The Soundtrack of My Life

When I hear this song, I think about my kids.
Sometimes, I think about humanity in general.

And when I heard this song the other day, I immediately downloaded it and played it for my teeange daughter:

The words, "Go and hide your crazy and start acting like a lady. Cuz I raised you better gotta keep it together even when yoy fall apart"....those words may be the only ones I want to see tattooed on her body.
And the advice to "never let them see  you cry" is exactly what I told her to do years ago when little girls were mean and cruel. I told her to come home and cry her eyes out, that I would drop everything and listen to all she had to say, BUT do not shed a tear in front of those girls. They want to take something from you. Don't give them anything but a smile.

And this song, ahhhh....this song....reminds me of my husband.

I actually have a video of him singing along to this, holding my hand. It was last December and we were driving to AZ for Christmas. It's too precious to share. Besides, he'd kill me, make it look like a diet coke overdose, and no one would ever know that you can't overdose on diet coke. Belive you me. I've tried.

This one reminds of my two little boys, who always ask me to put this on while we drive to school:

 

 

Its funny to me because Ethan, sweet 16 year old Ethan loved this song as a little boy:

 

 

 

From Aristocats to Pitbul. Ha ha.

Kennedy used to like this song:

I can still picture her sitting with her back to me, baby girl pony tails askew, subtly shaking her head back and for to the background beat.

Now Eric, gentle little Eric, was immovable during this song when he watched Fantasia 2000.

Actually, he was glued to the TV for that whole movie. And if you dont own this movie, drop everything. Find it  Buy it.
That video clip is only highlights. The complete clip is like 12 minutes long. The best 12 minutes of
your night if you look it up.



This song reminds me of being a girl, daydreaming about love.

I actually wrote the lyrics of this song in my journal, along with all the hopes and thoughts that I had on marriage.  When I went on my first date with Bryan, he was humming Tchaikovsky's piece. Not that I put 2 and 2 together. But years later I realized that my journal enrty was written on September 17, 1993- before I had met Bryan. And exactly one year before we were married. Signs, signs, everywhere signs.

This is another one that makes me think of Bryan...and Elliot. He was singing it once, out of the blue. Uh oh.

Now this song, this one....I LOVE this song.

It reminds me of driving around, dropping kids off, picking kids up;
 Elliot at age 4, pretending he's hold a mic, singing every....last...word...of that song.
And if I died tomorrow, I want these lyrics on my tombstone:


Pay my respects to grace and virtue
Send my condolences to good
Give my regards to soul and romance
They always did the best they could
And so long to devotion
You taught me everything I know
Wave goodbye, wish me well
You've gotta let me go
Are we human or are we dancer?
My sign is vital, my hands are cold
And I'm on my knees
  looking for the answer
Are we human or are we dancer?
I know they don't really make much sense, they aren't truly profound or graceful. If you want that, don't look at a cold stone on some hill top.
If you want profound and graceful, read my blog.

Sweet 16

This morning is my oldest child's 16th birthday. I've been so tender-hearted when I think about this almost man in my midst. He is growing up so fast. They all do and it's such a cliche. And the thing about cliches is, they're true. This man child is racing toward a future that doesn't include breakfast at my table on a daily basis.
Geez. That just made me cry.
And when I sit and watch him from across the room, I am so pleased to know him. I can't express in any form of language that I know, what it feels like to have him call me mother.
That made me cry, too.
Last week, he and  the teenagers at church went to an assisted living seniors center. He spent time talking to the residents there. When he came home, he played "Go Fish" with his two youngest brothers. He played so long I had to make them all quit and get ready for bed- which was difficult to do, the scene was so sweet.
Did you know this boy who is taller than me, stronger than me, smarter than me, has never raised his voice to me?
Actually, since the age of 3, none of my kids really have....My husband said its because we've taken the time and set the example of how to feel different emotions without behaving badly.
Breath is wasted telling people not to be mad, or angry.
Everyone feels those emotions. Better to coach them through the feelings; help them recognize stuff and come through it still liking themselves and everyone around them.

One of my favorite parenting moments with Ethan happened when he was 10. My husband was in DC and I was home with 5 kids, one being a teeny new baby.
I had caught Ethan in a lie. I don't remember the details, but I told him because he had been dishonest with me, he couldn't go to the birthday party he was planning on attending that weekend.
He was not happy. Everyone was in bed, including the baby sleeping in a bassinet at my bedside. I don't know if Ethan came in to talk to me or if we started a conversation when I tucked him in, but we ended up in my bed talking about the lie and the party.
We talked about actions and consequences. He acknowledged the lie, but wanted a different punishment.
I said something to the effect that when your 10 and you lie, you don't get to go to your friend's birthday party.
When you're  20 and you lie, you make a poor teacher and servant to those around you while you serve your mission (we're Mormon so this is what he'll be doing at 20).
And 30 year old liars lose the respect of their wife and break their children's' hearts.
Then I asked him which consequence he was willing to pay. I told him when he's ready to pay the price, he's ready to learn the lesson.
He stayed home from the birthday party and we have never had to talk about honesty since then.
I loved that moment. I'd live it again and again. And every other moment with him, too.
Except that time when he was two and he took his diaper off at nap time and smeared poop all over himself.
I could do without that.
But I could never do without my sweet boy.

Rachel's List of What Not To Do: Stealing, HighJacking and Getting In My Kool-Aid

Every home has it's own jargon;  words and phrases used frequently that may not make sense outside of those particular four walls.
Most of the jargon in my house seems to stem from Nacho Libre. Currently my two youngest sit at the kitchen table whenever I make them food and cheer me on with, "Momsies is the Number One. Her hugs, are number one. Her kisses, are number one. Her sandwiches, are number one."
It's my new favorite thing.

Kid generated jargon is pretty upbeat.
My jargon is usually more instructive.
But that's just the nature of motherhood, right?

For instance, when one child is excited to tell me about something, like a joke or  a funny commercial, chances are he/she will get half way thru the set up of the story and just as they zero in on the good stuff, another kid will chime in with, "And then Plankton got flushed down the toilet" or whatever the pinnacle of the moment was...
This is what I call "Stealing Someone's Thunder".
As in, "Don't steal his thunder. Get out of here. Go get me a diet coke." And then I have the other child start the story all over agin and give them a chance to explain to me the beginning, middle and end of their story.
I think this parenting rule is vital, especially in a house with  many voices and limited stories to repeat. As adults we know people how drop into conversations and do just that. They steal your thunder. And it stinks. So I'm teaching my kids not to do it.

Another phrase often heard in my house is "Emotional Highjacking."
With 4 boys and only 1 girl, I'm happy to say thar there isn't a whole lot of emotional highjacking going on. Boys don't seem to care enough to do i. But never fear, junior high girls and adult women do enough of it to garner the phrase as a legitamite phrase.
I consider emotional highjacking to be when someone EXPLODES on you. EXPLODES! and then won't give you the time of day. They won't say what you did, or let you apologize. They say things like, "I don't want to talk about it right now" or "I'm too upset to have this converstion." Or they don't return your call.
Bull crap in my book.
I judge it all to be a big lack of integrity. If you feel the need to throw someone under the bus, you should have the decency to follow it up with a conversation. Emotionally filleting someone and then shutting them out isn't fighting fair. At all. Which is a whole 'nother post I should write. Idon't think we should tell young couples to never go to bed angry. I think we should teach them how to fight fair. Because if you plan on being married for more than a week, something's going to irriatate you to the point that tempers flare and an arguement ensues. Fighting Fair....someone remind me later to tell you all my rules.

But back to now, if you really are too upset to talk, then don't open up a can of emotinal whoop-a$$ and then leave the other person shocked and confused.
Intgerity. Pretend like you have some.

And finally the phrase, "Getting All up In My Kool-Aid" is a lovely expression gifted to my kids by Kelly Foote (Pilling). She and her family came to spend Thaksgiving with us. I gave them turkey. She gave us words.
And my kids say it too each other daily. Like when they are laying on the couch reading a book and another kid lays on the back of the couch and slowly slides down  onto them. And then stays there.
Orignal couch kid will push the other kid off and say, "Get out of my kool-aid."
There are so many instances when it's used that this particular idiom now has variations. Like, "You're all up in my kool-aid", "Whoa, bro. Kool-aid" and my personal favorite,   "Dude. Kool-aid."

So there it is. The jargon I use on a regular basis to brake, bend and mold my crew.
How 'bout you? Tell me some of your jargon.

Why I Hate Mother's Day

I'm in the midst of my yearly nervous breakdown. My Mother's Day breakdown.
It's taken me years to figure out what it is that gets me so anxious and upset. One year, when my husband slept thru the morning hussle and I did the entire breakfast/church shuffle, I thought I was upset because I wasn't being pampered. When we got back from church and there was a gift and flowers and only 1 card (1 card! The jerks!), I made and embarassingly ugly display of pain and anguish over the lack of effort or care or whatever and, while crying, crying, crying, I grabbed my car keys and left. I went down to the grocery store parking lot and cried some more, until my head was throbbing. I was totally mortified I had made such a spectacle of myself and embarassed beyond measure that I had demanded more for myself. I feel ill now, just remembering. I came home to a shell-shocked and hurt household.

But today is Saturday, not Mother's Day and I'm already in tears. So, obviously, it's not about what doesn't get done for me. After some soul searching and a little chocolate, I think I have figured me out.

I don't like to be celebrated. I don't like to be told the things that cards, commercials and other people say about moms on mother's day. It just feels so stinkin' phony. Like I told Kelly, (in our theraputic texting session),
"When they make cards and commercials celebrating the lady who did a so-so job, could've done better, but just sorta phoned it in half the time, when they celebrate THAT lady, I'll feel way more comfortable."

So, at this point in my life, I have hives and tears; a husband who is pertrified of a certain Sunday, and I have to fake a happy face for the kids.
Oh, and I'm pretty sleepy because I took allergy medicine that I didn't need in a desperate attempt to end this day.

Am I hitting motherhood outta the park or what?

But, on the bright side, this is what Kelly shot back at me. She's freaking brilliant.

"Cut yourself some slack.  If you don't have 10 loads of laundry waiting to be washed or washed and waiting to be folded, or folded and ready to be put away, you're not normal. 
 If you've never sent your kid to school in dirty pants that you pulled out of the laundry in a moment of desperation, you aren't normal. 
 I hope you've yelled so loud your throat hurts, thrown a bowl of oatmeal across the yard, or said out loud in front of your kids, in the foyer;  "freaking 8 o'clock church!! It's just a conspiracy to drive moms freaking BATTY"

I hope your toilets occasionally have pink rings or other nameless ick in them,
 I hope you've left at least one kid somewhere or forgotten to pick someone up...Please admit that you've made up an emergency with another child, without a conscience, to explain missing a lesson or meeting.

Or have you ever felt blind panic that you are in charge of so many people... Or cried all the way home from the hospital with that sweet new baby because you're terrified of facing what's waiting at home...In the face of all this fear and guilt and feelings of inadequacy, you still get up every day- get your people washed, primped, fed, hugged, kissed, and off to where they need to be. 

 You take a minute between loading the dishwasher and switching the laundry (cause who are we kidding- its not folded)To let a sticky hand cup your ear and whisper a joke in nonsense words, and look into that expectant, breathless face and laugh- cause that's what they are waiting for.
You learn to drive exceptionally well with one hand so with the other you can hold the hand of your toddler cause she needs to be touched.
Just as you push start on the dishwasher at 11:30 pm, and your teenager who has been hanging around (unusual) says- "mom- I have a question", you know it's going to be a long night.  But you do it anyway.
You skip dance, piano, and practice for every other kid, because one needs a drive, a burger and a talk. 
 Those are the things that define my motherhood.  The things I do  RIGHT.  Not the things I do wrong. 
Whose wrong are we talking about, anyway? 
Pintirist's? 
 Or the girl down the street whose life looks so much better more together than mine?  So what if my floors are occasionally do sticky I'm afraid to walk barefoot?
  So what if my youngest often goes to school in the most, um... "Creative"outfits ever, and frequently doesn't have her hair combed? 
 So what if I made it all the way to the school before I realized she wasn't buckled?  To which, she said in a three year old's high pitched voice: "dammit mommy!  I need to be buckled!".

So what?
That's what therapy is for.
 And I can make a mean batch of cookies."


And then, THEN, because she's so brilliant and pretty much the most fabulous person I know, she added,

"Damn, I'm good."


And suddenly, I think I can face Mother's Day.
Not because I can now buy into my own greatness, but....


Crap. I had a reallly great point I was trying to make but my son just asked me a question and all of my poignant thoughts just scrambled. Rats.
Par for the course....


Well, Happy Mother's Day. I hope you survive the love. Or self loathing.

Here's How I See It

I'm not worried about what the Mayan calendar says.
I'm not sitting up at night, reading ancient scripture, trying to decipher when it all go down.
I'm not particulary frightened by a mass apocolypitic end of the world.
I'm more concerned that we will kill each other, one hurtful and hateful word at a time.


The most current political brew ha-ha is Hilary Rosen, a polical strategist, who said,

“Guess what, (Romney’s) wife has actually never worked a day in her life," .

Ouch. At least from where I sit. Because I, like Ann Romney, am also a stay at home mother to 5 kids.
And, in the interest of honesty and integrity, let me tell you how I got up today, toted my kids to 5 different schools and then went back to my little guys preschool for "Muffins with Mommy" day.

After that, he went to a friends house to play and you know what I did?
I took a nap.

In the middle of the day.

When I got up, I went to get a diet coke and begin the post-school pick ups.
By my own assesment, a super cushy day.

 I'm going to make dinner here in just a bit. I have plenty of food to chose from. And money and a car to use to get more if I don't "feel" like using any of what I have.
So how did I get so lucky?

I married at 19. My husband was days away from 22.
Before we tied the knot, we talked about the type of life and family we wanted. I wanted a bunch of kids. And I wanted to stay home with them. He wanted that, too.

His mom pulled me aside and told me she wanted to tell me something her mother-in-law told her so many years ago. It was, once the children come, don't work outside the home. Let him get 2 or even 3 jobs. It's more improtant for you to be home. Let him figure out how to make enough money.

We got hitched, packed up a few hand-me-down pieces of furniture (a bed, a dresser and a dining table with 2 chairs) and moved to northern Utah. My husband had only 1 year of college under his belt. He got a job in Utah inspecting circuit boards while also going to school full time. I got a job ironing pants at dry cleaners.

Worst job of my life.

I was over the moon when about 6 months later, I got a job working at a Blimpie's tucked inside a truck stop.

Best job ever!
I made $6.50 an hour.

In 3 days, I was promoted to mananger. I was offered benefits, which I cashed in for the extra $0.42 an hour.
Life was good. Easy.
We had next to nothing. No couch. Until I bought one for $15 at Goodwill.
We would go to A&W and buy  cheap little hamburgers and sneak then in our pockets into the Dollar movie theatre. Date night for less than $10.

Bryan worked hard. We spent our first summer as a married couple apart when he went to California for an internship while I stayed in Utah, afraid to let the truck stop job go.

The next year,  Bryan did another summer in Cali and I joined him. I worked as a receptionist during the day and, because I didn't have any appropriate clothes to wear, I worked part time at Ann Taylor. I used the pay and the discount to fund my day job wardrobe. Most days I was working 9am-9pm.
I always worked Saturdays because I had begged and pleaded to have Sundays off for church and time with my husband. I worked my tail off at both places and when it was time to go, both companies said they would always have a place for me.

Just as I got back to Utah, the  company my husband had been working for offered him a full time, year round position in California. Problem was, he had at least 2 years left of his under grad degree.
As part of the offer, the company would pay his tuition. Only problem was, when was he going to find the time? And, oh yeah, I was pregnant.

In all honesty, my father in law was CEO of the company. Despite what you may think, this did not make my husband's life or career easier. Bryan's boss and his boss above him had to convince my FIL that this was the right move; that his son (my husband) was working hard and a valuable employee. I wouldn't say working for his dad was a disadvantage, but it surely meant that he had several people carefully scrutinizing him.
Even at the dinner table.

He took the job, I came back fromUtah. I worked while pregnant. We lived in a bedroom in his parents house while trying to save money.

Just before our first was born, we found an apartment in Gilroy. The rent was $850 and applicants were required to make at least triple that each month. We didn't. I had to convince the landlord that we could afford the rent.
And we did. The baby came. We some how made it on one income, in California, while devotedly paying 10% of our income in tithing.

By the time my husband graduated with his bachelor's, we had two kids. I haven't used a punch card or collected a paycheck since just before our first.

We have had times of plenty. More than plenty.
We have had times when I have made pancakes for dinner because the budget wasn't stretching far enough for protein. There have been times when asked what I want for my birthday, I have answered money for school clothes.

We have given when we could and we have given when we couldn't.
We have been given to.

Both sides of pur families have pitched in and helped ends meet when there was a gap.

Sometimes I wonder, is it luck? Why do I get this privledged life? I know women who wish they could stay home.

For me, and I'm talking about me- not generalizing for all women-I think a huge part of my ability to live the way I live, comes from hard choices and discipline. And help. And karma.

So it bums me out to hear thoughtless words being thrown around, despariging women who stay at home. Despariging women who work outside the home. Or women who have 19 kids. Or women who have none. Each of us has a unique and sometimes complicated story behind who we are and how we got to where we are...no matter where that is.

I'm not interested in tearing someone down so I can look better. That's probaly what makes me despise political commentaries.

Because if there is one thing my unemployed self has learned, it's that love makes the world go 'round. And we serve who we love. And love who we serve. That's is why a mother's love is often described as the strongest type of love. So completely fierce, unyeilding and unwavering. Because as mothers, we serve our kids.
Night and day.

And I'll be damned if someone puts a mother down for being just a mom.
Or drawing a salary while she does it.

It's a Rachel Re-Run

It's not that I'm lazy, per se, but this post is why I love Easter. And I can't say it better myself. I mean, I can't say it better than I already did.


http://www.superrighteous.blogspot.com/2011/04/but-seriously-folks.html

Bri-ish Invasion

I've been obssesed lately with British things.
Accents, shows, people.

Blame Downton Abbey and Sophie Kinsella audio books.
And Robert Irvine from that show "Restaurant Impossible".

Everywhere I turn, I am greeted with that cheeky accent.

AND I LOVE IT.

The other night, I was lying in bed watching Robert Irvine tear down and then build up a restaurant and the restaurantuer.

(BTW, He has enormous biceps)

I started wondering what I would be like if I had a father who was that forceful and direct.
(in my head, I just said die-rect)

My dad is a bit of a lamb, dahling, so I asked my husband what he thought.
Of me. Raised by Robert Irvine.

I said, "Can you imagine?
'Whaut do you meeen you got ahh C on your report cod?' "

(Are you saying that in an accent?)

'Cause I did. And apparently it was a bad one.
Because my husband laughed and then I laughed and we sort of belly laughed together until it hurt.

And then I went to sleep.
And dreamt in a british accent.

So this, friends, is my new fah-sea-na-tion.
And it's lovely.

And so ah you.


POST SCRIPT:

I've just come back from dinner with my husband. As we were walking out of Chevy's, he hucked a big louggie (how in the world do you spell that?!)
Very unluckily, I saw him do it. And my gag reflex kicked in. I thought I might lose my fajitas in the rhododendrons. He quickly, quickly said he was sorry that I had to see that.
Then he blamed it on the lemonade.

I said it was ok, except for the fact that I can't stop seeing the way it fell, so heavy-not lightly like a snowflake,-but so fast because it was weighted down spit.
He said, "Wow. You really are thinking about that aren't you."
And then, THEN!, I said, (in my *best* british accent)
"I cahn't ba-leeve you just spat on thee ahss-fault."

Brillant, I know.

We laughed and drove out of the parkinglot making more chatter (me in the accent). We joked about playing a game called Downtown Abbey (whinkey face)  and blah, blah, blahed ourselves
 to another restaurant. (where the desserts are better)

Once we were seated, he handed me the dessert menu and asked me to read the descriptions in my best accent. (I love when he indulges me)

It was pretty bad, but we were laughing so hard, who really cares. Even the bartendar saw us and laughed a little. Maybe she thought we (I) were (was) tipsy.

The sweets were delicious and my husband told me about a collegue of his and how, while they were emailing back and forth, the lady said she would get him the information, "right quick."
He told me he thought, "Rachel would love that."

After eating little (whittle) bits of 3 different desserts, we paid and left.
On the car ride home, he told me about a friend of his from his highschool days in Singapore. She was british and she pronounced aluminun al-loo-min-e-um.

(Say it outloud. It's awesome.)

And then I thought about the time, when I was in highschool, when a guy friend took bites of a sandwich, chewed it all around in his mouth, and let a dog eat it out of his mouth.

And I thought, what the heck does my husband see in me?

I did get a wee bit sad. For just a second. Then my husband asked  me to say something in my cockney accent. And the insecure moment passed.

Do yourself a favor, give your inner monologue an accent. Especially if you are going to think crazy things.
It all so much betta bri-ish.

When the Hell Did I Get So Strong?

Valentine's Day was lame.
It was a very typical Tuesday, but given the added pressure of being THEE holiday for love and gifts and romance, well...it sucked.

And I didn't care one bit.

I am very happy to report that my husband and I  have been married for so long that we are far past the point when our relationshp hinged on a night or even a conversation.
I have (on more than one occasion) imagined my husband walking in the room and saying,

"It's over. I'm leaving you."

Stupid thing to do, I know.

We are each a little bit crazy and my type of crazy comes in the form of abandonment. My parents both sort of checked out at one point and, although I didn't know it, that time planted a small seed in my heart that has grown to bear the fruit of "Any one who has ever loved you will leave you."

Believe me, it's bitter and causes heartburn.

But considering my husband and his unyeilding love, devotion and obsessive loyalty,
 I'm not afraid he will leave me.
 Ever.
Ever, ever.

In fact, if he walked into the room right now and said, "We need to talk. I'm leaving you", I would laugh and call him a liar.

And for me, that HUGE.

HUGE.

I don't know when I changed. It wasn't very long ago that, in that same scenario, I would have lowered my head and said to myself, "I knew it was too good. Because if you love me, you will eventually leave me."
But I don't believe that anymore.


And that is a gift that can't be bought or baked.
It's a gift that has taken 18 years to create and it outshines every bobble I can dream up.

Sometimes marriage is magical and thrilling.
Sometimes it is he and I, in the trenches, praying that we are digging faster than the mess that is rainging down on us.

But it is always, always he and I giving each other the benefit of the doubt.

All this outpouring of personal information was inspired by this snipit from the blog CJanerun.com.
She's a fav of mine and I hope she doesn't mind if I share with you a bit of her genius:


"And this: relationships work when we sacrifice negative beliefs about ourselves, and in that process we become the best thing that's ever happened to anyone.

And this: a successful marriage is about two people engaged and dedicated to overcoming selfishness--for the rest of their lives."

So, in short, I hope your Tuesday was thrilling and lavish and breathtaking.

Mine wasn't.
 But there's always Wednesday.....

Honestly, What was I thinking? So Glad you asked.

Lately, Ive been thinking.
If I could open up my cerebral cortex and pour the contents out onto my keyboard, it would be, well, gross. And quite the page turner. But I'm a really bad typist. And I'm lazy. So how 'bout the Cliff's Notes to my soul?

1. I want to eat like  a fat girl and look like a swinsuit model. By golly, that's the truest staement I have ever heard.
 From anyone.
 And it sounds rude. Maybe I should say I want to eat like a trucker, but I don't always want to eat like a trucker. I want to eat like girl. A robust one. And then I want to frolick on the beach in stylish swimsuit.

2. I would rather video tape myself saying all this stuff than have to type it out. I am such-a-horrendous-typer/speller. You see all the mistakes I make, right? But what you don;t see is that I have edited myself 361 times and still these mes ups remain. I'm way better in person. Or video.

3. I think I drink too much diet coke.
OH! So much honesty up in here I might die.

4. I'm babyhungry.
This statement does not correlate to fact #1.
I'm simply stating that my maternal clock is tic-tick-ticking. I didn't love being so sick. Although I did love a big tummy. I hated being so tired, but oh those moments, alone at night, with a tiny wee-one stretching, suckling, yawning. My body and soul were made for motherhood.

5. I hate the hatred of politics.
I realize I am a very conservative person. Some of my beliefs would upset you. Some of my beliefs upset me. Not because they I don't like them, but because they aren't easy and honestly (since that seems to be the thread here) everyone seems so volitile lately that disagreeing has become tantamount to hatred. So I guess it's not my beliefs that upset me, rather other people's reactions to them. Does that make sense? It would if I were vlogging.
I really like listening to people, who think diffrently, express themselves. I am a huge fan of rethinking my beliefs, reconsidering and defending my self. Even to myself.

6. I am tired of the notion that women hate women.
I have a short list of people that rub me the wrong way; people that grate my nerves to the point I have to leave a conversation or walk out of the room.
It's a super short list considering my age and how many places I have lived.
And it's a list almost entirely of men. Arrogant, self-centered men.
Those are the traits that send my running. And, correct me if I'm wrong (see #5), the women that i come across that may be hard to get along with or difficult to love, are, in my little opinion, difficult for other resaons. Reasons that I have a higher tolerance for, I guess.
I'm not generalizing the sexes here, just disecting my person list of acquaintances.
I'd love to hear what you think.

7. I have to pee all the time. ALL OF THE TIME.
I've said it before and I'll say it again...As soon as Coach comes out with a stylish urine-catheter carry-all, I'm the first in line.
I'd instantly get that magical, illusive "extra hour of the day". Bam.

8. I have to pee so bad right now I have to end our little session. My apologies.
 Did I spell that right?
See, if this was a vlog instead of a blog, I would have been done sooner, had less typos and would not be wiggling in my chair.

Gotta go.

New Year, Old Me

Did I ever tell you about the time that I stuck pantyliners in my armpits so I wouldn't get sweat marks?
And then the pantyliners moved and traveled to the neckline of my shirt. The sticky underside of the pad had black lint stuck all over it.
It looked like I had stffed my bra with maxi pads.

I didn't tell you that story?
Huh.
It's a good one.

Morning Breath, Sweats, and a Bidet. And Jimmy Choo.

My husband tried to sneak in a kiss on the lips this morning before he had brushed his teeth.
I've been on my guard pretty much the rest of the day.

I stepped out in sweat pants with my highschool logo on them while simultaniously wearing a Twilight apron. My shame knows my bounds. But all I did was go to Walmart, where I fit right in. I did stop off to get another diet coke, but Janelle, the convienence store lady, had already seen me twice, today, in my leopard print slippers that I bought AT a grocery store IN Idaho.
Again, shame...no bounds...

My day really was going quite marvelously. I was watching the 6 hour version of Pride and Prejudice while clobbering my laundry pile. Calvin bounced in and out and around me and Kelly and I were being pithy and smug in our texts. Who could ask for more?

But then I ran out of fabric softener.

Hence the speedy jaunt to Walmart. Where my happiness was sucked right out of me. Between the squeaky, way-ward shopping cart that left my right bicep sore from trying to force the cart foreward and not into the lady wheeling her oxygen tank round, I was done. My cocoon of bliss at home awaited me. But so did the bell ringer and a petition signer.

The petition guy got me first.
Would I sign a ballot measure to legalize marijuana?
No. "Sorry", I said, "But my husband is law enforcement and he catches so many of the worst guys because they have a small amount of drugs on them."

SPeaking of drugs, which we were, the petition guy looked like he had smoked a bit in his time because clearly my words were too much for him. He looked at me, said, "Dude" and then I said, "Dude" and I went on my less than merry way.

My husband called while I was driving. He had stopped off at the house for lunch... how was I doing... what's new.... He was interested in what I had to say until I got to the, "I bought a different kind of fabric softener. Purple Fusion Snuggle. It was on sale." I knew he had checked out at that point so I threw in, "I read a great article about Karma Sutra. I can't wait for you to get home."
He was back.
I admitted my lie. We hung up.

On the way home, I got a fresh 54 ounces of liquid love. When I got home, I unloaded my purchases and went back to Mr. Darcy just as he asked Elizabeth if her feelings were unchanged.

Almost immediately, I was better. And then my mother in law texted me to tell me she had just ordered me 3 new pairs of shoes and went on to say that "it was a lucky day for us when you came into our family."

Wow, right?
I know!

And by the time Elizabeth and Darcy and Jane and Bingley became man and wife, it was time to take my daughter to ballet. So I snuck into the kitchen, hid the big bag of Cheetos inside my coat, grabbed my drink and told the boys I would be back.

Then I sat in my car, fingers orange and coated and salty and debated, with Kelly, the pros and cons of giving a bidet as a holiday gift.

All in all, a great day.

P.S. For $200 more, The Brondell Swash 1000 has a warm air dryer and an automatic deodorizer. Something to think about.

Angel of Music

I had a post for you.
It was about the time, last week, when my husband took me on a frozen yogurt run, and I had Phantom of the Opera on in the car.
I told him I would totally be screeching singing if he weren't in the car with me.
And then he told me to go for it and then for whatever reason I cranked the music up so loud it was nearly painful. And then I added more pain to the mix by singing.
And then, in my post, I went on to tell you how he hit a bump in the road (which coincided nicely with me slaughtering Christine's plea for the Angel of Music to hide no longer) and that I told him his bad drving messed up my vibrado.

It was hilarious.
To me.
But the post was lame.
So I deleted it.
And was bummed that I wasted 32 minutes at the computer with nothing to show for it.
So I clicked this bit out for you.

My apologies.
My writing is nearly as bad as my singing.


No it isn't.
But my dancing is....

I Was Only Dreamin'

Do you know that song? It may be, in my ever so humble opinion, the best song to come out of the 80's. I fondly recall having a 45 record, A RECORD, of that song. I played it on my JCPenny stereo that was roughly the size of a bookcase.
Sweet, right?
I mention that lovely ditty because it sets the mood for this post. I have had bizarre dreams as of late and I could really use some deciphering.

The other night, Saturday night, I had a dream where Kelsey Grammer (Fraiser... ex-hubby of Camille from RHWOBH..if you don't know that acronym, let's just end this relationship now, K?) saw me at a soiree and approached and did the kiss on the cheek thing. Soooo Hollywood. BUT, in addition, he placed his hand squarely, confidently even, on my boob. And as he stepped out of the kiss, his hand remained in place.
I was freaked out inside but tried to seem low key. And the dream faded out.

What's that all about?

I have had several weird dreams before the Frasier-Feel-Me-Up. By far the most disturbing and bizarre one started with me, in my bed, sheets askew and my husband dead asllep next to me. I distinctly recall I was wearing huge, HUGE white granny panties (which I may or may not actually own) and a hot pink satin bra (again...may or may not).
I was trying to wake my husband up by sort of rolling him back and forth. No go.
I was pushing him with my leg, calling his name, nothing was working.
Then I noticed my bed was smack dab in the middle of a cubicle maze on some non-descript floor of a non-descript office.
I looked around, acutely aware of myself, half naked, surrounded by people. I noted with relief that no one noticed me and my bed and my granny panties.
And then I saw one guy, waaaay across the room. He saw me, dropped his pen, pivoted his body towards me ever so slightly and folded his arms on his desk and settled in for a good stare.
Creepy.
And what did I do? I nervously and slowly  pulled my sheet up to cover my hot pink bra. And then (help me, please, help me understand myself!) I looked to my right and picked a cheesy, delicious nacho off of the enormous pile of nachos that materialized right when I needed them most.

Fruedian wanna-bes, have at it. What does any of this mean?

The Constant Companionship of Critcism and Insecurity

I'm a year older.
And I feel about 100 years wiser. Last year was a rough year, to put it mildly. But it's a year that I wouldn't change. Maybe when I'm old and arthrictic to the point that my fingers curl in on themselves, this will be the year that I describe as the year that I really, really learned to liked myself. Even if it came about as a survival skill.

Things started to go down hill last Halloween. I remember it vividly because I was smack-dab in the middle of hot glue-ing spanish moss to my son's camoflouge pants. (Think gilly suit, people). My emotional demise started with a phone call. A really long phone call about how terrible I am. It escalated to public confrontations, continued in emails, spanned 9 months and all the while was coated with other people asking me what was happening because they were told....blah, blah, blech. There was a final nail in my emotional coffin but really, at that point, I was already an insecure shell of my former happy self so it didn't quite sting as much as you'd think.
The worst part was this was all unfolding at church. Church: a place to learn bout kindness and compassion; understanding and charity. It's like when you are watching the news and you hear about a crime. And then to find that crime was committed by a police officer- someone who holds themselves up to be an example of what they say. This was something like that. Being church associates made it that much more dissapointing.

   Kelly was my constant sounding board. I told her everything and she told me that what was hapening was unfair, untrue and below the belt. It felt nice to have my ego stroked. Or my goodness reaffirmed. As the problem got bigger and messier, word got out. My Massachusetts friends that knew were great, phenominal even.  But there's only so much you can do for someone who has decided that leaving her home is optional.

And my husband, well, he was my rock. I could write a book on all of the tender ways he cared for me and protected me. Sitting next to me at church, he resembled more of a pitbull than the jovial husband he has always been. It was like you had to get thru him to get to me. I felt so protected by him. At home he would vent his frustrations with their behavior and he would make sweeping declarations of their character. Oddly, I would defend them in ways and try to justify, on some level, why they treated me the way they did. When I had made all the excuses for them that I could, I came up with a story in my head that maybe so-and-so was beaten severly and often by someone who looked like me and so years of pain and heartache bubbled up when I was around. Like they had no choice in hating me.

How could I not understand?

And let's be clear, this trick only came about after spending way too much time blaming myself for their bad behavior. Because, if you haven't already learned, criticism is merely the wrapping paper. The true gift is insecurity.
 But I'm not saying I didn't laugh when my husband joked about "no-fly lists" and "full cavity searches" for our special friends. It wasn't a belly laugh. More of a pityfull laugh while the tears flowed. So that makes it OK.
Because, despite my wicked wit and sharp tongue, I am a tender hearted girl. I don't understand cruelty or meaness. Of course I have said and done things that have hurt others. Those are the moments of life that I hate the most. But I have never set out to bring someone down or tear them apart. And I don't ever remember a time when someone did that to me...not even highschool or jr. high...those trecherous years when bad behavior seems the norm...even then I was handed kindness on a plate and told to eat it up.
I did. And I do.
 I'm the first to blame myself so criticism fells like, "I knew it. I knew I sucked."
This was the first time in life that someone was force feeding me anger and hatred and telling my small world know how much I deserved it.
Not fun.
And again, mixing church stuff with this only complicated matters.
But it brought powerful rewards. Each time I got the wind knocked out of me, someone would come out of the woodwork with an unexpected kind word. A perfect example was a Sunday when  there had been an issue; church was over and I was walking to the car with all of my bags. I was trying to get to the car in one piece and just as I got close, my husband got out and came around to open my door and take my bags. At the same time a guy from church came up. I opened my mouth to thank him for the really beautiful lesson he had given about service. In the lesson, he got quite emotional as he thanked members in the class who cared for and taught his teenagers and young children. It was so heartfelt and genuine...just loveliness at it's best. I was sitting alone, in the back (don't know where my attack dog was) and I was hardly keeping it together. You see, I can never let anyone cry alone. So as he spoke and was moved to tears, I cried, too.
And here, in the parking lot, was my chance to thank him for such a fabulous class. But before I could get it out, he was extending a hand to my husband and talking about his class. And he was confiding to my husband that, as he was discussing the lesson on Christ-Like service, he said (and I hope I never forget his words) "I was looking out across the room and I saw your sweet wife and I thought to myself, 'Who serves more than her?' " And he added, "So I just sort of went off on a tangent."
I would have never guessed I had anything to do with his impromtu speech.

It was like a tender mercy dropped down to let me know that I'm not scum, at least not in everyone's eyes.
And it's been my experience that every time something happened that cut through me, something even more loving and kind came from somewhere unexpected. It was like the universe was puting it's finger under my chin, forcing my eyes upwards and saying, "You can do this, kiddo."
And I did it. With class, if I do say so myself. I never bit back or said the sarcastic, snarky things that I could have in those moments when I was being emotionally fillet-ed (how in the heck do you spell fillet in the past tense??).
There is so much more to this story. There was one night when I went to tuck my daughter in and she was crying. She said that she knew what that family was doing to me and that, seeing the way I was handling things made her feel like she could handle the mean girls at school.
That night my tears were tears of gratitude.
Needless to say, when the call came asking if we'd like to relocate, again, it was a tender mercy. One that said, "You've done well. You've been through enough. I knew you could do it. And now, so do you."

For that bit of knowledge, I will be forever grateful. Makes it worth it all. And besides, my hair that I lost is growing in nicely.
So Happy Birthday to me! I really like me. And I really like you.

I hope the feeling is mutual.

What is it? Wednesday?

Just a moment ago. I had to pee so bad- so, so bad- that I thanked my lucky stars I was in a rental. I knew I was in trouble when, while trolling thru Pier 1 searching for a sette, I ignored my bladder. And then I went to the preschool to get Calvin. On the drive home, I had a vision of me getting pulled over for speeding. In my mind, I threw my license out the window and yelled my apologies as I burned rubber and merged back into traffic. Like that wasn't enough, I took a breath and did that cruddy, unexpected choking thing. I was trying to cross my legs, press the gas and avoid the po-po. Coughing didn't help. So I sipped my diet coke with distain since it was what got me into this mess in the first place. It was rough. But I managed.
After I recovered, I asked Calvin the Caboose questions about his day. He had burst into the car with an energetic, "We talked a wacoonth in thienthe!" (Keep up, man. He said science.) so I had a good jumping off point for out chat.
"Mom, thith ith my wacoon mathk." He said while lifting his balck and white creation up so I could see it in the rearview.
"Did you know wacoonth don't like people?" I did the required "No, I didn't know that."
 A second later he announced, "I don't like you."
I sat up just a touch straiter to see him in the mirror. He lifted his mask up off his face.
"It'th only 'cauth I'm wearing my mathk."

I suggest that if you do not currently have a four year old in your life, get one. They are awethome.

So are 6, 11, 12 and 14 year olds.

On a seperate note, I deleted the Facebook app off of my phone. And the US magazine app. Not the US Weekly- news movers and shakers app. The US-look who moved it and it popped out and guess who's shakin' in on a yacht with P-Diddy app.
I have decided I am wasting moments here and there and I'll never reach a few of my personal goals with these brain suckers at my finger tips. Best to keep them down the hall...on the computer.
I'm pleased to announce that at the very least, my bathroom breaks are much shoter. And not because I have over come some intense intestinal problem. The length of my potty breaks were in direct proportion to the length of the facebook news feed and the Zooey Deschanel article.
Too much honesty? Forgive me.

I'm doing all of this in the hopes of checking it off of my "Do It Or Feel Bad Forever" list.
On the top of that list: write a book.
That goal popped up a few years ago. I was trying to start a journal, a little compilation of who I am and how I got here.
Very boring.
So I took the liberty of writing it in narrative form.
Suddenly, it was much more fun.
I started with my first date with my husband. And 400 pages later, I think I may have a book on my hands. What I will do with it, I know not. I may simply print it, bind it and set it on my shelf. The only library it may rest in will be my own. Tucked away in the room that, right now, needs a sette.
And Pier1 is over priced.
And I need a refill.


Let's chat soon, yes?

I Should Probably be Too Embarrassed to Tell You This

You know how diet coke tastes funny right after you brush your teeth with minty toothpaste? On my way out the door to take my son to seminary, I was scrambling to pop something in my mouth to take the minty away. (You see, I get my first drink on the way home.)
Anyway, in a pinch I grabbed a handful of bacon crumbles left over from the salad I made last night.

Bacon.
At 5:50am.

Bacon.
To make the diet coke taste better.

What the hell is wrong with me?

Traveling: A True Tale Told Thru Texts

Texting with Kelly: Part Deux
You're excited, aren't you?






July 14
6:45am
Kelly: How are you? You ok?
Rachel: I got a new phone. All I can say is facetime baby!
K: Wooohooo! But not today. I look like hell.


2:07pm
R: We leave in a few hours. I'm a mess of emotions and I'm squelching them all.
K: Good call. Don't cry 'till you pull out. Then do it with sunglasses and a fresh diet coke.


2:46pm
R: Im sitting at my kitchen table in the middle of my street watching guys loads up my children's bikes. Ouch.
K: Ooh. I'm at Sonic. Should I get you one?
R: Yes
K: And a side of tots. Probably better than antidepressants.


July 16
6:12pm


R: We are taking the kids out to a place we saw on the Foodnetwork. Bet we drop $150 on dinner.
K: You travel like I do...senic route, and all about the food!


A few minutes later...


R: I just went potty. It's my luck that the toilet over flowed. Not backed up, OVERFLOWED. I'm in flip flops so I booked it out of that stall lickety-split.
K: That's like when Emily was potty training and had an accident in Costco. I knocked over a sprite, yelled whoops, then high tailed it.


July 17
6:29am


K: Why can't my husband and I get along? I swear....
R: Dang. Treat him like he's dying. You'll be more patient and he'll be more gentle in turn.
R: Or fake bad cramps and go back to bed.
K: I wish I could fake cramps. He's mad because I won't go camping without a trailer. He thinks it's a sellout.
K: Being lactose intolerant has taken all the fun out of cereal, by the way.


6:45am
K: I'm not in a good place. I'm annoyed with....[CLASSIFIED]
R: Woah. You need to break a femur. That will buy you an excuse to get out of all this and you'll get bed rest. I have prayed to break a femur before. I swear. You should try it. It's never worked for me, but maybe you have more of a need.


9:48am
R: Dang. A BMW just cut us off on the freeway. Bryan had to swerve to the far left to avoid hitting her. He plowed through some orange construction barrels. I'm still shaking.
K: Holy...I'm sorry!


12:23pm
R: Right now. Drop everything and go buy "My One and Only" by Kristan Higgins. I love it. And I think I love Nick. I don't know. I only met him a paragraph ago.
K: Nick who?
R: The guy from the book!


6:43pm
R: Buy this book! An example of why you'll love it...the main character, stranded in a small, hotel-less town, is staying the night with an older couple. She walks into the guest room where the walls are covered with dozens of pictures of "Jesus who apparently looks like Brad Pitt circa Legands of the Fall. Amen!"


7:14pm


R: Bryan just hit a deer. He's feeling pretty testy right now. But he looks really hot in his glasses.
R: UPDATE: the front end has issues and the drivers door is struggling to open. Super.


7:46pm


K: Give me another fav author. I'm ordering books for my camping trip. Fluff, please.


R: Where are you camping?
K: Glacier National Park
R: Thats where this book takes place! And in Massachusetts! Its a sign!
R: For some reason our blinker, when you signal to turn left, clicks twice as fast now. Seriously?
K: Shoot. Looks like you might have to trade it in. Seriously, whats the damage?
R: The driver's door is really hard to open and creaks so loud when you open it. Someone even came up to us and asked if we needed help. We are officialy white trash. And the Chevy emblem fell off.
K: Quick!! Go back and wear it as jewelry.
R: BTW, the heroine in this book hits a deer.
K: That's freaky. You need to manifest in another direction.
R: Who knows, maybe in the last half of the story she finishes her book, drops a dress size and, I don't know, beaks a femur!
K: Cory wants to know where the antlers are?
R: Tell him it was a doe. A pretty one.
K: He said, "Great. Now Bambi's mom is dead."
R: Creep. 5 words for Cory: Good luck with the trailer.


9:03pm
R: We almost hit a raccon.
R: 2 more deer just ran in front of us.
K: PETA is going to be all over you.
R: PETA should hate me. I love steak.
R: We're turning left and i can't stop laughing! Our blinker is so jacked up.
K: Cory said the blinker can give the deer twice as much notice.


July 19
11:10am


R: Donde esta chica?
R: Did I just ask you how you are or where you are? Where, I think.
K: In the trailor getting ready for the trip
K: Como esta is how are you. I can count to 10, too!
R: Braggert. Puedo ir al bano?
And I really mean it. I'm about to piss all the way down I-80.


July 20
9:55pm


K: Guess what I'm doing??
R: Do you love it? I got sucked in immediately.
What part are you on?
K: I just started. She had me at, "Dennis Costello was...well...the only fly in the ointment was the rattail..."
R: Beautiful literature, eh?
R: BTW, I taught Kennedy how to shave her legs in the hotel room last night.


10:15pm
K: Where are you?
R: When I offered to drive, Bryan worried I would drive too slowly. Instead I got a speeding ticket in Elk Point, South Dakota. Doesn't that town sound made up?
Currently, we are in Rapid City. Bryan hinted at a romantic evening. I said from  girl's POV, rapid and romantic cancel each other out.
K: Bahahahaha! Did you know there is a road outside of Boise called Chicken Dinner Road? Not lying.
R: Beautiful.


3:13pm
R: If Bryan says Jack-a$$ one more time...


July 21
12:35pm


R: $44 at Taco Bell? I'm embarrassed.
K: Where are you?
R: Wyoming. How goes the camping prep? I bought a new Kristan Higgins book. It starts with her lamenting how she's fallen in love with  priest.
K: I've driven that road. LONG.
R: Are you talking about Chicken dinner road? Or something else??
K: Ha! That is also the second book I bought for my trip. Freaky.
R: Maybe our frequencies are easy to read considering our close proximity. Imagine when we are in the same room? I bet the lightbulb blows.


1:55pm
R: "He looked ridiculousy appealing in black. Granted the white collar takes away some of the zing."
K: Nice.


2:27pm
K: Cory accidentally sent this to a lady today:
"I love you. You have been awesome. Things will work out today. Leave for me whatever you need me to do when I get home."
R: Awesome. Awkwad. Could be worse. Is he mortified?
K: He said he turns red everytime he thinks about it.


Sorry to tell you this has been edited. And I didn't get my daughter's OK to add some really good stuff.
Never the less, we made it to Portland, safe and sound. We took 10 days to make the trip. I'm a bit surpirsed we made it. The DVD system didn't work, I was always asking my husband to stop at the next restroom. Some of my kids, who should have been asking, weren't....But my husband (who drives like Jason Bourne and is as angry as every other Massachussets driver) got us there in one piece.
Minus the Chevy emblem.

Rose Colored Pine Trees

I moved.
To the west coast. Not back home to Hollister or the beachy town I will always love.
I'm up in the beautiful northwest.
Pine trees, cool air, cloud cover.
And I love it. I love the vibe, the house we bought, the neighbors, the schools...so far, I have zero complaints. It's likely to stay that way. I'm a half-glass full kind of girl.
Half glass full?
Glass half full.
I always goof up those little sayings.
Still, I'm quite pleased with this sudden change in plans.

Pics and details as the story unfolds...

Oh, and I missed you.

XO

I Have A Thing For Older Men

That's right.
I have a thing for older men.

Older men like Mr. Hetman. He's my convienence store crony. I met him during the wee hour of the morning known as 6:55. When I used to drive my teenager to school, I would stop off for a small 64ozer of diet coke. You know, to get the day going.
And each and every morning I would see the old man there, getting his version of a morning pick-me-up.
After a week or so of polite smiles, he started teasing me about being thirsty and what not. Those quick quips turned into chats and before long I started leaving earlier so I would have more time to chat it up with my new friend.
I would sip my drink, he'd sip his. I would lean against the honey bun display, he'd use the water bottle display as a make-shift chair.
He was surprised to hear I had 5 kids. He and his beloved had had 7. With almost no prodding, he began to open up about his life. He was 85. He lost his wife 10 years ago and everytime he would mention her, he'd get emotional.
 Mr. Hetman told me she was a tiny, fiery Irish girl and he had been as tall, black haired Italian stallion. (He was still mighty tall and had some gray, but still had a full head of hair)
They fell madly in love and married. There first baby came along and when he presented the teeny, red-haired infant to his old fashioned mother, she hit him and told him that he was a "weak man." Had he been stronger, the baby would have black hair, like him. Instead he was weak and was letting "that woman" rule the household. Which, of course, was unacceptable. He tried to explain genetics to his mother. She thought that was non-sense and reaffirmed that he needed to set things strait.
He never did.
More red-headed babies followed. And so did decades of happiness.

Morning after morning I would get a bit here and there; details about the grandchildren and who was graduating and who was traveling. He did most of the talking. And I soaked it up. I even cried one day, as I got in my car. I cried from sheer delight, just spending a few minutes with him. He became so much a part of my day, I worried when I didn't see him. I worried because he doesn't sleep well. I worried because his legs had been swelling-badly- and the compression socks were uncomfortable.
I had fallen a little bit in love with this little (6'3") old man.
It didn't take long to graduate to the point where he brought me a phot of his family.
I practically knocked him off his perch when I looked at his seven adult children and recognized one! Quietly, standing in the background was Ed, a friend of my husband's. Ed was serving in Iraq off and on over the years and my husband and son painted his garage once while he was deployed. His wife had fallen ill and had surgery and Bryan and I stopped in to check on her.
And all this time when Mr. Hetman was telling me about his son Ed the Military Man, my husband was emailing back and forth with just that guy.
Isn't life crazy sometimes?

One franctic morning, I struggled out the door in Hello Kitty pj bottoms that someone had given me to donate to the homeless shelter (a story for another time) and rain boots and a very large, stained sweatshirt.
He met me at the door of the convience store and as I walked in he said, "You know, Halloween is still a few weeks away."
It's like he knew how to win my affection!

But then gas prices spiked and driving 30 minutes every morning, in a suburban, became too much. Especially considering the school bus stops at my driveway.
So I stopped driving my son. And I stopped going to the convienence store at 6:55am.
And I haven't seen Mr. Hetman in a couple months. I've asked the employees if they've seen him.
They have not.

I've driven past the car wash where he has a funny habit of emptying the trash bins and collecting the aluminum cans.

I can't find him there.
And now I'm moving and I have a bit of panic percolating inside me wondering if I will ever see him again. Part of me fears something has happened and for that reason alone, I don't go early to check on him.

I don't think I can bear it.
At least this way, in my head, I can lie to myself and even in 20 years I can say, "I bet Mr. Hetman is sitting on the Poland Spring stack, chewing on a toothpic."

And now there's a new guy; my real estate agent. He's got to be pushing 70. He came by today. We hadn't seen him in about a month...we were traveling before the big move. My husband had just come from the gym and was making himself a protien shake and my agent  got a heavy smile on his face and told us how the doctor had his wife drink this special drink to help her gain weight. We've only ever talked about real estate stuff and so I asked, "Was she sick?"
He looked very sad and told me she had passed away while I was out of town; just a week and a half ago.



My husband had heard none of this (noisy blender and all) and sat down next to me and the business conversation commensed. But of course I could do nothing but worry and wonder about what he was going thru and what I could do to help. Have they had a wake? Wakes need food.
Have they had the funeral?
Funerals need lots of food.
Does his house need cleaning?
Does he need groceries?

I think I put on a brave face, talking numbers and open houses and stuff. And even though I was heartbroken, I willed myself not to say anything or get emotional because that just seems obnoxious even though my concern is genuine.

So now here I am.
I have no clue how I can ask this sweet heart broken man to do things for me, when my impulse is to do for him.

And I still miss Mr. Hetman.

But Seriously, Folks

DISCLAIMER: This post contains references to my spiritual beliefs and personal feelings. If this makes you uncomfortable or brings out the nasty, ridiculee side of you, come back later this week. I'll have some of my usual fluff. But if you'd like to know me better, not just the me that is sarcastic and goofy, but the other side of me,  stay awhile. I'd like to share with you one of the most powerful experiences I've ever had.




Easter is this weekend.
I love Easter. Fo me, it is a much more spiritual holiday than Christmas.
And here's why:


In April 2006, I had 4 kids. My oldest, a son- Ethan- had just turned 9. My youngest was Elliot. He was a year and a half and was sprouting the cutest blonde curls the world has ever seen.
Kennedy and Eric, only 15 months apart, were sandwiched in between.
April 13th was a Thursday, the first day of little league practice, the basketball banquet and the last day of school before Spring break.
 I'm pretty sure my day was very ordinary. And I know, with perfect detail, what I prayed for that simple Thursday morning. I can recall it that way you can recall something after a tramautic event and suddenly little moments are crystalized in your mind with perfect clarity.
I simply prayed that I would know what to do to keep my kids safe.
And then I did the usual.

The day had gotten the best of me and I was tired and behind schedule. With just a couple minutes before practice started, I loaded my kids into the car and clicked Elliot into his car seat, shoeless.
On the way, I explained to Ethan that I was going to drop him off at practice and would come back to get  him. Looking in the rearview mirror, I could see he was dissapointed. He asked me to stay and I told him about the baby not having shoes and how I'd have to go home but that I'd be back.
And that's what I did.

Near the end of practice, the younger kids were all sort of playing at my feet and running circles around me. I was leaning against the chain link fence watching Ethan up at bat. This was the first year of fast pitch and I watched my skinny, skinny slugger at home plate, his batting helmet wobbling on his head. Standing there, I had an interesting experience- a sort of mini-movie in my head. Like many of you have probably done, I went down the "what-if" road in my mind. This time, it seemed more like it was shown to me, than something I was imagining. It started with me wondering what would happen if Ethan were to get hit by a pitch. In seconds my mind was working out the details. I innately knew it would be bad. Without my own intelligence, I knew he would need to see a doctor. It was like half of my brain was absorbing the details and the other half was wondering why. So, I knew he'd need to see a doctor and I figured it was because he's so skinny and he'd probably crack a rib or something. Again, with no effort, I understood that the pediatrician's office would be closed and I would need to take him to the ER.
Of course I didn't want to take all my kids to the ER, so I planned to go home, have my husband come home and then I would take Ethan in. He could just rest quietly on the couch while I prepared a quick meal and waited for Bryan, my husband.
And just as quickly as I had ironed out all the deatils, I was back on the field, leaning against the chain-link, little ones playing tag with me as base.

And then Ethan got hit by a pitch.

The thud sound still haunts me. The closest I've heard to that sound is a melon being dropped or something.
Ethan crumpled to the ground. The coach ran up. I hung back. 9 year old boys are men in their own eyes, and I didn't want to blow his cover. But he wasn't getting up and I was getting anxious. As I approached, the coach was helping him up and I could hear Ethan saying, "I don't want to hit anymore". The coach was reassuring him. "I'll pitch to you. It'll be OK."

I got closer and Ethan was up on his own feet and, like a well-meaning parent, I didn't Ethan to leave the field afraid, so I encouraged him to bat a few more times. And like a sweet, sweet child, he did what we adults asked of him.

Moments later, he was in left field, not far from me. He was favoring his left side. I could tell he was in pain, but the most disturbing part was his coloring.
He was grey. His face was nearly colorless. I  called him off the field and said we were leaving. The closer he got to me, the more he let his gaurd down and started to whimper. You know how we all do that; we can keep up appearance for awhile, but then we see a loved one or get home or to a familiar place and we let it all out. He was starting to let it out. Walking to the car with all the kids, a mom came running up to me and said, "You're going to take ito the doctors, right? I have a bad feeling about this."

By the time I got everyone in and buckled, Ethan was in tears. I pulled out of the lone driveway of the pracice field and waited for my chance to take a left turn. And wouldn't you know, this teeny, tiny, small town of mine had  traffic. It almost never has traffic. But it did.

And as I waited and mumbled under my breath, "C'mon, C"mon you dumb cars", I looked in my rearview mirror and saw Ethan. He was even more upset and my anxiety was building. I glanced to the right planning on taking a right and then making a u-turn down the road. When I looked right, I saw an ambulance parked in the fire staion parking lot.
I simulataniously pulled in and told Ethan to get out of the car.

A couple EMT's/fireman approached us. I told them what had happened and asked if they could tell if he had a broken rib or something. One was talking to me-Matt. Another was chatting to Ethan but I didn't pay attention their conversation. Matt asked me again the details and I remember sort of stumbling over my words because I could hear this weird clicking sound. I looked behind me and saw Ethan on a gurney just as Matt starting asking me to pick a hospital.
This part is all so confusing in my mind because, despite what I was seeing, I couldn't understand it. I remember I kept saying, "What?"
Matt's voice was getting a bit more strained as he asked again, "Pick a hospital."
(We happen to live equ-distant between 2 hospitals, hence the question. I picked the hospital where I had delivered my latest bundle.)

In a split second, it all hit me and I asked if they could wait for me to go with them. I told the EMT's that I could drop my little ones off at my neighbor's house and then jump in with them.  A different EMT said, "There isn't time. Just meet us at the hospital."
And the back doors to the ambulance closed and they drove away.
With my son and without me.

I got in my suburban and my little girl was crying and sweet Eric, in his lispy 5 year old voice said, "Mommy. mommy, fa-woow dat car" and pointed to the ambulance as it drove out of sight.

I called my husband. I was just starting to crack when he picked up and I said, "Put on your blue lights and get home as fast as you can. They just took Ethan away in an ambulance."
Calm as a cucumber he told me to call Cheryl, our closest and most favorite friend. He told me that she would get there faster than he could.  I called her. I don't know what I said. But 2 minutes later I pulled in behind her, in my driveway, and she took the baby from my arms and said, "Just go."

I didn't think about my other kids for hours- a gift she gave me. I could only see and breath and think about Ethan.

I'll skip over the trauma of going to the wrong hospital-I didn't know that the hospital I picked was not the one I thought  I picked. Lucky for me, when I burst into tears in the ER of the wrong hospital yelling, "I can't find my son!", a sweet. old, old nurse put her arms around me, sat me down and began making phone calls. She sent me on my way in mere moments.

I finally, finally got to him.
He looked so little, lyimg in a big hospital bed. Monitors were beeping and there were wires and stuff. I can't remember if he had an IV.
Seeing him made me strong again. My voice wasn't shaky and it was bright when I said, "Hey Buddy. I'm here."
He opened his eyes a little and smiled even a little more.

Xrays and an MRI were in the works.
In the few minutes before this all began, Ethan and I made plans for what we would get from McDonald's on our way home. He was pretty sure he could finally eat an entire BigMac all by himself.
I told him to prove it.

Xrays happened. Nothing broken.
While waiting for the MRI, I kept Ethan going with the occasional Skittle that I'd fish out from the bottom of my bottomless mom purse.

We waited for the MRI results in the overcrowded hallway fo the ER. Ethan would drift in and out of sleep. I rubbed his scrawny legs under the white, thin hospital blaknets.

It was quiet for a long time before a doctor came in to explain the results to me. It was obvious to them, as it had been to the EMT's, that my son was bleeding internally. They didn't know where or how bad, but his coloring, nausea and shoulder pain (a sign of blood pooling on the diaphram) made them certain of this.
The MRI showed Ethan had a 2 inch laceration of the spleen. (And a stomach full of Skittles). If the bleeding didn't stop, and they weren't sure it would, surgery to remove his spleen would be necessary. They were making calls to Boston to see where to send Ethan. Children's hospital was obvious, but the best pediatric trauma surgeon was at New England Medical Center. The ER doc was hoping he would take the case.
The doctor walked away just as the 2 EMT's that drove Ethan up, Ryan and Capt. Bosworth, saw us and approached. I was just starting to lose it. And without words, Capt. Bosworth, a grey-bearded, tall guy folded me up in his arms and led me away as I started to completely fall apart. I heard Ryan's voice  fade into the background as he asked,  "So what other sports do you like to play Ethan?"

With help, I collected myself enough and called my husband. He was going to meet me up in Boston as soon as we knew where Ethan was going.
Cheryl, planning to leave on a trip to Canada the next morning, would stay at our house as long as we needed. She'd even cancel her trip if necessary.

I don't remember how long it took, but it was late when we finally arrived, by a second ambulance, at the NEMC ER.

I recall standing back watching a team of people surround Ethan's gurney. In time, they all surrounded me, asking for details. The doctor spoke and the young residents looked back and forth between me and the doctor. Like tennis, excpet they had on white coats and I was in jeans.

"How long after the hit did your son recieve medical attention?"


"Umm. 10 minutes. Maybe less"

I saw my husband walk in. He walked hesitantly over to our son. He doesn't do anything hesitantly.
He rubbed Ethan's head and pulled his hair back off his forehead.

The doctor spoke to me again.
"10 minutes?" He sounded surprised.
"Well, it's safe to say that getting him help that quickly saved his life. Most times, people take the patient home and have them lay down to rest. Often they will bleed to death in their sleep."

And with that, they all walked away from me.
It was all sort of dawning on me as my husband walked up to me. He took his baseball cap off, wedged his head on my neck and shoulder, and cried. That was the first time I'd ever seen him really cry.

Ethan spent the night in the Pediatric ICU. I slept in the chair next to him. The kid in the room next to us was unconscious, suffering from complete organ failure.
How could my son be so sick that he was on the same floor as that little guy?

My husband went home to the kids. When he got there, Cheryl had done some of our laubdry and cooked 2 meals and placed them in the fridge. She had packed a bag for me and Ethan. Nobody knew how long we'd be in the hospital. She put in magazines and books and all manner of stuff.

To make a long story short, Ethan stopped bleeding. No surgery needed. We spent 3 nights in the hospital. As long as Ethan was absolutely still, he could do whatever he wanted. The nurses had wheeled in a video game system- I can't remember which one-and he played for hours. Being 9, he'd moan and complain and get animated while playing and I'd have to tell him to calm down. I spent my time reading and looking out the window at the McDonald's in Boston's Chinatown. Bryan came up every day.
We were all exhausted.
  Bryan came to pick us up, with the little ones dressed in their Sunday best, on Easter.
The doctor gave us the all clear to leave. Ethan was ordered on strict bed rest for 3 weeks. Then he needed another MRI.
And after that, 3 months of very limited physical activity and then another MRI.

He's completely recovered. He hasn't played baseball since. He switched to hockey because, in his words, it's safer.

And with all that I learned in this experience, I learned that Easter, a Christian holiday set aside to remember the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ, evokes in me a deep well of emotion.
Because until April 2006, I had never had to consider life and death like that. I never had to need  promises like Easter.

And when I think back to that Thursday morning and I think back to my simple prayer, I remember what I said and I remember what I've been told.

"Ask and ye shall recieve."