Plumbers and Psychiatrists

I know psychiatrists say we marry our parents, but I think if I submitted my husband and my father as test subjects, they’d have to admit they are wrong.


This week, I called my mom in tears because I’d reached my stress limit. Do you ever get overwhelmed and as you are venting, all of it seems to culminate into one issue that is completely irrelevant? All the women are nodding and all the men are like, “Huh?”

I had one of those moments. I was crying to my mom about all the stress (job, financial, parenting, marital) as I was doing dishes and suddenly, the semi-broken faucet became the single, utterly ridiculous but unbreakable impediment which defined them all. The damned faucet! The faucet that won’t *sob* swing back and forth! WHY DOES EVERYTHING HAVE TO BE SO HARD?????!!!????

Obviously, the faucet wasn’t the root to all the stress in my life. It was just in the wrong place at the right time and became the scapegoat to what was really going on – which I still haven’t figured out because I’m enigmatic like that. Venting done, I ended my conversation with my mom. Who loves me very much and who worries when I cry. Who bounces ideas for how she might help me off of the other person in my life who loves me very much. My Dad.

Several days later, my dad called me because he had an idea on how to easily fix that faucet. Because the broken faucet was frustrating enough to make me cry, and therefore needed to be fixed PRONTO!

Ok – a little backstory on the faucet. We have one of those sinks with two sides. And the faucet is sort of stuck over the center partition. It moves about an inch to either side, but it makes filling up one side and using the other side of the sink for rinsing almost impossible. Very frustrating. Should be an easy fix, but as Chad and I have discovered, nothing in our new (old) house is an easy fix. The shut-off valve to the hot water is corroded and rusted shut, so Chad can’t turn it off to remove the faucet to replace it.

Back to the story. My dad called to ask why Chad didn’t just turn the water off to the house and remove the faucet at the sink and replace it. And worry about the corroded valve when it became a problem.

Seems logical, right? Seems like a quick fix to something that’s causing Dori so much grief. The fact that the faucet doesn’t really have anything to do with why I was crying is another blog post. Actually, I think the answer is in Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus, so since it’s already been written, I’ll skip that one.

Anyway, I mention this to Chad and his answer is that if he has to fix it, he might as well do it right all at once.

Here’s the meat of my point. You know the saying, ‘Measure twice, cut once’ – my father and my husband lie on opposite, exaggerated ends of that theme. Here’s what my mind hears when I listen to my Dad on fixing things.

“Dori, just pop the thing, smack the other thing, spray it with some WD-40, grab your duct tape, wrap the round thingy a couple of times. Should be good for 10 years or so.”

This is what I hear when Chad talks to me about it.

“I’m going to replace the entire ductwork with copper tubing, which probably extends into the attic by way of the bathrooms, so I’ll have to take out the carpet and the subfloor as well. It would actually be great if I could find unicorn horns, they are so much stronger than copper tubing. Once I get that done, I need to find some titanium alloy thread to create conduction through the flux capacitor and we will be fine as long as the Libyans are providing us with uranium core.”

What do I do in the meantime? I wash dishes thinking, “I really need to call a plumber. And probably a psychiatrist.”

The long overdue Mother-In-Law post

Take a deep breath. It’s going to be ok. I haven’t lost my mind. Nor am I planning on villanizing Chad's mom. Without daughters-in-law and mothers-in-law, we’d have little reason for college subjects like Anthropology and Psychology. There’d be no wise sayings like, “It takes all kinds.” There’d be no ‘Everybody Loves Raymond.’ Right?

So, buckle up – here we go.

I guess I need to start with the oldest story – the best story. The story that started it all. The wedding dress story. Chad and I were engaged and I was over at his Aunt’s house. Sande (my mother-in-law), Chad’s aunt, and I were in one of her bedrooms talking and his aunt asked me about my wedding dress. I hadn’t bought it yet but I had some ideas and Chad’s mom said, “You can borrow Dede’s dress. I still have it.” For those of you who aren’t in the know, Dede is Chad’s ex wife.

I’ll wait while you gasp or laugh or to collect your jaw from the floor.

To say I was stunned doesn’t really cover it. I’m a classic overthinker, so I naturally assumed Sande hated me. She then cheerfully offered Dede’s silk flower bouquet, the serving ware they used at the wedding, and a cookbook signed “Merry Christmas, Dede.”

Years went by and I kept these things and others like burrs under my saddle. Burrs that dug in over time and got so under my skin, they became a part of me. I spent ridiculous amounts of time thinking about them from various angles. I pondered, fretted, overthought every word out of her mouth and never considered that I might be spending too much of my energy being the classic, suspiscious daughter-in-law.

Luckily, we mature – even in our 30’s. I now realize that my mother-in-law is almost comically my complete opposite. And she really makes me look kind of hilarious. Here’s my admittedly VERY BASIC reasoning. I’m Metaphysical Mary and she’s Practical Patty.

Objects to Practical Patty are just that, objects. Practical Patty looks at an item and asks one question, “Is it useful?”

Objects to Metaphysical Mary are not JUST objects. They have energy, memories, associations. Metaphysical Mary asks a multitude of questions. “Does it remind me of a good time or a bad time?” “Is it pretty?” “Is it sentimental?” “Does it match my other belongings?” “Does it have a positive energy?” “Is it out of date?” “Did someone I love give this to me?”

Practical Patty will keep an object for an indefinite amount of time if it is useful. Some Practical Patty’s find that even if a thing isn’t currently useful, it might have a future use, and they keep those things, too.

Metaphysical Mary will throw an item out on an emotional whim and later regret it. She might hold onto a completely useless item for sentimental reasons. She might do anything at all based on her current mood. She is by her very nature, impractical.

Metaphysical Mary and Practical Patty have a very large gap in the way they see things. But, as all things that are related to WHO WE ARE, there isn’t a wrong or a right. There’s my way and your way and the gray matter in between. The negotiable space.

I admit, as Metaphysical Mary, there’s little room for negotiation. I’ve had to grow a lot in terms of understanding the wedding dress was not an intentional insult to me. It had a future use. It was an item of large monetary value that had been worn once and was still in good shape. She later gave it to someone who needed it and was very appreciative. I’m humbled by that.

So, to my mother-in-law (if she still reads my blog), I’m sorry it took me so long to make sense of your offer (and all the offers after that I didn’t understand).

To all Metaphysical Mary’s – chill out. Really. Stop overthinking. Maybe people aren’t as passive-aggressive as you think. Maybe they are just practical.

To all Practical Patty’s – maybe a little effort in understanding the Metaphysical Mary in your life… they don’t make a lot of sense, but if they are in your life, they are worth the effort.

It really does take all kinds.

Parenting Patterns

Last night, I started thinking about all the things that have changed about me since having children.

In a movie theater, when a particularly loud moment happens, my natural reaction is to yell at Chad that it's too loud (because it will wake the kids up). An entire two-hour movie isn't enough for this reaction to go away.

Last night, when Chad fell asleep in a particularly loud movie, I completely understood how he could. Napping has become a frightening endeavor at home. You could be settling into a nice REM state only to be pile-driven by a preschooler. So, we sleep less deeply - and look haunted - because there is no safety in sleep. Only terror.

Before I had kids, I looked at parents of loud children in restaurants the same way I look at people who don't know how to merge onto the freeway. As a parent, I look at them with empathy. Last night, when a tiny toddler knocked over a wall of rocks in the hibachi restaurant, I looked at the mother with all the patronizing sympathy I could muster. "I've been there, my soul sister."

I am somehow pathologically driven to rocking when a baby is in the same room as me. I don't have to be holding the baby; I just rock along with the person who is. Rocking, swaying, bouncing...

Before I had children, if I was holding a baby and it started to cry, I practically threw it at its mother. Now, if I'm in a room and a baby starts crying, I practically throw people down to hold it, even if it is being held by its mother.

Let's not even talk about the things that come out of baby (toddler, preschooler) noses and hind quarters. It's not polite. But you know what I mean. Before...no way. Now, just hand me a wipe. No wipes? No problem...I'll improvise. MacGyver has NOTHING on me.

Before having kids, I talked about...uhm. Forget this point. I don't remember what I used to talk about. I don't think it had anything to do with poop, though.

Don't get me wrong - I'm not at all complaining. There's the other side.

Before kids, I didn't laugh all day long.
Before kids, I didn't walk around with a camera waiting for something amazing to happen.
Before kids, I didn't go to bed praying harder for other people than myself.
Before kids, I didn't know how calming it was to hold a baby.
Before kids, I didn't know how strong I really was.
Before kids, I didn't know what it was to be willing to lay your life down for another person.

Before kids, I didn't know the love of God the Father.

I do now.

Aging Gracelessly

There it was. Tucked away beneath a pile of other, appropriately colored hairs. It brazenly took hold at the front of my head, near the bangs. It was coarser, more wild than it's cousins. And bright...it was so bright.

A beacon.

A stowaway.

An intruder.

A gray hair.

I consider myself youthful. My kids tell me I'm immature - and I consider that a good sign that I'm living youthfully. I quote iconic movie lines. I wear ironic t-shirts. I play video games. I'm trying too hard, here, aren't I?

Sigh. In all honesty, my introduction to the knowledge I *might* be aging started on my 36th birthday. I was visiting my parents' house and suddenly, I was in pain. Significant pain. I thought maybe I had the worst constipation of my life (no, that's not the moment I realized I was aging), but the pain became excruciating. I was in my parents bedroom, lying on the floor in a fetal position, crying, when my Dad said, "I think you have a kidney stone." A kidney stone? No way. Kidney stones are for old men.

I'm going to save you the agony of a long story here and just say my Dad was right. It was the first in a long line of kidney stones that I ultimately discovered I'd never get over because I had...wait for it...a congenital deformity called Medullary Sponge Kidney. I still laugh at the diagnosis. I watch way too much Sponge Bob for that not to be funny.

That weekend, the litany of tests from there, the surgery that went along with it, and the diagnosis that I'd always have kidney stones was not really the moment I realized I was aging. It was the information that I'd had this condition all my life, but it only becomes symptomatic "at my age."

Then, I started having mood swings. And break outs. And other...um...hormone related things. And the doctor said it wasn't at all uncommon for women "of my age."

And then my oldest son started to exclaim how much I was starting to look like my father. And every time I looked at my hands, all I saw was my mother's hands.

We will call the gray hair the final straw. It was the undeniable proof that I am aging. So, I plucked it. I stared at it there in my hand and I realized, my hands are beautiful. They are my mother's hands as I remember them when I was a girl. They are big, warm, rough, weathered. They are what Seinfeld would call 'man hands.' And I looked up at the mirror and I saw my Dad. I saw the way his eyes kind of slope down at the outside. I saw the nose known as the 'Pearce nose' (my grandmother's maiden name is Pearce). I smiled and my Daddy smiled back at me.

I saw the break outs - benign little constellations that I can't for the life of me get rid of. I saw the laugh lines, the deep wrinkle between my eyes, the one age spot on my left cheek. And I looked down at the gray hair and thought, "You are a flag of triumph, aren't you?" My little gray hair, who I know won't come back alone next time, is more proof that I follow in a long line of people who aged while loving, laughing, learning, living. A line of people who are in their 60's and 80's and are beautiful beyond words.

I'm not saying I'm going to stop using anti-aging moisturizer. Let's not get carried away. I'm just grateful that I had a peaceful moment about getting older and maybe realizing that it's going to be sooner rather than later that I have to retire those ironic tees.

It's the thought that counts, right?

Maybe it’s because it’s not my love language, but I could quite possibly be the world’s worst gift-giver. I try so hard to listen, really listen to people and come up with unique gifts that show them how much I love and/or care about them.

Case in point – the Elvis cookbook I bought my brother one Christmas. I mean, he loved Elvis. Really loved him. I remember being so proud of that gift. And years later, I learned that Derrick gave it away in a white elephant gift exchange. He still brings up the book as an example of my horrific gift-giving deficiency.

Then there was the huge amethyst. This was the year that my mom told me giving something that you’d love to have is always a good idea. I gave my brother a huge piece of amethyst. I was a teenager. Unfortunately, my 20-something brother was more than a little baffled by the gift.

There was the hat rack. It was during my ‘making your own gifts is a sign of your love’ phase. I made it from a spare piece of 2x4, three nails, and silver spray paint. My dad appreciated the hat rack – but not the hat rack-shaped silver outline on the garage floor.

My dad loves this gift, but in retrospect, it needs to be added to the list. The magnolia tree. My Dad was born in Magnolia, Arkansas. He mentioned that he loved magnolia trees. So, for Father’s Day, I spent $50 on a twig that I was promised would one day be a magnolia tree. It really is pretty now, but seriously…a tree.

I also gave my dad an antique saw for Christmas. Honest to goodness – an antique saw. Not too much more to say on that. Just let it simmer.

I gave my friend, Katie, a themed gift. Last time I’ll ever do that. I asked her if she remembered the theme and she answered, "Um...Something about sea creatures and stars?" All I remember is watching her take each gift out of the bag and wondering, 'What the heck was I thinking?' We are good enough friends to laugh about it now. Actually, I think we laughed about it as she was opening it.

Sweaters, antiques, hand-made, themed gifts – all bad. All really bad.

My biggest fear at this point is that I have all sons. Meaning I’m going to be that mother-in-law giving my daughters-in-law things like owl candles, or a chair shaped like a hand, or a lava lamp, or a year’s worth of Omaha steaks. I have to remember that just because someone said they loved Cabbage Patch Dolls when they were little doesn’t mean they want one now.

And the kicker is that I’m writing this because I just bought my friend a gift that I’m petrified will be the *update* to this post. The next example of my gift-giving ineptitude. Her birthday is on the 31st.

Stay tuned.


*Update*

Ok - there's already an update. As I was posting this on Facebook, my mom texts me this picture:

Behold, the computer-lap-light-fan-cup holder thingy.

The Antique Saw - see how much my parents love me? They still own it and have made it actually look cute.

The Magnolia Tree - no longer a twig

Down will come baby cradle and all

I don't have time or energy to go into full explanation of what kind of kid Cade is. Only Chad and I fully understand. Our parents have had glimpses of life with Cade from watching him. And our babysitters know a little bit. But until you spend time with him, it's just really impossible to understand how one little person can be so absolutely destructive and so conversely absolutely lovable. It's an enigma.

In the last few months, he's pulled pictures (screws, anchors, and all) out of the sheet rock in his room. He's torn strips out of the cute, baseball wallpaper border by his bed. He's made tiny, stegosaurus horned-shaped holes in his walls. He's figured out a way to loosen the blades on his ceiling fan. He's even managed to tear his ENTIRE closet door clean off the hinges.

He's three. Three...

That's not the reason for this post, though. I just needed to tell you that because it's funny and so you'll understand why we had to finally take the crib/toddler bed out of his room.

The crib is one of those convertible cribs. It starts out as a crib, converts to a toddler bed and then, if you so choose, into a double bed headboard and foot board. My parents gave it to me when Pearce was born. It's has gone through four babies.

The other night, Cade came out of his room really screaming (which is unusual, because he generally laughs when he hurts himself). Stone came with him and told us that Cade had been sitting on the top of the toddler bed and had fallen to the floor. There was a fist-sized knot on the back of his head. We made the decision that it was time to get rid of anything in his room over 2 feet tall.

We dismantled the crib and placed it's parts in the garage. We made the decision not to keep it and to put it out on the curb for the magic curb elves.

And here's the real reason for this blog post - at least this was the original idea (I realize now that my digression has become a secondary topic). I called Pearce to come get the crib and take it out to the curb. He came into the garage with just jeans and socks - all slouched and angsty-looking with earphones in his ears and the cord trailing to his jeans pockets. I watched him begrudgingly take the pieces of his crib out to the curb and I had one of those moments.

He chewed on that crib when he was teething.
He climbed out of it in his diaper to come ask for a glass of water.
He poked toys through the slats and then cried for them.
He used the rails to teach himself how to stand.
He reached out his arms to me from that bed.

And now he was carrying all of it's heavy pieces to the curb with his mop of hair flopping in his eyes and his 13-year-old look of disgust at the thought of doing an actual chore.

You know I don't get sappy that often, but I'm telling you; I'm sure I creeped my teen-aged son out when he came back in the house and I was smiling goofily at him. He stopped, took one earphone out and said, "What?" I said, "That was your crib. And you just carried it out to the curb. Don't you think that's something?" He rolled his eyes and smiled at me while shaking his head.

"Oh, mom."

Tree Trimming 2011

You’d think that a blog post about tree trimming every year would get old, but each year our tree trimming tradition is a little different from the year before. This year, it was much different because we donated our artificial tree and bought a real tree.

In the movies, they take so much time to pick the perfect tree and the whole family is a part of the process. They go bundled up and red-nosed together and make it a family event. We aren’t a Hollywood family. I researched online what tree I wanted so there would be no standing around at the tree place. We did not take the whole family. Chad and I strode into Lowe’s with a purpose. We went straight to the Fraser Fir section, picked out the first tree I saw and looked at it like Chevy Chase looked that the Grand Canyon. I said, “That’s the one” and we were done.

One of the reasons we chose to donate our massive artificial tree was because Chad hurt his back every year getting it out of the attic. He has arthritis in his spine and several disc problems and the tree became a nemesis. An evil, inanimate genius bent on ruining our chances at a harmonious, family tree-trimming experience. Chad would grumble and curse as he threw the tree into the living room and that set the tone for the entire night. Much as my Dad set the tone every year of my youth with the jumbled strand of infernal tree lights and his never-ending quest to put them away in a manner less jumbled for the next year.

Here’s the rub…there’s no getting around the back pain. You either drop a 400 pound artificial tree out of your attic or you carry a 100 pound tree through a store and out to the truck then into the house.

As Chad was walking through Lowe’s, each step he took left a pile of fir needles behind him. My first thought was that we were modern Hansel and Gretel, but as we got closer to the checkout lane, I worried whether the tree would have any needles left or if we’d get home with the world’s tallest Charlie Brown Christmas tree.
All was well and we got it home and set upright (mostly).

This year marks the first year that Pearce can brag about being the tallest person in the house, so he was more than willing to help me string the lights and place the garland on the tree. This created almost a complete 180 degree change in the placement of ornaments. I’ve always let the kids decorate the tree and I never move any of them when it’s done. In the past, our tree was always VERY bottom-heavy. In fact, I’d say the top 1/3 of the tree was general bare. But this year, Pearce enjoyed his new height status so well that our tree is decidedly top-heavy.
And because Cade is…well…Cade, the bottom of the tree is decidedly neglected and rather bare. Cade was far too busy trying to fully fit himself into the Christmas storage boxes to do things like decorate.

Stone proved to be a kid with a purpose. For every 5 ornaments Pearce and Cole hung, Stone hung one – perfectly. He was frustrated with the bendiness of the branches; much different from the artificial tree branches he was accustomed to. He hung and rehung every ornament. And when the rest of us were done and ready to throw tinsel on the tree, he was still methodically hanging every ornament in our storage box. No decoration got left behind.

And finally, we threw the tinsel on the tree and recounted the stories of my mother’s strict adherence to the Tinsel Placement Method (complete with wrist flicking and correct number of strands) and stories of Chad throwing whole clumps on tinsel on his childhood trees. We drank our eggnog and ate our chocolate covered cherries and stood back and looked at our tree.

The boys marveled at how it was the most beautiful one yet and I agreed and nodded emphatically. Because it is. Beautiful. In its own way. My friends are posting pictures of their trees on Facebook and I admit I look at them with envy. Their trees are straight out of a decorator’s magazine. One day I might have that department store tree. But for now, my tree is just like us – quirky, a bit too loud, and totally random. And beautiful.

Here it is, along with some pictures of our night.





Here's Chad at his first attempt to cut an inch off the bottom of the tree. He quickly handed the hacksaw to Pearce who promptly broke it trying to saw too hard.




We had to go to power tools...but I'm still questioning why we chose to do this in the living room???



Here is Pearce's imitation of a Christmas tree.




Pearce putting up the garland Nice checkerboard pattern.



Who needs clothes when you have a great accessory? Stone was not in time out. I have no idea why he is standing in the corner over there.




Ok, I made him put PJs on.



Stone concentrating on hanging everything perfectly.



Cole being incredibly cute.



Before I explained to Pearce that the 'tree skirt' goes UNDER the tree...







Placing the tree skirt where it belongs.



Bodhi is so happy all the craziness is over. He doesn't understand why we go through all that trouble just so he has a nice place to nap.

Ugliest Halloween Costume Ever (a.k.a. I’m a pretty princess)

Stone asked me on Halloween Day if I would dress up to take him to Trunk or Treat. I told him I thought I could pull something together. He said, “Can you go as a princess?” I replied that I didn’t have time to go get a princess costume, but my thought was, ‘this kid doesn’t know his mama at all.’ He then replied, “Ok, you can just go as a regular human being.” I laughed and said, “So, I can just go like this?” He looked at me with all the incredulousness a 5-year-old can muster and said, “No, with pretty clothes.”

You know how I love to backtrack. My next door neighbors hold a Halloween party every year. They set a theme and I usually let that drive what Chad and I are going to dress up as. Unfortunately, last year Stone was too sick for us to make their party or trick-or-treating. This year, I was too sick to attend their party. But, the theme they picked was People of Walmart. If you don’t know what this is and you want to be truly disturbed, please check out www.peopleofwalmart.com. I had put together our costumes for the party before I got sick and, well, that’s what the plan was. So, Stone was just out of luck.

I took a shower and while my hair was still wet, I got some hair gel and just gooped it on thick. I put mascara on then rubbed it around a little. I put my zebra-striped jammies on and a pink tank top over a black bra Then, I added a fake tattoo. Flip flops with chipped toe-nail polish. No makeup. It was AWFUL. When I was done, I was just so ugly I could hardly look at myself in the mirror. So, naturally, I took this picture and texted it to my husband:

I then trotted into the kitchen to show Stone and he was dismayed beyond belief. He said, “No, mommy. That’s ugly.” And I said, “Well, it’s comfortable, so this is what it is.” And that was the last thing he said to me about the costume.

We went to church and participated in Trunk or Treat where friends of mine looked at me like they had a bad taste in their mouth. Two of my friends didn’t recognize me and thought I was truly a person who needed to take a shower. When I spoke to them and recognition happened, it was my favorite moment of the evening. Well – until later. I’m getting to that.

When we got home, I had a little time to snuggle on the couch with Stone. I was still donning my horrible costume and he still had his cute little bat nose and whiskers on. While we were watching a Funniest Home Video program, he looked up at me and said, “Mommy?” I looked down and answered, “Yes, sweetie?” and he said, “You are beautiful.”

That was all. He looked back at the TV without another word. And I realized; this is the way he sees me. He wanted me to dress like a princess because I’m his beautiful mommy, not because I’m a girl and I need to dress like a princess. I looked down at his blonde head for a long moment and just praised God for him. For that innocent love – for his seeing way past my external appearance.

Next year, I’m dressing up as whatever he asks. Who knows what that might be. If it’s a princess, so be it. I might dress Chad up as a frog to keep some humor in it all, but I’ll be a beautiful princess if my 6-year-old still sees me that way.

The Witching Hour (a.k.a. Wired)

Yesterday, I stayed home sick with a sinus/respiratory infection. I felt so bad, I couldn’t finish the coffee Chad made me – which is unusual (the fact that I couldn’t finish it – not the fact that he made it for me). But, I went to the doctor, got medicine, and steeled myself for Halloween festivities.

Last night was a night of several firsts. It was the first Halloween where Cade was old enough to understand the correlation between the words “trick or treat” and the release of candy from grown-ups’ hands into his candy bag. It was also the first Halloween after we discovered his peanut allergy. We kept a watchful eye on him the whole night because he’s a bit of a kleptomaniac. And he’s very fast. He can have candy open and consumed before you can twinkle your nose.

We always go to our church for Trunk Or Treat and when it was all over, we counted it a great success and loaded kids up in the truck to grab some dinner. We hear Cole say, “Cade, where did you get that Butterfinger?” and Chad and I go into panic mode. Chad flies across the truck Dukes of Hazzard-style and I crush Stone in an effort to get across the back seat to where Cade is. We get the offensive candy out of his hands, but not until he’s had at least a bite of it.

Ok, we tell ourselves – this isn’t too bad. Cade’s reaction to peanuts is usually lots of grumpiness, crying to the point of hysteria, and an asthmatic response that requires a breathing treatment. It isn’t a rush-to-the-ER, epipen-to-the-jugular situation. I'm rereading that last sentence and thinking maybe I watch too much TV...

We get home, feed the kids, and put them to bed. Everything seems ok. Until the crying starts from Cade’s room. He tells us he doesn’t feel good in a tone that is heart-breaking. We hold him, rock him, let him watch TV with us for a little while. He tells me, “I want to go to my bed” and I take him then I go to bed myself. Not more than 5 minutes later, he’s crying again. Chad brings him to me and he stays for about 5 minutes then starts crying again. He wants to go back to his room. I take him and try to rub his back and he’s flipping over and over again like he’s had baby-speed. I think – ugh! – is this too much Halloween candy or is this peanut-related? For the next 4 hours, we hold him, get him water, take him to our bed, take him to his bed, walk with him, rub his back, and give him a breathing treatment. He’s crying that he’s tired and wants to go to sleep, but he’s tossing and turning and can’t get comfortable.

Finally, he collapses and goes to sleep – well after 2am. We are unsure what is to blame for the evening’s drama. Then I discover it.

Remember the coffee Chad made me? The one I didn’t feel good enough to drink? I also didn’t feel good enough to take it to the kitchen. And there’s the cup sitting on my nightstand. Empty. And I realize that my 3-year-old, who LOVES coffee, found an opportunity to drink and entire cup of it at some point after we got home from Trunk Or Treat. And then we gave him albuterol because we thought he was having a reaction to the Butterfinger.

Kids like Cade (or should I say parents like me) are the reasons there are so many resources related to baby-proofing a house. If only I could baby-proof the part of my memory dedicated to making sure my coffee mugs are rinsed out.

Cooking Lessons from Scary Mom

It’s no secret. I love to make fun of my mom. She’s my straight man. And she’s good at it. Today, I’m going to villainize her a little. If I were lying on a psychiatrist’s couch, I’d be blaming her for my shortcomings today. You see, my mom is the reason I can’t cook.

Ok, I can cook. Actually, I can cook really well, but I didn’t learn until I was in my 30’s. Until then, I had a pathological fear of the kitchen. Mageirocophobia – fear of cooking. It’s a real word. I’m using it in a sarcastic context and if you suffer from Mageirocophobia, I’m not in any way trying to diminish you. I’m simply trying to describe the power my mom’s Ataxophobia – fear of untidiness (another good one used in sarcastic context).

I think every child wants to help their parents in the kitchen at some time, but in my house, we sort of knew to stay out of mom’s way. There were rules. Rules that had to be followed. Now, I don’t want to delve too far into my mom’s psychological makeup (*cough* OCD *cough*), but we need to talk about a few kitchen-related things here.

1. Measuring
2. Counting
3. Cleanliness
4. Recipes

Measuring Rules

My mom is a GREAT cook. The best. My kids won’t eat any of my attempts to cook ‘outside of the box’ but they will eat anything she puts in front of them and loudly broadcast how good it is. Even vegetables. So, when I tell you how freakish she is about measuring, I just want you to know it’s not because she’s a bad cook. My mom uses a knife to measure. A measuring cup or spoon and a knife. The knife is used on the unsharp side as a straight-edge to slide the unwanted, leftover ingredient off the top of the measuring cup or spoon. For. Every. Measurement. Period. No. Exceptions. My mom owns a set of measuring spoons for a dash, pinch, and smidgen. I’m not lying. You can get one here: http://www.amazon.com/Andersons-Baking-Smidgen-Stainless-Measuring/dp/B000H0UAUI

Who knows? Maybe this is why her food comes out so great. Perfectly measured every time. I am not this exact. In fact, I’m more of a ‘wing it’ personality. If it calls for ½ a cup and I have a clean measuring cup, I’ll eyeball what ½ looks like and go with it. Same with measuring spoons. With vanilla, I don’t even use a measuring spoon. You can’t mess up vanilla. As a child, adhering to my mom’s strict measuring rules was simply counterintuitive to my personality style, so I chose simply not to try cooking.

Counting Rules

Oh, my goodness. I know my mom is reading this and she’s gotten this far and is either laughing hysterically or yelling, “Oh NO!” at her laptop. There were times when I bee-bopped into the kitchen to ask my mom a question and found her in the dreaded Counting Zone. My mom would be hunched over a mixing bowl holding it with one arm while the other arm stirred the contents. Her eyes were laser-locked onto the contents and her mouth was moving silently. She was counting. Because the recipe said to mix for 50 beats. I would freeze in terror. Had she seen or heard me? Had I messed up her count? Could I back away slowly from the Counting Zone without detection? What, oh what, would happen to the recipe if I messed up the COUNT? What if she had to start over? What THEN????? To this day, I refuse to count. I pay minimal attention to blurbs in the recipe about the mixture needing to be smooth or lumpy, but I refuse to get caught in the Counting Zone. Ever.

Cleanliness Rules

Here’s the real reason I didn’t cook until I was in my 30’s. I’m a messy cook. Always have been. And my mom is a neat cook. She cleans as she cooks. When she’s through, it’s like the Boy Scouts have been there. She’s left the kitchen and all its gleaming appliances in better condition than when she got there. I tried this as a kid. I really, really tried. I relegated myself to one recipe – Snickerdoodles – because I thought I could control the ingredients. But flour has a tendency to get away from me. Even to this day. Flour is my kitchen nemesis. I clean and it all looks shiny and then I discover flour on the lip of a drawer, or the underside of my Kitchen Aid mixer head. It’s no different from childhood. My mom always discovered the errant puff of flour and called me into the kitchen for the ‘If-You-Can’t-Keep-The-Kitchen-Clean-Then-You-Can’t-Use-The-Kitchen’ speech. I always nodded, cursed the flour and waited another year to try again.

Recipe Rules

Here, finally, my mom and I have something in common. Probably not for the same reasons, though. You see, we are both recipe cookers. There are cooks who ‘just go with it’ and cooks who use recipes. We are the latter. Even if my mom is intimately familiar with a recipe, she drags it out and consults it. I think her need for recipes is out of her perfectionism and mine is just out of forgetfulness. There are a few things I can cook without a recipe (spaghetti, coconut cookies, martinis, waffles, etc.), but for the most part, I simply can’t remember ingredients lists, measurements, and instructions. I consult the internet every time I need to boil eggs. I wish that were sarcasm, but it isn’t. I can’t remember if you put the eggs in first, before the water boils or after. How long do you boil? Cover on or off? Please don’t attempt to teach me a no-fail way. I’ll forget it. I also can’t remember temperatures and I’m always in a hurry, so I cook everything on high. Last night, I tried frying bacon and had the temperature way too hot. It was bad for the bacon, the kitchen, and my arms. My mom would have been mortified.

Murdered bacon:

Bacon Cooking Technique:

I will give my mom this; she’s only really crazy in her own kitchen. Last year, I made Thanksgiving dinner for the first time in my life and she watched from a safe distance with a look of contented amusement. She only interjected when I freaked out about the bird still being frozen and needing to cook several different things at the same time but at different temperatures. She was calm, cool, and collected in helping me avert crisis and even helped me clean the flour off the countertops. And the ceiling. And the kids. And the dog.

Cole's trickery (a.k.a. The Big Guns)

Sometimes, one of my kids surprises me with a thought process so unique, I am left in total awe. I hesitate to post this in the case it gets back to Cole's teachers. You'll understand why in a minute.

Cole and I were talking about his school day yesterday and he said he'd had a particularly good day. He'd even gotten through the one class he has a really hard time keeping quiet in. (side note: Cole's a talker)

So, he tells me that he likes to trick his teachers and I raise a cautious eyebrow and naturally ask, "How's that?" He smiles and says he started it with his 4th grade teacher (sorry, Mrs. Scroggins). The trick: He pretends he isn't listening then when the teacher calls on him to answer a question, he surprises them by knowing the answer.

I remain quiet because I find that if I do, I usually get more information than when I pepper the kids with questions. He continues:

"Whenever I want to trick my teacher into calling on me, I pull out my guns. Here's my regular guns." He pulls his feet up into his chair and looks down at his hands in his lap.

"Doing that usually works, but if not, I pull out the big guns." He transforms his hands into fighting creatures who are in an all out war - complete with quiet, albeit distracting noises.

"And if that doesn't work, well, I pull out the bazooka." He puts his feet back on the floor and stares forward, eyes glazed, mouth slightly open.

I'm trying very hard not to laugh, because I have a real concern about this 'trickery.' I ask him why he'd want to call that kind of negative attention to himself. He replies, "I like being called on and this is more effective than raising my hand."

And there you have it.

Bragging Rights (a.k.a. Dori gets on her soapbox)

I have a friend (a super, fantastic, awesome person) who has daughters roughly the same age as my older two boys. This friend of mine is on Facebook and I laugh - really laugh - at the differences between raising sons and raising daughters. That's not the topic for this post, though. The other day, she posted that she was hosting a sleepover and basic Facebook-related commenting began. Most of it was sarcastic because that's the crowd I run with and apparently it's also the crowd my crowd runs with. The people commenting were strangers to me, but we were brought together in the common purpose of chiming in on our mutual friend's funny life.

After a handful of comments (mine something related to the horror of having that many tween girls amassed in one location), a comment showed up from another of my friend's friends (are you still following?). The comment was rather long and passionate about how this super awesome friend of mine shouldn't complain about raising her kids and how the new generation of parents complains and whines about raising their kids and doesn't appreciate what an honor and blessing it is to have children.

My first reaction to this comment was one of anger. I sort of seethed at this stranger for several days. I calmed myself by remembering how laid back my friend is and how she probably let that comment slide. She probably shrugged. I also reminded myself that people from past generations have a different perspective altogether that I can't understand just as they don't understand my perspective.

Then, I wondered if this is how I'm perceived. I mean, if you read my blog, you'll find what looks like complaining and whining. I use sarcasm as a literary standard for writing about my parenting experience. But here's the deal - what I'm really doing, underneath the surface and way down deep - is BRAGGING. I'm raising these funny kids who entertain me and challenge me to my VERY LIMITS and it makes me want to share that experience with friends, family, and strangers if they'll read it. My basic point in all my blog posts is - I'm not perfect, I'm flying by the seat of my pants, I'm pretty sure my children are smarter than me and maybe manipulating me, and I'm loving every chaotic minute of it.

Even the moments that aren't funny become moments of bragging on Facebook and the blogosphere. I'm basically communicating that I'm living proof that you can't create crazy. Crazy just happens. And the more children you have (or in my friend's case, the more you invite over for a sleepover), the more crazy you have. We survive this with humor.

I don't understand the people I know who have 'perfect' children and 'perfect' lives. I feel like the friendship is not only a place of judgement, but also one where I'm not safe to be honest and one where my children aren't safe to be themselves in my stories.

To my friend (and she'll know who she is): I would NEVER in a MILLION years have that many boys to my house for a sleepover. I'm in awe of you. I relinquish the highest level of bragging rights to you. I defer to your greatness.

To my friend's friend (who will never know that this post exists - thankfully): I get that we use a LOT of sarcasm, but we aren't whining and complaining, we are bragging. We are like old men who sit around talking about their various ailments. We are like dirt bike riders who talk about how many bones they've broken and yet still get back on the bike to ride. We are like all those mothers who talk about their horrific labor experience ("I was in labor for 14 hours" "That's nothing, I was in labor for 24 hours and 12 of those hours was in traffic"). It's all bragging-based one-upsmanship.

And do you know what insanity I'll have to endure to get those bragging rights back from my friend? We're talking taking 10 10-year-old boys tent camping on a primitive site with no water or electricity. Or teaching my 3-year-old the art of silent meditation. It's going to take serious crazy.

And then she'll do something amazing and I'll have to give the bragging rights right back to her.




***My friend gave me permission to publish this post***

Rizzerd

I NEVER thought I'd have a lizard in my house. At least not in the 'pet' capacity. But, parenting is all about surprising yourself. This isn't the story of how the lizard came to reside in my house - that's a story that only Cole and I find interesting. This post is just because I find myself amazed at how a reptile can so endear himself to naysayers. Chad and I had serious reservations about having the lizard in our home. Two other pets and a 3-year-old seemed like an insurmountable number of death traps for a new tiny, soft-sided, scurrying animal. But Cole won with his research, good grades, respectful attitude, and long eyelashes (those eyelashes are going to be the death of me).

Right from the pet store, we knew this little guy was going to be funny. When we walked over to him, he started scratching at the cage like a crazy person in a padded cell. I've read all about bearded dragons and I know this behavior is common, but until you've seen it in action - and especially seen it while watching other bearded dragons just sit like lumps on their basking rocks, you can't imagine how cute it is.

Because he's a lizard, he has a constant look of curiosity. He's always tilting his head when you move and running toward the movement in the room to check it out. He doesn't hide or cower at all. When we brought him home, we looked like the other bearded dragons at the pet store; climbing all over one another to get a better look at him. There the 6 of us were, admiring and pointing out the obvious to the room. "Look, he just jumped from that branch to that other branch!" "Oh, see how he tilts his head every time we talk?" And my favorite; Cade's continuous use of the sentence, "I unna hold de rizzerd! I unna hold de rizzerd!"

Even watching him eat live crickets is the highlight of our family time. We wait until he's caught one and we all say, "Om nom nom nom" and then laugh like we are all stand up comics.

I've been the the pet store no less than 6 times since we bought the lizard looking for easier ways to feed him, and better ways to make sure he's warm or cool, or humid enough. I'm not at all sure Cole is any more excited than Chad and I about the new pet. In fact, whenever Cole takes Bumbledore (that's his name) out of his terrarium, Chad magically appears and pretty much takes over.

It's official, we are a lizard household. Here are some pictures of Bumbledore, the Bearded Dragon.


Here's his sexy picture:

Highways with God

I think I could start all of my posts with "My life is loud." It's a good place to start. It sets the mood quickly without a lot of words. I hear lots of talk about how busy we all are as a culture, though, so maybe your life is loud, too. Even my inner life is loud. When the kids are asleep, I still have thoughts, fears, worries, dreams, and to do lists running through my mind like a freight train. I never slow down because my life is always ahead of me and I'm running to keep up.

Because my life is so loud, I have an unenforced 'no music' law in my truck. No one agrees on music choices and playing music can actually create noise instead of melody. It's rare when we are all sing the same song without someone complaining. If we sing songs Cade knows (Itsy Bitsy Spider), Pearce is rolling his eyes. If we sing songs that Pearce likes (Bruno Mars), Cade is yelling, "It's too loud (translation: Iss too roud!)!

We normally skip the music in the car and just talk over each other.

It's because of this I enjoy road trips on my own so much. I plug in my iPod and play my favorite songs. It's in this time alone that God usually finds me. I'm vegging out - zoning on the highway and a song will come on. Because it's on my iPod, it's always a song I'm familiar with, but for some reason, it hits me anew.

And I'm helpless to what happens next. The song will speak to me. I mean, REALLY speak to me. Right where I am in my life. One of the funny musings I've discovered about these moments is how quickly it happens. I'm just sitting there singing and the words will disappear in my throat. A gurgle comes out instead. Water literally bursts forth from my eyes. My nose abruptly stops up and starts running at the same time.

I'm suddenly hyper-aware of the people driving in the lanes next to me, but I'm too afraid to make eye contact with them because I'm really leaking. From my eyes and nose. Why is the Kleenex box on the floorboard!?!?!? Gargh!!!!

I should change the song, compose myself, and slow a little so the people to my left and right will be far ahead of the sobbing, silently singing stranger. But I don't. I turn it up, I listen more deeply, soak in the moisture from the air around me in order to create even more tears.

Then, there is a peace. A knowledge that God is with me in the song and in my heart - and even leaking out of my eyes. I am emptied of all the noise and then filled with peace and sometimes revelation. I am grateful for those moments of restoration - regardless of what the drivers around me think. And regardless of an almost guaranteed lack of available Kleenex.

Exit Stage Left

Kids go through stages. I know this. I've raised enough boys to be comfortable with this statement. Kids go through stages. Simple.

But Cade...I pause to run my hands through my hair to see if it's falling out in patches...Cade is going to END ME, PEOPLE.

It's a never-ending transition from one horrific stage to another. As soon as he was old enough crawl, he discovered the dog water and food. And for almost a year, he splashed, dumped, and even drank the dog's water. He took immense joy in putting the dog food into the water and stirring it around. He loved to put other random things into the dog water. Stuffed animals, DVD's, army men, hairbrushes. You're judging, right? You're giving the computer monitor an incredulous look and asking, "A year, Dori? Why didn't you just MOVE the food and water?" I guess the answer is part 'I never had to do that for three other boys' and part 'Where am I going to move it where a 26 pound Pomeranian can get to it, but Cade can't?'

That finally subsided, but before I could celebrate, we began the arduous task of making sure that Cade didn't choke to death on a daily basis. Everything went into the child's mouth. And I mean E-ver-y-thin-g. Dog food, balls, weeble wobbles, rabbit pellets from the back yard, old milk, checkers, coins, soap. Yes, soap. He'd put it in his mouth, make a face, look at it and proceed to put it back in his mouth just to reassure himself it did, in fact, taste that bad. Then Legos. OMG - the legos. Lego men heads, weapons, tires, blocks, trees, etc. Protein isn't really the "building block" to Cade's muscle - it's Legos.

Once we realized that he wasn't putting so many things in his mouth, we were already into the "NO!" means "DO IT FASTER" stage.
Cade's translations:
"No, Cade, don't eat the dog food." = "Eat is before I can get to you!"
"No, Cade, don't jump on the couch!" = "Jump off the couch and run!"
"No, Cade, don't drink that milk from last night's dinner." = "DOWN IT!!! DOWN IT!!!!"

And finally, just when I'm starting to see some improvement in his reasoning skills, he starts potty training. This really isn't a behavioral stage. But Cade manages to make it a challenge. He's, well, he's VERY regular. He poops each night at around 9:00. And we put a pull up on him to avoid the underwear/poop debacle. The last week or so, he's decided that he needs to take the pull up off after he's pooped in it. And he's really quiet about it. We think he's sleeping until he says, "Mommy, I need to go poop." under the door. I walk into his darkened room and either step directly onto the pull up (always facing up where there's no avoiding maximum foot-coverage) or I walk into the 'Where in the world could Cade's stinky pull up be?' mystery. Why does he hide it???? WHY? He cheerfully smiles and says, "I went poop!" while I frantically check his hands, the bed, the furniture, and the toys. Do you know how many diseases are fecal in their origins??? Hazmat needs a secret tunnel to Cade's room.

So, I ponder these questions while I'm trying not to cry at the end of a day where I either spent it keeping Cade alive or cleaning up his hazardous waste - why is the last child the most challenging child??? And when will a good stage happen? And will I recognize it while I'm on anti-psychotic meds?

Unintentional Challenge (a.k.a. "I love you, man.")

I’m literally obligated by an implied challenge to post this. My son should know better. And perhaps he does. Perhaps he simply feigns horror at being the subject of my blog postings.

I should start by declaring how awesome Pearce is . He’s not mortified at almost 13 to be seen with me and even throws a gangly arm around me in rare displays of public affection. Even though the chemicals in his pre-teen body vehemently demand that he doesn’t; he still laughs at my jokes. And when we say goodbye on the phone – there is ALWAYS an ‘I love you.’ It’s a family thing. My parents and I say it to each other. Chad and I end our phone conversations that way. My brother and I tell each other when we speak on the phone. I say it to all my children if I’m on the phone with them. Pearce’s Dad also says it to him. And now, Pearce is in the habit. It’s muscle memory for him to end a phone conversation with ‘Love you.’

So, it was really a natural turn of events when earlier today, Pearce ended a phone conversation with one of his best guy buddies by saying, ‘Love you.’ I wish I had video of his facial expression as he realized what he’d said. I heard it and looked up. Chad heard it and looked up. Cole heard it and looked up. As realization struck and Pearce’s eyes exploded like popcorn, we all did the very supportive family thing. We howled with laughter. We might have even pointed and laughed. We laughed ourselves into tears. All this laughter while Pearce was frantically texting his buddy to explain in case he heard him as he was hanging up. Kuddos to his buddy, who responded with, “I didn’t hear it, but I love you too, bro.”

Pearce’s Dad called right at that moment and we all loudly encouraged Pearce to let him in on the hilarity, which he was hesitant to do. He finally gave in to our pressure and told his Dad, who I’m sure got a kick out of it. This was the moment when Pearce unintentionally challenged me to post this. He’s talking to his Dad and he dolefully says, “This will probably end up on Mom’s blog.”

What's a mom to do?

Growing Up

Today is a day of celebration. It's Cade's 3rd birthday. A landmark for sure. More than just a birthday, this day signifies the official end of the baby days in my house. I don't have a single child in the nursery at church now. Not a single kid in my house wears diapers.

There are no more sippy cups.

No more pacifiers.

No more quartered grapes!

Can I get an Amen!!

I might be more freaked out if it weren't for my older boys. Pearce, Cole, and Stone make me so proud - make me thankful for God's intervention (according to my parents, I deserve much, much worse in return for my childhood). I am not mourning the end of the baby days because of them.

I'm looking forward to seeing who this little boy becomes. I'm looking forward to knowing him as a person. I'm excited to see him grow into his humor, strengths, quirks. I'm looking forward to discovering his passions with him and encouraging his pursuits. And I'm looking forward to watching him become independent and confident in who he is aside from 'Dori's son.'

Cade Garret Young, I love you. You are wild and unpredictable and tenacious and unsinkable. You are more awesome than I could have dreamed. You are the reason the word 'awesome' was created.

Lost memory card - a spiritual lesson in love

I have to make a horrible, embarrassing confession. I lost a memory card at Saturday’s wedding. I changed out the card so I’d have a clean card for the ceremony and reception and the one with all the pre-wedding pictures is gone. I discovered it when I got home Saturday night. I was so excited about how beautiful the wedding was, I wanted to download the images immediately and work on them. After scouring the camera bag, my pockets, and the truck; I left messages with the wedding chapel’s office and then I laid awake in bed most of the night with knots in my stomach.

The next day, I sat through church much like a zombie. I remember thinking it would be easier to talk to God about the situation if it were a moral or character flaw – but I couldn’t figure out what lesson could be learned from losing a memory card. Other than a technical lesson. You can bet I have a 32G dedicated card in my camera’s second slot that’s set to duplicate so I never lose another image even if I change out the card in the first slot. Sorry for the run-on.

After church, I took my 10-year-old, Cole, with me to the chapel and reception sites to look for the card. We started at the reception place as a long shot, but a possibility.
As we were walking along the street, Cole said, “Have you asked God for help?”

I replied, “You mean help in finding the card?”

He said, “Yes.”

I answered, “I feel kind of funny asking God to help me find a memory card.”

He replied, “You should. You always tell us that we can go to God about anything we need help with.”

I literally stopped walking and just looked at Cole. And he looked at me. Then he shrugged. So, we prayed. I told God that what I really wanted was to find the card, but if he couldn’t help me with that, to help me with the words I would need to talk to the client. Then, I asked God to give the client a gracious heart. And I thanked him for Cole.

We didn’t find the card and I came home to another long, sleepless night of worry. Before I went to bed, Cole asked me if I would pray with him. He prayed his normal prayer of thanksgiving to God and then added a prayer for me and my conversation with the client.

Today, I made that call and when I got off the phone, I cried like a baby. The mother of the bride was so gracious. She was so honestly amazing, I just cried out of gratitude and relief.

To think, on Sunday morning I didn’t know what kind of lesson I could learn from a lost memory card.

First, I have a son who not only listens to me, but reminds me of my own lessons. We can go to God with anything. Cole’s reminder to me was a magical, childlike expression of his innocence and trust. And his prayer for me was an expression of his love and concern for me. I’m humbled and honored to be his mother.

Second, I learned that there are people in this world who receive bad news and don’t even stutter before offering their grace. I’m inspired to follow suit.

So many more lessons still being processed, but those were the biggies.

Praise be to God.

On the other side of the lens

Everyone has a picture taker in their family, right? The one who is never in the pictures because they are always behind the lens? I'm that person. I'm bizarrely absent from my life in the albums I like to scrapbook. And, deciding to take pictures as a secondary profession didn't do me any favors.

This weekend, I took Chad to Missouri for his 40th. His best friend from high school, Scott, went with us along with his wife. Katherine and I had LOTS of free time on our hands as Chad and Scott fished both days we were there. Along with all the beautiful photos of the property we took, we decided to do a mini photo shoot of each other.

Katherine is photogenic. Pause. There's weight in that sentence. Katherine is photogenic. Me? Not so much. I'm too uncomfortable...too goofy for photgenicness (I know it's not a word). Behold the awkwardness...



Here's my attempt at the hair flip. Kind of doesn't work in a still shot.



Here's my attempt to 'just act natural'.




Here's my flirty attempt at the pouty lips thing.


Here's...well, I don't really know what this is.



This may be my attempt to do some GQ-type modeling. Might have worked better with an actual watch.


More awesome magazine modeling.


Here's the result of my 'being playful.' These two sticks were having an epic imaginary battle. What's more playful than that?


Here's my contemplative look. I'm contemplating the stickness of the stick.


Action shot. Too bad there's so much backside.

And finally, the only picture that turned out really well. Note the obvious lack of my face.

I'm so sorry, baby...

You might remember the post from a few years ago where I compared Stone to a shark on an eating frenzy. It was one of those shots that you take of your children and really should delete it from the electronic universe. It should be forgotten. For their sake and yours as a parent.

I, however, have something twisted in me. I keep these pictures and sometimes even blog about them. I shouldn't. I should do as my more responsible fellow mothers do and only blog about the awesome things.

But, you know me. So, here we go.

The other day, Chad was taking some pictures of me, Stone, and Cade in our cowboy boots. We got a few cute ones, even though I couldn't get both kids to do the same thing with their boots. One wanted to sit with them forward while the other one wanted to lay on his tummy. C'est la vie. Cade ended up crawling toward Daddy and Daddy kept the camera shooting (yay, Daddy!). We got a few really cute shots...and then this one:










What the...? Is THIS my child? The one I refer to in terms of cuteness to other people? Is this really the product of my genetics? Good gracious, it can't be. Look at that mouth? It really is...just...kind of wrong. It HAS to be the angle of the shot. Those teeth CAN NOT be that bad. I mean, they are kind of straight, but just not at all right.

I stare in morbid fascination and nod my head in this decision: it has to be Chad's genes. I'll take credit for all the cute pictures and we'll just chalk this one up to Dad.

Then, I'm packing for a trip and I find this in my sock drawer.




It's spectacular, isn't it? Truly horrific beyond words. This was my mouth in 1985. It was taken by the orthodontist who then tortured me for 6 years. It took 6 years to correct...well, all that.

Chad, babe, I'm sorry for so quickly throwing the blame onto your shoulders. I mean, yes, you are from Arkansas and therefore an easy target for teeth jokes, but it was wrong and I apologize.

Cade, baby, I'm sorry for forgetting my roots. The ones that were attached to these teeth. I'm sorry for the braces you are going to have to endure because of me. I'm sorry for staring at your picture with such macabre concentration and not seeing the true resemblance. The good news is that lots of money will go toward your smile if you truly do take after Mommy.

Here, just because he really is unbearably cute. I'll even let Daddy have the credit.