Hinges

My Saturday started with a 6.5 mile run, something I'd never done before. Proud of my accomplishment I figured there was nothing else I couldn't do. I could get my house clean and, of course, my children would merrily cooperate because why wouldn't they do that for a mother who could run so very far?Without even stopping. In only one hour.

But my eleven year old had other ideas that had less to do with helping and more to do with sleeping. And I was okay with that since she didn't do a lot of sleeping during the week. I had just run six and one half miles, so I had no doubt she could wake up and joyfully go about her chores once she decided to roll out of bed. The fact she'd never actually done such a thing before didn't deter me from believing she could and would that day. Because, after all, I had run all those miles.

Let's just say the morning did not go as planned. Or imagined. Instead, by eleven o'clock my husband was attempting to remove said daughter's bedroom door from it's hinges after it had been slammed one too many times. (Something that must be genetic, because by the time I was sixteen my door frame was literally falling apart from abuse). We've heard from countless parents of teens and pre-teens that bedroom doors "just pop right off the hinges" and "it's easy."

Well, it's not. At least not for us. The screwdriver got stuck in the hinge thingamajig and the eleven year old got sent to the garage until she could stop using ugly words.

She was there for really a long time. And I was sorely tempted to lock her in there for the rest of the day. Judge me all you want for that. If you think I'm a terrible parent, you're probably onto something. You also probably don't have a hormonal preteen who's been giving you hell since pre-conception, but who you love to death anyway.

Anyhow, the day did get better and by the time we went to the church BBQ at the park, she was in fine spirits. We all had a great time, in fact. Chatting with friends, eating chicken and salad, playing at the park, busting open a pinata. Good times, readers. Good times.

Until the sun went down and we were ready to go. It was then we noticed we hadn't seen Girl 2 in quite some time. But we didn't worry too much because she's pretty responsible that one. She's not a wanderer and if she leaves in a huff she always cries loud enough to let us know where she is.

But when I saw the friend I thought she was with, then I did worry. When the friend said G2 had gone to the bathroom with G1 and she hadn't seen her since, then I worried a little more. So I asked Girl 1 if she knew where her sister was.
"We went to the bathroom and then I waited for her, but she never came out so I left," she replied.
"How long ago was that?" I asked.
"I don't know, but it was still light out," she answered.

And then I panicked.

I looked down at the bathroom doors, saw a man come through one and every bad story I'd ever heard about little girls in bathrooms flashed through my mind.

By this time my friend Bethany had run down to the stalls to see if Girl 2 was still in one. She heard crying coming from one, but couldn't tell what the crier was saying and kept asking if it was Girl 2 in there. The crier finally spit out that it was and that she couldn't get out. And that she was alone.

Am I a terrible mother for being relieved? To the point of laughing a little? Because she is my kid I've never really thought about locking away, yet this wasn't the first time she'd gotten herself locked in somewhere. Plus, even though I felt really bad for her, I could smile because what I'd imagined had been so much worse.

The bathroom doors had both a deadbolt and a magnetic lock that requires a key card to open. Usually it opens automatically from the inside, but this time it was stuck. Girl 2 couldn't open it from the inside and we couldn't open it from the outside. So after about thirty seconds of trying we called 911 and told G2 the firemen were on their way.

They arrived a few minutes later and went to work. First there was some discussion as to how they should accomplish their rescue--something I thought they could have perhaps discussed on the way over, but whatever. Then they tried the key card. It didn't work. So they tried kicking the door, followed by the key card again. Still no luck. So you know what they tried next?

Hinges. Because those babies just pop right off.

Except when they don't. Not even for firemen.

There next plan of action was to call Public Works to see if they had some magic way to get in so they wouldn't have to bust up the door. Which was very considerate to all of us due paying members fo the community who would have to replace the expensive door. But my baby was the one stuck on the other side of that stupid door, so I didn't really care how much it cost.

But I didn't really say anything because, after all, she was safe. We just kept telling her "five more minutes." I did slide a lollipop through the crack at the bottom of the door for her. Because, you know, she needed sustenance. And I wasn't entirely sure she had actually eaten dinner. Also, it was starting to look like we'd be there for a while.

Then  very nice cop showed up to help out the very nice policeman. Some of the boys there suggested he shoot down the door and I thought that was a pretty good idea. Aside from the bullets richochetting through the 3 x 3 cement bathroom my little one couldn't get out of. Instead he called the community parks association (SAMLARC) and informed them they needed to get someone to the park within the next five to ten minutes or the firemen would be breaking down the door.

Then an eternity passed. I made a little joke to the cop about not being able to lock Girl 2 in the closet anymore and luckily he laughed. Apparently he thought I was joking. I didn't mention anything about garages or older daughters and near acts of parental desperation.

And just when I was about to kindly suggest that they BREAK DOWN THE DAMN DOOR!! the firemen brought out the big tools.

They had the handle broken off that door by about the time the  SAMLARC guy showed up. Which is to say, in about five minutes. It's all the other stuff that took an hour. Making Girl 2's trip to the bathroom the equivalent of Gilligan's three hour tour.

If only she'd worn her gingham shirt and put her hair in pigtails, she would have been a dead ringer for Mary Ann.

Also, the only other time I've seen her face this red is when I accidentally locked her in the car at Target when she was two and I was eleven and half months pregnant and looked like an elephant. But that is another, equally entertaining, story.

And it's physically impossible for my husband to keep his eyes open in a picture.

But the lesson learned on Saturday is this: Hinges do not just "pop off."

We've got the pictures and the screwdriver that's still stuck in Girl 1's door to prove it.

Diorama Time = New Shoes for Mommy

I planned on writing a spectacularly hilarious post today--or at least a moderately funny one--but my two weeks of child and house neglect have caught up with me.

Okay, make that three weeks.

All right, fine. It's been a few years.

But I'm using this Memorial Weekend to make up for it. I am actually going to participate in the creation of the much procrastinated first grade leopard report + diorama, the third grade city report + float (shoe-box size, thank goodness), and the fifth grade state report + poster. There will also be some bathroom and bedroom cleaning going on because they all smell worse than outhouses and I miss my floor. Plus there's some gardening to do too. I'm pretty sure I have some food plants amongst those weeds. At least I vaguely remember planting some.

But first there's some shoe shopping to be done. Because we're fresh out of shoe boxes and we've got those two dioramas that are due Tuesday morning bright and early. What other choice do I have? I mean, how else do you make a diorama? Everyone knows the basic ingredient is a shoe box. And stores don't just give those things out willy-nilly without any shoes in them. So I'm willing to sacrifice for my children by purchasing new shoes for myself.

I know, right? I should definitely be named Mother-of-the-Year.

And Girl 3 has her diorama shopping list all ready, so this project should be super easy.

Before I run off to Nordstrom (okay, I'll probably have to settle for Target since we've got to find a stupid plastic leopard anyway because I'm not going the clay route again like we did with Girl 2's fennic fox) I'm going to help a sister out. A sister who came bearing a six pack of Diet Coke, a bag of limes, and a dozen bundtinis* in my darkest hour when I was too tired to think and just wanted to punch my computer in the face rather than do anymore manuscript fixing.

So for my awesome friend Carrie Maxfield--who sadly does not have a blog of her own--I am posting this link to a photography give away contest:

Amazing giveaway for photographers or anyone interested in photography.  All expenses paid, 2 day trip, to be mentored by Andee Tate of Crave Photography.  Plus lots of other free goodies from 10 other venders.  Go to her blog to check it out and enter.  Or, just check out her work to get inspired or motivated by her creative photos!  Go to http://cravemyphotography.com/blog/

I went to the blog and her pictures are pretty fantastic, so you may want to check it out yourself. In the meantime, I'll be back next week with a post about another awesome friend, Sheridan, you remember her--she of the no bra--whose book was just published. And I think you're gonna like it.

Now I'd better get on that whole shoe shopping thing. I've got a lot to do this weekend, so there's no time to waste.

* If you don't know what a bundtini is I feel sad for you because you must not have a Nothing Bundt Cakes in your neighborhood where you can buy delicous big bundt cakes, yummy littler bundt cakes (bundtlettes), and deliciously yummy baby bundt cakes (bundtinis)--because everything is more delicious when it's baby sized. Except for actual children.

Labor Pains

Writing a book is--seriously--like having a baby.

It takes a long time to cook up and there's really a lot of puking involved in the process (though it's vomiting of words as opposed to food). When you finally get it out you think the hard part is over.

But it's not. Not even close.

Then there's all the molding and refining. And back talk. My manuscript was almost as sassy--not in a good way--as my eleven year old. "Why would you even write that?" was it's favorite catch phrase, followed by, "Stop it. Just stop it."

You know what would have made the whole book writing thing easier? A Plan. I mean, A Better Plan. One that I actually stuck to. But that's not really how I operate when it comes to doing things for the first time. I kinda just do it really poorly and painfully, then decide to listen to the advice of more experienced people my second go around.

Like the first time I gave birth. I went into it with no more plan than thinking  I'll give that natural childbirth thing a try and see how it works out.

Four days and one C-section later I had learned my lesson. Make a plan and get a doula.

Like my friend Mama M who can garden, recycle, and not buy things like nobody's business. She already has her Birth Plan typed up and ready to go. And she's not due til August. August people! I haven't even planned what I'm going to wear today (though I think we've all got a pretty good idea).

But you've got to read this thing because it is hilarious.

Mama M.’s Birth Preferences
Below are my wishes for delivering an organic, all-natural, locally-made baby
(thanks in advance for helping me create the Patchouli Fest I’ve been dreaming of)

Mother: Mama M (blood type: O-negative)
Father: Mr. M.
Doula: Hattie Engel

1. Nurse Preference: I’d love to work with a nurse who has a positive attitude towards natural childbirth or at least one who thinks I’m cute.
2. Medical Procedures: I’d like to avoid any medical intervention where possible (including, but not limited to, Pitocin, IV, and epidural, but excluding liposuction and boob jobs – let me stress that these two are welcome procedures: C-cup and perky please). If medical intervention becomes necessary, I’d like to talk about alternatives and consequences and have some private time for discussion with my husband and doula.
3. Induction: If induction becomes necessary, I’d like to start with non-medical methods (i.e. changing positions, walking, squatting, nipple stimulation, aerobics videos with Richard Simmons, etc.) and only use Pitocin if these don’t work.
4. Monitoring:  I’d like to avoid any non-critical monitoring and also to avoid non-critical vaginal exams (if you do examine my vagina, please don’t criticize it).
5. Free Movement: During labor, I’d like the ability to walk freely, use the shower, squat, kneel, or engage in interpretive dance to align my chakras.  
6. Liquid and food:  For hydration and strength, I’d like access to clear liquids and small snacks that I’ve brought with me with the exception of vodka gimlets – don’t give me access to those.
7. Quiet time: I’d like staff to be quiet and calm for maximum relaxation.  I want to be the only one screaming.
8. Umbilical chord: I’d like to let it stay attached until the pulsing is complete.
9. Baby on chest: I’d like the baby to be placed on my chest asap after birth and medical procedures on baby to wait until I say I’m ready for them.
10. Circumcision: I’d like the baby circumcised if it’s a boy.  If it’s a girl, can you come up with some other form of retribution for the trouble she put me through?

Note for treats: Please also enjoy these organic vegan brownies (they are organic except for the Betty Crocker brownie mix and vegan except for the eggs and 2 cups of butter).

See what I mean? I did not think of any of these things the first time around. But let me tell you, I learned from experience--which sadly seems to be the only way I learn. With Baby #2 I had my best friend/doula by my side (who also happens to by Mama M's sister), my husband, a better doctor and a plan.

And four hours plus one epidural later, boom, I had myself a baby. So. Much. Easier.*

So my advice, whether writing, birthing, or what ever...

Make a plan, man.

Make. A. Plan.

* The fact that Girl 1 will pretty much say no to anything unless she's given a detailed plan and plenty of warning while Girl 2 pretty much just goes with the flow and is up for anything may also have had something to do with the amount of hell they put me through to get here.  And the amount of hell they currently put me through.

Bad, Good and Awesome News

Good news friends. My pitch outfit--with some help from my pedicure--totally worked. The senior editor of the publisher I want to publish with wants my full manuscript. The WHOLE thing.
Doesn't mean it's going to actually get published, but apparently those sort of requests don't happen very often.

The bad news is he wants it in two weeks. Two weeks from last Friday. Which is actually less than two weeks now. Which wouldn't be a big deal except for the fact my manuscript is about an eternity away from being submittable. Sadly this means my blog will be on hiatus while I do some major editing.

Other things on hiatus during the next two weeks: house cleaning, responsible parenting, and my life.

But in some awesome news, my husband swept, mopped, AND polished the floor while I was gone, thereby eliminating any need for socks ever again.

Or at least for the next two weeks. Because I'm pretty sure by the end of my hiatus from everything that doesn't involve me scowling at my laptop, we're going to need socks all over our whole bodies to create a barrier from the dirt.

Writing, Pedicures, Mullets, Missionaries and Regret

I've been pretty busy getting ready for a writer's conference I'm attending this week, so my blog has suffered from some neglect. As have my children.

But there's a lotta stuff that's gotta get done before you can jet off to spend three days with a bunch of authors: some famous, some not. Stuff like cleaning the house--but still not the floor because what would we do with all of our socks if we didn't use them to keep our feet clean while walking across dirty floors?

And then there was the pedicure and eyebrow shaping (which is a fancy way of saying "fixing my monobrow") that had to happen. Plus the outfits to be picked out, including the one I'm going to wear to pitch my book I would like to be published. Hopefully my clothes alone will convince him to read the manuscript, because I haven't really prepared the pitching part of my pitch.

I also had to spend some time going through the syllabus and picking out which classes I want to attend. Even though I'll probably change my mind once I get there.

Then there was the episode of Who Do You Think You Are? that I had to catch up on. Because I love to see famous peoples' hearts turned to their fathers. Especially when they are famous people like Rob Lowe who is nice to look at. But I'm sure I would have been just as moved watching an ugly man hop on a plane to both Washington D.C. and Germany to do a little family history research that could have just as easily been done online.

And maybe there was some writing that had to get done to take with me to boot camp. Which, contrary to what I first thought, is not an exercise class that makes your body hurt but an exercise class that rips apart your writing so it can be better. And maybe if I had done the writing before the painting of my toenails, I wouldn't have been quite so stressed out the last few days.

But this color on these toes has put a smile on my face. Sometimes you gotta go for inspiration before perspiration.

And no. The dirty floor under my feet is not my own but that of the Salt Lake airport where I am waiting for one of the famous authors, Melanie Jacobson, who is on a later flight than mine. Which gives me an hour and a half to blog. And also to people watch.

So far I've seen one mullet and two missionaries being welcomed home. I mean the missionaries, not the mullet. Because no mullet should be welcomed in any way.

But missionaries definitely should be. Which is why I love flying into SLC on a Wednesday night. The two tonight came home from Tonga in their white shirts and ties and those skirt things that Polynesian people wear  that I don't know the name of. And flip-flops.

That's my kinda mission.

And the blonde missionary and his family keep standing here reunionizing. Like maybe they're not going to see each other again for another two years. But it's pretty fun to watch because other people--Polynesians mostly--keep coming up to him and asking him about his mission. One lady asked him if he had come home from Hawaii because that's where her daughter is serving.

And I wanted to yell to her that I know the mission president in Hawaii because his daughter is one of my best friends. Then we would have had a nice chat where I would tell her what great people the mission president and his wife are and how they have one heck of a great daughter.

But I didn't. Because I'm blogging. Which I haven't done in a while, but it probably shouldn't be an excuse not to tell a mother who misses her daughter that she's in good hands.

Coulda, Woulda, Shoulda.

Pictures I should have taken on our seven hour drive to Vegas that usually takes four...

1. The decrepit water park in Newberry Springs. When it was built on the side of the trash strewn highway outside of the hellhole that is Barstow, California, hubby and I thought it was a stupid idea.

We were right.

It closed within a year.

And every time we drive past it now it looks more and more like something from a Scooby Doo episode. I would live for the gang to solve the mystery behind who the numbskull is that thought that was a good idea.

I can't help but envy the optimism it took though.


2. The World's Tallest Thermometer at the Big Boy in the pit stop (I really wanted to call it another kind of stop that rhymes with pit, but this is a family blog. As in, my 11 year old reads it) that is Baker, California. It used to be an interesting landmark that told us just how hot or cold it can get in the desert.

Now it's The World's Tallest Tower of Broken Lightbulbs and Dreams. And a preview of what the world will look like after the Zombie appocalypse.

3. The man on the side of the road standing next to his Delorean with the doors up. The. Doors. Up.

Because if you drive a Delorean, there is no other way to stand outside it than with the doors up.

I can only assume with all the upheaval in Libya, his plutonium delivery was delayed, thereby leaving him stranded by the side of the road.

In My Day...

You know what I missed out on in fifth grade?

Mean girls.

Sure I had some tiffs with friends and there was one girl we didn't always include (I'm sorry, Heidi. It's one of my bigger regrets in life).

But I don't remember any girls who were mean just to be mean.

I do remember the Day of the Great Cow Slaughter.

My brother remembers it too. He would have been six or seven at the time.

Kids stood three deep watching through the chain link fence that separated the school playground from the neighbor's cow pasture. Mr. Neighbor Man accomodated our curiosity by doing the whole thing a mere two feet away from us, ignoring that other half acre of pasture he had with its hidden corners.

He shot the cow in the head. I remember it was with a rifle, but I could be wrong. Whatever he used it was quick. One minute the cow was standing, the next minute it was down.

I didn't see it again (I was short even then and did not have a prime spot at the fence) until after much cranking of the pulley in the back of Neighbor Man's truck, the cow hung by it's back hooves on a giant hook. Which has a name that I would know had I achieved my dream of being a cowgirl. But I didn't, so I don't.

I watched as the neighbor split the cow open. My only thought was, "I wonder if it's true cows have five stomachs" then being disappointed that the guts fell out in a giant, gray fleshy ball covered in wet grass. It was a little like watching my dad dump the grass out of the lawn mower bag. If the grass were covered in cow cud.

There may have been blood. But I don't think so. I'm the girl who gets grossed out by band-aids, so I think I'd remember blood.

In fact, the whole thing is just a funny little grade school memory to me. A product of my childhood in Idaho. Made even more curious by the fact this took place while we lived in Boise--the capitol of that fair state--and not in the farm town we'd later move to.

Because, really, how many kids get to watch a cow slaughtering in between playing handball and crack the whip?

Not my kids They still play crack the whip and handball, but I can't even imagine the uproar if the kids at their school were exposed to a real life lesson on Where Your Hamburger Comes From.

They can listen to Katy Perry, wear daisy dukes, read books about kids fighting each other to the death, then see the big screen depiction of it. Their parents will let them dress like adults, talk like adults, and think they're adults.

What they won't do is give them responsibilities or make them take any.

And you know what?

If I had my druthers, I'd let my kids view a backyard cow slaughtering over being exposed to these kids any day.

Because those coddled kids are mean.

Especially the girls.