bad posture? Bad wardrobe choices? I'm not sure. We've got three boys, and I often get questions about whether or not we're going to "try for a girl." Why does that matter? Don't get me wrong--I think it would be great to have a girl, but I'd be perfectly content with another boy. I love my sons, and after three of them I think I have the boy thing down. But why is it that people assume that because I have three of one gender I must necessarily have this obsessive desire to have one of the other?
I suspect that timing is a motive behind the pregnancy questions. My "baby" is two years old now. Apparently, that means it's high time to add to our band of ruffians. Who developed this timeline anyway? Sheesh. Do I have to follow the perceived "Mormon standard" of kids two years apart just because I belong to the predominant religion in Utah? Do the math with my other boys and you'll see that I've rebelled against that standard. My first son was 3-1/2 when son number two came along, and son number two was 4 when son number three came along. If I continue that pattern, I won't be thinking of bottles and newborn nappies for at least another year or more.
My sons have been their own form of birth control every since they were born. Neither my husband nor I do well when sleep deprived. I can't be a good mom when I'm grumpy and tired. And unlike those few lucky parents whose newborns sleep through the night from day one, our babies don't reach that milestone until they're at least 5 to 6 months old. Do you know how long it takes to make up for half a year of lost sleep? Those first smiles and coos are a great reward, but they don't give your body the sleep it craves.
Our first son has been a real challenge from day one. First children are always challenging in some way because as new parents you feel like idiots. You have no idea what you're doing or why they let you come home from the hospital with this new little person. What if you feed him wrong? What if you don't put the diaper on right? And heaven forbid you should have to give the kid a bath--you might break him or something. It's really scary. But then you figure it out and the baby survives and you realize that you CAN be a parent--at least until the kid turns about 17 months old. (At our house, the "terrible twos" start early.) Overnight, it seems, your angel child turns into the spawn of Satan. Then what do you do?
I distinctly remember an incident with my first son, A--, when he was about 2-1/2 years old. We were living in Layton at the time, and our back fence (which had blown down in a wind storm) bordered the driveway of our neighbor around the corner. A-- and I were in the kitchen getting lunch ready. We could see out the back door into the yard and onto the neighbor's property. We noticed that the neighbor, an elderly gentleman, was outside getting the mail or something. On his way back up to his door, he bent down to reach something on the driveway. About 5 minutes later, A-- asked me why that man bent down. I told him I didn't know--maybe he picked up some trash or something. I hadn't been paying attention that closely. This launched A-- into a FULL BLOWN FIT! I had never seen anything like it until that point. He literally screamed at me, "YOU HAVE TO KNOW!!!!" He wanted me to go over to the guy's house and ask him what he was doing when he bent down in his driveway. Yeah, right. You can imagine how well that conversation would have gone:
"Um, excuse me, sir. I'm your neighbor to the west. My son saw you bend down in your driveway about 10 minutes ago. What exactly were you doing? He's two and he just has to know."
That was the first of many similar incidents. Once, he asked me, "What does a chair say?" I told him chairs don't say anything. He insisted otherwise, which started a long afternoon (and several weeks following) of kicking, screaming fits about what noise chairs make. Is it any wonder, then, why we waited so long to have another child? Who wants to deal with two out-of-control children at the same time?
So here we are with three kids and questions about when/if we're going to have more. I wasn't offended by the questions--mostly because two of the three people who asked are good friends and the third is one of the girls in my Young Women class. It's only that it made me wonder why they would ask. How do you respond to that question anyway? "No, I'm not pregnant, I'm just gaining weight. Thanks for noticing, though." Kinda makes you uncomfortable. It's one of those "forbidden" questions, like "Do I look fat?"
Friday, October 21, 2005
Have you had your Wheaties today?
The other morning, after eating my bowl of Wheaties, I sighed a satisfied sigh and told my hubby, "I love cereal!" I mean, I really, really love cold cereal. The best is when the milk is ice cold, right out of the refrigerator. And you have to eat really fast, of course, before it gets all soggy. Soggy cereal is just nasty.
Cold cereal is my favorite thing to eat for breakfast, and it always has been. My mom never did the whole eggs, pancakes, and sausage bit while I was growing up. I imagine it was bad enough trying to get Dad and all seven kids out the door to school on time to bother with cooking. I've adopted her habits, and I don't feel one twinge of guilt for it. I have noticed, however, that my preferences have changed over the years.
Growing up, we rarely, if ever, got sugar cereal. Mom bought the standards: Cheerios, Wheaties, Corn Flakes, and Shredded Wheat (a.k.a. "shredded hay bales"). We would often get Rice Chex, Wheat Chex, or Kix as well. I became quite fond of all of them. Kix were cool because you could bite the top off the bigger ones and float them like boats in your milk. (Kix tasted way better back then, before they changed the formula to make them taste sweeter. Now they taste gross. Even my kids won't eat them.) Occasionally, Mom would splurge with something like Honey Nut Cheerios. That box never lasted long. Honey Nut Cheerios called for multiple helpings. The unfortunate result of this feasting was my just-older-brother's inevitable case of gas. He would get pretty rank after Mom bought Honey Nut Cheerios. (And you don't ever want to put him together with almonds for a long car trip. Food for thought, Lesleigh.)
Then there was Christmas: the only time we got "real" sugar cereal. The tradition in our family is that Mom & Dad buy those little tiny boxes of cereal (the ones that come in a variety pack) and put one in each of our stockings along with a banana. That was breakfast for Christmas morning. We looked forward to it all year long. ("It" the cereal, not "it" the banana.) Christmas morning was the only time during the year when we got to experience what Fruit Loops or Lucky Charms tasted like. Golden Grahams were like manna from heaven. And you were really lucky if you got the Cocoa Pebbles because they turned the milk to chocolate milk. How cool is that to eat cereal with chocolate milk?
Cheerios hold a very special place in my heart, and not just because I love the taste. The morning I got married, I chose Cheerios for breakfast. I still remember feeling like I had a slightly upset stomach because I was worried that Phil wouldn't show up, and I thought my nervous tummy could handle a milder cereal. So there you have it: my last meal as a single person came from that famous yellow box with the glue-for-milk splashes coming out of the bowl of cereal and the artistically placed red strawberry nestled in among the Cheerios.
After Phil and I were married, I reveled in the freedom to choose whatever cereal I wanted. While I would occasionally buy the non-sugared standby's, we ate a lot of the cereals my mom never bought. My "personal favorites" list used to include things like Honey Nut Chex, Waffle Crisp, Honeycomb, Corn Pops, Golden Grahams, Honey Nut Cheerios, Honey Bunches of Oats, and Blueberry Morning. I figured I'd be eating like that the rest of my life.
Not so, Grasshopper. While my kids still get cereal we never, ever got when I was little, I find that my cereal eating habits are shifting. What is it with aging that makes our tastes change? Where I once enjoyed variety I now seem to eat the same thing every morning for months. And my choices have changed too. No more Sugar Coated Chocolate Sugar Bombs for this girl! We're talkin' F-I-B-E-R. For a while, I ate Cracklin' Oat Bran every morning. Lot's of complex carbs in that bowl, I'm telling you. Then I went to Wheaties and alternated between the two for a while. Next I flirted with Frosted Mini-Wheats (or Frosted Mini Hay Bales, as Phil so loves to call them). The Vanilla Creme variety is especially tasty. Now? Back to Wheaties.
I must admit that I have broken my eating streak with a rare bowl of plain Cheerios here and there, and I have been known to indulge myself lately with a bowl of Peanut Butter Cookie Crisp (food for the gods, I tell you), but for the most part, I have deserted my sugared cereal friends. "But," you say, "What about the Frosted Mini-Wheats and Cracklin' Oat Bran? They have lots of sugar in them!" Yes, they do. But have you looked at how many grams of fiber you get with one bowl? We're talkin' major roughage. Way more than Cheerios. I think that pretty much cancels out the sugar.
I wonder, as I look at my past days of breakfast cereal choices, what the future holds? Will I stay with the more healthful choices of my youth or will I return to the glory days of high sugar content? Only time will tell, my friend...only time will tell.
Monday, October 03, 2005
You Gotta' Have Friends
I've noticed something as I've made my novice way through the blog world: I must have had a lousy school experience. There are so many people who are renewing friendships from high school, and it's not just mere curiosity to see what the cheerleader/jock looks like now that they've put on a few pounds and added a few kids to their family. These are real friendships: the kind where you have a lot of common ground to rib each other about and where you know each others' kids.
I was always jealous of such relationships. I guess I still am, to a point. Don't get me wrong--I'm not saying I didn't have friends in high school, but of all the people I grew up and went to school with, there is only one whom I still call occasionally. We grew up next door to one another, and she's my 3rd cousin. Still, I can't say we're super close. The group of friends I hung out with at school ended up being just that: people I associated with at school but not much anywhere else. They would get together outside of school and do stuff, but they rarely, if ever, included me. Of course, I found all this out much later when I was invited to a bridal shower and they all made reference to some common experience. They seemed confused when I didn't know what they were talking about. It hurt me then. It still hurts now. I had come to believe that they were true friends.
I watch my son A--, now in 4th grade, and see him struggling socially the same way I did. Third grade for him was a year from social hell. He played mostly with one friend (a girl). They both got teased mercilessly. This year, thankfully, seems to be much better. A-- has decided that kickball is fun and spends many of his recesses on the blacktop with a variety of boys and girls. But I am filled with dread upon hearing him say that J--, one of the mean kids from last year, likes to pick A-- to be on his team solely because A-- will ask J-- to kick for him. Is it right to let him be happy about being chosen on the basis of his willingness to be trodden underfoot? I wonder if that is why my school "friends" allowed me to be a part of their group. Was I a friend of convenience, like a piece of toilet paper, to be used when you want it but to be ignored when you don't? It worries me. I don't want to see my boy as miserable as I sometimes was. And let's face it: the pain of social rejection, when it occurs during your youth, never goes away.
Thankfully, I now know what true friends are. School was so long ago, and was such a relatively short period in my life. The great thing about being an adult is that I have much more time ahead of me to be the kind of friend and build the kind of friendships that I want. What a blessing to have my husband as my best friend. Next to him, and in no particular order, come Nancy, Katherine, Shannon, Karolyn, Lorien, Dalene, Melody, Marilyn, Stefanie, Regan, Annette, Corrine, Lesleigh, and so many others. You have done wonders to heal past hurts. Thanks.
I was always jealous of such relationships. I guess I still am, to a point. Don't get me wrong--I'm not saying I didn't have friends in high school, but of all the people I grew up and went to school with, there is only one whom I still call occasionally. We grew up next door to one another, and she's my 3rd cousin. Still, I can't say we're super close. The group of friends I hung out with at school ended up being just that: people I associated with at school but not much anywhere else. They would get together outside of school and do stuff, but they rarely, if ever, included me. Of course, I found all this out much later when I was invited to a bridal shower and they all made reference to some common experience. They seemed confused when I didn't know what they were talking about. It hurt me then. It still hurts now. I had come to believe that they were true friends.
I watch my son A--, now in 4th grade, and see him struggling socially the same way I did. Third grade for him was a year from social hell. He played mostly with one friend (a girl). They both got teased mercilessly. This year, thankfully, seems to be much better. A-- has decided that kickball is fun and spends many of his recesses on the blacktop with a variety of boys and girls. But I am filled with dread upon hearing him say that J--, one of the mean kids from last year, likes to pick A-- to be on his team solely because A-- will ask J-- to kick for him. Is it right to let him be happy about being chosen on the basis of his willingness to be trodden underfoot? I wonder if that is why my school "friends" allowed me to be a part of their group. Was I a friend of convenience, like a piece of toilet paper, to be used when you want it but to be ignored when you don't? It worries me. I don't want to see my boy as miserable as I sometimes was. And let's face it: the pain of social rejection, when it occurs during your youth, never goes away.
Thankfully, I now know what true friends are. School was so long ago, and was such a relatively short period in my life. The great thing about being an adult is that I have much more time ahead of me to be the kind of friend and build the kind of friendships that I want. What a blessing to have my husband as my best friend. Next to him, and in no particular order, come Nancy, Katherine, Shannon, Karolyn, Lorien, Dalene, Melody, Marilyn, Stefanie, Regan, Annette, Corrine, Lesleigh, and so many others. You have done wonders to heal past hurts. Thanks.
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