A Musing Mother 6

What is up with Facebook, Twitter, Myspace, and social networking? When I joined FB, I stayed at the computer all day. Completely fascinating. Jane opened a Diet Coke. Jane had to pee. Jane is reading a book. Oh no she's not! She's dinking around on Facebook! After three days of FB, I tried to get a divorce from it. But I already had 58 friends! In my 40 (or so) years, I've run in a few circles. Some of those circles had common denominators. When I tracked down a friend from high school, all of her friends were notified that I had joined FB. More requests by all parties (including me). Then the intersecting began. College friends, old boyfriends, secret crushes, church groups, work groups, bloggers, and even people I know in real life. In real life, people! If you see me every day at work or at church, you don't need to be my friend on FB. There's nothing to stalk! You already know how I am. Unless you want to know every time I open a Diet Coke or have to pee in whi

I have been following a couple of blogs by extremely coupon savvy women. CJ Sime possesses a knowledge of how to attract money. She clips coupons and found 18 cents one day while on a run. Almost makes me want to start running again. Almost. Tiffany has made an art of saving money and/or getting things free. She has a system for organizing coupons and even the order in which they must be given to maximize her savings. She's kind of a freak of nature but the woman cracks me up. One of the funniest and smartest women in blogland. Don't believe me? Read this . And I am completely enamored by her baby. The mother of this adorable baby is the cause of my grief. Last week I clipped and downloaded as many cereal coupons as I could so I could hit a sale at Albertson's. The coupons were ONLY for Kellogg's Frosted Mini Wheats or Raisin Bran. I calculated carefully and chose as many boxes of Frosted Mini Wheats I thought our family could stand. However, I threw in

Tonight my 9 year old son got out a container of ice cream and a scoop. He struggled terribly to get out a scoop. Frozen solid. "Put in the microwave for 20 seconds," I suggested. He gave me a long and pitying glare. "Mom. That is way too long," he enunciated as if speaking to a person with a very low I.Q. Poor kid. He hasn't learned how to tap into my culinary genius, limited as it may be. Ice cream and I have a long and rocky (road) history.

Saturday morning 6:45 AM Mr. Taylor drives over to church to clean. 7:55 AM Mr. Taylor calls to tell the rest of us to come. Teenager won't wake up. 4 year old is still asleep. Mother stumbles to van without shoes. Drives 9 and 11 year old to church. 8:05 Drop off kids while other members of congregation arrive to clean. 8:08 Mother returns to bed. 8:25 4 year old gets up 8:50 Doorbell rings. Mother assumes the kids have come home and are playing games. Ignores doorbell 9:05 Mr. Taylor enters bedroom and asks, "Where is my brother?" Mom rolls over and rasps, "Am I your brother's keeper?" Mr. Taylor says, "His truck is parked outside and he's not there. We have a tee time." Mom says, "Oh, crap." Rewind. 8:50 Doorbell rings. 4 year old boy opens door and asks, "Are you a stranger?" Man takes off his sunglasses and asks if his daddy is home. Boy opens door and says, "I'll check." Boy goes to garage, sees h

Hi. My name is Nancy and I'm artistically challenged. Hi, Nancy 1. I stood on the counters and arranged the decorations above the cupboards while my husband dictated where to move them and at what angle. 2. I earned straight A's in every class in 7th grade except Intro. to Art. I begged and cried until Mrs. Sandofsky pitied me and changed my D+ to a C-. 3. I don't scrapbook. My pictures sit in an ever growing pile of photos and CDs, completely unorganized. 4. One of my more mortifying experiences occurred over a piece of art. I hesitate to tell this story but in order to fully embrace who I am, I feel I must cleanse my bright, polka dot, striped, and absolutely non-color-coordinated soul. In an effort to get to know the congregation, the recently appointed bishop and his wife decided to throw small dinner parties at their house. To protect the innocent, I will refer to the bishop's wife as "K." This also protects the author if she accidentally spells it ou

As much of a cheapskate as I am, it pains me to admit that I don't like the dollar store. It is filled with cheaply made plastic trinkets made in a third world country by children earning $1.24 a year. Not only that, every dollar dropped into that store is a dollar not saved for college. Last night my 9 year old son asked me if I would take him to the dollar store. I asked him what he wanted to get. "Just stuff," he said. I restrained myself from giving him the lecture on savings, interest, and loans and gave a vague answer. He kept asking until he had a commitment that I'd take him. I have a hard time telling those big brown eyes no. At 8:15, forty-five minutes before the store closes, I took my 9 year old son and 11 year old daughter to the House-0f-Crap (hence, making our house full of crap). As I stood alone, trying to look interested in a plastic cup holding springs with fake candy corn on the end I had an epiphany. I remembered being 8 years old and Chri

Saturday my brother baptized my sister-in-law. It was a beautiful day and very touching. I'd go on and on about what a neat experience it was but there was an elephant in the room. Something I was trying really hard to ignore. The presiding member of the bishopric happens to be an old friend of mine. We went to school together from age 12 until we graduated from high school. Probably never exchanged more words than "Hi" and "How are you" until after Mormon mission. That's when we were in the singles ward together. Back to the present, I asked him about his parents and asked where they lived. He replied, "They still live in the subdivision on the other side of the gully." "Of course," I reply, "I came over that one night with Jill and..." And there was the elephant. Let's play a game of pretend. If the conversation continued, what might have been said? ********************************************** "Rob," he

"Nothing is so important that you can't drop everything and go to the loo." - nancyism

You know I'm a dancer, right? I mean, I don't currently dance but I only retired shortly after my 41st birthday and only because we couldn't get studio time. I donned my black (because black is slimming) jazz pants and my most beat up t-shirt, tying my hair up in a sloppy pontytail, skipping the leg warmers and slipping on one baby sock on my left foot (my turning foot) to stretch, leap, skid, turn, spin, lean, and slide with other dance moms every week. It was an enjoyable and torturous weekly event. Some of the women had been dancing all their lives. Some of the women hadn't even hit their 25th birthday. Some women didn't have children. One woman moved onto other hobbies like dancing with the Utah Jazz dancers. Others, like myself, have graduated to dancing their sad little pirouettes on the kitchen hardwood floor every week or two. It is at this time that I demand my children "get off my stage" while I am performing. In my mind, I'm pretty darn

"Mom," my 4 year old son said to me this morning as I he held up my bra, "your bra is getting smaller." "Really?" I asked. He looked dubiously from the bra to my chest and finally declared, "But it still fits you." I wonder what that means.

Mr. Taylor and I have different sleeping and energy schedules. He's an early bird who gets up bright and early, before the sun, and runs 3 miles or more, plays jungle ball church ball at 6:00 a.m., and accomplishes more between 5 and 9 a.m. than I do all day. But it comes at a price. I am a night owl. My favorite past time is to find a delicious book and read until the wee hours of the morning. At 10:00 at night, I get my second wind and start folding laundry on the bed. Very irritating for the man who has been up since 5:00 a.m. and wants to go to sleep. (It is a serious miracle we conceived four children based on the gap in our schedules.) Speaking of that second wind, it really does kick in just about the time Mr. Taylor is ready to go to bed. I find that the best time for talking is when the kids are all in bed. Mr. Taylor would agree if it were an hour earlier. And so I insist on having a conversation while he tries his darndest to stay awake. Sometimes he doesn't

I didn't want to be this person but I'm going to have to admit it. I really care about my blogging friends. Non-bloggers don't get this connection. I follow their lives, their ups and downs, their tragedies and triumphs. Sometimes they know I'm stalking them. Other times it's probably just down right creepy. (You know who you are. I love commenting on your clever, witty, or moving posts). One day I went to the printer at work and found a downloaded copy of sheet music by some musician named Paul Cardall. Not knowing anything about him, I searched some of his music, played it, and enjoyed his style immensely. Truth is, I'm kind of a sucker for piano. A few months ago there was an unfortunate incident in a small town in Southern Utah where a man with a mental illness was having an episode and he ended up being tasered; once while standing and again while he was down and died. Incredibly tragic. His name was Brian Cardall and he is the son of a prominent perso

After picking my teenager daughter up from school today, we continued on to the most dreaded store of them all - Walmart. My daughter and I suffer from many of the same maladies. One of the most pronounced today is the tendency to get distracted. All I wanted was a planner. Just a planner. Too much visual stimulation. Wandering around, refocusing, yelling at each other to stay on task, walking back again, something shiny... Anyhoo, back to my planner conundrum. I really wanted a daily planner that didn't cost an arm and a leg (read: Franklin Covey), wasn't the size of a Harry Potter book (read: Franklin Covey), and didn't start in January 2010. After perusing, getting distracted, pulling 0urselves back, I finally decided I would have to get a small, hardbound notebook and write in the days and times. I actually love the format but it is tedious work. But that's what cub scout pack meeting is for, right? We found ourselves in the check out lane of one "Tyl

Ever notice the incredibly high energy level your children have the first month or two after school starts? My house is typically very quiet during the daytime. There's about an hour after I come home with my 4 year old that it's just him and me. That peace is abruptly shattered the moment my 4th grade boy and 6th grade girl enter the house. Today went from complete peace to total pandemonium in 30 seconds flat. Boy: Sister's an IDIOT! 4 year old boy (copying): She's an idiot. Girl: Ouch!!!! (screams and cries inconsolably. Comes to me holding her tender arm screaming), He hit me! Boy: Did not. I barely touched you. Girl: Mom! He... Boy: She's an idiot. Do you want to know why? Mom: Not at all. Go get your backpacks (this repeated 7 more times). The exchange continued between them at 200 decibels while they went in search of their backpacks. Do we really not understand inside voices and outside voices? Apparently not. Doorbell rings. Two neighborhood boys

Okay, so my crazy sister and her neighborhood mom friends decided to be Super Women. They trained like mad women and, this past weekend, ran the Red Rock Relay in Southern Utah. As a 12 woman team, they ran 178 miles, 36 legs, 8,000 ft. descent, from snow to sun. They left the following at home: 12 husbands 46 children 12 fish 4 frogs 3 dogs 2 birds 2 guinea pigs 1 cat 1 hamster 1 gecko 1 snail Don't freak out. It's just a Cabbage Patch doll The one in the left is my sister of steel. Jene in Snow's Canyon Not my sister (although I'm thinking of adopting her) Jene at Cedar Breaks (One guinea pig died)

I remember my childhood as being quite idyllic. Because we didn't have computer games and only 5 channels on T.V., we used a lot of imagination. As I contemplated the entertainment I enjoyed as a child and reached back into the recesses of my mind I came to an uneasy conclusion. Toys in my childhood were stupid. Slinkies: Curly metal that could walk downstairs but tangled within the first 82 seconds of ownership making the slinky completely useless except as an implement for torture. More specifically, hold one end of slinky at the top of stairs while having sister hold the other end at the bottom of the stairs. Let go. Barbies: Pretty much did the same thing as they do today. You buy a Barbie with cute clothes. If you take them off, you can never put them back on again. Spandex hadn't been invented. You were now the owner of a naked Barbie. When you got bored, you pulled off her head. Refer to third sentence of this paragraph. Slime: I don't even know what to say

1 Peter 5:10 And the God of all grace, who called you to His eternal glory in Christ, after you have suffered a little while, will Himself restore you and make you strong, firm, and steadfast.

Today was The Big Game . Mr. Taylor sat down to watch and enjoy. I sat through the first half then went to the bedroom. Sometime during the second half, I could hear Mr. Taylor using his condescending voice to reason with someone. I assumed it was one of the children. Wrong! He was reasoning to the T.V. using small, simple words and subtle arm movements. I always find it amusing when, during a televised game, the Neanderthal fan/man jumps up and yells unintelligible words at the ref, players, or coach. 1) They can't hear him and 2) Even if they could, he is unintelligible. Unless he is a social worker. Then he tries reasoning with the inanimate object. When I pointed this out to Mr. Taylor he became very defensive. "You don't know how guys act during a televised game! You've only seen me," he accused. I assured him I'd spent PLENTY of time in the company of guys and T.V. "All the guys I watch games with do the same thing I do," he proclaimed. &quo

9 year old boy: Dad, when you were a kid, did you ever run away and join the circus? Dad: Yes, I did. 9 year old: Yeah, I did, too. But then I ran into the problem. Dad: What was the problem? 9 year old: The fake arm. It just didn't do what it needed to do after the chain saw juggling act.

Dear Children, I realize I sound like a scratched disk by saying this over and over and over and over again. You tell me that you know and I don't have to say it all the time but, since it is 9:50 p.m. and I'm doing yet another load of laundry, I feel compelled to explain it yet again. Poo and pee go in the potty. It's a simple little sentence. Try saying it to yourself all day. We call that a "mantra." You know who you are and you know how old you are. If you happen to read this blog, you know who I am referring to when I tell you that I do not enjoy cleaning poopie underwear. Is that clear or should I spell it out for you? Again. I believe I have had enough temper tantrums over this issue that you know exactly what I am talking about. Also, stop trying to hide them. Eventually the smell gives their location away and then I'm really not happy. I do overlook the night time enuresis as a whole. I understand it is an issue of physical and neurological maturity.

I caved and went to the InstaCare to check if I needed stitches on my finger. My husband kept telling me it looked disgusting and making throw up noises like a 9 year old boy. I really hate going to the doctor for myself unless I really know I am in physical trouble. I don't like the way the doctor raises his eyebrows as I explain my malady and he then pretends to care as he pokes and prods, finally declaring there is nothing he can do. It's only a: cold flu vasovagal syncope and concussion bruise abrasion virus aging process As it turns out, he would have put in a couple of stitches had I showed up within 6 hours of the slice and dice incident. Too late now so he offered to super glue it closed and promised it wouldn't scrape off (it did) and I wouldn't need to keep it covered with a bandage (I would). Just to be extra helpful, he asked when the last time I had a tetanus shot. "Five years ago," I quickly replied. "Really?" Long awkward pause. &

Ever notice that nearly everything requires a membership or time commitment? Whatever happened to the good old days when I required a service, I paid my money and got the service? I really miss the anonymity. My back has been giving me fits. Somehow, my 9 year old son and I worked out a deal where he was paid so much per each minute of massaging my back, culminating in the a win/win situation - my back would be better and he would get his payment of Harry Potter Wii game. He reached his goal long before my back felt better so I buckled and called Massage Envy. Massage Envy offers a special introductory price and then hits you with a sales pitch that would require a minimum one year contract in which the company has access to your checking account and withdraws whether you use the service or not. If you don't sign up, your next massage will be nearly double the intro price. Not only that, they require you to fill out a paper asking you to provide personal information including