A Musing Mother 6

I mean, obviously you shouldn't compare your children to mine. You'll just feel bad. But the talent just oozes in this kid. Someday you will see him on "So You Think You Can Dance."

"Tonight we have Jazz Night at the high school," my 16 year old informed us at dinner. "Do we have to go?" the 11 year old boy wanted to know. "It will be fun!" she continued, "there will be food and dancing." "Dancing?!" I was suddenly very excited.  I'd been perfecting new hip hop moves from an exercise DVD earlier that day. The 16 year old suddenly looked horrified. "Not you! You may NOT dance!" Mmmkay - but this may directly impact your grade, Missy. We arrived and sat. The band director kept making motions for people to get up and dance. I finally left my family and joined the "cool table" closer to the band. I might add that this very well may just complete my bucket list. Had I made a bucket list when I was a teenager, no doubt it would have included going to Reo Speedwagon and Bon Jovi concerts, lose my virginity and sit at the "cool" table in the cafeteria. Done. Done. Done. And done. The cool

There's a little Thai dig in a nearby town that serves the best Thai food I'd ever had. Given, I'm not exactly a Thai connoisseur. In fact, My best friend from college introduced me to Thai food a few years ago. I was immediately hooked and loved it immensely. Every few months my dance friends and I get together for lunch or dinner, depending on who can watch the children. That's a rule. No children are allowed, although two babies have accompanied two of us on occasion. As soon as they could string a sentence together and dominate conversation, their invitations were revoked. Kristy, Jennifer, Kari and I danced together for six years at Kristy's dance studio. Kristy and Jennifer are beautiful dancers. Kari and I worked harder to look graceful. The dance class was always in the middle of the week at the end of the day. Sometimes I was simply too tired to drive the 20 minutes, dance for an hour then drive 20 minutes home. But I kept doing it over and over and over ag

My great, great grandfather David, came from France via Scotland as an indentured servant. He was 7 years old at the time. He grew up, left the family, fought in the Civil War (for the North) then moved West, planting his roots in very small county in Idaho where he married my great, great grandmother. They built a house and popped out my great grandfather, David, and then another son a couple of years later. Due to complications, my great, great grandmother died. The baby died a couple of weeks later. David Sr. married another woman from Idaho within a few years and they had 5 children together. Once again, his wife died in childbirth and he was a single father of 6 children. He decided to hire help rather than marry again and so he did.  Being married to David LaPray was apparently hazardous to your health. After 12 years or so, he married one of his hired helpers, a pretty young thing that I will call Martha for lack of remembering her name. She had two or three children and survive

I saw my friend, Colleen, on Friday.  I used to run into her when I went to the rec. center.  I stopped going a long time ago and asked her if she's still going.  "I haven't gone since I broke my collarbone." Okay, I'll bite. "How did you break your collarbone?" "I crashed my motorcycle when I went over a jump." "You do know you're 50 years old, right?" "Yeah. My midlife crisis make me do fun things. Want to see what I did for my 40th birthday?" She angled her leg so I could see her the tattoo on her ankle.  A four inch image of Winnie the Pooh. "Aren't you due for a midlife crisis? What are you going to do?" I've been wondering that one for awhile and told her so.  I can't get a tattoo because my kids will automatically either judge me or  view it as permission to get their own. The same goes with any extreme sport. I don't care about cars so I won't get a sports car. An affair is out. My c

The other day my son was sent to the bathroom for a potty break at daycare.  Sometimes he forgets he has to go and just plays and wiggles. We affectionately call it "the potty dance." He returned with the update and solid advice to the daycare staff: "No pee came out but you should really decorate the bathroom with Springtime decorations so I have something to look at while I'm waiting for my pee." Huh.  Usually I'm happy with a magazine or book.  To each his own, I guess.

The other day my son was sent to the bathroom for a potty break at daycare.  Sometimes he forgets he has to go and just plays and wiggles. We affectionately call it "the potty dance." He returned with the update and solid advice to the daycare staff: "No pee came out but you should really decorate the bathroom with Springtime decorations so I have something to look at while I'm waiting for my pee." Huh.  Usually I'm happy with a magazine or book.  To each his own, I guess.

Apparently, I'm still going on about Mother's Day. Pretty sure I'm PMS-ing but it makes for good posts since Neurotic Nancy simply can. Not. Shut. Up. So my friend, Kaye, is the in my congregation. She's also this freakin' amazing woman who can't hold still. Between you and me, I think if she didn't have 456 things going on, she might have a panic attack. I think she's secretly neurotic which simply fills me with glee! Not that she'll have a panic attack, just that I'm not alone. Back to Kaye - she is on the city council, chases her dogs, Lewis and Clark, around the neighborhood while they go exploring, and took on the huge job of band director at the local high school while the regular band director took a long vay-cay in Iraq. He called it a "tour" but whatever. So she put her heart and soul into a group of some sixty kids, one of which is my own trumpeter, does the killer summer band camp, parades, concerts, competitions and whatnot

"Not to be rude or anything," Rachel said to my daughter a week before prom, "but have you warned Eric about your mom?" She spent the next 7 days begging me to act normal. Ideas for freaking out a prom date: Find Grandma's old house dress. Secure pillows beneath it. Hairnet. Big glasses. Decorate house with doilies and hang afghan over sofa backs. Go all Greg Brady on him.  Hang beads in doorways, install disco lights and lava lamps. Dress in tie dye and bell bottoms. 'Fro hair. Tell him about Woodstock then stop, midsentence, and stare off in the distance like on a "trip." Pioneer with bonnet. Discuss ancestors at length. Especially the ones who died a gruesome death coming across the plains. Show pictures of Peg Leg Whitney. Same as above but include three "sister wives" to greet date in same garb. Go Cougar route - tight sweater with deep V-neck, push-up bra to add cleavage, rat hair, short leopard print skirt, high heels. Pop gum grat

*This is a post I wrote last year for the Susan G. Komen "Race for the Cure." It is held in Salt Lake City every year on the Saturday before Mother's Day. I don't have any pictures from this year's run, but here is my tribute to my mom, diagnosed with stage 4 breast cancer, already metastasized throughout her body on December 5, 2002 with a grim prognosis.  _______________________________________________ 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

In honor of Mother's Day, I have decided to purge myself of my imperfections. Not that I plan on changing, I am simply confessing. You may need to take a shower afterward. I hate going to church on Mother's Day. While the speakers beatify their mothers, I feel like an abysmal failure. I spent yesterday angry at my children for evidencing my failure as a mother by not being more responsible, grateful, clean, having more common sense, taking ownership of themselves, their behaviors, and their stuff, loving, tolerating, or at least respecting other members in the household enough to leave the room when they feel they simply *must* pick a fight. Much of the time I would rather spend time with my blog or a good book than with my children. I worked 8 and half hours on Friday. That was the most peaceful day I've had in weeks. Maybe months. There is not a clear path from the door to the bed in any child's bedroom. Every room contains a severe tripping hazard. I am still stunned

"Dad, are we almost home?" "Yes, we're almost home." "That's good." "Do you want to be home?" "I want to be almost home so that if you crash the car and die I can walk home to Mom and she can take care of me the rest of my life.  She's mostly in charge of me, you know." "I love you, too, Bud." "Thanks, Dad."

In my younger years I had a lot of judgment to dole out.  I sat above the crowd and looked down my nose at those parents who just didn't take their role seriously.  I am now one of the crowd in the arena. My 6 year old informed me he wasn't going to kindergarten.  He wanted to stay home and play with me. Okay. He's my 4th child, my last and I do enjoy a few stolen hours, just the two of us. I arrived at work later that day to be greeted by my colleagues who were in a quandary. For various reasons, they all planned on taking the day off on Friday.  Could I possibly come all day that day instead of my usual half day. "Sure," I replied.  "If I can't find someone to pick up my son, I'll do what I did today and just keep him with me all day." Five women, including my two bosses, entered suspended animation. All action ceased. All eyes on the mutant mother. "You seriously do that?" one judgmental colleague asked. My dear, dear friend, Angela,

While at work, I ran into a woman that works with my sister, also a school counselor. My sister just had her fourth baby, a beautiful baby boy, 2 weeks ago. I grabbed my phone to show her a photo. He's still covered in slime and cute as a button. I'm a proud aunt. Next year's assistant principal is standing nearby and peeking over my shoulder. I hand him my phone so he can admire my nephew.  The moment my hand released the phone is the moment I realize that the image is mostly baby Easton but a little bit of my sister's boob. I panicked. I made a screeching sound and hit my soon-to-be boss’s hand. My cell phone flew in the air, made a hard landing on the carpet and battery popped out just for good measure. It seemed like it all happened in slow motion. But then I look up from my battered phone to the face of my soon to be boss. His expression was incredulous and his face said, “You crazy woman. What WAS THAT?!” Telling the truth wasn’t even an option. I panicked and yel