One mom, racing 120 Kindergartners . . .

Oh, dear.  Our sweet Sophia is what we like to call, "Sensitive" or "Tenderhearted".  She is compassionate and sweet but the girl can totally fall apart on you.  Specifically when it comes to large gatherings or public performances.  Now, I know you're saying, "hey, how can a girl who's destined to headline in Vegas get stage fright?"  Well, the answer is, "I don't know.  I'm sure she'll grow out of it."  What I do know now is, we place bets on all the holiday, end of year, ballet and track and field performances . . . as to exactly how many minutes will pass before she spots one of her parents and disintegrates into a puddle of tears the finds her way into our laps.

So, how do you help or ummm, assist her or expedite this tendency to revert to tears and cuddles when you're slightly scared or in an overwhelming situation?

Seriously, I'm asking . . . because I don't have a clue.  How do you "toughen up" a five year old?  Does she need to toughen up?  Are we coddling her?  Are we babying her or being over protective?  Is that just her and we're doing okay?  Geeze, parenting is tough.

Recently I made an executive decision in the heat of the moment that showed my own sort of "tough love" and I'm pretty proud of it.  It felt like a "make it or break it moment" in the growth of little miss Trail of Tears . . . and perhaps there was some growth there for Momma Bear too.

At the starting line of Soph's fundraiser - run a thon, she was ready and rarin' to go . . . until she saw me there on the sidelines.  Then, she pretended to get a little sad and weepy and wanted me to come and give her hugs and hold her hand.  Why IS that?  I don't know how someone who can do a triple somersault hooked to a trapeze 20 feet in the air gets weepy and falls apart so easily.  Anyway, they blow the whistle and 16 Kindergartners take off to run their first lap.

Sixteen go down, fifteen go back.  And I'm waiting, and waiting, and I'm waiting.  I couldn't see the far loop of the track but I knew something had happened and started walking over to the starting line.  Now, to scold the organizers, that's a LOT of little kids going full tilt at once.  Eventually, I saw a volunteer coming back with, yes, the TRAIL OF TEARS holding her hand.  From what I gather, Soph had fallen down and been trampled on by a herd of her 5 year old peers.  Just slightly trampled . . . there were no visible scrapes or bruises but yes, LOTS of tears.  Thanks to the volunteer for holding her hand and walking her back to the start area.  

THIS was MY "make it or break it" moment.  I knew if I picked her up and soothed her, she'd stay a puddle of pitiful in my lap for the rest of the event.  I bent down, wiped her tears quickly and said, "You okay? Okay?  Let's do this."  And we ran.

I grabbed her hand.  We didn't talk.  We didn't walk.  We didn't trot or jog.  We RAN.  I pulled her fast until she got up to her own speed and we ran hand in hand, racing around all the other kids.  Bobbing and weaving around the other little bodies (oh, there were eventually over 120 kids running around this circle at once) just as fast as we could go.  We did this about 4 laps before I let go of her hand.  Then we talked about running.  "Pump your arms . . . keep them low . . . kick your feet out . . . breathe steady."  She is fast, I have to admit.  We raced each other.  Passed every kid that there was to pass.  We lapped kids.  And kept going.  At one point, she said to me, "Mom, I just want to walk like my friends."

This sounds strange, but at about lap 8, I began to count this as my workout for the day and I did NOT want to stop running and if I left her to her walk by herself, she'd probably stop and at this point, that was just not an option.  "Baby, what are we doing?  We are RUNNING.  I am out here, supporting you and we are running.  We are not walkers, we are Sandy's, and Sandy's are RUNNERS.  We'll stop running when we're done.  So, can you keep going?"

My baby looked at me with red cheeks and a sweaty head and said, "I can beat you, let's race!"  And off she [we] went . . . for 10 more laps.  We didn't stop until they blew the whistle.

In hindsight, looking at her, I think I may have pushed her too far.  She was beet red and really sweaty.  I was so proud of her.  She crumbled slightly at first, but I gave her a little bit of tough love and she shined, shined, shined.  She was pretty proud of herself and all the money she raised for her school.

Did I mention, that I was the ONLY mom out there running with her child?  There were plenty of people out there on the sidelines giving high fives and cups of water but there was no other parent out there in the pack.  I could really have given a rat's butt about that little fact because while I was one lone mom, racing 120 Kindergartners, there was only one I needed to catch . . . only one that needed to find her pace, needed to be pushed, needed a little helping of tough love to realize what she could accomplish.

After I sent her back to her teacher and her classroom, I walked back to my car, sweaty and red faced too, shedding my own little Mommy "Trail of Tears" thinking about my precious girl's tender heart, wondering just where she gets it?

Who am I? I'm Your Worst Nightmare

I don't know where they're coming from.  Maybe the attic?  We've lived in our new house for over a year and this is the first time we've ever had more than a singular winged intruder.  Yesterday, I killed two big ass wasps in the living room and another one met his maker today.  Me think-eth that it's too much of a coincidence that there have been three wasps in 24 hours that would have meandered into the house.

Being pretty lucky, I've been stung only two times in my life.  The first time, I was five and minding my own five year old business blowing lovely and innocent five year old bubbles.  Apparently one of my beautiful bubbles angered or threatened a bald faced hornet and he felt it necessary to attack my five year old face and sting me just under my eye.  Here is a picture of a bald faced hornet:

"I'm a stupid head Bald Faced Hornet"

The second time, a wasp stung me in the ass after I opened a storage bin that had been the wasp gang evil lair.  They were probably hanging out in there getting high, plotting a bank robbery or something and I lifted the lid and the one sober wasp ran into my butt and managed to sting me.  That hurt like crap and left a lump in my butt cheek for a week.  When my husband got home and I showed him my lumpy butt, he swiftly executed some mammal justice on the wasp underworld and sent 3 death bombs into their hideout.  Yeah, GIT SOME, wasps!

Fast forward 8 years to last fall when our sweet one year old boy was playing in the garage.  A humongous orange wasp crawled in his shirt and lit.him.up.  Stung that poor kid SEVEN times on his flank and stomach.  I wasn't home at the time of the attack but later witnessed the nasty red welts on my baby and that said it all.  Oh, Mr. Wasp.  It's On.  It's On, like Donkey Kong.  You done stung the wrong little dude.

Normally, we're a "Live and Let Live" kind of folk.  Mother Nature has a plan, a job, a role for every living creature and so who am I to interfere with an agent of Mother Nature?  Well, let me tell you who I AM.  Mirror, Mirror on the wall, I am the Baddest MOTHER of them all . . . when you mess with my kid, that is.

So, the wasps that like to land on the water and drink in our pool . . . FWAPPP . . . meet my friend, Mr. Oversized Skimmer.  He's about to make sure you get a good loooooong drink.  Oh-big-ass-mean-looking wasps that have buzzed their way into our house . . . THIS is what the COUPON CLIPPER magazine looks like - up. close. and personal.  Yeah, GIT SOME - 40% off Mexican food.  In Your FACE!

To say this behavior (mine, not the insects) bothers my husband is an understatement.  He actually told me he was disappointed in me and that I didn't need to kill the wasps . . . "There's no food here for them in the house, they're just going to die eventually anyway.  Your Rambo-esque vengeance is not necessary."

Well, to this I say, "What Evs, Husband! And, might I remind you about the Wasp War Waged in 2002 against those that stung me in the butt!?!  This one's for Jake.  'They drew first blood, not me.'  And I'm just sayin', Don't Start Nothin', Won't BEE Nothin'!"

So I will locate said source of the wasp invasion (probably in the attic) and deal with it swiftly and with EXTREME prejudice.  And just to give credit where credit's due, thanks to the fine folks who stuff the Clipper Magazine in my mailbox each month.  Thank you.  Your fine advertising vehicle swats and squishes wasps very nicely.  The last thing to go through these wasps' mind?  Clipper Magazine . . . followed by his own ass.  

The Best Local Advertising In America. Period Instrument of Wasp Death Ever.  Period!

The Sounds of Saturday . . .

Mike works every Saturday.  It sucks and it doesn't.  It sucks for him but he takes Thursdays off.  It will probably suck big time when the little ankle biters start playing sports and such (those of you who know our daughter can laugh here-but you never know, she may have a Cha Cha recital on Saturday).


Anyway, Saturdays are kind of a special day for me.  It's MY day with the kids.  All mine, just us.  Nothing scheduled, no agenda.  Just me and my peeps.  We can kick it in jammies all day playing blocks and watching cartoons, go to the park and terrorize other nice children or swim or do art projects . . . whatever we want--well, as long as Momma wants to do it.  


Today was a pretty awesome Saturday.  I made applesauce pancakes and just for giggles, covered them with Halloween sprinkles.  We pulled out all the toys, played on the porch and covered paper, the counter and little arms and faces with lots of pretty marker colors (that last part was all on the boy).  It doesn't take much to impress this crowd and that's how I like it.  Thinking about how much I treasure these Saturdays of gold - before we get wrapped up in sports and sleepovers and such - this time is all mine for the keeping.  I'll admit it, I'm selfish as hell about protecting these days.  I don't plan play dates, go to community events or generally like to share this time with anyone else.  I know these carefree, unscheduled moments are going to decrease and eventually fade away so I'm trying to hold on as long as I can.  


Today, I decided to log some of these sounds of Saturday as it does get a bit crazy with the three of us, given how young and let's just say, "needy" the kids are.  If you were a fly on the wall and I didn't manage to whack you with a copy of the latest American Girl Catalog, you would have heard the following today . . . 


"Jake, get Cinderella out of your mouth." (mom)


"That's a 2 minute penalty for running down your brother!" (mom)


"We wash our eyes and we wash our penis." (jake)


"My eye's been hurting for a while now.  I think Daddy should examinate." (soph)


"Jake, don't eat that Smurf!" (mom)


"Smurfs do NOT go in the dishwasher!" (mom)


"On the paper, ON the Paper, ON the PAPER!" (mom)


"Push your pee pee down.  No, down, no, DOWN.  Don't point it in the air!" (mom)


"Get back in here and put on panties.  We don't leave the house without our underwear!" (mom)


"Mom, Jake just jumped on my face!" (soph)


"Momma, you need a pac (ifier)." (jake)


"Get the baby head out of your mouth and put it back on the body." (mom)


"Somebody is a Mr. Stinky Pants." (soph)


"Stop licking me.  Seriously.  Stop licking me now." (mom)


"My cheek hurts.  Can I sleep down here tonight.  Hey, is that licorice?" (soph)


"Scooby doo, scooby doooooo, scooby doooooooooooo . . . needs a pac (ifier)." (jake)


"Is this a Japanese color?" (soph)


"Soph, thank you for encouraging him but move back or you might get peed on."  (mom)




Ah, that's the good stuff!  I look forward to reading these scribbled notes many years from now . . . and probably bawling my eyes out at the memories of these awesome Saturdays.  For now, they're mine, all mine and I'll keep them for myself as long as they'll let me.  

Kickin' it, Sandy Saturday Style.

Investors, Get Out Your Wallets!

Here's another slice of pie that I baked up in my head spending so much time on 4 wheels touring this lovely area of the Delta in my mobile office or, as I like to call it, My BGID (Bad Ass Get It Done Factory).  I drive here, I drive there, I drive everywhere.  Business is in the good, the bad, the ugly and in the "don't come to a complete stop unless you're packin' heat" parts of town and so, you go where the business is.  I'm in the habit of constantly scanning the sidelines to look for new businesses--those potential gold mines waiting to be "saved" by this salesperson.  This particular "habit" came from my TV days where my first introduction into sales was walking into my cube to a giant phone book and my manager saying, "okay, start dialing".  Being in the square cell dialing for dollars drove me insane so I perfected the art of prospecting and cold calling. 

Anyway, that's how I came to drawthis point of which I shall share.  Perk up your ears and if you've got any cash stuffed under the mattress.  Get. it. now.  I'm about to give you THE NEXT BIG THING.  The next hot investment in retail franchise opportunities. 

Well no, they have not actually been Franchisisized yet but as I am a gracious ideator (see previous post, "Hear This Detroit"), I give these to you fine folks who can take these ideas and run with them.

Cupcakes Schmuckcakes . . . Gigi's, Muddy's, Sprinkles . . . make way for the newest bite sized bakery phenom, "Boutique Brownies".  Yeah, that's right.  Blondies, Brownies, Double Fudge, Nutty, Chewy . . . the possibilities are endless here.  You can smather them with frosting, get crazy gourmand on the flavor combinations (Dulce de Leche with espresso cream cheese frosting?) and on the bright side, they are a heck of a lot easier to transport and eat than the cup cake.  Sorry Cupcakes.  You're cute and all but Brownies . . . they're rich!

Yogurt places . . . I just don't get you.  Frozen yogurt, do you know you're NOT ICE CREAM!?!  Perhaps I'm missing something.  I probably am . . . it's called ICE CREAM!  Perhaps we are in love with the frosty frozen treat concept.  31 flavors, TCBY, snowcone shacks . . . meet your newer, prettier little sister . . . "Popsicle Panache".  She's stylish, she's cute, she's simple and yet can be very complex (strawberry zinfandel zinger?).  Customizable molds for parties . . . large sculptures and installations in buffets . . . I could keep going here.  This one has infinite frozen slurpy possibilities . . . just watch out for the BRAIN FREEZE - THAT's the title of my store!

Burrito - Fast Casual Tex Mex places . . . you just really hack me off.  Why don't I just go in the back and make my own damned food?  Here's what I find irritating . . . I either want it fast, casual and cheap, or if I'm going to pay $12 for lunch, I want someone to bring it to me AND refill my drink.  And laugh at my jokes.  And bring me a box for my leftovers.  I don't actually have an idea here.  I just find these Swanky, QDoba Booya's places irritating and confusing.  Food's good.  Just wish someone refilled my drinks for the $12 I just dropped in thier drawers. 

Edible Arrangements . . . whenever I hear this store name, I always think of "Edible Underwear."  I know it's fruit but really, that's where my mind goes.  Any how, Edible Arrangements have a healthier leg up on the yogurt and cupcake franchises but let's take this one step further and add a Vegetable Arrangement store like maybe, "Cucumber Cuties" or "Lettuce Celerybrate Arrangements". 

Hmmmm . . . maybe I'd better stop while I'm ahead . . . although, who could resist these cuties rolling into your office with a card that said, "Happy Birthday from the guys at the 'plant'!" 



How DO you cook eggplant, anyway?

What do you think?  Any other Entrepreneurial folks have an idea for the next big franchise opportunity?

Signs Your Child is Destined to be a Vegas Showgirl . . .

So, I believe in all my heart that people should be allowed to make their own choices, follow their own dreams, change their minds, reinvent themselves and pursue their passions.  That being said, I'm pretty sure my sweet daughter will end up being a Vegas Showgirl, run away to join The Circus or (crossing my fingers here) become a Cirque du Soleil performer.  I've intentionally avoided the performance category of "Stripper" because, well, I can't go there.  Neither will SHE.  Even though she runs around naked a LOT, I'm hoping that's just because she's 5 and has no shame about her body yet.  A little bit of shame or, let's shoot for humility, could have us bypass Stripper or Pole Dancer and take the exit on further up the road to Feather Frocked Headliner for Celine Dion's come back come back come on waaaaay back show.

It's not exactly what I'd choose for the girl but early signs suggest she's headed in this direction.  Signs such as . . .

• The child doesn't just walk or run, she shimmies, Cha Cha's or saunters from point A to point FABULOUS.  Oh, she's fast and can run like the devil if she wants to . . . but chances are, it's because she doesn't want to miss "So You Think You Can Dance" - - - especially if it's the Cha Cha, Salsa, Mambo or something with a skimpy, shiny twirly costume.  

• Playing "dress up" . . . well, what can I tell you here.  In her closet, there are princess costumes, fairy wings, and plastic dress up heels.  They are patiently waiting for some other little girl to put them on and play in the castle.  My little girl prefers yards of gauzy fabric, satiny belts, frilly fringe from the fabric store and silk or lace castoffs from my closet.  She twists and maneuvers, ties, somehow incorporates a beaded necklace headpiece and voila, she's Carmen Miranda, Madonna, Liza Minelli or (gulp) Gypsy Rose Lee, the burlesque dancer.  

• Her "pretend" names sound an awful lot like "stage" names.  Yesterday she announced her name was Jezebel . . . that one made me choke on my coffee and question how a waffle that was previously swallowed could make it back up my nose.  Jezebel was a new one on me.  Her go to name is usually something like Sparkle Crystal Pearl Shimmer Diamond Tiffany Rose Summertime Sandy.  

• We tried ballet class for a year.  She loved the outfit.  She liked the teacher - the teacher was pretty.  She did not, however, like ballet.  It was "slow and I have to wear the same outfit every time."  She was eventually a little disruptive to the other children and that was the end of our little Nutcracken' dreams. 

• We went to a few gymnastic classes.  She liked gymnastics.   Especially when they got to climb the rope to the ceiling and twirl on the bars.  Sigh.  Outside of those two circus-like activities, she was once again, distracted and that led to being disruptive.  Perhaps being distracted and disruptive is merely a symptom of being five years old and not that her mind is wandering off doing the cha cha or planning where to sew on her sequins and feathers.  

• The girl loves to swing.  Upside Down.  And Dangle from one Leg.  We have a playset.  It has a slide, a playhouse, two swings and a Trapeze bar.  The Trapeze bar is this child's favorite.  Nay, her ONLY method of swing.  

I could go on and on.  I could tell you that she has been this way since birth.  Or that I hope I'm just imagining this crazy future for her and that she may out grow it.  Or, I could encourage her and support her just like I did when she showed signs of wanting to crawl or walk and talk and use the potty.  She's still so little so I have to keep in mind we have many, many, MANY milestones to go before we're doing handstands on elephants or seeing her name up in lights on the Great White Way.  I need to stay true to letting HER choose her own dreams, shape them and pursue her passion--whatever they may be.  I'll even sew feathers on to the caboose of her costume or help her scrub the glitter off her beautiful face and I will always, ALWAYS buy a ticket to her show.  I will, however, draw then line when she asks for an elephant or to add a trapeze bar to the living room ceiling fan.  She'll have to get her own place for those particular things.    

And with that, I leave you with a video of my child.  Mexico, 2010, 4 years old.  Called to get up and "Cha Cha" with her own fashion creation made from a Mexican dress, a bathing suit cover up, a sarong and accessorized perfectly with light up sandals.  

Enjoy.  (It was windy.  She's cute . . . you'll have to get over it.)

Anatomy of an ER visit . . .

Recently, there was a bit of a big "ta-doo" of sorts and the Sandy HQ.  It started with a BANG.  Yes, quite literally.  Many of you have heard the story of how the Hubs tried to blow himself into meaty man bits and bones and yes, it was scary and terrifying and all that . . .

Being several weeks post explosion, we can look back and laugh a little.  Not like a chuckle.  That would be inappropriate, you freaks.

Anyway, when Hubs tells the story it's all about the explosion.  When I recount the events, I think about the sequence of things and what exactly ran through my head during those moments as I've not experienced the likes of such an emergency that we had on that sunny summer Saturday afternoon.

1.)  I'm in the living room folding laundry.  Watching "The Blind Side" for the first time.  Working hard to keep it together and not cry like a baby all over little people's socks and underwear.  She soooo deserves that Oscar.  Mike and the kids are swimming in the back yard.

2.)  "BOOOOOOM" from the back yard.

3.)  My first thought was, Damn, those birds running into the windows keep getting bigger.  Wait, that sounded like a Hippo hitting the glass.  Better check it out.


4.)  I head to the back yard and hear my little Snake wailing.  Hubs is carrying him.  I don't know why but I thought the loud sound and my baby Boy crying had something to do with him potentially falling off the roof.  Yeah, he's just that kind of boy.

5.)  Now, at this point, I cannot give you exact sequence of dialogue because it's a bit fuzzy but I'll do my best  to recall it for you:
      Me:  "What happened"
      Hubs:  "Take him"
      Me:  "What happened!"
     Hubs:  "Is he okay?  Check him!"
     Me:  "What the F*&# happened!"
            "What am I checking him for?"
             "Why is he crying?"
              "Is he hurt?  Did he fall"
   Hubs:  "Turn on the hose"
     Me:   "Okay - - - What the $&*+ happened?"
   Hubs:  "$0d #%$$+"
    Me:   "Where's Soph?"
  Hubs:  "She's swinging"

6.)  I look out and She is in fact, still swinging.  Apparently oblivious to the emergent situation that has just unfolded 25 yards in front of her.  So, she may not have a career as any sort of "First Responder".

7.)  Looking back over to the husband, I see him pretty much shoving the water hose into the giant hole that once was his entire shin.  I believe I again screamed, "WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED!"  Oh, and the boy is still screaming and crying and shaking in my arms.

8.)  I gathered from the bits of communication that there was an explosion of something over in the pool pump area.  Husband received the brunt of the damage but the blast picked up our son and deposited him back down several feet behind him.

THEN, something (or someone else) took over my self because I don't know how we calmly did what we did but it goes like this . . .

9. - 14.)  HUBS gets into the shower as there are bits of plastic and chunks of chlorine burning through the blasted flesh.  I instruct little daughter to get clothes on as we're going to the hospital.  This excited her beyond reason.  Baby boy reaks of highly concentrated chlorine so I hose him down, whip off his wet clothes, diaper and change him like he's a NASCAR and I'm the pit crew and then locate medical tape while also throwing juice boxes and a snack and the portable DVD player in my purse, confirm with sweet daughter that "Yes, that outfit in fact does look good to wear to the hospital and they will all love it and I don't know what kind of toys they have there" and then load kids into the car - helped bandage husband's leg with paper towels and tape and get him to the car and get to the emergency room.

That was the craziest 15 minutes of my life.

15.)  The ER is very close and being a hospital in the suburbs, thankfully seeing very little action on a Saturday night.  They did, however, seem a little too "laissez faire" about treating my husband so I asked him very loudly if he had in fact, explained to them that chlorine was "BURNING THROUGH HIS SHIN GUTS" as we speak.  That got Delores (seems like a good ER name) to get him back to Triage faster.

16.)  We were only there for 2 1/2 hours.  While husband was back getting his tetanus shot, 20 shots of lidocaine, stitches and chunks of plastic and chlorine extracted from his meaty gross wound . . .

17.) WE, the lucky and unscathed (especially the boy whom I thought had kartwheeled off the roof) sat in the waiting room watching the same 3 episodes of Scooby Doo and dining on an entire box of My Little Pony gummy snacks and Cheeze Its while the boy proceeded to touch everything that could possible be covered in germs, hazardous waste, snot or Lord help me, Poo.  Thus, it was a pretty rockin' evening for the kids.  We even got to visit Daddy back in the triage room.  Sweet daughter was so thrilled she didn't stop grinning the whole time.  The boy, ugh, more touching of all gross things.

In the end, everyone is okay.  Sweet husband has a huge shiny new pink scar after all the scabs have been scraped off and has taken a lot of crap about not making the best use of his chemistry degree.  He did drive around to reassure the neighbors who seemed very concerned that our explosion could be the sign of a Meth ring in the burbs.  He's so thoughtful like that.  I learned that we can be calm and cool in a crisis . . . even the kids.  Well, they weren't "calm and cool" so much as excited and well behaved.  I've also learned that if you're going to blow up your leg, do it in the suburbs where there's not much else going on in the ER but a few dehydrated stomach virus stragglers.  Oh, and bring your own snacks and juice boxes.  Just don't blow through them in the first 10 minutes.  Ha, no pun intended!

Ewwww.

Perfection: don't dis the stains . . .

Having not one, but TWO houses for sale at the same time whilst being major preggers and parenting a 2 year old whirling dervish was no cake walk.  Buyers do not give you the luxury of a day or even an hour to get your schtuff together, picked up and perfect for showing.  Most of the time, the agent calls to arrange the showing while circling the block.  I learned very quickly to 1:  NEVER refuse a showing and that 2:  PERFECTION is the only option to present to the potential buyer.  It's asking a lot for a buyer to envision your home as their perfect abode when they have to step over Strawberry Shortcake panties that were left on the bathroom floor (not mine, btw).  One the very first showing, my phone died, the agent left me a voice mail and I didn't have notice until 10 minutes before the showing.  Let me tell you how funky your car gets when you throw in a garbage bag full of your stinky garbage, a laundry basket full of dirty dishes and 2 hampers of dirty laundry.

I had to come up with a strategy or go insane so my answer was to purge, purge, purge and become the clutter Nazi.  Not a speck of anything on the counter, not a dish in the sink and not a wrinkle in any bed before I left the house in the morning.  It was like the military.  Only with better food . . .

My point is, in order to be someone else's dream home, we removed our personal momentos, painted the walls, scrubbed the carpets and erased spills, dirt and any imperfections and, guess what, it WORKED!  We sold one house, moved in to the other 3 weeks before Jake was born, then sold the 2nd house 4 weeks after Mr. Turkey pants arrived . . . and moved again.  (Sidebar . . . 1 - thank you to EVERYONE who has ever helped us move and 2 - We are NEVER, EVER moving again.  You will have to pry my old pruney butt out of that master closet to get me in to the old peep's home).

I digress.  What I learned was a love of having less "stuff" to clean up, organize, put away, step over, step on, et cetera.  It was refreshing to come home to clean counters, clean work and living spaces - like pulling up the window shades and letting light in to your brain.  That uncluttered feeling was fresh and uncomplicated - perfect.

Maintaining perfect, however, is a messy business.  Messy, stressful and possibly involves yelling and threatening as MY idea of perfection cannot be mandated to the additional mess creating members of the family.  Yeah, I said it.  Husband, Daughter and the Snake make messes.  They drop stuff on the carpet, eat food in inappropriate places (MY side of the bed - arrrgggg), leave socks and underwear everywhere and do NOT place schtuff in the appropriate, designated "schtuff" areas.  I am exempt from the "mess maker" category because yes, I make them but mostly, I clean them up, launder the clothing and organize and purge the schtuff that cannot find its way back home to its habitat.  I am also the only one of us who has suffered a puncture wound from stepping on a toy smurf!

Then, a funny thing happened.  It wasn't actually funny.  Something that transformed me, my husband . . . us.  We were going to have another little human and that news rocked our world.  It was scary and overwhelming but knowing the crazy love and joy that monkeys 1 and 2 have brought to us, we were ready to make room for funky monkey number 3.   We started making plans, talking about him/her, prepping siblings for big brother and bigger sister status.  But then, one day, there was no more monkey.  Just like that - no heartbeat.  A very sad end to barely even a beginning.  We grieved.  Hard.  Sadness like lead weights.

But it was hard to sink into the dark end of that pool when you still have two happy and joyful sunshines that depend on you, lift you up and keep you in the moment.  Thank God for them.  Grief, however, is transforming and each day after was a little different.  We held them tighter, rocked a little longer.  Read one more book and stayed up a little later.  Cherishing the moments just doesn't seem like an accurate description for how tightly we closed our arms around each other.  Things that seemed important just really didn't make the list anymore.  Perfection or mess, it just didn't matter in the big picture anymore.

Popcorn in bed . . . why not if it means we can snuggle a little closer.  Bath tub with soapy bubbles over flowing . . . they'll only take baths together for a few short years.  Handprints decorating the glass window . . . leave 'em a little longer so I can remember how tiny they still are.  Lipstick stain on the carpet . . . not scrubbing it out right away because the story about how the little person made it makes me laugh so hard.  Milk splatters on the ottoman . . . that was a great night of tickling and tackling the kids.  Cheerios and puffs in the crevices of my car . . . reminders of how tiny fingers are still learning to make it to tiny mouths.  All in all, structure, order and schedules can now be trumped by moments of freewheelin' chaos, extra helpings of sweet indulgence and the occasional breaking of rules.

Sadness still sneaks up on us every so often.  It always catches me when I least expect it.  Especially now with the constant reminder of our baby that would have been due very soon.  Right now our friends are having their beautiful babies and we're so genuinely happy for them.  For we know that beautiful perfection . . . the laughs, the giggles, the sticky fingers, stinky diapers and messy houses that will their own, their "new" definition of "perfection".  Stains, messes and all.

Adventures in using markers.  

Hair . . . a good day pictured here.  Hope she grows out of tangles.

Strong beats Skinny . . .

Alright, so, I'm writing this as a compliment (dual meaning here) to my friend and workout partner of a month, Dawn Ray who has blogged and FB posted about our training sessions and our rather Cave Man like trainer, David Allen of NBS Fitness.  I say Cave Man, instead of his self proclaimed "Meat Head" title in that he's mostly built like a Cave Man and carries around a sledge hammer which looks like a club . . . and he mumbles a bit, but I digress.  He makes us lift heavy things, push heavy things and then do it again with even HEAVIER things.  I particularly enjoyed the time Dawn and I dragged each other behind a rope up the garbage ramp outside the gym.  No, really.  I loved that session--despite the stench and 100 degree weather.

This has been an awesome experience and I wanted to Thank both Dawn and David and my running partner, Laura Lea for their contribution to my mental and physical fitness.  It has been transforming in many ways and yes, as I'm holding that stupid, wretched, horrid plank--sweat dripping off my nose, I started baking sweat and soreness, weights and workouts and these observations into my fitness pie.

Be Inspired
      Work out with a trainer, a professional, someone who can speak to you from a place of experience and push you past the little voice in your head that says, "I can't".  Work out with a partner.  See the look on someone's face--pushing through the pain, reaching for something they've never tried before.  Dripping with sweat, every drop, one more little "I can't" leaving their body.  Feed off of their success.  Hold yourself accountable to them.  Hold them accountable to you.  Don't let each other down.  That's motivation to do it faster, harder, better, longer.

Be Inspiring
     Share your goals, your struggles, your motivation.  Inspiration comes in all sorts of packages.  Be encouraging when you recognize you've given off a spark.  Tell someone how you got that fantastic butt, how you dropped your belly pudge or how you overcame your Oprah Bat Wings.  Invite them to join you on your journey.  Being a source of strength for someone else makes your base stronger--one more weight to lift, one more rep to build your muscles.

Do it for the Right Reasons
     Don't just shoot for Skinny.  Strong will crush Skinny every day of the week.  I feel stronger, I look stronger--physically and emotionally.  Confidence looks strong.  Confidence is crushing.  Sure, we all want to be "hot" and "sexy".  That does not necessarily translate to skinny.  It's what's found in your eyes, in your carriage, in your backbone, your shoulders, how you carry your body.  It's what enters the room with you and commands attention.  Skinny's got nothin' on that--skinny couldn't carry that suitcase on to a plane by herself.  You lift Skinny's carry on into the bin and then steal her pretzels--what's she gonna do about it?

Do it for the Long Haul
    We hear over and over and over, "it's not a diet, it's a lifestyle change".  Well, they're right.  One of David's repetitive themes is that fitness is no short term thing.  Each session, each week, you build upon the last.  You put one weight down, then reach for a heavier one.  Look back at where you started.  Celebrate your successes.  This is an ongoing commitment to yourself.  Like my previous point, the motivation can't have an end point.  I've changed my mindset from "I want to lose 20 pounds" or "I want to fit into a size 6" to "I want to be strong and carry my children", "I want to play hard and not be held back" and "I want to be proud and inspire others to find their best".  Long term, enduring mindsets also make it much easier to carry on and not be disappointed in yourself when your progress is derailed or you haven't reached a goal within the set time frame.  Like falling off the diet wagon, it's easy to stop and sit back down on the couch when the time has come and gone to buy that new skinny skirt for the reunion.  Superficial goals are easy to replace.  Strength in character cannot be shaken.  Make strength of mind and body part of your character.

By no means am I an expert in this area, I just know how I feel, how I've changed and how I'm progressing, how I'm inspired to keep going and share.  It is a long term project.  No, lifestyle.  When I fall down, sit down, don't want to get up, I want you to hold me accountable, tell me to get up.  That "you" is the "me" I'm aspiring to be.  The voice in my head I want speaking to me--shouting to me to get up and get out the door.  It can't really happen unless I believe that "me".  No one else can make me do it just like no one else can make me happy or fulfilled or satisfied.  These are my choices, my strength and I'm going to own it.

So, I'll leave you with a last slice--a little juice for your motivation from my beloved Pinterest.  Great thoughts to put you in the right frame of mind or keep you going.

• You never know how strong you are until being strong is the only choice you have.
• Exercise should be about rewarding your body with endorphins and strength.  Not punishing your body for what you've eaten.
• Be the kind of woman who, when your feet hit the floor in the morning, the devil says, "OH NO, she's up!"
• The question isn't, "Who is going to let me?" but "Who is going to stop me?"
• No matter how slow you go, you are still lapping everyone on the couch.

and lastly, my favorite:

• My feet hurt . . . from KICKING SO MUCH ASS!

Hear this, Detroit . . .

So, I spend a lot of time in my car.  I mean, A LOT of time in my car.  As a sales person with a territory that encompasses 3 states, my car is my main office.  Other than sleeping and a few other key essential activities, I use my car for calling, computing, planning, catching up.  And let's not forget the kiddos--I've changed diapers, spoon fed, bottle fed, breastfed, pumped, played, snacked and sang with the kiddos in the car.  It's not an SUV, it is truly a BGIDF--badass get it done factory. 

I actually quite enjoy driving and time in my car.  That's usually when I'm able to catch up with family and friends on the phone--free of little monkeys needing snacks, wipes, songs or toys.  Time to listen to MY music, sing, rock out or car dance or just do some good solid thinking.

During this precious "thinking time" I've had the opportunity to conjure or imagine some inventions or gadgets that might make our lives easier.  As it were, I have no engineering, mechanical or technological skills WHATSOEVER.  Okay, a wee little proficient in technology but just imagine a blank look here if you try to discuss things like horsepower, spark plugs or CAD drawings.  Does not compute in this here brain.  My talents lie in other places--generally those places are called, "30,000 foot overview" and enjoy more figurative than literal details..

I'd like to call this an "Open letter to enterprising engineers in the Motor City."

In Car Conveniences:
*Butt recognition technology for temp, radio stations and seat--yes, I know you can push a button and have your seat reset.  We can perform surgery with robots, why can't my car recognize my tush and tune in accordingly?
*Central vac for the car--small humans, snacks, mom who misses her mouth with french fries--'nuff said.
*Car texting--wouldn't it be cool to be able to send a message to another car by entering its license plate?  I'm just sayin' it would be cool.  I know there are about 10,000 reasons why this is a very bad idea.  Just sayin'.
*Cars with rubber doors--have you ever had to park in a crowded school parking lot?
*SUV sliding door--again, have you ever had to park in a crowded school parking lot?  Nothing against those folks who can rock out a mini van, but what makes them so practical are those sliding doors.  Come on automotive world, it surely CAN'T be that hard to figure that one out.  A little weld here, a little glide track there, Voila, the minivan goes extinct!
*Car organization for REAL people: ketchup and taco sauce packets holder/organizer, hand lotion/ gel, sunglasses, blue tooth, snacks, wipes/napkins, dry cleaning tickets, snack dispenser, deodorant, extra panty hose, lint roller . . . what, yes, you SHOULD always carry a lint roller in your car.
*Brake/gas pedal and footrest with massage option.  Double bonus here, relax and decrease stress while travel but keep you alert and refreshed as well.  



And since we're talking convenience, let's add some thought to the Great American Gas Station too.  

Gas stations have given me all sorts of great ideas for modern day travelers' convenience:  

*Gas pump-ordering gum and snacks-pay at the pump and a bank tube delivery system ka-chunks your items into your hands--no need to go inside.

*Emergency cell phone charging station--for when you forget the stupid things and you're running out of juice.

*GPS Station--along the same lines as the emergency cell phone station, not everyone has GPS.  One computer station dedicated to getting travelers where they're going would be a nice touch.  You bet your a$$ I'd Purell-Up after touching the keyboard, though.  

So, there you have it . . . no patents pending, no copyright or trademarked ideas.  My ideas are free for the taking, Detroit.  Go forth, engineers and mechanical geniuses and make life a little better for all of us.  Hey, I'll even test pilot some prototypes--for the good of all the tireless travelers out there!

Express trip to serenity . . . derailed.

So I don't usually say, "I'm just so busy", to anyone because I think it's a crock of hooey.  Generally, everyone has busy lives with lots of events and details to keep track of . . . to say, "I'm just so busy", makes me feel like my "busy-ness" is more important than everyone else's.

However, right now, life is kicking my butt and I'm pretty busy. Work, kids, end of school, start of new school, visitors, traveling, birthdays, exercise, you name it, it's happenin' now in the Sandy crib.  Hauling around kids, bags, laptops, running, working out and entertaining major work stress-bombs has my head screwed directly on to my shoulders and my back all twisted in angry Shawn-hating knots.  Thus, I decided to take some time out for a massage this week.  

So, here I am, at the spa, anticipating a wonderful massage, almost giddy with the expectations of how I'll feel afterwards.

An adorable woman walks up to me and whispers, "Hi, I'm April, follow me.  Do you need to use the restroom?"  I answer, "Um, no", and she takes me to a warm, candle lit room with a lovely fragrance.  Whispering?  What's with that?  I thought it was a little, um, OVERKILL, at first but as she whispered me instructions about disrobing and asking where I needed work, I sort of melted and fell in love with April.  I wanted to put her in my pocket and take her out to whisper to me in her soothing voice throughout the day.

Anyway, as I said, the room smells soothing and lovely and there is the unmistakable "spa" sound of pan flute and syntar playing in the background.  Soothing as it may be, those sounds always conjure up images of man-goats or odd mythical things, which, under any circumstances, I'll admit, would be a rather "unsoothing" encounter.

Again, I digress, after Adorable April whispers out of the room, I peel off my work clothes and climb up on to the table and wriggle under the heavy cotton blankets to wait for my mega relaxation bonanza to commence. 

I close my eyes and begin to focus on turning off my mind and embracing the serenity so I can loosen up and get the knots out of my back. 

Oooooh, this might be so easy.  The weight of the heated blankets on top of me and the heat from the table under neath me feels sooooooooooo nice.  Mmmmmm, I think I know how the cheese feels inside a quesadilla.  Relaxing might be easier than I thought.  I feel all melty and liquid.  If Adorable April were to press a spatula on me, I'd ooze right off the table.  She has slipped in and does not, in fact press me with a spatula but begins her deal-e-o by gently pressing her hands down on me in the blanket--tucking me in like a newborn in the nursery so I'm warm and secure before she begins.  Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh. 

Okay, time to focus on some sort of peaceful vision.  Must focus to keep the noise of work and my Outlook Calendar from "knock, knock, knocking" on my flippin' relaxation.  Let's see, something beautiful . . . how about the sweet smiling faces of my children.  Sophia with her chocolate brown eyes and sweet pink lips.  Oh, okay, that's nice.  Just focus on her little, "TICKLE ME TICKLE ME, TICKLE TIME MOMMA!"

Wait, okay, how'd that get in there.  Let's switch it up, Jakey Snakey, puddin' pie.  Oh, his sweet little face is always smiling.  I could look at his baby blues and smell his little head all night.  I want to inhale him into my soul when I rock him at night.  Holy Cow, "I'm somebody's Mom!"  Wow, why does that always come as such a shock to me?  I have two little people--I didn't order them online or buy them with PayPal.  What an odd concept, if you think about it.  You don't really own anything else that came to you with random selection that has individual traits and characters that can be totally independent of your influence.  Yes, I realize I don't "own" my children, but that's besides the point.  "You get what you get and you don't throw a fit".  Such a good saying . . . Thanks, Mrs. Eisenbraun for that one.  Gosh, Sophia uses it all the . . .

CRAP--okay, back to focusing on relaxing.  What is Adorable April doing?  I explained to her about my back.  Surely she'll get to the back soon.  My hand is actually fine and I could give a cracker less about having my forearm massaged.  Come on April, I don't want to tell you what to do, or how to manage your time, but seriously, I'm on the express train to serenity here and it's all about the back.  We only have an hour to achieve this here.  Ack.  This is killing me.  Can we just get to the back.  No, Shawn, stop.  She's a professional and I'm sure she'll spend the appropriate time on my back.  I mean, she's got the whole whispering thing going for her so she surely knows how long to calculate per body part.  They probably teach from some sort of body part chart in massage school.  "Okay, 1 minute per hand, 5 minute shoulder, 30 seconds on the temples . . . "  Just friggin relax and focus on something peaceful . . . tap, tap, tap, "Okay, let's go ahead and turn over now," says AA.  Cool.  I do the awkward naked twist and flip and am ready to get to this glorious back massage.  

Okay, focus, Shawn, focus, focus, peaceful thoughts, FOCUS on all the soothing things around you!  Raindrops.  I've landed on raindrops.  The sounds of raindrops have replaced the Pan flute playing goat band.  I do love the rain.  It is rather soothing sounding when it splats on the concrete or driveway.  This rainsong IS rather relaxing.  It reminds me of standing on the deck of a cabin in the mountains listening to the splat, splat, pit, pat, plop, sizzle, sizzle of the rain.  Or bacon.  Truly, this rain could very well pass for the sound of frying bacon.  Hmmm.  That's funny.  Did some Foley artist stand at a pan of bacon with a microphone capturing its sizzle and spitz and call it rain?  It could still be a very relaxing vision--standing on the deck of a cabin in the mountains listening to the rain as I wait for my bacon to fry and my waffles to fluff up.  Oh yeah, that's my special vision of serenity.  Rainy mountain waffle bacon song, take me awayyyyyyyy!  


Ha, I remember those Calgon bath commercials.  Maybe I'll follow up this express train to serenity with a hot bath tonight.  Last night's bath didn't make a dent in the knotsapalooza back situation.  It did, however give me nicer to venue to shave my legs.  I wonder how often people come in with prickly barbed wire legs?  Is she so professional that she doesn't even notice?  I've taken for granted it's a professional courtesy that you shave your legs before a pedicure and a massage.  Who could focus on massaging human hedgehogs into relaxation when . . .  tap, tap, tap--{AA whispering}, "Okay, you're all set to go, take your time and I'll have a nice glass of water for you when you are finished getting dressed."  


What the . . . ?  Did I fall asleep?  Seriously?  I fell asleep during the glorious back knot kneading bonanza?  How . . . but . . . I don't . . . Aaaaargghh!


Well, crap.  My express train to serenity . . . derailed by rainy bacon panflute goat man playing unshaved leg thoughts.


Nice.  Only in my brain.  Only in my brain.