I am a Mormon from Utah, NOT a Utah Mormon

I am Utah born and bred. Forty plus years of living here have been ingrained into my bones. Take me away from my precious mountains and I am beyond lost. I am a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, which is pretty common here as it is the home base of this particular religion. And I absolutely hate the term "Utah Mormon".

It's used by members and nonmembers alike, but most of the time the term appears to be insulting. I don't want this to be a negative post, but I would like those out there to know how much it hurts to be lumped into a perception that does not stem from understanding where our particular bunch came from.

Are we a peculiar lot? You bet! Do people outside of our state have a preconceived notion of what it must be like to live here? No doubt! Is it a culture shock to actually be in the midst of us? Of course! I can't even begin to imagine what it's like to come here, whether you are or are not a member of our church, and spend some quality time with us. For some we are a loving lot, for others we come across as having a better-than-thou attitude.

My hope in writing today is to give people out there a small glimpse into why we are the way we are. Maybe, if I'm very lucky, you might see something of yourself in us.

To do this we need to do a speedy quick history lesson. Joseph Smith saw God the Father and Jesus Christ. He was directed to form a church. Missionaries were sent out. New members flocked from around the area and as far away as England. The people were repeatedly mobbed, harassed, and chased from their homes. Some were murdered. Their lands were coveted and stolen from them. Time and again they lived in such fear and destitution that many members left this new church in the hopes of finding some form of peace.

Joseph and a few other leaders were then murdered, and their people were forced to flee once more. This time, instead of trying to find a place close by, as they had before, the members were led far to the west. The journey was harrowing. There were tragedies and triumphs along the way. Many of the men were asked to join the army, leaving their women and children to make the trek alone. While getting to the Salt Lake Valley was their goal, it was a far from ideal place. The valley was pretty barren. They had to start all over again, and this time with next to nothing and little energy to do it. Most families were forced to live in dugouts until enough time passed and enough resources were gathered to build humble homes.

Families may not have remained in the valley itself. There were so many who were asked to go into areas with even harsher conditions up and down the territory and try to make a life. They began to build a temple when horrible news came: rumors were spreading to the US government that those Mormons were building an army against them. It was completely unfounded, but once more the members were afraid. This fear was now so much a part of who they were. Was there a place far enough away from hatred that would allow them to live without fear? These members had lost so much already.

Were these people perfect? Not even a little. Yes they had been through some horrendous things, were continuing to go through so much more. God had asked them to endure an awful lot, but I know He was with them every terrifying step of the way. Even here they made a whole lot of mistakes, ones which carry scars to this day in our hearts.

Let's fast forward to this time, keeping in mind the mindset of our pioneer ancestors has greatly influenced how their descendants have turned out and how we think. There is this niggling idea in the back of our minds that what has happened all those years ago might happen again. Their fear is still our fear. If you don't think the things your ancestors have endured have anything to do with your own way of thinking in the here and now, you're fooling yourself. Just take a look at someone who had a slave as an ancestor (I'm talking slaves of all kinds - African, Irish, Russian, etc. Slavery is an unfortunate mark of every history), and ask if that individual is not influenced by what their ancestor endured. Just as there are traits passed along from generation to generation (like musical abilities, writers, athletes), fear and tragedy can be passed along as well.

So for years and years our odd collection of people lived in a whole lot of fear from those who were not members of our church. It's a familiar worldwide story, I'm sorry to say. Ours was not the first to go through things like this. Having it happen here in America, where we were supposed to be free of such things, was certainly a drastic first. Keeping to ourselves became a protection, even as we tried so hard to live the tenets of our religion. Like any other religion we have individuals who are amazing at living what we are taught, and those who struggle with the basics.

We are not a perfect people. We struggle with doing things as Christ would: we judge, we sin, we're sometimes lazy, we say things that can hurt without realizing it, we fall short of expectations, etc. It's called being human. We are every bit as human as those who live outside of our state and our beliefs. Some are prideful, some so humble they may never believe they can make it back to live with our Heavenly Father. Some give everything they have, while others struggle to let go of the most basic things. Some are rude and arrogant, while others are loving and selfless. Some don't want to serve, while others volunteer for everything. Don't we all know people like this, no matter what beliefs they may hold? Are we not all like this at times? I know I am.

In the last twenty years or so I've seen a great shift in the words of our prophets that I believe is especially geared toward the members here in Utah. Instead of being taught to only date members of our church, to keep our members the closest as our friends, to look out for our fellow members first, we are now being encouraged to look outside of ourselves. It's a shift that has been necessarily slow. No change comes super easy, and changing the outlook of a religion-based state will come with difficulties. Yet now I believe those who are not members of our church outnumber those who are, or at least those who are active.

With our most recent prophet, President Russel Nelson, change is happening fast. So many of us are super excited, but there is still a presence of resistance that pervades, especially in the older generations. I am reminded of the Israelites Moses brought out of Egypt, who struggled so much to let go of their old traditions and had to wander through the wilderness for forty years. What good did that do? It allowed a newer generation to grow up - one that was prepared to accomplish a new work. I have witnessed it here in my own ward (local congregation). Boundaries were realigned among our neighborhoods that created a whole new ward. Most of those who grumbled about the change were the much older generation, because it wasn't what they were used to. Then changes began within the Church of Jesus Christ itself, and the grumbling intensified. However, I look at the younger generations and they are so ready for things to change! They are the ones who are making the strides us oldies-but-goodies simply can't...or won't.

We are learning, I promise!

All I am asking is for you to be cautious when you talk about those "Utah Mormons". Just as any other person in any state, any country, and any city, we are the way we are for a reason. Try to understand us. Be gentle. We're attempting to make it back to heaven in our own imperfect ways too.

Feeling Adequate at Best

The Merriam-Webster dictionary defines adequate as "enough for some need or requirement: good enough: of a quality that is good or acceptable."

Lately I feel less than adequate. Doesn't matter what part of my life we're discussing. Could be work. Could be home. Could be Mom. Could be Wife. Could be daughter of God. Could be grocery shopper. Could be nail trimmer. Doesn't matter.

Certainly my role as blog-writer has suffered as I've tried to stretch myself to play a bazillion different roles. The only problem is a person can only be stretched so far. My brain feels like a giant ball of mush these days. Trying to put connecting sentences together to create a post longer than a status update via Facebook makes my head hurt. Literally. I go into a fog and the next thing I know I've deleted the blog post because I just can't do it. Which breaks my heart as being a writer has been a dream of mine since I was a little girl.

Yet I continue to fight that word: adequate. Good enough. But nothing to cheer about. I read of how families are going to Disneyland (seemingly every one's favorite way to spend their tax return). How people are having their next book published. How they are able to do this and that and this and that and I...am adequate.

Okay so I really do know I'm more than adequate. In many ways I'm so stinking awesome you could hardly stand to be around me. Except you wouldn't want to walk away from my awesomeness regardless of how stinking I might prove to be.

It's so easy to sit and compare ourselves to others. We've never been able to take our kids to Disneyland, but we've always had enough to keep ourselves going. We find ways of having fun times that don't include long lines and going into debt. Though we still would like to try and take the kids one day. I may not have published anything officially, but my writings have blessed the lives of the young women for whom I've put stories together for their girls camps. 

The most extraordinary thing I have done with my life can be seen in the walls of my home. I have four beautiful children who, despite my best efforts, are turning out to be fairly normal and moderately happy. I have a husband whom I adore and, regardless of how crazy or adequate I am, seems to love me right back. Best of all there is a spirit of love in this home that cannot be denied by any who enter in. This home is a little slice of heaven on earth. Well, at times it's more earthy than heavenly, but there really is no place I'd rather be.

I had to remind myself that there are times my "best" is going to be awesome. I'm talking awesomely awesome. Like I could leap tall buildings in a single bound. Other days my "best" is going to be crawling over ant hills (minuscule ant hills) and then taking a nap because that took all my energy. Either way my "best" is the best I can give, and both are okay.

I've struggled this last month. More than I thought I would. My oldest son would have been 14 this year - it's a key age in my church. It hurt, so much. And then four - yes, FOUR - people I loved with all my heart died within a week. I shattered, and trying to glue myself back together has been impossible. 

Yes, I know death is not the end. Yes, I know I will see them and hug them all again. Yes, I know the Atonement of Christ means He knows exactly how I'm feeling and will help me through it all. I know He is my glue. I know He is my carpenter, my Healer, my Brother. But the ache that's left behind when I can't hold them here and now remains.

I received a priesthood blessing tonight from my husband and my daddy. How grateful I am that they are always ready and willing to do so for me. And that my Heavenly Father loves me despite my inaccurate feelings of being less than adequate.

My shoulders feel lighter. Nothing has changed, except my attitude. Which is the most important and most effective change. Especially when it comes as a blessing from up above. And while life may still find me feeling adequate while my Brother and I continue to put me back together, at least I know my best is my best and that's okay.

An Unusual Way to Gain a Blessing

Without a doubt this has been an unusual week. Not bad, just unusual. Tonight, though, takes the cake. Not only for weird things happening, but for the blessing it provided us.

Last weekend my husband noticed our older son's bike had been stolen. Again. This marked the second time this year it had been taken from our backyard.

Earlier tonight my husband and I were called out to a friend's house who was greatly struggling. Upon arriving home we were met with the sight of a young man (maybe 12 or so) entering our back yard. When he realized we were there to stay he tried to look as though he was heading toward our neighbor's yard. My husband got out to confront him, and was told the kid's friend was making him try to take a bike from our yard.

It was then I remembered the three boys kind of hanging around on bikes just a few houses down. I jumped back in the car and started chase. Two of them weren't fast enough and I managed to catch up to one. He was scared, that's for certain, and he led me back to an apartment where one of his "friend's" just happened to have 'found' a bike at the local park.

Guess what? Turns out this bike just happened to have belonged to my son! Another kid rode the bike back to my house where the police was just arriving so we could get a handle on what was going on with the first boy.

So here's what I figured out from the few things the boy said to the police: he and three other kids were looking for another bike to steal for him. The older brother of the guy I caught up to pointed out our house as a good place to look, but we arrived just as he was heading into the back yard. When the other three realized what was happening they took off, leaving the boy at our house alone.

The policeman told the boy to walk over to his house and he'd follow in the car. I could not just let him leave without saying something - he was so scared. As he walked off I kept asking him not to follow along with what someone says to do when he knows it's wrong, especially if it's just to impress some other kid. I wish now I had at least asked his name.

I'm not certain what happened after they left. My husband and I had another appointment we needed to get to and the policeman stopped by while we were out, basically saying he'd be keeping an eye on the boys.

I'm very happy J got his bike back, but oh I hate the way it all had to happen, in particular for the young man who was left behind by his so-called friends.

The Blessings Behind a Broken Microwave

WE...are a microwave loving family. From warming up pancakes in the morning and melting cheese over corn chips for some quick nachos, to heating up a bowl of Chef Boy RD and defrosting chicken, this quick-cooking contraption has long been one of our favorite kitchen appliances.

Our white microwave died earlier this year. We were heartily saddened at it's passing, as it had been with the family for a long, long, long time. Many years, in fact. Of course, things were made to last back in the days we purchased it. Not so these days, as you will soon read.

Out my hubby and I went searching for an awesome-possum microwave. The color didn't matter. We just wanted to find something from a brand we'd trusted in the past, and were willing to pay a mid-range price for it. Not too expensive, as we're not rolling in waves of money. Not the cheapest either, as that typically says, "I'll break on you in no time."

We ended up picking a black one by Emerson. I put down the name knowing full well the company has a reputation of being good, and our one bad experience won't keep me from purchasing it again.

I loved our new microwave. It had all sorts of buttons, and popped the kids' popcorn to perfection - a very important consideration in our house. All four of them had tons of fun using it, which may have contributed just a smidge to it's premature death.

That's right. Only six months and our beloved new microwave passed away, refusing to heat a thing. It'll happily blow cold air on whatever you want to stick in it, but no more heat.

Sadness, I know.

One thing I haven't loved , but will accept as there's nothing I can do about it, is the sudden increase in the amount of dishes we must now do. We are not ones who have an electric dishwasher. Two hands and a sink full of suds is how we get things clean.

Our utter dependence on this one appliance for the nourishment of my children became apparent as suddenly my kids began to declare there's "nothing to eat!" In truth I realized they were proclaiming, "We don't know how to eat things you don't cook in the microwave!" Here we come to blessing #1.

1. Mom's cooking things for the kids again. Whether it's warming up last night's leftover burger patties or mixing up some pancake batter, Mom has actually been in the kitchen, at the stove, actively participating in the feeding of her children. And since she's already cooking up things for lunch, why not get a few things prepared for dinner! Which brings us to...

2. The evening ritual of dinner prep isn't as hectic. Don't get me wrong, it's still hectic, just not AS hectic. Yet it has freed up enough time to enjoy having the kids come in to help finish putting everything together, like preparing a green salad, setting the table, and slicing up some veggies. Of course, that's all dependent on what we're eating that night.

3. Another unexpected blessing has come in the form of teaching the younger ones to use the stove. Both of my boys are old enough, but until now I hadn't taken the time to do anything about teaching them until the last two weeks. I'm not talking about anything huge, just warming up a can of spaghetti and meatballs or cooking up some Ramen noodles.

4. The last blessing I have noticed in this short time has been an increase of my children's gratitude for providing a simple meal for them. It may not be exactly what they want, but the fact that I took time out of my busy day to prepare something just for them has been noticed, and I've felt the increase in gratitude and love.

I'm still hoping we'll be able to get a microwave someday soon, but until then I find myself oddly happy that for a time our microwave is broken.

My Diet Coke Conundrum

According to Merriam-Webster's Collegiate Dictionary, the definition of conundrum is as follows: a riddle whose answer is or involves a pun; a question or problem having only a conjectural answer; an intricate and difficult problem.

After looking up the term 'conjectural' (fancy word for best guess) I've decided last part of the definition best suits my, uh, situation.

Several years (and kids) ago I stopped drinking all types of soda pop, as with each pregnancy I'd start to like less and less foods and drink. Soda especially turned my tummy upside down. I was doing pretty good too...until my last pregnancy hit. I was desperately sick and the only two things that EVER sounded good were the banana flavored Slurpee and Diet Coke.

My desire for Slurpee's ended with the birth of my youngest, but my love of Diet Coke did not. In fact, I'm quite certain I gained 20 pounds this last year because my love turned into an all out addiction. I'm really not kidding when I use the term addiction. While still draining one day's super-duper-double-triple-mega-awesome load of DC, I was all ready trying to figure out how to arrange my next 'fix' for the next day. It had to be sneaky otherwise it might look like I had a problem (oh no! I sucked up the last drop! There must be some more around here somewhere...).

The crazy thing is I needed the stuff as much for the tasty fix it provided as well as the manic spurts of energy it created. I could actually get things done around the house (and then some!) when I'd indulged. Therefore, in the addicted mind's logical way of thinking, drinking more was a good thing.

Right?

I knew it was getting bad when I'd stop in the local convenience store after dropping off the kids at school to get a giant cup of it, then not have a problem with going back later with my husband and getting another giant cup full. Every once in a while I'd start noticing the plastic bottles littering my side of the bed because I'd gotten too lazy to simply throw them out. It began to hit me - I was a Diet Coke-aholic!

Getting to the root of any addiction isn't easy, but mine was. I was tired. I was deeply tired all the time. Right down to the marrow of my bones tired. The problem wasn't depression, for I was sad or angry. I was, very simply, tired. So into the doctor I went, and the words I'd been dreading (hence my avoidance of my doctor) came directly out of his mouth: you need to go in an do a sleep apnea test.

NO! Say it ain't so!

Everyone I had ever talked to about taking the test would thrash their arms, and gnash their teeth and moan as though there was no tomorrow! Okay, maybe it wasn't that bad, but I was not looking forward to taking the test. I won't describe what happened (saving it for another post) but let's just say it was no where near as bad as I'd thought it would be.

What did surprise me, however, was an unexpected side effect from being on the CPAP machine for only 3 1/2 hours: I had energy to spare the rest of the week. In fact, I didn't even think about needing a nap until about five days later. It was amazing. AND - are you ready for this? - I didn't require Diet Coke to keep me going.

I KNOW!!! It was remarkable and exciting and exhilarating all wrapped up into a fantastic little energy ball. With this knowledge of what could be awaiting me I decided with the New Year there would be no more Diet Coke for me.

It's been a week. I'm in dire need of a fix!!! Even now I'm sitting at my computer knowing there is so much I need to get done and yet I have no energy to do it. I have projects that have been sitting around forEVER, and they will continue to do so. Why? Because I'm trying to be a good girl and not drink Diet Coke.

Funny thing is I'm not having withdrawals as I'd expected: no nasty headaches, no shaking, no crawling up the walls or periodic fits of hysterical crying. Instead there is simply the intense desire for enough energy to make it through the morning and pretend like I did something.

What I didn't count on was how long the process of going from the sleep test to actually getting the machine would be. It's closing in on a month and to my knowledge the doctors from the sleep clinic haven't even gone over my results yet. Then there's the part where I consult with my own doctor, and then we have to get together with the insurance company as well as the company that provides the equipment. What I thought could be done in two weeks or so might actually take up to two or three months.

In the meantime, I'm in agony as to what to do. Do I stick with my goal of no Diet Coke and simply suffer until things are worked out and I'm sleeping better at night? Or do I give in for now and wait until I'm on the machine in the hopes I can function better than I am right now? On the one hand I feel as though I'm giving in to my addiction and giving up on my goal, on the other hand I feel as though I'm giving myself a chance to do what I need to get done until the means to get off the Diet Coke is available.

Do you see what I mean by the Diet Coke conundrum?

Lessons in Faith, Trust, Humility, and ... More Faith

A few months ago I received an e-mail from our Stake Young Women's president asking me to be a part of a very small group put together for the purpose of coming up with a spiritual activity for our Girl's Camp, which was to be held on the stake level this year.

(Allow me to pause and explain for those who may not understand. Think of a collection of local church congregations - which we call "ward", and then those wards being placed in a group under the leadership of a presidency. That group is known as a stake. Any "stake" leaders mentioned are members of wards called to help lead and direct different Church programs like Young Women's, who are girls from 12-18 years of age.)

I felt honored to be asked, but little did I know how much of myself would be put into this one particular project. What was supposed to be a twenty-minute story to help illustrate how each young woman is a beloved princess who must make choices in this life, choices that will either keep her on God's path back to His kingdom, or lead her off the path, well, let's just say it's now a good 40 pages long.

I have felt beyond inspired while writing this story. I have felt words flow through my mind that were not my own. The main character made choices I ached over until tears could not be stopped. Were it my choice, she would have never fallen off the path, but that is why this is not my story.

Things were going well in the planning of this camp. Though not a part of the planning committee I certainly felt an avid interest in all that was going on. I was fully aware of the major concern behind our crazy weather this year, and the fact that getting up to the camp site was looking almost impossible, as rain and melting snow had washed out many of the roads.

What I had not seen coming was the decision of our stake presidency to cancel camp at a stake level and ask the wards to take over. After all the planning, praying, and trust that things would work out, it was simply...done.

My husband and our stake YW's pres. had to remind me this morning that these men are inspired of God. They did what they thought was necessary. It was not done on a whim. There was much prayer going into it. But, I cannot help asking, where does that leave us?

The truth is we don't know. So many of the leaders I've spoken to over the last few months have all agreed: something amazing is being prepared for these girls. I have felt more than once if we don't reach many of these girls on a spiritual level this year, we may lose them to the influences of the world.

I have had many thoughts running through my head today. Some I wonder if they are my own stubborn need to fix everything. Or is there any chance they are thoughts being given to me by my Savior, though I haven't figured out how to make them all fit into this gigantic puzzle placed in my path.

It has only been in the last few minutes, and after many e-mails with our beloved stake yw's president, that enough of the puzzle pieces have been put into place to allow us peace. The first piece is my reminder that I do not need to fix everything. Actually, let's make that a whole lot of pieces to my puzzle. I don't have to fix it all. I do not have all the answers. I have not been put in charge. It's time to humble myself once more and keep in mind the Lord is ultimately over this, and that brings us to the next few pieces of the puzzle.

Trust. We must trust that even though it looks as though everything is falling apart, this may not be the case. Who knows what the Lord has in mind at this time? Who knows what he has helped us prepare for, even though we may not be able to see how this puzzle will, in fact, come together?

How much do I trust in my stake leaders? How much do I trust we on the ward level are every bit as inspired and deserving of inspiration when it comes to the lives of these young women placed in our care? How much do I trust in the Lord's ability to make a frustrating situation turn into a wonderful blessing? How much do I trust? And that brings us to our last handful of pieces.

Faith. Oh that one little word. It is not something we automatically have. It is something we do. Now is the time for all of us who are leaders to put faith into action. We will place our faith in the Lord, he who directs this wonderful Church, who inspires all who are willing to listen, right down to the leaders of the ward, and see what blessings will come.

We will be humble, we will trust, and we will show faith. And at the end, when we have proven ourselves worthy to take on and accomplish this challenge, we will be blessed. Our story, the one we are living at this moment, will have a happy ending.

Do You Ever Get the Feeling?

Do you ever get the feeling someone really doesn't like you? Well, maybe that's going a little too far. Let me explain.

I have a person in my life whom I know primarily over e-mails and Facebook. She has been going through a VERY difficult time the last year - things I cannot possibly even begin to empathize with as I have (thankfully) never had to deal with them myself. The thing is, she refuses acknowledge anything might possibly be wrong. I hear most of what's really going on through her family.

This...friend...for some reason needs everyone in her world to believe life is just perfect. Yet when one takes a close look at her letters and such, one can see the sadness hiding therein. Perhaps it's because I've read "between the lines" a few times too many and tried to get her to open up, but recently she seems to have placed a good, solid, concrete wall between us.

"I'm just fine," she says. "I don't know what you're talking about," she'll write. It gets frustrating for me for one simple reason: nobody's life is perfect. Everyone - even the happiest of us all - have things not going as well as we'd like. So to say there is nothing wrong, especially when her writing is telling me different, feels a little like a slap upside the head.

Obviously today I'm just feeling frustrated, but I do find hope in the fact I felt like sitting down and writing about it. Writing has not felt like something I've wanted to do in too long (part of the depression my counselor says). I just can't help thinking that someone cannot feel truly connected to the people around him/her if he/she is not willing to open up and be themselves, good and bad included.

Of course I realize people protect themselves from getting hurt and most often have a billion wonderful reasons to keep to themselves. But when you start coming off as fake, when I can see the heartache behind the "I'm just fine," well, what am I supposed to do? Do I leave her to wallow in the misery she won't acknowledge, or do I continue to stand in front of the concrete wall hoping one day it will start crumbling down?

Knowing me...I'll still be standing.

Once Bitten, Twice Shy

Some of you may remember my previous posts about the horrible experience I had with the salesmen of Dead Sea Cosmetics (I still shudder at the thought). Well, in case you were wondering if I've learned my lesson, let's hope today's post will be an encouraging one :)

Two days ago someone gave a few hearty knocks to the front door. I normally peek out the window to see who's interrupting my glorious solitude - well, as alone as one can get with a little one around the house - when said little one changed my plan by getting to the door first. My chest literally tightened when I saw two young men with clipboards in hands.

"We're not selling anything today..." were the first words out of the leader's mouth. You just know you're doomed when they say that. Of COURSE they're trying to sell something, otherwise they wouldn't have knocked on the door in the first place!

He began giving his spiel about needing to get in a certain amount of presentations done in a month and he realizes we all ready have a vacuum but could he just take a look...

The next thing I know he's pushed past me and is checking out my entire living room. So there I am with a stranger who went into my house without my permission with my little girl clutching my leg, when the other guy came in as well!

The first thing to go through my mind was my experience with the Dead Sea guys, and my ornery side went right up.

"You need to leave my house right now," I said, pointing to the door.

"But," he started.

"Nope. My husband is not home and I did not invite you in. You need to leave now."

The guy huffed and walked out. Had he not, my next move would have been to call the police.

Oh yeah, I've learned my lesson! Hopefully those guys have learned theirs (probably not, after all, they're salesmen).

The Evils of Scales

I had a fight with my scale on Sunday. It was trying to claim I had gained two pounds over the week before. I begged to differ. This rudeness was further compounded by learning my husband had lost a pound. Hmph.

Weight loss is such a roller-coaster ride. It may put you on cloud nine when you lose more than just a pound, or throw you body and soul into the depths of despair when you gain just one ounce. I suppose this is why I've never paid too much attention to my weight before. Even for a "larger" woman I've always been pretty healthy. Both my cholesterol and blood pressure are low, and if allowed to go at my own pace I can walk for miles. My heart is quite healthy. It's just my weight I have so many issues with.

The knowledge that muscle weighs more than fat has been my long time friend. Typically in the Spring when I begin a new exercise routine I tend to gain much weight in the beginning due to the impressive inclination of my body to create massive muscles. I have been accused more than once of having awesome Popeye calves. The joking truth, "I was built for work" has passed over my lips more than once.

This inclination toward building muscle has frequently kept me from charting my weight on a scale. In fact, our little household hasn't had a scale in it for many years. The need to change this arrangement came when hubby and I agreed to do a Biggest Loser challenge. Knowing we both have a love for food, we've not done too much changing there. For the most part there has simply been an increase in the amount of vegetables in our diets, as well as some portion control. No, most of our efforts have been put into exercise.

We've been rather bad at it lately. While having our daughter old enough to watch her siblings helps an awful lot, there is still the problem of finding time! Between helping three kids with homework, getting dinner made, getting hubby off to do bishop duties, having daughter in Young Women's, and Mr. B in karate, there are some weeks we're lucky to get out more than once for a jaunty walk around the neighborhood. Of course being here at home I'm able to find some time to do little things in the way of exercise, but folding horrendous amounts of laundry can only get your heart rate up so high.

So today I'm still mad at my scale. I won't talk to it until next week, and I'll see if it's ready to repent of it's evil ways and make me feel a smidge better about myself by claiming I lost those two horrific pounds. It better...

A Good Sales Tactic, or an Unintentional Cruel Joke?

This really MUST be my week to rant and rave! The other day my little one and I were in the car running a few errands when I noticed something tucked into my windshield wiper. My heart started to beat a little faster when I saw a $100 bill! I could hardly believe it. Who had put it there?

I began to chant "Please don't blow away" as I watched it flutter while driving down the street. This money could go so far in helping pay a few things off, or buy some clothes for the kids at the Deseret Industries, or - or - whatever!!!!

A few seconds of wild imaginings later and I began to notice something a bit off about this "gift." If an actual bill had been folded in half, and then in half again, it would not be as wide as the one happily perched on my windshield.

CRUD! That was my immediate thought. Sure enough, the "100 dollar bill" opened up just once. The only thing it would give me was the question, "Isn't this the best sales tactic?" followed by a pitch. Grrr.

I didn't think it was great at all, especially considering how bad off so many of us are financially. It felt more like a mean joke. I don't even know what it advertized as the moment realization hit I tossed the thing.

So there's my answer. If you want me to read your notice, don't taunt me with something before taking it away.

Stepping off my soapbox now.

Warning: If You're Anything Like Me, Avoid "Dead Sea Cosmetics"

Before I go into what will stand out as one of the most frustrating experiences of my life, I need to explain a little something about myself. I am beyond non-confrontational. If there's a way to come to a peaceful end I will do everything in my power to make it happen. If you're mean or pushy with me, I will yell and scream at you in my head, but smile at you and apologize for my supposed injustices. Now, on with the story.

We have several birthdays coming up during the next six weeks, two being my dad and my daddy-in-law. Knowing there were some fun things on sale over at Valley Fair Mall, I headed on over with my littlest in the hopes of finding some awesome presents. And I did, hoorah! By the time I was done my littlest was ssssoooooo hhhuuuunnnngryyyy!!!!! So we headed down towards the food court in the hopes of finding an ice cream cone or other such treat to satisfy her growly tummy.

I was stopped just south of the customer service desk by a good-looking young man offering a sample of something. I'm not a huge fan of free samples as they tend to make me obligated to stay and hear what they have to say and odds are buy something. Therefore I declined with every intention of moving on, when the man said, "May I see your hands?"

Well that request stopped me in my tracks (my first mistake). I showed him my hands and he cooed over my nails, taking one of my hands and out of thin air (or a pocket in his apron) produced a buffer. He began to run this across my nail while talking to me about being from Israel and was I married and oh, I was? Too bad. Happily married? Darn. (Uh, yeah, 'cause I'm sure the sight of a chunky redhead with bad skin and a baby in tow was just too much for him to resist.) Of course, in order to see the effect of his buffing just right I needed to follow him over to his kiosk so we could see better. Was my nail buffed to a marvelous shine? Of course! Would I like to buy one of their kits so I might do this at home? Oh no - I really don't have the money, I say as I start backing away. At this point I realize he's still got a hold of my hand.

"Wait, wait," he says in his thick Israeli accent. At this point he begins to rub his fingers lightly over my face, analyzing it. "You have a beautiful skin, but you have the acne and a little bit of rosacea." So my skin is beautifully full of problems, I thought. When he asked his partner-in-crime, uh, I mean co-worker to put something on it I tried backing away again, as my skin is super-sensitive and I don't put anything on it I don't trust.

Telling him this he says, "Give me your arm." I didn't want to but he frankly still had a hold of my hand and simply turned it over so the underside of my arm faced up. At this point his cohort began rubbing some sort of gel on my skin. As the younger guy continued the master of manipulation held the little jar of his magical face gel really quite high up in the air - something he did more than once. I don't get why.

As he's telling me the virtues of this amazing cosmetic the other guy is now rubbing the gel into my skin. Can you say creepy? 'Cause that's what I was thinking. They cleaned the gel off my arm, applied a lotion, and told me to look at the difference between my two arms. Was there a difference? Oh yeah, but at this point I knew that if the tiny bottle was supposed to last me an entire year we were talking huge money.

Sure enough, that one bottle was two hundred dollars. Oh - you read that right! When you included the lotion it upped the price to three hundred dollars. Uh, no way mister!

And thus the haggling began. I tried to tell him over and over I couldn't afford it, my husband would never agree to it, I didn't like spending that sort of money on something I could live without especially when we were talking about birthdays and Christmas to buy for!

I should have just walked away - I know this now - but it's not in my nature to rudely walk away from someone. I was trying my hardest to give them a way out of the situation. "May I give you my card?" he asked. "Sure," I said, relieved we could leave it at that. I realized something was off when he pulled out a receipt book and seemed to write in it. What sort of "card" was this supposed to be?

"Wait," he says, as though inspiration had struck his brain. "What if I..." and the haggling went on. He offered deal after deal, conversing with his partner in English when it was convenient ("But we'll lose this much money if you do that"). I was analyzing their sale tactics even as they were being practiced on me.

It got to the point my littlest was pulling on my arm, begging to be taken for a treat. The haggling was going on and on until they finally came to a deal I could say yes to and not feel bad about until I'd taken at least five steps away from the kiosk. $102 later I held in my hand a bag of things I didn't want.

If only it could have stopped there. I stewed over this the rest of the afternoon. By the time my hubby got home I was pretty frustrated with how I'd been handled. The two of us went back to the mall to try and fix the situation. ONLY THEN did we see there were no returns. Oh no, this hadn't been pointed out to me. Sure it was on their kiosk - over the cash register in rather small letters surrounded by other things. Sure he'd written it on my receipt - but he never told me about it beforehand. So we couldn't return the stuff.

Do you know what the guy said (the co-worker) when we complained? "No one forced her to buy anything." I wanted to yell at the man! "I've never felt so pressured to buy something in my life!" I said, my emotions starting to get the better of me.

My husband and I headed over to the customer service desk to lodge a complaint. Of course it was there I lost it and burst into tears. The woman called over mall security where I signed a witness report, going into all sorts of detail about what happened. As I wrote everything out I began to see even more of their intimidation and manipulation tactics, and I just got angry. By the time we were driving home I was almost hyperventilating when I thought of the way the man kept a hold of me, towered over me, and touched me without permission. MAN it took a while to deal with all those emotions that night.

Today I'm feeling better about things. Just a few minutes ago I received a message from one of the mall managers, who is working to get a refund for me. I'd like to give the products back, as I am honestly not looking to cheat the company out of anything.

The security guy told me something I want to share with anyone on the off-chance you find yourselves accosted by someone like this: if they touch you without your permission, back away and in a loud voice say, "NO!" If they come after you again you have the right to push them away and immediately go to find customer service or security.

My biggest advice (especially as I've learned they're like this in many malls), do everything you can to avoid Dead Sea Cosmetics!

A Learning Experience

Little did I know only a few hours after I put up my Sunday Inspiration post I'd be trying so hard to practice what I'd just preached. There's nothing like being given the choice to show the things I put in here aren't just ideas, but a blessing handed down from up above to help give me a happier life.

After completing Sunday's post, I made certain the kids had their lunch and I went in to lay down. I was "sorely afflicted" with a nasty cold and my body ached from head to toe. I read for a few minutes before succombing to a fidgety and rather restless sleep. Regardless, I stayed in bed so long my sweet hubby, who didn't make it home from his church duties until about five in the evening, awoke me to ask, "Do you want some dinner?" I shook my head, looked at the time, and moaned. I'd been in and out of sleep for close to two and a half hours. It took another fifteen minutes, but I finally dragged myself out of bed.

I tell you all this to give you an idea of my mindset: I was drowsy, foggy in the head, still under the weather, and likely to choose the glass-half-empty attitude towards life. When at last dinner was over my honey and I had some time to talk. He'd had quite a rough day dealing with hoards of problems and ornery people. One in particular had to do with a friend of a ward member who'd called earlier last week, looking for help from our employment specialist. I had no idea who our employment specialist was (turns out there is none). At the time she'd called I was counselling with a struggling mom online, my oldest was begging to do something together, my youngest wanted Mom to take her to the potty, and I was babysitting for another ward member. To explain my mindset when this woman called, I can only say overwhelmed!

So yes, when the caller refused to take "I don't know" for an answer, I got terse. I couldn't stop it from coming out sounding mean. I had no idea when my husband would be home to talk with her as he had meetings and responsibilities for several days. Still, as I looked back on the conversation later that day, I felt bad.

Little did I realize word would be brought back to my husband. Little did I realize that instead of coming to me and asking what had happened to make me behave so uncharacteristically, this friend of the woman would rather believe the worst in me. I admitted to my husband I was terse with her, but he knew me well enough to realize I'm not rude to people unless something is very wrong.

Too bad it didn't stop there. Due to another set of circumstances someone who was very angry with my husband dragged both of us into the dirt. When he was told I would no longer babysit for him, he basically said I did absolutely nothing all day long and should have no problem to watch his kids whenever he asked. Never mind I'd set aside many an outing with my children so I could be there for him and his wife countless times before. Never mind I was often overwhelmed and suffering from depression, yet still agreed to watch his kids so he or his wife could get to doctor appts. It was this one that hurt me more deeply than anything else. He had such a low opinion of me, yet had no problem using me when the purpose suited him.

Needless to say I cried for a good long while. I imagined myself more than once bringing both of my attackers (for I did feel attacked) to their knees with my own rantings and justifications. Of course, once I calmed down, the words I'd felt inspired to include in a post I'd written just hours before came back to my mind.

When we pray for others, our hearts change. Even when it comes to those we don't plan to ever think kindly of we can see a change. For some individuals this can be a process done over years and years. For others the change can be almost immediate. Though we may never find ourselves loving with all of our souls those who have done us mountains of wrong, we can at least feel a softening of our hearts and a remembrance of who they are; that like us, they are children of our Heavenly Father.

That night I got down on my knees and I prayed. I prayed hard, and I prayed long. I first asked for forgiveness regarding my own harsh feelings. Then I prayed for understanding, both on my part and theirs. Then I simply prayed for those I felt had wronged me, that peace might find their own souls and help change their own hearts toward me, just as I desired a change of heart toward them. I ended my prayer with one last request, to help me know if any action should be taken, or if it was something I could simply let go.

The most remarkable feeling infused me the next morning. I was happier than I'd felt in days. Sure I was still sick, but my heart felt so light. I knew one incident should simply be left alone, as I had no desire to give any sort of energy to it, but the other I could easily do something about. I wrote the first individual a quick letter, explaining my mindset the day his friend called, and asked him to let the woman know how sorry I was, as well as requesting if it were to ever happen again for him to come to me. It was easily written, and came out sweetly, rather than sounding accusing.

Another day later and I feel as though things are right with the world. I was able to live precisely what I preached, and now I am a witness as to the truthfulness of those words! What a wonderful Father and Brother I have, to allow me the chance to see their words working in my own life.

Boyfriend Woes

Here's a snippet of a conversation going on in my car on the way to school this morning:

J: "M_____, Allison is NOT my girlfriend! I don't have ANY girlfriends!"

Mom: "That's right, 'cause you're WAY too young to have a girlfriend. All of you are."

M: "But Mom, I have a boyfriend!"

Mom (trying to be funny): "You're not allowed to have a boyfriend until you're 68."

M (looking worried): "But Mom, Daddy said I had to wait until I was 16."

Mom: "To date, M____, to date. As in lots of boys. You shouldn't get serious with anyone at least until you're out of high school. At sixteen you're welcome to start dating."

M (growing grumpier and far more frustrated with me): "That's not fair! It's not like we're dating. We just hang out!"

Mom: "That means you're friends, M_____. But you've been told long before now you will not have a boyfriend at your age."

When we got to the school there was no hug, no kiss, no goodbye. She just got out the door. I, uh, think we might have to sit down and talk about what the term "boyfriend" really means, 'cause it's obvious we're coming from two different places here.

Sighing

Yeah, and she's not even a teen yet.

Where Did We Go Wrong?

Today will be a bit of a rant. So if you don't feel like reading my complaints (even if there is a moral at the end of the story), go ahead and click on something else. But as a mama I need to have a place to vent, in particular today.

My kids head back into school soon. Very soon. For a while I was lamenting this...until we hit this past week. Suddenly the thought of the three oldest in school most of the day long doesn't sound like such a bad thing!

Last night I said to my husband, "Where did we go wrong?" I'd just had to get after my younger son for swearing - something I never expected from a boy who has such a distinct sense of right and wrong. I was sitting in the same room as the word slipped naturally out of his mouth. He didn't think a thing about it, at least, not until Mom got after him.

Sadly, this has been the most recent in a long line of bad choices by my kids. Earlier in the day I'd had to get after them for wandering the neighborhood when they'd PROMISED to be at the park. They've begun picking on each other, and starting fights with friends. Not to mention saying they'll do one thing and then do the exact opposite. Tantrums have been flowing from the kids (even the older ones) like water from a sprinkler! ARGH!!!

So of course as I sat at the computer this morning with righteous indignation set firmly upon my shoulders, I found an unlikely answer in an unlikely place, and suddenly saw where we went wrong. As much as it pained me to do so, I had to take the righteous indignation off my shoulders and replaced it with responsibility as well as a need to be accountable for my own actions.

I was putting together a talk for a friend when the answer to my seemingly simple question was answered. During the school year we're fairly scheduled. It's easy to make sure certain things happen, even the spiritual things. During the time my kids have been out of school too many things slipped. We weren't reading scriptures in the morning anymore, neither were we having morning family prayer. Even our evenings weren't spent in each other's company any longer as the kids would rather play at the park. In other words, I'm the one who messed up, and my kids are paying the consequences.

"You're being too hard on yourself," you might say. Perhaps, but the truth is I'm the mommy. I'm the adult (when I'm not acting like a self-absorbed two-year old). I am the parent, and my children are my main responsibility. If I'm not doing my end of the deal, can I really be so surprised when everything seems to go wrong?

So now here I sit, having heard yet another two tantrums since the time I began writing this, knowing I need to make a start in pulling a schedule - one that especially involves the spiritual - back together. Maybe then we'll find a measure of peace, not to mention some nicer words, back in our little house.

Homework Woes

My son came home from school today saying he had "a lot" of homework to do. Typically J's definition of "a lot" of homework means more than just 20 minutes of reading. Tonight, however, he really wasn't kidding. He had a lot of homework. Here's the kicker, though.

He wouldn't have had so much to do if he'd worked harder to finish it all in class.

J's teacher is great about giving these kids second (and sometimes third) chances to get their classwork done. If something goes missing or they didn't finish it in time and didn't think to go finish it at home, she'll put together a packet of what needs to be done, along with a list of each assignment, and sends it home.

This has happened to J before. Often papers included in the packet will spark a bit of memory with me. As I've gone through the massive piles of paper J occasionally brings home (after he's been told repeatedly to clean out his desk until it's so full he can't shove anything else in there) an occasional uncompleted assignment will appear, but when asked if he needs to finish and turn it in the most I'll get is a shrug of the shoulders. So the paper typically gets tossed.

Normally this isn't a big deal. At the most he might bring home a packet of two or three papers. Tonight was so vastly different I almost wanted to cry. There were ten papers included, some of them front and back! When I asked if he was supposed to get them turned in by tomorrow (Friday) he just kept nodding his head. Whether or not this is true I couldn't say for certain, but I could see it was important to him that we finish it for tomorrow.

So after dinner we went to work. He accomplished about four pages in an hour's time, and I let him off to go play outside. I'm a firm believer in the benefits of physical exercise in keeping one's brain sharp and active (which may explain why mine's so dull and rusty). After about 40 minutes of play I was pleased to see him come back willingly to continue working.

There was so much to do it was almost nine before we called it a night. His little hand was practically shaking it was so tired - he does clutch the pencil rather tight. He still has one more paper to complete, and his spelling words to practice in the morning, but he didn't complain a bit and did a great job. His little eyes were so tired and his already illegible handwriting just got worse the later we worked.

There were two lessons J and I learned out of this experience, one for each of us. For J, to bring home any assignments left uncompleted in class, finish them, and get them turned in so he's not doing the same assignment more than once. And Mom's lesson? The next time he shrugs, I'm definitely not throwing the paper away!

When Mom Gets Mean

My sweet husband took the kids over to his dad's house today for a little visit, leaving me to my own devices for about an hour and a half. I had a good time doing a few loads of laundry and catching up on Facebook - anything can feel like a good time to a mother who needs an hour to herself (and I'm not talking about 11:00 at night when everyone's asleep).

About 4:30 they all came tumbling back into the house and immediately went into the boys' room to play until I got dinner ready. At one point, I watched J run through the kitchen, frantically open the back door, and laugh as he headed outside. I chuckled to myself when I realized he forgot to unlock the doorknob, and readily jumped up when I heard the expected knock.

To my surprise both my boys came walking in. My mind quickly ran over his lack of coat, socks and shoes, all the while recognizing precisely how he managed to get outside.

He'd jumped out his bedroom window.

I - was - furious! He was immediately placed in the corner while the other two were ordered to start cleaning up the bedroom. None of them would get dinner until the job was complete. After an appropriate amount of time I called B into the kitchen to tell me precisely why he thought going out the window was a good idea.

"The glitter fell out and J and I wanted to race to get it and M told me it would be faster if I went out the window so I did."

Makes perfect sense, right? It apparently made sense to him. We had a serious talk about what could have happened: limbs could have been broken, he didn't even have shoes on, he could have fallen on his head, and the screen is now busted. We then went into the bedroom to have the same talk with the other two (M especially, as the oldest), and so he could help finish cleaning the bedroom.

I am emotionally exhausted from it all. I don't like getting mean with the kids. I hate feeling so angry about such dumb decisions. I get scared wondering what they'll think of when they're teenagers! But they all still know I love them. And I'm pretty sure they all still love me. We read together so I could regain composure and assurance that I am, in fact, a good mommy.

It took about twenty minutes for them to come in for dinner, but I think there was a big lesson learned. Don't let Mom find out you jumped out the window!

Cookies for Everyone!

I keep thinking I'll take it easy during the Christmas holidays and not push myself to do too much. Every year I blow it. Really, honestly, truly I had such great intentions, but with my darling hubby as a bishop in his first year I began to worry about inadvertently offending ward members.

Does it seem like a silly thing? Let me invite you to visit the inner workings of my brain for a few minutes.

Say we decide to take a few cookies to Brother and Sister Allan (no such members in our ward, this is all for illustration purposes), because he works as the financial clerk and she works as a counselor with the Young Women. Right across the street we have Brother Watkins (again, fictitional member only) who is a teacher in the Elder's Quorum. Might he feel a little put out if the bishop and his wife didn't make him a little plate of something to show appreciation for his hard work?

Not good enough? Let me try again.

Sister Michaels lives amid a group of active members. Her neighbors to the right and left both hold positions in the ward who work closely with my husband. Hence, they all get cookies. Her neighbor across the street is an old and dear friend of ours - she gets a special plate of cookies. The homes to the right and left of the woman across the street get cookies for really good reasons you'll have to think up all on your own (it's almost ten at night and my thought processes shut down a while ago). How does Sister Michaels feel, being the only one who doesn't get a little plate of cookies from the bishop?

Of course I realize there are those who simply don't care. Maybe they don't like cookies, are diabetic, or don't pay attention to who gets what. I also realize for every person like this there are others who constantly have their eyes glued to the front window to see who's going where and doing what (I know this because, um, I'm one of them). A large part of their identity within the ward hangs on a very precarious ledge of who shows them the appreciation they undoubtedly deserve. To be the only person overlooked in their circle of friends/neighbors would either feel like a deliberate snub, or (perhaps even worse) that they've simply been forgotten and don't really matter.

Can you imagine the depths of chaos that reign in my mind? It's exhausting living in this head of mine.

In order to assuage any possible means of inadvertant guilt I came up with a plan - I made cookies for everyone! Not just cookies, I melted and molded chocolate. I put together chocolate covered caramels and my absolute favorite fudge. I found cute little bags to put it all in and even began plotting the most strategic routes in the neighborhoods in which to deliver my little gifts of love. Then I frantically came back home to figure out how I could possibly have forgotten so many people!

I'm exhausted! I still need to make one more pan of fudge to help restock my dwindling supply. We've run out of the cute baggies and I'm forced to use plates. Why forced? I hate using plastic wrap. It never sticks to paper plates. But beyond that I'm done. No more cookies. No more baking. I can hardly stand to look at the goodies others have brought to us. Tonight I was so tired of it all I almost cried when my darling hubby took over dinner preparations and washed the dishes. He's totally my hero.

Next year? Next year I pile hubby's office high with Hershey Kisses and tell the ward members to have at it.

I...Hate...Ham!!!

Saturday night was our church's Christmas Party. I'd signed up to warm up a ham, but when only one other person had signed up as well I ended up with three hams. No problem, right? After all, it's not like I'm cooking them. I'm just warming them up.

The bagged hams were promptly delivered two nights before, and I immediately put them into the refrigerator. Too bad I didn't think to check and see if they were frozen. Too bad I didn't find out until late in the morning they still had the bone in them. Too bad I didn't think I might need a bigger crock pot and giant pan in order to make them all fit and cooked in time. Grrr.

Because my husband is a chef I've been trained to be very persnickety about what temp meat is cooked to. I didn't think a balmy 60 degrees would cut it, even if the meat had been cooked. The time went by irritatingly fast, and the middle of the ham simply wasn't warming up. In fact, an hour before the party they still had a nice layer of ice through the middle three inches.

Now if you like iced ham, I'm certain it would have been quite a treat. Somehow I didn't think this was what our church members had in mind.

What does one do when three giant hams won't defrost in the middle? Thaaaaat's right, I turned to my trusty friend, my dependable kitchen appliance, the microwave. I defrosted. I cooked. I cut out bones. I cried. I wiped ham guts off my fingers. I cooked a little more. Three times I went through the process until finally, finally I was able to say the hams warmed up to a balmy 98 degrees.

Hot for summer temperatures, not so great in a ham. I had succeeded, however, in ridding the hams of their icy inner layers, and it was very simply time to go. I piled all three into a pan, wrapped them tightly in foil, chucked 'em in the car and drove off to the church building where I promptly shoved the pan into my poor husband's arms, found a room where no one might find me, and sobbed for a good twenty minutes.

Now, before you all start to wonder why my darling husband wasn't there to help me out of this seriously disturbing situation, the moment I saw him was the same moment he arrived at the party after having worked all day long. Poor guy. After ensuring the kitchen had everything under control he walked the building trying to find me. By then I'd calmed down enough to enjoy the party, and blamed my flushed face on skin allergies.

But never, never, nevernevernevernevernever again will I sign up to do ham! In fact, it might be a good six months before I can even look at, smell, or think about it again.

Hypocritical Cupcakes

This is perhaps the busiest week birthday-wise in our family, with three to celebrate. Two of those birthdays happen to be two of my own kiddies, and with happy hearts they both took cupcakes to share with their school classes yesterday.

Both of them came out of class positively grouchy. In fact, B said, "You know the green monster on Sesame Street?"

"You mean Oscar the Grouch?"

"Yeah. I think I was really grouchy today."

Hmm.

After a bit of prodding, he finally told me he wasn't too happy with his classmates that day. Apparently he noticed kids who normally don't pay much attention to him were trying to play and talk with him at recess. He said they yelled if they didn't get the ring (decoration on the cupcakes) they wanted, and after a while they were just giving him a headache.

Things didn't seem to go much better for M. She came out of school, the corners of her lips turned downward.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

She handed me the bag which contained the cupcakes...it was empty. There should have been about nine left, and that's if every one of the kids showed up at class that day.

M's supposed friend had grabbed the bag the moment they got out of class and yelled out to the kids, "Who wants another cupcake?" They were gone in moments, and M didn't even get to give a sweet little girl who wasn't in her class a cupcake. She was so upset. Frankly, so was I. A part of me wanted to go find this "friend" and have a good talk with her, then make her pay me for all the cupcakes she essentially stole from us.

As you can see, I was not a happy camper. M is talking about never doing cupcakes on her birthday again, and I'm not sure B will want to as well. Yet, there were lessons to be learned. B now knows there are people out there who will pretend to be your friend when it looks like they can get something from you (he honestly came up with that on his own). M is in the process of learning she needs to stand up for herself with her friends. Sometimes she allows their opinions and actions to overrule what she knows to be right and fair.

Never easy lessons, but both necessary. I suppose we'll just have to wait and see if we still do cupcakes for either one next year.

I Dropped the Ball

Do you ever feel like you utterly let someone down, without realizing you were doing it in the process?

I did that tonight with my kids. Oh, they won't tell you I dropped the ball. They probably have no idea I'd done them wrong. But I did.

Tonight was their first night of karate testing on the orange belt level. I knew they'd be sparring (like boxing...kinda), but I didn't realize their teacher might go further than that with them. So during the last week, a week wherein we had time to spare and nothing planned, I didn't practice their moves, their escapes, nor their kata (a series of moves against imaginary attackers put together that they have to memorize).

Imagine my distress when I look into the room after my oldest has sparred, only to see her being tested on her kata...and she's not doing well. Imagine my further distress when I see the sensei trying to get all the kids to do the one and only escape maneuver they were to learn...and not one of them knows it!!!

Mortification and embarrassment galore.

My poor children. I knew we needed to practice. I'd even intended to practice. But life always seems to get in the way (like M's math homework going for almost 2 hours last night), and I got too lazy.

Needless to say, we will be doing some heavy duty preparing over the next week in anticipation of night 2 of testing!