Good news and bad news

The good news is that when you need advice, you can still call your mom.  Even when you're old (as some of my least favorite children like to remind me).

The bad news is that your mom can empathize and give advice and validate and then tell you parenting really doesn't get any easier.

The good news is when your sister calls, you can tell her about things and she'll laugh with you and at you and make you happy.

The bad news is that she always sides with your children.  You would think sisterhood would trump her aunt duties but...apparently not.

An overcast day in March

Yesterday a news helicopter crashed on a Seattle street, right in front of the Space Needle, killing the pilot and reporter and critically injuring a man on the ground.  It was all over the news on the radio--a tragic story.  I have also been fascinated by the missing airplane in the news.  I feel for the families of the missing.  Both stories were ever present in the back of mind as I went about my day.

I thought about it while Mark and I perused the aisles of Costco and picked up a copy of Frozen on DVD which we knew would thrill Emma.  (Adam thought this was ill advised considering how obsessed she already is, but sometimes you just do things that are ill advised.) How wonderful that for $14.99, I could make my daughter's day.

I thought about it when I wondered how I was going to get time for the items on my to do list.  How wonderful that my big concern was getting time for a laundry pile and some vacuuming.

I drove Emma to her friend's tennis match.  Emma never asks for much so when I can, I say yes.  I dropped her off then drove to the swanky new aquatic center in Snohomish and got information about the home school swim program for Mark.  How wonderful to be able to give my children opportunities to do things they enjoy.

I sat in my van and read while I waited for Emma to be done.  How wonderful.

Braeden and his friends were sure that last night was the night that junior girls traditionally toilet paper junior boys' houses.  He assembled an arsenal of friends and determined to stay out all night on our front porch and defend his turf.  I told them that probably the girls were practicing psychological warfare and the boys would stay up late and the girls would be home, warm and happy.  Turns out their intel was correct though, it was the night of the strike.  Also, the boys' parents made them go home earlier than the girls' parents apparently.  So no one was out to protect our turf.

chairs still set up from their late night--though not late enough--vigil

I don't think I understand this...

How wonderful though that our boys don't have to worry about defending themselves from more menacing threats than teenage girls.

Real tragedies happen in this world and I just wanted to record that on an overcast day in March, I knew how fortunate I was.

What our backyard and the Great Wall of China have in common

The first thought I had this morning when I woke up was a happy one.  I thought, "It's Friday!"

Then I remembered yesterday was Monday.

Last Friday evening found us at the Verizon store.*  That always takes a soul-numbing amount of time and we know because we've been there a lot.*  While there, Mark killed some time by looking up our house on a map on a ipad.  In our backyard on the satellite image was a picture of the fort our boys built last year.

Braeden said, "I remember when I was a little kid and I learned that the Great Wall of China was so big you could see it from space.  That used to mean something.  Now you can see everything from space."

I told him the fort they built in our backyard was the same size as the Great Wall of China.  It still means something.



*Dear Verizon,

I have never had such negative feelings about a company that I continue to do business with.  Curse you for having the best network because you have the worst customer service.  In America.

Sincerely,

Thelma

Getting old

For science (human biology), Mark's reading assignment was called "Getting Old" and was about aging.  I said, "That's appropriate with my 41st birthday approaching."

He didn't respond.

I said, "Mark!  That's when you're supposed to say, 'No, Mom, you're not old.'"

He said, "Well technically, Mom, you are.  Forty is when you officially get old."

I said, "How do you know?  Where did you hear that?"

He said, "A variety of sources."

Guess which one of my children doesn't get any birthday cake?

A variety of sources tells me he doesn't deserve any.

Lucky day

This week my story has been featured on our writing website:

Today's the last day so you can read it all if you'd like.

The story is called "Lucky Day" in a nod to St. Patrick's day.  It's also a nod to small town Nevada, the time I spent waitressing in casinos and some of the zany characters I met along the way.

I'd call my life pretty lucky.

One reason is my writing group.  We met this week.  I made these in honor of my story:

I told Olivia I'd put a picture on my blog.

You can find cuter ones on pinterest complete with Popsicle sticks and green ribbon.

(You can always find a cuter version of everything on pinterest.  That's just how it goes.)

What isn't cuter on pinterest is my writing group.  They are bonafide originals.   Heather took more pictures of us, glamor shots really, for our website.  Some members of the group (everyone except me) are more photogenic than others (me).

(That's just how it goes.)

We laughed a lot and I'm still picking up white feathers from a shedding boa.  Every time I find one I smile and remember how lucky I am.

Love those girls I write with.

Heritage night

Emma had to take a food from her family's heritage to a Young Women activity.  She decided to take ebelskiever, which are Danish pancakes.

Adam's grandma was born in Denmark and made ebelskiever and so there you go:   Emma's family heritage.

I mixed up the batter (which I can do) and somewhere along the way decided we'd just have ebelskiever for dinner so I tripled the recipe (which I can also do--fun with fractions).  Adam came home from work and started cooking ebelskiever (which he can do).  He needed to go to mutual himself so I shooed him away, insisting I could finish (which I thought I could do).

Turns out I couldn't.  Every time I tried to turn the ebelskiever, I failed.  Adam tried several times to teach me.  I couldn't do it.  We had a whole bunch of smashed ebelskiever.  I decided it was because I have no Danish ancestry.  Swedes, Norwegians, Brits--they're no good at turning ebelskiever.  (I'd rather blame my ancestors than my lack of coordination.)

Braeden--because he's Braeden--wanted to determine just exactly the percentages of countries he hailed from genetically.

I don't know.

Yes, we're Mormons and keep track of our family history but Braeden's a little picky.  A vague Scandinavian and Great Britain umbrella didn't work for him.  I broke it down into Swedish and Norwegian and he wanted to know if the Brits were Celts or Anglo-Saxons.  Then he started telling me where the Celts originated from and where the Anglo-Saxons originated from and quizzing me as to who of my ancestry had been an established group the longest.  I didn't know and he of course did so he told me all of that.

Here's what I learned from our evening:

1-I'm no good at ebelskiever.

2-When your son is enamored with history you'd better be prepared for some history lessons.

3-I can make waffles (which is what I did with the leftover batter after Adam left).  I need to stick with what I know.

When teenage boys save the day

In the afternoon, when school is out, the only people that call are for Mark and he always answers the phone.

Yesterday afternoon the phone rang.  It was his friend Gavin.

"Is Mark there?"

I said, "I don't think so." (Because he hadn't answered the phone--must not be home.)

I looked around the house and confirmed, "No, he's not here."

Gavin said, "Do you know where he is?"

I said, "No."  Then I joked, "I'm not a very good mother am I, if I don't know where he is?"

Gavin, without missing a beat, said emphatically, "No, you're a fine mother."

I love that kid.

He couldn't know that I'd lost sleep the night before worrying about my mothering.  He couldn't know that sometimes I feel like I'm a lacking sort of mother.

Sometimes hearing a 13 year old boy insist you're a good mother is all you need to make it through the rest of the day.