Wednesday, December 21, 2016

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

It's apparently the most wonderful time of the year.

I'm not so sure about that as I've been baking for four days straight.

Because Husband decided to give cookie plates to his biggest clients (which, he said, he would do half of the work for, and in the end, he didn't).

My knees don't think that's very wonderful at all.

The Kid's school party was this morning and praise the Lord that it's over.  We had to talk about it everyday for the last three weeks and I was done.

The only thing left is to do our own Christmas.  I think I'm even done shopping.  The Kid, however, wants to make a trip to the mall to find something for her father.  The freaking mall.  Two days before Christmas.  It's enough to make me want to sit in the corner and rock myself out of an anxiety attack.

The good news:  while looking for something, Husband found a CD of Japanese theme songs for mushrooms.  Yes, they have that.  And they put it on a little CD player and play it over and over right in the middle of the mushroom section of the grocery store.  I had one American mission companion who would stand in front of it and bop her head to it for what seemed like hours.  So, that's been in the background of all the chaos in my head and has become the soundtrack for holiday baking.

And even better news is that I am now a power lifter.

Or something.

I did all my maxes last week (bench, squat, and dead lift) and I am now on a program.

You'd think that having a high max would a good thing, but what it really means is that you just have to workout with really heavy weights all the time.  Some days, that is decidedly not a good thing.  It's just hard.

The one downer was the fact that I found out that I have never squatted correctly in my entire life.  So, here I was thinking I'd be a squatting natural and come to find out, I was never going low enough, and as such, I lift 60 pounds less than I thought I could.  Also, when I was finding this out, I got over confident, overloaded the bar, and then proceeded to drop it while falling and managed to smack my head on the bar, which was awesome.

Tuesday, November 29, 2016

For The Record: Three Years Old

Took The Tater for his three-year-old check up yesterday.  Here are his stats:

Height:  41 inches
Weight:  37 pounds (or at least roughly that. He freaked out when I made him take off his shoes and then refused to stand up on the scale, so I just sat him there instead)

The doctor wanted to know how many servings of vegetables he eats in any given day and I was all like, "He's had at least two servings of vegetables this year, so I'm calling that a win."

She also wanted to know why he hasn't gained any weight in the past six months.  Um...because he only eats one meal a day (and we never know which one it will be or how much he'll eat) and the rest of the time, he subsists on goldfish crackers and dirt.

He is in the 95th percentile in both height and weight, just as his sister is/was.

We raise them big.  Like prize winning steers.

I Think I'll Try This.

I'm one of those people who really likes to do a lot of stuff.

Or maybe I should say that I like to try a lot of stuff.

My biggest problem in this is that I'm not really sure there's anything I'm truly good at.  You know, a jack of all trades, but a king of none.

Like, I can kind of sew.  I can kind of crochet.  I can kind of rollerblade.  I can kind of ride a bike.  I was going to say that I can kind of run, but recently, that's become a lie.  Can I count reading as a talent?  Yeah, I didn't think so.

Another problem:  I kind of never think I'll be able to do stuff, so I don't dare try it.

For instance, I wanted to major in something more difficult in college, but decided not to because I didn't think I was smart enough.  And now, I see people who are in that same field and they're idiots and I think, "If they're smart enough, surely I'm smart enough, too."

Anyway, three months ago when I started going to my new gym, the owner asked if I'd ever done any power lifting. His whole family lifts heavy stuff.  And he trains other people to lift heavy stuff.  And they go to like meets and stuff.

Um, yeah, NO.

I thought that maybe I might try it one day and then about two weeks later, found out I was pregnant, and put it on the back burner.

Then today as I was squatting (and almost dying), the people-who-lift-heavy-stuff were dead lifting right behind me and I thought, "Surely I could do at least what they're doing."

So, I opened my big, fat mouth, and was all like, "Hey, do you mind if I watch you to kind of get the form down?"

Can opened.  Worms everywhere.

Because apparently you don't just watch to get the form down.

No, sir, they load up the bar and you try leg width and grip and toe placement and shin placement and weight maximums.  And then they tell people to come over and watch you to see what you can do.

And get this.  They gave me chalk for my hands and a weight belt.  Legit.

And you get down there and try to remember everything they've told you and just pray to God that you don't spontaneously urinate all over the mat (that's a real fear).

And then everyone is giving you pointers and you're all like, "Listen, I can only remember like two things at a time, so I'm going to have to incorporate your suggestion next time."

I mean, who knew there were that many things I'd have to remember?  Pick up the weight and stand up, right?



It's like this choreographed dance.  Now, we all know what an amazing dancer I am, but hot damn, it's harder than it looks.

Anyway, I figure I'll give it a try for a minute.

But only because I've recent found out that you have to be at least six feet tall to be on a rowing team.

Sunday, November 20, 2016

Child of God

The Tater is a very shy little booger.

He's not overly fond of anyone except his mother.  Not even his father.  Sometimes his sister if she has candy.

In public, he generally sticks pretty close to me and if anyone even dares to ask him how he's doing, he almost cries and if not that, certainly buries his head right in my crotch, which is kind of a feat in and of itself because he's taller than that now, so he really has to try.

And, unless you're me, don't try to touch him.  There are two ladies at church who always try to pet his head or get them to give them a high five and it is always a problem.

I mean, he does warm up to people eventually - and there are at least two people I can think of that he just digs unexplainably.  Like the old dude who works at the grocery store who only has one tooth.  Tater thinks he's a kindred spirit for some reason and seizes every opportunity to tell him everything he's been holding back.

Which is why what he does during sacrament meeting absolutely shocking.

The Tater knows exactly one song - I Am A Child of God.  And "know" is pretty generous considering he doesn't actually sing words,  just the sounds he hears.

I always ask him to sing it for me, and almost always, he declines.

But today.  Today, the opening song in sacrament meeting was I Am A Child of God.

And The Tater sat straight up on his seat and sang as much as he knew as loud as he could.

And I sat and cried and cried.

Because he may not know what it means or even the words he's singing, but it reminded me how amazing kids are.  And sweet.  And innocent.

And how God sees us all that way.  And loves us despite our faults.

Wednesday, November 16, 2016

Bunch Of Cheaters

Here's the thing:  people who are already thin and beautiful should be banned, by law, from owning or wearing Spanx.

Because that's just cheating.

It's like you're taking away chubby people's advantage.

How else are we supposed to get an edge unless we are able to appear as thin as chub-lump free as you already do?

It would be like me stuffing my bra.

Friday, November 11, 2016

That Costs Money, You Know

I despise spending money on adult-ish things.

Like toilet paper.  And tires for my car.  But most especially for electricity.

I guess it's because I can't really see it, so it's like it's not there, so why should I have to pay for it?

Unfortunately, I also live in a place where we literally run the air conditioner daily for nine to ten months out of the year.  You know what costs $900 million?  Running the air conditioning for nine to ten months out of the year.

When we moved into our house, Husband made me start keeping the controller on 74 where we'd been keeping our apartment at 70.  The awesomest thing is that we moved right at the beginning of the summer, so I literally felt like I was melting.  Because on top of living in a hot, humid climate, I also sweat like a man.  I might have mentioned it before.  Seventy-three times.  I am always hot.

However, even at 74 degrees, electricity costs $900 million.

On top of that, we also have children.

And do you know what having children means?

Doors left open.  Lovely, cold air escaping.  Hot, choke-you-to-death air entering.

Lights left on.  In every room.  All the time.

Do you know how much time I spend walking around my house turning off lights?  At least half my waking moments.

I talk myself silly daily reminding everyone (Husband included) that if we are not in a room, the light does not need to be on.  And the reply is always the same, "Ok, I'll be more careful."

But are they more careful?  Nope.

I came home from a rare evening spent at the church last night to find every light in the house on.  Every. Single. One.

No one was downstairs.  They were all upstairs.

That was about two hours after I'd informed Husband of how much our electric bill was last month and he said, "Oh, we gotta find a way to get that down!"

I almost lost it.  Like hysteria.


And don't even get me started on them leaving flashlights that are left on on the floor and walking away.

I just...can't.

Monday, November 07, 2016

Pukeasaurus Rex

If The Kid were a dinosaur, she'd be a Pukasaurus Rex.

While other people's kids get things like ear infections, fevers, and strep throat, my kid hurls.

A lot.

She pukes when she's mad, sad, happy, scared, sick, tired, and just about any other occasion you can think of, too.

She doesn't have to be the least bit ill to throw up.

At least once every couple of weeks she wakes me up in the middle of the night to tell me she's thrown up in the bed.

And even better is the fact that on these nights, it seems like she's made herself a veritable nest of blankets, pillows, sleeping bags, extra clothes, and stuffed animals, so clean up is never a simple thing.  It is hours and hours of laundry, bed making, refolding, and resorting.

Sometimes, like last night, her little brother, who insists on sleeping in the same bed as someone (anyone, really, he's not picky), gets the royal treatment as well.  If throw up could ever be considered a skin restorative, he's the luckiest kid on earth.

So, at 1:30 am, here are two little vomit covered demons by the side of my bed, both crying like the world is going to end, wanting to be bathed with this soap, not that soap.

By the time I had everything stripped down, both kids washed and back in bed (there was a second incident, followed by required shushing and putting-back-to-bed-ness at least three times), it was almost 4.

And Husband?  Sleeps right through the entire thing.  When I come back in my next life, I want to sleep like a man.

But the real trick here is getting through the entire next day.  It is currently 11:40.  I've been up for good since before 6.  The only thing I've actually accomplished is staring blankly at the walls in between loads of laundry.  When husband left for work he tried to prepare me by reminding me that "if I act enthusiastic, I'll be enthusiastic".

I almost punched him in the throat and said, "Enthusiastic THIS."

Friday, November 04, 2016

Micro Greens

I super dig watching cooking shows.

Like Top Chef.  And Pioneer Woman.  And Trisha Yearwood.

But I'm sorry, not Ina Garten because she seems all uppity.  Mostly because she has to use proper measuring cups and none of the others do, they just throw stuff in and create deliciousness.  PS  You know who else has to cook with specific measuring devices?  Me.

However, there is one cooking trend that I just cannot get on board with.

Microgreens.  Micro greens.  Micro-greens.  See, I don't even know how to spell it properly because it shouldn't be a thing.

Every time I see a chef using micro greens, I can only think one thing, "Are you being serious right now?"

Do you know what micro greens are?  Dandelions and water cress.

Water cress and dandelions.

We used to have water cress growing in all of the creeks around our house (and if you know what's good for you, you'll pronounce that "crick", the way God intended) and we used to pick it so we could pluck the tiny snails out of the roots and put them in bottles until they died and stank and Mom made us throw them out.

To be clear, we didn't mean to have dead, stinky snails, we meant to have live, super fun snails that lived in glass bottles for our entertainment.

Clue:  snails are neither fun nor entertaining, even alive.

And dandelion greens are weeds.  Weeds, people.

My mom always had grand visions of having a lawn without dandelions and one year she even sprayed for dandelions and then ended up with dead patches of grass instead, so she decided she preferred the dandelions.

Plus, there really is nothing more charming than a small baby handing you a dandelion like it's the most precious, beautiful gift in the world.  Because then, it totally is.

Just don't make me pay $15 for a salad that includes the greens.

Because that's not food.

Thursday, November 03, 2016


We bought a house that came with bushes.

Like seventy-five katrillion on them.  Spell check says "katrillion" is not a word, but I totally know it is.

And that's how many bushes we have.

They literally surround our entire property, two-deep.

I have a hate/hate relationship with them.  Because right now, they're in their eleven-year-old girl stage of growth.

And we all know how awkward that is.

Don't even get me started on how much I despise trying to mow in between all of them (and if you really want to start something, ask me about how desirous it is to weed eat in between them instead).  I come out covered in these giant red ants and sometimes, if I'm super lucky, I'll come out covered in their smaller cousins and be bitten to death.  It makes me so mad I could just spit.

I got it into my head today that I was going to prune those bushes into beauty.

Problem:  I don't actually know how to prune anything.  This is also why you should never ask me to cut your hair.  Or your beard.  But your back hair, now I can work wonders with that and you'll let me.

I stride confidently and majestically out to the bushes holding the largest pruning shears available at Wal-Mart, and proceed to hack the poor bushes to death.

If they looked like eleven-year-old girls before, they now look like a fifteen-year-old boy's beard - scraggly and patchy and not even remotely attractive.

And then naturally, I think, "I'm just going to go for it and cut them down!  All of them."

The only thing that saves me from acting on that impulse is the fact that I now have to go save The Kid from being poked to death by a stick The Tater procured from the burn pile.

Good call, The Tater.  Good call.

Thursday, October 20, 2016

When It's Gone

Yesterday I was pregnant.

Today I am not.

Monday we went in for the confirmation ultrasound - because for some reason, no one ever believes me when I tell them that I know stuff.  And despite the fact that I knew for an entire week there would be nothing there, I allowed myself just enough hope to not go absolutely crazy.

I may or may not have almost squeezed the ultrasound tech's arm right off before she started.  And then ten seconds later, I went slowly and thoroughly to pieces.  They allowed us to sit in the far part of the waiting room, in order for me not to upset all of the other lusciously pregnant women, I think.

All my crying and shaking scared the living daylights out of Tater.  He kept putting his hand on my heart and saying, "Mama, don't cry.  I fix it.  It be ok."

Yesterday was the D&C.  It was also what would have been my sister's 37th birthday.  And, in my weakened and dramatic state, I kept looking up at heaven and saying, "Happy birthday!  Please take care of my baby."

I mean, it's a baby, right?  Even if the sac was empty?  The first one to contradict me gets it right in the kisser.

D&Cs are really no big deal at all.  You head in, they hook you up, you wait for the doctor for 900 years, they give you some good meds to knock you out, and before you know it, you're in recovery telling everyone what a champion you are, demonstrating loudly on how beautiful your fingernails are, and having side effects from the anesthesia that includes whipping your head wildly from side to side and wondering why on earth no one is stopping it.

They keep telling you to open your eyes and you're all like, "I will open my eyes when I'm damn good and ready, thank you very much.  Maybe you should open YOUR eyes."

Then they roll you off the bed, make you get dressed, and you go home.

And you wonder over and over again why something that took you over 2.5 years to get takes less than 10 minutes to get rid of.  And then you think about those who have elective abortions to get rid of something you so desperately want and you want to throttle them.  Thankfully, I was safely in the car before I started talking loudly about that.

Here I am a day later.  No real physical pain to speak of beyond a somewhat sore back and lower belly ache.  And it might be the truly the only time in my life where I wish for pain of some kind.  Like to validate that there was something there.   I guess it really must be a blessing that no one can see broken hearts.

Husband has the day off and has his trusty tools of food and cleaning myself up to ward off any postpartum depression that might sneak up as the doctor warned it could.  Not on his watch, by God.

He took both kids with him to drop the one off at school and while he was gone, I finally cried just like I wanted to with no fear of upsetting anyone.  There was wailing and I might have thrown something if I didn't already know that if it broke, I'd be the one who'd have to clean it up.

And everyone keeps talking about "next time".  Next time when this happens, remember this.  Next time when this happens, remember that.  NEXT TIME?!  Good gosh, if this happens again, just put me in a straight jacket in a padded room.

And then the thought sneaks into my time, I will hire a nice lady that I don't even know to rub my back, play with my hair, spoon me, and rock me to sleep.

God, that there will be a next time.  But you know, with a baby and stuff.

Tuesday, October 11, 2016


I figure it's safe to write here since not very many people come here anymore.

And there's something I have to write.

Something I have to put down somewhere.

On August 29th, after more than 2.5 years of trying, I found out I was surprisingly and magically pregnant.  Without any kind of medical intervention.  Because see, I'd made a deal with God.  That if I was pregnant before my 38th birthday, we'd roll with it.  But thirty-eight was the absolute cut off.  My birthday is September 3rd.  A bleedin' miracle.

And I've felt absolutely, positively miserable in the weeks since then - upset stomach, extreme fatigue, dizziness, mood swings, food aversions, food cravings.  You name it, I've had it.

Maybe even more miraculous than the fact that I'm pregnant is the fact that I've actually managed to keep it a secret (except for those who absolutely have to know).  I've hidden all of that yuckiness under a smile in public and attempted to pretend that I'm fine, just fine.

I've been literally counting down the days until I could tell people.  I mean, I've already won The World's Worst Secret Keeper at least fourteen times, so this was kind of a big one. I've even already bought my Halloween shirt with the little baby skeleton on my belly and that was how I was going to tell everyone - maybe not original, but in my head, I was so, so clever!

Yesterday I went in for my second appointment with the doctor wherein I'd have an ultrasound to look at the fluid on the baby's spinal cord....that's the best thing about being pregnant at 38, you get to do all of these awesome tests because of your advanced fertility age.  At this point, all medical professionals are apparently just surprised your uterus doesn't fall out any time you move.

Well, you'll never guess what.

They couldn't find a baby.

Like at all.

My 38-year-old uterus contains an empty sac.

What should have been a 10.5 week old fetus is an eight week old sac.

The doctor asked if there's anyway I'd miscalculated my dates.

I'm so regular, you could set your clock by me.

I did not miscalculate.

So, what we have here is what the internet refers to as an "empty" pregnancy or a missed miscarriage (the medical term is "blighted ovum"...and that sounds ten times worse).

Who misses a miscarriage?  Apparently I do.

The doctor sent me home to either spontaneously abort or to come back in one week, do another ultrasound, and if there's still no baby, terminate.

Do you know what it's like to be sent home to wait for a miscarriage?

Do you know what it's like when, with every twinge, tweak, or pain, you run to the bathroom to see if this is it?

Do you know what it's like to literally wait to see if your last chance to have a baby will go down the toilet?

Do you know what it's like to have to explain to your small children that there might not be a baby after all?  And then have your six-year-old want to immediately say a prayer that in one week when you go back they'll be able to "find a body in mommy's belly"?

Do you know what it's like to break down every thirty-two seconds and have your two-year-old say, "Mama, you hurt?  Mama, you sad?  Mama, you stop crying, ok?"

Do you know what it's like to want to do something, anything, and have no control at all?

Do you know what it's like to not know what to do?  Not know how to act?

But most of all, do you know what it's like when the world around you continues to spin and people live their lives and you sit at home with a crushed spirit and a broken heart, wishing that you didn't feel so damned alone?