Serves 30? Psh!

Dear Santa,

THIS is all I want for Christmas.

And to be locked in a closet with the bucket.

And a spoon.

I've been really, really, really good.

Love,
Steffielu
xoxo

ed·u·cat·ed

Today was 'Shadow Your Student Day' at our Junior High. On this day, parents were invited to attend a normal day of classes with their child. It was very informative.

For instance, I learned that I do not care to know how to solve this problem:

In 1957, the Soviet Union launched Sputnik 1, the first satellite to orbit the Earth. It circled Earth's orbit every 1.6 hours for 92 days, then burned up. If the satellite traveled m miles per hour, what algebraic expression shows the length of the orbit?

I also discovered having only 4 minutes in between classes is good training for Pamplona's Running of the Bulls.

And now I know a gum tree can grow outside of Australia. In fact, they have one growing right there on campus:

The gift that keeps on giving

Sir W and I just celebrated our 16th wedding anniversary. And what do you do for the husband who doesn't want anything? Duh! You make an appointment to donate blood silly.

For reasons I will never comprehend, the Sir just loves to donate blood. No, I mean he loooooooooooves to donate blood. The man hangs out at United Blood Services to get his thrill. He says it's more fun than Disneyland, and that's the gosh honest truth.

After his last visit, I called to see how his day at 'the amusement park' went. His somber response:

A life (pause for dramatic effect) was saved.

So when it came time to think up some special way to show him how much I loved him, I knew exactly what I had to do.




As I reclined in a frrr-eeeeezing room, woozy from the warmth of my own blood running through the tube taped to my arm, I snapped that picture with my phone and sent it with a text: Just how attractive does this make me now?

A millisecond later came the reply:

Very.

Wabbit Twouble

I love back to school. I loathe back to school shopping. The reason? It would be easier to locate The Ark of the Covenant than to find an outfit my daughter and I agree on.

As is our pattern, school shopping this year was alternately excruciating, exasperating and exhausting.

I'll admit, now that she's older it's nice to turn her loose in a store and meet up 25 minutes later to compare our findings. However, that is generally when the trouble begins. She 'yuck's everything I choose and I 'no way' everything she suggests and then we leave the store having purchased something like one pair of socks.

This year, she was particularly drawn to t-shirts with pictures on them. She modeled tops with frogs, pandas, monkeys, owls, and several dozen other rain forest creatures before she held up one she loved with a rabbit on the front.

This rabbit.

Do you see our problem?

Sleep Deprivation

Wanna know what's even better than your 10 year old waking you in the middle of the night because she's had a nightmare?

Your 10 year old waking you in the middle of the night to tell you she needs funds deposited into her lunch money account.

Trust me, it's awesome.

Dear Chucky,

As it turns out, I don't really think you're a 'dear', and the name I'd like to call you can't be written in a letter my children may happen upon, so 'Chucky' it is. As your small brain may not be able to process this, let me explain it's not 'Chucky' in a loveable, Nickelodeon character way, it's 'Chucky' in a psycho, horror film character way.

So now that that's all cleared up, I shall tell you first that our little family was tickled three shades of pink to buy your home. We searched high and low, from ghettos to gated communities, exposing ourselves to bio-hazards only a Realtor can imagine, to locate the right house, in the right neighborhood, in the right school district.

I did my research. And let it be said, I get an A+ in research. I stalked school buses to see how many 1st graders disembarked with mohawks and piercings. I shopped surrounding grocery stores to verify there weren't a disproportionate number of patrons missing teeth or covered in tattoos. I drove up and down every street in every neighborhood looking for youth with sagging pants, tennis shoes dangling from telephone wires and yards filled with tacky ceramic figurines, wishing wells and fake flowers. I exhausted every resource available to make the decision yours was the home we wanted to buy...every resource but one. Who would've thought research should be conducted on the seller of a property in foreclosure as well? Had methods been available, I may have learned sooner you are a sad little troll without a conscience.

We were elated when you accepted our offer. We thrilled at the bank's acceptance of the short sale. We were overjoyed when the appraisal and inspection were complete and acceptable. You'll never guess how we celebrated?! (Oh just guess...it's good!) We rented out our old home, put all our belongings in storage, found temporary housing, and enrolled our kids in your neighborhood schools. We were home free! Well, we would be once we replaced the carpets and cleaned the air ducts to rid your home of the foulest dog reek I've ever encountered. But still, it was as good as done - or rather, it should have been.

Because you're not currently responding to your agent, let me inform you, no one involved in this transaction has ever, EVER heard of a seller in foreclosure refusing to sign closing documents. Not the bank, not the title company, not the realtors, not the broker, not the lender, not the attorneys... NO ONE. That is because normal, decent people in foreclosure (in foreclosure for goodness sake!) sign the papers, collect their moving assistance and go on their merry way. Moreover, a normal, decent person wouldn't attempt to extort additional funds from the buyer in exchange for his cooperation either. But as I've established you're neither normal or decent, it would make sense you're not acting out of character. I guess you do have that going for you.

We are now left to clean up one more of your odoriferous messes. The expenses we incurred to prepare to purchase your home are nothing compared to the emotional expense my children will suffer having to change schools once again. They are the ones who will pay the highest price. I pray your lack of character will be an opportunity for them to build their own.

I also pray fervently that my heart will be filled with forgiveness. This has not happened as quickly as I'd hoped, but I am trying. Perhaps it would come quicker if I would quit imagining my fingers gripped tightly around your throat. I will have to work on that. Yes, I think I'll do that...tomorrow.

Sincerely,


Steffielu

When a book is not a book

School's back in session, and the Xbox festival we hosted all summer long has come to a screeching halt.

Hal-e-loo-ya!

In an effort to return to normal, we've instituted a nightly 'unwind' where the kiddos are encouraged to read a book before bed. Lady May is about halfway through Otherwise Known as Sheila the Great - a Judy Blume gem from back when books actually had pages you could turn. The Squire began The Hunger Games in the Spring but can't quite figure out where he left off. Frustrated, he suggested he read another book. Facebook.

Oh dear...

Just in case you haven't seen it in a while...

this is what bravery looks like:

New Town

New Jr. High

New Elementary School

No Pals...yet.

Report Cards

Motherhood is not for sissies. I've known this since that first night in my hospital room awkwardly attempting to nurse my new baby and seeing I had such a nervous clamp on that kid I had cut off circulation to his arm. Oh, the sleeplessness! The worry! The guilt! The pure overwhelming knowledge that it's pretty much up to you to:

a. keep this little human alive
b. and safe
c. teach correct principles
d. help them learn to become independent, productive, well-adjusted adults
e. and doing it without making them resent you...

Which brings me to f., the grade I recently received as my 12 year old evaluated my parenting abilities.

Before I elaborate, let it be known I have NEVER received a failing grade on anything. Ever. Once I got a hard earned C in a high school chemistry class, and one other C the last semester my senior year in college. I was on scholarship and had busted my hump to keep it. By then, I was d-o-n-e. I got an A+ on a political science midterm and did the math. Skipping the final exam would land me right at passing. So I stopped attending class and graduated with one C on my university record.

My transcripts for mothering aren't nearly as impressive. It is unlikely I'll graduate Magna Cum anything on this one. But I try. How I do try. On the day of my aforementioned parental evaluation, I was driving my son somewhere and realized my appearance was less than appealing. Here's how it went down:

Me: Geez! Why didn't you mention I look hideous?

Him: Whatever mom.

Me: My hair clipped back? My glasses on? No makeup? This should embarrass you.

Him: Whatever mom.

Me: What?! One of a parent's primary roles is to embarrass their children.

Him: It's not embarrassing me.

Me: I don't do things that embarrass you?

Him: Nope.

Me: So I have completely failed as a parent?

Him: Yep.

Me: Sigh...

Him: Keep failing mom.


The scholar in me wants to improve that grade, but the mother in me likes it plenty fine.

Memorial Day 1995

was the day this astrological forecast appeared in the paper Sir William and I bought to find out when Don Juan was playing at the theater.


We had been dating for about a year and a half. I was quickly running out of patience wondering when he'd hurry up and propose already! I had graduated from college a semester earlier and was working at a job I enjoyed. This particular day, we both had the day off and a full schedule of activities planned. Little did I know just how significant my horoscope in that paper would be.

After an exhilarating day of brunching and lunching and matineeing and sightseeing and trespassing and swimming and hot tubbing, we dried off and changed back into our clothes for an evening stroll up to one of our favorite spots where the view is breathtaking at night. As I emerged from the dressing room with wet hair, I noticed an unfamiliar bulge in Sir William's pocket.

Panic! The bulge was the size of a ring box.
Danger! What if it IS a ring?
Caution! Is this what I really want to do?
Emergency! I think I'm hyperventilating!
Get a grip! This is what you've been waiting for, isn't it?

As the reality of what I believed might be happening sunk in, Sir William took my hand and led me up the cobblestone path to our lookout. Crickets were chirping in the warm evening breeze as we walked past stately silhouettes of saguaro cacti. We left the paved walkway and stepped out onto the manicured lawn of a golf course green open to a sparkling panoramic view of the city.


The anxiety I had felt a few minutes earlier had faded and I felt prepared to answer the question I had waited so long to hear. The man of my dreams pulled me close and reached for his pocket. I held my breath and then...

the sprinklers came on!

He did propose on his knees later that night, shaking as he held out a red velvet box with my diamond tucked inside. It was that moment when this Libra discovered the sun, moon and stars had lined up just for me.

Pain in the Necktie

Have you ever been to church or some other event and noticed a cute couple who've coordinated their outfits? His tie matches her dress, or somesuch? Somehow it evokes a feeling of blissful unity and I admit, I love it.

We had the pleasure of sitting next to such a couple in church last Sunday. His lavender satin tie matched her floral blouse. It was lovely. I asked the man if his wife had coordinated their ensemble and was surprised when the answer was no. He responded that in fact, HE had matched his tie to HER outfit. I was astounded. How does this happen, and why isn't it happening in my life? I needed to know, so I nudged my spouse and said: Did you hear him?! He coordinated their look. HE did! Waddaya think about that, hmmmmm?

We stood there an awkward moment in front of this outfit coordinating, fantastic oddity of mankind and I began to feel a little ashamed. Because while my husband isn't necessarily style savvy, he does some really nice things. For example, I'm pretty sure he's the only man on the earth who turns his dirty clothes right side out before putting them in the laundry basket. (Sorry girls...he's mine!) As I considered some of the other thoughtful things he does, Sir William leaned over to the man and whispered:

If I coordinated my tie with her outfit, I'd have to change ties FIVE times before leaving the house.


...Oh, yes he did.

Wanna guess who's clothes will be folded wrong side out, henceforth and forever?

It is Mother's Day

...and for my efforts, I received carbs on a stick.

I am trying to be gracious about this, but that I'm now writing about it only suggests that I have failed in this endeavor.

Two days ago, The Squire received a suspicious phone call from his father. I observed them discussing something quietly. After the call, he nonchalantly asked me if I'd ever had an Edible Arrangement. Now if you're unfamiliar with the Edible Arrangement, do let me fill you in. These are fruit flower shapes on a skewer, dipped in chocolate and arranged in a keepsake container. And if that doesn't impress, then let me say further they shave pure 24 karat gold into the chocolate and deliver them in Ming Dynasty vases, for I can think of no other reason why these bouquets should be so expensive.

Anywho, when the question was raised whether I had received such a gift, alarms went off in my head that this? is what they were going to surprise me with for Mother's Day. Knowing I needed to nix this plan pronto, I replied:

No honey, I haven't had an Edible Arrangement. Those seem really nice, though I'm dieting right now and trying not to eat that kind of thing - waaaaayyy too many carbs. If you're considering a gift for Mother's Day, you'd be better off doing something different.

Somehow in his 12 year-old mind that translated: That sounds nice/fruit is good on a diet/chocolate isn't a carb/I'm not sure what she just said, but I am male which makes it genetically impossible for me to ask for clarification.




So the family has been enjoying my Mother's Day gift.

Someone should.

Who's sorry now?

This year for Easter we thought we try something new. Instead of filling Easter baskets with enough candy to induce a diabetic coma, we opted for non-edible gifts. Among the items were sugarless gum, iTunes cards, toothbrushes and two new board games. Board games have become Sir William's tradition with the kids. They have been known to set up the Monopoly board on a Friday night and will continue their game all weekend long. I love that it's time they can spend together without iTunes, iPods, iPhones and all the other distractions that start with a lowercase i. I especially love that the tradition makes it possible for me to have a few rare hours of uninterrupted bliss where iRead, iShop, and iNap. For you see, not all lowercase i words are of the Devil.

Yesterday I was invited to play one of their new games. They seem to have so much fun together, I decided to give it a whirl. It was my first time ever to play the game Sorry. Now I'm sorry we ever purchased it. My inner Dr. Phil has concluded those Parker Brothers had some serious family issues as the entire premise of the game is to be vindictive and obnoxious to your opponents. Since we have plenty of that around here without the aid of a colorful cardboard square and some plastic pawns, I had a hard time enjoying it. When I'd finally heard enough Sweet Revenge!-ing and Vengance is Mine!-ing I expressed my dissatisfaction.

Me: I can't believe we bought a game that promotes bullying!

Sir William: What? We didn't buy a game that promotes bullying. We bought a game that encourages apologizing.

Oh, he's a spin doctor, that one.

Just curious...

Does this mean we're raising a goal oriented daughter or does item #4 suggest the need to review the 4th commandment?

(Since you asked, that reads: Go to throw rocks over fence)

Discovery

My children are pack rats. Verified and certified pack rats. I would like to make it clear, they did not inherit this trait from me. I am quite the opposite; I get high throwing stuff out. Minimalism to the max, I say.

Exhibit A: I survived all of 2010 without a spatula.
Exhibit B: I only own two bras. Scandalous!

I suspect the kids may be hoarders because there is evidence the condition exists on their father's side of the family.

Exhibit C: We have been storing, and moving a very heavy box of rocks for the entirety of our marriage.

I have been told it is a rock “collection”. I have difficulty seeing it as such because it is cleverly disguised as a box of rocks.

I learned early on, throwing out your husband's treasures without his knowledge = bad wife. As a result, we will continue to store these items for as long as we both shall live.

Fortunately, I have no such obligation to my children, but persuading them to part with anything is like asking them to donate their last kidney. As I refuse to harbor used gum wrappers, endless drawings, party favors, old Valentines, Easter candy rejects, school projects, dead batteries, empty tape dispensers, and various other notions and novelties, I have come up with a solution. Several times a year I kiss them on the head and send them off to school all innocent-like, only to spend the rest of the morning scouring their rooms for contraband. Last month alone, I filled TWO lawn and leaf bags with an assortment of oddments found under beds, in drawers, and tucked in closets. I just pray they never discover the joy (?) of rock collecting.

I expect at some point the kids won't be so thrilled to learn this is routine. I've heard horror stories about things parents find in their teenager's rooms. Thinking I had a few years to go before running onto something they don't want me to see made the following discovery all the more shocking:

Exhibit D:

My 9 year old had stolen my identity.

The Renaissance Festival

...or as I prefer to call it, The Cleavage Festival, was the not so grand finale of our Spring break festivities. The place is a freak show and I cannot recommend it. We fit in there like Mormons at a Hell's Angels rally.

I hated it.

Every single minute of it.

Admission and rides were overpriced, the food was mediocre, and the entertainment was ridiculous. In other words...the kids loved it.

Where else can your daughter buy a fox tail and wear it all day chanting:

I'm a fox!

Um, Huzzah?

Tradition!

{cue Fiddler on the Roof soundtrack}

As is tradition at our house, spring break begins with a list making ceremony wherein the children detail things they wish to do during their two week hiatus from math, social studies and a daily peanut butter sandwich. As is also tradition, their lists include Disneyland, trips to foreign countries and the purchase of expensive gaming equipment. While we don't promise to do everything on the list, we try to do as many as reasonable so at the end of 14 days, when they complain they didn't get to do anything fun, I whip out the document and prove them wrong (also a beloved family tradition).

This year, we crammed spring training baseball, swimming, movies, playdates, Build-a-Bear Workshop, multiple trips to the mall, a light rail extravaganza, the Renaissance Festival and a heart attack (no lie!) into that short break. I'm also proud to say, I took them on a little outdoor adventure ALL BY MYSELF. Sir William wasn't able to break away from work to join us, so I put on a brave face and did what felt natural. I brought a back up.

All in all, it was my kind of campout. During the ride home, The Squire passed around beef jerky while Lady May cuddled a stuffed panda she had 'brought to life' earlier in the week. They gnawed on their treats letting the quiet following a satisfying family excursion settle in. We drove along in silence for a few blissful minutes until The Squire turned to his sister and broke the spell:

You know that jerky is panda meat, right?

Sigh...

It's tradition.

Bored

It is Spring Break. By 7:12 AM on Monday, I had already heard the words 'I'm bored'. Awesome.

I immediately banned the word 'bored' from our Spring Break vocabulary and by Tuesday was asked: What is another word for bored? Seriously.

If being bored includes eating at a Food Network featured restaurant, Sunday dinner at Grammy's, three trips to the pool, a spring training baseball game, an afternoon at the cousin's house and a 6.5 hour play date with a friend...well then yes, I can see the trouble.

Today's boring adventure started on our local light rail. The mass transit gods smiled upon us as we ran into three generous friends finishing their own boring excursion with most of the day left on their all day passes. Score!

Past experience with public transportation has taught us that it can be a Who's Who in mental health. However, we were pleasantly surprised to find ourselves riding with celebrities. Lady May spotted P-Diddy, Bruno Mars and Sean Kingston riding with us. As it turns out, she believes all African American males in sunglasses qualify as Sean John, Puffy, Puff Daddy, P-Diddy, Diddy Dirty Money, Whatevertheheckhisnameisnow, Combs. I know this because we ran into him later in the day. Twice.

Our first stop was at an ice cream joint downtown I had read carried Lappert's ice cream. THE Lappert's ice cream!!! Sadly, we discovered this is no longer so; however, they do have a delicious habenero peach sorbet worth trying. After our less than Lappert's licks, we trudged back to the train for our next stop, a vintage sweets and novelty shop.




While there, we took a turn in the photobooth:


We left the Celestial Kingdom of candy with red stripped paper bags of licorice, bubble gum, silly buttons, Bit-O-Honey, a spyglass, and a switchblade comb, which the Squire used to threaten Lady May with all the way home. Incessant shrieking leads me to believe she can indeed be threatened by a comb {mental note}. She can also take some pretty cool pictures when you're unaware:


Yep, it was a totally boring day.

Translation: Loads of fun!

Wax Museum

Last week was our 6th grade's dreaded, despised, delightful Wax Museum; a scholarly soiree that would run Madame Toussaud right out of Vegas. Students spent a good part of the year researching their character, pouring over books and articles, filling stacks of note cards with details for their final report. Parents, on the other hand, use the time cursing the event all together. The reason this is so, is due to the inescapable fact that creating an effective, appropriate, non-embarrassing, yet cheap, costume for the evening falls on our sagging shoulders.

This year, the Squire chose to study Alexander the Great, born around 350 BC, best known for his many vast conquests and ruthlessness in battle. While I loathe the project, I too have been known for ruthless frugality and conquered many a thriftstore in my time. So, I deftly completed my part of the assignment and presented the costume for final approval: Princess Leah's dress, Cleopatra's wristlets, gold sash from my senior formal, headband of hot glued silk leaves, spray painted gold, and plastic armor.

Him: Uh, Mom? It's not cool to wear a dress to school.
Me: Hey, no biggie! Problem solved.


Just between you and me, it's probably even less cool to wear white knit maternity pants under your dress to school. But that'll be our little secret, mmkay?

One final question: How on earth do we get a character like the student sitting next to him?! Now that's some costume.

Her heavy load to bear

Last Sunday, I emptied the contents of Lady May's exceptionally hefty scripture tote. My inspection uncovered a random assortment of discarded gum wrappers, pens, pencils, bookmarks, a wad of folded printer paper, an assignment to read a scripture in next week's sharing time, a mood ring, lip gloss, hand lotion, several impressive sketches of silly monkeys, a mini hymn book, her scriptures, a bajillion markers...

and this little number:






I suppose schlepping all that junk around during church would cause one to work up an appetite.

Sorrow & Lamentation

Last night, Lady May's fish committed suicide. When we went to bed, it was swimming happily in it's bowl. When we woke, it's lifeless corpse was dried up on the cold tiles of the kitchen floor. At some point in the night, the fish catapulted out of the water and plunged to it's death. Perhaps the poor thing finally realized it's owner felt caring for it was “boring, boring, boring”.

Nevertheless, Lady May put on an impressive display of grief. She was the embodiment of sackcloth and ashes the whole afternoon ( i.e., 20 minutes). It almost made my heart hurt hearing her wail, "my heart huuuurrrrrts".

Almost.

And now for your reading pleasure, an essay about the deceased:

A homonym, but not really

When Lady May was baptized, we promised her a brand new set of scriptures with gleaming gilded pages, shiny ribbon bookmarks and index tabs making it oh so easy to locate Nehemiah, Nahum, Haggai, Obadiah and Habakkuk. Because let's be honest, you just never know when you're going to need to turn to Habakkuk with accuracy and precision. Remarkably, it only took us 1.5 years to make good on that $60 promise, and yesterday she picked out a brand new set of tiny scriptures of her very own.

As we made our purchase at the bookstore, the salesperson asked if she'd like her name engraved on the cover. Asking a 9 year old if she'd like her name embossed in fancy gold lettering on...well, anything, is pretty much like asking her if it would be OK to have Justin Bieber babysit. When it was finished, she gushed about how pretty it was and how she liked that it matched the Hyman's book she has. The Hyman's book? Huh? I was confused, and so this is how the rest of the conversation went:

Me: Do you have a book from Bishop Hyman?
Her: No.

Me: Did his wife loan you something in Primary?
Her: No mom. The Hyman's book?! The one that Grandma and Grandpa gave me.

Me: What book are you talking about?
Her: You know, the one from my baptism that has my name printed on it too?

And then it all became crystal clear what book she was referring to:

FHE as it should be

For Family Home Evening last week, Sir William taught a lesson on prayer. As he spoke, our downy little chicks sat quietly on the sofa and took notes. That's right my friends, what every mother wants: no fighting, no arguing, no complaining, no heavy sighing, no flopping around on the floor or begging for it to be over – just Lady May feverishly scribbling words in a notebook and The Squire click, click, clicking away on his iPod. I would like to say this is standard operating procedure here on Monday nights, but alas, I cannot. Until recently, Family Home Evening has been a rare occurrence at our house. It has taken our family longer than average to get our house in order, so to speak.

Regular family prayer = 9 years.
Consistent scripture study = 13 years.
Keeping the TV off on Sundays = won't happen in a million years.

(Bishop, if you're reading this, feel free to release us from our callings immediately! More righteous referrals for our replacements will be hap-hap-happily provided.)

Given our history, I figure the kids thought they'd better keep good notes because FHE may not be held again for a very long, long time. Here is a sampling of what they learned:

[click image to enlarge]

As you can see, their interpretation of Exodus 20:3-5 is: Don't pray to carrots.

(Again Bishop, if you're reading this...)

As we wrapped up the evening, I could almost hear angels spreading mortar on the bricks for our mansion in heaven when Sir William felt it important to suggest the children pray at all times, but especially when mom is driving.

And now it is official. There will absolutely be Family Home Evening next week.

The topic?
Ephesians 5:25

Someone better be taking notes.