Not as Good as I Once Was...

So, I'm going back to school. No mid-life crisis. Not unhappy with being a stay-at-home mom. I've just really always wanted to be a labor and delivery nurse when I grow up and what better time than the present? Sam is in school all day. Austin has an after-school academic Kindergarten program available to him. Why not now?

Although I already have two degrees in health-related fields (I know, I really like school), nursing programs are competitive and impacted. I can't even apply yet for spring semester so in the meantime I decided to brush up on Anatomy by taking a course at the community college. Registered for that, no problem. Unless you count me searching online for a college that still had the course available without a wait-list of 40 or more people a problem. Finally, I got the course. In Fairfield. An hour away from my house. Whatever, positive, stay positive....

Next on my list, take a pre-nursing skills assessment test. The test is the day after tomorrow. No sweat, I will be tested on reading comprehension, math, science and English. As I am reviewing the practice test book over the past few weeks I am shocked to discover that although I have a Bachelor's degree in Biology and one in Nutrition, I am performing horribly on the science review. Science is so broad! And please, it has been 10 years since I graduated college. I guess I haven't reviewed the Krebs Cycle lately or thought about covalent versus ionic bonds. I haven't thought to work the purpose of the endocrine system into conversation with the other moms waiting to pick up their kids from school. Needless to say, I am eat, sleep, and drinking my science review. And also wishing I had a few extra weeks to remember what Avogadro's number is.

Alright, so I've enrolled in the brush-up course, signed up for the test... Next up, make sure I have all the prerequisites taken so that I actually qualify to enter a nursing program should I even be selected. I check websites again, scouring the small print for anything that I may have missed. I notice that while "Pharmacology" is not a prerequisite, it is strongly recommended. Seriously. Strongly recommended? Well to me that means required. If it comes down to the last spot in the program and the only thing separating me from Jane Doe is that I've taken Pharmacology, well sign me up! Of course, that wasn't so easy either. This class has a Biology prerequisite, so I waited for Sacramento State to send me my transcripts, so that I could send them on to the community college. The community college took 2 weeks to process the transcripts. After MANY phone calls I was ready to add the course online, only to find out that the course was already full and I had to get special permission from the teacher to add it. Good thing I had planned ahead and become e-mail buddies with the instructor. Now I'm at 8 units. I can do this.

Finally, thinking I am good to go, I come across a prerequisite I have never taken. Eeek! Human Development Throughout the Life Cycle. Okay, if I don't sleep, only grocery shop every other week, cut down on the luxuries in life (yes Sam, that's clean enough to wear!) I'll be fine. I am now carrying 11 units this fall. Plus, I need to put together admissions packets for each nursing program I want to apply to--which includes attending counseling meetings, ordering more transcripts, getting recommendation letters, etc. Did I mention that the boys have golf, swimming and soccer? Or that I actually prefer to sleep 7 hours every night? Suck it up, I guess.

So really. What better time than the present? Why not now?

Conjuring Memories and Feelings

What causes the random moments that create the strongest rush of emotion in me? I tell you, I have tried to figure it out over and over. My son, Sam, sang songs and served me tea and cookies for Mother's Day at school a few years back. While the other moms were sobbing, I was smiling. You couldn't have pinched me hard enough to get a tear to squeeze out. From there on out the other moms would tease me about my "heart of steel." And yet, I've cried during my fair share of Hallmark commercials. Why? My own flesh and blood is reading me a letter about all the reasons why he loves me and yet some random guy on T.V. who has his hands wrapped around his wife's eyes so that she will be surprised by the car he just bought her for Christmas is the one who has me running for a tissue? Senseless, I tell you...

A sure way to get me (and NO, it's NOT "catch her the week before her period"), is music. I am a big-time country music fan, but really, whatever the genre happens to be, a good song is a good song. Every time I hear "In My Daughter's Eyes" by Martina McBride I want to run out and get pregnant so that maybe this time I'll have a girl. I just watched a movie tonight that I literally cried throughout because of how heartfelt the music was, and how well it told the unfolding love story. Can't get me to cry when I give birth, but I am still sappy about my boy's baby songs that I used to sing to them while I rocked them to sleep.

For me, songs trigger memories of moments and the feelings associated with those moments. Even though I don't miss him a bit, I still think of one of my ex-boyfriends every time Toby Keith sings, "He Ain't Worth Missing." I remember dancing to "Da Butt" in a parking lot with my sister and a friend at a high school church activity. And the song about Daisy Dukes reminds me of going out dancing with my girlfriends in college. "Strawberry Wine" makes me think of my first love and "Fruit Salad," by The Wiggles, means play dates at Amy's house with Jen. Every time I hear "Next to You, Sittin' Next to Me" I call my sister Carrie and blast it as loud as I can when she or her answering machine picks up. (Not sure why that is "our song," but it is...)

My neighbor Dana and I found a box of old tapes this past Christmas in a desk my mom gave me. We had a great night dancing and doing the Running Man in my kitchen while our kids looked at us like we were crazy. They finally gave up and joined in. Eighties music is just too catchy I guess :)

Sometimes I imagine that my life is set to the music of the songs that affect me most deeply. I picture myself as a free spirit. Someone who loves independence and wants to be accepted the way that I am. That's only a part of me though. I am a mother, I love my family, I am a good friend, I am reliable and think of others before myself. I am great at finding "the perfect gift." Music is integrated into every part of who I am. There is a song for my every mood, every feeling, every thought. I've already passed my love along to my boys. Sam is rarely seen without a Walkman, which he keeps in his backpack and carries around all day. Austin though, is my true music lover. Countless times I have walked past my little loner's room and have heard him in there, content as can be, singing one of a million songs he has memorized. No matter where he goes or what he is doing, he is singing. I adore that.

Music is a good form of communication too. Who hasn't given or received a "mixed tape" in their day? And even if not every word in a song applies to you, there is the relatability factor. I tend to connect emotionally with songs that relate to how I am feeling at certain time periods. Right now, you won't catch me listening to too much Black Eyed Peas or Madonna. I'm not in that place in my life. Heartfelt songs where the actual melody is not as important as the words is what you will find on my iPod. My music is a window to my soul.

A Guide to Clearing Your Schedule

The perfect way to stress out an organized and extremely busy person? Leave her calendar at her parent's house, 45 minutes away from where she lives. When I got home after a relaxing weekend in Fairfield, I noticed within seconds that I didn't have my calendar. My sister, Carrie, helped me tear apart her car (waking up my sweetie pie niece...sorry Lillie). Not that it would be easy to find in the messy excuse for a car my sister drives. It didn't help that she parked under my parent's bird-infested tree all weekend. Actually scratch that, maybe she'll actually wash it now (love you, Carrie).

My mom found my calendar in the room I had slept in. She said it blended in with the bedspread. That is NOT going to help me figure out what time Austin's soccer practice is or what day I see my chiropractor. She read off tomorrow's schedule for me and said, "I'll photocopy July and we'll e-mail it to you and then drop the calendar in the mail. You'll have it in a couple days." She must have heard the anxiety in my voice. I've checked my e-mail at least five times and it hasn't come through yet. I guess I could just stay at home tomorrow and find out from the phone calls where I was supposed to be and at what time I should have been there. That actually doesn't sound like too bad of an idea to me. I like days when there is nothing on the calendar. Doesn't happen too often, but it's nice in theory.

I called my mom back an hour later. "We just e-mailed it sweetie. And you know, don't let ANYONE tell you that you don't DO anything. I looked through June and July and you have a full-time job! I can't believe the things you do every day." Tell me about it... Too bad I have no idea what any of them are right now. Some days I run on auto-pilot. I check my calendar before bed (so I know if I need to set an alarm or not) and first thing in the morning (so I remember what I read the night before). I am quite sure that I can get through the next couple of days without it. The biggest problem really, is that I get phone calls, make appointments, schedule meetings, play dates, coffee with a friend, and a million other things on a daily basis. We might make it to all of our events tomorrow, but too bad that I wasn't able to write down which day is girl's night out or what time Sam's swim teacher changed his lesson to. We SO won't be at either of those things.

I've tried the "calendar hung on the wall" thing. I've tried the Palm Pilot thing. I've tried the "scribble a bunch of things down on random pieces of paper" thing. I need it with me to function properly and smoothly. The "carry the calendar around everywhere with you" thing works the best for me. Until I do the "leave it on a bed in another town and try not to freak out" thing. I better go check my e-mail again...

A Reason for Everything

I've been thinking a lot about fate lately. Maybe fate isn't entirely the right word. Maybe faith is more like it. Faith that everything is going to work out exactly like it is supposed to. That there is a plan for each person and even when things are tough, you can take comfort knowing that this is the course your life was meant to take and that everything happens for a reason.

At church yesterday, the pastor spoke about sensationalism and "doom and gloom." Basically, that when you believe that "the economy will never survive" or that "the next generation of adults are worthless," then you are ignoring faith. You aren't believing that things are as they were meant to be and that God has a plan for everything. It's comforting to me to think of things faithfully. My life might feel like it is spinning out of control, but there is someone who knows why. God planned for this. He knows what is going on and He meant for it to happen. I meet people every day who reaffirm this for me. People who say exactly what they were meant to say. Be exactly where they were supposed to be. Come into my life exactly when they were supposed to enter.

I just had a friend send me a text message a few days ago saying, "Life works in weird ways. I tell you I get amazed daily about life and how we are brought together. Just remember everything happens for a reason. Hold that beautiful head up." (The last part I think she HAS to say, because she is the one who does my hair and makes me beautiful, but moving on...) It was honestly like she could read my mind and knew what I had been thinking. I needed her to say that. I needed her to reaffirm what I knew...that everything does happen for a reason. Is it random? I think not. I have been praying like crazy lately, trying to straighten things out in my mind. Just like everything else, I know that God had his hands in this. At times when things seem the most out of control and I start to lose my faith is really when I need it the most.

This is not to say that I am just going to sit back and cruise through life expecting that God is going to fix everything I mess up. Or that it doesn't really matter what I decide to do because no matter if I do something or nothing, I will turn out the same way. This isn't how I feel at all. If anything, I feel more empowered by knowing that God has a plan for me. I feel comfortable saying things that I want to say and doing things that I want to do...taking chances really, on having a meaningful life. The little voice in my head, my gut instinct....I am listening to these. I do believe that this is God talking to me. I do believe that in these ways and others he is guiding me to my fate.

So, here I go. I am trusting. I am faithful. I am excited to experience what God has in store for me. Everything will be as it was meant to be.

A Complete Mess

I admit it. I am weird. I like to clean. I really, really like to clean. But not just that....I like to organize too. I have a label maker that has seen more than its fair share of usage since I brought it home to live with me. I know the Queen of England is not coming over for dinner, but just in case, my formal dining room table is dusted and polished and there are candles standing by ready for action. I am quite sure that no one cares, but my boys' closets are color coordinated. One thing in particular that I am especially fond of is vacuuming. It's really too bad too because my kids also like to vacuum. What a waste of a favorite household chore! They vacuum and then I have to vacuum again so the lines are straight and the dirt is FOR SURE gone. (I know, I already said I was weird). Or else I wait until they are off at school and I sneakily vacuum without their knowledge.

For some reason though, I carry the cleanliness principle into every room of my house EXCEPT my own office. My office is a disaster. How can I be so clean, neat, and organized and yet the room that I spend so much time in is a complete mess? I know where everything is...most of the time. I almost always can find the right pile to look into when Sam needs the paper that his teacher sent home three weeks ago that details a report he needs to complete by tomorrow. I know where my coupon is for Ann Taylor, oh no wait that one is expired, well I have a new one over here in this basket, somewhere...just keep digging. Speaking of baskets, it's not like I don't try to keep it neat and organized. I think to myself that if everything had a "place" then it would be easy to keep clean. So now I have a basket for my purses, a bin for soccer forms, a wall organizer for office supplies, a dresser with cards and craft stuff, a work table that is perpetually full, a cork board, 2 memo boards, a bin for Sam's schoolwork, one for Austin's, magazine organizers, jars for buttons and pens, a bookshelf! For crying out loud, I have a bin that is labeled "Label Maker". Now that is just sad....

I suppose in a lot of ways this all makes perfect sense. I am a stay at home mom. I spend my life making other people's lives better and easier. My house is visitor-ready. My kids have clean clothes on every day. My laundry is put away, the kitchen is swept and the kids don't need to ask me where to find a pencil because I have their homework corner straight as a pin. I don't have time for my office and I honestly don't want to clean it up. When it comes to my own space, I am surrounded by things that I love. No, don't try to hang another thing on my cork board or you might cover the BEST picture of a dinosaur that Austin drew me. Or the note from Sam that says, "Mom I love you in the hole in tire wold." I can't find my car keys all the time, but my painted vase from Sam and my ladybug made out of a flowerpot that Austin created are ALWAYS by my computer screen. I have an unbroken sand dollar that we collected from the beach last summer, a piggy bank from when I was a baby, and my beloved grandparents' old cookbooks on a shelf. I guess I can deal with the mess. There are a lot of memories hidden underneath.

The Power of Words

Pain. Raw, crushing, suffocating pain. Aching and burning to the core.

When I was little the things that caused me the most internal pain were things. Things that I wanted, but didn't get. Things that I thought mattered. Along the way I lived and learned. Things don't cause me pain anymore. Somehow, somewhere I learned that things don't carry the importance I had placed on them. Don't get me wrong, I would be sad if my family photos were lost in a fire, but I know that those memories aren't tied to the pictures. I actually lived those moments and had those experiences and I could go back to them in my mind if I had to.

These days, the only things that cause me pain are people. People's words. Their actions. The things they do and don't say. The words that they say in anger or in love, not understanding that both can affect deeply. Do you or do you not choose to believe them? They were spoken, but does that give them meaning?

When you have children, you learn to not be affected by some of what they say. They are innocently observing and absorbing the world. My son, Austin, asked me a few days ago if I was going to die first or daddy?
"I don't know who will die first." He has always thought that death went in age order. Grandma's and grandpa's die first, then daddies and mommies, then Sam.
He responded this time by saying, "I hope you die first, so that way Daddy will stay home more." There was never a minute that I was offended by what he said. I know that in his mind, that is the only way daddy won't travel so much for work. This seemingly hurtful comment caused me no pain.

And yet, as I write, I am living and dealing with the pain of words spoken two years ago. I've heard many quotations on the power of words. One, by Ralph Ellison, "If the word has the potency to revive and make us free, it has also the power to blind, imprison and destroy." The problem with words is that once they are spoken, they can't be taken back. And to a degree, most of what is said by people has some ounce of truth in it. So here is the big decision: Do you let those words have power over you? If you do, does it make you a weak person? Do you let them imprison and destroy you?

I can't go through my life believing that someone's spoken words define who I am. People get mad, angry, frustrated. I've said things that I have later regretted. Even if the words were meant to be taken exactly as spoken, words won't ever make me the person that I am. But they obviously still have power...they cause pain, raw and crushing; aching and burning. But then eventually, they will also allow me to revive and be free.

The Waxing Incident of '08

When I was a senior in high school I took a weight training class. I heard it was pretty easy, as long as you attended you got a passing grade. Plus, HELLO, boys....enough said. Anyway, after a semester of socializing and not getting any stronger, I decided to actually lift weights one day. I remember saying, "Look at me, Mr. Hood, I am really doing something today." Seconds later an unsecured bar crashed down on the bridge of my nose and knocked me out cold. With only a few days left of school, I am sure I appear in more than one person's photo memories with two black eyes and a swollen nose.

I can't help but think of the good intentions I had that day as I recover from my latest incident. I am not into self mutilation, but I am also not the most coordinated person in the world. Look over my body at any given time and you would find bruises in varying shades of purple and yellow, scratches, bumps, and more than one sore muscle. None of this can compare to what I will refer to as "The Waxing Incident of '08."

Yesterday I decided to give myself a bikini wax. This is a semi-regular occurrence. I do a decent job...I've never felt the need to pay someone else to do it for me. I heated the wax in the microwave, got my strips ready, and settled in for the ordeal. I applied the wax to a delicate area and it was a little warm so it ran into an even more delicate area. No biggie, I thought. I put a strip on it and pulled. Pulled off a one inch by half inch section of my skin. Down there. EEK!!! Between the gushing blood and the wax that was still left I was near passing out. How was I going to get the rest of the wax off because I was NEVER going to put another strip on myself and pull? If you have ever used wax on yourself, you know that hot water DOES NOT take wax off.

I did the only thing I could think of at the time, I called my neighbor Dana. "Dana, I had a waxing incident. You can tell Pete (her husband) but at least wait to laugh until after we get off the phone."
Dana is a very smart person. I knew she would have great advice for me. But when she suggested that I get out a lighter and try to melt it, I knew I was on my own. It probably would have worked, but between the missing flap of skin and the wax that was still down there, there was NO WAY I was going to take a chance at having to explain burns to an ER doctor too.
"I could come over," she said, "It would be like the Sex in the City episode where Carrie loses her diaphragm and Samantha has to go look for it."

Yeah, thanks Dana, but I think I got this. Between scissors, a hot bath, and neosporin I think I will survive. If you need me, I'll be sitting on my ice pack....

Learning to Ride and other lessons

My 5-year-old son, Austin, learned how to ride a bike this weekend. He's tried off and on for months now. He asked us to take off the training wheels. Now put them on. Now take them off. Oh no, put them back on! Okay, I want to try no training wheels.

Once we got over that part, the "trying" looked like this: Austin would plant one foot on either side of the bike. He would start to pedal with one foot. He had no concept of balance. Once the bike started to tip the slightest bit in one direction he would bail off like he was leaving a sinking ship. He's very dramatic so he was actually quite good at this phase in the learning process. Making sure he was close to grass, he would leap off, do a couple stunt-man rolls and say "Whoa!" or "Aaahh!" or something else to make it seem like he had just survived a major test of strength and character.

Then two nights ago, he just did it. He climbed on the bike and rode. No drama...no big announcements. In fact, if I wasn't watching him closely, I wouldn't even have known. I can learn a lot from him. Drama aside, sometimes you just need to do something. Jump in. Fall if you need to, but get back up and just do it. Don't do it for the praise. Do it for yourself.

When I looked at him while he was riding, the pride was undeniable on his face. He was so pleased with himself and yet it was a private pleasure. I can share the pride from a parents' point of view, but I won't ever know what it was like for him. To do something he had worked at for a long time and he knew was a cool thing, but to not even care if anyone knew but him. It was enough for him to know that HE could do it, he didn't need to show it off to us.

It is at these moments that praise for a job well done feels the best. Unsolicited and unexpected. No disappointment if it doesn't come because you weren't expecting it and didn't need it anyway. You knew all by yourself that you did a cool thing.

Communication or lack thereof

I come from a family of non-communicators. If you asked them, they would say that I am crazy. But it's true, they are non-communicators. I'm not asking for the full rundown of everything that pertains to a certain situation or, a 2 hour telephone conversation detailing every aspect of an event...I'm really only interested in very basic information.

For example, tonight I have invited my family to come over for wine tasting on my newly completed front porch. Everyone is bringing a bottle of wine and an appetizer. I invited them a few weeks ago, via e-mail, and asked them to e-mail me back letting me know what kind of wine they are bringing and what appetizer. Anyone who hosts regularly knows that this information is necessary...I don't want 5 bottles of chardonnay and a bunch of sliced bread. I need to balance the menu. I need to shop, I need to prepare. I also invited them to stay the night, so they don't have to worry about drinking too much, and asked them to let me know when they might be here, but I was aiming to start around 4 pm.

Here it is, 2pm on the day of the event. I know my sister, Carrie, is bringing an artichoke dip (and may show up any minute...I'm not ready for her, but whatever). My mom is bringing dessert. I have no idea what kind of wine either one is bringing. I don't know if my mom is working today so I have no idea when she and my dad will be here. My other sister, Amy, lives in Sonoma and has only replied that she "might" come.

Last night when I spoke to Carrie I said, "Well I invited everyone to stay the night, but I haven't heard back, so I am assuming no one is."
To this, she said, "Well we are."
"Who? You and Naj?" I asked.
"Mom and Dad are going to sleep in your spare bedroom, Naj and I are sleeping in Austin's room, Amy will be in Sam's bed, and I guess the kids (her daughter and my boys) can sleep in sleeping bags."
Huh?!? Is it just ME they don't communicate with? Do they not know that this means I will be changing sheets, straightening up bathrooms, and trying to scramble a decent breakfast together for tomorrow morning? It's not that I mind having them here, but advance notice used to be a common courtesy.

Basic communication...that's all I ask....

Dirt, spiders, and other gross stuff...

I am a girly girl. Yes, I like and play sports (I'm not the most coordinated, but I can hold my own). Yes, when I get home for the day I will put on my p.j.'s right away instead of staying dressed up. Yes, I like to camp, cook out and get sweaty. Still, I am a girly girl. I dress up every day even if I'm just taking the boys to school. I wear heels, I get my hair highlighted, I get pedicures and facials. I camp, but I don't bring anything from the trip into the house until it has been washed and I immediately take a shower.

Somehow I ended up with two sons. My boys are probably normal, but to me they are gross, tacky, and stinky. Don't get me wrong, I love them! But seriously, how many times do I need to hear about what a great burp you just did or turn socks the right side out that are crumpled in a hamper and filled with grass and dirt? I don't like boogers or talking about poop. I have bleached mud, blood, and grass stains out of more things than I can count.

There are days when I really believe that they are finally getting it. We made a rule that all "poop talk" could only happen in the bathroom. I walked by it one day and Sam was in there saying "poop, poop, poop." I guess he just needed to let it out. Once I even found Austin in the bathroom cleaning up the floor (yes he probably made a bigger mess with all the soap and bubbles everywhere, but hey, it's a start). They were actually fighting over who got to vacuum the house a couple days ago.

But then a few weeks ago, they drug home a dead snake from the field by our house. Austin had THREE bloody noses yesterday. Sam tricked me into patting him on the head and I ended up with a hand full of 7-year-old boy sweat. And I swear between golfing, soccer, swimming, chocolate ice cream, and spaghetti I do 2 or more loads of laundry a day!

My favorite time of the day is when they have stripped down, taken a bubble bath, brushed their teeth and are snug in their beds. I come in and cuddle and give them kisses and for those few minutes of heaven I am happy that I had boys instead of girls. Boys love their moms. Boys give hard tight squeezes. Boys don't care if their outfits match or if they have bed head. Boys play with the kids that are having the most fun, not the ones who belong to a certain social group. I love my boys....and I like them too, most of the time....