A Musing Mother 6

Thursday's Blush and Cringe will include a McLinky. Let's share the fun of our foibles and laugh at ourselves with each other. I can't think of a better gift to give than laughter.

Believe it or not, I haven't made an extraordinary fool of myself this week. I haven't chased the dog while yelling colorful words for all the children in the neighborhood to hear and emulate, I haven't slipped on stage or been gnawing on my foot. This week. And so I have decided that I will share some of the joy I felt today by listening to my colleague, Gail, tell me about taking out the garbage this week. First of all, when I talk about Gail, I have to add a Texas drawl because Gail's from Texas. Although this may mean nothing, it gives her an edge of stubbornness and pride. I can't count how many times she's boasted that the Texas flag can be hung at the same height as the U.S. flag due to the fact that it was (and still should be, according to some) a sovereign state. So Gail's husband had his chest ripped open last week for a quadruple bi-pass. As much fun as that sounds, this means that he can't do his usual chores. Mr. Gail is from Idaho. He does

I bought some new shorts on Saturday for the warmer weather. It's the end of May and all. Yeah, Not so much a fan of Al Gore.

Dad, I wrote you a letter. Will you read it to me? It says, 'tsjmlr.' It does? Wait. I had it upside down! Now what does it say? It says, "I love Dad." That's right. That's what it says.

Ever noticed you can tweak your blog and tweak it a little more far into the night and then do it again the next night? Ever noticed how addicting tweaking a blog is? Me neither. I was just making conversation.

The letter came last week, although I was forewarned. It said something like, "Your daughter is so darn amazing, we're dedicating an entire program to honor her." or it could have said something prosaic like, "9th grade honors night. Be there." Just a short program, I was certain. Not a lot of people, perhaps. We pulled up 10 minutes after it started and parked behind the senior citizen couple just getting out of their Buick. "Hey Mom and Dad," I called. They couldn't hide the disappointment that I hadn't arrived earlier to save seats. I gave a meaningful look to my teenager. Her hair wasn't behaving so she had to put it up. In the near blinding darkness of the auditorium, I tripped over 7 people to secure three seats together then asked 5 different people, "Is this seat taken?" finally securing my own seat. 45 minutes and three musical numbers later, we were halfway through the program. I was already on chapter 7 of my riveting b

I'm drowning here, people! Being a mother is the busiest job I'll ever have. Within the next week I have two award assemblies (one of which might or might not result in a trophy for a child - the child hopes but doesn't know so I still have to go), field day, dance festival, preschool graduation, 6th grade graduation (at the same time), my mammogram which, incidentally, I scheduled carefully and then the grade school awards assembly was rescheduled to coincide WITH my mammogram, an I.E.P., and people in this household still insist on clean underwear and cooked food. Did I mention that I work as a high school counselor at an alternative high school? Now let's talk about graduation for the seniors who will be just a quarter credit short of graduating and they will be BEGGING on Monday night to PLEEZE just let them test on this subject one more time when they've failed the test three times so far that day and I just want to know where they were in January or February o

But I didn't say "crap." And I know who the culprit is. It was the one who didn't say "crap." Ah, crap. {cue "Another One Bites the Dust}

Being a member of a family is absolutely vital for a person's well-being. Not exactly an original thesis statement, but hear me out. I have found that spending time with my parents and sibs brings that feeling of "I'm home" and "Look! I'm not crazy, my whole family does it, too!"  As an added bonus, talking on the telephone with any of my sisters is a cleansing experience. ( Warning: This is where I over share ). If any of my sisters are talking to one another (myself included), you can bet at least one of us is sitting on the toilet. We share a number of similarities and bonding qualities. There are four girls and one boy. Two are school counselors. Three are former school teachers. One is a social worker (odd man out, Mike) but he's also a former school teacher (back in). We can't stand each other. We can't live without one another. We find ourselves congregated at my parents house without invitation. My youngest sister and I found ourselve

Here is a little known fact about me. I have a somewhat photographic memory. It's bizarre and unsettling in some ways. In other ways it comes in handy. Mostly it's bizarre and unsettling. Since having children, some of those memory cells have either died off or become more concentrated on keeping my children alive in spite of having me as their mother, but every so often this quality pops up. My specialty is people. One year I worked as a counselor at a brand new junior high school. My assignment was all of the 8th grade students and one third of the 7th grade students. In all, I had approximately 600 students. A few of them caught on that I knew their names. All of them. What they didn't know is that I knew their quirks. Those are the things that stick with me. I'll eventually forget their names but I never forget their stories.  Kind of like a savant only cute. Alecia had school anxiety and cried every day in my office for the first month. She also liked denim and sun

If you are a book lover, I have a couple of book giveaways on my book blog. If you aren't a book lover then carry on doing whatever it is you were doing. www.amusingreviews.blogspot.com By the way, I'm going to post a few more reviews and/or giveaways in the next few days on my book blog. Just in case you want a book or two for those days by the pool. Sorry to disturb your blog reading. Now really. Carry on.

I am unabashed. I stole this from another http://mormonsoprano.com/ Hey, MoSop! Imitation is the greatest form of flattery! http://mormonsoprano.com/2010/05/09/the-cure-for-mothers-day/

One of the many t shirts declaring war on breast cancer. A confident dog. This man feels very comfortable about his manliness or very strongly about boobs. Either way, Bravo! Turn your head to the side. See it? It reads: Of course they're fake.  The real ones tried to kill me. One of these things is not like the other.  One of these things gets put in a box every night. I did not take a picture of my mother's boobs. That would just be weird. {Maybe just one little picture} The cancer survivor is Misty, the blonde. I used to babysit her when she was 3. She found her lump shortly after she stopped breastfeeding her 4th child. She was 32. Misty with her former college roommates. The one on the left is my sister. Go get your mammogram! It's the best time you'll have all year! {I'm lying. But go do it anyway} Lisa. I hear you. You're in my head. Knock it off.

It all begins in the smallest place imaginable; a single cell. The message quietly encoded to tell the cell how to behave are all in order. When one cell dies, the proteins dictate how to turn a replacement cell on. The cells split and a perfect clone is achieved.  Except one. One cell includes renegade codes. The one protein that includes the code to turn off the replicator is missing. The cells split, grow, split grow over and over again. Unkindly, the faulty cells grow in different directions, weaving tentacles throughout the tissue like an octopus on steroids, forming pathways of corruption for months, even years. Eventually the host feels different. Some feel weak, others feel a lump, others suffer an injury. Time stands still as the patient hears heavy words and shock hits until reality sinks in. You have cancer. Surgery is scheduled to remove the cells, to dig into the tissue and find every last tentacle. Chemicals are poured into ports with measured steadiness and gloved hand

"Do you think I have time to run home and check on the kids?" my husband asked over the protruding belly clad in a hospital gown. I was growing increasingly uncomfortable with a I.V. in my wrist, monitors on the baby's head, blood pressure cuff on my arm, and the sound of my fingertips drumming on the bedside table. "Go ahead," I replied, "nothing is happening around here besides your son's knees are lodged in my vertebrae and I'm soaking the bed every 10 minutes and where in the he** is Dr. Parker?"  It was 7:00 a.m. I'd been at the hospital for three hours. Nothing was happening. At. All. But I wasn't going home and my dad really needed a little break. The girls needed to get to school. The boy would be deposited at his grandparents house. They needed to be fed, hair combed, teeth brushed, matching shoes on, someone to explain why we were gone. Scott left and I called my dad who was at our house taking care of the kids. I asked him ho

This is my first installment of Blush and Cringe ! In other words, my most recent social faux pas. Setting: At church Occasion: Stake Conference (all the wards or congregations get together every 6 months for a conference) In the hallway I see Kelsey, a daughter of a woman who simply can not escape me. Our paths are constantly crossing, which has never been a problem before this particular Sunday. Kelsey is her oldest daughter. She recently graduated from college and is in her first year teaching elementary school. She was also pregnant the last time I saw her. Today she is carrying a car seat and walking with her husband. I catch Kelsey's attention so I can admire the baby. The baby is adorable! He gives me a toothless smile. I note the small, slightly turned up eyes. I wonder if it would be rude to grab his hands and check for the Simian line. I love Down's Syndrome babies. I have a special affinity because of my little friend, Gavin. My children spent five years in d

He's a funny boy at ten years old. He just starts talking and things come out. Yesterday he was trying to get my attention while I was reading a book. I didn't respond so he said, "Well, what do I know, I'm just stupid." Perceptible pause. "Stupid but happy." I cracked up. But at least he was still my little boy. Even though he won't kiss me goodbye when I drop him off at school and suffers the consequences of me calling out to him in my annoying mom voice, "I love you, son! Make good choices!" He pretends he doesn't know me. Sometimes he feigns casualness by whistling as he saunters off. But he's still my little boy and I'm just a mom. I'm insignificant, and, largely invisible unless he needs something. That something is often our little special time of his seeking me out after school and talking to me about stuff. Important stuff like having a substitute today who didn't know that his teacher is purposely growing mold

When Queen Latifah started making her way in the Hollywood scene, I was put off. A self proclaimed queen? Give me a break. I have since changed my tune. She knew back in her twenties what I'm only learning in my forties. My approach is a little different but the conclusion is the same. We are worthy to be called "queens."  It is innate. We are made of divine matter (my conclusions of why we are queens). Yet our favorite past times seem to be to beat ourselves up for our perceived weaknesses.   Modeled after Maria Shriver's Just Who Will You Be , Queen Latifah's goal with Put On Your Crown is to help young women build a strong sense of self-esteem. A US Dept. of Justice survey found that females ages 16-24 are more vulnerable to partner violence than any other group, almost triple the national average. Queen Latifah has always been a shining example of a woman happy with herself and unwilling to compromise to fit into the "hollywood ideal" of what

Today's guest blogger is my husband. It's a surprise because he has no idea!   This blogging thing has some surprising benefits. Like it makes me giggle to think of him reading this right now. And all his colleagues. And his employees. They read my blog, too. An email he sent me: How are you doing?  You sure write a lot about being old recently.  Let me tell you a few things: 1. You're beautiful, and not just because you look good.  Which you do by the way. 2. I love you and your age has no bearing on that. 3. This age thing is so telestial.  50 years from now we'll laugh at the fact we even thought about it and we'll be together in our little home in the sky hoping our kids aren't worrying too much about it.  I wonder if you can blog in heaven?