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Trophy Case
What’s in the cooler?
$20 Amazon gift card to the first person to guess correctly (family excluded - sorry, Cheltz).
After you guess, stop by 5 Minutes for Mom’s Wordless Wednesday and tell ‘em I said “Hi!”
Winner, winner, chicken dinner!
Soliloquy thinks I kick &%$!
Thanks, I’ve added my new award to the trophy case. Check it out in the left sidebar.
Now, who should I pass it along to?
Hmm, I’ll have to give this some thought…
Watch this space for updates.
What I Did on My Bloggy Vacation
I finished my Shakespeare class.
I’m still waiting to get the grade on my final paper, but my midterm did receive a “best in the class” note from the instructor. I’m glad it was best at something; it certainly wasn’t my best effort. I didn’t even bother to rewrite it, I turned in the rough draft. It made me wonder what the worst paper looked like…
There is something to be said about taking a class just for enjoyment.
I sewed two more dresses.
Three if you count replacing the stained top on one. That brings my total up to 14, but only 9 were for my girl. And since she will not wear anything else, I guess it’s a reasonable amount. She told me today that she wants me to sew all of her clothes for the rest of her life. Oh. my. What have I done?
I got older.
Sunday was my birthday and I was in the mood to par-tay! I invited some girlfriends over Saturday night for a “Happy Birthday to Me” party.
We had cake, gourmet fruit popsicles and lemonade in the backyard.
I know - out of control, right?
When the sun set we watched Hairspray projected on the side of the house, set up by my own personal AV nerd sweet husband.
Of course, I ironed the sheet. With starch. And I sewed the party garland. Of the two, the ironing took longer.
The next day we had a little family party, complete with these surprises:
We started school.
And it is going great! Among other things, we started studying ancient Egypt. I used this as an opportunity to talk about Moses and the children of Israel. One afternoon we went in the backyard and tried to make bricks like the Hebrew slaves.
Though, I admit the use of zoopals as brick forms were not quite historically accurate.
And, so as not to waste these…
…we did some fingerpainting.
And I did some thinking.
I realized that lately, I have not been living the life I intend to. I started this blog as a journal of my search for balance; funny that I have let it knock me out of balance a bit. That is going to change. I only have so many hours in the day. I want to fill them with family, friends, learning…really living.
This means that I probably won’t be posting everyday anymore.
And, as much as I hate to say it, I won’t be able to reply to comments quite as often. Though please know that I will still read, cherish, memorize and quote each and every one you leave me.
But most drastic of all, I have already removed 90% of the blogs from my reader. It was painful. There are some really smart, funny, touching blogs out there. And a few of them, I have come to think of almost like family. But, my real family deserves more of me. And I’m going to make sure they get it.
But when I find a few extra moments in my life, I’ll be here.
Because who am I to completely deprive the world of this:
Another example of my fine parenting skills…
No children were actually caged against their will in the making of this post. Thank you.
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More of Wordless Wednesday on 5 Minutes for Mom
A Whirlwind Romance - Part 2
Click here for part one of the greatest love story ever told (on this blog).
At this time in my life I was busy pursuing both a fine education (general studies at the local community college) and a career (customer service rep at Circuit City). On Sundays I attended a college ward (LDS terminology alert: ward = congregation) for young singles. It was not really going well. Remember how I mentioned that I had a bit of an attitude? To my intense surprise, my prickly personality had not won me any friends. I was considering whether I should continue going there or go back to my parents’ ward (snore).
Politically incorrect sidenote: Growing up, it was the standard joke that all of the people in my parents’ ward were either short, fat or retarded. Thankfully, I’m only 5′1″.
One afternoon at work I received my schedule and noticed that I was supposed to work the following Sunday afternoon. That meant that I would be unable to attend either ward. But I really did want to go to church. By a series of odd coincidences I ended up in a ward way across town. I had never been there and didn’t know anyone that attended there, but it met in the morning and I could go and still get to work on time. So I went.
I sat in the back, feeling slightly awkward. A few people smiled at me but I didn’t know what to say so I buried my head in the program. Hmmm…I noticed a familiar name. That one guy from the dance, my future husb- shut up! would be speaking that day - reporting back on his mission.
A I listened to him speak I realized that he was really a nice guy. And he seemed so confident, so sure of himself, which was exactly the opposite of what I felt. I felt bad for being so snotty to him when we met.
After the service, he saw me leaving the chapel. He caught up to me a grabbed me by the hand.
“Heidi, what are you doing here? Do you go to this ward?”
“Um, no I have to work this afternoon and- actually it’s really a long, boring story. I liked your talk. Welcome home.”
I guess he was excited to see a young familiar face. He dragged me over to meet his family: his parents and older brother. I really didn’t mind, they seemed nice. I felt strange. What was this feeling? The opposite of awkward, comfortable…
The next Sunday I went back to my college ward.
I walked in and no one said hello.
I sat in the back, alone.
What was I doing there?
I said a quick, sort of demanding silent prayer.
Hey, Heavenly Father?
I’m here because I thought this might be where you wanted me to be. And yes, I admit I haven’t tried quite as hard as I should, but still…I’ve been coming for months and I’m not even sure the bishop knows my name, let alone any of the people my age. I’ve committed to follow you, and I will. I know it won’t always be easy, but I can’t take much more of this. If you want me here you’ve got to throw me a bone. Here’s what I need: a friend. Just one would be enough. Oh, and I’d like to feel like I belong here please. Today. Or I’m never coming back. I guess I’ll join all the short/fat/retarded people and my parents…
Before I could finish the bishop came up and said, “Heidi, I’ve been meaning to talk to you. Could you meet me in my office after church for a few minutes? I’d like to get to know you better.”
“Um, okay.”
And then that guy from the dance walked in and said, “Why are you sitting here all alone? Come sit with me and my friends.” So I did.
That day I met his friend, Jay. Jay was nice and cute. So of course I said yes when he asked me out. Could be fun, right?
To be continued…
PS: Thirteen years ago today, Mr. Frantic asked me to be his wife and I said yes. I’d still say yes. Happy anniversary, sweetie.
Back from Vacation
I’m sitting here in a pile of metaphorical unpacked dirty laundry and cheep souvenirs. It is hard to come home from vacation, even a bloggy one, isn’t it? I just can’t seem to clear the cobwebs from my head and write.
Or perhaps I am just distracted. Between GW watching the Disney Channel and Mr. Frantic’s ghost hunting (don’t ask), I’m having trouble focusing.
I’ve tried fighting it, but it’s just not working. My brain is still on vacation.
But I promised a post, and I intend to deliver. And since a picture is worth a thousand words and most of the words I can think of start with um or duh, I now present to you the the following photo story:
It’s All Fun and Games When Someone Loses an Eye
Hmmm, what’s that box doing out there?
Let’s look and see what’s inside.
Ouch! My eye!
Who did that?
Shasta? That didn’t look like your paw… You got company in there?
Oh, I see. Enjoy your box you two. I’m going in to put some ice on my eye.
Kids. They just can’t seem to find ways to entertain themselves these days.
My hair was funnier than your hair…thanks Mom
From the archives. Originally published May 7, 2008
In keeping with my My Mom’s Funnier than your Mom series this week, I thought I’d share this truth:
Having my mom be my hair stylist when I was growing up didn’t work for me.
It. just. didn’t.
Um…those bangs are sort of really crooked.
And now so are the teeth. Somebody get this girl a stylist and an orthodontist, stat!
That’s right cover those monstrous teeth. (Braces are coming, just hang on, girl.)
Oh, and the black clothes? I was mourning my lack of hair cuteness.
And my personal favorite:
I can’t decide what’s worse. The home perm? The mullet? Blue eyeliner? Those earrings? Or that totally rad sweatshirt?
I could blame myself, but we all know who held the scissors.
Thanks Mom.
All new posts starting Monday!
Why didn’t I think of this before?
From the archives. Originally published February 13, 2008
Next month my family is moving 3011 miles (those last 11 miles are a killer).
For the second time. In three years.
Crazy, I know.
So, in order to cut down on the number of boxes we will be cramming carefully packing into the moving van, I decide to get rid of all of the plastic dvd cases.
I also went crazy and got rid of the paper insert, because I know I’ll never look at them again.
I’m working my way up to tossing the “disc 2 - special features” as well, but…baby steps.
So I went from the above photo to this:
[APPLAUSE PLEASE]
My One and Only
From the archives. Originally published March 5, 2008.
I do not like green jello.
In fact, I loathe it.
It, and all of its multi-hued cousins, with or without chunks of pineapple, carrots, or mini marshmallows.
And yet, I am a card-carrying member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints.
Otherwise know as a Mormon.
Here are a few other ways I do not fit the stereotypical Mormon (jello) mold:
• I don’t scrapbook. I don’t intend to scrapbook. And I don’t feel guilt about it.
• I don’t use the mock swear words: flip, fetch, or ‘oh my heck’.
• Not only did I not attend BYU, I never even wanted to.
• I am generally on time for meetings.
• And, here’s the big one: I have only one child.
Early in our marriage, when Mr. Frantic and I were discussing how many children we’d like to have, we both said five. Because, well, we wanted to keep things manageable.
We hadn’t even celebrated our first anniversary when the questions began.
Q: When are you going to get pregnant?
A: Oh, I’m not really sure.
Q: What are you guys waiting for?
A: Well, we haven’t been married all that long yet.
Q: You know, you’re not a real family until you have children.
A: Um, is that a question?
Q: So, when-
A: WOULD YOU JUST LEAVE IT ALONE!
But to give ourselves time to grow as a couple we had made the rational decision to wait a while before starting our family. You know, awhile. Like the four entire months we waited before I went off the pill and we began planning our exciting little future.
Yet, month after month, I got a bit more worried when that future failed to materialize. And those annoying questions just kept coming.
That’s how we came to be strapped into the fun and exciting rollercoaster ride called Infertility.
Oh and it was fun, let me tell you.
I’m not sure if it was an after effect of the birth-control pills or the because I was so keyed up about getting pregnant, but my body started playing tricks on me. My once-reliable little monthly visit started arriving later and later. My usual 29 days became 35, then 40, eventually only arriving a day or two after taking a pregnancy test; always one line, never two. I was drowning in a sea of negative EPTs, basal thermometers, charts, and unsolicited advice.
Whee!
Try propping your hips up with a rolled up towel, after, you know…
Are you taking your temperature?
Go without sex for a couple of weeks. That will make you both really potent.
Have your husband wear an ice-pack.
Just relax. As soon as you stop trying to get pregnant, you will.
Huh?
Eventually we got our family doctor involved and he ran some tests.
A couple of days later, I was at work, but my husband was at home nursing a nasty cold. He was the one who answered the doctor’s phone call.
I remember it like it was yesterday: I had just finished lunch - leftover meatloaf from the night before. I was rinsing my dish in the breakroom sink when I heard the phone ring on my desk. I walked over and picked it up; Bob’s voice cracked as he gave me the test results.
“…little to no chance of conceiving on our own…maybe get another opinion…I’m so sorry…”
I walked, in a daze, to my supervisor’s office and informed her that I had received some news from home and needed to take the rest of the day off. Looking down, I saw that that I was still holding my tuperware lunch container. It was dripping all over the carpet.
Over the course of the next few years Bob and I consulted specialists. We succumbed to more painful and humiliating tests. We even tried surgery to correct the problem. We cried. We prayed. And we learned to lean on each other for support.
After nearly four years of riding the rollercoaster, we pulled into the loading area and were given the chance to ride again or exit. The specialist confirmed that the surgery was not successful. In fact they had discovered more problems. We could do some more tests, try some new procedures, or just stop.
We bolted for the exits, with odd relief.
On the drive home from that appointment, we chose to adopt. I called an agency that very afternoon.
Eight months and several small miracles later, our perfect, beautiful baby girl was placed into our waiting arms. (Once again, thank-you, K.)
There is so much more I could share with you here. Like how wonderful adoption is. What a courageous, selfless, loving young woman brought our child into this world. How five pounds, three ounces can move the world. How she healed our broken hearts.
But this is a blog-post, not a book. I’ll save those things for another time.
Before our daughter was two years old, the questions began again.
“When are you going to get another one?”
We truly didn’t know. My husband and I had thought we’d begin the adoption process again when our daughter was 18 months. That way if we got a baby quickly our children wouldn’t be too close together. And if it took us a couple of years, they’d still be close in age.
But eighteen months came and went. We wanted another child, but we weren’t ready; it just didn’t feel right. We decided to revisit the idea when our daughter turned two.
That time we actually got the paperwork and started filling it out, but it still didn’t feel right. In fact, it felt completely wrong. We put it off for another year.
Shortly before our daughter’s third birthday we tried again. This time we made all the way past the homestudy and onto a waiting list.
Every night our little girl prayed that God would give her a baby sister. And we added our prayers to hers, but it still didn’t feel quite right.
We did want another child. Sometimes a little. Sometimes a lot. We were on another kind of rollercoaster.
Two more years passed. Our daughter decided she no longer wanted a baby sister.
And my husband and I? Bit by bit, ever so gradually, we came to the decision that ‘now’ is still not the time. We don’t know why, but it’s true. We withdrew our names from the waiting list.
Still I struggled. I watched my friends having their second, then third babies. Some even had fourth and fifth. I told myself “someday, when the time is right”. Eventually someday turned into maybe, and then maybe-not, but at times it still hurt.
One day about a year ago, my daughter and I were snuggled up together under my grandmother’s blue blanket. On my lap lay Antoine De Saint-Exupery’s “The Little Prince”. I wasn’t thinking about anything other than the sweet smell of my little girl’s hair and the warmth of her next to me as I read aloud.
“To be sure, an ordinary passerby would think that my rose looked just like [any other]… But in herself she is more important than all the hundreds of other roses: because it is she that I have watered; because it is she that I have put under the glass globe; because it is she that I have sheltered behind the screen; because it is for her that I have killed the caterpillars (except the two or three that we have saved to become butterflies) because it is she that I have listened to, when she grumbled, or boasted, or even sometimes when she said nothing. Because she is my rose.”
That passage took my breath away. I looked down at my child and knew.
I do not need a bush full of roses. I do not need five. I do not even need two.
And even if one day my maybe-not turns into definitely-not, this will still be true:
I have my rose, unique in all the world. And she is enough.
Plush Wilderness
From the archives. Originally published January, 31 2008.
This morning I broke my daughter’s heart, and I don’t even care.
That’s just the kind of woman I am.
Just what terrible thing, you may be asking, did I do to the poor child?
I instituted a new rule. “One in, one out.”
You see, our home is being fully overrun by stuffed animals. They have no natural predators and so have multiplied at an astonishing rate. Do you remember the old Disney film “White Wilderness”? The one where the lemming population grew to be too large so the lemmings hurled themselves off a cliff? (Sidenote: I have recently discovered the film to be a hoax. Here’s the scoop on that.)
Anyway, I have been waiting for a mass plush suicide attempt, but it appears as though it’s not going to happen.
Hence the “one in, one out” rule.
This morning, my daughter told me that she wants two more webk*nz so she can get some special online “feature item”. Whatever.
(Ok, I really must go off on a tangent here. The Ganz corporation is made up of evil geniuses. They have created a cute, fun, and wholesome website for kids. But it’s main purpose is not entertainment, education, or to develop creativity. It is marketing, plain and simple. The very concept is designed to make your little darlings dissatisfied with what they have and instead want, no need more, more, more! Tangent over.)
Anyway, this morning my child told me she wanted-needed more. First I (nicely) told her that I was not going to be buying any webkinz. Secondly, I (very sweetly) explained that she has reached the extreme limit on the amount of plush creatures this house will hold. For every new animal that comes in, be it a gift or with her own (ha) money, she will have to donate one of her old animals to charity.
Here is the rest of our conversation.
Her: That’s mean.
Me: That’s life.
Her: I don’t want to give away any of my animals.
Me: You don’t have to. You can keep them all. Just don’t get any new ones.
Her: (Tearing up) Can’t I just put some in the attic?
Me: Nope. Sorry, Honey. We have reached the limit.
Her: But-
Me: (Practicing diversionary tactics) Is that the bus I hear? Hurry and grab your coat.
So, what do you think? Was I unbearably cruel? What would you think if I told you I don’t even feel guilty?
Remember when you were a kid and you really wanted something? Like a doll, or a bike, or a snoopy Sno-Cone Machine? Do you remember dropping hints to grandma? Writing to Santa? Going to the store to look at it? Maybe even saving your allowance for it?
And then when you finally got it do remember how much you loved it?
It’s possible that I am being nostalgic for something that didn’t really exist and kids then really weren’t that different from kids now, but I don’t think so.
For example, my daughter does not know the joy of browsing the toy isle just to see what is there. I loved going to Bi-Mart with my mom and just getting to look at the toys. But when my girl sees something she wants and can’t have it right now, she’s sad. So she chooses to not even look unless she knows she’s getting something. I commend her for that, but I truly feel like she is missing out on something. That bittersweet feeling of wanting and waiting and dreaming.
My daughter has so much more than I did. I think it’s hard for anything to be truly special in the face of so much abundance. Her kid culture (friends, tv, webk*nz) tells her that she has to have more. One Littlest Pet Shop pet is no fun. You have to have the whole set. When does it end?
Ok, before you start blasting me with, “Well, where did she get all this stuff, huh?” or telling me how spoiled she is, please know that one-yes, I accept blame for bringing in all the stuff and two-she’s no more spoiled than her peers and less than many of them.
Even so, I am going to make a concentrated effort to reduce the amount of consumerism taking place in this house. To do more with what we have and not look for something new and shiny to make us happy.
Last week we took all of her broken crayons and melted them in muffin tins. The “new” big crayons were a huge hit. She thought I was sooo clever. (Stop. I am not. Ok, maybe a little…) It was simple and it was fun. More fun, I dare say, than a brand new box of crayolas. What we had on hand was more than good enough.
Maybe with the “one in, one out” rule I can bring that feeling into our Plush Wilderness.
If not, I’ll be looking for a film crew and a high cliff.
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