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The husband was “on call” today, which means that he goes to the hospital and is at the beck and call of the residents, which means that he’ll most likely come home after the kids’ bedtime, which means I can’t count on my second mommy wind to inflate my sails around six o’clock at night. So, we made plans: glorious plans, brave plans, shopping plans.

On our way back from our run when Atrain said, “What we are doing today, mom?” I replied with excitement, “We’re going to the mall!” To which he asked a very poignant, very telling question, “What’s the mall?” And now you know how much I don’t shop at the mall. My kid loves the D.I. He loves the grocery store. He loves the “big red ball store” (target), but he has no idea what the mall is. So I told him, “We’re going to a great and spacious building with lots of people inside.”—Ok, maybe I didn’t say exactly that, but the image came to mind when I tried to tell him about “the very large, very noisy building with lots of stores.”

So, we went. And to be honest, I would be satisfied if we never revisited that awful place. I hate feeling like: a) I have to spend money to buy things that look good on me, and b) I’m not really sure what actually does look good on me. It’s a lot easier to tell someone they look good in something. My sisters Bambie and Allerina came with me. Bambie hates the mall too, probably for the same reasons that I do. Allerina just hates being dragged around the mall by her two older sisters, who both feel like their days of enjoying the rush of paying $85 for a pair of shoes are long gone. Good riddance.

There was once a day when I loved saving up my precious pennies during long summers working the harvest at my dad’s mill. Of course, I put some on reserve for college and a mission and tithing, but I couldn’t wait to go “up north” and blow the rest on school clothes. I loved trying them on, bringing them home and doing a runway show for my parents, who humored me with all sorts of applause, hoots and hollering. I was so proud of myself.

Not any more. Buying clothing for myself is now laborious and rather painful—even on the rare occasion that I love what I see in the mirror, I still feel…guilty? Annoyed? Resentful of the fact that I’ve been trained to think that I need something new, because I really don’t. Fashion is fun, but I can’t eat it, it cuts into the diaper money, and in a few months it becomes unfashionable to wear whatever I bought with the money I should have used to pay rent. Besides, the husband thinks I look great in my mom’s recycled clothing. I do admit that I still find a certain, small amount of glee when I see myself in something new; it’s refreshing, like shedding layers of old skin must feel refreshing to a snake. But I’m still a snake.

Maybe I just need a better budget, or even just a budget that isn’t based on student loans. I guess I’m just too thrifty, or too careless to wear stylish things. I love admiring the style sense of others. And someday maybe I will have a style sense of my own, but today is not that day. Maybe it will never come. Because even when we do have a little more pocket change I know I will have a hard time ignoring other “needs” that are much more pressing: like sweet furniture, custom cabinets and decorative pillows. Yes, it will always be much easier to dress my home than to dress myself.

Snow Sanity

It's always unsettling to feel like your sanity is slipping away from you; like sand beneath your feet when the waves roll in--though its not nearly as fascinating or fun. I used to have such firm footing. I used to be able to turn myself upside down and inside out while completing an assortment of sweet 360s and still know which direction I'm heading. Now if it snows on a day that should be sunny I can't seem to keep my head on strait. I find myself falling into an aimless abyss, searching for something substantive to simultaneously steady my footing and enrich the lives of my little ones.

So, what did I do this April 29th afternoon when I felt myself collapsing beneath the weight of the advancing storm? Step aerobics. Yep, I loaded the boys into the Bob and set off in the snow toward the community building. As soon as we strolled into the mirrored room I felt a sense of relief. Jdog loved popping his head up from his rolling spot on the blankets to see his reflection in the mirror. Atrain went right for the closet that housed the steps and loved constructing all sorts of aerobic stair mazes. Meanwhile, I dusted off the "step it up" competition 80s VHS that was lying lonely in the closet and plugged it into the system.

These step athletes were amazing; jumping from a toe touch into one handed push-ups with legs crossed on the step, power-pony twists into back flips from the step, MC hammer chuggs into front walk overs on top of the step--all while wearing thongs over spandex shorts and scrunched socks. I was in love. Just the type of well-grounded people to pick me up and whip my mind back into shape with their crimped-hair side pony tails. Thank you 80s step routines: the perfect cure for my snow-storm induced insanity.

Shalom 4am

Stayed up until 4am writing a scholarship application for my three year old. The preschool he attends is an amazing little place. no way we could afford it if we werent on scholarship. Atrain is a lucky boy, and i am a lucky momma. It has been the perfect place to help him transition from the school for the deaf and blind programs into a hearing classroom.

Atrain has loved his Jewish Community Center preschool. So have I. Tonight after I took his cochlears off for bed he started composing his own little JCC lullaby. It went something like this, "da do da da, listen, listen king pharaoh-you let my people go! da da da da, No no no, i will not let them go!....da da da da, Miss Raqett, da da do da, Miss Sessame...wash your hands...zoomgalli gali gali, zoomgali gali... and on and on." It was endearing--especially because every sound that comes from Atrain's mouth when his cochlears are off bursts forth like a trumpet: loud and proud. And he knows that he can get away with it.

Mechanical Mommy

The husband and I only saw each other for a total of about 40 minutes today—most of which I spent stressing over our schedules. Stupid. Between meetings, church, school, work and play we haven’t had a decent conversation in at least three days. I feel robotic, like my heart is a cold, calculating clock, ticking its way through the day…counting down to May 7^th, the day the husband leaves for his away rotation in Houston.

But there were many moments today when the boys brought me out of my mechanical mindset. After trying again—unsuccessfully—to get Jdog down for a good afternoon nap I took them both outside to the playground. Atrain and I had our swords strung securely through the belt loops of our jeans. We slashed them through the warm, spring air until we met up with the swing set. I decided to see whether or not Jdog would enjoy a little turn on the baby swing, so I stuffed his soft blankets around his chubby body until he was secure and cozy in the baby seat. Then, I gave him a little push. A large, toothless smile grew across his face and was followed by a sweet squeaky giggle. Atrain gave him a little shove and Jdog giggled again. “He likes it!” Atrain said with giddy surprise in his voice. You see, swinging has never been Atrain’s strong suit. I’m not sure if it has something to do with his hearing loss and malformed vestibular system, but he has always been easily unsettled on the swing set—unless he’s pushing himself on his belly, “Peter-Pan” style. For some reason he enjoys that. But, if you swing him while he’s sitting upright, he’ll hold his breath and beg for you to stop him.

So, you can imagine my surprise when Atrain asked to be placed in the baby swing adjacent to Jdog’s. “Go slow,” he said bravely as I set him inside and gave him a little push. He held tightly to the seat, but soon began to smile as I swung him in synch with his brother and sang the “Swinging high and swinging low” and “Whenever I hear the song of a bird,” songs my grandma always sang to me on her big tree swing. They both listened intently, smiling at me and at each other. Then we played a few silly swing games like “tickle the tiny toes,” “see the silly mommy lie under our swings,” and “kick the mommy so we can laugh like Hyenas as she exaggerates a fall.” Too bad bodies need food. If it weren’t for dinner we could have stayed out there until the sun set.

I hope to spend a lot of time on the swing set this summer. I need more simple reminders that life shouldn’t be overshadowed by the stress of messy schedules. I need more time singing swinging songs to my boys. There is a sweet spirit that whispers peace to my heart and reminds me that, “for all His creations of which I’m a part, yes I know Heavenly Father loves me.” I hope that in spite of the stress that may make my mind a little mechanical every now and then, my boys know that too.

The Key to Success

Today was a rare mothering day when rain was pouring down my window panes, daunting 'to do' lists were stacked higher than the dishes in the sink, all that Atrain wanted to do was recreate lightsaber battle scenes while sweet Jdog hoped for a little more snuggle time, and (here is the rare part) I managed to do it all and (even more unlikely) I felt pretty darn good about what I had done. I even faked losing my hand to Darth Vader while doing the dishes. I somehow wrote a building newsletter, pretended to be the Easter bunny for our neighbors with Atrain, and caught up on a few blog posts. I even utilized the only hour of sunshine for an afternoon jog.

As I pat myself on the back at the end of the day wondering how this was all possible I I came to one very important conclusion: if I'm flexible enough to neglect my shower until 4:00 in the afternoon, it's bound to be amazing day.

On Duty

I have a little job that I love a lot. Scratch that. Atrain, Jdog and I have a little job that we love a lot. I say “little” only because it’s part time and pretty flexible, but we take it very seriously—especially when we’re “on duty.” Being on duty means that we hold a radio after the housing office closes so that we can help people around our apartment buildings. Whenever that little radio shouts out my number Atrain says, “Can I come help people, too?” And on many occasions, he can.

Atrain is great at helping me help people get back into their apartments when they lock themselves out. But until this weekend I never really noticed how much he actually understands our “lock out” procedures. Most of the time he just quietly observes my interactions with locked out residents. Occasionally the residents will talk to him and tell me how cute he is, but he’s somewhat stranger shy, and stays silent most of the time—sometimes even darting his eyes in the opposite direction, pretending there is no one talking to him at all.

But today something surprising happened: he spoke up. When we got called to help someone who had been locked out he began instructing me. “Get the key from the key room, mom, and don’t forget to come back and get our keys when we’re done…Ok, now does he need to be let in this door and the door inside?...Make sure you check his name on your papers (roster), mom.” He said. The resident got a kick out of it, and so did I. “Ok, Atrain, and now what?” I responded, egging him on. “How do I do that?” I questioned his responses, testing his language skills. And all that he had quietly soaked in during our many trips to “help people” kept surprising me, every time he opened his mouth.

Deaf children have a difficult time learning things vicariously—even if you have cochlear implants. It’s something that hearing kids do without even realizing it: soaking in second hand language lessons from their parents and peers. I do a lot of one on one explanation, questioning and coaching with Atrain, but this kid ceases to amaze me. I’m amazed that every day with my deaf child I can still wonder things that other parents wonder. Things like, “Where did you hear that?” and “Did I teach you that?”

It feels amazing to ask myself these questions, and to realize that Atrain’s listening skills are becoming more and more independent. I thank God every time I pause to wonder where he heard that. And, I’m grateful every time Atrain reminds me how to do my duty; because even when I’m not holding the radio and helping people for my little job, I’m always on duty with my little kiddos.

Pith

Last night I had a sleep over with my sister-in-laws. It’s something we do every time Bil comes into town. We brave whatever our cute little bedlamites might throw our way, hunker down, talk decorating, eat bread pudding and Italian ice at 1am and laugh our heads off at pith jokes, par exemple, “There sure is a lot of pith in this punch.” Thank you, Bonanza, for that one. The night always ends too soon, especially because Atrain is unable to sleep for longer than two hours away from home if he isn’t holding onto my hair and Jdog still enjoys three or so nighttime snacks. Oh how I love snuggling with my bedlamites, even if they keep me from laughing at pith jokes with the SILs...its probably for the better anyway.

Woman vs. Hedge

Today I mutilated my father in law’s (the Doc’s) bushes for his birthday (yesterday). They are some of the gnarliest plants I’ve ever seen: roots shooting in, out and around the ground like roller coasters; layers of dead, overgrown shrubs supporting random spurts of green vegetation; offshoot vines entangling nearby tree branches like foreign fingers wrapped around Rapunzle’s hair.

So, I cut them off; I sawed, I severed, slashed I pulled, I raked, I tore and trimmed until I stood next to piles of pruned branches that were taller than me. And then I stood back to see the small, seemingly lifeless, severed stumps that remained. If they weren’t such wicked bushes, and if I didn’t have the Doc’s express permission to massacre the overgrown hedge, I would have felt badly about what I had done. But, instead, I was proud.

The trimmings towered over my head, casting a long shadow in the morning sunlight and I felt a strange sense of strength and accomplishment. Maybe someday I will be able to manage a larger yard, even if the husband cringes at the thought. Yes, if I can conquer that labyrinthine Honeysuckle forest, I can conquer anything.

Sweet Little Girl

For better or worse, little Jdog has inherited a good portion of my looks. The similarities between his baby pictures and mine are irrefutable: the bull-dog cheeks, the button nose, the dark hair that is slowly turning blonde, etc. When people take note of the likeness I’m not quite sure what to say. “I think this one missed the Francypants stamp,” said the nurse at his 4 month appointment. I don’t think that’s all together true, but I do hope the male version of me doesn’t feel slighted by his share of the gene pool.

Today I saw my dad at Allerina, Dalliwag and Leaf’s “Broadway Blast” show dress rehersal. He held Jdog, made him laugh and admired his solid stature. Then my dad said, “He sure does remind me of you.” I smiled, “What is it, his chubby cheeks? His squinty eyes?” I asked. “Nope,” he said. “It’s his sweetness.” Oh, so nice. I’m lucky to have a dad who still makes me feel his sweet, special little girl. Even if little Jdog looks like a girl, at least he’s a sweet one.

The Earning Boy

Today was the day that Atrain filled up his entire smiley-face job chart. He has been looking forward to this day for weeks; it was the moment when he would claim his reward for all of the good choices he has been making. After all, good choices equal good consequences (the new phrase we’ve been repeating for about a month now), and I was excited to get him something substantial to help the idea really hit home.

So, we headed for the toy store. Going to the toy store is a big deal for us, since literally 95% of the toys Atrain has (including the ones from “Santa”) come from the D.I. But, Atrain has had his heart set on a new, light-up light saber for weeks and he had worked hard and waited a long time to earn it. A while back there was one moment in the grocery store when he had a melt down because I told him he had not yet filled up his job chart to earn the light saber that he was holding tightly in his hands, determined to carry it through check out. “NO, I do NOT want to earn it! You did not listen to me, momma—I will put you on time out. Good bye!” He said as he stomped around me in the isle. I tried not to laugh as the words came out of his mouth. I probably would have been tempted to cry if the husband hadn’t been there to help drag our screaming boy from the grocery store.

But that wasn’t going to happen today. It was his turn to call the shots—he had earned it (though I doubt any amount of smiley faces would enable him to put me on time out…I think). We entered the toy store with one goal in mind: find the electronic light saber and but it. But, I also needed diapers for the Jdog. So, after Atrain chose the blue light saber I diverted to the diaper section to snag a box. On the way there, we passed the section of the toy store that contains multiple electronic riding toys. We paused to “check them all out.” I held Atrain’s light saber as he darted from one mini-jeep to Lightning McQueen to the small cop car and back again. I gave him a one minute warning just as another slightly older boy came to the aisle to try out the cars as well.

The boy was accompanied by his mother who busily worked on her phone as asked her if they could buy “this one…no no, this one—yeah, the yellow mustang…no no, the orange go cart…” At first, the mom didn’t have much to say in response to his requests until the boy turned up his volume and persistence. Then she said, “Maybe the Easter bunny will bring you one.” Her words were like sandpaper, scratching their way into my ears. And as Atrain’s eyes lit up, I knew what question was now trembling on the tip of his tongue.

How was I to handle this one? Thus far Atrain had not even asked if we could buy one of the big cars. He’s pretty well aware of what it means to just “check out” the big toys in the store: we look, we admire, maybe we even covet, but we don’t buy. Not necessarily because we don’t have the money (though that definitely simplifies the scenario); but I’m rather wary of paying $400 for something that will eventually end up in the “as is” section at the D.I. We’ve “checked out” many a Barbie-jeep there to know the fate of such purchases. Plus, I think that having everything you want can kind of poison a person. So, when the sentence, “Can the Easter bunny bring me this car?,” came out of Atrain’s mouth, I responded with “I think it’s a little too big for the Easter bunny to carry to our home.”

As soon as I said it the other mother standing there sort of snickered. I’m not sure why. I smiled politely, as if I knew what was so funny. Was she laughing because our Easter bunny isn't as strong as theirs? At my shameless refusal to buy my three year old a mustang? Or just at the thought of an Easter bunny trying to carry a kid size Cadillac in his basket? I’ll never know, but I hoped as I kept my eyes glued on Atrain’s expression that he didn’t feel embarrassed, or slighted. My heart beat slowed with the thought and I began praying that he would still love his light saber as much as he had planned. The need to leave this aisle and that mother behind suddenly took precedence over breathing.

As I rushed Atrain away I tried to gauge how he was feeling. “That boy was silly, thinking that the Easter bunny brings such big cars,” I said. “Yeah,” Atrain responded, “The Easter bunny just brings Blue Mater” (the car he set his egg-hunting sights on long ago). I smiled. “You’re right, Atrain.” He smiled back, and then said something that I will never forget. “I’m an earning boy.” Suddenly the odious memory of that mother and boy melted away. “Yes, you are…and I’m so proud of you.”

The Name Game

I’m slowly becoming slightly, yet seriously concerned that our little Jdog does not know what his real name is. And it’s not because we alternate between his nickname and his real name (the reason why the husband is concerned about the same issue). It’s because most of the day we masquerade around as Peter Pan, Wendy and Baby Michael. Atrain (aka Peter) insists that we call Jdog by his pretend name all day long, but I try to sneak in a lot of “Jdogs” too. But every time Jdog and I slip out of character, I’m soon chided by Peter Pan, who points his plastic sword at me and tells me to walk the plank (so that he can save me…again).

So, poor, sweet Jdog is only called his real name for about 50% of the day; the other half of the day he is baby Michael (26%), “Little”—another name Atrain has attached to him—for 8%, Chub-a-love (something that slips out of my mouth when I change his diaper) for about 6%, and of course, Jdog for the remaining 10%. I hope our name games aren’t detrimental to his development. He sure doesn’t seem to mind. Call a Jdog by any other name and he is still just as sweet.

Rollie Pollie Olie

I’m not sure if I’ve ever mentioned that my little Jdog is not all that little. At his recent 4 month appointment he weighed 18lbs and 4oz and was 271/2 inches from stem to stern. And this little chubby bubby is learning to roll his pudgy 95^th percentile proportions around. And it couldn’t be cuter.

He begins lying down on his back. In this position Jdog’s belly looks like a bull-frog’s: thick, soft, squishy and perfectly round. Then he gets a good grip on his feet, latches tightly to his toes, and tips them up to his lips for a taste test. They must taste pretty darn good, because he likes sucking on his toes much more than any of the binkis I’ve bought him. Once his toes are firmly planted in his mouth, he tips over to his side. Soon, something from his new side view snatches up his attention, so he kicks his leg, arches his back and digs his head into the floor. And slowly, but surely—like a patient, pudgy little puppy, baby J makes his way from his back to his belly. Then he tilts his heavy head to the side, and the rest of his body follows suit, returning him to his back.

I’m sure most babies roll their way around in similar fashion. It’s Jdog’s sweet, patient temperament he has had while learning this new skill that has me amazed. He usually doesn’t get frustrated when his arms get stuck. Today while eating dinner at the in-laws he just slowly, quietly rolled his way around the living room while we all stuffed our faces. Every time I looked over my shoulder to check on my little man, he had completed another 360 toward this or that toy. And when I call his name, he looks my way with his hound dog cheeks drooping. Oh how I love my rollie pollie baby.

The Run Down

My running shoes and I—we have a pretty good relationship. I take them out for a 40 minute spin around the neighborhood almost every day. We survey the surroundings together, take inventory of my latest thoughts, pause to pick up random items that spring forth from the stroller, and occasionally get a good work out.

Today was one of those occasions. We ran a half marathon: me, my shoes and my SIL Famous. It hurt so good. Here’s our 13.2 mile play by play, just in case you were interested:

Mile 0: Racing around my apartment trying to chase the butterflies out of my stomach as I watch the clock and wait for just the right time to wake up the Atrain. As much as he won’t like waking up to a momma who was leaving, he would have loathed waking up to a babysitter (even though she is the nicest girl around).

Mile 1: Famous and I are drowning in a tidal wave of 8,000 runners. We’re nervous, but it helps to get going. It’s still hard to believe that we’re doing this.

Mile 2: Famous ditches her gloves on the lawn of the public library.

Mile 3: We are stuck running behind a tall, muscular chap who is wearing toe shoes, tight black gear and uncomfortable looking, wedgie-inducing underclothing. He makes us cringe.

Mile 4: We wonder whose body odor we smell around us, and then converse about P-diddy and the husbands’ incredible ability to sweat. They are brothers, and share the same remarkable ability to perspire profusely.

Mile 5: Stuck behind wedgie-man again. He prances down the road with his bottom awkwardly protruding. We are unsure if his strange gate is caused by the toe shoes or the underwear lodged between his buttocks. I hate that I am analyzing his wedgie. We make a valiant effort to pass him.

Mile 6: We stop for 10 minutes at the port-a-potties. The lines are astounding and the mood is tense. There probably isn’t a more impatient crowd than a heap of racers waiting indefinitely for others to finish their business and continue on with the race.

Mile 7: We turn down my favorite road in the city—the small, windy road where the D.I. lives. Passing the store calms my nerves and sends a second wind my way.

Mile 8: We initiate the mile marker dance ritual.

Mile 9: I talk to the husband who successfully loaded both kiddos into the car and is heading down to the finish line.

Mile 10: “I belive in a thing called love,” by The Darkness comes on my playlist. Famous admits that she has never heard the song. I am appalled. So, I give her one of my head phones and we job in synch as downtown’s skyscrapers come into view. We’re giggling with excitement like silly teenage girls at a late night sleep-over.

Mile 11: We take inventory of our hurting bodies. I can feel my right knee complaining with every step and my left ankle has also decided to revolt. But we’re almost there. Famous is feeling sore, but great. I know she could keep running for another 13.2 miles.

Mile 12: In the shadow of downtown’s skyscrapers and amidst random rounds of applause, Famous and I finally realize that we hadn’t yet discussed the most exciting news of the year, Esteban (the husband’s brother) and Hillsey’s engagement. We squeal with delight. It gives us just the rush of endorphins we need to make it up the last hill.

Mile 13: My body is protesting, but my mind is pumped. We’re now in the thick of the crowds, soaking in the applause. Famous and I are searching for familiar faces. I’m so excited to see the husband, Atrain and Jdog. They will be so proud of me. I’m so proud of me. I knew Famous and I could do it and it’s almost done. I turn up “Single Ladies” and let Beyonce guide me to the finish line.

Mile .2 – finish line: There are fences gating off the road. Many happy people are yelling “Good job! Keep going!” Little kiddos press their faces against the bars and stick their hands out for high-fives. I give friendly high fives as I look for the husband and my little men. I can’t wait to see them. I hear a familiar “momma” yell from the right side and I flip my hair around to see Atrain sitting atop the husband’s shoulders. They’re smiling and waving excitedly. I blow kisses. I feel so happy you’d think that I was the first one coming down the route. But nope…not even close—we’re probably a good hour behind the first finisher, but it still feels amazing. Famous and I cross the finish line with our arms linked. We stop running. We hug. We laugh. Then we can’t remember how to make our bodies move forward again.

Cool down: Famous’ husband, P-diddy reviews our stats—which are not all that impressive, but we’re still impressed. I give Atrain, Jdog and the husband a kiss. The Jdog lifts his huge cheeks into a toothless grin, knowing that he’ll soon be able to eat a huge morning meal. I smile knowing that I’ll soon be able to do the same.

Finishing the half marathon was great—not because we posted an amazing time, or because of all of the calories I burned or because I finally have a great running playlist to enjoy on my daily jogs. It was great because of the company, because of our cheerleaders, and because I proved to myself that I still have a few surprises up my sleeve. Can’t wait to see what else is up there.

Miles to Go

I’m running 13.2 miles tomorrow. I run little bits a lot, but this will be my first longish run. I can’t wait. I feel like I’m waiting for Christmas morning. The husband is doing the bike tour that follows the marathon route. He has set out all of his biking gear perfectly under piano like presents under the Christmas tree. So I merrily followed suit. I don’t have any cool running gear—normally I run in whatever t-shirt and basketball shorts are clean (and pull whatever I can find from the laundry if they’re not). But tomorrow I’ll be decked out in the t-shirt they gave me, borrowed running capris and the cool custom headband my cousin made me. It’s one of the ones that didn’t fall into the toilet the other day. The only thing I’m missing is the match to my super cool, extra supportive socks. Hopefully it will turn up in the morning.

My half marathon playlist is downloading onto my phone. I hope it works. I can’t wait to rock out to Beyonce while I’m jogging down the big city roads. Beyonce will be joined by The Jackson Five, Joss Stone, The Darkness, Captain Bhangrhe Da, and even a little Nickel Creek. But who knows if I will even listen to any of them. I’ll have my SIL Famous there to keep my mind off my sore knees and aching toes. With her, I’m sure that I’ll finish. I just hope that I don’t loose any toenails in the process. I hate it when that happens.

Atrain can’t wait for his kid run. He wore his race T-shirt around all night, posing with his “tough guy” crinkled nose, flexed arms and ready-for-anything squat. He’ll hang out here with his adorable nursery teacher (who so kindly consented to be our early morning babysitter during the hour and a half gap in parental units while we are on the road). His race starts at 10:00. I think I’m more excited to watch him cross the finish line than to cross it myself. Wish us luck.

Being a Butt Head

When in high school, everyone becomes the butt of a joke at one point or another. It’s no fun; being the butt downright stinks. But, it’s high school—if you’re not the butt head, you’re the butt. And everyone alternates roles.

When I was a sophomore, I became the butt of an ongoing joke that still haunts me today. It’s the “15 minute rule”—a regulated time period that signifies when I am not allowed to revisit past conversations. I break the rule all of the time, which is (I guess) why the institution of the rule was funny in the first place. But I don’t really care. I can’t really help it. My mind often muddles in rewind, especially when I’ve been a butt head.

Today I had lunch with a few of my high school friends. I adore these women. I love the variety of memories we have together. I’m grateful for how much I have learned and how much I’m still learning from and with each of them. I love teasing the husband about how he (most likely) kissed every one of them in his youth at one point or another. Aren’t I a sweet wife?

One of my friends, I’ll call her Veronica, is practically perfect in every way. She’s also been dealt a set of seriously imperfect circumstances of late. But, she’s the kind of woman who won’t let a hurricane of hurt blow out her candle. Even though I’m sure there are moments when her flame flickers, she maintains a warm, steady stream of light that amazes and inspires me. I need to be more like Veronica. But instead, I say dumb things that could make my nicest friend feel badly.

You see, we were discussing everyone’s summer plans when Shaloha asked if I was going to Texas with the husband. “Only for a couple of weeks,” I said. “What will you do for the rest of the time he is there?” she asked. And then, without even thinking I stupidly said, “I’ll just be a single mom, I guess,” as if there were even a comparison to be made. There’s not. It’s just one of those phrases that I used to say without really thinking. That is, until Veronica became a single mom. Now I think about it all of the time: how I can’t understand and hope I never have to understand what it would feel like to be in her shoes. As soon as those words, that empty comparison, came so casually out of my mouth, I felt like a slob—like an inconsiderate, ungrateful butt head.

Veronica wasn’t even listening, but after the phrase marinated in my mind for much longer than 15 minutes, I knew that I had to call her and apologize. Not because I think she was offended—she’s not the kind of girl who easily takes offense. She always gives everyone the benefit of the doubt. But I wanted to express my regret for being so ignorant for the past 26 years of my life. I don’t’ know how many times I’ve thoughtlessly used the phrase “single mom.” I hope not too many. After I got off the phone with Veronica I felt renewed. Even if you’re calling to apologize for being a butt head, she has a talent for making you feel like the most beautiful person in the world—a trait that runs in her family.

I shouldn’t say things when I don’t really know what they mean. You think that I would have learned that the first time I said a swear word in front of my parents. But, I guess I’m still learning. I’m glad that I’m still growing up with such good friends. And, I'll probably always be breaking the 15 minute rule. It keeps my muddling mind in check.

Good, Goody, Ugly

The dishes are stinking in my sink and I’m trying not to care. No matter how much I love the sight and smell of a clean sink, I love recalling the goodies, the not so goodies and the uglies of my day much, much more.

Many good things happened today. We bought new umbrellas at the “big grocery store.” Atrain has been dragging a broken one through the rain storms and puddles of late. We needed something large and sturdy—something that can wear through whatever weather a spring college football game may throw toward the husband and Atrain. When they went last weekend, all they had was a polka-dot pocket-sized contractible one to shield them from an onslaught of rain and snow. When the husband returned I asked how the umbrella worked and he said that it was broken. Either he was lying, or just too ashamed to say that his pride prevented him from opening a polka-dot umbrella at a football game. Because when I fished the little thing out of the washing machine it was still in fine working condition. Whatever the case, new umbrellas were a definite high point in our agenda today. I choose a large, blue and white golf umbrella for the big boy. And, for the slightly smaller big boy, I surprised him with his very own McQueen umbrella. His uncontained joy at the sight of his surprise is still making me smile.

Goodie #2: I was so very proud of Atrain when I told him we couldn’t buy the swimming flippers he was crying over. I stuck my ground and after a quick fit, he put them back on the shelf by himself and said, “I will ask my swimming teacher if I need them.” Even though we don’t technically have a swimming teacher, I liked his logic and went with it. “Yes, Atrain, when we go to swim lessons soon we will ask your teacher if you need flippers or not.” Guess I need to sign him up soon.

Goodie #3: While cuddling with Jdog I got to listen and watch the husband play football and hide-n-seek with Atrain. They are hilarious. The husband enjoys the games as much or more than Atrain. He is so much more fun that I am. It’s sad how we’ve already assigned the parental roles in our home. I’m definitely the disciplinarian, but I can hide-n-seek with the best of them when I get my turn.

Goodie #4: listening to Jdog blabber “mamamammma.” Technically, it has no meaning associated with me for at least a few more months, but his mimicking mumblings make my heart turn to mush. I love him more every minute. This little boy holds such a peaceful presence in our home and in my heart. It’s hard to explain. He is my calm before, during and after the storm. Sometimes I feel somewhat sorry for him—all of the loving abuse he receives from Atrain (even though he’s pretty a pretty sturdy 18.3 lbs and 28 inches long)—not to mention having to deal with my attention being split in two for most of the day. But, he doesn’t seem to mind. Baby J is happy as long as he is fed, changed and cuddled regularly. He is a great cuddler.

Which leads me to my not-so-good list today: I missed Jdog’s back-to-front roll over again. When it happened the first time I was in the bathroom wiping Atrain’s bottom. I returned to little J’s spot on the floor and he had flipped all by himself and was playing there on his belly, happy as a hippo. I was so angry that I missed it. Today, my anger doubled when he flipped while I was flipping grilled-cheese sandwiches. I just wish I could somehow do everything and see everything all at once. But I find restitution when I remember that I too am a second child. I grew up being beat upon by my big sister Bambie and it made me stronger. My mom might have missed my first few roll-overs and I still turned out alright.

And, then we come to the ugly. While preparing to urinate, the husband tipped over my basket of hair accessories into the toilet. Atrain was the first to hear the crash. He ran into the bathroom and exclaimed, “Wow Dada, what happened?” I quickly followed to find that all of my headbands, elastics, clips and bobby-pins were submerged in the toilet water. Yucky. At least they were tipped over before the husband did his business in the potty. He was kind enough to fish all of them out for me, wearing my cute pink cleaning gloves. “Sorry,” he said as he pulled my headbands from the water snickering, “guess you’ll just have to be a poop head.” Atrain thought that one was pretty funny. Now that is ugly.

Missionary Monday

Dear Brother,

Hello missionary. I hope that you’re doing well. Atrain really wants to tell you something exciting, “We’re going to Texas on an Airplane,” he says. Yep. We’re coming to the great lone star state this summer. The little boys and I will only be there for two weeks, but the husband will be doing two month-long rotations at MD Anderson in Houston. It will stink to be without him for the rest of the six weeks, but we will manage. Atrain, Jdog and I can’t wait for our little taste of Texas. It will be a fun vacation.

Speaking of vacations, it’s hard to express how stinking jealous I am of Mom, Dad, Allerina and Dalliwag right now. Hawaii…my second home…the place where I “grew up.” Man, it’s hard not to well up in tears when I imagine them walking through the BYUH campus, or when I think of the adventures they’re having over there without me. But I guess a 5 month old and a 3 year old aren’t exactly conducive to a care free week in a beach cottage, right? Someday I will go back. Someday I will love visiting my old professors, going on the hikes that I should have done when I was studying, snorkeling through reefs that I was too scared to explore and paying insane amounts of money for milk (that I used to water down to make it stretch further while I was there). I’m sure I’ll be calling them for their vacation play-by-play more often than I should.

There are a lot of things I’ve done lately that I shouldn’t. We had a lesson on honesty today and my memory is thick with guilt. Or at least, it should be. I’m conflicted. I’ve been swimming (for exercise) with the Relief Society President in my ward a couple of times. It costs five dollars to go if you don’t have a pass at the University pool. I don’t have a pass, but when I went I brought my money, ready to pay. After they swiped my student ID card and it didn’t work (because I’m an alumna), I told them I wasn’t a current student, but they let me in anyway. “Score!,” I thought. The second time I went, I also had money to pay—just incase—but they let me off again when my card didn’t work (as expected). That time I didn’t tell them that I’m not a current student…I deceived them, allowing them to believe that there was something wrong with my card. I’m a horrible person, I know. The worst part about it is that the RS President said she was “relieved that I’m normal.” Shoot. I almost had her fooled.

Now I feel like I need to march myself back into the athletics office and pay my $10, plus interest for cheating them out of their charges. The husband thinks I’m ridiculous because at least part of our $30,000 of tuition should cover pool fees. So, is it my responsibility to “stick it to the man,” or should I just pay the darn pool usage fee? I do want to be honest in all my dealings, so I think I’ll pay up. It sure is inconvenient to be completely honest sometimes, but I know that it will “pay off,” in the long run, right? Good Karma.

You would have been proud of me the other day. I ran five miles in a snowstorm along the country roads back home. I loved feeling the falling snowballs pelt against my face. I felt so hard core as I wiped the layers of slush off my sunglasses. I don't want to do that everyday, and especially not when I attempt my first half marathon next week, but it felt amazing. Yes, that’s right, I’m going to try my first “half.” That is, if I can find a babysitter. The husband is also doing the bike race that morning, so things will be a little tricky with the kiddos. Too bad they won’t let me take them in my stroller. I hope my knees hold up. It will be a great challenge.

How was singing the national anthem at an NBA bball game? We watched part of it, but didn’t see you in the crowd. The husband was rather jealous that they let you go to a basketball game while on your mission. Did you even recognize the Jazz team? There’ve been so many trades and injuries that I didn’t even know who was on the court, playing for Utah. And, I miss Jerry Slone on the side, yelling at the refs. Not that I really care all that much…I’d much rather be watching HGTV, unless of course you could be somewhere in the bball arena. Will you and the San Antonio missionaries be doing a spot on HGTV any time soon?

I have a final thought for you before I finish rambling. Today in Sunday school we were talking about the parable of the good Samaritan. I’m sure you’ve studied this a lot, and I might not have anything to offer, but as I thought about the man who lied on the side of the road, “half dead,” and those who passed him by, it was interesting to me that the difference between the two church-going, calling-holding men who passed him by and the Samaritan was compassion. He had compassion on the man—he didn’t know if he was really going to be able to help save him or not, but his compassion on him stopped him on his course. He didn’t assume that the man was already dead as others may have done. He just gave the man who had been beaten down everything that he had and promised the innkeeper he would repay whatever debt was owed as the man regained his strength. Not only do I have a lot to learn from the Samaritan about not assuming anything about the condition of another’s soul and what it means to really be compassionate. So often in life, I am the half-dead man and Christ is my Samaritan. I know that He knows when I have been beaten down. He always assumes the best of me, has compassion on me and has paid for my debts. I know that He lives.

Atrain is telling me that I’m done, and that it’s time to read books with him. And Jdog will be waking up soon. He looks a lot like our side of the family…they even said so at his immunizations this week with Dr. Grandpapa. Here is a message from Atrain:

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The X is for texas. Love you so much JD. Keep up the good work. You are in our thoughts and prayers. Thanks for all you’re doing.

Love,

MJ.

PS-your lady in waiting texted me this week…told me she’s been wearing the guitar necklace I bought her a lot. She’s so sweet. I sure like her.

Deceitful Me

Today in church we had a lesson on honesty. I don’t normally consider myself a dishonest person, but today I felt like a worm wishing that I could burrow myself deep under the church’s foundation. You see, the relief society president in my ward is also my swimming buddy. And when we go swimming we’re supposed to have a swim pass. She has one. I don’t.

The first time I went swimming I brought money to pay the $5 fee. They scanned my student card, but since I’m an alumna and not a current student, when my card was scanned it beeped the “intruder warning” tone. I looked the lifeguard in the eyes and told him that I’m not a current student—truth. He rewarded my honesty with a free swim session. The second time I went I also brought money to pay the $5 fee, though I hoped I wouldn’t have to use it. I handed over my student card to the lifeguards, but this time when it beeped the “intruder” tone I turned, a deceitful, confused look grew across my brow and I said, “Hum…that’s funny. I wonder why it’s not working.”

I’m still not sure why this little lie slipped through my lips. I had the money to pay, just in case this lifeguard wasn’t as willing to let my alumna status slide. But, instead I—almost instinctively—lied. And I got away with it. I scuttled away, instantaneously feeling like the slime that feeds on the scum that grows on the bottom of the pool. The worst part about it is that when I turned to my relief society president and asked her, “Am I the so horrible,” she laughed and responded, “I’m just glad you’re normal.” Shoot. I almost had her fooled.

In the meantime, I need to return to the pool pronto to pay my $5 fee with interest, even though the husband disagrees. He thinks that somewhere in the $30,000 of tuition we pay every year to the university my pool fees should be covered. I agree, but can’t convince my conscience that it’s my responsibility to “stick it to the man.” Maybe someday I’ll figure out how to do both.

Sleep Talking

Today the husband and I were up at 4 in the morning with both kids crying, wondering why we had decided to spend the night at my parents' home. The husband actually asked, "Do you think we can get a refund on your tickets to Texas?" But he didn't mean it. We always find ourselves frustrated in the wee hours of the morning whenever we are away from our beds.

I grow tired of playing ping pong between sleepless boys’ beds, trying to negotiate with a cochlear-less Atrain who screeches every time I slip away to feed the Jdog. Then Jdog howls whenever I unlatch to go calm Atrain. The cycle repeats multiple times. And finally when I can’t figure out how to slice myself in two, I start growling. That’s when the husband starts sleep talking—not because he’s stressed, but because he’s not sure what to do when I am. I know he still wants our growling, howling, screeching crew there for two of the eight weeks he’ll be rotating in Texas. We just need to figure out a way to take our apartment with us.

By way of working out the stress that built up overnight, I ran five miles in a snowstorm today. I loved feeling the falling snowballs pelt against my face. I felt so hard core as I wiped the layers of slush off my sunglasses. I don't want to do that everyday, and especially not when I attept my first half marathon next week, but it felt amazing today.

Stop Crying

This was the day that my big sister, Bambie told me sweetly, but sternly to, “stop crying!” It felt good, like it feels good to have someone tell you to go to bed, or to sit down and eat dinner, or to clean your room. Sometimes it’s just nice to have someone tell you what to do—to roll their eyes at you and refuse to put up with your irrational behavior. Bambie is the best at that. She can do it without crushing your confidence. That’s just one reason why she’s such a good mom.

Moments later my favorite running duo passed me on the indoor track: the father was reading the course for his son who has a disability. He would say, “pass on the left,” or “keep going, a little stronger,” and, “watch your left side, here comes the mother with a baby.” And there I was, inspired by their relationship, wishing for someone to read my course and call out my shots. But then, there is someone—a lot of someones, actually. I just need to listen.

Ogres in the Rain

When rain clouds gather overhead and suffocate the struggling spring sunlight, something strange happens in our home. Music from the Twilight Zone begins to play; our complexions carry a murky greenish hue, we gain 200lbs, sprout saucer shaped ears and jut out our under bite jaws as we frown, spit and groan. We’re not upset at anything or anyone in particular. We’re just ogres.

Aogre enjoys spending his time in destructo-mode. It is a lot of fun (especially when you’re an ogre) to find new, hazardous uses for everyday objects. A backscratcher, for instance, is a great destructive tool for shorter orgres. It stealthily pulls down items from the shelves and freezer that small ogre arms can’t reach—added bonus: it can perform such tasks long before Momogre understands what’s going on.

Then again, it isn’t all that difficult to sneak something past Momogre. She lumbers around, unsure of which household task to take tackle first, loathing them all. Momogre really only wants to bundle up the little ogres, go outside in the rain and make a mess in the mud. But Jogre is not quite old enough to marvel in the merriment of a muddy mess. His tastes have not yet evolved past dirty diapers.

Someday Jogre will find satisfaction in splashing and squishing and sitting in the mud—just like his brother Aogre. But until then, he will have to settle for snickering at Aogre’s puddle antics as he snuggles with Momogre in the sling. Nothing makes a family of ogres more joy than bumbling outside with broken umbrellas in the rain.

Collage Art

And there you have it folks...my first Photoshop project. Once I kind of got the hang of the commands, it was actually a little fun. I'm not going to lie, I'd much rather be writing, but it's good for me to explore more artistic avenues. Though I'm not sure my header would qualify as art—unless you count collages. Yes, I’m definitely going to count collages. I remember my first introduction to collage art in Mr. Nielson's 6th grade class. It was the first time I ever felt like I excelled in an artistic venture. Cutting out magazine pictures and strategically pasting them together was fun and simple; you just have to know what you like and know where you want to put it. I guess that’s also why I like decorating—not that I really know what I am doing, or have the money to experiment, but it is sure fun to imagine. Hope you enjoy this collage and all of the puddle art to come.

Breathing Under Water

Lately I’ve been trying to learn a few new things. It’s been difficult. The Photoshop program the husband bought me for my birthday has been an open tab on my computer for months. Every now and then I hesitantly revisit my one open project—a new header for “the Puddle”—but my brain easily becomes water logged as I try to interpret the program. Today I finally decided that I’m fed up with my life as a photo shop leech (sucking the creative juices out of my sister and sister-in-law every time I’m in need). So instead, I pinned my sister down and forced her to teach this leech her tricks. Though I was slow to remember the various manipulations she taught me, I quickly learned one thing: illustrating the images that lurk within my mind is a risky task. The product might not be very pretty. But at least it’s honest.

I’m also re-learning how to swim. I mastered my summer swim lesson courses at the Spork pool, but then I became a teenager—which always complicates things. Now I have a few sweet friends who go swimming at the university pool every now and then to get a good work out. I was hesitant at first to try. I haven’t bought myself a swim suit since I was an undergrad in Hawaii, I haven’t seen myself in a swimsuit since I was pregnant last summer and I don’t exactly love getting my hair wet unless I’m at the end of my five day cycle (too much work). But with enough persuasion, I mustered a little bravery, let go of my vanity and jumped it.

The first time was tricky. Swimming isn’t at all like running (duh). There’s this thing you need to do when you exercise called breathing, and it’s kind of hard underwater. When you get winded you have to figure out how to inflate your lungs without letting water in. You also need technique to keep paddling and kicking at the same time. And then there’s the assault of the river jostling around in your ears and the chlorine that batters your eyes. But once you get past all that, it’s kind of thrilling the same way that running up a huge hill with a 90 lbs stroller is thrilling. It’s the closest I’ll ever come to feeling like “yah yah yah, I’m so hard.” Take that Rhianna.

Speaking of so hard, I returned home from swimming at 9:30pm to find that my kids were still evading the sandman. The husband was home with them, but he’s somewhat helpless when it comes to soothing the Jdog who insists on his own special nighttime snack to send him off to dreamland. And then there’s Atrain, who made the conscious choice during our night time routine (that included seven books, pajamas, toothbrushing, water drinks, bathroom trips, prayers and scriptures) that he wasn’t going to go to bed. He even got redressed into his day clothes, just to make a statement. Oh yes, and his statement also included emptying all of his drawers onto the floor, tipping over the rocking chair and overturning his basketball hoop. I left the husband with both kids crying and returned to both kids crying. After my swimming high I came crashing down to a mothering low.

There are so many times I wonder if I’m doing things wrong, wonder if I’m being selfish for wanting a moment of my own, wonder how I can help the husband understand how fried my patience are by the end of the day—especially after a day that includes immunizations, a traffic jam, and a continuously howling Jdog on the way home from Spork. And even though he shows no signs of it, I can’t seem to shake the feeling that he thinks I’m a horrible mom for leaving him with a sink full of dishes, baskets full of laundry, and the kids crying so that I can splash out my frustration in a pool of water. I know he doesn’t really think these things; I’m really just projecting my own feelings onto the husband. I just have a hard time dealing with them, so I outsource. I guess sometimes I have to come up for air.

I hate the selfish feeling that sneeks up on me when I seek a little time to myself. But I also know that I am a better me when I find a place of quiet reflection each day. It gives me perspective, and helps me find my happy thoughts...though I sure seem to be struggling right now. I wish I were perfect, even though I know it’s impossible. I want to be better, and I know that that is possible. I need more help. I need to pray for more charity, for more compassion.

Maybe life is like learning to swim; sometimes I need to get more comfortable with my head under the water and every couple of strokes I need to realize that it’s ok (and quite necessary) that I come up for air.

Frames, Planes and Planning Pains

Today Atrain and I rearranged pictures in our home. It’s a project I’ve been itching to do ever since we had our family pictures taken a couple of months ago. Finally getting the frames on the wall feels fantastic. There is a sweet sense of liberation that comes with completing a job you’ve intended to do for months. Now all I need to do is print the pictures to fill the frames.

Atrain is quite the little decorator. He had all sorts of opinions about the collage placement. It was adorable, yet extremely tricky to navigate and negotiate around our opposing opinions. I felt like framing some of the thing he said, like, “MOM-Listen to me! They all have to touch like a long train on the wall,” and, “Where’s the golden temple one? It needs to be at the front of the line,” and, “Can Miss Green and Tiny and Shashe be in our family forever too?” I love Atrain’s words more than any sound in the world. Maybe I will frame them.

Jdog slept for three hours this afternoon--through all of the negotiating and hammering. It was rather impressive. “I want to go wake him up now,” Atrain would say. Maybe I made a mistake when I let him wake the little J man up this morning, but I just couldn't say no. My heart overflows every time he yearns for his brother’s company—especially when he’s having a dizzy morning. It happened again this morning, just like last Monday. I wish I understood why. My mind flipped through all of the possible triggers that could cause Monday morning vertigo: overstimulation from being at the Parent’s homes on Sunday; no nap the previous day; spending your time screaming and running around like banshees with the cousins; different food; Spork water; the elevation change—I hope he will do OK on an airplane to Houston this summer…if it’s elevation changes that cause dizzy spells I better bring a lot of barf bags just in case.

Little Atrain is so excited to go to Texas for our family “vacation” next month. He will be even more excited after not having his daddy around to tickle him and laugh at nonsensical things with him for three weeks. Oh how we will miss the husband while he’s on his away rotation. Atrain asked me to tickle him like dada tickles him today, but I could tell by his courtesy laugh that it just wasn’t the same.

I don’t know what we’re going to do without the husband—that is if he ends up going. He still hasn’t found a place to live yet. I hope that happens soon, or Atrain, Jdog and I are not going to have a place to stay once our plane lands in Houston. I wonder what it would be like to sleep in a Hostel with little ones. A lot of my time lately has been spent sorting through the scammers on Craigslist to help the husband find somewhere to rest his head while he is away. I'm not sure how he'll survive without me.