In Honor of Baby Kegel. And Some Other People Too.

Today's post is a tribute to some friends of mine. Which, for some reason, brings to mind that old Willie Nelson song, To All The Girls I've Loved Before. I'm really not sure why. Maybe because of that part where he sings:

I'm glad you came along

so I dedicate this song

to all the girls I've loved before...

But honestly, I can't explain how the soundtrack in my head works. I mean, I do love these two girls. Just not in the same way I think Willie Nelson would love them.

Anyhow...

Moving on to the actual tributary part of this blog, I'd like to start with Sheridan. And if I were any kind of technical computer genius person, I would make that name light up and flash. Maybe even do a little dance.

Sadly, I think we've already established here, I am not that girl. Which is okay. Because Sheridan is not a flashy, name- in -lights kind of gal anyway. Quite the opposite, actually. In fact, Sheridan is the kind of gal whose husband once said to me, "please take her shopping and I don't care how much you spend. I just want my shirts back."

And what I heard is, "shopping spree at Nordstrom on somebody else's dime." 

So we went. But I told her before we left to wear a bra, because I knew she wouldn't if I didn't make her. Except she still didn't. Instead she packed one in her purse. Her small purse. (Here's something you should know about bras. If you have borne and nursed three children, you should be wearing a bra with cups and underwire. Not one that can be wadded up and stuffed into a purse. Those days--and those boobs--are gone my friends).

But Sheridan's boobs had been hiding under her husband's shirts, and she didn't know this. So, being the charitable woman I am, I sacrificed my own bra for her use so that she could see how nice clothes look when breasts are properly positioned inside them.

She's still not convinced. Which is actually pretty awesome, because it gives me something to tease her about. And thank goodness there's one real woman in the sea of plastic that is Orange County (not that there's anything wrong with the plastic--no judgment here).  

But her courage in the face of conformity is not why I want to pay tribute to her today. No, the real reason she deserves my kudos is for her tireless and underpaid efforts to educate women about childbirth. Not the sterilized, hospital, let's-make-this-as-convenient-as-possible kind, but the beautiful, calm, women's-bodies-are-amazing kind. Which I think is really cool. Because what we go through to have children--whether naturally, with an epidural, by c-section, or adoption--should be celebrated and not feared. And if you want to go to a place where it is, check out Sheridan's blog http://thegiftofgivinglife.com/. While you're there, take a look at the book she helped write, whose button I would grab, except... well, that whole computer brain deficiency thing I've got going on.

Let's move on now to friend #2, Nikki, who is as good at birthing children as Sheridan is at teaching people how to birth them. For example, one time Nikki gave birth to twins. Then about two years later she gave birth again.

To triplets.

Because she's efficient like that. Five kids in two pregnancies gets things done pretty quick if you're looking to have a big family. Which maybe she wasn't so much, but, hey, she's sure made life fun for those kids. Even if they don't always make it fun for her

Including the one that came a few years after the triplets. If you're counting, that's three pregnancies, six kids, and four years. See what I mean when I say that ability to have children is pretty amazing? Especially when you can have so many, so quickly.

And guess what Nikki did today. She went ahead and had another baby. Just one this time. And she waited seven years. But still, pretty amazing, right?

Before she had that baby, though, she got a little training from Sheridan about how to do it. Even though she'd already done it. Three times. But it never hurts to learn a few new tricks. Like how to hypnotize a baby using Sheridan's hypnobabies tactics (still don't think I have the definition of that right). Plus Sheridan gave her these cool stickers to put on her purse, and her steering wheel, and lots of other places, to remind her to "exercise"*

And when Nikki's kids found these stickers they thought they were really cool and wondered if they were for the baby. Because, did I mention? Her boys' names all start with K.

Oh, and the new baby is a boy.

So wouldn't Kegel make a great name?

Her kids thought so.

Nikki did not.

But welcome to the world anyway Baby K (but not Kegel). You are blessed to have such a fantastic mom who entertained herself in the hospital this week-- while waiting for you to be born six weeks early--by letting one of your big sisters do this to her:

Pretty awesome mom, right? Just imagine how much fun you're going to have once you're out of that pumpkin!

* If you don't know what a Kegel is then you 1) have never given birth or 2) have some serious bladder issues if you have.  Either way, you should look it up so this post will make a little more sense

Be Careful What You Joke About

Yesterday I thought of a really awesome blogpost. But I've slept since then and now it's gone. That's sort of how things work--or don't work--in my head.

So, until I remember what I planned on writing today, I'm going to tell you a little story about a friend of mine from high school. He was a Catholic boy and I was a Mormon girl. And there were a lot of us Mormon girls (and boys too) around because, as you may remember, I'm from southern Idaho. Which, while not the heart of the Jello Belt*, is definitely the nuts and carrots.

There weren't a lot of Catholic boys around though. Only two, in fact. And a lot of us Mormon kids didn't get that my friend was a pretty good Catholic. Like go-to -Mass-while-his-parents-were-out-of-town good.  Many of my Mormon friends and I, on the other hand, were the kind of kids who tried to get out of going to church when our parents were in town. There was no way I would have shown up at church without my parents. Which is probably one reason they never left town. Ever.

But, I was the "right" religion, so clearly I was on a more direct route to Heaven. We Mormons tend to think that way sometimes. (Although, I don't think we're the only religion guilty of that kind of arrogance).

Then one day I moved. To Cleveland, Ohio. Where there are more than two Catholic boys. Many, many more. But not many more than two Mormon girls. Especially at the Catholic school where I taught. In fact, there was only one there. Me.

And I figured out that there were really a lot of good people of all different religions. And maybe I didn't have all the answers. And maybe I could learn something from all these other people that would increase my own faith in Jesus Christ and help me live my own religion a little better.

I also decided that not everybody needed to be Mormon. Actually, I think it's best that not everybody is. Things tend to get a little weird when there are too many of us in one place. Case in point: Utah. (No offense, Utah. Love you! Your mountains are awesome!) And maybe that pastor guy who offended my cousins, Mitt and John, has been there and that's why he thinks we're a cult. (He's wrong, btw).

Anyway, my point is, I'm not really a send-the-missionaries to your house kind of gal. I live my life so people can see what I believe, I talk about my beliefs, and I'll answer any question someone may have about my religion. But, unless you ask me to, I'm not gonna send any nineteen year old boys to your doorstep.

So when I saw my old high school friend this past summer, I shared this philosophy with him. And we talked about lots of other things, including the fact that he should join Facebook so he could stay in touch with me and everyone else he's tried to avoid for twenty years. I may have mentioned this a few times. Like maybe a hundred.

And guess what? He did join. So the first comment I posted to him was a very funny one about how now that I'd converted him to FB I had a book he should read and I was sending some boys in ties over to hand deliver it to him. And I laughed and I laughed at my cleverness. Because what were the odds of some missionaries showing up at his door in Boise, Idaho?

Well, pretty high actually. Because they did. And he was kind enough to offer to weed whack their ties for them (I'm sure in a very friendly way. He's not the kind of guy to seriously threaten somebody with a gardening implement). And they offered to help him with his yard work. Which probably would have been easier for them to do if they hadn't been wearing suits and ties.

I don't know if they left a copy of the Book of Mormon with him-- or if he'll read it if they did-- but, just in case, here's a little message from some of my Baptist friends.

* the Jello Belt is the region of the United States from about Boise, Idaho, through all of Utah down into Gilbert, Arizona where many, many members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints live (aka, Mormons) and consume large quantities of Jell-o concoctions they refer to as "salad". These salads often include the unlikely ingredients of vegetables-- such as carrots-- and nuts.

Wanted: New SAHM

That's it folks. I've decided to resign. Larsen Inc. will have to find a new CFO, chef, cleaning lady, driver, personal shopper, hairdresser, life coach, and drama queen.

Because, you see, rather than find a more effective method than nagging and yelling to get what I want, I'm just going to quit. Who needs that kind of stress anyway? The pay is terrible, the benefits often unnoticable. And don't even get me started on the hours. 24/7 with very few breaks.

So the next time you come to my house, just be warned, the following are likely to occur:  you will (1) get stuck to the floor after tripping over backpacks, shoes and underwear; (2) gasp at the lack of running water and electricity; (3) smell my bathrooms and realize the toilet is not actually supposed to be brown; (4) find my children--their hair tangled and bodies filthy-- trying to BBQ the dog (5) my husband desperately trying his hand at paying bills in order to get the magic lights and flushing toilets back (yeah, good luck without the computer)

Once you've taken all this in, look for my chaise lounge. There you will find me, flashlight in one hand, book in the other.

You'll have to take your complaints to someone else, though.

Because I'm not in charge anymore.

A-Tiltin' And A-Whirlin'

I've climbed on folks. The lap bar's down and I've already started tiltin'. Next comes the whirlin'. And I don't see this ride ending before January.

It started this past weekend with the first of two trips within a month to Palm Springs. Or, as I like to call it, Las Vegas's older, hotter (not in a good way) and gayer brother. You know a city is full of old people when its major streets are named after Bob Hope, Frank Sinatra and Dinah Shore (Dinah, who?) and not Martin Luther King Jr. But, on the bright side--and I may be perpetuating a stereotype here--I think the large gay population is the reason Palm Springs is so much cleaner and tidier than its younger (and wilder) brother.

 So why would a straight woman who doesn't golf or like the heat, go to Palm Springs twice in four weeks? Well, I do like weekends alone with my husband. Especially when the hotel room and dinners are paid for by someone other than him. Which is why I went last weekend. And I like girlfriends who are celebrating their fortieth birthdays. Which is why I'm going next month. (Also, I like outlet shopping--hubby does not, girlfriends do--and there is that there).

Speaking of girlfriends, I've got another quick trip planned with some more of those this coming weekend. That is, if my parents don't show up to go to a friend's funeral. In which case, I'll get to see them for a minute or two, so that's okay. Even if they are sad. Because who likes to lose a friend unexpectedly? (That may be the vomit part of this ride, actually).

Then there's that whole week-long school book fair I'm co-chairing. That's the week I'll really be spinning. But the next week is our Thanksgiving break, and all I have to do then is drive twelve hours to Utah, make  dinner for a lotta people, and then help with my cousin's wedding reception. Then drive twelve hours back home. So that should be relaxing.

And did I mention I signed up to be Girl 3's room mom in her school class? Why, you ask? Because being room mom is kind of like giving birth. Once it's over, you forget how painful it was until you're in the midst of labor again. Then you wonder why in the hell you signed up for this again. But it's too late because you can't go back now.

Plus you love the teacher. And your kid...

Most of the time.

All this is on top of the one to three hours a week I'm volunteering in all three kids' classes. Oh, and I think there are some holidays coming up too. I maybe should put those on my calendar so I don't forget.

Then there's the book I'm about 10,000 words from finishing. Which I thought I could do in a couple weeks, but it's taking a lot longer than that. I can't imagine why. But I've gotta have it done, edited, and revised before December so I have something to brag about in my Christmas card.

And I may be thinking about doing a triathlon this summer. Which means I've been learning how to swim; because I don't want to be the only one out there wearing those little arm floaty things. There's been some running involved with that too. And some thinking about biking.

I've started to think instead of trying to do everything--none of it very well,--I should  pick one thing and get really good at that. But maybe that one thing I'm good at is taking on too many things at one time. That's something to think about.

In the meantime, I'm just hoping I make it off this ride without a lap full of puke. Because I'm already wondering why I climbed on.

WHEEEEE!!!!!

Stop The Whirl; I Want To Get Off

It's been a while since I wrote about vomit, so I think it's about time I did again. Because who doesn't like a good puke story?

For this one we'll need to go back in time--late nineteen eighties/early nineties (I can't remember for sure. I am old.)--to the fair city of Burley, Idaho. Surely you've heard of it, because everyone knows someone from Burley. Apparently they are a prolific people there.

And if you've heard of Burley then you've no doubt heard of the Cassia County Fair & Rodeo (and carnival, though that part is not in the title). "THE Fair", as it is more commonly known, is the biggest event of the year.

Of. The. Year.

Which gives you a pretty good idea of how little went on the other 360 days of the calendar.

It always falls on the week before school starts which gives the kids (like me) an opportunity to show off a few of their new school outfits before the official start of the year. You know, like a fall preview fashion show for your fellow classmates and the ex-cons working the rides at the carnival.

It's also a time to meet up with friends you haven't seen or talked to very much over the summer because 1) you all have things called jobs,  2)you  don't have a cell phone because, remember, we've gone back in time to pre-texting 1989/90, and 3) Mark Zuckerberg is still in diapers, so how could anyone be aware of where you are or what you're doing?

So there I am at the biggest Fashion Week event west of the Snake River and east of the Nevada border that includes not only farm animals, but also a variety of rickety rides that spin. And how could I resist those? (The rides I mean. I found the animals very resistable).  When a ghetto Disneyland is dropped in your backyard once a year, you don't pass up that kind of fun.

My friends and I--we'll call them Candice, Steph, Nate, and Jeff--decided to ride the Tilt-A-Whirl. Which, if you are not familiar with, is a poor man's version of the Tea Cups. You sit in a giant tin can which goes around a track in a circle and then--if you're really dumb--you make the tin can itself spin around and around as fast as it can. Because you're 17 and invincible and nothing can make you throw up.

Unless your name is Jeff. And then the Tilt-A-Whirl can make you sick. Very, very sick. So sick, in fact, that you will puke about thirty seconds into the ride. While the ride is still spinning. And spinning. And spinning. Very fast. Which will, essentially, turn the ride into something like those machines that make cotton candy. Except instead of sugar, you add vomit and new school clothes. And nobody wants that flavor of cotton candy.

Especially the carnies who are running the ride. And keep running the ride--ostensibley to rid the tin can of vomit chunks through centrifugal force, though their laughing made me question their motives--even though every time you go by you plead with them to SSTTooopp TTHHHe RRIIIdddeee!!! But of course they only hear ST...
TH... RI....

Maybe they misinterpretted those sounds to mean, "Please, kind gentlemen without teeth, let us ride this ride for no less than three minutes or until we are thoroughly covered in puke. Thank you." Because that's what they did.
By the time they finally did stop the ride, Jeff was the lone passenger on the left side of the car while everyone else was piled on my lap on the right side. Which worked nicely for me--despite the pain in my legs--because my friends shielded my brand spankin' paid-for-with-my-own-money new clothes from the flying vomit.

You might think this experience forever ruined the dizzying joy of the Tilt-A-Whirl for me. Wrong. I'll still go for a whirl occassionally, but not without remembering-- and laughing about --that one puke-filled ride.

But it doesn't take a carnival ride to bring this memory back. Every time life starts getting a little crazy, a picture flashes through my mind of the five us shouting "STOP THE RIDE!" begging to be let off and rueing the moment we decided to get on.

It reminds me of a line I heard somewhere, sometime, from someone:  Stop the world. I want to get off.

My life feels like that some times. Like maybe even right now.

You know what, though? It didn't take us long after we got off that ride to start laughing about it. And I don't regret going on it.

Sometimes you've just gotta hang on and enjoy the ride--even the projectile vomiting part--knowing you'll laugh about it later.

Here's a challenge for my writery friends: Describe the kind of kid who would draw this picture



Just in case you can't tell, that is a bus screaming, "Aaaa." Why? Because of the wolf perched on top of it with blood dripping from its fangs. Got it? Good. Now go. Then come back when you're done because I'm going to describe the kid who actually did draw it.


She is my Girl 3 and six years ago this week, she looked like this:

But now she looks like this:

And this is the picture we sent out in her birth announcement:

But this is the one we should have sent out:



Because, lo these six years, her sisters have been pretty convinced she is the favorite child. And according to a recent Time magazine article, they may be right.

She certainly brought  a new level of joy to our family when she was born. And she still does--despite the occasional screaming and all too frequent whistling.

I'll admit it, some days she is my favorite. Especially when she skips and twirls. Oh, how I love the skipping and twirling.

Except when we're late (which is often). Then I don't love it as much.

But I still love her just the same.

And because she had a birthday and this post is about her, here are five more things I love about her:

1. She laughs so loud when she watches the Muppet Show or Donald Duck that you can't help but  laugh with her.
2. She asked for fizzy bath balls for her birthday.
3. She likes to wrap her arms around my neck when I lie down next to her at bedtime.
4. She likes to chase lizards, but never actually catches them.
5. She says "I'm happy that...(insert things like, Lola (the dog) got a haircut") at random times, sometimes long after the thing that made her happy happened.

Oh, and her artistry skills. Let's not forget those. It's not every little girl who, when given the assignment to draw a picture for her school calendar, will draw a bus being mauled by a wolf.

Or a turkey pooping--which is what we got last November. Can't wait to see what she comes up with this year.

Happy Birthday Birdie!

It's A Pondery Sort Of Tuesday

I keep trying to find the path I want this blog to take: is it a place for some funny stories, a record of what's going on in my life and my childrens' lives, a writery place, a Mormony place? What is it supposed to be?

And I think I've decided it's all of those things. At least for now.

It's the Costco of blogs. You can get yourself some food, but also a coffin. Because while you need the food every day, one day you'll need a coffin too. So maybe most days you need a laugh--and hopefully I can provide that--but maybe one day you'll need one of those other things this blog has to offer.

Today if you're shopping for a little spirituality/religion/Mormony stuff, I've got that. I don't know why. That's just what my brain is delivering this morning.

This past weekend the fam and I went to Las Vegas and while the kids watched movies for hours--which they'd never be allowed to do at home--in the backseat, husband and I listened to a podcast called Mormon Stories, which sometimes I like and sometimes I don't. But this time I really liked it because the interviewee was Terryl Givens.

You can find the podcast here, but I will warn you that it is long. Well worth a listen--particularly if you have to drive from California to Las Vegas and back again--but very long. And it will make your brain hurt because there is so much to think about.

Like this quote: "We are mired in banality, but within the gospel [of Jesus Christ] there are eruptions of the divine in our life that occur from moment to moment."

Which pretty much sums up how I feel about my religion and why I live it. I don't always enjoy going to church on Sunday for three hours or the meetings that go along with whatever job I'm currently performing within the church. And, more often than not, I don't hear anything I haven't heard before when I listen to the speakers or the teachers. That's the banality part.

But then there are moments when I can feel a divine presence in my life which makes all the banality worth...well, the banality of it all.

My friends and I were talking about this at our weekly breakfast get together this morning and when I said this, one of them said (or something like unto it):

"It's like this time about a year ago when I had all four of my kids at church by myself. I was trying to keep the baby quiet and my son from poking his younger sister and my oldest daughter kept squeezing my leg trying to get my attention. I felt so frustrated and mad that I even tried to take them all by myself and I kept ignoring her squeezes. Finally I turned and listened to what she was trying to tell me and I saw her eyes were welling up with tears. She said, 'did you hear what that man just said?' I hadn't heard a word of what anyone had said, but she obviously had so I asked her, 'did it make you sad?'  She answered, 'no, it made me really happy and I don't know why I'm crying.'"

My friend explained to her daughter-- who was only seven-- that she was feeling the spirit. Which is, essentially, the love of our Heavenly Father. And not only had her daughter felt it, but knowing her daughter felt that love helped my friend feel it too. And it was, as Givens calls it, "an eruption of the divine."

And it's moments like those-- even when they're not my own--that help me understand why I do what I do and live the way I live.

Even when I don't want to.

And isn't that what religion is supposed to do? Help us recognize the divine?