Bugged

     Last Saturday I cleaned my house from top to bottom.  I dusted, mopped, scrubbed, vacuumed and scoured until everything was sparkling.  Some people may say that cleaning is overrated or that it is a waste of time, but I love the feeling of relaxing in a clean, orderly, lovely smelling (courtesy of my Scentsy) home.  It has been four days since I cleaned, and I sit here amazed that everything is still relatively unsullied and fairly organized.  The windows sparkle as the mid afternoon light streams through them onto the sleek Pergo floor.  The mirror above the piano is as clear as, well, glass.  Books sit in neat stacks under the coffee table and the leather couches still retain a trace of lemon scented polish.  Two mason jars containing dead insects rest on the middle of the counter.  Piano music is put away.  The hamper has no laundry overflowing from it's top.  Beds are made and toys are put away.  Even the refrigerator magnets are tastefully (as tasteful as refrigerator magnets can be) arranged and equally spaced...........oh, what's that you say?  Did the jars of dead insects on the counter seem out of place to you in my description of domestic bliss?  Well, let me tell you, they seem out of place to me too!  My idea of a clean and comfortable home is one that is not only dust free, but also bug free.  I am not a bug person.  As I don't know many people who would consider themselves "bug people", I will expound.  When I come across a creepy crawler, the register of my voice goes up a good two octaves and my feet become springs as I bounce around the bug in a frenzied manner.  Most people can kill spiders with little difficulty.  Now, I realize that spiders are not insects.  But, while we are on the subject of creepy crawly things, I must mention the creepiest and crawliest of them all.  I have no problem holding live snakes.  I think mice are cute.  But, lock me in a room with a spider, and there's no telling which one of us would come out of there alive.  On the few occasions when I have had to kill spiders on my own, the process has taken a good twenty minutes and has involved much screaming, flailing of arms and perhaps a few inadvertent obscenities.  By the time I pick the dead abomination up with a handful of no less than twenty tissues, I have exerted as much physical and emotional energy as most people would exert trying to fight off a lion.  Spiders are my nemesis.  I can't say I'm much fonder of insects.  I have been known to defy gravity to remove myself from the path of an overzealous grasshopper.  And moths send me into a fit of hand batting, head shaking, arm flailing hysterics.
     About two weeks ago, my daughter brought a note home from school informing me that she would need to complete a bug collection containing at least 10 bugs, which would be due the 21st of this month.  I stared at the paper for a good five minutes.  I called Dirk and informed him that he would be helping Morgan collect 10 bugs for a collection which would be due on the 21st.  He seemed fine with the idea and even said it would be easy after the collection of 100+ bugs he had had to come up with in high school.  I knew I wouldn't be able to catch any of the bugs, but I figured I could at least start doing some Google research on different methods of capturing, preserving and displaying insects.  In my research, I discovered that the two easiest ways to kill insects are, 1) to put them in a jar, close the lid and stick the jar in the freezer, or 2)to put them in a jar with a cotton ball soaked in rubbing alcohol and asphyxiate them.  As much as I hate bugs, I have trouble with the idea of killing any creature using either of these methods.  I eat vegetarian three to four days a week and have considered becoming a full time vegetarian because I so dislike the idea of innocent animals dying.  It's a shame they taste so delicious when marinated and cooked, or when dipped in batter and fried to crispy golden brown perfection. Alright, enough with the tangent.  Back to the battle of the bothersome bugs.  The freezing method can apparently take a few weeks, as the poor disgusting critter slowly slips into a permanent unconsciousness and then returns to the fiery abyss from whence it undoubtedly came.  Even bugs should have a more dignified death than that.  My second problem with the freezing method is that I really do not relish the thought of reaching into my freezer for a pint of Ben and Jerry's and instead pulling out a jar of Praying Mantis a la mode.  I actually had a Praying Mantis in my freezer for a few days.  Shortly after assigning Dirk to assist Morgan with her bug collection, I also recruited my father.  My parents live in the foothills near open fields, which teem with quite a variety of critters, including Praying Mantis. I decided this would be an impressive specimen to add to the collection and assigned my dad the special task of procuring one.  I felt bad asking him to do this, as I don't think he relished the idea of killing a Mantis any more than I do.  While killing a Mantis is not quite killing a mockingbird, I still think there has to be some type of bad karma that comes from killing the Ghandi of insects.  But my dad, who is always willing to lend a hand, no matter how unsavory the required favor, presented me with a pint sized jar when we came to their house for a Labor Day picnic.  In the bottom of the jar was a smallish brown female Praying Mantis.  As I gazed at her, I was overcome with a mix of awe and revulsion.  The poor emaciated creature looked like she had indeed been praying; sending her last desperate plea to God as she folded her gangly buggy legs in what looked like a mark of reverence.  Her huge orb like eyes were vacant, but I still somehow felt she was looking at me.......plotting her revenge.  I watched the bug jar nervously as we drove home.  It rested on the floor by my foot.  I just knew at any moment that Dirk would brake too hard........sending the jar into the air and then.........down would come mason jar, mantis and all.  The second she was free of the confines of her glass prison, I was sure she would go right for my jugular  (even Ghandi may have gotten a little ticked if he had been trapped in a glass jar by menacing giants).  Thankfully, the ride home was free of insect incident.  When we got inside, Dirk set the jar on the counter.  As I entered the kitchen a while later to get the kids some water for bedtime, I glanced at it.  I saw a twitch, then another......Ghandi was still alive!!!!  I knew it!  She had been waiting until she was firmly planted in enemy territory to make her move.  I screamed.  Dirk dashed in, briefly assessed the situation, rolled his eyes, and put the jar in the freezer.  I went to bed half terrified and half bemused, trying to come up with lyrics to a spoof song which would be entitled, "It's just another mantis Monday."
     The next day, Dirk caught a small black beetle he found crawling across our living room floor.  I heard the sound of a lid being removed from a jar and began to panic......."WHY is he letting the mantis out?!", I thought.  That's when he entered holding aloft the beetle jar.  He doused a cotton ball in rubbing alcohol, threw it in the jar and closed the lid.  The beetle was on it's back and it's legs were wriggling as fast as buggy legs can go.  In my mind it was writhing in pain.  I had to look away.  I will have to recruit Dirk's help again when it comes time to pin the poor creepers to a display board.  I had a hard time even reading about sticking a pin through the thorax while trying to avoid cracking the delicate exoskeleton.  Now, I know what you are thinking.  You are thinking I am going to end this post with some sentimental gibberish about the unappealing things we do for the love of our children.  Not so. I am wondering which religion is opposed to killing any living creature and which  I can join for exactly one year when Hyrum reaches third grade.

Monster Mine

     A few months ago, around my son's first birthday, I wrote a post entitled Baby Mine.  The post was a tribute to my sweet sunshine baby and a lament over his much too rapid growth.  This post is also dedicated to Ryan, aka the monster formerly known as a baby.  It is dedicated to him in the hopes that someday he will read it and he will understand exactly why it is that my wrinkles run so deep and my head is covered in gray hairs.  He may also come to understand why it is that he has to pay a visit to Blackfoot South (the local mental institution) to see his mother.  This post is also dedicated to mothers of toddlers everywhere.  If you happen to be one of those blessed mothers whose toddlers quietly peruse their board books and stay out of things after one "No", don't talk to me.  I don't want to hear about it.  If, on the other hand, your experience with raising (chasing may be a more apt word here) toddlers makes/made an extended stay at your nearest loony bin seem like an easy out, then we can talk.  We can talk over a giant piece of chocolate cake in a room that is as close to being padded as we can find.
    Since the probability of me sitting down personally with each of you in a padded room over a slice of cake is low, let's just talk here.  Grab some cake if you have it.  Good.  Now lock yourself in your room.  Good.  First, let's talk about point of view.  I am not talking about a broad, abstract meaning of the term .(that may come later in the post).  I am talking literally about the point  from which objects are viewed.  I bring this up because I believe my baby transitioned into a monster around the time he started to walk.  As soon as he began to view his surroundings from his feet and not his knees, a whole new world of possibilities for destruction and havoc wreaking was opened to him.  The toilet paper was now within easy reach, as were all knobs, handles, pulleys, cords, tables, chairs and couches.  What a difference a few inches can make!  When Ryan approaches one of these now easily accessible items, I firmly tell him, "NO......no, no, no, no, no."  He smiles his still toothless smile, pulls the knob to open the cabinet and hurls a bottle of hairspray at me.  My days are now filled with repeatedly replacing items in cabinets, re rolling the toilet paper at least three times, fishing shoes, balls, toys, sometimes clothes out of the bathtub, and every so often out of the toilet, and wiping an array of thrown and smashed foods off of every surface in my kitchen.  This is after I have emptied every baby toy in the house into the middle of the living room floor in the hopes that the monster will be momentarily distracted. Now, let's talk about silence.  I can't remember what it sounds like.  So, I guess we'll talk about noise.  Ryan's favorite noise to make is something like a cross between a pterodactyl screech and a deflating balloon.  Since he does not yet say any words, this delightful sound is his primary form of communication.  Each evening I prepare dinner to a serenade of "EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE HEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE."  I used to clean the house to the soothing sounds of Jack Johnson or The Beatles.  Now, as I am up to my elbows in comet, instead of being soothed by mellow acoustics, I am accompanied by the all too familiar, "EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE HEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!"  Like a good monster, he also occasionally growls.  Next, let's talk about social life.  I used to have one.  I would bring the monster formerly known as a baby along and have a nice chat with my friends.  If Ryan cried, I would give him a bottle and continue in the conversation.  Now, when I attempt to socialize at a play group, exercise group, or any other type of group, my friends stare open mouthed as my monster throws himself on the ground in fits of hysterics, contorting his body into positions that look like some form of baby yoga.  It is also quite difficult to get a word in edgewise over the "EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE HEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!"  My monster is single handedly destroying my social life.  Now let's talk about church.  We make it about two minutes in the chapel before the "EEEEEE HEEE's" force me to take my monster into the hall.  Since Dirk is not able to attend church with us most weeks, this means that my older two children are left sitting alone in the chapel.  I peek my head in the door every few minutes and give them a quick "you'd better stop what your doing if you want to make it to primary alive" face and a stern finger point.  I do this no matter what they happen to be doing when I peer in.  Just a precautionary measure.  By the time sacrament meeting is over, I have done my arm workout for the week and I am ready to hand off the monster to my obliging husband.  Never had I imagined that playing the piano for two hours for a room full of screaming children would be a reprieve.  Now let's talk about words.  By the time Morgan was monster's age, she was saying many of these.  Her vocabulary was quite extensive, and I'm not exaggerating.  The girl could say words like hippotomas and spaghetti with perfect pronunciation by the age of eighteen months.  Monster says "EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE HEEEEEEEEEEEEE".  He also stares at me as I beg him to say "mama". He flashes a mischievous grin and says, "daddy."  Then he laughs as "mama" changes the world's most foul smelling diaper.
     Now let's talk about kisses.  I have come to adore slobbery, toothless monster kisses on my cheek.  I could also talk about monster smiles, monster belly laughs, and sweet monster sleeping, all of which are equally sublime.  These are the things that atone for the other monstrosities which almost cause me to pick up the phone and dial Blackfoot South ( I have it on speed dial just in case.)  Raising a monster is no easy feat.  There are days when the minute Dirk walks through the door and sees the look on my face and hears the "EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE HEEEEEEEEEEEEE" from the hallway, he knows I need to get out of the house.  There are days when my main goal is to keep my sanity intact. It's amazing how quickly one tiny monster can unhinge your brain.  And yet, somehow, I wouldn't trade one minute of it.  I don't fully understand it myself.  I guess it's monster love.  I'm sure someday, when Ryan is a teenager and he tells me he hates me or I catch him smoking in the bathroom, I will look back on the monster days and wonder what I was so stressed out about.  I guess it really is all about point of view.  As parents, we struggle through the challenges of each new stage of our children's development.  It's never an easy job.  But there is such fulfillment in seeing that our children are turning slowly from toddle monsters into self-sufficient, thoughtful, reliable members of society.  It is a miraculous transformation to behold.  Some days it's easy to see that what we are wearing ourselves out working toward day after day is actually coming to pass.  And for those days when all of this is not quite so clear, there's always chocolate cake.

Supplies

     Please excuse any typos that may occur throughout this post.  If there are more than usual, I am blaming it on my children's teachers.  That's right.  It is said teachers who required me to purchase 34  #2 pencils.  It was also by their requirement that I sharpened those 34 #2 pencils using an old crank sharpener that, for reasons I will never know, is built into my hallway linen closet.  By extension, I am blaming these well meaning women behind my children's school supply lists for the blister that has taken over my right thumb, making it much more difficult to accomplish every day tasks such as writing and typing.  I could also blame them for the perma-cramp now plaguing my right hand, which was induced by labeling each of those #2 pencils with miniature versions of my children's names.  Yes, along with the 100 other school items I branded with my kiddo's insignia, I also labeled each wooden pencil.  Ever tried writing on an 8mm wooden hexagonal cylinder with a 10 mm felt tip marker?  During the ordeal of the Labeling of the Pencils (capitals have been added because this will now become an annual dreadfully anticipated event in the Stanger household), I began to desire an old brass lamp complete with a three-wish genie.  Had I such a convenience at my disposal, my three wishes would have been as follows: 1) a label maker, 2) a time machine, so I could travel back to the days of my children's births and change their names to T.J.  and Emily, Em for short, 3) a high powered electric pencil sharpener.   Now, I know what you are thinking.  Had I such an all powerful genie at my beck and call, shouldn't I just wish for an endless supply of presharpened, pre-labeled pencils?  It certainly would have made more sense.  Since the genie never did show up, it hardly mattered that my brain had become as numb as my fingers.  This mind numbing occurred gradually, over the course of about a week.  It began with the Buying of the Supplies.  About two weeks ago, I printed off two crisp white sheets of paper detailing the supplies necessary to ensure my children's academic success for the year.  One evening, with lists in hand, I traveled to the store, reminiscing all the while on my own school girl days.  I used to love the smell of a brand new box of crayons and pencil shavings.  I would flip excitedly through my blank white notebook pages, just waiting to be filled with the priceless knowledge I would soon be gaining.  When I arrived at the store, there were 1,000 other moms who had ,perhaps, four hours and three shopping carts earlier, had the same naive delusions about the joy of school supply shopping as I had harbored.  These mothers now looked more like they would likely stab someone with one of their 400 #2 pencils, if only they were sharpened.  By the end of my trip, I could empathize with the looks on those poor mother's faces.  When the cashier in the checkout aisle cheerfully asked me if I "found everything alright" I was tempted to see how a Crayola crayon would work as an impaling object. It should have been a cake walk.  All of the standard supplies were conveniently grouped into bins and labeled.  I should have been able to walk in a straight line, stopping briefly to add a box of crayons or a pair of scissors to the contents of my cart.  I soon came to realize, however, that each item on the lists in my hand was size and brand specific.  I had to find the 1.27 oz glue sticks with the black label.  I found black label glue, but nowhere could I find a glue stick which matched the size specifications.  I also spent about an hour opening every spiral notebook in the store in an attempt to find one without perforated pages.  A friend had previously warned me this might happen after her own notebook debacle.  After searching high and low, she had found exactly one spiral notebook with non-perforated pages.  The front cover boasted a picture of Justin Bieber.  Not wanting to set her third-grader up for a case of Bieber fever, she had grabbed the notebook with the least noticeable perforation and run.  Afraid that my inability to procure the correct supplies for my daughter may serve as a reflection of my lack of dedication, and by extension, my daughter's lack of dedication to her education, I called every office supply store in a 50 mile radius in search of the illusive non-perforated spiral notebook.  With each call, I was informed that non-perforated spiral notebooks were no longer produced.  The last one in existence was probably snatched up by some Beiber lover whose teacher didn't even require non-perforated pages.   When I returned home 5 hours, 15 phone calls and 20 bags later, I informed my husband that he would be in charge of the school supply shopping next year.
     This explanation for my current school supply induced stupor does not even take into account The Buying of the School Clothes, which, when you have children who are half the size of their peers, is quite a challenge.  But, that is another post for another day.  I am left wondering several things after the previous week.  I wonder if it will be somehow detrimental to my children's academic futures that they are using the wrong size glue stick and the wrong type of notebook.  I wonder how many mothers grudgingly bought their third graders Justin Beiber notebooks.  I wonder how much electric pencil sharpeners cost these days.  I wonder if there is any mole skin left in my first aid kit.  But most of all I wonder when things got so complicated.  Did our mothers spend hours searching for the Prang watercolors (which, by the way, are only sold at King's in Shelley)?  Did they go on wild goose chases for the 1.27 oz black label glue stick?  Or were school supplies just school supplies once upon a time?  Did life really used to be so much simpler, or did it just seem simpler because we weren't the ones in charge?  We were the ones who eagerly smelled our untouched crayons and clutched our unadulterated Lisa Frank notebook and dreamed of the possibilities of a new year.  We were the ones in the spotlight.  Our mothers had painstakingly outfitted us with everything we needed to become the stars of our classes.  We probably complained when we were handed the New Kids on the Block notebook when we had been eyeing the sparkly pink one with the kitten on it, not realizing that our mothers were still recovering from a tri-city search for the right kind of notebook.  They were our silent cheerleaders.  I am sure that now, my children think that their school supplies, clothes and everything else that they use on a daily basis, appear out of thin air.  They do not realize that we are living in a house with sixty year old plumbing and a history of water damage so that we can afford the cheer uniforms, the 10,000 pencils that will be bought over the course of their school careers, to say nothing of the diapers and formula.  As parents, we make a thousand tiny daily sacrifices which go largely unnoticed by the very ones we are sacrificing for.  After the Buying of the Supplies and the Labeling of the Supplies and the hunt for the coveted and rare non-perforated, non Bieber notebook, I have once again been reminded of how much my parents sacrificed for me.  They drove us everywhere in an old Toyota mini van for twenty years.  We always had nice clothes to wear to school, the required school supplies to bring with us, and, most importantly, a loving and supportive home to return to at the end of the day.  I read a passage from one of Shakespeare's most famous soliloquies this morning.  Macbeth soliloquized that "life is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing."  I guess we could say that Macbeth was more than a little jaded, as was Shakespeare himself.  As for me, I will continue to play my part as the sentimental idiot who tells my tales to anyone who will listen.  The tale I wish to tell today is one of gratitude; of a deep appreciation for parents who have sacrificed so many comforts throughout their lives in my behalf.  Being a parent is full of plenty of sound and a good dose of fury.  But, I have to believe the seemingly insignificant acts we commit each day for the love of our children do actually signify something.  Looking back on my childhood with the perspective of a parent, my own parents actions and sacrifices signify clearly to me that they loved me enough to do anything for my happiness and well being. Thanks mom and dad, for every sharpened pencil, for every after school snack, for every bed  time story you read me when all you wanted to do was fall into bed yourselves. Thank you for supplying me with a sense of security and well-being which I am now trying to pass on to my own children, one sharpened pencil at a time.

Houston, we have a problem

     Have you ever conceptualized and constructed a rocket and then flown that rocket to the moon?  I trust that no rocket scientists are currently following my blog, so I am assuming that the overwhelming answer here is no.  Now, imagine an actual rocket scientist were to sit you down and tell you, "We are going to be building a rocket today.  Don't worry, I've done this plenty of times.  It's easier than it looks.  I'll be here to guide you every step of the way."  Would you feel suddenly more at ease about the prospect of building  a space bound vessel?  Neither would I.  In fact, many of us, myself included, would likely be on the verge of a panic attack at the thought.  As far as I'm concerned, crafting may as well be rocket assembly.  Many times throughout my life, friends have assured me, "We are going to be making a ___________ (fill in the blank with any of the following : watch band, bracelet, skirt, pair of pajamas, vinyl letter block, duct tape purse) today.  Don't worry, I've done this plenty of times.  It's easier than it looks.  I'll be here to guide you every step of the way."  Two hours later, as I down an Ibuprofen to kill my craft induced headache and my friend scratches her head, mumbling under her breath, as she tries to undo the hopeless mess I have somehow created, I am once again reminded that I don't speak the crafting language.  It may as well be martian.  My one and only crafting masterpiece was created in the first grade, and there remains no tangible proof that it ever existed.  In my elementary school, we had art class every Wednesday.  For weeks, we had been working on making "calico cats."  We were each given a large white piece of construction paper.  On the paper we drew the outline of a cat.  We were then presented with a large wicker basket full of fabric scraps.  We were to choose the scraps we liked the best and glue them to the construction paper cat.  Each Wednesday when we arrived at art class, I was the first at the scrap basket and the last to reluctantly put away my Elmer's glue.  I labored tirelessly, making sure that I used just the right variety of shapes, colors and patterns to cover my cat.  As I finishing touch, I added little button eyes and string whiskers.  The day I was allowed to take my calico cat home, I insisted on holding it on the bus so I could better admire my masterpiece.  I was all aglow as I stepped off the bus with my feline and fabric creation.  My mom would be so proud!  Seconds later, my six year old girl heart sank, as with a loud "pffft", the air from the closing bus door sucked my calico cat from my hands onto the busy street and then ran over it, covering it in black tire marks.  For a split second I thought about running into the road after it. Then I remembered the graphic descriptions my mother had imblazoned into my mind of what would happen to me if ever I ran into the street.  Deciding that I didn't want to become a human pancake covered in blood syrup, I instead decided to run home as fast as I could in the hopes that my mom could help.  I entered our townhouse red faced and so out of breath that I'm sure my mom could barely make out my plea of, " I........lost.......my ........calico cat......the bus came and and the wind and the .........tires, and it was gone........and"  She apparently made out enough of what I was trying to say that she stood up, threw on some shoes, and followed me as I raced madly back to the scene of the trauma.  We walked up and down the sidewalk, keeping our eyes peeled.  My calico cat, my one and only crafting masterpiece had gone the way of road kill.  So ended my brief career of crafting.
     Since that fateful day, I have attempted to "craft" many other things.  As I have mentioned, these ventures typically end in a headache on my part and comments from my crafting partners such as, "I never realized you could tangle a necklace that many times before you were done putting the beads on", or, more tactfully, "Wow, Shannon; what an interesting take on vinyl lettering.  The slightly off centered look makes it feel less fussy.....less planned."  A few weekends ago, I was shopping in a design store with my friend.  I saw an antique map decoupaged onto a piece of old wood.  As I am planning to redecorate my boys' room in a nautical theme next year, I was very interested, until I saw the price tag.  My friend noticed the disappointment on my face as I set the map back in it's place.  "You could just make that at home.  It wouldn't be that hard", she said.  I stared at her incredulously.  "I could help you", she floundered.  I didn't blink.  "I could make it for you and you could pay me."  Bingo!  I am a very creative person.  I can visualize amazing things in my mind.  The execution of actually creating those things is another matter entirely.  That would require a left brain, which I am apparently missing.  Thankfully, I have found that my crafting ineptitude has given me little trouble in my adult life.  I happily pay money for the work of others who are very gifted in that area.  I admire the gorgeous blanket my friend spent two months knitting, then I sit down with a good book and my ten dollar Target throw and am perfectly content.  A few days ago, something happened that would throw my perfectly happy, anti-crafting world off it's axis.  My seven year old daughter entered the kitchen, where I was in the process of putting a frozen pizza in the oven, and announced, "I want to make something......not like drawing a picture.  I want to really make something."  I stood in silence for a few moments as my mind visually scanned the contents of each and every drawer in our house. "Houston, we have a problem."  We had some construction paper, some finger paints and a few sheets of stickers.  Apparently my mental scan had outrun my daughter's patience.  "Well, I'll figure something out", she said, and walked outside.  I didn't know exactly where in our backyard my daughter would come up with crafting supplies.  We had to cut down our hot glue gun tree just last year, and I forgot to water the pipe cleaner bush.  A few minutes later, she returned with a handful of dried leaves.  I watched with wonder as she pulled out a sheet of printer paper and a bottle of Elmer's glue and began sticking the dried leaves onto the paper.
    I made sure her dried leaf printer paper project got a spot front and center on the fridge.  Later that night, I stood there for a long time and stared at my daughter's creation.  For something made out of dead leaves and white paper, it was fairly impressive.  She really does have creative urges.  I decided then and there that it was high time I start helping her nurture her artistic talents and impulses.  I am still baffled by the idea of crafting in general.  But, I suppose there are mom's who attend their son's football games who until the point their son made the team, didn't know what an end zone was. There are parents who attend their daughter's piano recital who think that C position is a yoga stretch.  If my daughter wants to craft, I feel I need to support her.  Tomorrow, I have plans to go shopping for school supplies.  Along with the school supplies, some pipe cleaner, googly eyes, string, and maybe a few macaroni noodles may also find their way into the cart.  I figure I will start small, lest I end up aborting my crafting mission before it begins.  I'm certain that that mothers of most rocket scientists would not understand the inner workings and mechanisms of a rocket.  But maybe, many years ago, they sat holding a small boy wearing rocket jammies in their lap as they read books about outer space.    As parents, we get the distinct pleasure of helping our children discover what they love and supporting them as they reach for dreams that we ourselves may not always understand.  I don't think I will ever be ecstatic about crafts.  I prefer to craft words.  But that won't stop me from being in the check out aisle of the craft store every week if that is what will make my daughter happy.  At this moment, I doubt anyone reading this has the skills necessary to assemble a rocket.  But, if any of us knew that the future happiness of our child depended on our ability to single-handedly complete the next moon landing, I guarantee all of us would be signing up for Rocket Building 101( wouldn't it be awesome if that were actually a class?!).  I just hope that along with all of the glued fingers, tangled fishing wire, head pounding, and occasionally naughty words that may escape her mother's lips during our crafting expeditions, that my daughter will recognize above all else, that she has a mother who is over the moon for her, and who would bring her back the north star in a mason jar, if only she could find where to sign up for that rocket building class.

Happy Birthday

     I may really regret this later today.  It is almost 2:00 am, and here I sit, staring at my computer screen.  Sleep is evading me at the moment.  This is partly owing to the fact that I am recovering from my dentist appointment earlier this evening, during which I had not one, not two, but four cavities filled.  For me the dentist is worse than childbirth.  The drugs aren't nearly as good either.  For the world's best dentist tirade, watch Bill Cosby as Himself.  There is no way I can ever top his description of the horrors of dental visits, so I won't even attempt it.  Suffice it to say, I am not sure my jaw will ever close fully again.  Another factor contributing to my insomnia is the allergy attack brought on by my parents' cat. Between my allergy swollen face and my fat lip from having a metal vice prying my mouth open for two hours, I look like a cross between Goldie Hawn and Lois Armstrong.  Perhaps not the best way to begin a birthday.......with a bad case of insomnia, a fat lip, a headache, and plugged sinuses. That's right.  It's my birthday.  Twenty eight years ago I came screaming into this wide world.  And here I sit, almost three decades later, wondering what my ten year old self would be telling me if I could have seen the future.  I probably would have told myself that I would be saving all of my over sized tied t-shirts and neon color blocked clothing, because 80's style would once again vomit itself all over the fashion scene.  I would probably ask myself why on earth I had stopped writing poetry or anything of real substance.  In fact, my ten year old self would probably slap my twenty eight year old self in the face for giving up on my passion.  I would probably tell myself I should really do something about those laugh lines and start wearing sunblock every day.  I would probably laugh at the red mini van parked in the garage, but stare with amazement at the three little miracles I taxi around in it every day.  I would congratulate myself for finding my Prince Charming.  I would be astounded that my twenty eight year old self is capable of cooking in something besides an Easy Bake Oven.  I would ask myself why I don't spend more quality time with my brother and sister.  They are my best friends after all.  I would be disappointed in myself for caring so much about what others think of me.  I would tell myself to stop worrying about the cellulite on my thighs and to get in more food fights with my kids.
     I think, all in all, my ten year old self would not be too disappointed with who she was to become in the future.  I am living the life I'd always dreamed of; a brick house with a white fence (even if it doesn't have pickets), a wonderful caring husband, three kids and a dog.  I am living the American dream.  So, why then am I sitting alone with my computer at two in the morning, feeling so unsettled and disquiet that I can't even sleep?  Maybe it's because as I have been reflecting on my youth, I have once again been reminded of how fleeting this life is.  My girlhood days in Virginia don't feel so distant.  Yet here I sit, one high school graduation, one wedding, three children and a mini van later, and I haven't accomplished half of what I was going to do.  Once real life set in, I began to tell myself that once it slowed down, I would begin pursuing my passions again. "Maybe next year, when Morgan is over her colic, I will practice the piano again", I would think........"Maybe in a few months after the basement is finished and Hyrum has recovered from his tonsil surgery".........."Maybe then I will try to really write something".........."Maybe after Ryan is potty trained I'll finally go on that cruise with Dirk."  I am content with my life.  I truly am.  I just think that maybe I am beginning to yearn for more than content.  I need an impetus.  I need to move forward.  I need to create and to discover deeper possibilities within myself.  I need to stop pleasing everyone else and get back to the heart of who I have always been.  I need to dig up old passions and resurrect dead dreams.  This is starting to sound like the lyrics to a very twangy country song.  Maybe what I really need to do is to become a lyricist for Tim Mcgraw.  I think what I am really trying to say is that I need to let go of fear.  I need to let go of the need to be accepted, understood and loved by everyone around me.  I need to spend more of my precious energy creating things which fulfill my soul and give my life richer meaning.  I need to spend more of my time enriching relationships with those people who care enough to remember my birthday and to call or send a card.  I am not trying to become more inwardly focused.  I will still strive to uplift those around me.  I will still send a birthday card to every one of my in-laws and their children even though there are exactly two of them who occasionally remember my birthday.
     I think of a birthday as a personal New Year's Day.  I am about to embark on a new year of my life.  In this next chapter of my life, I think I will resolve to be kinder to those around me; to give everyone the benefit of the doubt.  To be able to do this, however, I think I must first resolve to be kinder to myself; maybe to give myself the benefit of the doubt more often.  My ten year old self didn't feel threatened when those around her succeeded.  She didn't feel diminished when someone else accomplished something great.  She believed that the little spark within her was just waiting to ignite and to become something great.  She didn't care whether anyone else liked her poetry.  She only cared that writing it made her come alive.  She knew she would become a published writer someday because no one could stop her.  She would simply work at it until it happened.  I am beginning to think that my ten year old self was wise beyond her years.  I think perhaps all of our ten year old selves were wiser in some ways than we are now.  I am beginning to wonder if what we term "growing up", is really just resigning ourselves to a life that is far below our true potential.  I think maybe my ten year old self is still somewhere in there telling me, "Happy Birthday, Shannon.  It's time to really start living your life."  "And by the way, it's so cool that you can stay up until three in the morning now if you feel like it."   

In Theory

     Sir Isaac Newton has been called the most influential scientist to have ever lived.  Wikepedia will tell you that not only was Isaac Newton a scientist; he also happened to be a physicist, mathematician, astronomer, natural philosopher, alchemist and theologian.  How is it possible that a stay at home mom with no college degree who required a tutor to pass algebra 2 has disproved one of Sir Isaac's theories?  I suppose it is an actual law and not a theory.  Newton's third law of motion, in layman's terms (or Shannon's terms- take your pick), basically states that for every action there will be an equal but opposite reaction. How did I come to disprove this basic and widely accepted law of motion, one may ask?  It was completely unintentional.  I generally try to keep a safe distance from all things scientific or mathematical in nature.  This startling discovery, which would shock the world at large and turn the mechanical world upside down (that is if more than five people read my blog, and if I understood the basic principals of science above a third grade level) was made while I was attempting to get my baby to poop.  That's right; I said the "p word".  If you are offended by descriptions of bodily functions to any degree, 1)you are not a parent, and 2) you may want to stop reading this post now.  I will try to refrain from getting too graphic, but a discovery of this magnitude does deserve some explanation.  My baby boy was born before his bowels were ready to perform their proper function.  He has always had some difficulties in the "p department".  When he was a small infant, these difficulties led his father and I to buy liquid gold formula for "sensitive tummies."  After selling a few prized possessions and remortgaging the house to buy said formula for the first six months of our baby's life, Dirk and I decided it was time to switch him to the regular formula.  It was iron fortified, which is code for constipating, at least in babies with sensitive tummies.  The first few months on the new formula were filled with a lot of screaming, red faced grunting, thermometers covered in Vaseline (won't go into detail there), Miralax, and occasionally glycerin suppositories.  One day, after about a week with no dirty diapers and an apparent demonic possession of my sweet baby, I decided it was time for a suppository.  I was ready to put my sweet boy out of his misery.  Perhaps most of you have never had the distinct pleasure of using a glycerin suppository.  In case you have not yet experienced it, I will explain.  Glycerin suppositories are small white, bullet shaped pieces of glycerin which are inserted in a place where you don't want many things shoved, and are used to "get things moving".  On the day of my scientific discovery, I pulled out the pristine, pure white glycerin bullet, and gently inserted it in my baby's bum.  Then I waited.  Within about ten minutes, Ryan's face turned the color of a beet and his physical exertion became apparent.  It was working!  And oh how it worked!!!  Had I not know from his face alone that the suppository had done it's job, I would certainly have known by the sound and smell which shortly followed.  I'm pretty sure my neighbors up the street were aware that Ryan had finally "made a poo."  It was a five alarm, ten wipe, strip down, bathe and dress diaper.

     As I mentioned before, I do not have a scientific mind.  But if you had seen the reaction to my action, you would be questioning Sir Issac's third law of motion as well.  Let's examine the facts: My action was this: I gently inserted a clean, fresh smelling suppository, which is basically a piece of soap into my tiny baby.  The reaction caused by the action was this: My baby basically exploded into an a-bomb of baby stench.  Opposite, perhaps, but certainly not equal.  I am sure many parents have similar stories of their children's bodily functions defying all scientific law and reason.  Perhaps the great scientists of the world never had children.  I'm pretty sure Isaac Newton never did.  This would be a great point to stop this post.  But I am far too long-winded for that.  Many theories exist in our world.  Some are touted as "laws", but to me they are still theories.  A theory is a way of trying to understand the way something works.  In science, these theories are often tested extensively and then become laws.  There are a few theories I would not mind being the test subject for.  For instance, the theory, "money can't buy happiness."  Some may say this is a proven fact.  To me it is purely conjecture. I have never had a chance to prove or disprove it.  I would be more than willing to be the guinea pig in that experiment.  As a friend once said it best, "Money may not buy happiness, but I'd rather cry my eyes out in a Mercedes than in  a Geo Metro."  I have already disproved the seven year itch theory.  I think the seventh year of marriage to my husband was one of our best.  Then there's the chaos theory, which basically asserts that if a butterfly flaps it's wings, it can affect climate and other changes on the other side of the world.  I am a firm believer in the chaos theory.  I just wish whichever dang butterfly is flapping away over in China would give it a rest.  Maybe the chaos in my house would settle down a bit.

     Parenthood is one giant theory.  As parents, we are constantly trying to prove that flawed, jaded, often clueless and helpless human beings can raise other human beings to become well-rounded, functioning adults who will not only survive in the outside world, but who will thrive in it.  I have this theory that I am a good parent.  I have a nurturing heart.  I love my children more than my own life.  but I am constantly, daily trying to prove that these elements combined will be enough to produce the desired result.  Isaac Newton once said, "Errors are not in the art but in the artificers."  I think as parents, we are often ashamed of our children's misbehavior because we feel it is somehow a reflection of our parenting.  When our child throws an ear splitting tantrum in public, we begin to wonder if we have done an adequate job teaching them how to behave.  When our child seems to completely forget how to use the words "please" and "thank you", we wonder if we are unintentionally raising a spoiled rotten brat.  We wonder.  We postulate.  We cry.  We pull out hairs, many of which have turned gray.  And the truth of it is, there is no answer.  There are no definitive parenting laws.  There are far too many variables.  Each parent is different; so is each child.  Parenting involves a lot of guesswork, followed by a lot of praying that your guess will work.  I have never understood science.  I have always been a little better with matters of the heart.  This works out as a mom, for the most part.  Dirk may have to help our children with their math and science homework after they are out of the fifth grade, but I will always be there with a hug, a smile and a listening ear.  So much about children and about parenting is mysterious and undefinable.  I have this theory though;  All kids really want is to be loved.  I may never fully understand the laws of the universe, but I know how to administer a band-aid (always with a kiss), cheer up a first grader after a rough day at school (always with a cookie and milk), and bring life to a gray winter day (always with hot chocolate and a stack of library books.)  There are many truths I have yet to discover, many theories I have yet to prove, but the few truths I have learned are enough to love the people around me, and for me that's enough.  The greatest truth I have learned is that I am here on this earth to better learn how to love others.  Isaac Newton once said, "We build too many walls and not enough bridges."  Guess he was a pretty smart guy after all.

Weeds

     Around this time every summer I begin dreaming of crisp fall evenings, cider on the stove and logs crackling in the fireplace.  I begin to crave the predictability of the children going to school at a certain time and returning home at a certain time each day.  I long for the chill in the air and the anticipation of the most wonderful time of the year, which for me happens to be Halloween through Christmas.  Autumn has always been my favorite season.  My other reason for counting down the days until harvest time can be summed up in one word: weeds.  Weeding is at the top of my list of least favorite chores.  It is monotonous, back breaking, never ending, mind numbing fruitless labor.  I can weed one of my garden beds meticulously until not a single one of the heinous offenders remains and by the next evening, there is a whole new crop popping up.  Usually my back is still recovering from the hour of crouching the night before and I wait a few more days.  I have an elderly neighbor whom I love dearly and who happens to be a master gardener.  I'm pretty sure Cora could get a palm tree to grow in Antarctica.  She assures me that the best way to go about this whole weeding business is to do ten or fifteen minutes each morning and night.  Sounds simple enough.  Turns out it is not as simple as it sounds when you have three small children and an unrelenting schedule.  I began thinking about this as I was doing what else......weeding, the other day.  What ever happened to the "lazy days of summer"?  So far our summer has been so booked with vacations, play dates, fireworks and family activities that I haven't even had time to sit down and write a blog post for two weeks now.  Some days I have to literally remind myself to breathe.  I think this is a large part of the reason I am so nostalgic for fall and winter.  When the seasons change, we are forced to slow down just a bit.  People hunker down in their houses.  Children are actually ready to go to bed by eight o'clock because the sun has gone down.  Of course, the fall and winter are still full of plenty activities to take up our time.  At least, though, amid all of these activities, I am not trying to somehow steal away one precious hour a day to dig in the dirt.

     The one redeeming quality about weeding is that it is a good time to think.  There is really not much else to do while squatting and repeating the same mindless motion over and over.  As I was weeding my sunflower patch for the twentieth time this summer, I did some good thinking.  My thought process began with about 101 other things I would rather be doing at that moment. I think being abducted by aliens actually crossed my mind- that is how much I despise weeding.  Most of the thoughts that popped up, however, revolved around people from this planet, namely, my family.  We have been so frazzled and spread so thin this summer that I feel the need to become reacquainted with my husband.  My children have gone to bed without a story more times than I care to admit (pretty unheard of at our house- we try to read every night).  As I pondered on how out of control our summer had become, an analogy began to take root in my mind.  All of these activities that were taking so much time away from the people I love the most were like the weeds I was pulling.  The weeds, like the activities, had started out small; just a few here and there.  Before I knew it, the sunflower patch, like my schedule, had become overrun.  I guess the reason we weed (I am not a gardener, so please correct me if I'm wrong) is so that the weeds don't take all of the nutrients from the soil that are needed by the plants we are actually trying to grow.  It makes sense to me, that if a bed becomes overrun with weeds, there will be less space and less strength for other plants to thrive.  The sunflowers still seem to be thriving, but slowly, almost imperceptibly, weeds were creeping up and filling in ever closer to their massive stocks, stealing whatever light and water they could take.  Their is a particularly vicious vine that grows in our yard.  It attaches to whatever it touches.  It wraps around and chokes the life out of anything it can get it's leafy tentacles on.  I do not want to let the insignificant busyness of life choke the life blood out of my family.  

     I know there has to be a happy medium.  I enjoy spending time with my extended family, and I like letting my kids stay up until sunset and soak up the outdoors.  A little busyness is good.  It gives us something to look forward to and it makes us more grateful for the rare lazy moments that occasionally come along.  But I have realized that for the sake of keeping family relationships intact, I may need to do a little weeding in my life.  I may have to become a little more comfortable with the word "no".  I may have to realize that as nice as it is to become better acquainted with neighbors, we cannot possibly invite each one of them over for a backyard BBQ before summer's end.  I need to realize that it is ok to let my children spend a day just sitting in the sun eating a Popsicle or climbing the apple tree in the backyard.  I may need to lower my expectations about how much I was going to accomplish in the yard this summer.  Some weeds are beautiful when they start to grow.  Morning glory, for example, with it's graceful vines and delicate white flowers is lovely to look at.  It is not quite so lovely, however, when it has spent fifty years becoming permanently embedded in your lawn.  All of the activities we have participated in as a family this summer have been fun and worthwhile.  But I refuse to let this level of activity, this constant, unrelenting movement, embed itself in our family life.  Just as weeding in nature is a constant chore, I think I will always find the need for weeding and pruning within my life.  I need to remember what is at the heart of the activity jungle: a fledgling family, crying out for nourishment.  I think perhaps, one day a week, I will turn off my phone.  I will make exactly one plan for the day: to be with my family.  To just be.