A Musing Mother 6

I read a lot about "a woman of a certain age." I don't know if I understand what, exactly, that age is. I've been 25 and my struggles were vast. Finding my niche in my career, identifying my place in the world, and wondering if I'd ever get married and have a family. I've been 30 and my worries deepened. How do I juggle my growing family and my career? How could my baby thrive when I worked full time and she wouldn't take a bottle?  Would I ever have a second child after barely surviving pregnancy? I've been 35 and we'd just built a house. I'd had my third child and graduated to a minivan. I started dancing and thought I could fly. My life was all-consuming and I ignored my husband. I've been 40 and I rediscovered my husband. I just had my 4th child.  I had to join Weight Watchers to lose the extra curves. I'd suffered loss and healed. I'd suffered other loss and accepted. I'd started plucking more stray hairs in places beside

I love Bob Newhart. I always have. I absolutely loved all of the characters on the Bob Newhart Show. Incidentally, my favorite TV moment came from his other show, "Newhart," in the series finale. I've never recovered from it. The following is a parody of him in his first show.  This strategy might just work if it catches on.

It's 2:30 in the morning and I can't sleep. My partner in crime is a calico cat. We're supposed to be surreptitious. I sat her down and explained the definition to her. I thought she'd understand. She's the queen of stealth. She starts attacking her unseen enemy.  Pounce. Then she started to meow. Shhh. People are asleep. The tall one wakes up. He stumbles out of bed. I hear his dragging footsteps in the hall. Quick! Close the computer! No illumination. He walked right past me. He thinks I'm still in bed with him. I'm snickering Then I wonder Why aren't I in bed with him?

It's not that I have anything against dress shopping for my daughters because I don't. Shopping is second nature to me. At least it used to be. Especially enjoyable was this little store in Provo that sold little girl dresses. I could buy both girls dresses that matched for just a little over what I carried in my wallet. Yay for me! Then we met the skirt phase. Not a bad phase, really. It worked well until we had the 9th grade night dance. It was dress time! Back to my little favorite shop in Provo. Did I mention it had the cutest little dresses you ever did see?  Ruffles, taffeta, petticoats already sewn in... oh, and up to size 6x. Eyeing my 5'8" daughter, I decided I might not be living in the reality world. No worries!  I returned to the mall. Store after store offered dress after dress.  There were a lot of slinky, slutty, and downright offensive dresses. Hello! She's in the 9th grade and NO WAY was she going in anything that showed that much skin!  I ended up

It was time for a date with my husband. This is a long forgotten ritual in marriages where overwrought parents go out together without children. We look forward to it with anticipation. We can talk about life, children, work, friends, each other, food, and dreams of Hawaii. Sometimes we even sit in complete silence just for the sake of silence. Then came the glitch. The teenager, who is becoming increasingly more involved in other activities than doing what we want her to do, had plans. She's our responsible babysitter. Plan B: Get the 12 year old to babysit the little boy. It's a good plan but not solid. She gets tired easily and should really go to bed. Then she gets bossy. When she gets bossy there are tears. To clarify, she wants to control too much which is frustrating for everybody else. I was worried. Plan C: Tell the 10 year old boy he's the back-up babysitter if his sister steps down and informs him she needs to go to bed. She understands how she gets when she'

There are arguments for and against putting children in daycare. I really don't know which side of the argument this photo illustrates. The two boys on the left are best friends. Please note the adorable, pink high heeled sandals on the boy in the striped shirt. Incidentally, the one on his immediate right is his sister which leads to my public service announcement. Birth control pills don't work when you are taking antibiotics.

When I entered motherhood I knew there would be some sacrifices. Some sacrifices have been harder to bear than others, however. I really miss personal space and sleep. Even as I type I feel the little bottom of a 4 year old sitting on my back and his hands playing with my hair. I'm actually thinking of renaming him "Velcro." Not that I mind most of the time. His presence and touch remind me how much I love him. But there are times I wouldn't mind reclaiming my own pillow. 6 mornings out of 7 I awaken in the night or early morning with his head on mine or very near so. It's a king size bed yet he insists on being right on top of me. Which brings me to my next lament. I miss sleep. I knew I wouldn't sleep for the first year after having a baby. But it's been nearly 15 years since I've had a decent night's sleep. Let's break down my lack of sleep, shall we? Certain children don't go to bed. When I say certain children, I really mean th

My dad swore twice when I was a kid. Really. It's not that he was terribly averse to cursing because I don't think he was. He wasn't terribly religious and he grew up on a sugar beet farm in Southern Idaho. That's enough to make anybody swear. Backbreaking work. My mom has always had strong feelings about curse words. She doesn't believe in them. In fact, swearing shows a weakness in intellect and vocabulary. She has a strong intellect and vast vocabulary. She took us to church every Sunday, made us take our church clothes on vacation, conducted family home arguments evening on Monday nights, and essentially saw to our spiritual upbringing. My mom swore more than twice when I was growing up. A lot more than twice. I don't believe children should swear. This extends to teenagers. If our young start swearing early on, they don't develop their intellect and vocabulary. I can support this theory with anecdotal evidence; my high school students with the

It may not look like much but this book is an incredibly engaging read. Once you pick it up, you can't put it down. It's called Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders . I know. You're wanting one right now. This was the text I used for a graduate class I had before the DSM-IV came out. I spent the first week wondering if I should just quit school right then and commit myself to the loony bin. Page after page illustrated my quirks and gave me a diagnosis. I was crazy. The professor finally took the time to explain that most of us exhibit some of the behaviors outlined in the book but in order to be truly certifiable, we had to meet all of the criteria. This is why when I say I am OCD, it's not just a nice little psychobabble boasting about how clean my house is. I actually understand OCD and can quote the characteristics necessary for diagnosis. The great thing about this book is that it also comes in pocket size. To be more precise, it measures

Last week our animals caused us some undue stress and a modicum of irony.   The cat wants to go outside at night and prowl.  We let her so we don't have to listen to her ask all night.  Last week the cat went out to play, the house was locked up, the dog securely in the backyard, and we went to bed.  At 6:00 AM Mr. Taylor got up to exercise.  He found the dog curled up on the front porch looking guilty.  The cat meandered in without saying a word. Did you catch that?  The cat didn't say a word.  When the cat is out all night, she spends the first 15 minutes back home telling you ALL about it.  She has so much to say.  While Mr. Taylor had a discussion with the dog, the cat played on the kitchen floor.  Why was Mr. Taylor talking to the dog like she's a sentient being?  I don't know.  More alarming, what was the cat playing with? She'd brought home a present.  A mostly dead mouse.  So mostly dead that Mr. Taylor had no problem picking it up by the tail and taking it

She waited 14 years, 11 months and 3 days for this. The 9th grade night dance. She wanted a dress. I quickly pulled her to my closet where I had been saving for over two and half decades, my beautiful, gauzy Gunne Sax dresses. TADA! She was underwhelmed. Apparently, there is an unpublished dress code. All girls must buy a new dress. It must be a rite of passage. Store after store after store, trying on different dresses, mentally sewing a piece of fabric across the bust or back until we finally had a winner. We had, however, forgotten about the tradition her body insists on performing when important events are about to occur. There was the major field trip to a historical military outpost she had been looking forward to in the 4th grade. She got strep. Stomach flu has visited her twice at the annual Bear Lake family reunion and twice in St. George. Her first time at a college campus for a church camp, Especially For Youth fell on her fourth day of Swine Flu. This time around she had

 In the olden days, super heroes wore unitards and capes. I'm still trying to figure out how underpants and Captain America crossed culture.  On the other hand, nothing says "HERO" quite like underwear with a dinosaur on the butt or a well made pair of underoos.   

"Mom, look!" My four year old son proudly displayed a cornucopia of small chairs and toys. "It's a desk for my office!"  I was then invited into his "office" and persuaded to sit down.  He picked up a pencil and paper, sat on his chair and said, "Now, tell me your problems. I'm a shocial worker." And so I spilled my guts. When I didn't tell him anything worthwhile, he coached me by telling me what to say. "Say you're not smart in the head and sometimes when you laugh you pee your pants."  Wow. This kid really knows his client. After dinner I turned to my new therapist and asked him to tell me his problems. "Shocial workers don't have problems," he retorted. "I beg to differ," I replied, looking pointedly at his dad. And this is how I was relieved of my duties and the real social worker finally received his needed help. I am so proud.

How to Drive Your Mother Crazy for 4 Year Olds When your mother gets on the phone, demand attention RIGHT NOW! When your mother is on the phone talking to a professor at a college where she works (her boss), whom has never graced her with a personal call before so this is obviously important, keep poking her arm and say, "Mom, Mom, Mom, Mom." Repeat 17 times. When your mother shoos you away, walk downstairs to an extension phone and say, "Mom! I have something to tell you, Mom. Who are you talking to? Hey! Who is this?" Come back upstairs, climb all over your mother, get your mouth close to the telephone and call out, "Goodbye!" Pee your pants. How to Drive Your Mother Crazy for 12 Year Olds Call your mother when she is at work, 30 miles away, and inform her that you forgot your computer and ask her to bring it to you. Forget your homework after school When your mom takes you back to the school to get your homework and she tells you to specifically get

The reason is lost to me, too. But I love his cousin's face in the background.

I dread taking my children out in public. First of all, no matter how many times I tell them to go potty before leaving the house and they insist they don't have to go potty, the moment we are too far to go back home, someone has to go. Then of course there are the perverts posing as little old ladies ready to snatch one of my children and sell them on the black market. And then there is the whining and infighting and begging for a delectable treat like a Happy Meal from McDonald's. My nerves are shot in the first minute of the excursion. Years ago I figured out how to trick this system of subjecting myself and the public to a bunch of whining children. I stopped taking them out in public. I see mothers with children hanging off shopping carts, hitting each other and begging for their sugar-coated cereal of choice, whining and talking to themselves (the mothers, not the children) and I smile to myself. At least that's not me. Saturday afternoon I decided to run a couple of

The bookworm story is a cover. There's a grocery store with a bakery close by. It closes at 11:00.

Trying to get comfortable in the familiar waiting room, I brought along a hand held Yahtzee game and my latest book. The smell of antiseptic accosted my nostrils and I was surrounded by women in varying stages of pregnancy. My legs seemed to have crossed themselves with my ankles wrapped tightly around each other in a double knot. "Nancy," the virginal Scottish nurse called to me. Nearly tripping myself by standing up too fast without unwinding my legs, I tried to gather my things of comfort; my book, my game, my planner, my purse, my keys. I finally relented and threw all of it in the purse, pasted on a smile and followed the aged Scotland Yard to the dreaded gallows. First the scale. I pleaded silently that she'd not mention that I'd gained weight since my last visit. Then the cuff was placed securely upon my artery, and the nurse explained how she was going to get a sample of my blood now. Quickly swiping the cold alcohol square across my finger, squeezing tight, s

I know we are a stunning couple but you should have seen us 18 years ago. For one thing, I had fluffier bangs and wore a fashionable big white bow on my butt. Mr. Taylor looks pretty much the same except his hair has lost some of its body. I would have scanned a picture of us looking like we are 15 and looking starry-eyed and dreaming of how our marriage would be THE marriage everybody envied, but scanning is so retro. Or I don't know how to use the scanner for much more than an expensive paperweight. And so you get this picture of us on our 18th anniversary. Be grateful this is post pregnancy, stretch pants, extra large sweatshirt, Friends' Rachel haircut (season 2). We're just middle aged people who have joined the masses of other middle aged people who discover that marriage is work, parenting is hard, and beauty fades. I can't think of anybody else I'd rather spend my life with. Happy Anniversary.

In 1991 I traveled to Europe with a friend. I had been once before, 4 years earlier as a student and with my sister. Our home base was in a hotel in London. The second time, our home base was our suitcases. We stayed with Michelle's Uncle Alex for 5 days because he lived in Switzerland and who wouldn't want to be in Switzerland. We arrived from Austria by train but made a short stop just outside of Munich in a town called Dachau. If the name sounds familiar, it is because Dachau was a concentration camp in Hitler's rein. Set just a quarter of a mile from the village, it is surrounded by quaint homes, fields and forests; an idyllic backdrop for such horrors. Most signs were in German and difficult to understand however, there were also photos of some of the medical experiments. No German language was necessary to comprehend. The barracks are mostly gone and have been replaced with green fields. Only two remain. There is no evidence where the barracks once stood. Alth