I am going to attempt to prove Justin Bieber is a form of birth control, if used correctly.

For a few weeks now, Mike and I have been in a heated debate over the boy band, One Direction--and the degree to which we believe they will influence our daughters and their overall confidence and identity.  I believe we are on the precipice of something monumental and life-changing; and it will come as no shock that Mike believes I am drinking HEAVILY.


Mike, of course, has never been in LOVE with the New Kids on the Block.  You kind of need that frame of reference to get what I am saying here, because if you didn't CRY when Joey McIntyre sang "Please Don't Go Girl" like a chipmunk, then I'm not sure we can be friends.  Also, "Didn't I Blow Your Mind This Time" is one of the best song's EVER MADE, and I still find it fascinating that a song with THAT TITLE could make millions of dollars, before the age of the Internet and the magic troll, Ryan Seacrest.  


Here's the thing, friends.  I lived in Hawaii, and we didn't have a boy band popping through town every week--but when the New Kids came in 1990?  I. Was. There.  In this crop-top number with a zipper, except that it wasn't indecent or slutty, because my massive slouching problem, combined with the fashion of the 90's, brought my high-waisted denim shorts just shy of my armpits back then.   Also, and this is a KEY POINT in my argument:  12-14 year old girls who cry when Jordan Knight's sweat beads hit them in the 10th row, are *generally* not the demographic that throws their underwear on stage as a sign of affection.  That inappropriateness belongs to their crazy (delusional) middle-aged mothers (as is happening, every night, on the NKTOB reunion tour).


Girl's who love boy bands spend HOURS learning the dance routine to "The Right Stuff".  They make signs with dot letters and t-shirts with puffy paint.   They are living the tween version of the Disney princesses,  but instead of a castle and a glass slipper, their imaginations have matured into believing that love and romance = cheesy love songs and hair gel and color coordinated skinny jeans (the Justin Bieber factor).  Which is AWESOME, because I have just started watching Friday Night Lights, and what I see coming down the pipe in a few years is Tim F-ing Riggins.   And good golly, the writers/casters/stylists on that show did a bang up job of making sure that every running back with long hair will destroy the fragile morality of young, teenage girls with a single, smouldering glance.


I am ON TO YOU, Tim Riggins (Obsessed actually.  Can't. Look. Away.)--but singing chipmunks and stripped cardigans it is for my girls.  Before they even have the inkling to choose choose pick up trucks and flannels shirts for themselves.


Which leads me to my next point, parents of young children:  STOP making fun of boy bands and telling my daughter that they have no real talent or genitalia.  First off, they are making BANK.  Secondly, if you chase them away from wholesome, upbeat, pop music about how BEAUTIFUL they are, you are pushing them straight toward Mumford & Sons or the Dirty Projectors, or the band of the day that is writing music full of angst that just speaks to the heart of Tim Riggins and teenage hormones.  


{Disclosure:  I had to solicit the advice of an indie music snob on this one.  The most *alternative* band I can name is Coldplay.}

Now, under normal circumstances, this would just be a philosophy I operate under, and not an actual debate--except that One Direction has announced dates for it's 2013 North American tour, and one of them includes a stop in Kansas City.  Mike thinks I am cooking meth simply for wanting to buy tickets 15 MONTHS OUT to a band most people haven't heard of--but he didn't see them on the Today Show, and OBVIOUSLY doesn't listen to Ryan Secrest's radio show, because they are the shizzzzz--and we have a REAL opportunity to get in on this action while they are still up and coming.  I mean, do you KNOW what kind of bragging rights come with being one of their first (million) American fans????  It's like saying you have a copy of NKOTB's first Teen Bop cover--because you always KNEW they were the real deal.  Boom.


And before you go bashing my musical taste (because I think I've proven a direct link to teenage pregnancy and 15-year-old girls who "pretend" to like The Black Keys for the sake of  a Tim Riggins-type)--let me remind you that I purchased $15 tickets for Mike and I to see Bruno Mars at a concert venue sandwiched in between strip joints in November '10.  So when all you music snobs talk about how he KILLED IT at the Grammy's this year, I say, "He's been killing it since East St. Louis, 2010."


Here's how it's all going to play out, friends.  The girls and I will make some memories dancing to the hits of One Direction.  We may even take in a concert to seal the deal on their young puppy love, and a t-shirt will be purchased.  We will buy their ENTIRE CD, and memorize the words to every song (sidenote:  don't get me started on how  iTunes makes this kind of loyalty OBSOLETE).  Eventually, after a few years, the hype will die down, but we will have firmly established their roots in the boy-band genre, and everytime a Backstreet-Boys type of artists hits the radio, they will hum along like Pavlov's dog.  They'll eventually hit a phase where they TRY to like the Florence + the Machine of their day, but their hearts, oh their pop music hearts, will always be with the Biebers of the world.  


They'll hide it, though and pretend to be into bands no one has ever heard of; something strange, like a duo that only utilizes an oboe and some bagpipes.   And as much as I try to hide them in the crowd, neither girl will be invisible to the Tim Riggin's of the world forever; but having been raised with a "pack mentality", and as one of the girls in the screaming masses, Bon Iver won't ever feel comfortable as a make-out song (if he was smart, he would play "One Less Lonely Girl").   Music will be her conscience, and Riggins will never work, because they are just too different, and she will be too embarrassed of her roots to ever be herself--at least not the girl that One Direction always sang about.   But one day--ONE DAY--she/they will be an adult who can laugh at herself, and she will casually mention that she cried at a One Direction concert, and some friends that she just met will say--


"OHMYGOD, so did IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII!!!!"


And that, is how girls are endeared to each other FOREVA.   And also how I plan to prevent G & L from falling in love with the tortured, rugged type and avoid teenage pregnancy, by pre-programming their lives to a teeny-bopper soundtrack.  


True Story.

Let's try this again tomorrow.

Some days are easy, and you throw your old crap on your front lawn and you make $900.


And then, some days, EVERYONE'S toothbrush ends up in the toilet before 9 a.m., and because you don't function well in the morning, your husband throws them in the dishwasher before you have the presence to toss them in the trash can.  These sorts of days continue with your 6-year-old (and most outgoing and social child) throwing a 40-minute crying fit over attending one of his friend's birthday parties, and then having to leave because you realize you have LOST this fight.  I am trying REALLY hard not to take Little J's decision to leave that party personally; mostly because I know him, and in that context, this was a really poor and fearfully made choice.  How do you teach kids your kids the difference between fearing terrorism and a sports-themed birthday party with cake?  It just all seems so immature and ridiculous.


Now that's the crux of parenting, right there.


And then we had a weenie roast (using skewers I bought at Target for $1, 3-4 years ago...for the first time.  BOOM, hoarders WIN).   This was before Mike threw a piece of wood that was *obviously* treated in some sort of chemical, on the fire--and I'm pretty sure that our entire suburb smelled like burning plastic for 2-3 hours.


And now.  This day is gonna end with TWO episodes of Friday Night Lights, because I am obsessed with Tim Riggins.  Welcome to the new week, friends.

Jello has ruined my carefully constructed image.

Jello, you are a douche.


And the EXACT reason why I don't improvise on recipes, or go off script, or hang from stirrups in the bedroom; because then your dessert looks like it's bleeding, you say something stupid, or you have to call the police to unstrap you from the ceiling.  Rules exist for a reason, people.


So.  I had this recipe pinned on Pinterest--and upon review, it seemed do-able and not overly complicated, minus one factor.  That I freaking LOATHE fruit frozen in jello, and so I just decided to omit that ingredient.  I mean, it's JELLO and not freaking rocket science.


Or is it.


I made the pretzel crust.  YUM.  I made the cream cheese/sugar/whipped cream middle.  YUM.  I made the jello (with less water, per recipe instructions), and then I got nervous, because it was supposed to begin setting, to the consistency of egg whites.  This would be the step where the frozen fruit was introduced; and also where it occured to me that the FROZEN fruit was intended by GOD to help bring the temperature of the boiling jello down, and therefore perform the mystery of setting it to the consistency of egg whites .


Well, I tried ice cubes, I tried some freezer time, I tried PRAYING TO GOD for the jello to set like egg whites (this is for a bible study after all), and then I had another brilliant thought!  I would just pour it on the cake like the next step called for, thus spreading it out and making a thinner layer of jello that would thicken in no time!  This is one of those (rare) instances where I felt like something I learned in 4th grade?  Middle school?  High school? --was actually presenting itself in a practical, real-life application.


Except that life is not a simple science fact--but also 143 variables in the same space and time.   I forgot to factor in the density of the cream cheese layer, and the rate at which a liquid would pass through it (apparently, there is more to this equation that surface volume)--and so the stupid jello seeped through the cream cheese/sugar/whipped cream and into the pretzel crust and it just sort of solidified halfway through that process.  Leaving me with...this.

A cake (actually, a salad--strawberry pretzel salad, official name) that looks like bleeding cow fat.


For Bible Study guests.  And we're reading the book "Grace for the Good Girl", except that I am STILL trying to prove that I am the one human being on the earth who was born to be the perfect Christian wife/entertainer.  


I'll let that one sink in for a second.  Particularly if you knew me in college, or you read the first line of THIS BLOG POST, in which I called Jello a very derogatory name.   I guess the jig is up.  Or the gig is up.  Or whatever that saying is that means you think you are fooling people, even when your kids accidentally know the words to every Katy Perry song, and you are #69 in line for the swim team sign ups.


Tastes awesome, though--if you can get past the image of eating raw, fatty meat.

Spreading holiday cheer and awkwardly terrorizing villagers

So, it was recently brought to my attention that I never blogged about our Christmas card; this was mostly because I had approximately 12 cards that were addressed and *almost* ready for the post office, except that in between the steps necessary to put the freaking stamp on the envelope, and drop it in a mailbox, I caught ADHD--all while holding out hope that I *might* actually be able to Jedi mind trick this last batch of Christmas cards into the local mail system.  Jedi mind trick FAIL.

When February rolled around, I became all self-conscious about it, which is 10-flavors-of-ridiculous, because we all know I am hoarding a 4-year-old ponytail and a crotch squirt bottle--so who am I REALLY fooling with this etiquette-schmetiquette anyway?

{Just kidding.  I am really fooling the type-A, prissy side of my schizophrenic personality.  Do you have one of those?  Feed her donuts and tell her they are fat free, she believes ANYTHING.}

So anyway.  I'm kind of proud of last year's card...even though we are at the half-way point to creating 2012's card.  I love it so much, that I am not willing to let it go by unnoticed, and I like to call this a shout out to the 10 of you who might think you are dead to me.  Rest assured, you are beloved and I can send you a pack of progesterone suppositories to prove it.  {I'm talking to you, Jenn Johnson, the Murphys, the Guthals, my Aunt Betty & Uncle Herbert...and 5-7 other people I can't quite recall off the top of my head.  One day, you shall receive a new pair of mesh birthing undies and THIS Christmas card, and you will understand it is only the purest gesture of ENDEARMENT.}

But without further ado.  The Denckhoff Christmas Card, 2011.  

***********

Merry Christmas, family and friends!


As is our style, we are publicly reflecting on 2011 and thanking God that (by some miracle) all four of our children have survived to enter all-day school--BOOM.  Lest we forget our humble beginnings, this seemed rather unlikely back in 2006, with a three-year-old, twins that were walking/threatening a head inury on an hourly basis, and a newborn that was likely to swallow a Barbie shoe.


Instead of fashioning diapers out of shopping bags, this year's challenge was to move out of our house, to being putting our time and money into things we are passionate about, and to stop pretending we are the kind of couple that will ever use a bread machine.  {Edited to note:  I just can't quit that bread machine.}  We are waiting to see exactly where this dream lands us, as we are STILL waiting for our house to sell--however, we have high hopes (and expectations), that 2012 will be the year where we reunite with our DVR, and regain the ability to pause live TV, once again...And yet, in the midst of moving and its chaos, we still managed a one-month vacation in Hawaii, where we *accidentally* cured Josh's eczema.  It's true that God works miracles everyday, perhaps not in the housing market, but through individual TVs & movie programming on a seven-hour-flight with four kids, AND the healing of flesh wounds.  We spent four weeks visiting family and playing on the beach and catching sea stars and NOT screaming because the salt water BURNS our skin--and it was magical.


Upon returning to St. Louis, Mike continued as puppet-master of Savoy Properties, Sara began a *lucrative* career (translation: volunteer position) as a novel writer, and the kids began their first year together in the same school.  The universe just has a way of working these things out, as the effort is used to take to juggle the daily carpool schedules of THREE different schools is now helpful--nay, VITAL--to surviving four tired children, a Flat Stanley project, and this year's method of torture, math homework.  We are so thankful for a school that our kids really love, for the option of all-day kindergarten, and the gift of awkward school photos to entertain friends and adorn our Christmas cards.


And, of course, we are ever so grateful for our friends and family who have inspired material for our blog and helped to make this an unforgettable year.  May you know the LOVE and JOY of Christ this season and throughout 2012!  Merry Christmas!


Love, 
Michael & Sara (approaching middle age), G (9), Big J (7), L (7) and Little J (5)

The blog equivalent of watching paint dry over dead gnats.

How hard can it be to paint a dresser?

Um, as hard as finding oil-based paint, which apparently causes your brain to mold, and hence, isn't made much anymore.  I learned this after inquiries at Home Depot and Lowes; and I bring this up because this is the kind of *difficulty* that has the tendency to derail me.  Because for 3 brief minutes in the parking lot of Home Depot, I was paralyzed by the thought of having to drive to multiple paint stores to find what I was looking for--and that friends, has the makings of a 24-month painting project, because I know me, and I will lose interest at stop #3.

Instead, I just decided to slum it and use latex.  I know this is a really THRILLING development, but I am trying to tell you that I got my first coat on this afternoon, and at this pace, I will have a new dresser by the end of the week, which defies all laws of the space/time continuum.   Nothing extraordinary to report, except that this project seemed to attract a swarm of gnats, but I just painted right over them.

And.

In the cruelest twist of fate EVER, I happened to notice that Sam's Club still had enormous bags of Cadbury mini eggs on SALE, for 50% off this week.  My diet will officially commence, when I finish all 36 ounces, in approximately three days.

That's all I got tonight, friends--I'm BEYOND tired, and gearing up for Big J's eye doctor appointment tomorrow, which is ALWAYS a nightmare (link HERE for our last visit).  Wish us luck, and a less than 2.5 hour visit, will you?

My last twelve years for sale, before it kills me in a massive sink hole.

Garage Sale:  Saturday, April 28th

8:00 a.m. until all this shit is gone and I no longer fear dying in an avalanche of gently used baby clothes.

If you live in St. Louis, have kids younger than the age of 5, OR you simply care about my general well-being then please come.  I am the most AWESOME charity in the history of bat-shit crazy, as a $2 dollar donation will send you home with a backpack shaped like a robot.  And you can feel like you have personally helped to save me from becoming a reality tv star.  


PLEASE come buy my stuff; I am literally selling my life for pennies.  I suppose I am learning that there just isn't a basement big enough for the old AND the new--and if this family is moving forward, then there is just no room for an entire Baby Gap store, circa 2005.  Apparently, my children are more than the seersucker polo rompers I am *trying* to remember them by.  And also, toddlerhood wasn't anywhere near as messy as I remember it (when I was power washing yogurt off the ceiling), because this stuff looks GOOD, y'all.  Think flat-front Gap shorts before skulls and crossbones were popular.


I had grand dreams of going through all of the boxes in our basement, sorting and pricing everything, photographing it, and creating a balloon arch that could draw crowds for MILES.  Twelve boxes in, I realized that method would be VERY SIMILAR to a sitcom, in which the main characters are lost in the woods and hiking the same trail over, and over, and over...


"Look Mike!  Another Pyrex Dish!  And how many Pottery Barn crib sets do we have (correct answer:  TWO identical sets)?  Wait a minute...."


So new plan.


Gather some stuff.  Throw it on the lawn at 7:59 a.m. on Saturday.  Maybe we'll serve vodka.  Ponytail NOT for sale.


Stuff I am selling:


Baby and Kids clothes--most of it name brand and from the Gap, Gymboree, Polo, Crewcuts, Carters.  If it's from Target or Walmart it's CUTE and not neon green with an image of Sponge Bob.  Tons of this shit is new with tags, which proves that I have a PROBLEM.  Also, lots of winter snow bibs, boots and jackets (including a GREAT pink one from Lands End, I think in a 3t).  


Pictured below:  1/1,000th of what we own in children's clothing.

{Why yes, that is a red, white and blue bathing suit for a 6-12 month old; it was one of THREE bathing suits G owned in her first summer, before I realized that taking a baby to the pool is the OPPOSITE of relaxing.  By the time you pitch the baby tent (also selling one of those!), it's naptime.}


An entire Pottery Barn crib set--it's in a sheep theme, cream with yellow and green accents (gender neutral).  I have a bumper, probably some sheets, a matching blanket, even a large sheep/rattle thingy.  Also, I have a PB twin scalloped bed skirt--it's white, with pink embroidered stitching lining the scallops.  Would match any little girl's room that includes pink.


A (practically) new pack-n-play--purchased for the FOURTH child, before we realized that was unnecessary, and he would mostly nap in the dog kennel.  I think we used it 10 times.  It has the upper bassinet attachment and a mobile?  But honestly, I could never fit that stuff back in the pack-n-play condom (case), so it's all just kind of neatly jumbled on top.


Johnny Jumper--this thing is a COLLECTIBLE, because I don't think they recommend hanging babies from doorways anymore.  But I will tell you that this thing single-handedly saved my LIFE with three young kids, and they all walk (mostly) fine.  You know how we always talk about how our parents chained smoked while they were pregnant with us and we turned out (mostly) fine?  Yeah, this is our kid's version of that, and it is a freaking hanging swing (we are going to raise a generation of hypochondriacs, mark my words).  


TWO white cribs.  And I am still keeping one.  That's right, I have THREE cribs in my possession.


Kids & Baby toys--all the stuff I have the pieces to, and we've outgrown.  Lacing beads, and working train puzzle, a big bag of Mega Blocks (in the actual, zippered bag they came in), board games, puzzles and lots of other good stuff I just can't remember right now.  Oh!  Barbies (probably 15 of them)--never played with, only stripped naked.  Most of them are *indecent*--sorry, I sucked their clothes up in the vacuum over the years.


Some women's clothes--mostly the stuff I bought without trying it on at the Banana Republic outlet, only to realize I am NOT a size M in the chest-area.


A petitcoat for a wedding dress or pre-revolutionary war type get-up.  Worn once.


Rails for a twin-sized bed (when transitioning out of a crib).


A solid baby gate with foot pedal.


A Baby Bjorn.


A boppy pillow.


Car seats, if you need a second one for Grandma (or a second car).


Two small televisions, with VCRs.  I know that seems obsolete, but we still own (and utilize) two more of these very tvs for watching kid show VCR tapes.  If you're going to tell me that NO ONE uses VCR tapes anymore, you haven't met my in laws, but also, I have a PLETHORA of those as well, so this is your LUCKY DAY.  (Edited to note:  My in-laws are not for sale, but my collection of VCR tapes are up for grabs.)


It was quickly apparent that I was never going to be able to photograph everything, and so I just decided to go for one, big, overarching picture:

If you can imagine it in there, it probably exists.  Dirty laundry pile (which the garage sale pile is TRYING to mate with) will be sold for the best offer.


See you Saturday!

Famous last words: How hard can it be to paint a dresser?

I'm firmly convinced that you can go your entire life without ever buying a dresser.  Dressers are like the stray cats of furniture--all over the freaking place.

Which explains, WHY, in 35 years, I've never bought one.  I did *borrow* one from my sorority house 14 years ago, but technically I think I paid for it with the blood I shed while being rush chair.  That dresser is the ugliest piece of furniture I own, but I will NEVER get rid of it.

To further prove my point, we were gifted with new dressers (TWO!) this weekend--and I have big plans to paint them that fun orange color.  You can shut your trap if you hate orange, I'm doing it.  Until they have been painted, they are to remain in our garage, which means that we are a quarter?  half? of the way to furnishing the garage, OR-- I'm actually going to get something done this week.

Coincidentally, I am also planning a garage sale for this coming weekend.  Screw this plan I had to organize and arrange everything--that's impossible.  I'm literally gonna throw it on the lawn, hang some buntings (wink!) and take donations.

It's shaping up to be a manic week...that's good news for YOU, blogworld.

I am on both sides of this fence, and my sarcasm knows no bounds.

Six weeks till bathing suit season.  Six weeks till bathing suit season.  Six weeks till bathing suit season. 


{And repeat}.  


You know, I'm not expecting to look like the cover of Sports Illustrated, or anything--but I feel that I could use the reminder to LAY OFF the kids jelly beans.  Really, this could be a life mantra, but I generally don't care until I'm about to parade around in the equivalent of my underwear, and hence, live the summer months under a cloud of self-loathing that can be traced back to Christmas cookies in 1995.  


So maybe you guessed, but I'm back on the *juice*--at least for one meal a day (breakfast).  Today's choice was spinach/collard greens/cucumber/pineapple/apple/lemon.  And for the record, an orange is  necessary to disguise the green taste.  I thought I could substitute with enough pineapple.  I was WRONG.  


Eating healthy is A LOT of work, yo.  Something always needs to be washed, or sliced, or baked for 45 minutes, or put through a 27-step process to make it taste less...healthy.  Cleaning the juicer alone is a 20 minute ordeal.  I've committed to cutting out bread and pasta, but GEEZ, making a side of broccoli takes WAY more energy than opening a bag of chips.  Thankfully, last night we had The Pioneer Woman's spinach and mushroom quesadillas (not what I would consider "good" for you, but I had half a serving size), and I made WAY too many mushrooms, which were then added to my Egg Beater omelet for lunch today.  OH YUM.  But WOW, what a time suck.  Secret to losing weight?  Clearing every other obligation off your schedule, including CHILDREN.   


Also, the weather has been GOR-geous here, and so I've been out on a run everyday this week (unheard of).  I'm telling you this, and illustrating with pictures, because I fear that some of you got the wrong message last night.  That *maybe* laughing at my mess somehow makes the women who take the time to put themselves together and look nice (even on Saturday mornings!  GAH!), are somehow fake, or shallow--and that they inadvertently make others feel terrible about themselves.  For the record, if we feel inferior or put down next to those women, most times I have found that the problem is in our OWN heads.  To say that someone who takes pride in something, and is committed to running a marathon, or going on a juice fast to lose some lbs., or showering daily, or WHATEVER--makes you feel like a schmuck, is what I call the ultimate bitch-slap, and I see women do it ALL. THE. TIME.  We need to let women feel proud of who they are, and not give them the emotional baggage of carrying your (mine, our) self esteem too.  


The point of yesterday's story was ALWAYS meant to be about laughing at how I approach things.  Which is very often as a complete mess dribbled in taco sauce.  But sometimes it's in full make-up at school pick-up on a Wednesday.  Well, I'd love for us all to laugh about it--this whole business of being a woman, living some kind of life that matters, making a difference by wiping asses (literally).  It's FUNNY because it's true, friends.   And it's the SAME.  We struggle to get stuff done, to look nice, to work efficiently, to fit in, to be responsible, to raise good kids, to spend money WISELY, to make money stretch, to clean the house, to clean the bathroom of young boys.  We want more, we're rarely content.  Sometimes, we buy jeans with rhinestones, sometimes we run, sometimes we just decide to screw it and take a nap.  We're tired and we're hungry and mostly we don't understand HOW stomach skin can look like THIS?  We want jelly beans, when we should have carrot sticks.  Sometimes we eat the freaking carrot sticks and we lose some weight--and then in a casual conversation, a friend will mention how they would LOVE to get in shape, but they just don't have that kind of time, because they have a life (implied: a life that is harder, and 100xs more work than YOURS).  And somehow, you walk away from this great thing you just did feeling a little less...great.  And you eat jellybeans to prove your human.  


And repeat.


So that *theoretical* group of people wearing cute workout clothes to the swim team sign-ups?  I'm one of them too.  I'm often too lazy to wear a bra to school drop-off; but I also have the capacity to run 6 days a week, and train for half marathons, too.  I can wear ice cream stains as proudly as a (fake) diamond necklace--and I am completely comfortable, in either capacity.  And for as much as I sympathize and relate with every woman who really STRUGGLES to keep it together on a daily basis--I also hope to be a champion for those who are doing it well.  Because that's our story too, right?  We might suck at patience with young readers, or remembering to give our kids their antibiotics for 10 days straight--but sometimes, we win those battles too.  Or we knock it out of the freaking park with that OHMYGOD perfect monogram on the pink dress for our 3-year-old, who will take your breath away every time you see her in it.   


My point being:  I am NEVER about choosing sides.  We're fighting the SAME fight here girls.  And I think we all agree that the enemy is WHOEVER KEEPS MAKING THOSE SLUTTY HALLOWEEN COSTUMES for young girls. 


Now.  Go fight THAT worthy battle.

And today's photo is...the dining room.  Not too shabby, with our token Lego pieces on the table (which are, coincidentally, on/under every piece of furniture we own).  The theme of the new house, if you haven't guessed already is WINDOWS.  Lots and lots and LOTS of light everywhere.  Which is one of the things I love most about this place.  Also, there's that white cabinet, and my general inability to decide what should be displayed on it.  For the record, open shelving is my downfall.

Where I tell you that I showed up snotty and bra-less to the judging for Mom of the Year.

{Photo has nothing to do with today's post; I'm simply making good on my promise to show you a part of the house everyday...I figured I'd start with the view from the front door.  If it looks clean, it's simply because there is no furniture in this room.}

Here's the thing with women:  we spend a great deal of time and energy conforming to/crying about/ fighting against this perceived pecking order of popularity.  It starts when we learn to tie our shoes, and it ends when we die, probably--or when we go senile and it becomes okay to carry our underwear as our handbag (that's a social norm rule changer).  But let's be real--there probably exists another set of rules in this case, and it has to do with the size and stretch of the undies in question.

When you have children, however, their is a shift in philosophy--and in the single blink of an eye, no one cares how white your teeth are, because the woman whose baby poops the EXACT shade of mustard yellow WINS.  This, of course, means that she breast feeds; that she avoids caffeine and spicy food, and anything green, and all legumes, and salt, and high fructose corn syrup and red food dye.  Of course, this is the chic who is 12 pounds below her pre-pregnancy weight, seven minutes after birth, who wore a freaking bikini home from the hospital.

Her baby slept through the night in utero, and LOVES pureed broccoli more than sweetened applesauce (she'll also tell you that sugar will make your kid a racist)!  Did you think you were in the running for Queen of the Entire Universe, because your baby ate the pureed broccoli that Gerber makes in the glass jar?  Sorry Charlie, this has to be organic broccoli, grown in your own, personal vegetable beds that were watered and SUNG TO hourly.

Her kid requested SALMON for her first birthday!  Yeah, lots of babies will eat all kinds of crazy shit, but this kid SPECIFICALLY asked for it in sign language, and can already play the piano via the Suzuki method.  The reigning Mother of Our Entire Generation will tell you this is because she didn't have an epideral, and ate her placenta (raw), directly after birth.  

As a woman and (also) a mother, I have found that we are either trying to set the bar, or running like a fat kid to keep up with it.  The stupid, imaginary bar.  I've been on both sides of it actually; so freaking insecure that I defended my choice to feed my baby yogurt at 9 months to the death; and hand sewing outfits and ruffle aprons on Christmas Eve to live up to those bitches on Pinterest.  Either way, it's exhausting--and mostly I think this idea of an order by which we stack up is RIDICULOUS.

UNTIL.

I went and signed G up for her summer swim team.  

Now.  Last year was our first year on this particular team, and as a "newbie" you sign up after all returning members.  Who freaking cares, right?  Yeah, that attitude will get you a shiv to the kidney--otherwise known as working the bull pen during swim meets.  Because ALL THE PANIC stems from the jobs you must volunteer to help with during swim meets.  

But this year?  We are in.  We are swim team VETERANS.  We aren't new to this rodeo--which simply means we are given the earliest opportunity to register and sign up for swim meet jobs.  We were sent information about the date, and told that doors open at 8 a.m., sign-ups begin at 8:30.

Now.  We live ONE BLOCK from the community center where registration is being held; and so my plan was to wake up at 7:45, press snooze, roll out of bed, blow my nose a few hundred times, throw a sweatshirt over my pajamas, jump in the car and claim one of the first 10 spots in line.  It's SATURDAY for goodness sake, and so this feels like a bit of a commitment, but whatever.  It's for the kids right?  Or at least for the opportunity NOT to have to wrangle the kids in the bull pen at swim meets on a 115 degree evening.  And it all went down EXACTLY like that, except that when I walked into the community center at 8:10, I arrived to a gym of bleachers already FULL of parents.

I was given the number 69 (I can't make this stuff up).  Which means that 68 other women outrank me as Mother of the Year, by a quantifiable number system; and if you would like a further break down of statistics, well then here you go:

At least three fourths of them were wearing make-up.

Half were wearing designer jeans; at least one fourth were embellished with some kind of rhinestone.

All but (maybe) 3 had brushed their teeth.

None were wearing pants made out of flannel.

One third were sipping coffee from Starbucks (which means that after showering, they had time to make a coffee run).

Of the half not wearing designer jeans, 97% were wearing workout apparel, which signifies that they had ALREADY gotten a work out in, or were planning some sort of physical activity.  They were NOT planning to make 3 meals out of their kid's Easter candy.

Based on the above criteria, I can only assume that no one else went bra-less.  Nor were they blowing snot into the napkins from the table of complimentary breakfast foods.

As it turns out, if you want to find yourself in the running for the top 10 moms who have actually got their act together, you need to arrive at sign ups BEFORE 7:15.  Showering, or completing a long run for the marathon you're training for is optional, but highly encouraged.  

{Disclaimer:  G has been part of a swim team for years, but prior to last year, we belonged to a country club; under those circumstances, this post does not apply--because country clubbers don't stand in line.  For anything.  You pay lots of money for people to read your mind and sign you up for shit accordingly.  You are simply required to wear an evening gown to swim meets while sipping champagne from the bar at swim meets.}

If you have children of age to participate in a swim team of this nature, then you generally acknowledge that raising children is kind of a crap shoot.   You've bought into the homemade baby food craze, or the toddler yoga, or the Spanish lessons for your 2-year-old--and your kid has STILL eaten playdoh at your playgroup, or gone through a phase where they stripped naked in public.   You sort of realize that kids are kids, you do what you can, you let go of what will kill you, and you learn that teaching first graders to read will suck 95% of the life right out of you--so you make that 5% count.  It's almost impossible to control anything, including the amount of television your kid watches; because while mothers of infants and toddlers believe that tv will rot the brain, mothers of older kids realize that sometimes they just need a freaking break.  Or WE need a freaking break from tuba lessons or science projects (pick your poison) and no one is gonna DIE or lower their SAT score by 1,000 points because of it.  

Except that every once in a while, a situation comes along in which we see the opportunity for world domination.  There is no element of surprise, no chance that a tantrum could derail us, or a bout of the flu could stop us; no subjective criteria, no amount of glitter or mod podge that crowns a winner.  Just a single freaking number that determines the pecking order.  

And on that scale, I rank 69th.  

Honestly, next year, I think I'll show up at 10:00 a.m., claim my spot in the bull pen and make some sort of drinking game out of it.  

On the inside.

The view from my yoga mat this morning.  In case you were wondering, I wasn't doing yoga, but a series of ab and ass exercises I have mentally hoarded over the years; they aren't working, but I keep at it, because I am an expert at beating my proverbial head against a wall and then eating lots of tacos for dinner.


Ramona, thanks for reminding me that I owe you pictures--sometimes I forget those details, and then I look through a veil of sweat during a particularly grueling set of "fire hydrants" and I realize that this place is looking pretty good.  Now.  We have designated WHOLE rooms as storage closets, but if you are willing to overlook that issue, and the entire basement, then I think we can all agree that I have my sh#! together.  


If I could pinpoint the single largest issue that I face with purging and organizing--it's CLOTHING.  For the love of all things holy, there is clothing everywhere.  To the point that I have to be strategic with the timing of my laundry, because closets and dressers CAN'T CONTAIN IT.  The kids' stuff is the WORST, because it's hard to weed through all the great stuff I bought at the Gap on clearance back in 2006 (back when clearance MEANT something).  Seriously retailers?  Don't insult my intelligence by marking something down by $1.99 and calling it clearance--I once bought a leather jacket for like $7, so I know better.  But anyway.  Blue halter top with starfish pattern and a babydoll waist?  Still relevant in 2012 and L NEVER grows, so we just keep accumulating this stuff that is so small, it's impossible to fold and appear clean and organized.  


But all things considered, we are doing pretty good.  I think we have properly identified our *necessities*, and made them readily accessible; it's what to do with five cases of mason jars, or entire BINS worth of pictures from the pre-digital era that perplex me.  I know that I have a 3.5-year date with a photo scanner looming on the horizon, but for now, I am just hoping that the iphone comes out with technology that simply reads my brain and translates it into still images.  Grandchildren, when I pull out boxes worth of photo albums of me in Cancun for Spring Break '96, act INTERESTED, because I'm preserving the history of rum runners for you.    


I'm thinking that maybe I'll share a piece of the house with you everyday--as it ACTUALLY looks.  If that means sparkling clean (insert ENORMOUS laughter), then so be it.  If that means dust bunnies with gigantic fangs?  Fair game.  One shot a day, of the house's character.  And please feel free to share your favorite tricks and voo-doo magic for organizing an entire life--and let's go with a theme of *cheap* and *easy*.  


See you tomorrow, friends.

Think hunger games with light sabers.

On Saturday, I armed 10 boys with light sabers and made a party theme out of pretending to beat the shit out of each other.  They should sell this as a package at Party City, because it was an enormous hit.


I'm a big proponent of birthday parties in kindergarten--the kids are all new to the idea of school, and I like to see how they function as a group, and what their personalities are.  Except that we have just moved schools, and so this was more like a modge podge of friends from our old school, mixed with a few friends from our new school, mixed with a cousin and a friend of the family that we've known since birth.  And also, this theory *probably* works better with girls, because the boys just scream and run wild, and so I learned that six-year-old boys are CRAZY, but  I guess it doesn't take a birthday party to know that.


But I just sort of decided not to freak out over this one.  No hand sewn table cloths depicting the universe (to scale, of course).  No home baked goodie bags.  No Star Wars-themed t-shirts made with freezer paper stencils.  Nothing hanging from the ceiling, nothing draped with tulle and illuminated with Christmas lights.  I call this real growth--the ability to know and recognize that if I spend any more money at Hobby Lobby, or stash another box of party theme items in the basement, Mike will have himself an aneurysm.  


The weather here in suburbia has been INCREDIBLE lately.  And as we live one block from a great park, my idea was to have the kids over here, to play at the park some, to play at our house some, and to eat cake at some point.  I may not be an expert at six-year-old boys, but I do know that boredom = anarchy, and so I had always planned the day with lots of variation.  Variety is like an organic ADHD drug, fyi.  I had visions of playing soccer with the boys, and being the COOLEST MOM EVER, who stole the ball away from the little tykes, only to *accidentally* trip and miss the goal at the last moment.  Is this how you win the hearts of six-year-old boys?  I don't know, because I am practically a troll without the power to amaze you with shrinky dinks or tye dye.


Except that the universe is a bitch--and just so we're clear, I'm talking about that karma mumbo-jumbo, and not the God of the universe (I am a Christian under the best of circumstances, and a pagan in regard to weather and sporting events).  And the day before Little J's party it rained buckets, only to stop 20 minutes before the festivities began.   At that point, the grass would have been too wet for my fake soccer dive, the sandbox would have been a nightmare, and going outdoors was out of the question--and yet it was warm and sunny enough to be perfect otherwise.  Yep, that universe is a big, fat bitch.


Around Friday at noon, I started to think about *planning* something for the six-year-old boys who were clearly going to eat the plaster walls, if I didn't *distract* them.  Pinterest, you were NO help, as creating my own "Death Star Pinata" was out of the question, from a time (and mental capability) standpoint.  I did transform 10 light sabers out of pool noodles, but this is more like giving weapons to the restless natives, than creating an activity that takes their focus away from killing our hamsters.  I might have to start a new board entitled "Things that simulate a death cage match, for boys".  Lawn darts will be included, for sure.

Mike made it clear that there were to be NO craft activities at the party, which blows, because making storm troopers out of recycled materials is like the ONLY way I know how to impress people.  Instead, I fixated upon creating "Yoda Soda" (not my recipe)--which is rather simple, but COMPLEX and theological, if you decide to substitute ice cream for sherbet.  The switcharoo went off without a hitch, the planet didn't implode, the ice cream didn't create a nuclear reaction and it was...FINE.  However, we are all now aware that in the absence of decoupage, or a paper lantern sky-scape, or fabric buntings strewn throughout the house--well, I will overthink a soda/ice cream mixture, because crazy needs an outlet, people.

Also.  I researched a few party games to keep this party moving; for starters, I cut up the letters to the word "BIRTHDAY", folded them and shoved them into 50 party balloons (that I then proceeded to inflate myself.  Yay, ME!).  We split the kids into two teams, and they had to pop the balloons and spell birthday to win.  Great fun, with all of their lord-of-the-flies energy channeled to the balloons--BRILLIANT.  


Between party games, the boys grabbed their pool-noodle-light-sabers and beat the crap out of each other.  No one fell down the stairs during a heated battle for the fate of the universe, as I envisioned when I saw 10 boys pummeling each other to the death.


Party Game #2, was heavily debated by Mike and I--with Mike being a proponent of just letting them smack the shit out of each other until just one party goer survived, and was thus crowned the Ultimate Birthday Fighting Champion.  I held firm, though!  And managed to sit all 10 boys down for an EXCITING game of "Who can build the tallest structure out of mini marshmallows and toothpicks".  Contrary to the testosterone that tells you something/someone has to bleed out for it to be fun, the boys actually got into this--because I f--ing rock at making education FUN.  I know what you're thinking, and YES, it is entirely possible that I am a Jedi (which basically means that I stocked the prize box with silly string).


There was cake, and YODA SODA and more flogging with the pool noodles; and then there was our final game...a Jedi scavenger hunt,which the boys all played together.  It was all easy stuff, hidden in beds, or on our porch swing, or written in invisible marker on our toilet seat and illuminated by a black light.  Suck it universe, and plans for a soccer game, and having to be as athletic as a six-year-old--I WIN this one.  Ultimately, the hunt led them to a box full of Fun Dip guarded by a plush Darth Vader, which means that I sent them home to have a manic sugar episode, and armed them with a weapon constructed of foam (which coincidentally, could probably topple a television with enough effort).  


I freaking killed it.  And by that, I mean, I simulated war without any actual fatalities or blood stains.

Happy birthday to the bear.

Happy 6th Birthday to Little J.  Our Bear.  One of the best surprises I have received in my entire life, despite the fact that he came with many milk spills and late nights applying steroid cream to eczema and HUGE tonsils and a fiery temper (at times) to match his red hair.  I would do it all over again, for this kid, who announced his impending arrival, TWO MONTHS after the twins came home from the NICU.


I know I have been lame sauce lately, but this weekend I hosted 10, six-year-old boys for Little J's birthday party, and my preparations consisted of fixating on how, exactly, to make Yoda Soda.  In case you're wondering, it requires two ingredients (sherbet & 7-up), but we decided to *improvise* by using ice cream instead of sherbet, and this caused me GREAT anxiety and abnormal fear that the dairy would somehow curdle or turn to poison.  I think we can all agree that this was a psychotic episode, disguised as a Pinterest project.  But more on that later.  


Tonight I am going to bed EXHAUSTED--but we have spent a weekend surrounded by amazing friends and family; Little J's birthday party yesterday, followed by dinner with new friends who feel like friends we've known our entire lives; followed by Little J's ACTUAL birthday, church, lunch with friends, which turned into a zombie bounce house party (when they crumbled sidewalk chalk in the bounce house and marinated in it for a couple of hours), which led to being washed with a garden hose, which led to a 10-kid hot tub party, which then led to everyone coming back to our house for a pizza dinner.  I can't make this stuff up.  I planned to take a nap this afternoon, while Little J was brainwashed by his favorite activity (the Wii); but instead we spontaneously decided to hang out with our best friends for eight hours (and two meals) straight.  And we LOVED every minute of it.


Happy Birthday, Little J!  You are one amazing little boy--just the right combination of energy and sweetness.  You LOVE your siblings, and you particularly LOVE to bug your sister's friends, which means TROUBLE in the high school years.  Because no one can resist you, kid.  

Brain dump.

Helloooooooo, friends.  How you doin?  What do you want to talk about tonight, because I got NOTHIN'.


That's not true, I got somethin'--and it's that I started a women's small group/bible study, and we had our first official meeting tonight.  I sort of hate to announce that publicly, because I have NO BUSINESS leading a bible study.  But so be it, I've been wrestling with this idea for a while, and I suppose that's what the holy spirit feels like--something I can't ignore forever.  And so here we are, me trying to read and make sense of the entire bible in 12 hours, and failing at that miserably.  


Also, I am hosting 10, 6-year-old boys here for Little J's birthday on Saturday--and aside from purchasing plates in a Star Wars theme, I've got nothing.  No definite plans (besides eating cake) and intentions to make light sabers out of pool noodles.  This has all the makings of a meltdown, sometime around 2 p.m tomorrow--but for now, I am going with the theory that I am EASY!  Casual!  It's for the kids!  Until it pours buckets on Saturday afternoon, and our water balloon toss is out of the question.


I've been feeling very...tired, lately.  I blame it on allergies, and their life-sucking drugs--and right about now, four weeks into the season, I begin to believe that it may NEVER get better.  And so I pull myself out of my stupor, and stop taking naps at 5 p.m., and force myself to get after my first (and very slooooow) run in weeks.  My sprained toe seems to be mostly healed--ALLELUJIAH!--considering that 9 days ago, I thought every bone in my foot was broken.  I *might* have a tendency to get ahead of myself.


Also--as it turns out, it looks like Mike and I will be heading back to Hawaii this summer, for a week--for the wedding of our most loyal babysitter, turned friend, who happens to live there now.  It's quite a surprise, being able to head home for TWO YEARS straight.  It's sort of a miracle that this worked out, and I'm so excited, but I'm gonna need to fight the urge to put all kinds of expectations on this.  Just be a pal tell me to breathe, and freaking go to Hawaii.


Bathing suit season is in six weeks.  {Insert expletive}.


I am OBSESSED with One Direction.  Anyone else?  I would pay money to know that I am not the only 35-year-old who loves them, and that song they are starting to play on the radio.  I freaking love that song.  ANYONE?  It's like the New Kids on the Block, reincarnated.  


Last thing--I am starting to freak out over what will happen AFTER I watch every single episode of "How I Met Your Mother" on Netflix.  This not having cable thing is not so bad, until I start to have anxiety attacks over what will happen when I work my way through entire series.  


And that, friends, is my life on allergy meds.  Meh.  Blah.  Please pray that I am divinely inspired by sarcasm, or the hamsters make pancakes, or I meet Jon Bon Jovi, because I am starting to bore myself.  

Now I am convinced they could ACTUALLY rip my face off.

Blogworld, we have a problem.


And it is that our hamsters have been fighting lately, and one of them is missing her EARS.


I'm dead serious, and once you stop your incessant laughter, I want you to think about the gravity of this situation, in that I'm pretty sure they are cage fighting to the death, and I am either going to let this happen, or I will be purchasing ANOTHER hamster cage to appease hormonal rodents.


I mean, this is like the conundrum of life; spend $20 on a cage to settle the arguing of HAMSTERS, or buy two v-neck tees from Target.  FYI, I compare all unexpected money spent to what it could by me at TARGET--this is, sadly, how I measure value. 


We have robo-hamsters, which are the size of small field mice; and so when G said that one's ears were missing, I kind of just figured that she couldn't SEE it.  And then I checked it out, and remembered that *sometimes* kids know what they are talking about--because I appeared to be looking at a hamster brain, via a small-ish hole of the top of it's head.  I feel like this is going to turn into some kind of nasty infection, but Mike assures me that hamsters can survive an ear amputation.  


I'm not sure how he KNOWS this, exactly--but he came at me with logic and theory, and asked if I would die without my ears?  And the answer is that I just don't know, because people die over dumb things like hiccups and bug bites ALL THE TIME, and open head wounds just seem worse (ask House).


Since the day we got these things, they have been rather hard to tell apart; we named them Pinky and The Brain, and used their names interchangeably, but this most recent turn of events makes it quite EASY to distinguish them.  Pinky, is obviously the hamster that let The Brain gnaw her ears off.


And I have this terrible guilt that this is all my fault, because a few weeks ago, the hammies were MANIC.  Running all the time, climbing the cage, fighting and squeaking.  We couldn't figure out who had fed them speed, and then after TWO DAYS, Mike noticed they had no food.  When was the last time you fed them anything other than amphetamines, he asked?


Crap, I couldn't remember.  But in my defense, these things load all their kibbles into their fat mouths/heads/bodies and then go and hoard it under their wood chips.  Touche, hammies--I INVENTED that move.  This is NOT MY FIRST TIME to the hamster rodeo, as I have cleaned their cage on many occasions, and dumped what appeared to be entire bags worth of hamster food into the trash.   Food that is the equivalent of a pair of Target sunglasses, if you are keeping track.


But apparently, hamsters need FOOD (not sunglasses, because HOW would Pinky wear them without EARS???), and as soon as we filled their tiny bowl up, they stopped trying to kill each other, but OBVIOUSLY not before it flipped the "Apocolypse Now" switch in their little brains. 


Which is precisely how we find ourselves down two hamster ears.  I mean, that's WEIRD, right?  

A hamster riddle, because I have NOTHING better to do.

It took me 15 minutes to collect the evidence; which is very telling of my time and priorities today.

Blogworld, riddle me this...can you tell me what is WRONG with the hammies??

My sins are nailed to the cross and I bear them no more--or at least until the next time I freak out about something absurd.

I think I won.  


At making the damn cutest Easter bird's nest cookies, wrapped in a small celophane bag with a personalized tag.  Freaking dominated the seasonal baking--at least that's what my husband told me, when prodded, for 12 hours straight.  And certainly there is a crown awaiting me in heaven, for managing to make the death and resurrection of a savior *cute* and yarn-tied.


But then I also ate the 1.5 bags of leftover Cadbury mini eggs (best. candy. eva.), and so I get the distinct impression that I LOST, even after factoring in the bird's nests, AND the way I pulled the cellophane wrapping taut (so as to hold the chocolate eggs in place).  Did I mention the coordinated Easter outfits that were prepared?  Purchased on SALE, mind you, which is like an extra point on the A.P. exam for making it look like you have your mommy-sh#! together.  Honestly, I almost orgasmed right there in The Children's Place, when the flat-front, non-cargo, gray twill shorts were $12; because NO ONE makes traditional, preppy shorts anymore without some kind of logo/skull & crossbone theme, and certainly not for a reasonable, sale price.  Easter miracle at the West County Mall--BOOM.


I wish life was judged, constantly, by one's ability to find and purchase holiday outfits, AND make bird's nest cookies--coupled with a knowledge of packaging and embellishments.  I would f-ing KILL IT, if life was about wrapping things in cellophane.


This weekend, we went to an annual Easter Egg hunt, which is always AWESOME--except for the part where I watched my 9-year-old be kind of ignored and treated like a third wheel for a good part of the afternoon.  It didn't seem to bother her one bit, but it made me crazy to watch her be "tolerated" and continually have to insert herself without reciprocation.  I HATE girl drama.  I HATE to watch my daughter compete for a friend's attention.  I HATE that her idea of friendships are shaped (in some part), by immaturity, amongst girls who don't even REALIZE that they are being exclusive and a bit clique-y.  I HATE that G has done this to others, unintentionally (and also out of the exact same immaturity), because she doesn't know how to include two friends who don't know each other very well.  I HATE that she didn't just walk away from it all, and do her own thing, or play with her sister, or sit with me so that I could tell her how beautiful and sweet and loyal she is.  I HATE that she will grow up thinking that these qualities are dependent upon someone else's ability to notice them in her.  I HATE that she doesn't know that her life will be so much fuller and richer, if she isn't trying to prove that she is amazing by hand-tying the yarn on 35 birds nest cookies.  


But also, I HATE, that my idea of girls and friendships is that this is going nowhere good, and that it's irredeemable--when G sees a good friend, worth chasing.  She doesn't believe that love ISN'T unconditional (yet).  I see her walking into heart-break, and she sees only goodness that will come back around, the next time that friend wants her attention and companionship, when she isn't distracted by someone she likes better at the moment.  I hate that G is content with the moments that her friends give her; and I am so very bitter over the ones they do not.  


I hate that there is a difference between the ways we see and hope for the world.  


And on Easter, I am just really thankful that ALL of my baggage is nailed to the cross.  Everything that is broken, or terrible, or insecure, or misunderstood.  Every bit of girl drama, and image, and the parts of me that think I am really impressing people with the extra effort it takes to hand-craft a nest out of candy melts and chow mein noodles.  Do you know that Jesus died on a cross for everything ridiculous, that I turn into the center of my universe?  For every act of murder, or warfare, or thievery--there is a woman who brings sin into the world with the simple choice to eat an apple.  Or hand-addresses treats to WIN the (imaginary) Easter Housewife Olympics.  I am thankful that he redeems all of it--the tears over deformed cake pops, and the attention to absurb details, and the over-spending at Hobby Lobby, and the expectations I have for friendships, and the part of me that still *performs* for others, and the hurt I want to spare my kids, and the bad lessons they will learn, and the terrible examples they will inevitably model for others.  


All of it, nailed to the cross.  And I bear it no more.  


Or at least for a few hours on Easter, until I freak out about how one of the boys is wearing his OLD CROCS to dinner (GASP!), or a kid asks (repeatedly) to watch TV and it makes my eye twitch.  


And then I remember it again.  All of it.  On the cross.


Repeat for a lifetime--or until I meet Jesus face to face, and he personally ushers me into the pearly gates of heaven's Target.

 

My flip flops tried to kill me, and I wasn't smart enough to figure it out.

There is a downside to being healthy; I have encountered it every time I decide to go to the doctor for something that seems painfully out of the ordinary (and probably deadly), only to be told it's a muscle spasm, or in today's case, a sprained toe joint.


Son of a bitch, I didn't just pay $75 for a doctor's exam and x-rays, only to be told I sprained my toe doing ABSOLUTELY NOTHING.  I paid $75 for some kind of broken bone, a large cast or boot and a crap ton of sympathy over something that is medically tangible.  Sort of like the time I did a handstand when I was 10, and landed in what can only be described as a "jumble of arms"--I complained a bit, but the real giveaway was the fact that I wept through the night and didn't sleep a wink, which led my parents to take me to the doctor, who referred us for x-rays that ultimately revealed it was broken so bad that I needed surgery to fix it.  


That's generally what I'm looking for when I go to the doctor (which is never)--a diagnosis of how brave and strong I have been in the face of something terrible, but not life-threatening.  


Instead, my fascination with House and other such fictional medical dramas lead me to believe that strange pain is the sign of a rare metabolic disorder.  Like that time, about two years ago, when I *thought* I was having a heart attack--or at the very least, that there was some kind of tumor prohibiting my body's ability to pump blood.  THAT was the neck spasm diagnosis.  Um, no--I freaking know where my NECK is, thankyouverymuch.  As I haven't perished yet, I now realize that it wasn't life threatening--but when Oprah and Dr. Oz tell you to take chest pain seriously, YOU LISTEN, because they can kill you with their MINDS..but then you feel like a jack hole at Urgent Care, until you're doctor offers you a prescription of muscle relaxants for your "spasms" and then it's kind of worth it.  But geez, I would have felt like an even bigger jack hole if I had a massive heart attack in my sleep, after whining about chest pain for four days.  This is my general conundrum--how to look like less of an idiot on a daily basis.  


It's moments like these when I want to SHOUT from the rooftops that I actually have a high tolerance for pain!  That I was about to birth my triplets in the emergency room parking lot, before even realizing I was in labor!  That I broke my own finger teaching aerobics and didn't go to the doctor until it was swollen and purple!  That I cut back on my percocet a few days after my c-sections because I don't like feeling loopy!  I never call our pediatrician over a cold or a fever!  I'm not a wimp!  I just don't happen to get hurt or sick very often, and so I have very little frame of reference!  Don't blame me, blame genetics!!!


For a moment, during today's unnecessary visit, the doctor suggested that the issue could possibly be gout, which is like, EXACTLY the opposite of a cool diagnosis, and also NOT what I was paying to hear.  People who have gout, I am so sorry for ever making fun of your diagnosis (really, just the name that congers up images of the fat one might find in a large fish)--if this is what it looks and feels like, it totally sucks.  


Also, I hate to admit it, but this was all, apparently caused by a pair of flip-flops that I've been wearing while moving out of my in-laws basement.  The nurse who took my information actually asked me if I was "smart enough to know that I shouldn't be wearing those while moving".  Well, apparently not lady, because I'm paying you $75 to tell me I sprained my toe joint by wearing them, while simultaneously berating my intelligence.  I'm sorry, but don't people walk into urgent care ALL THE TIME with *things* shoved in *places*?   I want to be in the room NEXT TO the guy that *accidentally* sat on his kid's Star Wars action figure--you know for PERSPECTIVE on the common sense scale.  


Which is REALLY saying something, if you re-read that last sentence.  Officially, I am never going to Urgent Care ever again, because my pride and perceived intelligence just can't take it.