What with it being the season of resolutions I thought it fitting to look back to 2011 and list some of the things I actually got right.  It wasn’t easy.  Seems coming up with things I ought to improve upon is a much easier task.  That said, looking at my list, I guess I didn’t do half-bad last year.  Here’s to raising the bar (if ever so slightly) in 2012.

1. We sponsored a child through Compassion. He’s a 15-year-old orphan from Rwanda. Learning about his life there and praying for him regularly has not only grounded our family in realizations about the world beyond us, but so, too, has it reminded us just how blessed we truly are.

2. I exercised with regularity. Typically, I work-out four or five days out of the week. My activities of choice are kickboxing and weight training, but I could definitely use some variation in my schedule. I’m not so much into dancing (which rules out Zumba) but I’m open to suggestions if you have something that works for you.

3. I didn’t pay a single dollar in credit card fees. That’s not to say that we don’t use our credit card–boy do we. We use it to pay for EVERYthing, from groceries to gas. I keep track of every purchase throughout the month and pay the whole balance off before the billing cycle ends. The beauty of doing so is that we earn between 1 and 5 percent cash back on our purchases, which, for us, equates to roughly $800 per year in absolutely free money. Score!

4. I read to Jayce nearly every day. At five, this boy is not only reading independently, but he also still loves to be read to. I think our having read to him since he was an infant has instilled in him a love of literature, which is such a huge building block in encouraging lifelong learning.

5. We took further steps towards ridding our leftovers of toxins. By investing in a couple sets of quality glass food storage containers we’ve all but stopped using plastics (which can leach BPA).  I hope to dispose of our lingering unsafe plastics in 2012.

6. I wrote a second novel. A good one at that ;)

7. We prioritized experiences. We’re definitely a family that values experiences more so than things.  Jeff and I don’t own an iPad or the latest versions of iPhones or even a single e-reader between us.  We do, though, enjoy experiencing adventures with our family.  This year, we soared on a zipline through a Colorado canopy, swam with dolphins in Grand Cayman, cruised with three generations, rafted the Animas river, and visited local vineyards to taste their handcrafted wines.  We toasted marshmallows over a campfire, visited my grandparents at their winter home, and floated across the sky in a hot air balloon.  It was a good year.

8. We planted a garden for the second year in a row. While we’ve definitely had some output, these last two years are probably best described as learning ones.  We hope that 2012 will bring us a more fruitful harvest!

9. I organized our pantry!

10. I honked less. I tried really hard to extend more courtesy to people on the roads, in public places, and on the phone (yes, including telemarketers).  I’m definitely going to continue working on this one during 2012, but generally speaking, my patience for and tolerance of people who get on my nerves has increased, which is definitely a biggie for me.

I challenge you to try doing what I’ve done in this post.  I’m curious if you, too, find it easier to pick yourself apart rather than identify your strengths.  Post a link in the comments if you blog it; I definitely want to read it!

Jayce has officially been in kindergarten for three weeks now.  The first two were all laidback and recess and snacks and then they went and sent homework this week.  For reals.  This guy:

I can’t help but think of him as Unsaid Fred.  He’s this totally blank canvas that Jayce is charged with turning into a mini me.  Mini him, not mini me.  The instructions were very clear.  This is a project to be done by the student.  (Read: step away from the crayons, mom).

Jayce is supposed to use whatever supplies we “have at home” to decorate this ambiguous piece of cardstock as himself.  What he looks like from his eyes.

I’m all about following directions to the tee, so I’m going to Jo-Ann tomorrow to pick up some supplies that we had on hand at home.  I’m thinking yellow yarn and blue rhinestones and maybe some denim scraps or something.  Not that I’m trying to influence the project one way or another.  But I thought it might be helpful if he had some supplies that depict what he looks like through my eyes.  Not that what I see in him is the same as what he sees in him, necessarily.

Which got me to thinking. (Always a dangerous undertaking, by the way).

how cool it would be if I could just poof! reinvent myself.  Here’s what I’d look like:

-i’d be able to dance.
-and throw dinner together with whatever i had in the pantry.
-the lines creeping up around my eyes? what lines?
-my boobs would be just a tad bigger.  to make my waist look thinner.
-my hair would be bone straight.  or fall in perfect ringlets (depending on the day).  effortlessly.
-i’d hold my tongue more.
-and know how to accessorize.
-i wouldn’t be so afraid of showing my teeth in pictures.
-i wouldn’t have to call jeff to kill all the spiders.
-i’d be a sound sleeper.
-and a runner.
-i’d be calm and collected instead of so tightly wound i might unravel  at any given second.
-i would never ever–no, not ever–be paralyzed by fear.
-there’d be no need for that stupid facial wax i suffer through every three weeks.
-i’d be more about you.  less about me.
-i’d be gracious and composed.  patient and well-spoken.
-His light would shine through me.  set me aglow.  always.  in all ways.

How ’bout you?  What would you be?

As far as weeks go…the last one wasn’t particularly high-ranking in my book.  Jeff was out of town again (Orlando, this time), which is never fun.  And while he was gone I had a run-in with a 60-something Hellians Angel who–I kid you not–very purposefully threw his ABC gum at my car.  ABC, as in, Already Been Chewed.

Yes.  Seriously.

Don’t ask.

The week?  Not so good.

The weekend, though?  Pretty cool.

You might remember my early spring post about the family member (once removed) who we broke bread with.  Well…they’re baaaaaacccckkkk.  And bread was broken once again.  There may even have been a cocktail or two involved.  Here are the pictures; you be the judge.

There were smiles.  Lots of laughter.

There were board games played–after having gathered around the table in our PJ’s.

There was questionable attire (skull and crossbones necklace.  Ahem.  But I’m not naming names).

There was Mudd Pie.  And the happy birthday song (have I ever mentioned that Torri and her dad share a birthday?).

But mostly there was good, old-fashioned, genuine fun.  Had by all.

“When you can do the common things of life in an uncommon way, you will command the attention of the world.”  -George Washington Carver

Well, Mr. Carver, I think we’d qualify.

And proud of it, by the way. :)

I live in a relatively new house (built in 2005), which has relatively new appliances (circa 2005 or newer).  With these relatively new appliances come all sorts of bells and whistles, the likes of which–if I’m being honest–confound me.  For example, when we first moved in, I called the builder’s customer service department because, for the life of me, I couldn’t figure out why on Earth the stupid oven would not heat to the temperature at which I set it.

Turns out?  It’s a convection oven.  Apparently convection ovens cook more efficiently so they will always heat to 25 degrees below what the temperature you set them for.  Learn something new every day, right?

The microwave, too, took some getting used to.  We have this crazy contraption atop our microwave that vents as the oven cooks.  During the first few seconds of a heat/defrost cycle the vent slowly ejects from the wall and looks as though it might very well blast off to infinity…and beyond!

And then, of course, are our fancy new laundry appliances.  These puppies are equipped to run countless cycles with countless options.  Me, though?  A laundry dummy.  I know two cycles: normal and hand wash.  What the heck does one need permanent press for, anyhow?  Oh, and a wool cycle.  Really?  I think wool is outlawed in Arizona (at least from March through October).

Oh friends.  These conundrums?  They just scratch the surface.  I have a whole different species of ignorance with regard to the more temporary of my appliances.  Take the KitchenAid, for example.  From the looks of it, I betcha it does a whole lot more than just knead pizza dough and mix cookie batter.  Oh!  Oh!  And what about these random light switches scattered throughout the house?!  I swear that they either operate lights in our neighbor’s houses or nowhere at all.

Alas.  I’m a creature of habit–afraid to venture into the realm of appliance unknowns.  So here I am.  Living the simple life.  A life uncomplicated.  A life not to be bothered with the reading of owner’s manuals.

Your turn to spill.  Am I alone in this?  Or do you, too, choose the appliance path most traveled?

Have I ever mentioned that I’m not so much a cold weather kind of gal?

I’m not.

Eighty degrees finds me thriving while winter months leave me holding my breath, waiting for warmth.

We’re supposed to hit 80 this week, for the first time this year.  And here I am, holding my breath.

And dreaming.  Thinking back to October when my family disembarked the Disney Magic in Cozumel, where the ocean was warm and the margaritas were ice cold.

Crystal blue waters.

Sand between my toes.

Palm fronds swaying in the breeze.

Bliss, I tell you.  Pure bliss.

With the forecasters promising 80, I can’t help but drift.

Come along, why don’t you?  Dream a little dream with me.

Lately my mind keeps being pulled to the ifs.

The plots in the novels I’m reading, the estate planning software (unopened on my desktop) and topics on Oprah have my mind wandering.

Yucky ifs.

…if I end up in a wheelchair.

…if I get Lou Gehrig’s disease.

…if something horrific wreaks havoc on our life savings.

I told you; these are yucky ifs.

Sometimes–when these ifs threaten to pounce–I run the figurative numbers.  I tell myself that my “if” has already happened.  And I reason that the “if” I’ve been dealt is not so bad, as far as “ifs” go.

I distinctly remember having a conversation with another mom, back when my oldest was the only.  This other mom and I were discussing the possibility of future siblings for our only-ies.  And she said something that struck me.  She said, “it’s hard to think about another when I have this one who is perfectly healthy.”

I thought she was such a downer.  Who thinks like that?

I was young.  Naive.

She was older.  Less naive.

And wouldn’t you know–just a few years later–an if of the very sort she was speaking snuck through.

I’ve since come around to her way of thinking.

Not so much in regard to more children.

But the ifs.

The ifs are more prevalent now.  Now that I see {and appreciate} all that I have to lose.

There is a positive to this if-dwelling: the ever-present reminder to live.  Out loud.  Presently.  Intentionally.  To give thanks for the iflessness of my days.

Because this much I know is true: each moment I ponder the if is one lost to me, wasted.  Never to return.

If if go away.  Don’t come again another day.

I’m too busy.  Enjoying the iflessness.

Hi friends.

Sorry about that brief delve into topics better left for the sides of trailers.

I made him promise never to “surprise” me with a post again.

If he does I might just leave him at the door-stoop of aforementioned trailer.  Let the creepy old man have his way with the hijacking husband.

Moving right along though.

I have pictures (I promised, didn’t I?) from the Polar Express.

They’re forthcoming.

But I have to first tell you about my flight coming home yesterday.

The one where every single person in my vicinity was left with no choice but to write me off as a crazy woman.  For real.

I don’t fly well.  Never have.

I’m not exactly scared of flying.  I just have difficulty with the lack of control air travel entails.

I enjoy being able to stop at my whim.  Pull over for Starbucks.  Leave when I’m ready to leave – as opposed to when Air Traffic Control sees fit.  Use a bathroom with fewer than six gazillion germs and Lord-only-knows-what-else floating around in there.

Makes sense, right?

So I wasn’t exactly looking forward to the extra long flight to Orlando, and the extra long flight home about 24 hours later.

I was pleasantly surprised with how well I handled the first flight.  It flew by (pun intended) and I was on the ground before I knew it.  Easy peasy.

The next day?  Eh.  Not so much.

I got a middle seat.  On a full flight.  And all three of the inconsiderate ahem, passengers (because I’m ladylike and the word I’d prefer to use is anything but) in the row in front of mine opted to recline their seats.  To the full extent.  Which was lovely.  And so very thoughtful of them.

But even then, I was okay.

I thought I’d pull out my laptop, in hopes that I could do something to help pass the time.

So I retrieved my computer and released the tray table.  I totally should win some medal since I had to contort myself like Mary Lou Retton in order to do so.

That’s when it happened.

With my tray table down, a person tucked closely in at either side, my seat-belt fastened, and the passenger in front of me practically lying in my lap, I sort of freaked.  Claustrophobia type freak.

I wasn’t all that patient in asking that the woman in the aisle seat move so that I could getoutofthisseatRIGHTNOW.

There wasn’t far to go of course.  Not much fresh air to be had.

So I settled for the rotten sewage-esque air the rear of the plane near the lavatory provided.

Which was a million times better than the chamber of death in which I’d previously been confined.

But I couldn’t stay back there forever.  And that knowledge made me freak even more.

I may have cried.  And incessantly chewed on my fingers, fists, knuckles, and the thumb drive I’d been prepared to put into my laptop.

I may even have begged the flight attendant for an aisle seat.  Any aisle seat.  At any cost.

To no avail though.

She proposed instead that maybe I kindly request that the passenger in front of me raise her seat.

Which I really didn’t want to do.

But once I’d returned to my seat I did it anyway.

Very nicely, I might add.

Her response wasn’t nearly as nice.

In fact, she was downright rude.  With eyebrows raised she let out an exaggerated sigh before inclining her seat maybe 1/4 inch (if I’m being generous), replacing her headphones and returning her attention to the movie she’d been watching.  The moment she’d resumed the movie-watching wouldn’t you know that seat just fell right back into place.  Go figure.

And yes.  I had explained to her that I was experiencing a bit of a panic attack triggered by claustrophobia and that it would help me immensely if she’d just sit upright.

I didn’t think it was asking too much, under the circumstances.  I guess that’s just me though.

Luckily there was a super sweet gentleman, Ozzie, sitting next to me in the window seat.

He sensed my panic (not that it was cloaked in any way, shape, or form) and he started small talk.  And even when at first I could offer little more than fragmented, panicked responses he didn’t let up.  He just kept on talking and talking and talking.  And intermittently apologizing for “not shutting up.”

Only he wasn’t talking in a won’t-shut-up kinda way.  He was just being nice.  Nice enough to help demented me breathe easy again.  So nice that within thirty or so minutes I felt 100% better.  The wine I ordered during beverage service may have helped too.  But mostly it was Ozzie.

Eventually I was able to carry on an actual conversation, as opposed to the frantic ramblings of a crazed person.  I learned all about his quaint hometown in the Midwest.  He gave me an impromptu history lesson on subjects near and dear to him: the Badlands, Wild Bill Hickok, and Calamity Jane.  He told me about his wife of nineteen years and their only daughter.  We even swapped stories of deployments (mine from a spouse’s perspective, his from someone preparing for yet another).

Ozzie rocked.

The outrageously thoughtless lady in the seat in front of me?  Not so much.

I guess I’m too naive.  Naive enough to not understand the heartless actions of some of the people who walk this Earth.  There are those who are heartless through indifference. Narcissism.  Entitlement.  And another kind entirely, whose hurtful actions are seemingly premeditated.  Those who set out to cause pain.  For no good reason.

I’ll never understand those people.

And that’s probably a good thing.

I’d rather devote my attention to the Ozzies of the world.  Granted, they may be few and far between.  But the light that the Ozzies cast is widespread and far-reaching.

Even at 40,000 feet.

I never claimed my methods were subtle…

Dear Target Store Manager:

Hello Mr. Manager sir. It’s me.  The mom of four who visited your store today.  I know you’re probably busy ironing your khaki pants and red shirts so I won’t keep you long.  I just wanted to send along a helpful hint that may save you a few dollars in the way of lawsuit settlements down the line.

Let me begin by asking, sir, if you’ve ever had the pleasure of opening a store on Black Friday.  Given your expansive resume bullets, I assume you have.  Surely, then, you must be familiar with the mobs of frenzied shoppers that, quite literally, shove their way through the store in an effort to hoard the flat-screen TV’s and newest video game consoles.  You know as well as I that Black Friday deals can be found throughout the store, scattered among the toy, electronics, and home departments.  Imagine, for a moment, the scenario should those crowds of Black Friday shoppers find themselves all gunning for the same thing: school supplies.

Better yet.  Don’t imagine it – visit it.  Right there in the back corner of your store where sporting goods and domestics cross paths.  But be forewarned: it’s a jungle back there.

You’ve heard that hell hath no fury like a woman scorned?  Well.  Nor does hell haveth fury like a mother on a mission for those elusive dividers.  Or dry erase markers (blue – why have you no blue?!).  Or reinforcement labels that little Johnnie may or may not need in the fourth quarter but will be docked points for if he doesn’t show up with them on MONDAY!

Look at that.  I’m getting off topic.

My reason for writing is this: I’d like to suggest that you offer complimentary body armor suits to mothers and children intending to shop for school supplies in your store.  While I understand that you cannot reasonably prevent every black eye or busted toe, at least the major casualties could seriously be reduced if you provided proper equipment for those brave enough to “go in.”

Another option would be to hire armed guards.  Perhaps even designating your Back to School headquarters as a mom-free zone would work.  After all, dads are perfectly capable of handling up on the pencil purchases.  And yes.  I realize that a nation of dads doing the school supply shopping would seriously cut into your profit margin.  Because no dad I know is actually going to buy into that teacher’s request for hand sanitizer and Kleenex, citing something about “when I was a kid…”  But really.  In spite of the profit loss – it’s the right thing to do.  For the sanity and safety of all your loyal customers.

I urge you to consider my input.  Before your store is the site of the next postal-like rampage.

Sincerely,

A Concerned (black-eyed) Mom.

I’ve been saying things lately that make me feel old.

They do more than make me feel old actually.

The fact that I say them is enough to qualify me.

Not five minutes ago, these very words came out of my mouth: “I’m not running a diner here.”

I said it response to Kennedy when she asked if her and her overnight guest could have ice cream.  At nearly 10:00.  As in PM.  I mean, I don’t know about your house, but around here the kitchen is absolutely closed at 9.  Period.

And earlier today I swear I heard myself telling Cassidy something to the effect of, “that’s what happens when you make bad behavioral choices.”

That one didn’t make me sound old so much as just really geeky.

And it’s not just the things I say.  That which I do is also proof.

I’ve taken to shaking my head in disapproval when I see kids on roller skate shoes in the stores.  Or with saggy pants.  Or two-toned hair.

Those freaky piercings in which they insert random wooden hexagons or screws or whatever the heck they are thoroughly disgust me.  As do skinny jeans on otherwise respectable young men.

I refer to the majority of Torri’s iPod playlist as noise (with the obvious exception of her Disney selections, which I highly approve).  And I honestly can’t remember the last time I even casually flipped to MTV.

The other day Jeff was telling Torri that I liked the book she’d recommended so much that I’d kept him up really late because I wouldn’t turn the lights off until I’d finished just one more chapter.

How late? She hedged.

Like, 11:30.

11:30?  Wow.  Move over Farrah and Michael, we’re talking newsworthy here.

See what I mean?  Old.

And I used to be so cool.

Next thing you know I’ll be griping about the bus-stop kids walking through the yard.

Or better yet.  Talking Jeff into hiding one of those little zapper do-dads at the perimeter so they get a little juice pumped into ‘em if they opt for the shortcut.

Yeah.  It’s official.

Send Depends.