Coming to Grips

Coming to Grips with Motherhood

2013-05-10T18:10:00.002-04:00

Motherhood. What does that even mean?

Right now, to me, it means: I’m a mother. Put a hood over my head.

After years of travel, doing whatever I wanted with my time and my money and my body, I became a mother because my friend Tiffany told me I had to.

“Your ovaries are getting dusty. It’s now or never,” she said.

And I had the perfect resume for motherhood: video store manager . . . copywriter . . . track coach . . .

So basically, it’s been a disaster.

Motherhood: When you rent your uterus to someone without checking their credit score.

Labor and delivery seemed exciting. Suspenseful. Like a horror movie. Horrifying, but fun because you know it will turn out okay. Maybe.

But at the hospital, major abdominal surgery seemed more enjoyable. My doctor said, “I’ve never had a patient go from wanting a natural birth to a c-section so quickly.”

And so, I experienced the reverse of the classic “my doctor didn’t respect my birth plan” story.

“But what about your birth plan?” he said.

“Where is my c-section!!!” I said.

He said, “Fine! Have it your way!”

Motherhood: When your health insurance bends over backwards to pay for an elective weight reduction surgery.

I quit my job because I’d waited my whole life to be a mother, and I wasn’t gunna miss one second. But then, home, alone, incapacitated by lack of sleep, lack of schedule, lack of any reason to wear pants, with a similarly incapacitated baby who also had no reason to wear pants – a baby I had made with my own body – I thought, is this motherhood?

Motherhood: When you used to be a woman, but a sexually transmitted condition turned you into an upright milk cow.

When we moved to Alexandria, Virginia, my son was 11 months old. This move became symbolic of my new identity. I could redefine myself in this new place. No one in Alexandria had ever met, Polly, middle-school teacher. I would be, Polly, Mother.

But then I found myself not-so-subtly working into conversations how I used to someone. I used to teach college. I used to wear make-up.

See, it’ll take 20 years to raise my two sons. That 11 month old is now a three-year-old savant who enjoys jazz concerts and kalamata olives. And now he has a nine-month-old brother who wears 2T, has eight teeth, and is currently on the waiting list for Xavier’s School for mutants. His super power? A sonic scream.

Motherhood: When you take a 20-year sabbatical from reading without being interrupted and taking showers before 4:00PM.

And during this 20 year sabbatical from my own life, I’m hoping. Hoping I can get off the couch to sweep up the cheerios. Again. And again. And again.

Hoping, above all, that my sons know I love them.

Motherhood: When you love imperfectly, all day long, all night long. And you hope, all day long, all night long, that your sons won’t impregnate anyone until they can, at the very least, fold their own laundry.

At the show, my reading also included Coming to Grips with Baby Neptune and Coming to Grips with Getting Bucked Off. Thank you all for your amazing support!

Coming to Grips with Listen to Your Mother

2013-05-08T12:03:00.000-04:00

I bought a new baggy shirt to cover . . . well if I told you what it's covering, that would ruin it.

But now that I think about it, I must tell the truth.

I have a gut. There it is.

If you come to Listen to Your Mother tomorrow, you'll get to hear me speak. Which is fine.

I feel bad for you because you'll miss the best part of me.

My gut. Covered by a baggy shirt. Sorry. But some things are left best to the imagination.

Now, go to, and Listen to Your Mother. Unless she is telling you to wear nylons.

Coming to Grips with Data Recovery

2013-05-01T09:37:00.000-04:00

My computer just attended it's first 12-step meeting. My husband and I did an intervention. iMac didn't want to go, but what can you do when the people you love say, "You have a problem."

We knew something was wrong when 6,000 photos went missing. My sons' baby pictures - missing. We looked everywhere. Who would take them? Where did they go? Only someone with a serious problem would turn to baby pictures in a weak moment.

The Data Recovery staff has been amazing. After four days in rehab, iMac is home and we're beginning to sort through all the lies and dig out one photo at a time from the thousands and thousands of uncovered files. It's not pretty. But when one has a problem, it's best to face it head on.

We love you, iMac. We'll nurse you through this. But if you ever, ever, lose our babies' photos again, it's tough love, pal. You better watch your step.

Coming to Grips with Satiation Therapy

2013-04-15T10:09:00.001-04:00

After sending a family-wide email describing a diet that literally lost him five pounds, Grandpa asked my husband (a patent attorney) to “please use all of your legal skills to secure a copyright on the following diet plan that I have discovered.”

This plan consisted of the following things:

1. “Breakfast of steel cut oats and fruit as recommended by Polly Scott.”

2. “Glazed donut covered with chocolate.”

3. “Later my wife went out and could not protest my indulgence thereof, so I had a small saucer with Fritos covered with [melted] cheese . . . and a Dr. Pepper.”

4. “A delicious salad with tomatoes, green stuff, avocadoes, whole wheat crackers.”

5. “To satisfy my innate and healthy appetite, a large brownie with vanilla ice cream.”

My husband hit reply all:

"Great diet plan . . . unfortunately you can't get a patent because Polly already invented it. She’s even named it. You have just experienced what Polly calls Satiation Therapy, or the Eat Whatever You Want diet.

"Since I’m married to Polly, I have a conflict of interest. So, sorry, I can't represent you, Grandpa.

"In fact, on Polly's worst/best day of Satiation Therapy, she was 8 ½ months pregnant with Ford. We went to Katz Deli in NY. She and I shared an open face reuben the size of a regulation football. Then we (she) waddled up Broadway to Beard Papa's Cream Puffs. We inhaled as many cream puffs as we could.

"Disoriented from pastrami and puffs, we ended up on the wrong Subway platform. After I rolled Polly out and back down into the Subway, our passes wouldn’t work – apparently you can’t use a Subway pass more than once within ten minutes.

"I said, “Every man for himself!!” and jumped the turnstile.

"I looked back at my beautiful wife. She stood blinking, eyes wide. Then my sweetheart got down on her hands and knees, yes, in the New York Subway, and crawled through. Her belly scraping the ground. It was a proud moment.

"That night Polly suffered heartburn indistinguishable from the jaws of hell. She

woke me up and said, “I’m going to die. Just know that I love you, and I’ll see you on the other side.” But miraculously, she survived.

"Back to the diet: Polly will never eat a reuben or a cream puff again.

"So, Grandpa, next time, eat the donuts, fritos and Dr. Pepper in the same sitting. With a little more effort, you too will realize the benefits of Satiation Therapy.

"Jake

"Disclaimer: This communication shall not or nor shall ever be construed as legal advice. In fact, I would not take this advice. Furthermore, Polly generally does not support taking my advice. Therefore, to take this advice or any other advice I render may constitute a judgment error on your part."

Coming to Grips with Harsh Realities

2013-04-03T15:45:00.003-04:00

Stopped at a stop light near an in-patient long-term care hospital, Ove glared as nurses carefully abstracted a patient, tubes and all, from an ambulance.

Sensing a teaching moment . . . why? Why do I always take the bait?

Sensing a teaching moment, I said, “Ove, did you know that sometimes people get so hurt they can’t breath.”

He looked at the patient.

“Sometimes, they get so hurt, they can’t walk or talk or eat food.”

I let this sink in.

"Sometimes, they get so hurt, they lose their legs or arms."

I let this sink it.

And then Ove spoke. “Mom, sometimes they get so hurt they even lose their eyelashes!!”

“Yes, that happens,” I said.

“And then they go to the dentist. He gives them a new eyelash.”

He let this sink in.

It's taking awhile.

Coming to Grips with Ford's Favorite Food

2013-03-26T15:13:00.002-04:00

Ford is exactly 10 months old and weighs exactly 26 pounds. He wears 2T. He doesn’t crawl or walk. He rolls. He rolls with grace.

For a few weeks, I’ve noticed a strange patch in our carpet. The carpet is poking up on the edge between our living room and kitchen tile. I push it down. I walk by later, it’s poking up again – only more, so the subfloor is showing. I push it down. Repeat.

Well, yesterday, I discovered the cause.

Ford.

Ford eats our carpet.

He rolls over, sits up and feasts on the carpet strands. Now that I know what to look for, I can see the strands in his diapers.

Ove was obsessed with long skinny things – spatulas, sticks, broom handles.

Ford is obsessed with paper. If he can get ahold of paper, it disappears before my fingers can spelunk into his cavernous cheeks. Until this, my first line of defense was a keen eye on the paper situation.

Now, I have to baby proof the carpet. Every single strand. I’m not looking forward to it.

Coming to Grips with The Neighborhood Newsletter

2013-01-02T12:58:00.001-05:00

New Year, new house, new neighborhood. This is what happens when the neighborhood newsletter lady asks if you'd rather be interviewed or write your own spotlight:

We moved from a tiny two bedroom apartment in Washington D.C. We are excited to bring in the groceries in one phase – rather than four. Big city life had its advantages, like frequent power outages. After all the fun we could stand, we decided to return to our homeland: Jake is from Holladay, graduate of Olympus High School. Polly is from Bountiful, graduate of O’ Bountiful, we’re proud of her.

Polly graduated from Ricks and Weber, and then taught a year in Davis District before serving a mission at the Arizona Temple Visitor’s Center. Later, she received her M.Ed. from Weber and continued to teach and coach at Millcreek Jr. In 2008, she met Jake online and promptly quit teaching to become a trophy wife. Polly now eats chocolates and writes comedy.

Jake went on a mission to Ireland, and then received a mechanical engineering degree from The U of U. After working as a medical device engineer, he went to law school at Gonzaga University. Putting his law degree to work, he practiced as a patent attorney and then joined the US Patent Office.

A turning point in our life was when Jake decided to transfer all the hair from his head to his face. “What happened to you!?!” Polly said.

“Have you ever noticed that you can find a hat for your head, but not for your face?” said Jake.

Although Jake and Polly both love outdoor sports: cycling, hiking, etc., they haven’t figured out how to get out of the house since having kids. If Polly could do anything sporty, it would be yoga. Jake is currently day dreaming about swimming laps. Someday.

For now, buying groceries is a fine recreational activity.

As for our goals, we are currently working on several important objectives: sleep, fold the laundry, eat a vegetable, maybe go on a family walk, maybe not. Jake would like to get his work done. Polly hopes to wear make-up on weekdays.

And now for the other two Scotts. Here is the uncut version of their exclusive interview:

[Ove (3 years), what do you like to do?]

"Read stories and play with Ford. Eat eggs."

[What’s your favorite toy?]

"Legos."

[What are you good at?]

"Collecting things" - by which he means hoarding pieces of cardboard.

[What’s your favorite treat? Hopefully people will read this and bring you some – say chocolate.]

"Chocolate."

[Anything else you want to say?]

"My species is the T-Rex. I love my favorite actor: Arnod Shortsenadder."

[And you, Ford (7 months), what do you have to say for yourself?]

"My favorite treat is milk. My favorite activity is to drink milk. That is all. Oh, and I like milk. Can I eat now?"

Coming to Grips with Christmas Music

2012-12-20T23:25:00.001-05:00

Now this is what I call the true spirit of Christmas music . . .

"Since it's Christmas, let's be glad. Even if your life's been bad there are presents to be had: a promotion for your dad. Don't be angry don't be mad.

 "Sing a carol to your mom . Because she knows what's going on.
And she knows if you've been bad or good."

-Sufjan Stevens, It's Christmas. Let's be Glad.

Coming to Grips with My 3-Year-Old Son's Top Ten Quotes

2012-08-11T21:59:00.000-04:00

10. Dad works at the Patent Office. I work at home.

9. Mommy starts with P. Daddy starts with J.

8. I pooed a carrot poo!

7. Dad, thanks for working so hard.

6. I play legos. You take a nap.

5. I love that. I do that. [While watching water polo.]

4. Crunchy, Crunchy, Crunch. [Instead of coochie, coochie, coo.]

3. I make mistakes, but I be better.

2. Mom, I worry about myself sometimes.

1. Mom, you beautiful. I love you.

I love you too. I love you too.

Coming to Grips with The Kirkland Signature Mercedes-Benz

2012-06-18T14:35:00.000-04:00

My husband received a promotional email today from Mercedes-Benz because he’s in tight with those fastidious German auto engineers.

And apparently, those Germans love their sauerkraut in 30lb drums.

The Subject Line: Mercedes-Benz of Alexandria is Costco Approved

Jake almost bolted out the door. The Kirkland Signature Mercedes-Benz trumps the minuscule dealership Mercedes with a whopping 14 passenger capacity and 831 horse power. And since we have an Executive Membership, we’ll get 2% back!

We don’t mind that the swanky G55 AMG badge comes with a little Kirkland Signature Edition below it. And we can’t wait to use it for transporting relatives to family reunions or congregational chums to church events.

The only draw back is that we just bought a new stand-alone 2045 square foot freezer from Costco to fit our stockpiles of edible Kirkland Signature products, and we have no room in our garage for the non-edible ones.

However, since we have to use the Costco Home Equity Refinance Get-Into-Costco-Sized-Debt Service I read about in Costco Connection last month to purchase the car, we might as well just add on a Kirkland Signature Collapsible Temperature Regulated Home Storage Room. Then I can really stock up on Brookside Dark Chocolate Açai with Blueberry. It's a Kirkland Signature Costco Sized Win-Win!!

Coming to Grips with Getting Bucked Off

2012-04-17T22:12:00.015-04:00

My father taught me that learning is like a rodeo.

When I learned to ride a bike, a nasty fall left a giant scabby raspberry on my upper lip. My father held me for a moment, and then he taught me an important lesson: What’s the first thing you do when a horse bucks you off – you get right back on.

I’m grateful to my father for teaching me perseverance. A thing he now regrets.

My 2-½ year old son can coast down a hill on his balance bike. Today he had his first real crash.

Later, I sat him on my lap and described the crash to Jake, showing off Ove’s battle scars.

And then I sensed a teaching moment:

“Ove, what’s the first thing you do when a horse bucks you off?” I asked.

Ove looked me in the eyeballs with silent anticipation.

“You get right back on,” I said.

“And then you fall off and get really hurt,” said Ove.

Ah, yes, leave it to a toddler to take the lesson to it's logical conclusion: the hospital.

Coming to Grips with Potlucks

2012-03-13T13:16:00.005-04:00

Here is a recent email chain between our friends, Reply All style:

Couple 1: Who is up for watching a movie and maybe having a little St. Patty's Day Potluck this Saturday evening?

Polly: We are! We are! I could make spam and cabbage:). Or not.

Couple 2: We’re free Saturday night after 6:30 – 7:00 PM; would that work for everyone else? Also, we’ll bring the culinary opposite of spam and cabbage (i.e. smores).

Couple 1: Yeah...um...the Scotts are about to be uninvited!!! SMORES! SMORES! SMORES! 7 PMish it is then, unless we hear different.

Polly: What? I said, "Or not." What about just plain spam . . . would that be cause for a re-invitation? 7 works for us.

Couple 1: While we reconsider your invitation we strongly recommend you reconsider your menu contribution :)

Jake: First let me apologize for my wife. As Couple 2 can attest, dinner parties are not one of Polly's strong suits, i.e. Easter dinner debacle of 2011. In fact, that is the only example I have because they have managed to avoid all other invitations. Consequently, I assure you Polly will not be in charge of the menu contribution. I feel like haggis is the most appropriate menu contribution.

We can’t figure out why we haven’t heard back from them yet.

Coming to Grips with Six Pork Tacos

2012-02-08T20:19:00.003-05:00

I live in Northern Virginia where there is a woeful lack of Café Rios. It’s awful.

I know. You’re over it. I know – Café Rio was so, what, six years ago? Five maybe?

Well, folks, I’m still riding the Café Rio train. When I go to Utah to visit family, that train stops at Café Rio first – I shuttle straight from the Salt Lake Airport directly to Café Rio, where my mom collects me after I have licked the sweet juices from my fingers.

Of all the things I’ve ever said, of all the words I’ve ever spoken, I have never felt more satisfaction than when I speak the words, “Two pork tacos.”

Try it. Hold up two fingers, peace-sign style. Give into the urge to entertain a slight Latino accent if you don’t have one already.

“Two pork tacos!”

Yesterday, friends informed me that a Café Rio just opened less than 15 minutes from my apartment. The kicker – on Taco Tuesday you can get tacos for $1.50 a piece.

Even if someone had told me I had just won the HGTV Dream House, I would not have been more excited.

The Alexandria Moms caravanned to Café Rio where I proudly shouted:

“Six pork tacos!”

In the middle of the Northern Virginia pork taco desert was an oasis. I drank from the fountain of delicious tacos and filled my canteen for later.

I wasn’t super social. I savored every bite in silence. But I want my friends to know that they made my day, my week, my month. Thanks. I will never forget it. And my husband will never forgive you.

Coming to Grips with Taking the Name of the Mom in Vain

2012-02-06T08:47:00.001-05:00

My son is now talking. In sentences. He’s making conversation.

He says, “Mom, I need help. Come on, Mom. Come on!”

“You can do it, Ove. You’re an independent person,” I say.

“I not pendent person. I Ove!” he says.

He can pull the step stool to the sink. He can turn on the water, and pump the soap. And still we have the same conversation in the bathroom at least four times a day.

He says, “MOM!! I need wash my hands, Mom. Mom, wash my hands!”

“You can wash your hands, Ove. I know you can,” I say.

“I need step stool, Mom. MOM! Step stool!” he says.

“You can get the step stool,” I say.

“Mom! Mom! I need the water,” he says.

“You can turn on the water,” I say.

Etc. Etc. Etc.

And I’m sure you have experienced this classic toddler conversation:

Ove: Mom.

Me: What?

Ove: Mom.

Me: What?

Ove: Mom!

Me: What, Ove?

Ove: MOM!!!

And so on. I’m thinking of a new family rule: thou shalt not take the name of the Mom, thy Mother in vain.

When Ove was born, like all of you new mothers, I wondered, what is he thinking?

Well, now I know.

He’s thinking, “MOM! It’s slippery! It’s slippery, Mom! The water slippery. Mom, slippery! Slippery, Mom!!! MOM!!!!!!”

Coming to Grips with Emotional Neosporin

2012-02-04T11:19:00.004-05:00

Unlike most toddlers, who think band-aids are the solution to all their troubles, my son prefers cream.

“I hurt the finger. Put cream on it,” he says.

We go through lotion like most families go through Nesquik.

Yesterday, an unhappy four year old yelled at my son to get off his porch. My son was devastated. He came running back to me, “Mom! He hurt my feelings!”

I hugged him. He cried wildly. I hugged him more.

“He hurt the feelings!” he said.

That night, when we struggled to get him in his nice-monster-jammies, he said, “Mom, Tyson hurt my feelings today. Put cream on them.”

I blinked. I stared.

“Put cream on the feelings,” he said.

So I dabbed a bit of lotion on his chest. “There, the feelings are all better,” I said.

He seemed satisfied. If only emotional hurts were so simple to fix . . .

Next time I get my knickers in a twist, I’ll try to remember that I am admonished to become like a child. Specifically, my child. If I could scare up emotional closure with lotion, I’d get a lot more foot rubs from my husband and a lot less shoulder shrugging. That would be good for everyone.

Coming to Grips with The Golden Mean

2012-02-01T13:44:00.004-05:00

Many of you may wonder, with my obvious physical flaws, how I can parade around sans cover-up at the beach so confidently. It’s scary. I know. Some of you are wishing that I would at least put on socks – since the sight of my flat feet often causes visual offense.

Well, like all teenagers, I too struggled with body image until my first semester at, what once was, Ricks College when I attended my first Art and Philosophy class. All those archaic statues looked familiar, and not because I’m a connoisseur of anything, let alone art. I was looking at myself. A still, ivory version of Polly, as Rubenesque, flat chested, and paunchy as I’d ever been.

I discovered that I am a Greek Goddess.

Our Professor gave us the dimensions for the Golden Mean, the Greek way to calculate perfection, and I ran home and started measuring. And what do you know – I was perfect. At least according to the Greeks.

When you know you’re a Greek Goddess, not much can make you unhappy about your body. A few extra pounds make a Greek Goddess look all that more jolly.

So, for all of you ladies out there, you may not have the dimensions of the Greek’s Golden Mean, but the Greeks are just one culture of thousands! Chances are your exact dimensions were/are perfect to some culture, some person – and I hope at the very least that that person is you. It doesn’t matter if your dimensions are perfection to God Himself, if you don’t choose to see yourself as He does.

Coming to Grips with Pre-Mature Announcements

2012-01-06T14:43:00.006-05:00

Jake and Polly are proud to announce the birth of their second son

Wilford “Ford” Steven

Born 10:00AM, May 22, 2012 – via C-Section

Predictions

Weight: 8lbs 11oz

Height: 20.867in

Hair: Dark Brown

Eyes: Blue

Coming to Grips with My 2011 Christmas Letter

2011-12-26T22:16:00.006-05:00

After a grueling few months, our son's German is getting much better. Between that, the scuba lessons and his insatiable desire to please us, he rarely gets to do the laundry, one of his favorite things, but one must make sacrifices. Oh, and his ballroom dance lessons always bring a partial smile to his cute two year old face.

My husband's swanky downtown job leaves him little time for anything besides polishing all his top leather shoes (also known as full grain for those of you west of the Mississippi). When he does get a little free time, he uses it to lavish me with exotic gifts. My favorite this year: a stuffed wild boar he shot which looks regal in our 46' bay window.

As for me, the life of a trophy wife isn't easy. 2011 was full of trials. I broke a nail. I lost my platinum covered iPhone. And the wind ruined my hair when I sang the National Anthem at an Orioles home game. This year has taught me to be grateful for the things I do have, namely manicurists, itemized property insurance, and photoshop. I just hope that Santa will make it up to me, unlike the year when he crushed my heart and left me at the mercy of my parents.

We wish you the very best 2012 ever. Happy Holidays and Merry Christmas!

Please love us!

The Scotts

Coming to Grips with Presents from Toddlers

2011-12-25T16:11:00.004-05:00

On a normal morning, my son wakes me up at 6:30AM.

"Mom, I'm stuck in here," he says.

He's two and a half and does not yet know he is capable of climbing out of his crib. I'm not going to be the one to break it to him.

This morning, he gave my husband and I the best present a toddler can give. The gift of sleep.

Since we're staying at my parents for Christmas, with everyone else and their dog (literally - a boxer named Dupree), my son's crib is set up in the same room with my husband and I. On non-Christmas Eve nights, he stood up and stared at us at 1:00AM. At 3:00AM he said, "I need to pee" when he didn't. Or "I drink some milk" when he couldn't. Or "Santa is coming" when he wasn't.

On the night when Santa really came, he peeped not.

When we woke up at 7:30AM, he was (and this is the crazy part) fake snoring. Wide awake, making fake snoring noises, my son. "Honk, honk, honk, shew, shew, shew."

But I think he really meant, "Merry Christmas, Mom and Dad! I love you."

Coming to Grips with Needing Forgiveness

2011-12-15T13:57:00.004-05:00

Des is forgiving and loyal, and I don’t deserve her friendship.

After my typical day of staring into space, Des said, “Polly, I made potato soup last night. Let me bring it over. You can have it for dinner.”

How could I say no? I was starving and her potato soup is delicious!

We ate that soup in seconds. I cleaned out the pot. Then as I went about cleaning my own apartment, found some things that needed a new home. I bought Miralax at Costco, thus had two giant bottles I could never use. I put one bottle of Miralax in the pot.

The 17 sticks of deodorant I had bought would turn into glue before I could use them. So I put some deodorant in the pot.

And some pre-owned lip-stick because I was sick of it, but it really was a nice color.

I thought, “If Des doesn’t want this stuff, she can just throw it away. It’s the thought that counts.”

I left the pot full of laxatives, deodorant and used make-up on her back porch with no note. When I saw her next, I realized my mistake.

“You do not look constipated or colorless. You do not smell. I must have a traumatic brain injury for not thinking that might be a little weird,” I said quickly before she could speak.

Des laughed. Awkward.

Yesterday, I asked Des to tend my son while I helped a family in my church congregation. By the time I got back, she and her family, along with my son were all happily sitting at her dining room table. She invited me to dinner too. How could I say no? Des’ dinners are delicious!

On the table, she had several types of dipping sauces for the chicken and scrumptious cheesy sauce for the chips.

Des watched me. “Are you checking the expiration date on those bottles?” she asked.

I tried the who me? look, but I couldn’t lie. “Yes,” I said. Then I salvaged the situation. “And they’re not expired! Yummy!” I said.

I am so slick; I don’t know how I think of those quick, smooth-over comments (I should have been a lawyer).

I tell you, the perfect way to thank a hostess for her generosity and kindness is to check the expiration dates for her, so she doesn’t have to do it. What can I say? I’m a giver.

Des, thanks for liking me even though I basically the most offensive woman in a 47 mile radius. My hope is that our friendship boosts your self-esteem every day when you compare yourself to me. You’ll always feel better if you do that. No wonder you’re my friend! I really am a giver. But moreover, thank you for your forgiveness. I want to be a better person because of you and that’s what makes a true friend.

Coming to Grips with The Hang Up Window

2011-12-13T13:31:00.007-05:00

You’ve missed your sleep window. Which only leads to frenzied late night projects, the hum of infomercials or worse – a personal helping of deviled eggs.

I frequently miss my hang up window, the stunted period of time when one is motivated to put clothes on hangers.

My husband looks at my clothes piled on the floor, hands on his hips.

“I missed my window,” I say.

He blinks.

“I bet I won’t miss it tomorrow,” I say.

One night, long ago, I missed my hang up window. I threw my pants on the floor, woke up the next day, put the same pants back on, and went to work.

My leg itched. So I scratched it. It kept itching. So I kept scratching. After a while, I looked down at my pant leg. A strange green gunk seeped through the fabric.

I ran to the bathroom, only to find a squished three-inch long centipede between my pant leg and my blotchy quad. Apparently, he missed his escape window.

Aghast and wanting nothing more than to remove the gut-garnished garment, I marched back to my boss.

“I have a medical emergency, and I must go home at once,” I said. “I must change my pants!”

For some reason, she just nodded. No questions. I didn’t even have to explain that I had missed my hang up window.

In have decided that I must contrive a hang up window to save my husband from severe facial expressions that cause him wrinkles and foil the wicked plans of bloodthirsty centipedes. Podcasts! I will find myself listening, needing something to do with my hands, and viola! A 45-minute hang up window! I might even be motivated to scare up a delicious batch of deviled eggs.

Coming to Grips with The Twilight Zone

2011-10-28T13:47:00.009-04:00

You unlock this door with the key of imagination. Beyond it is another dimension - a dimension of taste, a dimension of smell, a dimension of mouth. You're moving into a land of both shadow and substance, of flavors and textures. You've just crossed over into the Twilight Zone.

Imagine, if you will, a single woman with a penchant for meditating. She meditates nightly about her hopes and dreams. Her one vice – chocolate – the scapegoat for her supposed problems. If she hates chocolate, she imagines, she would look like a J. Crew model, be married to a man nigh unto Mark Ruffalo in 13 Going on 30, and eat quality sushi while watching the sunset at least three times a week. If she could gain control of her cravings, she would have control over the universe.

“I hate chocolate,” she repeats. Her mantra is simple. In yoga, her intention is: satisfied. Satisfied.

But alas, all the meditation and yoga is of no use. Chocolate haunts her waking moments. And so, she gives up.

Fast forward to years later. She is happily married to a man who loves BBC Dramas. She no longer cares about looking like a J. Crew model because their jeans are very uncomfortable and who wants to wear wool gabardine while changing a diaper.

But the universe did not forget her. She is granted her wish.

She gets her tonsils out. Chocolate now tastes disgusting.

The previous Halloween, she ate the equivalent of a 60” chocolate plasma TV.

Now, she hovers in a fifth dimension. A fifth dimension beyond that which is known to women. It is a dimension as vast as space and as timeless as infinity. It is the middle ground between light and shadow. She realizes that she both has control and will never have control over the universe. The universe acts both dependently and independently. You are the master of your destiny. You will always get what you want, but then when you get it, it will be too late to want something different.

She wishes everyday she could taste what she still craves.

This Halloween be careful what you wish for . . .

The tools of oppression do not necessarily come from bombs. There are weapons that are simply thoughts, attitudes only in the minds of men. For the record, thoughts can alter reality. And the pity of it is that these things cannot be confined to The Twilight Zone.

Coming to Grips with Wishing

2011-10-25T12:54:00.007-04:00

My sister, Libby, and I are planners. I’m not sure if we popped out of our mom this way, or it’s a mutant reaction to her favorite lunch, which consists solely of Cheetos.

In June, Libby called with the perfect idea: Disney World with just our kids and parents the first week of December. I employed my faith and planned the whole trip down to the last detail. If your heart is in your dream, no request is too extreme, so I made 18 advanced meal reservations, a hotel reservation, and coordinated flights from three cities into Orlando. We can fly, we can fly, we can fly!

Libby said, “I can’t help plan. I’ll get too invested, and then it will break my heart if we don’t go.”

“No matter how you’re heart is grieving, if you keep on believing - the dream that you wish will come true,” I said.

My dad couldn’t abide a whole week of spontaneous singing.

“Can't there be some happiness for you?” I said (to the tune of Not in Nottingham).

“Not in Disneyland,” said my father, who likes to think of himself as “The Sheriff.” So he decided to go to a bored meeting in New York instead.

But my mother, she liked the idea. “I hear they have Cheetos in Disney World,” she said.

Like a bolt out of the blue, Fate stepped in and saw us through.

Today, I spent 25 minutes on the phone with my mother as she sang parts of Disney songs to me. She wanted me to add, "Wouldn't you think I'm the girl, the girl who has everything" somewhere.

I said, "I don't reprimand my mother. Bright old woman, sick of bouillon, ready to ride The Tower of Terror!"

Since our fairy-god-parents granted our wish, our planning can only be described as supercalifragilisticexpialidocious. In every job that must be done, there is an element of fun. Some days Libby calls me five times. Some days I call her seven. We've pared down to the bare necessities of eight well thought out meal reservations, and a touring plan that will take us just around the river bend. Everyday the plan gets a little better. Culminating in a beautiful night where love goes on and on.

Libby, thanks for taking over the brunt of the planning. Mom and Dad, thank you so much for taking us to Disney World. Regardless of how the trip goes, the bonding we’ve had over the planning will bless our relationships into the eternities. We feel like we could fly . . . have you ever seen the grass so green or a bluer sky? We love you!

Coming to Grips with Taking a Break

2011-09-22T19:12:00.004-04:00

A brief recount of what has happened since I last wrote.

1. I became a Relief Society President.

I’ll write more about this. The punch line will always be: I’m a Relief Society President. (For those of you who are not Mormon, this is tantamount to inheriting 207 adult step-children,16 of which are down on their luck at any given moment and you’re their go-to gal because their biological mom lives 2600 miles away.)

2. I still have not healed completely from the horror of tonsillectomy.

I’m a changed woman. Profoundly changed. My palate now prefers mango to anything else. RIP Chocolate. This has affected my identity. If I haven’t packed gobs of chocolate in my face – cans I be funny?

Why is it funny when you eat so much chocolate you can’t remember where you parked the car, but it’s not funny if you drink mango juice? Yesterday, I drank mango juice and ended up waiting in traffic like everyone else. Is that funny? I can't tell. I haven't eaten an M&M in five months.

3. And for some good news: I am finally settled into my apartment.

Yes, it took 14 months. Yes, it took 28 trips to Goodwill. Yes, it feels fantastic! I’m now turning my sights on two new ways to improve myself. One involves wearing supportive undergarments on a daily basis and the other involves eating at least one serving of vegetables a week whether I need it or not.

Thanks to all of you who wrote to make sure I hadn’t passed on. I am not dead. I thought a break would help me reinvent myself after the demise of chocolate and my new capacity as congregational step-mom, but I’m still struggling. Maybe y’all can help me come to grips with my new identity. Thanks for reading. Hopefully, we’ll all be Coming to Grips more often this fall.

Coming to Grips with Birth Stories

2011-06-21T09:20:00.002-04:00

You’ve been pregnant. You know how it goes. Women inevitably say things like: “I don’t want to scare you, but giving birth hurt so bad my intestines literally exploded. The epidural didn’t numb anything but my mouth. I couldn’t spit “You did this to me!” in my husband’s general direction. I was disappointed; I planned on saying that for seven whole months! I went blind from the stress, and now I have a twitch in my left forearm that just won’t quit. My body will never be the same. You’ll probably be fine though.”

I know about the horror story phenomena because saying the “right thing” isn’t a talent I possess, and I am frequently the offender.

The best thing about my pregnancy was the c-section. When I first got pregnant, I had high hopes of going natural. But after pre-term labor for five months and the entire medical community of Spokane, WA checking more thoroughly than anyone had ever checked in the history of checking cervixes, no one could find my cervical hole. The irony of this is difficult to describe because I had spent months on bed rest, watching HGTV and Law and Order reruns precisely to keep my cervix shut. Turns out, I could have been running marathons. With a cervix like mine, I should have started gestational competitive weight lifting.

I’ll call my cervix Fidel.

Fidel wouldn’t budge. The doc brought in the big guns. 36 hours of pitocin. By that time, I was used to serious contractions, so I didn’t bother with an epidural. It validated my months of bed rest. At least I knew how to handle contractions.

I asked for a c-section several times. But the doc and my husband thought I should keep trying. Fidel just laughed.

Finally cleared for a c-section, my husband and I walked nervously toward the operating room. The spinal block in place, they asked me how I felt. I said, “Better than I have felt in nine months! This is amazing!”

After months of sleeping on a wedge, two different types of prescription heart burn medication, and bruised ribs, I felt comfortable. I felt peaceful.

And then suddenly, a baby appeared. A beautiful, incredible son with a cave man wrinkle between his eyes. I loved everything about him. Even the wrinkle.

Fidel and I have made our peace. He won’t be bothered again. It’s scheduled c-sections forever more. I didn’t want to be high-risk. I didn’t ask for Fidel to dictate my child’s birth story. But sometimes, you take what you can get.

Don't worry. This type of birth isn't common. You’ll probably be fine.