The Date

We live in a special community (again, not helmet wearing, but sometimes I wonder). Anyway, part of the hoa fees we pay go to planning events like movie nights, casino nights, kids activities, etc. So, last friday, they put on a tween dance of which my 8 year old was dying to go to. This of course, left the 6 year old with nowhere to go and nothing to do. So, I told my husband it was time for him to take her on a date. We had agreed when they were toddlers that daddy would teach them how they are supposed to be treated when it's time for them to begin dating and he opens the doors for them, they go to her favorite restaurant, and it opens up dialogue for the girls to ask questions as they get older. So, Friday somehow went from being TGIF, to let's have everything break at 5:00 for my husband. Like a raving lunatic (please refer to pms blog), I began stalking him through calls and text messages at 5:13 and had no idea what to tell my daughter. This struggle for balance with work, kids, life, it should really come with some kind of manual! When I did finally get a hold of him, well let's just say, it wasn't pretty. I accused him of forgetting, I accused him of choosing work over us, anything that had been built up in my pretty red head and all of my fears and insecurities were vomited out over something he had minimal control over. I was tired of waiting for him to come home so that I could move on with my own plans, I just knew he was out to get me and doing it on purpose. So, he got home and I left to go to the dance without even saying goodbye. He called me later in the night to see what time we were going to be done and I meanly said, why are you already done being with her and you're at home waiting for me to take over? He said no, what time, I told him and I said let's meet at Cold Stone (I am a huge believer that ice cream does in fact fix all ailments:) and he said fine. We met over a Like It size of cookie doughn't ya love it and my daughter is going on and on how they went to dinner and then daddy surprised her with a trip to the Nickel Cade (it's a nickel arcade) and she was just beaming. She said daddy took me on a date and he played games with me and we have so many monies left over to go again next time! She was thrilled! I was an ass! He had plans made the entire time to make it a special time of connection for the two of them and he was just as stressed as I was that other obligations were pulling him away from that. So, along with my cookie dough and hot fudge, I had to eat crow. Maybe Cold Stone could add humble pie to their menu of deliciousness-I think I'll write a letter!

Mini Cheer

I wasn't a fan of cheerleaders in high school. From the short skirts, to the fake smiles, to the plucked eyebrows. That wasn't my niche. In my experience they were rude, sometimes mean, and never approachable.
My baby is now 6. She came out of my womb squirming and has not stopped yet. I love to watch how she enters and exits a room. She either does a cartwheel, a new dance she's just made up, or skips. She doesn't rely on simple walking, the girlfriend moves!!! If I could figure out a way to market her energy I could put Red Bull out of business next week. This week they sent a flyer home announcing a mini cheer camp at the high school. Imagine my delight! They take kindergartner's through 9th graders, divide them into groups, and teach them a dance and cheer to perform at next weeks girls' basketball game between the two local, rival high schools (Riverton & Bingham and if you're local and you'd like to join us, the game starts at 6:30 on Thursday, she performs at around 7:30 at Bingham). When we got dressed for this thing yesterday morning, she had to have her Cheerleading t-shirt and her hair in what we have coined cheerleader hair (2 pig tails on the side). She has short hair so that was no simple feat! As she skipped her way to the front of the line to check in, she was so sure about herself. She was going alone (I had to make sure, of course, she would be watched, and not have strange lurking men around the school-after I got the paranoid mom seal of approval (AKA PMSA)), she wasn't clinging on to me, she gave me a hug and ran off to join her group. I tell this story in such detail because we have come so far. She has been unsure of herself, in her abilities, in her gifts, not wanting to leave me or my hubby's side, and I was so touched by the interdependence she displayed yesterday. She is maturing into what God wants her to be and even though I grew up not having the confidence to go for what interested me, that it's not the same for her. I feel like we have stopped the cycle of spirit squashers and have joined a new team. Whether it's soccer, spanish, art, or cheer, I am so grateful that we have been able to give her the freedom to explore, the freedom to fail, and she is the ULTIMATE cheerleader and who doesn't want to be cheered on? So, now I must rethink my cheerleader prejudices because I officially have one and I will be cheering her on from the bleachers, my little blondie go girl-go!

Mousehump

My desk is not tidy. I think better when chaos is around me, except when I can't find that tiny post-it from 3 days ago, and as sweatbeads form on my upper lip, I think to myself, I should get this desk ORGANIZED! Then, I find it and all is well until the next crisis.
I have scoliosis. I was diagnosed with it when I was 12 and went for weekly chiropractic appointments for a couple years and thought nothing more of it until now. When I sit, and when I'm stressed, I now have a hump. My husband lovingly sings to me his Fergie rendition of My Lovely Lady Humps (instead of lumps). He's kind. Actually, it's better than the humpback whale, humpback of Notre Dame, camel hump references that I could be getting. So, at first, I thought this is totally stress/scoliosis related, the hump is out, the hump is in, I was trying to do an unofficial tracking of its presence. Similar to the groundhog popping its head out of the ground, my little lady hump popped out again last night while sitting at the computer. My husband walks in, he has the best timing, and says to me, it's the mouse. You have a mousehump! When you sit at the computer in your tiny space, since there's chaos surrounding me and therefore not much room, you are hunkered down, using the mouse and there's your hump! He's a diagnoser. He likes to fix things. I like to avoid thinking he might be right. What do you think? I think I'll try to reorganize, get an ergonomical chair fitted just for my five foot four booty, buy a new desk, a new mouse and keyboard fitted special for my posture, and fit all that in between the homework, the dinner prep, the kids activities, the laundry, the dishes, the dog poop, and what, did we win the lottery? So, for today, I'm embracing the mousehump. It's a friendly reminder to sit up straighter and to possibly clean up a little clutter and if nothing else it encourages my hubby to sing a little ditty, it's a mood lightener. I hope your mood can be lightened today without a hump, but if necessary, I can lend you my mouse.

The Smell

Our community center has a drop off hourly day care for use when your attending other activities, volunteering at the school, and working out. So, last night when we made it for the additional New Years Resolution sweatfest, we walked in the room to drop off the girls, and shisaster! That's the only word that describes the intense, door shut for too long, something rotting in someone's drawers smell that was not even wafting (it was so thick, it couldn't waft), it was like we walked into a brick wall of stench. I say to the gal in charge, can you smell that? She says a little bit, we're getting a hold of the dad to come change it. I said, a little bit, she said yeah, why, is it bad? I looked at her and burst into laughter. It's beyond bad, it's offensively wrong! We may not be allowed back in there, the jury's still out.
My spouse has a 24/7 on call til hell freezes over kind of job. When the alarm, his phone, and our dog went off at 5am this morning, I moaned like a beached whale and rolled over. The noise continues, I get up. He starts working on some kind of end of the world solution to whatever it is he does and I am going about the morning business of coffee, breakfast, and kid management. Things settled down a little bit, I come in to where he is to check my email, and I start to eavesdrop on his conversation. I hear him on the phone with his buddy, whom he had to drag out of bed and into the office to solve this brain surgery problem, unshowered. He has his super genius friend on speaker and he says, I guess I should go get showered now. My husband says, yeah, we don't want you stinkin' up the office all day, and tells him the diaper gone bad story. His bud responds with my new quote of the day: There's a big difference between sweat and feces! If you're a mom, a dad, or just a blog lounger, please feel free to use this quote today and every day as it's always best to categorize your stenches. May you have sweat over feces in all you do today!

Dream Planter

I was a chubby kid. I was chubby before there was PS3's, Wii's, and XBox's to blame it on. I was and still am a reader. I would opt to read instead of going outside to play. That and my Frosted Flakes/Cheese Puff/Cookie addictions pretty much dealt the deck for me long before the term "couch potato" was coined. I had and still do have (with the help of my wonderful beautician) beautiful red hair. That was my in. The red head. The carrot top (which never made any sense since carrot tops are green, but whatever). I was the spunky, smiley, easy going, chubby red headed girl. The first to wear a bra in 3rd grade when Bobby began to call me Suzy Sponge and snap it to make me cry. Again, good times.
My family would take a vacation, if you call going to a place so humid you would get out of the shower, dry off, and still be wet, a vacation spot, then that's what we did. It was campmeeting week the second week of June every year in Anderson, Indiana. We went to service after service and I remember this year they had a kids camp where they passed out white T-Shirts that said "Kids Camp-God Thinks I'm Special". THE most flattering thing for a well endowed 9 year old was a tight white shirt with those words written on it. I was grateful someone thought I was special, so I wore it. I wore it everyday like God Himself personally autographed it. I was special darnnit and everyone needed to know it.
So, on our way back home from vacation, we stopped at a park. I remember it vividly. I was half swinging, dragging my feet in the sand, watching it make my K-Mart brand shoes dirtier and dirtier each time I drug them. I was wearing red running/gym shorts (it was the 80's people) and I was looking down watching my thigh fat squeeze in and out of them by the white seam. I, of course, had my Kids Camp t-shirt on, and my bright red head was glistening in the sun so much so that I'm surprised birds weren't falling from the sky from the sheer blindness of it all. I was watching. Watching my family. Wishing I was somewhere else. Then, I caught sight of someone else playing on the playground. It was a little boy, a little black boy (this was before the times of political correctness). I remember just staring at him, just watching him. Watching him play, watching him smile, watching the blankness of his eyes, it was as if I was a voyeur at age nine. He was enchanting and I couldn't stop staring. Up to this point in my short life, I had mostly grown up in an African American culture in Michigan. I wasn't new to ethnicity. My babysitter in preschool and kindergarten fed me grits and put my long hair in corn rows with those multi colored barettes you get at the dollar store. My best friend was Keisha-say no more. So, then, why was I so taken with this dark beauty on the playground this particular day? My dad finally came up to me and asked me what I was staring at. I said him. He said why. I said I want him. He said why. I said I don't know, but I know that I will have him. He looked at me and said oh.
Fast forward nine years. THE whitest boy asks me to marry him on my 18th birthday. I was so grateful considering my yo-yo dieting and cheese puff addictions had given way to a caffeine and exercise addiction, I had finally blossomed. After my dad gave his permission, he in jest said to me, I guess you won't be getting that black boy. I said, yep, I guess not, and moved on with my life. I got married, had 2 beautiful girls, but never forgot that little boy on the playground. I have told the friends in my life my yearnings to have that. I have assumed up until now that it was a wanting of something I knew I couldn't have. Something forbidden. I now know this is no longer the case. That "God Thinks I'm Special" kid is now a woman, a special woman (not like a helmet wearing, drooling type of special) that is being asked to step out in faith to pursue the dream that I know He planted inside me almost a quarter of a century ago. I am scared. I feel like my life just got somewhat comfortable, why now? I am done questioning. So, whether you agree with me or don't, I am starting a new blog for you to read some boring facts, information on our process, and mostly an outlet for you to come alongside us and support this dream that God had given me so long ago, for no apparent reason except that He has a son waiting for us, that He has chosen and it is time for me to get out of the way and let Him bring him home to us. Just so you know, I've only told a few people that we are moving forward. Some of my best friends in life don't have a clue this is going on. If you are one of them and you are reading this, I apologize, but I needed to be quiet for a season and listen to see if this was true before I began the journey. Also, I don't want to tell everyone we're pursuing this, have it come to a standstill, and then have people ask what's happening, and leave me feeling like I somehow failed. So, please join James and I at: http://dreamplanter.blogspot.com/ and come along for the ride!

Soap Shank

Ok. We've all seen a Dateline special on prison life or that tv show on Fox-Prison Break, or we just got out serving a dime and are bunking with our celly while we are on probation. Needless to say, we all know what a shank is. It's some type of normal household or prisonhold item crafted into a sharp, pointy, knifelike shape with the sole intent of causing, if they're lucky, deadly harm or at least seriously injuring the person stabbed with it. Wikipedia (THE most reliable word source for an intense game of Scrabble) defines shank as: a slang for a makeshift knife usually crafted from scrap metal, or (as a verb) the use of such a weapon. So, I get into the shower the other day. I have a routine. I get in, wet down, put shampoo in my hair, wash my hair, use a nice smelling body wash on all the pertinents, a special wash for the zone (it starts with the name of a season and ends with Adam's wife), and then last, but not least catch anything left out and do a quick shave with what, you guessed it, a bright white bar of Ivory soap. Imagine my surprise when I turn to pick up the soap (prison reference not intended, the kids leave it in the bottom of the tub after their bath) and the once whole bar has been carved into a sharp, pointy, weaponlike, kill my parents in their sleep SHANK!!!! I screamed for my husband, he came around the corner, and I haaah-yaaahed (insert karate sound effects) him with our newly found weapon only to slip on the side of the tub, the shank goes flying, and my wet, naked booty is now resting on the bath rug. Good times! I think I'll sleep with one eye open as well as send a new product idea to the people at Ivory soap! They can call it shanksoap-for those special moments. May your special moments not include weaponry carved by your 8 old!

The Crater

I currently have an ingrown hair gone terribly wrong. I know that's TMI for some, but let's face it we've all been there. I blame my husband. That sweet, innocent looking studmuffin I married has inadvertantly caused the beign of my current existence. It hurts when I walk. It makes me squint when I sit down. It's a boil like existence with a smug face and a crooked nose. I am currently cursing it. It's on my underwear line and I think these Hanes just sent up a post-it note in the shape of a flag surrendering to be put in the dirty clothes-FOR GOOD!
This is how it happened. I have a treadmill (I know of no good story that began with that phrase). I, unlike most chunky monkeys, use my treadmill. You could call me the Hitler of treadmill usage. I've lost 30 pounds in a year and a half without adjusting my eating habits, so therefore I worship its grey outer shell as if it sucked the fat cells right off me like a snake shedding its skin. I owe it. I am superstitious towards its magical powers and if I miss my daily 45 minutes with it, I am not well and TERRIFIED that it will abuse me like the gimp in the basement in Pulp Fiction the next time I dare to get on it. With that said, my hunk of burnin' love despises my grey beauty. For that reason, this January brought on some stomach flap grabbing resolutions for him that can not be met without the use of stationary equipment AND he prefers (ie. won't) go alone, so who better to accompany him than me? So, last week brought my treadmilling, per usual, with the added addition of 45 more minutes (thank goodness we only went twice) on the rock and roller/glider thingy. Please refer to the personal trainer closest to you for its official name. With the addition of these extra workouts, my creases became over used. An area that has only seen sunlight twice in my 33 years of life (not counting my stint as a pornstar) is now suffering the insatiable consequences of overusage! So, the next time we meet, I won't be able to look you in the eye and I'll most likely have a limp. Just avert your eyes, offer an ice pack, some neosporin, and a band-aid and you too can learn from this. New Years Resolutions always go awry, if not for you, then for those close to you. Please refrain from making them. Should we start an anti-resolution campaign? My crater says yes. http://www.preventcreaseoverusage.org/ (Don't click on it, I made it up:))

PMS

PMS to me stands for many things other than what my OBGYN says it should. It stands for the Grand Canyon/meteorite crater zit arriving at the same time, the same place, in the same fashion-strutting its ugliness as if it just arrived on the red carpet. PMS stands for a minimum weight gain of 10 pounds to the point where I may as well put on the maternity pants from 9 years ago and call it a day. PMS stands for I can't believe I just ate a whole loaf of french bread and followed it up with half a bag of gluten free chocolate chips because they were there. PMS means don't touch me, don't ask for sex (even if you thought you had a chance you don't, but sometimes you do as long as you don't touch me). It stands for-wow, I just solved world peace, world hunger, cleaned the house, am now running for president, and just created 15 new business models. PMS stands for-crap, I'm not pregnant and sometimes I wish I was, but I don't because that means I would have had to be touched. PMS stands for I might be late to work since I can't see out of my left eye due to the dull, serrated knifelike headache I've incurred in a recent hormone surge. (I've begun to name them like hurricanes, this month I'm calling it Thomas-he's a doubting type of headache). PMS means when I die and skirt through the flames I hope to have a long conversation with Eve and tell her how I just don't get it-fruit's overrated, she should've made a purse or a pair of boots out of the serpent and passed on the roughage. I think it'll be a nice chat. I'm looking forward to it. BTW, I'm printing this list off for my gyno who I will be seeing on guess what day? That's right, THE most romantic day of the year to get racked and lubed, Valentine's Day. Or as he lovingly refers to it as V-Day. He's a funny guy-think he'll appreciate the list? Should I bring him gluten free chocolates? I think I will.

Is it Ready?

I have a germ issue. Not as intense as that guy Monk on that TBS show, but bad enough. In a recent survey that asked me if I preferred hugs or kisses, I wrote hugs definitely since less germs were exchanged-it's like that. I have antibacterial soaps in my car, my purse, under all 3 bathroom cabinets as well as at the sinks, and the wipes in my glove compartment. I give them as gifts for teachers (let's face it they work in a germ sesspool with boogers, runny noses, and lord only knows what after the bathroom breaks-they need it)! I have the Costco pack of Clorox wipes as well as the trifecta of Lysol bottles-I HATE GERMS! It is now to the point where we will be at the store, get in the car, and if I forget to pass the bottle back to the kids, one of them will say mom-I need to itch my nose, hurry, pass the soap! They know the rules of engagement. They know a germ can enter at any time through any orifice and those hands had better be clean! I know this sounds nazi-ish. I realize the implications this will have for the therapy I may be required to pay for and yet, I can't stop. In fact, it gets worse. How can that be you ask? Well, what happens if a germ does make its way past the arsenal of antibacterial layers? Three days later they start to get sick. I hear a stuffy nose, I see a kleenex being grabbed, I hear a cough, I hear I'm tired and my heart begins to pound in my chest-Noooooo! They can't be getting sick, how did a germ get by???? Not on my shift!!!! I have plans tomorrow. You need to be able to go to school! Get out a cup honey, we're getting the Airborne!! Are you sure you can only have a half-remind me to do another half in a couple of hours-we don't have time to be sick-here, watch the bubbles. Is it ready yet? Is it still bubbling? I don't know, I can't tell. Is it ready yet? Put it to your ear. Sneeze. Is it ready? Cough. If you can't hear bubbles, it's ready. I can't tell-nose wipe. I think it's ready-go, go, go, drink it!!!! Aaaaah, I can hear the healing begin. And yet, as she coughs again, I wonder-is this tube that I paid $6 for the answer? I don't care. I am paying for peace of mind if nothing else. Everytime it's ready, I'm a little more confident that our germ free existence can continue as planned and IF and when it is penetrated again, we'll be ready with the magic tube to fight the battle until the end.

Random writes

My 6 year old came home from school on Wednesday, sat right down at the table, and told me to be quiet, she was writing. I said, honey, what are you writing? A PLAY she said with a frustrated eye roll. I said, oh that's nice, did you guys learn how to write plays at school today? She said no mom, it's just in my head and I need to get it down! Who am I to question? So, today, this minute, it's finished and just in case she becomes a mini shakespeare in a dress and tights-I had to document it. Please note the humor at the end:)
A PLAY by Rory Nelson

Narrator 1: How do we get to the play?

Narrator 2: I don’t know!

Hedgie: Piglets, where are you?

Piglets: I am right here.

Narrator 2: I know where you go. Turn right and keep on going straight.

Princess Chip: Oh, I love chips!

Fishy: I love the play.

Tink: I love to fly.

Narrator 1: Piglets are flying.

Piglets: We like plays.

Princess Chip: I am a chip in the play.

Hedgie: I am being a hedgehog in the play.

Narrator 1: The play is starting right now.

Narrator 2: It was good.

Piglets: We are having fun!

Narrator 1: Then the play was over.

Piglets: The play was fun!

Hedgie: I liked the play.

Princess Chip: I liked being a chip!

Chippy: I loved the play.

Pup: I was a puppy in the play.

Chippy: I love plays!

Piglets: We love orange juice!

Narrator 1: The play is with all the people.

Narrator 2: The play was good with all the characters.

Hedgie: I loved the play!

Princess Chip: The play was good.

Piglets: The plays that I have seen are good.

Fishy: I smell something fishy.

THE END

It's the walls-they talk!

This is the first year that both of my children are in school full time-FULL TIME-I SAID FULL TIME! Do you know what that means? That means that Monday thru Thursday from 8:15 to 3:15 and Fridays from 8:15 to 1:15 (the short day schedule, obviously created by a man) I AM ALONE!!!! I made it. I made it through colic, diapers, baby food, pacifiers, stair gates, outlet covers, bibs, pre-school, early intervention, speech classes, ot, more preschool-I stinkin' made it!! We have arrived at first and second grade and I have a total of 33 (there's those three's again) hours that I can fill lying naked, eating bon bons, and watching Days of our Lives! Ignore the visual. So, that when I was in tears by the end of the first week of my new found freedom-I didn't understand. I didn't qualify for MOPS anymore, all my friends had toddlers still at home, I kept shopping, spending money on crap to fill the time, I began checking the calorie count per serving on the bon bons, Steve came back on Days of Our Lives, and the laundry continued to pile up, but worse then before because I didn't have the energy to even look at it-it made me MAD! Everyone got to go somewhere every day except for me. I was stuck with mismatched socks and armpit stained undershirts. It was as if I was lying in wait to be summoned at 3:25 for homework help, the listening ear to who played with me, who didn't, the dinners, the piano lessons, soccer practice, Girl Scouts and then my spouse sauntering in just in time for bedtime (you like that, sauntering...I just switched to my 1850's voice in my head) and for us to take a breathe in time for me to just go to bed to do it again tomorrow? I was left behind and I didn't know what to do about it. My hubby asked how I was enjoying my days alone (the one thing I thought I wanted during those terrible two's and three's) and I burst into tears and blubbered out: It's the walls-they talk! It's so damn quiet and I have no purpose, no desire and then all of a sudden I have to show up when the three of you require my services? So, here I am. Me and the walls-they talked to me again this morning as I resigned myself to 3 more loads of laundry, but I turned the View up louder than them, grabbed a handful of Trix cereal, and got down to the mean and dirty business of sock matching. Here's to hoping that your walls are funnier than mine and if they're drab-paint them!

I'll Always be your Mommy

My girls and I have this favorite book that my best friend from high school gave me at my first baby shower-I Love You Forever. The gist of the book is that it takes a journey of a mom and her baby boy and a lullaby that she sings to him at every stage of his life and that, he in turn, sings to her when she's dying and then to his new baby girl-I just shed a tear as I'm typing-it's THAT good! The lullaby she sings goes something like: I love you forever, I like you for always, as long as your living my baby you'll be. So, when my 8 year old had a complete and total meltdown this week-I grabbed her, hugged her as hard as I could, and began to hum-I love you forever, I like you for always.....and she looked up at me with her tear stained cheeks and said Mommy, will you always be my mommy? Yes, honey. Even when I'm a mommy? I whispered into her hair, yes, of course, she said what about when you die, will you still be my mommy? I said to her, yes honey, I'll be in your heart forever and always, everytime you think of me, we'll be together. She smiled and said you know what, I'm glad you're my mommy and to that I laughed and said, so am I honey-God picked me for you and you for me.
I tell this story because yesterday I had my own meltdown-one of those-I'm a grownup and should be able to process this on my own, but all my thoughts feel like I'm 8 years old and I just need to sob-meltdowns. Guess who I called? My mom. Even though it's been years since I've called her mommy (if I did at all) and even though I know our relationship isn't always perfect (far from it, actually), she's the one who helped me put things into perspective and find a solution, even through my panic ridden inhales and tears-she'll always be my mom.
It takes 18 years to raise them, 4 to 10 years for college, gain another child in marriage, lucky enough to have grandchildren and always, always we'll be their mommies! I'm hoping this kind of commitment will land me in an excellent nursing facility with hot orderlies, great drugs, lots of visitors, and someone to wipe me! I can always dream, can't I? So, to my girls, if you're reading this when I'm dead and gone (on some kind of holographic imagery or I'm being preserved for the day they find a cure for whatever I died from and you can't wait for me to thaw...) I'll always be your Mommy and don't forget to brush!

The Number Game

I was watching Deal or No Deal the other night and there was this lady who came on and picked her first case based on "a secret number" that had always had an influence in her life. It was her anniversary date, the age of one of her children, it was a part of her flight number she took coming to the show-you get the drift. The faith she had in this number was thoughtful, it was provoking, it was bs. We all have numbers that frequent our lives-my husband loves the number 5, some of you see 11:11 or 1:11 on the clock a lot, for me it's 3's. Ever since I could read a digital clock-I have seen 3:33-both am and pm thanks to colicky babies! Some kind of "3" has always been around me-I am the oldest of 3 children, my next door neighbor has "333" on his license plate, I'm 33, Christ was crucified at 33. The 3's are thoughtful, are provoking, and it is my desire to prove them not as bs. I have been asking myself, am I meant to have 3 kids?.....will I die at 33?....... (I make sure to keep laundry piled up to let God know that I'm still needed, useful, and making progress just to make sure!).....will my husband die at 33? (he has the same laundry philosophy!)......will we have our 3rd child at 33?.......do we need a 3rd car?......you get the craziness of this. So, in my hunt to find validity out of the insane-John 3:33 was the closest I could come. It says, "He who has received His testimony has set his seal to this, that God is true." (NAS). Has set his seal to this, that God is true. Maybe this is it! Maybe, just maybe my crazy obsession with three's is a testament to the truthfulness of God and His word! Even if this isn't the case, I can at least be reminded of this verse when I see my all powerful 3! I encourage you to play your number game with God and see what He shows you! Deal or No Deal?

Not About Me

My journey of becoming and embracing "me" is an ongoing, no end in sight, climbing Mt. Everest with no limbs type of quest. In saying that, this title has and is something I continue to struggle with daily. There have been times in my life when I was younger, like my junior and senior years of high school, when I can truly say it was all about me (I had a car, a job, got awesome grades, won awards, had a rigid workout schedule, got into a med school program)-but this is no longer the case-except for the job, the car, and I'm working on the workout schedule:). So, when I get up to the sound of half a gallon of milk getting spilled onto the floor and this sweet, little voice saying, whoops mommy, I didn't mean to and the first thing I'm having to do is figure out where the dirtiest, oldest towel is to mop up this mess before I've even had my morning pee-it's not about me! When I scramble to remove old mascara, slap some deodorant on, and miss a planned date with the treadmill so that I can volunteer in my daughter's classroom (unshowered-don't judge me)-it's not about me! When I drive twenty minutes out of my way to swing into Costco for the 4th time in 2 days because a teacher just sent a note home saying we're signed up for juice boxes for 24 kids for the next day-it's not about me! When my husband calls and says, sorry honey, I can't make it home to tuck the kids into bed tonight (for the 4th night in a row)-it's not about me! This is a season, a season of "not about me". As uncomfortable as it is for me to put my wants to the side and my feeling of being left behind-that is where God wants me. He wants me right where I am, living in Utah, raising 2 exceptional children, and being the wife He's wired me to be. I'm embarrassed to say that too many times I buck at that-I run and hide from it-I try to escape in food, work, coffee, vacations, friendships, fill in the blank....and often when I get an unexpected I love you or a Hey, you're lookin' hot comment from my hubby, it's like a reassuring hug from God, a confirmation that I'm investing my time and energies where He wants them, not me. So, for this time, for this season, I pray-let it not be about me (and if it does happen to be about me for a short time-help me to relish it like a Jenny Craiger at a buffet and transition back into reality gently!) Amen!

Bacon in the Produce Aisle

I hate Wal-Mart. I hate the smiley face logo that bounces around, I hate the smell, the floors, (don't even get me started on the bathrooms!), but I LOVE the prices. So, yesterday when I trekked my family there in a Saturday food shopping frenzy, I couldn't find the 30 second microwavable bacon. You know the one, you love it (if you don't keep it to yourself). It's no thick sliced, applewood from Bobby Joe's farm, but it'll do in a pinch! So, as I'm wandering for what seemed like an eternity through every aisle, I can't find the darn bacon and then just as I am resigning myself to the fact that we'll have to go to one more store to find the stinkin' thing, I am buying my celery and I turn and there are not one, not two, but 3 displays on the endcaps of the fruit and vegetable holder thingy's, in bright yellow-BACON!!!! What in the world? Pork meets vegetarian? What happened-the produce guy smoked his breakfast, this was just NOT right!! So, in my glee of finding the stated box, I grabbed a couple and then looked closely at it and thought I'm the bacon! I feel like a fugitive here, like someone put me on the wrong aisle and then I thought, but wait, I just rescued these boxes from their displaced assignments, who is rescuing me? When I make a joke and instantly know the person receiving it didn't appreciate it and/or get it or when I make an effort to be with someone and it feels empty, like something is missing, when I look around and see beauty, but it's birthed from shallowness-I am the bacon in the produce aisle!!! You know what, God needs His celery too, and He'll find me-every day He meets me wherever I am and for that I am grateful!

Go Shorty

them Apple Bottom Jeans,
boots with the furrrr
the whole club was lookin at herrrr
She hit the floor
next thing you know
shorty got low, low, low, low, low, low, low, low
Them baggy sweatpants
and the Reeboks with the straps
She turned around and gave that
Big Booty a smack-Hey!!!

This song is the next big club hit to ride on the curtails of T-pain from the group Flo Rida and as I have rewound it on my ITouch (yeah, I said ITouch) 9 times to get the chorus down, I reminisce. My 17th birthday cruise where I drank the worm (not my best moment, but I was thin-)), clubbing trips to Tijuana during college, cross gender clubs in the heart of Portland with friends from work, trips to Vegas with friends, karaoking BabyGotBack at friends 30th birthday parties, trips to San Diego for dueling pianos, Bunco's that make me smile and then blush in shame, toilet-papering wars, grownup bowling, jello shots-well leave it at that!
When I turned 33 this year my sister asked me how I felt and my response to her was that I didn't understand it. My insides feel like I'm 17 and that, my friends, is why I can rewind the 50cent wannabes multiple times to see what they're saying and smile. Anything with a beat that I can get down to and look like a fool, I'm usually all in.
I say all this to say God knows all this about me-He is VERY aware of where I've been and where I'm going. We all have history, some more "tainted" by worldly standards than others, but all the same-history. He knows and He still seeks me, He is chasing me, just like He's chasing you-so Go Shorty! Go Shorty! Get down on it! Shoot-Butterfly Kisses just came on, God is that you?

Temporary

As I waited in line for 30 minutes today to pay for my finds priced low enough that even old man stingy would approve of in the Old Navy, I was surrounded by madness! I knew as soon as I walked in and had to jump over 2 toddlers fighting over a dog toy with no mother in sight (welcome to Utah) that I should have re-zipped my coat and walked on to TJ Maxx, but no, I smelled SALE!!!! And boy, oh boy it was 50% off an already reduced 75% off, we're talking long sleeve shirts for $1.99!! I am about as turned on as ever and seeing that there are NO carts or bags in sight, I buck up and dive in. As I went from sale table to sale table, I looked around. There were kids running everywhere, carts piled so high that no one could see around or above it, women shouting to other women-what size will he be next year? Do you like the blue one or the orange one? No one had eye contact, everytime I went to a different rack I heard a physical sigh and the noise of hangers moving so fast I'm surpised a spark didn't land in my eye, they wanted their size and they wanted it now! As my arms spilled over with my pushy success in tow, I finally found the end of the line and waited, and watched, and waited, and waited some more. I realized wow-I must be crazy to be here and wow-I'm part of something, everyone else is doing the same thing! Where did she get that grey sweater? How did I miss that? Will the guy behind me let me leave my spot in line and come back? He doesn't look too friendly-I better not. Finally, I resorted to the fact that yes, I got some good deals and yes, I missed some things I needed, but that it didn't really matter. I'm now convinced that the whole mad process, as frustrating and rewarding as it was at the time, was temporary. The sale was temporary, the clothes are temporary, the cashier that checked me out-temporary (literally:)). My choice of investing in the temporary (even for good deals) needs to seriously be reconsidered. So, as I dig the craft glue out from my fingernails, I smile because the 2 hours I spent investing in my 6 year old this afternoon was not temporary and I am grateful for the maniacal madness morphing itself into the quality time she required. May your temporary be truly what it is-temporary!

The Morning Shuffle

I don't want that cereal! I want the other bowl, the orange one! Mom, she ate all the cereal of the one I wanted! WOW!! On your mark, get set, go! 6am and as my NEW PILLOW came crashing down on my full glass of water, I politely cursed the conveniences of an end table. Then, we're off! A load of laundry changed, a new one started, clothes pulled out for kids, bowls, spoons, vitamins laid out in a buffet of breakfastivity. Feed dog, walk dog, start coffee (aaaah-we're out of creamer/darn the inefficiency of dairy production and poor planning of food shopping!) , drink it black as I'm racing around-are you done yet? Drink your milk! Hurry up! Those socks don't match that outfit! You're wearing what shoes? Hair and teeth-Hair and teeth, don't forget your stinkin' hair and teeth! Family prayer, Lord bring us together as you separate us for our day! We are blessed and I have just rounded the second leg of today's race before 7:30am. I am not alone, He is holding me up and through it and already knows what my day holds and I am in awe at the beauty of the chaos that surrounds me! What am I wearing today?

Pie Sweats

Pie Sweats-the newest trend in trouser wear? I wish! Most of you living on the Wasatch front (I would have never known what that was 2 years ago-I digress) are familiar with a pizzeria chain called the Pie. It's yummy, it's grand, it re-defines what cheese should look like on a pizza. What could be wrong with this scenario-it's perfection wrapped in thick crust! As I sit here typing this I looked down at my shirt-soaked through, my hair in 90 different directions to no where and when my husband woke up he took one look at me and said "Pie Sweats!". It doesn't matter what we order from there, how little or much of it I eat, every time I wake up feeling like I've survived a cyclone! The yumminess factor is addictive and I begin to evaluate. If I didn't eat at the Pie, I wouldn't have this cool bedhead. If I didn't eat at the Pie, I would be dry when I woke up. If I didn't eat at the Pie, I wouldn't need 8 glasses of water before 6am. Are there other things I'm addicted to even if the outcome is not what I want it to be? Am I addicted to sticking with something just because I gave my word even if it's not working for me? Am I afraid to tell someone no, that doesn't work for me because I want to maintain peace in that relationship at the cost of me? Am I putting God on hold, doing it my own way, walking my own path, and asking Him to join me? In the moment, the Pie is mesmerizing, it's enjoyable, it's delightful, magically delicious per se, but by dawn's light it's messy, it's sweaty, it's not worth it. Or is it? I'll let you know next weekend-maybe I'll have a salad! (Who am I kidding?)

New Pillows

I don't know about you, but I grew up in a house where using the same pillows that great grandma so and so gave you at your wedding 20 years before was standard! So, when our house was full of company over the holiday's, I had drooled on, Lord only knows what stained on semblance of pillows to offer my company. Look, they're comfortable, they're there, you're coming to stay with me-it's what we have. Ok, no. So, in my fit of post shame as I washed their pillowcases after they left, I rebelled. I went and bought brand new, still in the package (not in the plastic from 1975), on sale of course pillows. Not just one, but 4!! Imagine my husband's surprise when he walked in and saw the stack of white just awaiting their covers! The excitement was overwhelming, the tension out of this world! We had NEW PILLOWS!!! All was bliss until we went to bed last night. What's wrong? They're new, they're hypoallergenic, they have clean cases on them! As we tossed and turned and giggled til I peed, for the life of us we could NOT get comfortable. The world had turned on its axis. We were out of sorts!!! New is not necessarily better and we ended up waking in a pool of sweaty discomfort from the chaotic episode of new pillows! It's no wonder we always used the same ones. New is over-rated and comfort is in, but we'll be doing our best to break them in! Could this same line of comfort versus new be applied to other aspects of life? You betcha! Friendships, jobs, school programs, life. New pillows may not be comfy at first, but after given a few nights they become the new faves. I think I'll give it a try!!

Snow Schmow

Imagine living most of your adult life among beautiful palm trees, ocean breezes, and WARMTH!! Oh, that's right, most of you reading this still do live there:) Well, for those of us who gave up comfortable temperatures-we're freezing our cajones off!!! This is our second January residing between these 2 gorgeous mountain ranges, so beautiful they look like a fake set at Universal Studios. So, it's snowing AGAIN today and it's gorgeous and we're blessed. We're blessed because as the wind howled there were sturdy walls protecting us and God has been holding the Nelson family just like those walls held up against the wind-He has been protecting us from the elements. The element of being a Christian in an un-Christian world, the element of building a stronger family unit since there are times when all we have is each other, the element of provision in a home that meets our needs and cars that knock on wood still work even after batteries have frozen! Our God has brought on the snow, but with that he's given us the shelter to feel safe in it. To that we say snow, schmow-bring it on!

Partnership

I don't think when I said "I do" that I truly realized the implication of those two tiny words. I do love you. I do want to be with you. That was pretty much the extent of my initial commitment at the courageous age of 19. Now looking back over the past 14 years, I am more stumped by the "I don'ts"! I don't want to get up at 3am to a yipping pup. I don't want to clean up the toilet when I wasn't the one to have a "Shat"ner experience (or after our week and a half of Christmas delights-a hamblow)! I don't want to call and talk to the doctor about the possibilities of roundworm in our kids. I don't want to get the tires rotated on the car. The list goes on and on. What I do want to do is be alone in quiet time with my spouse. Those tender moments of yesteryear are far behind and now when he actually moves when I push him out of bed (instead of ignoring me) I feel my heart swell. It may sound pathetic to some, but partnering with someone you love during the seasons of life is more of a turn on than rose petaled beds with chilled champagne. And as far as the hamblow-I'm calling Molly Maid!!