In My Free Time Dreams

Funny how when I was the same age as these guys…

I thought holidays were about fun, candy, time spent with family, games, candy, sunshine and happiness. 

Now I know the truth.  Holidays are about dishes, sweeping and mopping

Today while I was sweeping for the 192nd time I started daydreaming about what I would do with all my free time if I didn't have to sweep any more.  In no particular order, here are some of the ways I'd spend my free time:

I'd buy a giraffe, saddle train it and ride the days away enjoying the beauty of nature.

I'd ride a hot air balloon to the top of a high mountain and drop water balloons on all the foolish people actually hiking the trails. 

I'd assign my children well thought out nicknames, such as Meat Brick.

I'd install a lift kit on my minivan and drive over the people holding up the carpool lane.

I'd wander various Walmarts looking for more people to add to PeopleofWalmart.com

I'd breed beaver-ducks.  (Okay, that's a fancy name for platypus).

I'd become a rap star and go by the name Tweets Littlefoot.

I'd explain the difference to my son between Darth Vader and Thomas S. Monson (Oh yeah, he actually confused the two the other day!).

I'd finally master the Fushigi wonderball.  I'd be so good that David Bowie would come to me for an apprenticeship.  (Dance Magic Dance).

I'd figure out what's really going into fruitcake...mystery solved!

I'd would train aardvarks to train monkeys to train dolphins to help the Coast Guard with rescue missions.

I would insist my children learn to roller skate so that we can put on a family show of Xanadu. (My pride insists I admit that I've never seen that show.  But The Hubs and my in-laws assure me it's a gem.)

I'd purchase Antelope Island and built up the world's largest herd of free range chihuhuas.

I'd give The Hubs laser hair removal.  One… Hair… At… A… Time.  Oh wait, let's try to keep this list realistic!  Nobody has THAT kind of time!

Alas, I believe I hear crumbs falling on the floor right now.  So, back to the grind. 

Lay still, sweet dreams, for one day you'll be mine.

My Brother

I'm feeling nostalgic, weepy, frustrated and full of angst today.  And since this is my blog I feel that it's my right to put those feelings down here on paper - so to speak - so that I can walk away from them.

My brother is fighting cancer.  Again.
 

My brother, Ben, with baby Jasec Benjamin - named after him.

I'm mad about it.  Mad doesn't really capture the depth of my emotions.  I'm angry, bitter, frustrated.  I want to scream at the sky like people do in movies.  But I'm not in a movie.  And my kids would be freaked out if I did that.  But I want to.

This is his fifth fight.

Last night around midnight I was up with the baby and got a text from Ben's wife, Sara, saying they were at the ER.  Ben is having severe chest pains.  I got another text from my Dad at 1:30 a.m. saying that they were trying to stabilize his pain and would stay over night.  7:30 a.m., another text from Sara saying he was being admitted to the hospital.  He was in too much pain to be transported to Huntsman, so he's just in the local hospital for now.  But they don't "do cancer" there. 

Luckily my kids had a previously scheduled play date this morning and I was able to recruit my MIL to watch the baby.  I headed up to spend time with my brother.... after hugging my kids tight and thanking God that they are healthy.  Because this could be me in 30 years, watching my kid fight in a hospital bed.

As I sat in that hospital room this morning I looked at my little brother - yes, bigger than me, but always my little brother - and I thought about these things:

We used to ride our bikes down to a pond area and catch tadpoles in old milk jugs.  We'd line those tadpole filled milk jugs up along a wall in the garage and hope they'd grow into frogs.  They never did.  So we got smart and started catching frogs.  But they just hopped out of the jugs and were gone by morning.

We built lego fortresses in the raspberry bushes along the back fence.

I talked him into stealing the babysitter's bike and she was so ticked.  It was awesome. 

I talked him into flushing a hot pad down the toilet after the toothbrush didn't clog it.

I talked him into trying to make himself throw up by sticking his finger down his throat.

When we were little Ben got sick with cellulitis (sp?) and had to stay in the hospital overnight.  My dad was out of town and so I stayed overnight with Ben to keep him comfortable and help him feel safe.

One time a boy my age hit Ben in the face with a flat basketball.  I tackled that boy, sat on his chest and punched his lights out. 

We used to take Ben's motorcycle up in the hills around my parent's house.  I'd ride behind him and we'd go all over the place.  Sometimes, just to bug him - although I secretly think he liked it - I'd sing the Batman theme song in his ear while we rode.  He'd tell me to knock it off.  But he'd laugh too. 

The first time I got bucked off  a horse, Ben was there.

The first time a boy broke my heart, I told Ben all about it.

One time a rooster attacked me.  Ben hit it with an umbrella to get it off.

When I learned how to ride a bike, Ben hurried and learned too so that he wouldn't be left behind.  He was four.  And I was glad I didn't have to leave him behind.

The only time in my life I ever stole anything - long story, don't judge - Ben was there in the getaway car, laughing and high fiving.

One time Ben tried to run away, but I talked him into coming home.  'Cause I'd miss him.

I'll always do my best to talk Ben into coming home. 
Because I'd miss him.

Love you, B.

Ironic Hypocrisy

It's recently occurred to me that my life is full of ironic behavior and hypocrisy everywhere I turn.

For example: Our TV has shown nary a football game in the past 12 years (aside from one Sunday afternoon when my padre was tending J-Bear). And yet, we always want to attend a Super Bowl party on Super Bowl Sunday. You know, to watch the commercials and eat food. I never even know what teams are participating despite the fact that I will spend hours perusing the Walmart ad for food deals and menu ideas. Ironic.

Some other examples of my hypocritical and/or ironic behavior are a follows:

I often pop into McDonald's for one of their delightfully priced $1 beverages. I get coke or diet coke. The kiddo's get apple juice boxes.  Soda isn't good for you.

It takes super human effort each morning for me to get out of bed.  Yet when I finally do I insist my children jump right up and out and greet the morning cheerfully while getting ready for the day.  After they leave I will sit back down in my pj's and stare at a wall until I'm actually awake.

I get fries with my fast food meals. The kiddo's get apple slices or mandarin oranges.  Fries are greasy and will make you fat.

I am always yelling at my mini-me's to stop them from yelling.  My favorite is yelling at them to be quiet so they won't wake the baby!

I constantly tell the children to turn off the computer games, Wii, DS's or TV and GO PLAY! Yet, I spend half my day at the computer either checking email, maintaining friendships or working on my all important blog. Monkey see, monkey do.

I whole-heartedly appreciate sass and sarcasm in my adult friendships. I do not at all appreciate them in my relationships with children.

During church meetings I expect my children to sit nicely and listen to the speakers.  However, I always bring the latest Ensign magazine with me just in case the speakers get boring and I need some entertainment.

I expect my kiddos to do what I say and not question it.  I can't remember the last time I mutely took orders from someone.  It's not easy to get me to just follow along like a sheep.  Which is ironic, because I practically instruct my children to say "Baaa" after I give them an order .

There are many, many more things I do that may totally confuse my children. While I acknowledge that and I understand that actions speak louder than words, I'll just have to tell you what I tell them.

" 'Cause I'm the mom, that's why. And when you're the mom then you can do whatever you want."

The worst part of saying that to them is the irony of the fact that it's a blatant lie when I'm always telling them to be honest.  They are going to be terribly disappointed when they become Moms (or Dads) and realize the truth... that parents have very little freedom to truly do whatever they want. 

How ironic.

Helmet Head - The Follow-Up

Note:  In order to fully appreciate the awesomeness that you are about to be subjected to, I would highly suggest you first read my previous post entitled The Evolution of Hair.  You will need that foundation in order to springboard into this post.  Otherwise you may be slightly confused about what just happened....as opposed to when my blogs are well thought out and relevant.

I truly thought about titling this post "Ode to Siblings", but went with the more catchy "Helmet Head - The Follow-Up", because that is how this came to be.

After reading my previous post, my youngest sister, Emily, emailed me a picture she somehow had on her computer that showed the infamous Helmet Head of my 9th grade year.  I have no idea how she had this classy Olan Mills 90's photo ready to go in digital form, but I appreciate that Emily is nothing if not a collector of nostalgia. 

So, without further ado, I give you Helmet Head.

Me sporting my mom's hair cut, as discussed previously.

But I actually gave you SO MUCH MORE than just Helmet Head by posting this pic.  Oh yes.  I gave you a juicy, delicious little morsel to digest for the next few days.  Feel free to come back time and time again to laugh with giddy delight over the many layers of FABULOUS that are happening here. 

For a few minutes I did think about cropping out the siblings, considering this is a post about my hair.  But, I couldn't resist taking a moment to let them share my spotlight!

In order to be fair, let's take a look at me first.  It's clear that I'm the only one who has hit puberty because I look like their mother.  The haircut is only making the photographer wonder just how young I was when Ben was born.  I'm like a giant in the middle of midgetville.  Sad.  I appreciate the jaunty touch of having me pose in such a sporty and fun way.  It's like I'm saying, ''don't be fooled by my mom hair and mom jeans, I'm a fun gal with lots to offer''.  I kept saying that all through junior high.

Speaking of jeans, wait, not just jeans...rolled up jeans and stonewashed jeans, and nice white socks.  We were clearly fashion icons.  I'm surprised Olan Mills didn't blow up this timeless gem into a 2000x10000 canvas and hang it in their showroom in order to lure other families in.

The thing I'm loving about the t-shirts is that my bro and I have matchy, matchy shirts.  This takes the t-shirts to a much classier place than just the regular sad white numbers my sisters are sporting.  It would have been nice if the logo were some company we've heard of - Nike for example.  But no, we're going with the no name brand in order to maintain some sense of humility.  It's a nice touch I believe.

(That's right - I put the picture in again. I wouldn't want my dear reader to have to scroll

back up in order to see what I'm referencing. You're welcome.)

Speaking of nice touches.  What's the haps with my sister, Camille's, shoes?  I don't recall her being an avid bowler at this point in her life.  I'm pretty sure she was, like, 8 or something in this picture.  But what starts out as confusing instantly becomes artistic when she adds in complimentary neon shoelaces, and then plops herself dead center and eye level in this photo.  She is clearly an attention hog / lost middle-ish child.

Emily really steals the show here as the one smart enough to stand in the back.  We don't know what shoes she's wearing, we don't know if her shoelaces are up to the caliber of Camille's, maybe her socks are a dingy yellowish color.  All we know is that she's a free and easy (in a good way) lady with her sassy arms-crossed stance and her cheeky little smile.  Nicely played, Em.  Nicely played. 

Now, let's discuss the fact that Ben's eyes are slightly closed in a dead sexy, I'm-a-fox-and-I-know-it-but-I'm-too-tired-to-give-this-my-full effort look.  How did this picture get chosen to represent our family forever when Ben looks like he's coming off a bad allergic reaction?  Also, I'd like to give him a shout out for his stellar front wave he has going on with his hair.  He was clearly intimidated by the Helmet and wanted a piece of the pie for himself.  I also give him a nod for attempting to cross his gangly limbs into a relaxed and friendly pose.

Overall I have to say that Emily did me a real service by emailing this picture to me.  It made me feel like maybe the Helmet wasn't as horrible as I'd thought, when compared....

Okay.  It was.

The Evolution of Hair

I've been thinking lately about the evolution of my hair.  Possibly because I've let it grow out for the past 3 1/2 years and I'm getting lots of comments about how long it's gotten.  Maybe because I'm heavily ensconced in the post-partum shedding phase and could have a lucrative career making doll wigs with the hair I shed daily.  Maybe because I have a haircut scheduled for this Thursday - HOLLA - and have been perusing "hairstyles for those with chubby faces and curly hair" online.  Sadly, all I can really find under that topic are pictures of Annie and lots of experts saying that curly hair and chubby faces don't go together.  Tell me something I don't know! 

It wasn't always so.

I was born, like my children after me, pretty much bald and confused.

Actually Me!

With wisps of light hair and my eyebrows scrunched down I was ready to face the world, once I woke up.  This remains the same today.  I continue to greet the day with wispy hair and a sour face.  At this point we didn't know what a huge role my hair would play in my life.  (Most likely because at this point I was lacking hair.)

At around age 6 I had the hair I thought I would have for the rest of my life:

Again, really me.

Blonde, straight and bangs starting behind my ears.  This hair was the envy of all toothless first graders.  With my My Little Pony, Care Bear and drugstore brand Cabbage Patch Doll I was sitting pretty, ready to face my future with style and grace.  Wish I had appreciated this hair for the short years I enjoyed it!!!

But, puberty hit.  And that girl slapped me pretty hard. 

Sadly, it's still me.

Puberty delivered acne, braces, sweet frizzy bangs, curly hair and bad advice.   When I went to get my 7th grade yearbook photo taken I wasn't sure what sassy style to go with.  A friend suggested wearing a turtle neck in a solid color.  I'm pretty sure my less than stellar 7th grade hygiene dictated the pony tail.  The affect was... startling.  This black and white scanned in photo doesn't do it justice.  I'm pretty stoked that anyone signed my yearbook!  Thank goodness for church and the guilt induced friendships it provides (ha ha ha)!!

Oh, 8th grade.  By now my mom had figured out something was going on with my hair and gave me a trim to "free up the curls". 

Shazaam - Triangle Head

You'll note the sweet curlie q's someone drew around my picture.  I remain grateful to this friend for her willingness to add a little pizazz to an otherwise epic fail.  With this haircut you're not really sure where the bangs end, they just kind of blend into the entire frizzy situation.  I like to keep things mysterious.  It's always helped me with the fellas (wink, wink).

Unfortunately, or extremely fortunately, I couldn't find my 9th grade yearbook when I scanned these gems in today.  But let's just say that after Epic Fail 8th my mom decided to take pity on me and took me to her hair dresser.  I've learned something from that experience.  If you don't want to come out with your mom's hair cut, don't go to your mom's hairdresser.  I'm pretty sure I was jut given a variation of my mom's hair cut, but it was victimized by rabid natural curl and I ended up with "Helmet Head".

For real.

I later learned that people actually called me that behind my back in 9th grade.  This doesn't hurt my feelings.  I find it very kind of them that I didn't hear it to my face and I only learned about it after the fact.  

Despite how embarrassing it could be, I really do kind of wish I had a picture to show you.  Because it was one in a million.

High school was when I finally realized that haircuts were Satan's tools of soul destruction and I began to just let my hair grow. 

Apparently, I still had a thing or two to learn, because you can grow out your hair and still have no idea how to do it.

Senior Year

As graduation loomed I must have been feeling nostalgic for my helmet of the past and decided to do a mini helmet for picture day.  Just the top half of my head.  Wouldn't want to be too crazy and undo all the good I'd done by staying away from scissors and my mom's "friends". 

In college I tried chemically straightening it, blowing it out every day and finally cutting it short again just before I met The Hubs.  Oddly, probably from years of feeling unappreciated and victimized by hair fads, it turned brown.  But, as though my luck changed with the color, I learned about working with it and pulling back things that try to escape.  Now was not the time to fail, I had me a man to snag.... and it worked!!

Me and The Hubs while dating

Alas, now it's 13 years later and I'm thrown back to the days of my adolescence.  I have acne again.  My hair is frizzing out of control and my mom wants me to go to her hair dresser.  What's a girl to do?  Do I ignore the failings of my past and cut this shag off me?  Or do I keep it long and invest in lint rollers to take up a collection of shedded frizz?

I don't know.  I just know that I'm hoping I end up a little less like this...

And a little more like this...

I mean, a girl can dream...right??

The Condescending Banana Bread

It's no secret that I'm a little bit on the verge of dying of cabin fever.  This has been the longest winter on record.  Between having a new baby and keeping him in, then having said baby get ill and extending his "keeping in" through Easter, there are days that feel awfully...stinky.

Anyhow, because of this I've gotten desperate for entertainment and have begun doing little projects around the house.  Cleaning out closets, reorganizing my kitchen, and baking.  Banana bread was on the docket for this week. 

Yesterday the sun was shining and I told the kids that if they could stop acting like crazy people for the last 30 minutes of J-Baby's nap that I'd walk down the street to the park with them when he woke up.

Joel gets this big grin on his face and says to me, "So, if we stop being FREAKS you'll take us to the park?"  He said it all cheerfully, like he could totally stop being a FrEaK if that's what it took.  Ha ha.
 

A bit later we headed off on what felt like a grand adventure.  When we got to the park the kids requested that rather than staying on the playground we walk around the circumference of the park and see what we could find.  Sounded good to me.  We spent about an hour walking, very slowly, around the park, gathering twigs, pointing out trash heaps and ongoing storm damage, waving at Uncle Ben's house and stabbing Mom in the back of the legs repeatedly with gathered branches.  Good times, good times.

At one point Cadie Lu says something along the lines of "This is the BEST!  Can we just stay here all afternoon?  We're getting good exercise and fresh air."  I was prematurely pleased with my efforts in spending some quality time with my kids!

I replied that we could stay until Jasec needed to eat again.

That time, of course, came much sooner than our outdoor starved children were okay with.  I ended up walking home with a crying baby, an "exhausted" 3 year old, a pouty 6 year-old, and an 8 year-old that had no idea what was going on and nearly ran into two trees.  Honestly.

So we get home and Cadie Lu immediately starts in on how the entire park experience was the biggest waste of time ever.  They didn't even get to play on the playground, instead they were practically shackled to the stroller like mules with asthma and made to walk around the park looking at stupid sticks.  (Uh... pretty sure she had an immediate brain dump when we walked in the door, because she wasn't singing that tune at the park.)

I recognized a bad case of No Food Bad Mood setting in, so I instructed the kidlets to help themselves to a snack while I fed baby downstairs.  They chose fresh baked banana bread, because who wouldn't? 

A few minutes into the banana bread snack time I hear Ms. Els saying the following to Cadie Lu:  "Now, Cadie, you aren't old enough to be trusted to use a knife to slice the bread.  And you don't know how to spread butter.  You need to just sit down and I'll take care of it for you so you don't hurt yourself."

Me:  Ms. Els, you're being a bit condescending toward your sister.
Els:  What's condescending?
Me:  It's when you treat someone like you're older and smarter than they are.  Like you know more than they do.
Els:  Uh...I AM all those things.

Oh, sorry, my bad.  Carry on Your Highness.

When I was done feeding the baby and went upstairs to the kitchen, which the children had immediately vacated upon being feed and restored to happiness, I was frozen in place by shock.  There were banana bread crumbs everywhere.  I mean like they had stood on top of the counter and crumbled the bread into pieces while dancing a jig, spreading joy in all directions with nary a crumb actually entering their bellies.

Ms. Els made the mistake of coming back to the kitchen at that moment.

Me:  Mean words regarding the mess
Ms. Els:  Well, I TRIED to clean it up.

Oh, yes, again, my bad.  I see that there is a butt print sized space on one of the bar stools that is free of banana bread crumbs.  Thanks for keeping the part under your kiester nice and clean.

So I grumbled and swept and promised myself to leave my kids at the DI and pick up a new set next time I'm out.

When I was done cleaning I decided that perhaps I, too, could use a snack.  And despite my anger, banana bread sounded good.  So I went to the pantry and retrieved the loaf, at which point I discovered something very strange.  The bread had no top.  There was just a bottom half of a loaf and chunked out pieces where the top had been.

It would appear that I was right, they just flung banana bread all over that kitchen like monkeys fling poo.

Alas, I am a zookeeper.  And I'm trapped in this cage until Easter...

Hospital Tips and Tricks

Hello blogging world!  I have returned, and, yes, I come with tales of adventure.

February was a bit of a rotten tomatoes type month for us.  It involved two hospital encounters. One for me and one for little Baby J. Huge bummer on both.  But I came away from these two situations with some helpful advice for those of you planning a hospital visit of your own.

My number one advice would be to just go ahead and die at home rather than endure a hospital stay.  But, should you be one of those crazy "life is worth living" individuals, then read on.

My hospital experience was at the start of the month and consisted of roughly 5-ish hours in the ER for either post-partum hemorrhaging or a really nasty first period.  Huh.  I'm going with the hemorrhaging bit because it sounds way cooler than, "I'm having an ouchie period."  The ER doc was operating under the "ouchie period" mentality - no worries, I'm planning on slashing his tires - and my OB was going more with the "reopened uterus hemorrhaging theory".  This is why she got a thank you card and he got a crusty.

Some tips for your ER visit.

1 - Apparently ER docs are used to over-exaggerators and squeaky wheels.  I only use those two techniques while writing.  In real life I don't squeak much.  I was a little over the ER doc with the look on his face of, yep, another crazy lady on her period, as he came in to consult with me.  Don't take this attitude laying down.  Throw around any ammo you've got.  I used the "yeah, so my OB was concerned and sent me straight here" card.  This makes them take you a little more seriously.  Yep, fools, I've been in touch with a medical professional and didn't just come in here because I needed a band aid.

2 - Take something to clean yourself up with.  Ironically, when I told them I was bleeding profusely they immediately told me to strip down and lay on a bed in a gown...with no protection to keep said bleeding at bay.  At one point both ER doc and his trusty nurse commented on the amount of blood.  REEEAAALLLYYY??  See, this is why I came to the ER!  Anyhow, when all was said and done they told me to go ahead and get dressed and head home. 

Ahem, uh, not to be a bother, but did you notice the incredible amounts of BLOOD that you've let just run down my legs for the past 5 hours and puddle?  What am I supposed to do with that?

Luckily - and I use that term sarcastically - they let me wrap a pad thing around my bum like a diaper and run down the hall to the common bathroom to clean up.  So, the good news is there was t.p. on hand.  The bad news is that I left that bathroom looking like a murder scene.  Next person who goes in there is in for a bad shock and will probably have to be admitted.

3 - Take a trusty companion with you.  I took my Dad.  Yes, there were some awkward moments such as the vaginal ultrasound and pelvic exam.  But, my Dad was gracious enough to leave the room.  He was also kind enough to stop hallway traffic while I ran to the bathroom wrapped in a giant diaper.  You need someone to watch your back.  You also need someone who can give a big crusty when the ER doc says you may be having a "rough first period".  Also, I find that perpetual embarrassment is invigorating.  And nothing says embarrassing like the conversations that happened in front of my Dad that day ;)  (love ya Dad!!)

Now, moving along to J Baby's hospital stay.  Poor fella had RSV and spent two days in the hospital.  See, what I loved about this particular stay was the shared room situation.  I am loving the lack of privacy and total disregard for the baby's need to rest.  It kept my temper frayed, which in turn gave me the primal huntress ability to fight for the needs of my cub. 

Should you find yourself in such a situation I would suggest a few ideas to make your stay more comfy.

1 - Learn to speak a foreign language.  If you live in the Salt Lake area then your best bet is Spanish.  Both our roomies were native Spanish speakers with "no bueno" English skills.  I would have loved to be able to say some key phrases to them such as:

* Roll over, you are snoring like a bear.

* If you stink up the bathroom I will not be pleased

* Your therapist is not being paid enough money to deal with this

* Please kindly retrieve your baby's toys from behind the curtain

2 - Bring ear plugs, a white noise machine and lots of chocolate.  See, no one cares about keeping the noise down even though "quiet promotes healing".  The nurses wear squeaky shoes and have never shut a door in a lower decibel than SLAM.  The chocolate will remind you of what you can't have while serving a prison sentence for murder.  Any encouragement to avoid jail time is welcome.

3 - I would also suggest you be sick at the same time as your infant in order to better sympathize with his needs.  I personally got J Baby settled at the hospital and then quickly drove myself to an Instacare in order to see to my needs.  Sadly it was viral and I went back to the hospital with my head hung in shame and my fever burning me into hallucination mode.  But this just kept me from getting frustrated with the sick babies around me and realizing that perhaps hallucination is nature's best defense against reality.

So, there you have it.  Some helpful tips from the fried brain of Aspen. 

May all your hospital stays be as joyous as mine.