Scratch it where it itches

Heather spread out all her leaf samples on the floor. She needed 15 different varieties of leaves for her Biology class and was hoping we could help her identify them.

"This one turned out well," Heather observed showing us one of her leaf samples. "Yes, except it is poison ivy," my husband informed her. Oops, that might not be a good one to bring to class. Her collection also included several sizes of the same leaves, as well as several nice weed specimens. After we counted up the good ones, she ended up needing a few more to make up her 15 required. (But they needed to be pressed and dried...)

Luckily, Anna saved the day. Apparently she'd been bored this summer and had dried leaves of many various trees. If not, Heather may have been forced to bring in her poison ivy...

Heather being excellent!

Sigh...

I'm restless today. I sat in relief society staring at the clock. I just couldn't get myself to pay attention to the lesson. The young women had joined us for class, so I was sitting next to my daughter and got an idea.

"Heather, pretend to have a seizure---then I can take you out of class," I whispered into her ear. I was feeling desperate. Sitting for three hours seems almost impossible for me anymore...Heather looked at me like I was crazy and rolled her eyes. She thought I was kidding. Too bad. It seemed like class would never end and when it finally did, it went ten minutes over time (probably punishment for my seizure idea).

Is it just me or does anyone else have trouble sitting through such a long church schedule? Maybe everyone else just hides it better---or they are better at getting their kids to take them out...

Etiquette

We went out to eat for dinner last night. "No double dipping," my husband warned as we poured the salsa into the bowl. Just in time, I might add, as I saw Nicholas licking his tortilla chip ready for another dip.

"Wait, that counts as double dipping," my husband (the self-appointed salsa monitor) informed Heather. "No, this is the other side of my chip---germs can't run that fast," she insisted. So, this is why we are out to eat, to work on our social skills and manners. Apparently we need a lot of work.

I sigh as my husband blows his straw cover across the table at the kids. I guess he isn't concerned about his own manners---now that they are perfected, he can let loose...at least he won't be double dipping.

So, we are getting ready to leave and Sarah my sixteen-year-old complains, "I can't finish my kid's meal, it's too big," and Nicholas is wondering if we can get a doggy bag because he didn't finish his drink. I remember why we don't go out to eat very often.

Stranger things have happened

I went to a wedding reception where I didn't know many people. I don't do well making small talk, so I was kind of leery as I stood around the punch bowl waiting for the newlyweds to cut the cake.

"For my next mid-life crisis, I'm considering becoming an alcoholic," the woman next to me confided. "Okay." I made sure not to make any sudden movements and looked at her closely to see if she was smiling. She seemed to be serious. "Yes," she continued, apparently unaware of my apprehension, "They are advertising a pill that will solve all of life's problems, but I have to be an alcoholic to take it. And I want that pill," she concluded dramatically.

"Really?" I wasn't sure what to say. I elbowed my daughter and she looked at me with wide-eyes---she was just as concerned as I was. "It seems like a lot of trouble to go through for a pill," I told her, "and alcoholism seems a bit extreme," I added. "Have you tried a different angle? How stable is your mental health?" I couldn't help but ask. (They'll give you drugs for being crazy.)

Now she looked at me, to see if I was joking. Actually, I was being serious---anyone who'd consider becoming an alcoholic to get drugs was clearly not playing with a full deck. "I know, but a drug to solve all of my problems, might be worth it," she insisted.

I grabbed my daughter's arm to make a quick get-away. "Good-luck with that," I told her, reminding myself to stay away from the punch.

On the drive home it made me wonder what desperate things I would do for a "miracle" pill...and then I felt thankful that my life wasn't bad enough to even consider wanting such a pill. Yes, life is good.

The innocence of youth

At church my kids gathered around me fascinated. I'm not sure what the big deal was, but they had discovered that when they pinched the skin on the back of their hand, and they let go, it snapped right back into place. However, when they did this to my hand, it had a delayed reaction. It went down much slower and they thought this was very entertaining.

I was patient and let them have their fun. But after 15 minutes of them pinching my hand to repeatedly compare it to their own---younger, much firmer hands, I'd had enough. Instead of standing up in the middle of church and screaming "LEAVE ME ALONE!" at the top of my lungs like I wanted to, I chose a second option---a loud whisper. I'm sure it was louder than appropriate in church, but I wanted to make sure all four of my kids heard me, so I wouldn't have to repeat myself.

"When you pinch my hand and the skin doesn't go back down at all---THAT'S when you know I'm old." I told them (I'm not dead yet) and with that, I sat on my hands, game over!

I looked over to see what my kids would entertain themselves with now and saw they had gathered around their dad, pinching his hand. In fact, it looked like Heather had her watch and was timing just how long it took his skin to mold back in place. I almost felt sorry for him, but instead I thought, "Better him then me," and decided I could listen to the rest of the meeting in peace now---at least while I was young enough to still have my hearing...

There's more than one way to skin a snake

My husband is the scoutmaster for our church boy scout troop. "What are you planning to do on your hike this weekend?" I asked my husband. "First-Aid," he replied. "One of the boys needs to finish up his first aid merit badge."

I told him that now-a-days all you really need to do for first-aid, is have a cell phone to call 911. "Except, of course, if you're camping somewhere without cell phone reception," he reminded me. Oops, except then, of course.

"Then all you need is a hard rock," I told him. "If a scout gets hurt, just hit him with the rock and knock him out, until you can get him to help." Seemed simple enough to me.

"Remind me never to get hurt with you around," my daughter Heather commented from the back seat. Hey, I was just saying that if I were to get hurt and had to rely on the scouts for help, that I personally, would rather be hit in the head with a rock and put out of my misery, than have to endure whatever "techniques" the scouts would try to experiment on me. But that's just me...

"Then it's a good thing I'm going to be teaching the first-aid on the camp out," my husband said. Probably, I thought. It was probably a good thing he was the scoutmaster and not me...

Whatchamacallit

I tend to have my own names for things. Like the things you use to hang up pictures---you know, HOOKERS. That is what they do, so that is what I call them. That is also what I call the tool things you use with hat looms. When we went to visit my parents we bought several of them, so all the cousins could make hats while we sat and watched the Olympics. It worked out great except we kept losing them. I was constantly yelling through the house, "Has anyone seen my hooker?" or "How many hookers do I have to buy?"

My kids were used to me and my phraseology, but it made other people in the house uncomfortable. So it was a sweet day when I heard my mom yell out "I saw a hooker in the bedroom," loudly through the house, while my dad was having an Elders Quorum meeting on the back porch. Whether they heard her or not, I had to smile that she had unwittingly started calling them "hookers." I was ready to leave, my work there was done.

Here Kitty, Kitty

A few years ago our cat angel started licking himself. I know that cats lick themselves...but it was more than that. He was licking himself in an excessive, abnormal, out-of-control way. In a matter of weeks, except for a thin strip along his spine, he was completely bald. Definitely NOT normal.

We could deny that he had a problem no longer, so I finally took him to the vet. Apparently, he had "obsessive compulsive grooming disorder." Okay. What a waste. I tried to teach him how to channel his cleaning tendencies toward the greater good---I was thinking of the possibilities: toilets, kitchen floors, etc. But, he wasn't interested in anything other than licking himself. Selfish cat.

The vet gave him some medication. Strangely enough---dog birth control pills. Who knew that they even had those? I don't want to think about how they came up with that...But angel hated taking the pills (this involved my husband forcing it down his throat with a strange contraption) and at the end of the pill cycles he was back to licking himself bald. Eventually, after we started letting Angel outside, he stopped obsessively licking himself on his own. But our days with psychotic cats weren't over.

Our other cat, Bert is bulimic. He eats all of his food as quickly as possible and then throws it up. Lovely. Maybe his father left him as a kitten, or his mom weaned him too young, but regardless he has some unresolved issues. Our daughter Anna has learned how to mimic the sound of Bert throwing up perfectly. It is quite disturbing. I often worry that she'll do this in public and we'll have child protective services knocking at our door to investigate what we're doing in our home, to warrant such behavior.

It does make me wonder. Were our cats normal before we got them, and it was something we did to make them crazy? Or were they psychotic before they came to us? I guess we'll never know...

Heather practicing the piano.
Nicholas finishing his eagle scout project.


Sarah at Governor's School for the Arts.
Anna and her cousin Jessica riding a purple dinosaur.

Random thoughts

My sister Diane sent me a note recently saying that she was sorry it took her so long to get back to me, but her mind wasn't the steel trap it used to be. Hmmm, this made me wonder---was my mind ever a steel trap? As I sat pondering this, I soon forgot what I was thinking about in the first place (this happens more often than I like to admit). I reread my sister's note and remembered---steel trap, right. No, my mind was never a steel trap.

I picture my mind more like a wooden door that doesn't close properly. I keep hoping that nothing important will escape before I can find the key to the lock so I can bolt it shut. But, I can't remember where I put the key...

Anyway, a steel trap would be nice. I wonder where I could get one.

It wasn't me...

We don't like to wear our shoes at our house. In fact, I have a nice place right inside the garage door where everyone can take their shoes off when they come inside. Which for some reason, no one likes to use...instead they like to take their shoes off and leave them in the middle of the kitchen floor---for people to walk around, step over, or even trip on...IT DRIVES ME CRAZY! But no matter what I do or say, I can't seem to get anyone to stop parking their shoes in the kitchen...

I tried to do an experiment the other day to prove that I am the only one who picks things up around the house. Someone had dropped a sock in the hallway and left it there. I wondered how long it would stay there if I didn't pick it up. It turned out to be a double-blind experiment. I asked the kids who had left their sock in the hallway---I got the standard kid answer, "It wasn't me." Apparently, some random person broke into our house and left a sock in our hallway. Did he leave the other sock at your house???

Anyway, as the day went on, I watched as every child walked by the sock countless times. This was when I realized my experiment was a double-blind one. My children did not even see the sock.

So, you may be wondering how this experiment ended. What were the results? I would love to tell you, except, by the end of the day, I caved. I was so sick of seeing that stupid sock, I picked it up myself.

I decided that I needed to focus my energy on something more important. I now encourage my kids to learn more and study harder. They will need to make A LOT of money to afford the kind of housekeeper they are going to need to walk around cleaning up after them. It's not that I'm giving up. I do insist they put their dishes in the dishwasher after every meal, but I guess I'm going to choose my battles, and clearly, this is one i'm not going to win...

"New" Math

My daughter Anna brought me her math homework last night. I was confident I could help her with it---she is in sixth grade, how difficult could it be, right?

Looking at it, however, I didn't recognize any of the terms on the paper. So, I told her to wait and ask her dad for help when he got home. I have to admit, I was relieved when he couldn't help her either. "Wait until your sisters get home," he said. The sad thing is that we are both college graduates and should be able to help our children with their homework---especially subjects like basic math.

It turns out my other children were able to help Anna with her math homework. As I looked at it, I commented that they got the same answers I did, which made me feel a little better. "But your work wasn't right," they informed me. Whatever. What math genius decided to take perfectly good math problems and while keeping the answers the same they make you do different steps in order for the problem to be correct? Surely, there is something better they can be doing with their time...

My theory is that it was a disgruntled teenage math genius who came up with this "new math." So now middle school students all over the country are going home with math homework and asking their parents for help, only to find out that they were right all along---their parents DON'T know anything! And they have proof, their parents can't even help them with something as simple as middle school math.

Calgon take me away...

As I'm dropping my kids off at school my daughter asks me, "Are you going running today?" I look down at my t-shirt, shorts and tennis shoes and somehow resist the urge to reply, "duh!"

"My mom doesn't really go running," my son tells his friend in the backseat of the car. What? I listen closer to hear what he could possibly be saying. "Yeah," his friend agrees. "She probably goes home to sit in a bubble bath, eating chocolates and reads a book all day." They laugh at their joke. Actually, they are laughing at me.

"Why would I bother getting in my running clothes, if I'm only going to go home to eat chocolates in a bubble bath?" I challenge them, not amused at all, my voice bordering on hysterical. They are silent, they know enough to quit when I use that tone of voice.

I guess what makes me so mad isn't that they are teasing me about running. It's that my kids honestly think that I lie around all day and don't do anything. Do they ever wonder how their laundry somehow gets washed, folded and back into their rooms. How dinner is ready and waiting for them when they get home and someone---and it definitely isn't them---cleans the bathrooms and vacuums the carpets.

I know motherhood is a thankless job. But sometimes, it would be nice to feel a little appreciation every now and again...

Crazy is as crazy does...

I never sleep well before I travel. The night before my last trip, I dreamt my plane had crashed and strangers were in my house doing my laundry. The laundry basket was full of holey socks and ripped up underwear. I woke up in a panic. Feeling like a burglar in my own home, armed with a garbage bag, I crept into my daughter's room.

As I sat sorting through her sock drawer, I jumped at every noise. I knew that it wasn't normal to be going from room to room throwing away all the socks with holes in them at 3am. And if my husband saw me sitting there, he would cancel my travel plans for sure! In fact, I could hear him in my mind telling me that he had arranged a long stay for me somewhere with nice padded walls...

But I could never get back to sleep after those unsettling dreams. Realistically, I knew that if someone did have to come to help my family, chances are they wouldn't be analyzing my children's underwear as they did the laundry. Unfortunately, before I travel, instead of sweeping, mopping and doing general cleaning, my irrational cleaning sprees are limited to straightening out the silverware drawer, vacuuming under the couch cushions, and organizing everyones socks and underwear---you know, the important stuff.

A while ago, I decided that before I left on a trip, I could write notes to my kids and hide them in their sock drawer so they could find them later if something happened to me. When I came home safely, I could throw them away. At least they would know that their crazy mother loves them.

Why McCain is in my Bathroom

A friend walked by our bathroom yesterday and could only yell out, "Whoa!" as she pointed in shock, fear, or maybe concern. My son called out to her, "Oh, I forgot to warn you that McCain was in our bathroom."

You may be wondering why we have a life-sized cardboard cut-out of John McCain in our bathroom. There are a couple of reasons...the first one is obvious. He simply got in the way when we had him in the kitchen---finally after bumping into him for the third time on her way to the fridge, one of my kids put him in the bathroom.

The biggest reason we have McCain in our bathroom is because his neck has sagging skin and is unnaturally white. I know that sounds mean but I'm just being honest. I spent the better part of a day blowing up a picture of my friend's son's head (who is on a mission) to just the right size so that I can glue it on top of McCain's head but because of his NECK, I have not been able to finish my project.

And no one wants to finish up this project more than I do. Besides the fact that my friend has another son who is getting married and I'm sad her missionary will be missing the wedding (hence the cardboard cut-out, so her missionary son can be in all the wedding photos), I am stuck with McCain in my bathroom. It's bad enough that he is a presidential candidate that I don't even want to vote for, but he seems to be following me around...my kids think it's funny to hide him in various places throughout the house. Will he be in my daughter's closet with her robe draped around him, in the basement, around the corner, in the bathtub with a towel around his neck...

So as I ponder ways to fade in a young missionary face with a flabby neck, the clock ticks away. I get distracted too easily---maybe McCain could just sell a couple of his houses, get some plastic surgery and solve the problem for me! I guess it couldn't hurt to send him an e-mail...

Anyone want to buy a vowel?

I read the statistic that women use over 20,000 words a day and men only around 7,000 words. I could definitely see this. My husband comes home with about 100 or so words left for the day (once your word limit is gone, you can no longer talk, right?) and I am raring to go with 8 or 9,000 left.

I'm at home all day talking to the plants, the cats and let's face it, myself...with the kids at school and the cats not too chatty---some days I can get pretty desperate for conversation. It's no wonder I follow the kids and my husband around when they get home and want to know every little detail about their day. They have used up most of their word allotment and are pretty stingy, but I am just getting started.

And I do, I talk and talk. They will usually nod and grunt when necessary, or I will kick and prod them to nod and grunt where appropriate, as needed. It works for us.

Then I read that this 20k/7K word ratio wasn't true. There is no data to support these claims. It seemed to make perfect sense to me. Now I have to rethink everything. Maybe my family isn't talking to me, not because they have simply used up their daily word allotment, but because they don't want to...I'll stick to my original theory, it makes me feel better. At least until the cats can make better conversation, anyway.

First day of school,
Smile for the camera!!!













The great escape.

Honesty is the best policy

We went to visit my sister-in-law Molly and she reminded me of one of her favorite "McKibben Kids" stories. It was one that I had forgotten! I am writing it down so it will live on forever.

Several years ago, my husband gave a talk in church. He was giving an example about being honest in our everyday dealings. We had rented a car when we went to the Caribbean. It was a small island and we ended up walking almost everywhere we went. In order to catch our early morning flight home, we returned our rental car, key, and paperwork into a drop box before the office opened. There weren't any gas stations open yet either but as we checked the mileage on the car we saw that we had driven less than 10 miles and the tank was still on the full mark. I wasn't bothered at all by checking the box saying we had filled the car with gas. My husband, however, was not as easily convinced to leave the car, but in the end we didn't want to miss our flight. Finally to ease his guilty conscience, he paid for another day rental for the car and let it sit unused in the parking lot in exchange for not topping off the gas tank.

Anyway, during this talk, Anna, our youngest daughter, who was about 5 at the time, turned to her older, wiser brother Nicholas and asked in a loud whisper, "What exactly did dad do?"

Nicholas at age 8, was definitely wise beyond his years and didn't disappoint. He said loud enough for me to hear on the other side of the bench, "Dad stole a car and he feels really bad about it."

So, this one is for you Molly! I hope your baby will have many brilliant, insightful interpretations and revelations during church and that they will be loud enough for all to hear!

"Thinking outside of the box(ers)"

We were driving home from church on Sunday when we saw 2 teenage boys walking on the sidewalk. You know who I'm talking about---the boys with the jeans hanging so far down on their hips that they look like they are going to fall down...Well, right as we were driving by, his pants fell down. I was shocked realizing that my car full of kids had just seen this boy lose his pants!

But what was even more amazing, was that he didn't even hesitate or miss a step. In one continuous fluid motion he pulled his pants up. This could only mean one thing---this happened a lot and he was an expert by this time. (Too bad no one had taught him to pull them up a little bit higher...) In fact, he was so used to them falling down, I don't even think he noticed he'd lost them in the first place.

Sadly enough, this wasn't the first time I've seen a teenage boy lose his pants (and trust me, I don't drive around looking for this...) I can only think that it has become an epidemic...Maybe teenage boys could start wearing their underwear on top of their pants. Obviously, they want us to see their underwear. This would solve that problem, and it would also help to keep their jeans up. It sounds like a win-win solution to me...of course belts are the obvious answer, but that's just me...