Actually, the title's a bit misleading. I have no problem with Peter Pan. I loved the book. It's delightfully dark and imaginative and fun. Peter Pan is much less lovable, and Captain Hook is far more formidable. Tinkerbell was just a blip on Peter Pan's pixie spectrum. He forgot her. He forgot the kids. He was quite sad, really.
Then Disney got ahold of the story, and they kid-friendlied it right up, which is silly because it's a children's story to begin with. Children could just handle darker, scarier things back in the day. Maybe it's because they could still get polio. I don't know.
Anyway, Disney created a more palatable version for modern(ish) kids. Maybe post-war kids were needing less scary and more fairy. I apologize for that rhyme. Sometimes I can't resist. Even in the Disney version, however, Tinkerbell was a naughty pixie, and pirates were clearly the enemy. That's not my problem with Peter Pan, though.
My problem with Peter Pan in the hands of Disney is what they're doing with it now. Why does Tinkerbell have her own franchise? Did everyone forget that she's a manipulative, abusive, murderous, betraying pixie? She tried to have Wendy killed. She told Captain Hook where to find Peter Pan and the Lost Boys. Sure, she saved him from the bomb, but that would never have happened if she had comported herself like a nice pixie in the first place. She brought that bomb on herself.
So when I see Tinkerbell, I feel as though she's more villain than hero, and her entire pixie franchise is everything that's wrong with kids today: behave badly, get rewarded. It's so true that the nice guy finishes last. I mean, where are John and Michael? Why don't the Darling children have their own spin off?
As if rewarding a bad pixie with fame and fortune weren't enough, Disney decided to further plunder and taint the Neverland legacy with "Jake and the Neverland Pirates." Wait. What? Neverland pirates are bad. They're the enemy. Why do the kids want to be Neverland pirates? The pirates lose in the end of the Disney version, and they go on killing in the real version. Now, they've been reduced to cute little kids with a bumbling Captain Hook who occasionally helps them on their little adventures. This is most troubling. Kids need to respect the villain for what it is: evil and scary.
Oh, Disney, I know you need to make a few more bucks, but please, please don't continue rewarding the bad guys. It seriously messes with my head. Tinkerbell should be in prison, and Captain Hook should be dead, skewered at the end of Peter Pan's sword. You know who could give me this scenario? Tim Burton.
Friday, July 26, 2013
Tuesday, July 23, 2013
Whenever I Open My Mouth...
...my mother comes out. This is a little saying that is going around Facebook in various meme forms these days. I have to tell you, I can't relate. I was blessed with a mom who apparently never said anything memorable in the obnoxious category.
It's inevitable when you become a parent to ponder the parenting you received (and, let's face it, are still receiving). My memory may be skewed by rose-colored hindsight glasses, but I have no memory of my mom yelling. She never lost her temper. She was always willing to chat with me until her eyes couldn't stay open any longer. She spent lots of quality time with me. She was a great mom. I pale in comparison to her.
I yell. My temper is always just under the surface, ready to blow. Some days I can't wait for the kids' bedtime so I can have a little peace and quiet. I hide from them in my room. I take care of the basics, and I hug and kiss them and tell them how amazing they are and how much I love them. Hopefully these will be the things they remember when they have kids and ponder their own upbringing. This may be wishful thinking on my part.
My kids will definitely be able to relate to the "whenever I open my mouth" quote. I give them a lot of good material. Gems like, "If you do that, you'll kill yourself and be dead," or, "Don't answer the door. There's crazy people out there," or "I didn't give birth to pigs, so stop trying to live like them," or one of my favorite go-to's, "If you don't shut your faces, I'll sit on you." It's not uncommon for me to ask myself, "What the heck does that mean?" or to admonish myself for introducing even more confusion into my children's already mixed-up, chaotic world.
Already I hear them using my mom-isms on each other. Wendy, as the oldest, is the biggest offender. Titus, as the youngest, makes me laugh. Everything of mine that he repeats sounds so cute in his little squeaky voice. I only hope that the things I say that they are absorbing won't do too much permanent damage.
So, maybe whenever I open my mouth, my mom doesn't come out. Of course, this just applies to the things I say. Whenever I open my mouth to laugh, my mom shoots forth from my innards. When we get going, we both have the same laugh that the elder Mr. Dawes has at the end of Mary Poppins. You know, the breathy one that killed him? Only, the laugh hasn't killed us yet. It does make me pee my pants, though.
I'm glad to have this in common with my mom.
Already I hear them using my mom-isms on each other. Wendy, as the oldest, is the biggest offender. Titus, as the youngest, makes me laugh. Everything of mine that he repeats sounds so cute in his little squeaky voice. I only hope that the things I say that they are absorbing won't do too much permanent damage.
So, maybe whenever I open my mouth, my mom doesn't come out. Of course, this just applies to the things I say. Whenever I open my mouth to laugh, my mom shoots forth from my innards. When we get going, we both have the same laugh that the elder Mr. Dawes has at the end of Mary Poppins. You know, the breathy one that killed him? Only, the laugh hasn't killed us yet. It does make me pee my pants, though.
I'm glad to have this in common with my mom.
Thursday, July 18, 2013
Where No Woman Has Gone Before...
Captain's Log: Stardate 71813
Offspring are participating in an unauthorized session of Rapid Body Liquid Ejection. Day 4, and their rebellion continues. They seem to be in an alternating pattern so I can't learn their routine. Any one of them could explode at any time, and I am helpless to stop it.
The new washing machine is being tested frequently. I am happy to report that it is standing up to the task of purifying all clothing and linens that come into contact with the body liquids. Its cheerful medley announcing the end of its cycle is a pleasant diversion in an otherwise bleak house. I am happy with this machine.
Equally satisfying in its performance is the carpet steam cleaner. Deciding to purchase one when the crew moved to a bigger home was very wise on the part of myself and the Commander. What would otherwise be hours of scrubbing on my hands and knees has been reduced to merely pushing and pulling while in a comfortable standing position. Carpets are still intact. Rooms are fresh.
This participation in the RBLE has proven one thing: the offspring are all, indeed, human. While suffering from nausea, exhaustion, dehydration, and general cabin fever, they have all displayed very passionate, albeit very unpleasant, emotions which an android could not possess. This alleviates my fears that they are cyborgs who will rise up in their sleep and kill me.
I eagerly await relief from Commander Beckwith who is at his central command procuring funds for this mission. I fear we may be close to mutiny, and I don't know how much longer I can contain the offspring. My mission, for now, is to remain still and hope they do not see me, for if they do, things could get ugly.
Signing off.
Wednesday, July 17, 2013
4 Years With 3
Four years ago today, I became a mother of three. My little Titus made his world debut during the hottest weather in recorded Seattle history. I should have known he was going to give me a continual run for my money.
Watching Titus grow and trying to keep him alive has been a bit of a cursed blessing. On the one hand, he's completely and insanely adorable. On the other hand, he is hell bent on destroying the world. Most days I find myself caught in this vortex of craziness that occurs when his adorable meets his awful, and in that vortex, I twitch and giggle.
Becoming a mom for the first time was interesting. All things were so new, and there were so many rules and regulations to learn and follow. I left pages of instructions for my in-laws when they would take Wendy, never minding that they raised 6 kids. I lived in a constant state of panic and second-guessing. As a result, I missed out on actually enjoying the baby phase, wishing it away one poop blow-out at a time. For the record, and in retrospect, she was an amazing baby. Very portable and lovable and squishy.
After a few years with Wendy, I felt confident enough that I could not only have a second baby but that I could also enjoy it. Of course, it took a few times to get a pregnancy to stick. I got to house two babies for several weeks, but they decided to take the short route to heaven. But Nina? Nina stuck. That kid probably bullied her way to the front of the egg pool, and she's been a kick in the pants ever since. She came out completely opposite from her big sister, and I enjoyed my little curly-topped baby girl very much.
Then we decided to go for one more. I grew up in a family of 2 kids, and I always wondered what it would be like to have 3. That seems like a good reason to bring another human into the world, yes? Transitioning from 1 to 2 was a bit of a leap. I felt like I was betraying Wendy by introducing another person into her perfect little world. But thinking about going from 2 to 3 was a different story. Wendy took to Nina immediately. They'd love their little brother.
They did. They do. Of course, Nina handled the transition about as well as an elephant handles ballet. Before Titus, she was perfectly satisfied with how Peter parented her. He could give her baths and put her to bed and hold her and other such pleasantries. After Titus? Well, after Titus Peter failed to meet her standards. Only I could administer proper care. So, you know, that was a bit of a challenge, especially when recovering from a c-section and breast feeding and trying not to melt in the relentless heat.
Here we are, 4 years later. New house. Central air conditioning. Sleeping through the night. It's been a bit of a bumpy road, and I'm sure it will continue to be for years to come. I wouldn't trade life with 3 kids for a second, though. That's not true. I'd trade it for a luxury cruise around the world, but I'd want it back the minute I got home. An hour after I got home. Maybe a week.
Watching Titus grow and trying to keep him alive has been a bit of a cursed blessing. On the one hand, he's completely and insanely adorable. On the other hand, he is hell bent on destroying the world. Most days I find myself caught in this vortex of craziness that occurs when his adorable meets his awful, and in that vortex, I twitch and giggle.
Becoming a mom for the first time was interesting. All things were so new, and there were so many rules and regulations to learn and follow. I left pages of instructions for my in-laws when they would take Wendy, never minding that they raised 6 kids. I lived in a constant state of panic and second-guessing. As a result, I missed out on actually enjoying the baby phase, wishing it away one poop blow-out at a time. For the record, and in retrospect, she was an amazing baby. Very portable and lovable and squishy.
After a few years with Wendy, I felt confident enough that I could not only have a second baby but that I could also enjoy it. Of course, it took a few times to get a pregnancy to stick. I got to house two babies for several weeks, but they decided to take the short route to heaven. But Nina? Nina stuck. That kid probably bullied her way to the front of the egg pool, and she's been a kick in the pants ever since. She came out completely opposite from her big sister, and I enjoyed my little curly-topped baby girl very much.
Then we decided to go for one more. I grew up in a family of 2 kids, and I always wondered what it would be like to have 3. That seems like a good reason to bring another human into the world, yes? Transitioning from 1 to 2 was a bit of a leap. I felt like I was betraying Wendy by introducing another person into her perfect little world. But thinking about going from 2 to 3 was a different story. Wendy took to Nina immediately. They'd love their little brother.
They did. They do. Of course, Nina handled the transition about as well as an elephant handles ballet. Before Titus, she was perfectly satisfied with how Peter parented her. He could give her baths and put her to bed and hold her and other such pleasantries. After Titus? Well, after Titus Peter failed to meet her standards. Only I could administer proper care. So, you know, that was a bit of a challenge, especially when recovering from a c-section and breast feeding and trying not to melt in the relentless heat.
Here we are, 4 years later. New house. Central air conditioning. Sleeping through the night. It's been a bit of a bumpy road, and I'm sure it will continue to be for years to come. I wouldn't trade life with 3 kids for a second, though. That's not true. I'd trade it for a luxury cruise around the world, but I'd want it back the minute I got home. An hour after I got home. Maybe a week.
Tuesday, July 16, 2013
One of THOSE Days
Warning: I love Jesus, but I cuss a little.
Everyone has days where they hate their jobs. It's inevitable. I'm a stay at home mom, and today, I hate my job. When people ask what I do for a living and I tell them, they get a dreamy look in their eyes and say something along the lines of, "Oh, that must be such bliss. You have the most important job in the world." I'm calling bullshit.
A few days ago, my middle child threw up. Then she threw up again. Sunday night, her brother started throwing up. Yesterday, I spent the day throwing up. Today, the oldest clenched her stomach and wailed about how she, too, needed to throw up. On top of that, the youngest now has forest green diarrhea shooting from his butt every half hour. Of course, being cooped up brought out the demons in my babies, and they spent the day relentlessly picking on each other, and I spent the day screaming at them because I am too pooped out to be rational. I'm feeling anything but blissful and important. I'm feeling resentful, grossed out, and tired.
Now, as I soothe my scream-sore throat with a little bit of whiskey, I am pondering motherhood. I have several friends who have had their first babies in the last several weeks. It's with no great amount of pride that I admit to rolling my eyes with every precious status update and picture they post about how in love they are with their baby and how perfect life is. I have to almost physically restrain myself from posting dripping sarcasm all over their pages about how hard it's going to get. It's like when you've been married for a while and you go to a wedding and the bride and groom are all googly-eyed. You want to laugh derisively, knowing all the crap that lies ahead and how clueless they are to real life.
Oh, how dumb are the newbies, and I can say that because I was once a dumb newbie myself. I really think that birds have the right idea. When they get sick of their kids, they just shove them out of the nest. Today, I was ready to shove all of them out. Instead, I'm opting for whiskey and ridiculously early bed times.
Here's hoping for a better tomorrow, shit free and blissful.
Everyone has days where they hate their jobs. It's inevitable. I'm a stay at home mom, and today, I hate my job. When people ask what I do for a living and I tell them, they get a dreamy look in their eyes and say something along the lines of, "Oh, that must be such bliss. You have the most important job in the world." I'm calling bullshit.
A few days ago, my middle child threw up. Then she threw up again. Sunday night, her brother started throwing up. Yesterday, I spent the day throwing up. Today, the oldest clenched her stomach and wailed about how she, too, needed to throw up. On top of that, the youngest now has forest green diarrhea shooting from his butt every half hour. Of course, being cooped up brought out the demons in my babies, and they spent the day relentlessly picking on each other, and I spent the day screaming at them because I am too pooped out to be rational. I'm feeling anything but blissful and important. I'm feeling resentful, grossed out, and tired.
Now, as I soothe my scream-sore throat with a little bit of whiskey, I am pondering motherhood. I have several friends who have had their first babies in the last several weeks. It's with no great amount of pride that I admit to rolling my eyes with every precious status update and picture they post about how in love they are with their baby and how perfect life is. I have to almost physically restrain myself from posting dripping sarcasm all over their pages about how hard it's going to get. It's like when you've been married for a while and you go to a wedding and the bride and groom are all googly-eyed. You want to laugh derisively, knowing all the crap that lies ahead and how clueless they are to real life.
Oh, how dumb are the newbies, and I can say that because I was once a dumb newbie myself. I really think that birds have the right idea. When they get sick of their kids, they just shove them out of the nest. Today, I was ready to shove all of them out. Instead, I'm opting for whiskey and ridiculously early bed times.
Here's hoping for a better tomorrow, shit free and blissful.
Monday, July 8, 2013
Brits and BBQ
This weekend I went to a wedding. It was lovely. The bride was radiant. The groom was the proper amount of emotional. The flowers, the food, the decor. All of it was perfection. I tend to not get too excited about weddings, but this one was especially good. The bride is the daughter of the first friend I made when I moved out here 12 years ago, and her groom is a delightful man from England.
Going to a wedding that was half British was a treat. The British do not mess around when it comes to wedding. They dress like it's prom night, completing their ensembles with whimsical, colorful fascinators that truly made me grin. Having grown accustomed to the rather blase way we do weddings in America and considering my love for all things British Isles, I enjoyed being a part of this celebration more than my little Midwest heart can explain.
All that said, I would be remiss if I didn't take just a small shot at British cuisine. I don't get it at all, and frankly, I'm not a fan. To be fair, I'm not even remotely an adventurous eater, and my palette is very, very limited. Still, they pick such strange body parts to eat. Kidney pie and black pudding and haggis. All of it is simply too much for me to comprehend. You can imagine my relief, then, when the bride announced that we'd be feasting on the groom's favorite food: BBQ.
What a feast it was, too! Pulled pork as far as the eye can see. Beans. Chicken. All of it smelling like heaven on earth. As much as I loved the buffet line, it was the bunch of British guys behind me that truly captured my attention. They had no idea what anything was, and I felt it my American duty to talk them through each delicacy. Pulled pork and chicken were easy to describe. Where I got tripped up was trying to, on the fly, explain baked beans and coleslaw. My brain drew a complete blank, having spent my whole life eating them with great relish and never having the sense to ask what exactly I was eating. Oh, I mumbled something about brown sugar and cabbage, but I know I didn't do the food justice.
Then came the true test of my cuisine knowledge: the multiple bottles of BBQ sauce at the end of the table. Being called to task to explain the nuances of the different sauces was more than I could handle. The best I could do was tell them that Carolina BBQ sauce is more mustardy. I also warned them that the Texas sauce would be very spicy, which they seemed to appreciate. However, I couldn't take credit for knowing that because the bottle said "very spicy."
In the end, I watched them all gobble up their food with what appeared to be indifference, which in Britain is usually a sign of happiness. My eyes rolled back happily with every savory bite, which in Britain is probably a sign of insanity. Thank God we were in America. The last thing I need is to get committed for loving BBQ.
Going to a wedding that was half British was a treat. The British do not mess around when it comes to wedding. They dress like it's prom night, completing their ensembles with whimsical, colorful fascinators that truly made me grin. Having grown accustomed to the rather blase way we do weddings in America and considering my love for all things British Isles, I enjoyed being a part of this celebration more than my little Midwest heart can explain.
All that said, I would be remiss if I didn't take just a small shot at British cuisine. I don't get it at all, and frankly, I'm not a fan. To be fair, I'm not even remotely an adventurous eater, and my palette is very, very limited. Still, they pick such strange body parts to eat. Kidney pie and black pudding and haggis. All of it is simply too much for me to comprehend. You can imagine my relief, then, when the bride announced that we'd be feasting on the groom's favorite food: BBQ.
What a feast it was, too! Pulled pork as far as the eye can see. Beans. Chicken. All of it smelling like heaven on earth. As much as I loved the buffet line, it was the bunch of British guys behind me that truly captured my attention. They had no idea what anything was, and I felt it my American duty to talk them through each delicacy. Pulled pork and chicken were easy to describe. Where I got tripped up was trying to, on the fly, explain baked beans and coleslaw. My brain drew a complete blank, having spent my whole life eating them with great relish and never having the sense to ask what exactly I was eating. Oh, I mumbled something about brown sugar and cabbage, but I know I didn't do the food justice.
Then came the true test of my cuisine knowledge: the multiple bottles of BBQ sauce at the end of the table. Being called to task to explain the nuances of the different sauces was more than I could handle. The best I could do was tell them that Carolina BBQ sauce is more mustardy. I also warned them that the Texas sauce would be very spicy, which they seemed to appreciate. However, I couldn't take credit for knowing that because the bottle said "very spicy."
In the end, I watched them all gobble up their food with what appeared to be indifference, which in Britain is usually a sign of happiness. My eyes rolled back happily with every savory bite, which in Britain is probably a sign of insanity. Thank God we were in America. The last thing I need is to get committed for loving BBQ.
Friday, July 5, 2013
Four on the Fourth
Okay, okay. I'm behind again. So sue me.
Fourth of July. Independence Day. I absolutely love my country. I vote. I cover my heart when the anthem's sung. I get all misty-eyed when I hear patriotic songs. I fly my flag. Honestly, I love America. It's the greatest country in the world, and I'm not even biased. I've been to other countries. They're nice, but America? Well, it's my home and the land that I love.
It may come as a bit of a surprise, given my gushing, if I tell you that I hate celebrating the 4th. What it represents is great. How we celebrate? For a woman who has major anxiety that is triggered by many things, one of the worst being sudden, loud noises, you can imagine that my miswired brain goes a little haywire and my nerves go into overdrive. I just hate the bangs and the whistles and the booms and the blinding fire. If I were a puppy, I'd be in a heightened state of excitement, and I'd pee every time a firecracker went off. It's a good thing I'm not a puppy and just a mom. I only pee when I sneeze, cough, or laugh.
One comfort I get from the chaos of the holiday is that I get to spend it with my family. The one I married into. They're a fun bunch of people from all different ends of the zany spectrum of life. This year, all the family from the 4 corners of the globe--I really never understood that phrase since a globe is clearly cornerless--gathered for a rip roarin' good time. One of my husband's cousins has a couple of stinking cute kids, and one of them is just a couple months older than my Titus.
Titus and Reese made quite a pair last night. Reese is 4. Titus is going to be 4 in a matter of days. One thing that makes me just a bit sad about where we live is that my kids don't have cousins their own age. Reese and his little sister are in California. My brother's kids are in North Carolina. Whenever the little cousins can get together, it's a beautiful and wonderful thing.
Reese and Titus did a little circling of each other, kind of like dogs do before they decide to be friends. Once they established that the other was an acceptable playmate, they went for fun with reckless abandon. What joy, what bliss when they found a cooler full of ice. A bottomless snack for their little mouths to enjoy. They'd stick a cube or 4 in their mouth and then decide that was too much of a commitment before spitting it back in the cooler. The ecstasy of unattended bowls of chips! Their little fists grabbed more than their mouths could hold, and spit-covered crumbs made their way back into the bowl while the boys shoveled the chips in with complete glee.
Then came the fireworks. Each pop was met with shrieks of joy. Every bang was accompanied by delirious cries of "AWESOME!" Their little fists pumped the air and their little legs bounced up and down with each mortar that flew into the air and exploded with a shower of sparkling beauty. While the air noisily filled with a cloud of sulfur-scented smoke, it dawned on me. Watching these two little boys with their unchecked joy and their self abandon had kept my anxiety down to almost nil. Their wonder and their obliviousness to the world around them made my fourth not only tolerable but absolutely enjoyable.
To be four on the Fourth is truly a wonder. I look forward to next year, but I'll make sure I eat as many chips as I can before the boys find them.
Fourth of July. Independence Day. I absolutely love my country. I vote. I cover my heart when the anthem's sung. I get all misty-eyed when I hear patriotic songs. I fly my flag. Honestly, I love America. It's the greatest country in the world, and I'm not even biased. I've been to other countries. They're nice, but America? Well, it's my home and the land that I love.
It may come as a bit of a surprise, given my gushing, if I tell you that I hate celebrating the 4th. What it represents is great. How we celebrate? For a woman who has major anxiety that is triggered by many things, one of the worst being sudden, loud noises, you can imagine that my miswired brain goes a little haywire and my nerves go into overdrive. I just hate the bangs and the whistles and the booms and the blinding fire. If I were a puppy, I'd be in a heightened state of excitement, and I'd pee every time a firecracker went off. It's a good thing I'm not a puppy and just a mom. I only pee when I sneeze, cough, or laugh.
One comfort I get from the chaos of the holiday is that I get to spend it with my family. The one I married into. They're a fun bunch of people from all different ends of the zany spectrum of life. This year, all the family from the 4 corners of the globe--I really never understood that phrase since a globe is clearly cornerless--gathered for a rip roarin' good time. One of my husband's cousins has a couple of stinking cute kids, and one of them is just a couple months older than my Titus.
Titus and Reese made quite a pair last night. Reese is 4. Titus is going to be 4 in a matter of days. One thing that makes me just a bit sad about where we live is that my kids don't have cousins their own age. Reese and his little sister are in California. My brother's kids are in North Carolina. Whenever the little cousins can get together, it's a beautiful and wonderful thing.
Reese and Titus did a little circling of each other, kind of like dogs do before they decide to be friends. Once they established that the other was an acceptable playmate, they went for fun with reckless abandon. What joy, what bliss when they found a cooler full of ice. A bottomless snack for their little mouths to enjoy. They'd stick a cube or 4 in their mouth and then decide that was too much of a commitment before spitting it back in the cooler. The ecstasy of unattended bowls of chips! Their little fists grabbed more than their mouths could hold, and spit-covered crumbs made their way back into the bowl while the boys shoveled the chips in with complete glee.
Then came the fireworks. Each pop was met with shrieks of joy. Every bang was accompanied by delirious cries of "AWESOME!" Their little fists pumped the air and their little legs bounced up and down with each mortar that flew into the air and exploded with a shower of sparkling beauty. While the air noisily filled with a cloud of sulfur-scented smoke, it dawned on me. Watching these two little boys with their unchecked joy and their self abandon had kept my anxiety down to almost nil. Their wonder and their obliviousness to the world around them made my fourth not only tolerable but absolutely enjoyable.
To be four on the Fourth is truly a wonder. I look forward to next year, but I'll make sure I eat as many chips as I can before the boys find them.
Wednesday, July 3, 2013
Gummy Candy
My very favorite kind of candy, after Snickers, which always goes without saying, is gummy candy. I can't get enough. If someone put a pound of gummy worms in front of me, I would consume the entire quantity before they could say, "Save me some red ones." I really don't know what it is. The fruitiness? Possibly. The chewy, slightly challenging texture? Possibly. The way they smell like fruits of the forest covered in dew and sunshine and rainbows and butterflies? I'm pretty sure that's it.
The summer of 1999 was probably the greatest summer of my life. I was 20, and I was on my third Royal Servant missions trip. This particular summer, I was a "senior woman," which means I was part of the leadership of the leadership of the students. My duty was to feed my team of 90 people three square meals a day. Now, my team spent 6 weeks hopping from campground to campground all over Europe. Royal Servants sends out many teams all over the world, and before any team goes out for their adventures in awesomeness, they go through training camp in Southern Illinois. Well, more Central Illinois, but I'm from Northern Illinois, and anything south of Chicago is Southern Illinois. Really, it's practically a different state, much like Western Washington is almost entirely separate from Eastern Washington. I digress.
At this training camp, somewhere significantly south of Chicago, I met a really cute boy. 2 years later, I moved to Washington to be near him, and 3 years later, I married him. So, really, how could the summer of 1999 not be my favorite summer? As if meeting Peter wasn't enough, there was one more wonderful thing that happened that summer.
While bonding with my many students and staff on this crazy missions trip, I happened to mention that I loved gummy candy with a passion usually reserved for lovers. My fabulous teammates took this revelation to heart, and whenever we visited cities or stopped at rest stops or put up tents in a new campground, at least 4 or 5 people made it a point to bring me a gummy treat. It truly was as happy as I have ever been minus my wedding day and each of my kids' birthday. International gummy candy as far as the eye can see.
My favorite offering had to be what one sweet little 13-year-old soul brought me in Paris. She had wandered into God only knows what kind of confiserie and managed to procure me what she thought were banana-flavored gummies in the shape of bananas. Bless her little heart, but if those things weren't delicious little phalluses. I never told. Anyone. I just ate them quickly. A respectable lady probably would have discretely tossed them, but I am anything but respectable or lady-like when candy is on the table.
I shall end this post with a poem, which I tend to hate but sometimes enjoy composing:
Summer of Gummies
Always in my sticky heart
Chewy ecstasy
The summer of 1999 was probably the greatest summer of my life. I was 20, and I was on my third Royal Servant missions trip. This particular summer, I was a "senior woman," which means I was part of the leadership of the leadership of the students. My duty was to feed my team of 90 people three square meals a day. Now, my team spent 6 weeks hopping from campground to campground all over Europe. Royal Servants sends out many teams all over the world, and before any team goes out for their adventures in awesomeness, they go through training camp in Southern Illinois. Well, more Central Illinois, but I'm from Northern Illinois, and anything south of Chicago is Southern Illinois. Really, it's practically a different state, much like Western Washington is almost entirely separate from Eastern Washington. I digress.
At this training camp, somewhere significantly south of Chicago, I met a really cute boy. 2 years later, I moved to Washington to be near him, and 3 years later, I married him. So, really, how could the summer of 1999 not be my favorite summer? As if meeting Peter wasn't enough, there was one more wonderful thing that happened that summer.
While bonding with my many students and staff on this crazy missions trip, I happened to mention that I loved gummy candy with a passion usually reserved for lovers. My fabulous teammates took this revelation to heart, and whenever we visited cities or stopped at rest stops or put up tents in a new campground, at least 4 or 5 people made it a point to bring me a gummy treat. It truly was as happy as I have ever been minus my wedding day and each of my kids' birthday. International gummy candy as far as the eye can see.
My favorite offering had to be what one sweet little 13-year-old soul brought me in Paris. She had wandered into God only knows what kind of confiserie and managed to procure me what she thought were banana-flavored gummies in the shape of bananas. Bless her little heart, but if those things weren't delicious little phalluses. I never told. Anyone. I just ate them quickly. A respectable lady probably would have discretely tossed them, but I am anything but respectable or lady-like when candy is on the table.
I shall end this post with a poem, which I tend to hate but sometimes enjoy composing:
Summer of Gummies
Always in my sticky heart
Chewy ecstasy
Monday, July 1, 2013
Some Like it Neat
I have the greatest in-laws. They love to take all three of my children away. If there's a 3-day weekend, the kids usually go. If there's a spring break, the kids usually go. Now that it's summer break, the kids went. Away. I love them with all my heart and brains and guts, but I sure do appreciate the breaks every now and then so my nerves have a chance to heal from their frequently frazzled state.
Since the kids are gone, and since it is incredibly hot out this week, I'm enjoying three of my favorite things on the planet: quiet, central air conditioning, and organizing. Oh, how I love to organize. I love to purge the house of junk, discarded toys, ill-fitting clothes, worn out shoes. Second only to the shrieks and cries of my children with the ability to take me to the brink of insanity, is a disorganized, cluttered house. It's probably almost crippling, my desire for order, but only for those around me. For me, it's bliss.
Entering my daughters' room is like entering a space specifically and deliberately designed to crack my fragile psyche. I get twitchy and edgy when I walk in there. My breathing becomes rapid, my blood pressure rises, and I break out in a cold sweat. Then I remember: I'm home alone. The room is mine. I get to turn the chaos into sweet, sweet, tranquil order.
As I worked through the wreckage today, I was struck by the differences between my two girls. Wendy, my very sensitive bookworm, turns every scrap of paper and every piece of lint into a treasure. She stuffs these things in her "treasure box," which is really just an under-the-bed storage box I gave each girl for the purpose of storing out of sight what they deemed most important in life. Wendy's box barely closes. The lid is bending, struggling to stay closed while pieces of paper poke out in every direction as though trying to draw breath as they slowly die under the weight of old notebooks and broken crayons. There's no rhyme or reason, and I fear that this child might be a lost cause.
Incidentally, I fought like a Hun warrior against every urge I had to turn that treasure box upside down over the garbage can, knowing that her little heart would be broken. I may lose sleep tonight thinking about that box, but it will be the sleeplessness of a woman who has made the right decision. I made the right decision, didn't I?
Then I came to Nina's treasure box. My wild and crazy middle child who is blissfully unaware of the world around her, who dances through life without a care, who can melt down like no other kid I've ever met had a treasure box in perfect order. The lid closed with ease. The contents were laid in the box carefully and methodically. It was like finding a rose in the middle of winter. Hope sprang up in my heart. My neuroses may just be rubbing off on her. Oh, she may stuff dirty clothes under couch cushions rather than take them to the hamper, and she may leave a trail of junk in her wake, and she may be unable to see a mess right under her nose, but that beautiful, organized treasure box put a song in my heart and a grin on my face.
Side note, lest you think I'm cruel to get rid of crap while my kids are gone:
The eldest has figured out a way to beat my system. Whenever she's given a present, usually from the grandparents, she asks them to store it at their home because, "Mommy will probably just throw it away." She'll be fine. Her junk is safely stored all over the country.
Since the kids are gone, and since it is incredibly hot out this week, I'm enjoying three of my favorite things on the planet: quiet, central air conditioning, and organizing. Oh, how I love to organize. I love to purge the house of junk, discarded toys, ill-fitting clothes, worn out shoes. Second only to the shrieks and cries of my children with the ability to take me to the brink of insanity, is a disorganized, cluttered house. It's probably almost crippling, my desire for order, but only for those around me. For me, it's bliss.
Entering my daughters' room is like entering a space specifically and deliberately designed to crack my fragile psyche. I get twitchy and edgy when I walk in there. My breathing becomes rapid, my blood pressure rises, and I break out in a cold sweat. Then I remember: I'm home alone. The room is mine. I get to turn the chaos into sweet, sweet, tranquil order.
As I worked through the wreckage today, I was struck by the differences between my two girls. Wendy, my very sensitive bookworm, turns every scrap of paper and every piece of lint into a treasure. She stuffs these things in her "treasure box," which is really just an under-the-bed storage box I gave each girl for the purpose of storing out of sight what they deemed most important in life. Wendy's box barely closes. The lid is bending, struggling to stay closed while pieces of paper poke out in every direction as though trying to draw breath as they slowly die under the weight of old notebooks and broken crayons. There's no rhyme or reason, and I fear that this child might be a lost cause.
Incidentally, I fought like a Hun warrior against every urge I had to turn that treasure box upside down over the garbage can, knowing that her little heart would be broken. I may lose sleep tonight thinking about that box, but it will be the sleeplessness of a woman who has made the right decision. I made the right decision, didn't I?
Then I came to Nina's treasure box. My wild and crazy middle child who is blissfully unaware of the world around her, who dances through life without a care, who can melt down like no other kid I've ever met had a treasure box in perfect order. The lid closed with ease. The contents were laid in the box carefully and methodically. It was like finding a rose in the middle of winter. Hope sprang up in my heart. My neuroses may just be rubbing off on her. Oh, she may stuff dirty clothes under couch cushions rather than take them to the hamper, and she may leave a trail of junk in her wake, and she may be unable to see a mess right under her nose, but that beautiful, organized treasure box put a song in my heart and a grin on my face.
Side note, lest you think I'm cruel to get rid of crap while my kids are gone:
The eldest has figured out a way to beat my system. Whenever she's given a present, usually from the grandparents, she asks them to store it at their home because, "Mommy will probably just throw it away." She'll be fine. Her junk is safely stored all over the country.
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