The Great American Sloth

Could there be a more pathetic creature than the sloth? 

A few years ago I had the distinct MISfortune to stumble across a documentary on sloths.  It was torture.  Worse then a train wreck.  I was forced to watch the entire hour-long show in shock, wondering if my eyes were fooling me.  During that time the sad creature never made it from one tree to the next.  He made it down one tree - mostly by loosing his grip and falling - then "slothed" his way to the tree next door.  By the time the show wrapped up I had developed an incredible and irrational distaste for sloths.  Instead of rooting for that sloth to reach his destination, I was disgusted with the fact that it apparently took him 12 hours to slither around on his belly - too lazy to move in a more efficient manner.   He even fell asleep a few times on the 10 foot journey.  PATHETIC!! 

It was so bad that I began ranting to whomever would listen about the horrors of that show and the fact that sloths are now my number one most hated animal ever.  Yes, even more than snakes, scorpions, crocodiles and my dog.  (For a short time my friends called me sloth as a joke.  Not funny.  Super rude!!)

And then, this morning, it hit me that at some point over the past few years I have accidentally turned into the creature I most loathe.  I am a sloth.

Mornings are my most slothful time.  My poor children get out of bed and with their cheerful smiles come greet me.  I roll around a few times, moan, peak through one slit eye at the clock, moan some more and then tell them to turn on a show. 

Eventually I do make it out of bed, but that's mostly because my bladder is calling and I have a problem with adults wetting the bed.  (Also, it would be really hypocritcal after all the times I've told my kids that they aren't allowed to.)  I practically slither on my belly to the bathroom, use the towel rack to heave myself up and plop down onto the potty.  Sometimes I'm pretty sure I fall back asleep sitting there... you know...from the sheer energy it takes to move myself around. 

Once I've wrapped up in there, I manage to stumble down to the family room where I station myself in the Lazy Boy and, once again, I must fall back asleep because pretty soon the kids are asking for food, J-Bear's diaper has leaked through from multiple "potty stops" and someone has sent me a few text messages.  (Not allowed before 9:00 a.m., and how could it be after 9:00 a.m.?  Didn't the kids come in at 7:00?)

Eventually they get fed, dressed, and ready for the day.  But the rest of my day is a blur.  It feels like I'm dragging myself along my belly, periodically falling asleep, just trying to make it back to a safe place where I can get some rest away from predators.  It's tiring......

Yawn.... Now where was I???

The Incredible HULK

It has occurred to me recently that I am turning into a bit of a monster.  The Hulk to be exact.

There are three reasons why this is true.

(1) During most of my Hulk-like moments I've been wearing green.  True, this could be because I gave all my maternity stuff away and am wearing a large green shirt I just happened to own pretty much daily.

(2) I seemingly loose my mind and act against my typical character.  (Or as The Hubs says, I lose my inner monologue.)

(3) I have a recognized catalyst for this behavior.

And what is that catalyst?  Heat combined with strangers' children.  Yep.  The Hulk had his rage, I have my pint sized antagonists and sunlight.

See, for the most part I do okay with kids.  I love mine, I genuinely care about and have an interest in children belonging to family members and friends.  But the problem comes with children who are total strangers to me.  The best way I can describe them is as little bugs.  Like crickets that chirp in the night and keep you awake.  I just want them to be quiet and go away to I can rest.

This isn't exactly the type of characteristic we're seeking to develop when we want to make it to heaven.  Instead it's like buying me a ten-punch pass for the Crazy Train to...well... you know.  Dang.

One incident in particular comes to mind.  I was at Wheeler Farm a couple weeks ago with my sister, mom, kids and nieces.  It was hot.  I was wearing green.  And the Farm was full of strange little beasties...not to mention smelly animals.  I think you can see how this situation was ripe for an out of body rage spiral.

After doing the typical Farm visit rituals we found a nice bowery with picnic tables next to a play ground area.  The kids were playing and I heard Joel crying.  So, I hurried over to keep an eye on him.  While I was watching him I was kind of circling the equipment to keep him in my line of vision. 

I soon noticed a little girl was following me around, blocking my view of Joel.  When I would stop walking she would stop too, stick her head out of the bars and yell some random word at me like "Today" or "Yellow" or something cricket-like.  Annoying.

Aside from the obvious problem of not being able to see my son - which was my entire point in even being there - it was hot and she was talking to me.  Before I really even knew what was happening I transformed into the Hulk and gave her the stink eye before saying....

"Hey, you know what?  I don't know you.  You don't know me.  I don't know what you want, so go away and stop talking to me!"

Not really cool of me.  But it felt good at the time.  A little steam let out of the boiler.

Apparently her older sister was in earshot - always a risk when you rage out and start speaking - and she hurried over, grabbed her sister and moved her to a different part of the play area.  Excellent.

I won't tell you what I'd done just an hour earlier in line for the tractor ride, or how I reacted at the latest stake party while in line for a bouncy house.  All I will say is I was wearing green, it was hot, and I was surrounded by strangers' children.

I'll just let your imagination soar....

            

Be Afraid...Darn You!

For the past 7+ years The Hubs and I have been doing our very best to make our kids afraid of us.  We remember being afraid of our parents and feel like discipline is a lot easier/more effective if the disciplinee is afraid of the discipliner. 

It's not going well.

We've discussed at length the differences between us and our parents.  Why were they successful at instilling a "healthy respect" for consequences and we aren't?  Is it because they carried around various tools of the trade such as yard sticks, fly swatters and wooden spoons while I just carry around a can of coke and Hubs is finishing off a donut?  Possibly.

I've often wondered if it's just a generational thing, and my suspicions were confirmed this past week while hanging with my grandparents.  They came into town and I went with them to the hospital to visit my brother while he was in recovery for another cancer tumor removal. 

Grandpa C. was regaling us with tales of his days working cattle for a church welfare ranch near their home in Arizona.  We were laughing at various mishaps (I come by my propensity for "adventure" genetically!) when Grandpa told us one particular story that made me realize just what it is I'm lacking in the fear installation department.

It seems that one of his various falls involved landing on his nether regions in some cactus.  He said something to the tune of "Luckily I'd held onto the reigns and the horse didn't bolt.  I had cactus spines in my back side and I somehow managed to climb back into the saddle and keep working.  That happened around 7:00 a.m. and it wasn't until nine o'clock that night that your Grandma was finally able to pull them out."

I glanced at my brother and said "Uh...if that had happened to me I'd have been rounding up my fellow ranch hands and they'd have been picking out cactus spines at 7:15 a.m.!!"  He laughed in agreement - although laughing hurt and I felt a little sorry about that.  He he....

And there it is folks.  I am a major pansy.  Allegedly I have the same genes running through my body as Grandpa C.  However, they must be dormant because I don't have the gruffness it takes to ride it out.  I'd rather cave and move on than stick to my guns and endure some discomfort.

I think I'm still more afraid of my mom than my kids are of me.... hey, maybe I should just send them to live with my Grandpa for a while.  He'd give them something to cry about!!

The Desert Lifestyle

Sure, living in a desert has it's advantages.  I'm a big fan of red rock, red sand, mesas and dry riverbeds.  But there are other, less obvious things that I just adore about living in a desert.

Dry, cracked, chafed, itchy and pealing skin.  I would sure be bored if I didn't have to spend 30 minutes a day lotioning, chapsticking, and Gold Bond Foot Creaming my skin.  What on earth would I do with all that free time?  

Not to mention how boring it would be if I didn't have to make my weekly grocery store trip to restock my moisturizing supplies.  Talk about a dull life, stuck at home, marinating in humidity.  That life is for pansies with no sense of adventure!

I also love that most of our vegetation here is scratchy.  Some of my favorites are cactus, skunk brush, stink weed... you get the gist.  You've never really lived until you've fallen into a cactus patch.  Then you can get all your friends together for a good old plucking party.  Good times, good times. 

I also enjoy the daily struggle of winning the war against a lawn that just wants to die already.  Drought be darned, we water that sucker for like an hour every night, after dark, while running supplemental sprinklers for those stubborn places.  Our goal isn't necessarily green, but more that our children can walk barefoot across the lawn without serrating their poor little tootsies.  Nothing gives you a sense of accomplishment like having your dead spots be few and farther between than the neighbors.

(not my house)

Snakes, beetles, lizards and coyotes are another on my list of awesome desert perks.  I love to be working in my sand box of a flower garden and have a little snake pop out to say hello.  Keeps the heart rate up without actually having to exercise.  Lizards provide hours of entertainment for the kiddos.  And finding the dead carcases of a recent coyote kill while enjoying a serene hike through the mountains is like the icing on the cake.

Overall, I can't imagine living anywhere else.  Nope, it's the desert for me.

Now, pass me some Vaseline!

The Gender Situation

Recently the Hubs and I have started discussing what the gender of Hadley # 4 will be.  Back when this pregnancy was new we both thought it would be a girl.  But then I consulted the age old wisdom of the Chinese Lunar Calendar and was told it would be a boy.  (Scoff all you will, but it's been correct with my last three!)  Suddenly I became convinced that those of Eastern wisdom know better than lowly me.
 

As the 20 week ultrasound has been speeding toward us, our debates have become more and more interesting as we take our corners and hunker down for the moment when one or the other of us gets KO'd in the ultrasound office.  Like any good sporting event, bets are being placed, and this past week Hubs threw down the ultimate wager.

Winner of the gender debate gets naming rights.  GASP!! 

I'm sure he was doing this to test my confidence in my new found determination that we're having a boy.  I stalled.  I hedged.  I asked him to give me time to think about it.  He began wearing a smug little smile as though he'd caught me doubting my maternal instincts.

However, I had a plan.  A sneaky, sneaky plan. 

This past week was my regular OB appt.  And my OB - partner in my attempted coup - has a handy dandy little new toy in the office.  A hand held ultrasound machine.  Because of my mental health issues regarding this pregnancy (ie - my worries about loosing another pregnancy), she's being doing a quick little ultrasound at each of my visits to help keep me off medication and moving forward.

I went in this week ready to charm her socks of with my witty dialogue and hopefully come away knowing just how hard to fight for my claim on the gender battlefront.   He he he he he....

I quickly told the doc of the war raging in the Hadley household.  She was willing to try to see the gender - for a price.  Middle naming rights.  Oooh, she's quick.  She didn't get to be a doctor for no reason.  I agreed.  Hello!  Wouldn't you if it meant certain victory over your spouse?!  Don't judge me.

Alas, baby was lounging casually in my belly, all stretched out and legs crossed.  Dang.  Turns out it's probably a girl, because in my experience boys have nothing to hide.

Something tells me our baby girl is going to be named Hank, or The Ricker, or Eustace Ingnatio.  And it will be my own darn fault....

What it's all about

Cheesy post alert.

Maybe it's my pregnancy and thinking about motherhood.  Maybe it's spending warm summer days with my family members and taking little pictures in my heart to look back on when time has marched them away from me. 

Maybe it's knowing my brother's cancer has returned after six SHORT months of reprieve and the stark reality of what that could mean.  Or, maybe it's the text I got last night telling me that my sister's sister-in-law (pause while you figure out that relationship) lost both of her parents yesterday afternoon in a tragic motorcycle accident.

Whatever the cause, I can't help but be so grateful for my TINY little problems.  My handprinted glass, my dirty dishes, my full laundry baskets, my unmade beds, my colored on walls, the fights over the remote, the toys that keep puncturing my feet etc....

Because it means that I am surrounded by the people I love.  We might be messy and we might get frustrated, but we are all here, and we are all healthy. 

And none of those other little things are really problems at all.

Riches in Food Storage

I can't possibly be the only slacker pants out there who is completely overwhelmed by the whole food storage situation.  Just when I think I come up with a great idea it gets shot down (ie- my family will eat loads of pasta, but how does that help when there's no water accessible?)  I'm starting to think that my food storage should be gaining weight and then living off my excess flesh while everyone around me starves.  Then I'll eat the food those skinny losers left behind.  So far this plan is going swimmingly.  Another 100 lbs and I'll be the victor for sure.
 

But then, this past week, I stumbled on a great idea.  Pure genius.  In all fairness, this idea was planted by my neighbor who was visiting teaching.  Honestly, I can't steal an idea from my visiting teacher without giving her credit.  It just feels wrong.

We were discussing food storage and she said that she's given up on storing anything other than M&M's, Diet Coke and Mountain Dew.  

That's when inspiration struck and I replied...

"Really, this will make you the winner.  You can barter for anything you want using those things.  Let all those other fools store wheat and grinders and barrel after barrel of water.  You'll have what they REALLY want.  And they'll probably trade you anything for one little sip of Mountain Dew after they've spent a day cutting down trees and skinning cows to build mediocre shelters."

So, people.  If you truly want to survive the end of the world, you're going to need to stock up on chocolate and caffeinated products.  You'll be the Rockefellers of the "new order".

I always knew that my salvation would come in the form of chocolate!!