What Doesn't Kill You...

The other day while rocking out to a Kelly Clarkson song with The Hubs we realized that we take exception to the phrase "What doesn't kill you makes you stronger".

What a bunch of left-over processed meat.  (Bologna)

I had to use this picture because it's both disturbing and
something you can't stop looking at.... like my blog

Everyone has heard that phrase about a million times throughout their lives.  It's kind of the catchall when someone doesn't know what to say to you during trying times.  Or, in my family, it's the thing we say to each other as a joke during vent sessions. 

For example one of us will say something like, "Hey, I'm pretty sure that neither my house nor my body will survive raising four kids, this kind of stinks sometimes"  (this is my sister talking to me, 'cause I obviously never, ever, ever share that sentiment). To which the other will reply, "Well, you know what they say...." and then in unison "What doesn't kill you makes you stronger."  Then we laugh.

Yes, this is actually me.  Really.  I mean it. 
Underneath the fat, eye circles and frizzy hair, this is what I look like.

Why do we laugh?  In this rare instance it's not because we think we're hilarious (which is typically why we laugh), but it's because we know that it is the most ridiculous phrase ever.

Sure, we get what it means.  It means that if you can live through ___________, you'll come away stronger and more refined.  In a spiritual, emotional, eternal sense of things.

Phooey and Pa-Lease.

What about the physical, current sense of things?  Huh?  Did anyone stop to think about that?

So, Hubs and I decided to rephrase the phrase.  We now are fond of saying to each other, "Well, what doesn't kill you makes you suffer".... 'cause that's more accurate.

We're thinking of having t-shirts made. 

Also, I think it's much funnier than the wise old adage.  And it's kind of brutally honest.  Which brings me back to my original point - its funny.

Sometimes there is nothing that is going to make ____________ any better.  Sometimes __________ just plain stinks.  And when some helpful person comes along throwing the "stronger" business at you it just feels like someone taking sandpaper and rubbing it all over your raw emotions.  It's kind of like saying that what you're going through right now doesn't really matter in the long run.

But, it does.  Because we are made up of what we've gone through.

And if you're alive enough to not be dead (try to figure that out), then you're clearly suffering.  You're definitely not sipping an Italian cream soda and thinking about how much stronger you're getting.  Honestly.

So, feel free to join Hubs and I in the revolution.  Embrace the suffering you're enduring, quickly, before it's over and you accidentally find yourself having grown stronger.

Oh, yes, and order a t-shirt.

Disclaimer:  As with all things, this post should be taken very lightly.  Please don't call me to see if I'm okay.   However, do feel free to stop by with chocolate.

Blue Chair Musings

The other day while I was feeding Jasec in his room, Joel climbed into my lap and sat on my free leg.  Neither of us said anything.  It was quiet and peaceful as I rocked, the only sounds were Jasec sucking on his bottle and the rhythmic squeak of the chair.  Joel laid his head on my shoulder and snuggled in.

And I started thinking about all the hours I've spent sitting in that chair, rocking, listening to the squeaky hinges and sounds of children.

I can never sell this chair.

Actual Sweet Blue Chair

This chair carries with it the residue of many, many memories.

It started it's life as part of a set belonging to my grandparents in Arizona.  Those two chairs were handed down to my parents, and eventually split between my brother and I.

My brother survived his first cancer and chemo in his chair.

I survived my foray into motherhood.

We both went through trials and struggles that made us stronger while held in the lap of our blue chair. 

As for my chair, it's had it's fair share of formula spilled, drool wiped and probably even some wet diapers on it's fabric.  It's handled it all.

It's been witness to countless prayers and whispered dreams.  To dark star-filled nights when tears were shed and I wondered if I'd ever make it through, when I felt the full weight of my new role.

It's stood guardian through nights when both baby and I would fall asleep in it's arms.  It patiently held us as the hours ticked by.

It's heard hundreds of stories being read and been the stern sentinel when timeouts were needed.

And all through those endless days and nights of babyhood and toddlerdom it has refused to stop squeaking!

For a few years after Joel was born I would look at that chair as I walked by the room and wonder when we would no longer need a chair like that in a child's bedroom.

But, luckily, just when I thought we'd outgrown it, we were given another chance.  A surprise baby.  I just bet that chair was as happy as I was for the chance to have just one more...

One more season of rocking, rocking, rocking.

One more season of snuggles in the dark.

One more season of story time.

One more season of baby giggles and the soft sounds of feeding.

Some day you may come to my house and see that ratty old blue chair sitting there.  And you will wonder why on earth someone would keep such an out of date, out of style, squeaky and threadbare chair in their home.

And maybe, if you have children, all I'd have to say is that I rocked my babies in that chair.  And letting it go would be like accepting that my children will never need to be rocked again.  Accepting that my children can now read their own stories and are getting too big for my lap.

So, I leave it there.  In hopes that they'll stay little for a bit longer.  And we'll find ourselves on a quiet afternoon, nothing but that endless squeaking, making just one more memory.

Ironing out the Confusion

This was too funny not to share.

It's really no secret that I don't iron.  At all.  And, as opposed to other occasions, this time I'm not exaggerating.  In fact within in the past year I've been asked by my children, upon seeing an iron hanging next to the washer, just what that thing on the wall is.  Yep.  I do not iron.  At all.  Ever.

This past week I bought some new drape-y, curtain-y things for the living room.  I decided they needed to be ironed before hanging them up.  So, I got out the ironing board and set it up in the family room.  All the horrific squeaking drew in the crowd.  What was that unfamiliar noise? 

Next I brought out the iron and literally dusted it off.  Not just using that old cliche.  I really did have to dust off the iron before I could use it.

As the iron was heating up my children were silent in rapt attention.  What would come next?  What was Mom doing with that newfangled device?

I got the drapes and began to iron.  Here is how the conversation went from there.

Els:  So, I've seen one of those things somewhere before (pointing to the ironing board while pausing to think about why it looked so familiar to her).  Oh, I know, Grandma has one in her laundry room.
Me:  Yep.  You're right.
Cadie:  What would you call one of those things?  (She pats the ironing board).  It's kind of shaped like a surfboard.
Me:  It's called an ironing board.
Cadie:  Is that thing hot?  (Pointing to the iron)
Me:  Yes, very hot.  You can't touch it.
Cadie:  So, it's like an oven or something?
Me:  Yes.
Cadie: What do you do with it? Use it to straighten things and make those lines go out of it?
Me: Yes.  It's called ironing and lots of people do it.
Els:  Why don't you ever do it?
Me:  'Cause I hate ironing and I don't have to.

*Insert:  That's right.  After all those years of forced ironing, and guilt induced ironing, I have freed myself.  I don't have to.  Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!  It's SO GOOD to be the Mom sometimes.  I.  Do. Not.  Have. To. Iron!!!!

Back to the conversation....

Cadie:  Do other people iron?

Els... wait for it, wait for it....: Cadie, irons are for poor people who can't afford washing machines to make their clothes flat for them.

Oh, yeah.  I about died laughing.  So classic.  My daughter thinks that we don't need an iron because our washing machine just magically makes our clothing flat.  And, better yet, irons are for poor people.  Lovely.

When I got myself under control:

Me:  That's not true sweetheart.  Lots of people iron.  Grammy irons, Grandma irons...
Cadie:  Oh, so ironing is just for old people then?

Ha ha.  Will it never stop.  This is so fantastic.

Me:  No, it's not just for old people.  Auntie Em (my sister) irons things.  And I bet Aunt Dawnie (sis-in-law) probably irons her clothes.  (At this point I'm scrambling because I don't really know if anyone of my generation, other than my sister Emily, actually irons).  Lots of people who go to work and need to wear nice clothes will iron.

Pause for thoughtful processing of all the information.

Els:  So, you just don't iron 'cause you don't like to?

Me:  Yep.  That's right.  I just don't like to.  But, it's really something you should know how to do.  So, don't worry, someday I'll teach you how to hate ironing too.

Hairy Ramblings

The other day my brother told me he's starting to lose his hair from the chemo.

Not His Head

While I want to feel bad for him, I'm mostly jealous.

In all fairness there are some other nasty side affects of chemo that he's dealing with, but I can't say that I'd be too bummed about hair loss. 

No 15 minutes in the shower working shampoo and conditioner through this massive hairy beast on my head.

No shaving and cutting and deodorant stings.

No tweezing.

No mascara.

A little over 6 years ago when I was pregnant with Cadie Lu I had some random allergic reaction to some eye drops (yep, pretty sure I got pink eye, because I live with little petrie dishes).  It made all my eyelashes fall out.  At first I was a little embarrassed to be going around with no make-up on.  But I got over it pretty quickly.  It takes 6-8 weeks for eyelashes to grow back and those were the most carefree days of my life since begging my mom to let me wear mascara.

*Note:  Ironic that we beg for something that will then make us it's slave for the next 70 years.

It was lovely to not have to worry about make-up for those two months.  See, you cannot wear eyeshadow with no mascara.  You don't put on just blush.  I'm sure people already wonder if I'm a circus performer and I didn't need to put on clown make-up and prove their point.

My face was fresh scrubbed.

So, now I'm listening to my brother say how his hair has fallen out and I'm thinking that if I felt so carefree about missing eyelashes, that missing leg hair, armpit hair, chin hair, mustache hair, and toe hair would throw me into a state of pure rapture.  (I just want you to know I listed some hair that I don't actually battle with to that list in order to round it out a bit.  I'll let you guess which are fake.... or are they?)

The thing is, his hair will grow back in a few months when this process is over.

What a bum deal.

He said he misses his facial hair the most.  He can grow a pretty groovy goatee.

Funny.  I'd miss my facial hair the least.

I guess it's really all about perspective.  Those who want hair are loosing it and those who are supposed to be hairless and smooth are trying not to too closely resemble Chewbacca.

Oh well.  I'll try to accept that my hair is gonna keep on trucking along.

And as long as he lets me rub his head I'll do my best to not let my jealousy chip away at my lovely sibling relationship.

Life with Ms. Els

Around these parts we have been gifted with an 8 year-old.

Here are just a few of the things about living with an 8 year-old that I'm really enjoying.

* I can't tell you how comforting it is to know that someone in the house always knows more than I.  No longer do I have to worry about not being able to accurately read the clock, decide which phone calls I'm going to answer and which I'm screening, the proper way to operate a seat belt and the correct way to mix Crystal Light.  I can just sit back and relax knowing it's all under control.

* Baby care.  The other day J-Baby had his shots and he never does well with them.  He cried from about 2pm-5pm that day.  Of course, as soon as Ms. Els entered the room from school she took him from me and he immediately ceased crying.  Not sure if I'm mad at baby or grateful for Els.  Probably both.

* General Parenting.  Ms. Els is by far the more knowledgeable parent at our house.  She's constantly doling out punishments, assignments, complainer's jobs and of course, keeping tabs on everything from who didn't flush the toilet to who moved her American Girl Doll's bangs to the left.  Again, not much for me to do around here these days.

* Reading.  Good news - someone in the house knows more words than I do now.  Sometimes Ms. Els will even go so far as to read over my shoulder and correct me.  Funny or annoying?  I'm pleading the fifth.  However, with her superior reading skills I've allowed her to take over bedtime stories.  Leaving it to the pro.

* Operation of electronics. Ms. Els is now the resident authority on microwaving, turning on computers, working the DVD/Wii/Netflix trifecta and texting.  (She can even do it WHILE caring for infants!)

Really, the list could go on and on.  It's amazing that I was able to survive 33 years without her superior guidance and knowledge to lean on. 

So grateful that I'm no longer alone in the darkness.

Thank You Guilt

Today I ran to Home Depot with my boys.  Yep.  I'm a stud. 

We needed paint and brushes.  My studliness was slightly diminished when the paint lady said, "Do you want that in a semi-gloss?"  and my reply was, "I'm not sure.  Let me call my husband." 

Nicely played.

Home Depot may be J-Bear's new happy place.  They have swords (paint stirring sticks), popcorn and carts that are orange.  Also, it's close enough to Target, where Squinkies are sold, for him to get a buzz by osmosis.  Whatever.  He's happy.

Funny, my socks had toes 5 minutes ago!

As we were walking to the check out lane a nice lady offered him a bag of popcorn.  He smiled at her and without any prodding from me said, "Thank you for getting me some popcorn."  It was genius.  These moments are rare for me as a mother.  Usually I'm threatening their lives in order to get a closed-mouth please or thank you out of them.

In the parking lot a few minutes later I told him how it makes people happy when you say thank you.

J:  It makes their heart feel happy?
Me:  Yep.  That's right.
J:  Well, last night my heart wasn't happy 'cause a ladybug crawled on my toe in bed and tried to bite me.

Okay, we may have slightly missed the mark there.  And I'm like 89% sure there was no ladybug in bed.  But, hey, most of my "teaching moments" are awkward and ill formed anyway.  Doesn't keep me from trying.

On the way home, after stopping at Target for bread and accidentally buying m&m's, coke and clothes for the cutest baby ever, J-Bear starting chatting my ear off.

J:  So first I take off my shoes, then I put them in the basket.  Then, I eat my popcorn and play with my swords.  Then.... (blah, blah, blah, blah for like 3 more minutes). 

I zoned.  It happens.  (Sorry, Mom, for all the times I was mad at you for not listening!)

J:  Mom?  MOM!!  MOOOOOOOM!!!!!!
M:  (Oopsies, tuning back in) What?

J:  I just wanted to thank you for listening so good to my plan for when we get home.  It made my heart happy.

Whoops.  Stabbed in my cold brick of a heart by his knife of innocence.

Thank goodness he didn't ask me to repeat his plan back to him.  He was content just looking out the window and knowing his mother cared enough to listen. 

And I was content wallowing in my guilt.