Being a Wrestler's Mom means...

…that you have actually told your child on more than one occasion – “You probably shouldn’t eat tonight!”

…that it doesn’t surprise you to see your child running in 4 layers of clothing the night before a match. Likewise, you don’t even have to ask why they are sucking on lemons and spitting in a bottle.

…that you had better have your Christmas preparations done before December when tournaments start, or it’s not getting done.

…that you can recite the concessions offerings of nearly every school that you wrestle at.

…that you go to sleep at night with “Half! Half!” ringing in your ears.

…that you will learn to recognize your child’s name being read over the speakers, no matter how bad the announcer massacres it.

…that you know the names – and weights – of every other wrestler on the team.

…that you will sacrifice every Saturday for three months to sitting on bleachers, eating popcorn and nachos for three meals, and getting home late because the heavyweights always seem to make it into the finals.

…that you have to lose the notion of personal space. Wrestling is a close contact sport, and so are the bleachers. Don’t be offended if a wrestler suddenly reaches under your butt to pull out the bag that you happened to sit over the top of.

…that you will catch beautiful shots of your child on the bottom, but somehow, the ones of them winning are always less technically perfect. (When Tux won his first match, I jumped in the air screaming, nearly wet my pants, and took a photo of my feet and the edge of the mat.)

…that you will forever be frustrated by the fact that wrestlers are always more concerned about taking off the leg bands than posing for a good victory picture. I think that it should go something like this…Referee says, “Winner kid, your mom a photographer? Where is she? Okay, turn that direction. Everyone look that way. Keep your arm up here...did it flash? Nope, hold on, let me suck in my gut and let her get another one...okay, she’s smiling. You can go now."

…that you have albums full of pictures of referee butts because they step in front of you just as you snap. You also have a fair amount of shots of wrestler’s groin areas, which you delete before anyone thinks that you took that shot on purpose.

...that when March rolls around, you will be too busy missing the team and the fun you had to realize that you have Saturdays back to yourself again.

…that you know that wrestling is not for the faint of heart. Your child will be squashed, smacked, beaten, contorted, thrown, and wrenched.

…that you have to be there to help your child stand up at least one more time than they are knocked down.

…that when the match is over, someone will have won. Someone will have lost. There’s no one else to share the blame, and there’s no one else to share the glory. It’s all on your child, and you have to be aware of the pressure that places on them.

…that you have to remember that your child has a coach. You are the mom. Love them no matter what.

…that it’s heartbreaking to see someone else’s arm raised at the end of the match.

…that you’ve tried to find a way to pray that your child will win…without praying that another child will lose.

…that you know that whether they win or lose, your child will develop skills that will last them a lifetime. Not just take downs and reversals, but self-reliance, confidence, self-control, discipline, assertiveness, dedication, strength, attitude, and perseverance.

…that once you have watched your kid wrestle, everything else in life is easy.


A couple of other articles that I thought were great regarding parents of wrestlers:

Spoutin' Out
7 Rules for a wrestler's mom

Merry Hoppity!

With the holiday only hours away, I'm finding myself waxing nostalgic for days gone by...stories told, adventures experienced, dreams unrealized. I'm wishing that I had been more prepared for the holidays, and able to relax and enjoy them. Document them.

But alas. I'm not even done shopping, and the handmade gifts that I had hoped for may end up being valentines.

For now, I'll settle for sharing a holiday memory with you.

A few years back, my mom, two friends and I decided to go to a grand bazaar in our area. It is Victorian themed, with carolers, folks dressed in Victorian attire, shows, and buildings full of booths, offering wares of every type imaginable. Many were handmade, and not only provided excellent gifts, but inspiration. It was always a day to bask in the glow of the holiday.

We began the day by hitting some major retailers along the way. Two of us had tween aged children, and rarely had time to shop. We would rush into Wal-Mart or Target, list in hand, and fill a cart in no time. We would fill the trunk, then rush off to indulge in a day of perusing the aisles of trinkets at the fairgrounds.

The two ladies were already at the car as Mom and I left Target. I could barely push my laden cart. I had filled my childrens' wish lists and found a few goodies for myself, too. I was quite pleased and jubilant to be so organized.

And then I spied the bell ringer.

"Oh, no," I lamented. "My purse is buried under all of my stuff. How will I dig out change to add to the bucket?"

"It won't matter. I have given all month to every bucket that I've passed. I've given to local food banks, and bought gifts for the angel tree. I don't need to give this time."

"But HE doesn't know that. He's going to see my cart loaded with Christmas and think that I'm a selfish snob!"

"No, I can't dig out my purse. I'll just push past him in a hurry and he won't notice."

"But he's a man 'of color'. He'll think that I'm discriminating against him! He'll think that I'm being racist!"

"It's okay. I'll flash him my warmest smile and wish him a hearty Merry Christmas, and he'll know that I'm a good person and that I've given elsewhere, that I respect him as a person and am not just ignoring him."

I put on my best smile and gazed into his deep brown eyes.

"Oh, no! What if he is offended by Merry Christmas! Maybe I should say Happy Holidays like they tell us to at work! Be politically correct!"

By this time, I'm staring at him and need to speak soon before he thinks that I'm a stalker or something.

"But he's wearing a Santa hat. He MUST be Christian, and I can say Merry Christmas. SPEAK, Jaycie, speak! Just say something!"

What came out was: "Merry Hoppity!", a rather awkward and mangled version of Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays thrown together.

But I said it with conviction, and it was too late to try to recover at this point. I held my head high and pushed my cart swiftly past him as if this was my standard greeting. I was barely holding it together when Mom caught up with me about 15 feet later.

"What did you just say to him???" She asked incredulously.

I began giggling so hard that I could hardly push my cart. Tears streamed out of my eyes as I tried to explain without attracting more undue attention. I was afraid to look back.

By the time that we reached the car, neither of us could speak, and we barely caught our breath between attempts to explain our condition to our friends.

It's a story that we love to tell for many reasons, the first being that the mind is a scary place to venture into alone. One should not overanalyze the Salvation Army buckets out front. One should not contemplate the thoughts that occur as we bicker with ourselves in our own minds. And we should never speak until we are sure that we are going to do so in our native tongue. Or at least a reasonable facsimile of. It is also a festive memory of friends, laughter, and the spirit of the season, and nearly always ends with a good belly laugh. No matter how many times I tell it.

Merry Hoppity to all!

How I found myself Back to the Future

I finally got a couple of well deserved days off this week…and I was so incredibly tired! I didn’t even care that it was Saturday, which has always been chore day. I didn’t even care that the kitchen floor was a mess –and filthy floors are something that I hate.

So we ended up at Mom and Dad’s, being lazy on the couch. Sick of watching endless hours of Spongebob and icarly, we finally wrested the remote from Toddy. It’s comical trying to find a TV show that everyone in the room could agree on! We finally landed on a “Back to the Future” marathon.

Tux immediately launched in to seventeen reasons why time travel is impossible or screwed up, and specifically why “Back to the Future” doesn’t work. At first, we laughingly disputed his reasoning (most of which came from a cracked.com article on time travel), but eventually gave up. Time travel is highly unlikely simply based on the fact that no one can define the rules. That’s my take on it.

It got us discussing how Michael J. Fox was concerned about BTFII because they would be overlaying footage of him at nearly 30 with footage of him at merely 25. Poor guy! Tux mentioned that the 47 year old Marty McFly bore NO resemblance to the now 49 year old Fox, and thankfully so! McFly was a loser, and of course bore the wear and tear of such a life. Fox has not had such a life (he has led an amazingly good life, thanks to his attitude and choices), and looks pretty darn good, I’d say.

It was during the scene in which Marty’s 40-something mother is stumbling around the suite in her sequined gown and humongous chest that it dawned on me. I am her age.

When the BTF movies came out, I was at THAT age. I thought that Marty McFly was hot. I was young and wild and loved the movies because they made you look to the future and where you might be and what you might be doing, how your current choices and activities may determine that future.

Somehow, I suddenly find myself on the other end of the time-space continuum! I was sitting there with my late-teenager son. I was no longer Marty’s potential girlfriend, but his mother. It cast a decidedly different light on the movies!

I’ve had the hardest time with this last birthday. I’m not sure what it is…but I’m realizing that I’m on the downhill slide. I am finally feeling like an adult – but it’s only been a couple of years since I’ve felt that way. And now I’m running headlong into old age!

It didn’t help that I ran into an old boyfriend at the grocery store recently. He was quite a bit younger than I was, and my parents where aghast that I would chase such a young one. He was always charmingly good looking, and had a boyish charm that I found attractive.

Flash forward some 25 years, and here we are, talking about our grandchildren and the late in life babies that we had each had. All that I could think of was that he was lined and distinguished looking with his sandy grey hair. OH MY GOSH. What happened???

How is it that one day, you feel young and vital, and the next, you have one foot in the grave?? My dad just turned 64 – and it seems that every year, I get closer and closer to his age. One day, I might catch up. How does that happen?

When I was hired for my current job, they conducted panel interviews for the applicants. One lady looked at my resume and asked if I had attended the local high school. “Oh,” I said excitedly, “Did you have kids that went there?” Silly me. She said slowly, “No…but I did.” I then had to backpedal quickly and honestly tell her that I forget that I’m as old as I am! I see someone my age and think that they are so much older…

My boss seemed to have so much more experience and I assumed that he was years older than me. We acted on this premise for nearly a month before I got into a discussion with him and discovered that he was less than a month older than me. One of the girls that I work with reminds me frequently that I am old enough to be her mother.

And you know what really rankles me? I thought that at this age, I’d be a lot smarter. I imagined that I’d be wise and graceful and…distinguished. But no, I’m still hanging on by a thread, figuring it all out.

If I could go back, what would I tell myself at 18? What would I warn me about, and what would I leave myself blissfully unaware of?

I know. I’d sell myself a line of bull and say that at 40-something, I know the meaning of life. I know how to do anything. I know the answers to everything. And I’d remind me that I’m old enough to be her mother. When she asked how to get from there to here, I’d smirk as I got back into the DeLorean.

Let her figure it out for herself!

What do you know for sure?

I posted this as a question on a family website, mostly as a conversation starter, but one of my amazing cousins took it and really ran with the idea! She wrote a fantastic list that inspired me to do the same. I gave myself about 15 minutes, and just let the ideas come as they would. Give it a try! I'd love to hear what YOU know for sure!

What I know for sure…(in no particular order, not all inclusive, subject to change)

…that my Heavenly Father knows ME, loves ME, and guides ME.
…that my Heavenly Father has a sense of humor, because he often answers my prayers with a bit of a chuckle.
…that hard work is a beautiful thing.
…that no one is successful without the love and support of others.
…that the most important job that I will ever have is that of being a mother.
…that the skills and gifts that I have are given to me to use in the service of my fellow man.
…that I don’t deserve the wonderful family that I have.
…that my children are more important to me than anything.
…that I depend on my parents – both Earthly and Heavenly – and would be lost without them.
…that licorice snaps are the greatest candy ever. Not only are they yummy, but they bring back wonderful memories of Utah.
…that I would give up much to spend one more day with my Grandpa Powell.
…that I have been given the disease of depression as a trial in this life, and that it is not a failure on my part. I have only failed if I refuse to use the tools that have been given to me to defeat it.
…that I have been blessed beyond measure, and don’t even recognize many of the blessings that I receive.
…that I like being a redhead.
…that creativity heals us in ways that nothing else can.
…that being good to others feels better than any worldly success.
…that letting go is difficult, but often necessary.
…that Sundays are a day of rest for many very good reasons.
…that no matter how far I roam, Utah Valley will always be home.
…that a good writer can paint pictures with their words, and move mountains with their pen.
…that I could not live without the internet!
…that I cannot take away the pain that my children experience, no matter how much I want to.
…that I resent anyone who assumes that I will do things wrong.
…that there are lessons to be learned every day.
…that you cannot drag anyone into the Celestial Kingdom against their will.
…that the more difficult the weather, the longer it will take to open the rear entrance at work.
…that no matter how awful my day has been, my dog will be happy to see me.
…that I do not see myself in quite the same way that mirrors and cameras do. Thank heavens for that.
…that I will cry every time I watch the movie Armegeddon. I have the first 28 times, anyway.

What would you like on your headstone?

What an odd conversation to have with business associates, but just the other day, we were doing just that.

My supervisor, who is a character and a half, said that he believes that credit should be given where credit is due – especially if that credit is due himself. He wants his headstone to read, “I WANT CREDIT!”

A beautiful, stately woman that we work with chimed in. Now, mind you, she is absolutely lovely, inside and out. She is poised and gracious and would give you the shirt off her back and be grateful to do it. She said that she would want hers to read, “She thought she was funny.”

Her husband agreed, laughing. Apparently, it’s a bit of an inside joke, as she tries to be the comedian, but often falls short of the laughter that she is hoping for.

How funny that this accomplished man wishes only to receive credit for his ideas – when his entire career is one big testament to his creativity and foresight! I have some theories on why this is, but we’ll save that for my next discussion of LOST. (intrigued?) And how ironic that this successful, socially gifted woman would wish to be funny.

I thought for a moment, then commented that I would want mine to read, “What I lack in real talent, I make up for in enthusiasm!” I vacillate between this and “You are not a winner, please try again.”

I guess both of mine speak to the idea that I’ll never be the smartest, the cutest, the most beautiful, the first in line. I won’t get credit, and I’m not as funny as I think that I am. But darn it, I’m trying. That’s gotta count for something.

And it’s a lot less pressure than hoping for your headstone to read, “Beloved wife and mother”, of which I am neither tonight. I have teenagers; I’m not sure that they even approve of me breathing, to be honest.

Quick, one line – what would yours be?

Happy Mother's Day, Gram!

I dreamt of my Grandma for Mother’s Day. It’s not really unusual, I often dream about being “home” at my grandparents’ house, mixing with my cousins and wanting to stay longer. I’m always just about to leave, and sad that I have to go. I never get to stay there long enough.

But this wasn’t your happy, flowery kind of dream, but one in which I was wandering in her home, watching my aunts move things around and pack things up. They were all distracted and talking amongst themselves, but not really to me. I was becoming frustrated that no one seemed to notice that Gram was not there.

“Where is my grandma?” I asked repeatedly, finally becoming tearful and angry. “Where is my grandmother?”

A reply was absently tossed at me.

“But that’s not far from here!” I cried. “I want to see my grandmother before I leave!” I was indignant, and yet, they went right back to what they were doing. I awoke with that choked up, something is not right in my world feeling. I was weepy through most of the morning.

I was a little worried. You see, some years ago when I was young, I dreamed of my Uncle Bruce. In the dream, I walked up the stairs and found his twin sister sitting in his wheelchair in his room. She was crying. “This is all that is left of him,” she said. Two weeks later, he passed away after battling Muscular Dystrophy for 19 years. I thought that I had caused his death.

So at first, I worried that this might be the same for my Gram. I tried to remind myself that it was Mother’s Day, and I was likely thinking of the women in my life. I know that my mother and her siblings are meeting soon to discuss the future. I recently taught a lesson in church on Joseph and his interpretation of dreams. It all added up.

I was also feeling guilty because I haven’t called my Gram in ages. She’s in an assisted living home, and even though her body checked in, her mind did not. It’s a stranger living in my Gram’s body. She doesn’t know who I am when I call, and doesn’t remember afterwards that I have called. My sweet cousin V visits faithfully every week, and Gram doesn’t even remember her.

Another beautiful cousin lost her grandfather a few years ago, and I expressed my condolences. “Oh, it’s okay,” she said sweetly. “He’s been gone for years.” I understand that now.

Is there any part of her that knows that we are there? Will she remember when the veil is lifted? Be upset that we didn’t spend more time calling or visiting? Or will she understand that it was hard to communicate with her from so far away?

Is it abandonment if she abandoned us first?

I wished that I could call her, could tell her all that I needed to say. I wanted her to be my Gram – ornery and all – so that I could talk to her.

My dearest Gram,

Happy Mother’s Day! I hope that your day is filled with joy and laughter!

I love you, Gram. I miss you.

I want to laugh with you about our memories – how you told me when I was a teenager, “Don’t be yourself! Just be nice!” How I winked at you to tease you. How worried you were when I allowed a man – GASP – my grandfather – into my bedroom at Heritage Halls. About the time that you lost track of me at age two and I tried to go to school with the big kids.

I want you to remember them, too.

I want to share my successes with you. I want you to know how proud of Tux I am, for making the President’s Honor Roll in college. Even taking Japanese! I want you to know that he’s becoming himself again. That Addy has lost so much weight and is finding himself to be a handsome young man. That Toddy is finally pottie trained. That one of my graphic designs is being displayed prominently in the resort that I work for.

I want to tell you how exciting it was to see Tux graduate from Seminary. How proud of Todd I am because he says prayers in Primary. I want to talk about the things that I read in the scriptures, and how it applies to my life. I want to share these things because you devoted your life to teaching your family about the Gospel. I know that you would want to know that we got it.

I want to show you that despite all of your worries and concerns about our morality and poor decision making, we turned out okay. I want you to know that we understand why you were so adamant and sometimes…okay, often…critical. We know now because we are mothers. Grandmothers.

We are a family of strong women. We fight for the things that matter. We raise our children with equal amounts of discipline and love. We are good wives. We are a good family. We love each other. We support each other. We are there for each other. You’d be proud of us, if you knew who we were.

Yes, I’m a coward. And I’m ashamed of that. I’m afraid that if I call to talk to you, it will break my heart.

I'm sorry that I'm so weak. I'm sorry that you can't be with Grandpa like you desire. I'm sorry that your time here on earth is dragging on without you really being in it. I'm sorry that I didn't talk to you more often when I could.

Happy Mother’s Day, Gram. I love you. I miss you. And I’m hoping that in the world that you live in, you are happy. That when it’s all over, you won’t remember the time that you spent trapped in a stranger’s mind. And more importantly, you won’t remember that I was such a wimp.

Someday, we’ll look back on this and laugh. That’s my story and I’m stickin’ to it.

Love,

Jaycie

Making sure that life doesn't run you over...

Life happens, and it happens fast. If you aren't prepared for what's ahead, it will surely run you over.

I'm feeling a little broadsided at the moment, unable to get my bearings because the days are flying by in hyperspeed. Instead of facing the day armed with my best intentions, I'm scraping through, and making it...but not getting nearly the enjoyment or satisfaction that I would have if I'd been paying attention.

That reminds me of a friend that divorced some time ago. Always a bit of an optimist, she still found something to laugh about when her husband of many years abruptly left her.

"If I'd known that was going to be the last time that I'd have sex," she remembered, "I would have paid more attention!"

Ah, the life lessons there.

I don't want the days to scream by. I want to savor them, live the moments that are so important. This lifetime is so short, and the time that we have with our children is so much shorter. I have seen two children grow up before I was ready, and now I see Todd doing the same. He is so tall lately, and so intelligent, and it seems like only yesterday, he was so tiny that we were scared to touch him.

From a logistical standpoint, I need to get ahead of the ball. I need to be proactive instead of reactive, prepared for the day ahead. I need to get to bed earlier, having clothes and necessaries for the day to follow laid out and ready to roll. I need to rise early and get things organized so that I can get to work without rushing.

I need to be organized at work, so that I can participate in all that the job has to offer. I can help others to achieve their potential. I can take on additional projects.

I need to have my housework and familial duties organized so that I'm doing them before they are due, before clothes overrun the hamper and begin to attack, before the dust on the furniture grows thicker than the dog hair on the floor.

I need to be more prayerful, more focused as I face my days. When I am centered in this respect, the rest seems to fall into place. So quickly we forget, however, and so quickly we rush to take care of things ourselves.

I need to have time to be creative. I need to scrapbook, write, and allow myself to ponder. I need time for the Spirit to tell me the things that I need to know to truly enjoy my life.

I have a good life. I have a good family, beautiful children, and a good husband. I love my job and all of it's challenges and craziness. I feel, for the first time in a very long time, that I deserve all that I have.

That's why I'm writing tonight. To remind myself that despite the minor setbacks, the frustrations that I face, it's all worth it. I am handling it all with relative ease, and even see that I can reap even more benefits if I just get a little more centered.

I cherish this quiet time after everyone is in bed. It's the only part of the day that is not hurried or stressed, time just for me. And while some could argue that I should be in bed, or finishing the kitchen, or paying bills...I disagree. I think the best use of this time is to collect my thoughts and prepare my heart and soul to tackle another day. To conquer my fears. To remember that I am a Child of God that can accomplish anything with His help. That He loves me and that what I am doing is enough.

Creating a road map, if you will, that allows me to chart my path for the greatest success. The shortcuts, the areas to avoid because they will slow me down, the routes with the most liklihood of accidents. Like Mapquest for life. It helps me to see the oncoming traffic, and not be the "deer in the headlights".

Or roadkill.

Ya gotta love not being roadkill!

I can say "Balls to the Wall" if I want to!

Really. And I’m not even being crass! It’s not what you think.

In my old job, we had days that were considered ‘balls to the wall’. (For the benefit of my more delicate readers, I’m going to refer to it in the future as BttW!) If you are unfamiliar with the term, it refers to a pace that is full speed ahead; no holding back. And as I said, I had days that would fit that description. Other days were less urgent, and many others were busy, but not so intense.

My new job, on the other hand, is absolutely BttW every single day. From the moment that I set foot in the office until I leave for the day…which is often later than I had planned…it is crazy- nuts, beyond busy. There are deadlines and demands and disasters. No matter what your list looks like for the day, it always turns in to a marathon.

I arrive around 9AM, and the first time that I get to catch a breath is about 11. Before I know it, it is 1:00 or 2:00, and I need to take a moment to eat. It seems that I’m barely back from lunch and it’s the end of the day. There is not a moment of quiet.

I absolutely LOVE it.

It is exciting work, and I really feel like I’m accomplishing something. We interact with nearly every other department in the company, and have a pivotal role in most projects. It’s a lot of stress, but if you don’t mind that part, the payoff is incredible.

There are moments, to be sure. More than once, I’ve asked myself if this is really what I want to do. But a few minutes later, the issue has resolved itself and I am back to thinking, “Wow. This is COOL!” It’s a great feeling. Although the days are long, I love what I am doing, who I am working with, and the feeling of satisfaction that I get when we have completed a difficult task.

There is no other way to describe it than 24/7, all day, every day, BttW.

My first week there was amazingly crazy, as one of the key players in our office was off on surgical leave. It was a very busy time for the department, and my boss had just finished a monumental project for the company that had taken him away from his usual duties. On top of all of that, they had remodeled the office to accommodate the addition of my desk, and a work space for outside sales reps. Everyone had changed areas, and everything was in disarray.

Other employees would ask me how I was doing, and if I liked it. I would always respond, “This week is nuts, but I think that once it calms down…” at which point, said employee would burst into laughter.

Six weeks in, I can tell you why. It never – NEVER – calms down. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

I’m reluctant to say that, however, as it sounds so…icky! I’ve always thought that it was a rather nasty way to say it. I would tell only my dearest friends that it was (in whispers) “BttW!”

I’ve known the term for years, but never quite understood how it had originated. I couldn’t imagine any situation in which balls would be against the wall and it would make sense, much less indicate a stressful, full-on press.

Thank heavens for the internet. I decided to look it up, just for my own curiosity. There are actually a couple of explanations as to where it came from…and I am pleased to announce that NEITHER of them have anything to do with testicles! (You thought that, too, didn’t you???!)

Urban Dictionary offers two explanations, in varying degrees of detail. The first is that it is a term used by fighter pilots, whose controls are topped by a ball. When they are going full-throttle, the balls are all of the way up against the front wall of the airplane, hence the term “balls to the wall”. The second is from the days of steam engines. Just as the fighter jets, their instruments contained balls, which, when the engine was going full throttle, were pushed up against the wall.

I can’t say if either or both of them are true, but I was quite relieved to find out that a) it made sense, and b) it didn’t refer to private bodily part. I was so thrilled, in fact, that I shared my newfound knowledge with my entire office and my family. When I mentioned that I intended to write about it here, my mother nearly died. She was mortified to think that I would say it on my blog! Even after I explained it’s origins, there was a furrow in her brow. I don’t think that she found it very ladylike to share such a term.

Old habits die hard. I’ll probably still whisper it when I tell the story, but at least now I know!

Just a thought about tweeting...

So, ya'll know that I don't tweet...this post will probably be the closest thing to it, since I've had a LOOOOOOOONNNG day today and I'm too pooped to write! But I'm always thinking about tweeting, because I can't, I guess.

Anyway, I see others' tweets, and I think that they are fascinating. So if I really enjoy a tweet and want to share it with others, and I copy it...does it become a "twote"?? (get it? Like quote, only from a tweet...I guess it's not as funny in print as it was in my head.)

THIS is why I stick to full essays.

The only way that I'll ever have a green thumb...

I’ve developed a love of the land. Planting a seed, and watching it grow and produce fruit. I look forward to walking my farm, finding the crops that are ready to harvest. Tending to the flourishing plants so that they will be the most productive. By the sweat of my brow…tilling the earth with my bare hands. Okay, not my bare hands…but my mouse hand, anyway!

I’ve discovered Farm Town on Facebook. You know, it’s one of those silly little apps that you can send gifts to your friends? I kept getting gifts from folks, and I was just ignoring them. I’d had a Lil Green Patch, which was supposed to save the rainforests (although for the life of me, I have no idea how playing a game on FB was going to save the world). I never did get the hang of it. It irritated me because the plants were willy nilly in my Lil Green Patch. I spent an hour reorganizing them one day…only to log on and find out that it didn’t save correctly. I abandoned my Patch. So apparently, Global Warming is all my fault.

So one night at Bro’s, I was up late unable to sleep. I’d turned off my computer, but his was still on, so I jumped on and started surfing aimlessly. I checked my email. I looked at MyFamily.com. I took a peek to see what was on sale at Woot.com. I moseyed over to Facebook, but no one was up and posting. I decided to see what this Farm Town thing was all about.

That was my first mistake. I was given a block of land with six plots of tilled earth, and soon, I was growing potatoes. They know how to hook me! Potatoes are my favorite! I plowed some more land, won some coins in the Farm Town daily lottery, and planted some more.

I think that I planned to abandon it after that, but the next morning, I looked at my crops. I won some more coins, and planted some grape seeds. They would mature in only 4 hours, and I could see the fruits of my labors!

They didn’t tell me that the darn grapes would rot on the vine if I didn’t get back to them! When I logged on that evening, my grapes had gone to waste. It says that, in bold letters. Gone to waste. I was so frustrated! I had wasted all of that plowing and planting and the coinage to accomplish that. I vowed to never let that happen again. That’s when I knew that I’d made the fatal mistake.

Since then, I have become very methodical in my planting, and I make sure that I will be available when my crops mature, so that I can get them in before they go to waste. I make sure that I harvest them in a timely manner and then get those fields plowed and replanted.

By the time I had left Bro’s house, I was getting pretty good at Farm Town. The girls would sit by me and help me decide what crops to plant, estimate when they would be ready to harvest, and organize my growing orchard. All of the gifts that had been sent by other Farm Town friends were piling up, and I had to move them into the application.

At first, I planted them in a row along the edges of my farm. When it began to bug me that they were haphazard, I found that you could move them. Woohoo! I lined them up nicely. The next day, I rearranged them, to make them prettier and easier to see. Then it bothered me that they were all mixed up. I put Plum Trees in a row, Orange Trees in another. Still later, I had to organize them by maturity, so that they were easier to harvest. That was an undertaking, I tell you! You had to examine each tree, note it’s maturity percentage, then line them up from least to most mature. Now, all of the trees that need to be harvested at the same time are grouped together. It’s very cool.

Then there is the issue of the animals. I’d received them as gifts, but couldn’t figure out how to contain them. Turns out, you have to BUY fences! Well, I didn’t have the capital to increase my crop production and buy fences, too, so for a long time, my animals ran amok on my farm. It wasn’t until my farm was well established that I felt that I could afford fences, and at first, only a small pen for all of them. Poor things stood side by side, cows, pigs, chickens, and horses alike. Crammed into a tiny pen.

One day, I actually DID THE MATH, and found out which crops are the most lucrative. Really! You have to factor in the length of time that it takes to mature, cost of the seeds, and the cost of plowing the field. I found that of the crops that I could buy at the time, Rice, Corn, and Sunflowers would net the largest gain. I planted sunflowers like they were going out of style.

Soon, I had enough of a cushion to build real pens for my animals. I made one for the pigs, one for the cows, another for the sheep. I’m not sure about the programming, though, because one errant cow kept wandering out into the orchards. After returning him to his pen many times, he has finally stayed put. Then there was the sheep that kept wandering back to the cows. I think that the programmers are writing these things and laughing at us poor farmers, trying to contain our cyber livestock!

I’ve become enamored with the pigs, that sleep on command. You tell them to sleep and they suddenly go stiff, fall on their sides, then close their eyes and snooze sweetly. After a moment, they get up, seemingly refreshed. They are bright eyed and adorable! I have to play with my pigs a bit each day, making each one take a nap. Other than that, the animals serve no purpose in Farm Town. Very strange, indeed!

My farm is truly a visual interpretation of my personality. It is relatively no nonsense, maximized to increase it’s potential for success. I have planted on nearly every square inch, and I keep my fields growing at all times. I’ve purchased more land three times now, and I am finally letting myself buy some decorative items. No buildings yet – oh, no, that would be far to extravagant! But my animals are in pens, and I bought a nice bench to place in the flower garden so that I could enjoy it in the evenings. (As if! I mean, I send my little avatar there, but is she really enjoying it???)

I’ve decided that I will now start to build my home…a farm house, yard, etc. A modest one, so that I can keep producing at the rate that I’ve become accustomed to. You just can’t waste good farmland, you know.

This is supposed to be a social networking game, and so it is less expensive to hire someone to plow and harvest your crops than to do it yourself. It makes no sense, and I’ve become somewhat rebellious about it. I refuse to hire anyone. I don’t care if it costs more to plow and my crops are not as plentiful. It’s just wrong to hire someone to do something that you can do yourself.

I actually ran into someone when I was helping at their farm. You can go to friends’ farms and weed or water or rake and you get coins for doing so. One day, I saw my cousin planting seeds. His little avatar would move around and then little seeds would appear, it was fascinating to watch.

It disturbs me that little digital people come and stand in my fields. These are not my friends working , but it’s odd little avatars that just stand there and stare. I have no idea who they are, and they are just standing there. I feel like marching up to them and demanding to know how they got there, but then they might talk to me. I’m not here to socialize, folks, I have farm work to do!! One day, a cheeky gal stood right in the middle of a field that I was trying to harvest, plow, and plant, and it kept me from plowing that square. The gall!

I know, I have a problem. I need to lay off the farming. Hubby thinks that I’m obsessed, but we’re not really asking his opinion, are we? I figure that one day, my farm will be maximum size and I’ll run out of exciting things to do on it. Until then, keep the seeds coming!

So, check it out. See you in Farm Town! Just don’t stand in my fields. It’s rude and makes your avatar look like a ‘tard.

That's why we have MOUTHS!

Todd talks constantly. I mean…constantly. Take that literally, folks, because this child can talk the ear off of the best of them. I feel sorry for him, he must have my brain. It never shuts up, and if you didn’t talk (or write), your head would explode. So I let him babble, all day long, all of the time. One day, Hubby was hanging with us, and asked, “Does he ever shut up?” Nope. Never.

Tux tried to get him to be quiet the other day when they were playing a video game. “NO!” Toddy resisted. “That’s why we have mouf-es, Tux! So we can talk!” He’s got a point.

Before you get all up in arms about my not teaching the child to control himself, I do teach him that there are times and places that we must be quiet. He’s still working on it. But in general, what’s the trouble? He can talk to me all day if he wants. For one thing, it’s a natural thing to talk. It encourages him to express, explore, and ask questions. And for another thing…he’s interesting! I’m always amazed by what he talks about, and frankly, he’s pretty darn intelligent. I mean, how many three year olds do you know that extol the virtues of having a mouth???



He and his cousin, JJ, kept me in stitches during the week that we were visiting them. To hear them discuss life in their own language was a real treat. JJ was amazed that Todd still wore diapers, and Todd thought it was funny that JJ pooped in the toilet. They had many talks about that, explaining why to each other.

We went to see “Ice Age 3: Dawn of the Dinosaurs”, and JJ had a hard time sitting still. It was making Todd crazy, and he began to micromanage him. When JJ repeated the line, “Pop goes the weasel!” and laughed, Todd was indignant.

“That’s NOT funny! Stop laughing!” He insisted.

JJ’s eyes sparkled with the idea that he could irritate Todd. He repeated the phrase again and then laughed and laughed.

“It’s not a funny movie!” Todd yelled. (At this point, I reminded him that this was one of those places that we needed to be a bit quieter)

So they whispered, JJ taunted Todd with his laughter and “pop” comments, Todd getting more and more agitated that JJ thought that this was funny. They finally turned to me to end the argument: was this movie funny, or not?

Goodness.

We went to lunch at Taco Bell, and Todd and I were sharing a soda, while Sis and her three children shared another. Somehow, Todd got their cup and began to suck down as much soda as he could. (He is a soda freak…except that he calls it “Swee”)

JJ, who doesn’t get to drink as much soda as Todd does, was heartbroken when he finally got the cup back. He let out a wail that I’m sure struck two tables and shattered them asunder. “WE NEED A REFILL!” He howled. “HE did it!” He pointed at the offensive cousin.

While Sis was getting the cup refilled, JJ continued to berate Todd for his behavior, reminding him that this was a Parker cup, and Todd was clearly not a Parker. Sis gently reminded him that Todd was indeed a Parker, even if his last name was Cowell…because he had Parker blood in him.

Todd had a retort of his own. “It’s in my belly and YOU can’t get it!”

We’re not sure if he meant the Parker blood or the Swee, but either way, it was gone to JJ forever.

He comes by it naturally. I was –and continue to be – a talker. I can’t help myself. I guess that’s why it doesn’t bother me that he talks so much. I know the feeling.

When I was his age, my dad would offer to give me a quarter if I would be quiet for 5 minutes. It was quite a struggle, I must say. Especially when 4.5 minutes in, he would ask me a question. That’s just cheating, no matter how you look at it.

When I was just a little older than he is now, Mom took me on a bus ride to visit her parents during the summer. There was a young man who boarded the bus and sat next to a pretty young girl who was going off to college. She was politely listening to the arrogant young man, despite the fact that she obviously wished that she were anywhere else besides next to him. As the night wore on, Mom said that he continued to flirt and try to impress this poor girl, talking loudly even though everyone was now trying to sleep.

I took matters into my own hands.

“Hey, mister…” I offered. “I’ll give ya a quarter if you’ll be quiet for five minutes!”

My mother nearly died. She was sinking into her chair as the bus broke out into applause.

The young man was much quieter for the rest of the trip. Poor guy. All that mouth and no way to use it.

The Indignity of being a WOMAN

On most days, I am proud to be a woman. On most days, I will extol the virtues of our gentle nature, our mothering instincts, and our sweet dispositions. (most of the time) But there is one day a year that I find it somewhat humiliating to be a woman.

Do you know what day that I mean? Yup, that’s the one. The day that we visit our ob/gyn.

The whole visit starts off badly. Is it absolutely necessary to say, “Hello, Mrs. Jaycie! How are you these days? Would you like to step on this scale and be completely embarrassed by how long it takes me to balance the little doohickey at your tremendous weight?”

No matter how cheerful that nurse sounds, she always follows her greeting with an invitation to step up on the plate. No sweet smile can offset that.

They then whisk you off to a room where you are asked a series of questions like:

“How old are you?” For heaven’s sake, you have my chart in front of you, and it clearly states the year that I was born. Can you not do the math??? Must you make me say it out loud, when I am clearly in denial over the whole thing?

“Three children?” You thought that perhaps I was crazy enough to have MORE? Or did you think that three was far too many mini-me’s to have let loose upon the world???

“Date of your last known period?” Okay, this one is tricky. I’m sure that I had one last month, but I may have had one in the meanwhile that just slipped by me without me knowing.


When this is over, she invites you to go into the lavatory and leave a sample for her. At least this is easier in my normal state than it was nine months pregnant, when they want you to do this for them weekly. Truly, do they expect you to get a clean sample in that little cup when you cannot even see your own FEET, much less the nether regions of your body? Really, a joy to do today, when you think of it in that perspective.

Next is the doctor’s turn. I enjoy this part, as my doctor and I go back to the birth of Tux. It made me laugh today when he asked the ages of my children, sighing when I told him that Tux was now 18 years old. We’ve been together for a long time, my doctor and me.

He always asks me if my parents are alive and how old they are. I take great pleasure in reminding him that my father is HIS age, and my mother a year younger. I know this because once during a pre-natal visit, he and my mother got talking and realized that they lived in the same valley and had once attended many of the same record hops that a local radio station sponsored. (the wild kids attended these record hops, just to let you in on a little secret!)

He asks his own set of uncomfortable questions, and follows up with, “Hmmm…your weight is up a little.” Really? I hadn’t noticed! And thank you so much for bringing it to my attention, because my day wasn’t nearly bad enough already.

Then things get really interesting. He gives me the lovely little paper drapes and tells me that he will be right back. I stack my clothing neatly on the chair, so as not to look like a slob…tucking any unmentionables into the folds of my jeans so that there is nothing embarrassing hanging out. Then I don my special ‘clothing’, and try to sit nonchalantly on the table.

There is absolutely no way to look casual sitting on an exam table wearing paper clothing that covers only one hemisphere of your girth. Let’s just get that out in the open. So I am trying out positions in which I can pose to look the least awkward when he comes back in. Despite repeated efforts, I never find one that feels carefree.

He knocks on the door. What do you answer??

“Come in!” (always delivered in a singsong voice like you are hosting a Tupperware party in there)

“I’m ready.” (said somewhat provocatively? Or perhaps with doom and gloom dripping from each word?)

“It’s okay!” (which technically means that he is not going to catch my lily white bum as I dash to the table, trying to cover myself before he gets fully into the room, but in my mind, means that I approve of this situation, of which I do not!)

“I’m NAKED!” (which seems the most natural, and what comes to mind first!)


Or the more direct, “I’m as covered as I’m gonna get and you are going to see it all in a minute, anyway!”

{Sigh}

At this point, I get to explain to him why my three year old still thinks that he needs to nurse at night, at which the doctor gets a case of the giggles and spends the rest of my time laughing about needing a little nip before nap time. He apparently enjoys this joke, as it keeps him amused throughout the exam.

I add to the conversation that Todd announced to me in Sacrament Meeting at church the other day, (quite loudly) “Don’t wake up my brudder and don’t get your nipples out!” Now, clearly, his brother needed to be awake during church, but the nipples thing? I mean, really, I usually pop them out during our meetings, don’t I? This is after he had loudly thanked his brother for passing him the Sacrament, and then both kissed and licked the little girl sitting behind us.

As we get to the heart of the exam, our favorite part…where usually you look at the ceiling in silence and hope that no one notices that you are there…I decided to defy tradition and looked up over my drape to tell my doctor that SOMEONE needed to invent instruments that were a bit more comfortable.

I think that he was as glad to see me leave as I was. Thank heaven it only happens once a year.

Now I just have to do the follow-up mammogram. Not a bad test, really, for all of the bad press that it gets. It’s been years since I had one, although I’m supposed to go regularly, as my mother had breast cancer a few years ago.

Last time I went, Musician was about nine. He wanted to know where I was going, and I told him that I was going to have pictures taken of my breasts, so that the doctors could make sure that I didn’t have any cancer like grandma. He only caught the first part, and looked a little worried.

“They are going to take pictures of your breasts?” He asked for clarification. “Why? So the doctors can go…” he raised his eyebrows repeatedly and then got a big grin. “Woo hoo?”

I’ve had three children and nursed for a total of 81 months. Trust me. There’s not gonna be any woohooing for THOSE pictures.

When life gives you lemons....

She planned the party carefully. It had to be perfect…she was hosting the event of the year. Celebrating her newfound freedom, she wanted to make sure that it was both festive and fun, as well as fruitful for attendees and hostess alike.

She pressed her dress, laid it out on the bed the night before. The morning would come too soon, and she wanted to be ready. Her guests would be arriving promptly at 10AM, and she would need to be on the top of her game. The lemonade was chilling in the refrigerator already.

When morning came, she loaded box after box into the front yard, arranging them just so. When the finishing touches were done, she took the invitations…signs, as it were…and drove to the nearest intersections to post them.

“New-Husband-Ditched-Me Garage Sale”, they boasted. She had to admit, they were brightly colored and would surely generate attention. If not for the cheery colors, they might intrigue passers by with the honesty of her signs.

Then, returning home, she donned the wedding dress, carefully pinning a “for sale” tag on the lapel. With a grin and a deep breath, she was ready.

The day was a huge success, as she greeted her patrons and guests with ice cold lemonade…an homage to the old adage that when life gives you lemons…you make lemonade. Her wedding dress, now a mockery of the short marriage, was almost fun to wear in this instance. It certainly gave her plenty to talk about! Her wares were fascinating, especially when the guests noticed that HIS things were for sale across the yard – far, far away from the things that she was selling. She would reap the rewards of the things that he left behind, but they would not be allowed to mingle with her things.

Hubby attended her sale, and laughed as he recounted her careful preparations and forethought. Surely, the most memorable garage sale that he had ever attended.

Think of our little bride next time life gives YOU lemons. Don’t just make lemonade…throw a party. Laugh about your situation. Sell the stuff that offends you.

Living well is the best revenge, don’t you think?!

Bye Bye Birdy

Isn’t there a movie where the bird appears and it’s a bad omen?

Yesterday, I was driving down a hill and saw a crow in the middle of the road, facing the side of the road but staring straight at me. Crows are stupid, they wait until the absolute last second before soaring off.

(on a side note, a nasty know-it-all boss that my hubby worked for used to insist that crows were incredibly smart. Which always made me question the fact that you always see dead ones on the side of the road – were those the only stupid ones?? I decided that the know it all was the stupid one, and hence, every time I see a crow, I think “That man was an idiot!” In the defense of my compassion, this was not his only attempt at proving his intellectual prowess and failure thereof, while at the same time belittling everyone around him)

Back to my crow. He stared straight at my car coming at him…and didn’t move! I was so upset! He would have been upset, had he not been bouncing alternately off the road and the bottom of my car. I am squeamish when it comes to the loss of life – any life – and it bothered me all day. (Gives a whole new meaning to "I can't Tweet", doesn't it??) I tried to put it out of my mind, but still kept thinking about it.

This morning, I was driving Musician into the orthodontist, and completely and totally minding my own business when another bird flew along the highway, flitting about flirtily…only to bounce off of my windshield. I didn’t see him tumble behind me, so I’m hoping that it was a glancing blow.

But now, I’m spooked. I mean, really! Who has two such close calls with birds in the span of 24 hours? To top it all off, I am about to get on a plane and fly across the country. OH MY GOSH! Dare I, with my birdy troubles of late? I watch the news, I know what birds do to airplanes!

They’re watching me, I’m sure of it. Beady little eyes staring me down for offing one of their own. I’m telling you, I can’t take the pressure.

Tomorrow, I’m gonna scatter bread crumbs across the lawn. A peace offering. Show them that I’m not the monster that I appear to be. He was looking STRAIGHT AT ME! He should have moved!

Then I’ll get on that plane with my head held high…and hope that no feathers fly.

Keep your fingers crossed for me! :)