Band-aids. Dislike.

Ten Reasons Why I am Not Stuck on Band-aids and Why They Don't Stick on Me. Ever.

1. They're gross.
2. That brownish color they come in is even grosser.
3. I know there are Band-aid options now. I don't have to buy the gross brown ones when there are neon, sparkly, Princess, and every other kind of Band-aid available. But that's kind of like putting lipstick on a pig. No matter how you dress it up, a Band-aid is still a Band-aid.
4. They're sticky. I know that's the point, but it doesn't change the fact I don't like sticky things. Not even stickers.
5. They leave behind that gross, sticky, black residue that you have to scrape off.
6. They're hiding something and I don't like secrets. I can handle the truth. I can't guarantee I won't pass out if there's lots of blood involved, but that's preferable to looking at or wearing a Band-aid. And by "lots" I mean not very much.
7. The only way a Band-aid will come off is if you go swimming. The only thing grosser than a working Band-aid is a floating one. I don't think any one wearing a Band-aid should be allowed within ten feet of a swimming pool.
8. The only thing grosser than a floating Band-aid is used Band-aids stuck to the wall so the bloody part shows. I had a friend in high school whose little brother did this with all of his old Band-aids. I never saw the room, but every time I see a Band-aid I imagine what those walls looked like and it makes me gag. I avoid the possibility of my children ever doing this by never buying Band-aids nor allowing them to bleed.
9.  Band-aids never get thrown away. They just end up sticking to something else and then you find them and you have to unstick them from whatever they're stuck to and then they're stuck to you and eww. I'm feeling nauseous thinking about it.
10. Did I mention Band-aids are disgusting? No? Well, they are.

My Million Dollar Idea: UnPinterest

The problem with taking time off from blogging is that it's hard to get back into it. I can't think of a darn thing to write now that I've got the time to do it again. Plus, I'm getting the feeling either no one wants to blog anymore or every one's on vacation.

So where are you fellow bloggers? Have we all run out of things to say? Or are we too busy finding pictures to pin? Is this what we have been reduced to? Looking at pictures of what people like instead of reading the words they write?

The thing is, I kind of like knowing what people don't like. And how do you pin that? Is there something called UnPinterest for our dislikes? Or are we all just trying to create a perfect space with recipes we'd whip up if we weren't so tired, home decor we'd buy if we weren't too poor, crafty projects we'd make if we weren't so uncrafty, birthday parties we'd throw for our kids if we actually threw birthday parties for our kids.

Or maybe that's just me.

Actually, I hardly ever go on Pinterest. Mostly because I can't remember my password, but also because it's very intimidating. There's just so much to look at, I don't even know where to start.

I do know where I'd start on UnPinterest though: Shades of Gray.

Have you heard of it? If not, you're lucky. It's the latest thing for the modern housewife. Every one's got to have it. It'll spice things up in the bedroom. Turn up the heat. Re-ignite a dwindling flame.
It's Porn for Women.

 Finally. Because apparently we've been missing out, ladies.

The thing is, everyone who is reading it can't put it done. They're staying up all night to read it because they have to know what is going to happen and then they have to move on to the next book. They all say the writing is terrible, but they can't stop reading it.

So my question is, when exactly are they "spicing things up"? Because it kinda sounds like they're just doing a lot of reading. Reading they don't really even enjoy because it kind of sucks. Except for the sex scenes, of course. Which they describe as ridiculous.

I guess I don't understand the appeal, so feel free to explain it to me. Maybe I don't get it because I know it started out as Twilight fan fiction. Since I'm not a Twilight fan to begin with, that's strike one. Strike two comes from the fact that every thing I've read or heard about the book says the writing is truly terrible. I barely have time to read good writing, so I don't want to throw that time away on something that stinks. And finally, it really irritates me that there are so many excellent writers not making any money while someone who doesn't know how to write anything beyond a titillating sex scene is making millions. So, strike three.

And there's my unpin for the day. Go ahead and consider this my Facebook dislike of the day also.  But stay tuned, I think I've found a new blog topic. There are a lot of things I don't like.

Next up: Band-aids.

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.