What The Grinch Stole, The Robbers Gave Back

On Sunday after church, while Bubba(6) was still in his suit and Mr. Yuke(4) was in a white shirt and his underwear ("Call me 'Captain Underpants!"), they went down to the forbidden zone and rummaged through the toys that are out of rotation. (We rotate the toys in the playroom every couple of weeks so that everything gets played with and cleaned on a regular basis. The toys not in the playroom are on shelves in the basement.) Somewhere down there they found swimming goggles. I do not know why we have these. We have never purchased goggles. Ever. Anyway, the obvious course of action when you are in a suit and goggles is to be a bank robber. I didn't know this. I saw them tiptoe-ing up the stairs and inquired what they were sneaking off to do. They turned around, fixed their goggle stares on me, and whispered, "We're robbers." I had a hard time keeping a straight face, not expecting two sets of goggles to be looking at me. When they were upstairs, Husband said, "I don't know what's wrong with this generation. When I was a kid" (doesn't he sound old?) "we always wanted to be the HERO." I answered, "Well they usually do too. But today they couldn't, OBVIOUSLY." Him- "Why not?" Me- "Because 'hey- goggles.'"

You know that I've been under the weather. Extreme Cinnamon Rolls, PT, Husband out of town, exhaustion and morning sickness that lasts all day long (that's the worst misnomer in the English language), kids with flu, threatening miscarriage of twins, etc. We didn't have Thanksgiving really and I just barely did the shopping for Christmas, and we probably aren't going to eat much on Christmas either. If I'm not in the middle of a miscarriage, I will still be sick as a dog and cooking food is the enemy.

We have not put up our tree yet. It's sad and I've missed it but I can only do so much. Right now, "so much" consists of waking up at some point in the a.m., changing diapers, fixing bottles, feeding children, drinking water, catching up on laundry, besides making sure all the kids have clean pajamas to wear to school for "Polar Express Day" and gifts to exchange for their school and church classes. I've got my wife to murder and Gilder to frame for it. I'm swamped. Oh wait- no. I don't have a wife. But I have had all that other stuff going on in addition to the normal December madness. Really, all things considered, I've been pretty okay with not having the tree up. This week was the first chance we've really had to get it out and now- what with being COMPLETELY distracted with worrying about the babies, I just don't feel like it is worth the energy (that I do not have anyway) to drag all that stuff out for just one week. I've pondered the possibility that Christmas is about the Savior anyway so maybe those nice, pretty reminders are not completely necessary and it might be nice to have an old fashioned, spartan Christmas. Well, yesterday someone informed me that not having a Christmas tree is bordering on CHILD ABUSE. I am not making this up. I pointed out that maybe if she thought about all those children who are regularly beaten by their parents, she would realize that not having a Christmas tree is a FAR CRY from that. She asked, "Well how would you feel if you were a kid without a Christmas tree?" I answered, "It came without ribbons, boxes, or bags.... It came. Somehow... it came just the same." (How the Grinch Stole Christmas- Dr. Seuss) No. In spite of the reference to her favorite Christmas book, she would not concede. ("It's IMPORTANT to them!") I told her that I honestly don't think they'll care. I'm pretty sure that all they care about is GETTING STUFF and that isn't going to be a problem. She answered loftily that it is a decision you're just going to have to make. Just like that, with the italics and everything. And now- even though I was fine with not having a tree before (because as I said, I can only do so much), now I feel like garbage.

I was wondering tonight how I am going to focus on The Greatest Gift/the Savior this coming week when every corner of my mind is completely consumed with worrying- and trying not to think about the twins. Then Husband started singing lullaby-hymns to Muhloo(8m). I thought of that little baby in his mother's arms; the one who made it possible for me to hold all my wonderful children in mine. The baby who made it a reality that I will know these children someday, whether in this life or the next. And suddenly, I knew.

All my preoccupation with the possibilities would not matter in the least if it were not for the baby born in Bethlehem.

Merry Christmas.

"goggles" by Julie K in Taiwan; "Golden Christmas" by krisdecurtis

I graduated!

That's pretty funny. I went back to the online blog readability test to get the code for my well-earned Jr. High badge so I could paste it into my last post and have it proudly displayed for all the 20 of you to see, and in that one entry I raised my score to "High School"! (Must have been the absence of run-on sentences that did it. Remember that.) I don't feel this "High School" rating is nearly such a travesty, seeing as how high school was the last place I graduated from and just barely preceded my matriculation into That College. (HA! Nerdspeak! Now let's see who writes like a middle schooler! In your face, cyberjudgementator!)

Hey, if anyone noticed, I changed the name of the blog. I'm tossing this one around with it's close cousin, "A Life Without Alice". Something about that seems a little doomsayer-ish so I'll probably just stick with the one that's up there now. Anyway, I just wanted you to know that the address won't change no matter what I call it.

Ah, the shame!

I discovered this link on Apostrophism for an online blog readability test, and I immediately went there. Essentially you tell it your web address and in about 3 seconds it tells you that you write like a 13-year-old. Now, I realize that I choose to write the way I would talk to my best girl friend, so that I am neither stretching the vocabulary nor avoiding the use of the word "like". (As in, "I'm like- so totally embarrassed! I got rated "Jr. High".") I know that I intentionally use run-on sentences because I am giving voice to the thoughts in my head and seriously, if I took enough time to stop for punctuation in my head, I think my clan might burn the house down. (Hopefully not when I'm in the shower.) Really, when you come right down to it, I am purposely writing below my level and this rating should not bother me in the least little bit. So how come I want to shoot suction cup darts at the monitor right now?

I don't think I handle rejection very well.

Gratitude and Retractions

In honor of Thanksgiving, I am thankful for-

1. My Husband
2. My Family
3. My Mom
4. Church
5. A home
6. Food to eat, clothes to wear, a place to sleep,
7. Friends
8. The Internet
9. That I didn't open my RIGHT hand,
10. Reconnecting with an old friend through MySpace
11. Chick flicks
12. Chocolate
13. Cell phones
14. The Internet
15. Amish work days
16. Good Neighbors
17. Bottled water (the water where I live tastes like poison.)
18. My Beautiful
19. Pizza
20. The blessings of Tithing
21. Hot showers
22. My piano
23. Music
24. The Olers (although they are both friends and family)
25. Muhloo(7m) who is the best baby in the world
26. Dual automatic sliding doors
27. Good Books
28. The Durfeys

I would like to retract any negative things I posted about my mom on this blog months and months ago before anyone but me was reading it. I love her and I don't know what I'd do without her. You should all be so lucky.

Also, if anyone read my entry about the Pil-gruhm feast at school, apparently the Indian Nation or whatever they are called, lobbyed for the segregation. I guess unlike everyone else, they don't want to be integrated because the white man stole their land. So, yay for segregation I guess.

Where everybody knows your name

You know how when you're in the kitchen baking a round of EXTREME CINNAMON ROLLS and you lose? and stick a knife through your hand (turns out I damaged a lot more than a finger) and then it all hits the fan because suddenly you can't do jack by yourself even though you would like to, and you feel like an absolute moron because- as far as injuries go- the ones resulting from EXTREME CINNAMON ROLLS afford you no bragging rights whatsoever- and then you find out who your REAL friends are? Yeah. That sucks.

So- no surprise that MyBeautiful jumped to my aid and actually came to my house to cook me and my family a fabulous meal the day of my surgery and called to check on me about a week after and has had me over for therapeutic hours of artistry and book discussion since then. Not the least bit surprising, though no less appreciated. Everyone should be so lucky. She's the kind of friend you might find once in your life. That's not the part that sucks. MyBeautiful lives two cities away and so I don't get to see her nearly as often as I'd like. She's the friend that no matter what happens or how much time passes, I love and admire her every bit as much.

The part that sucks are the rest of the people that I DO see on a regular basis. There are a handfull of people that I would have thought were good friends I could count on- friends who I would have bent over backwards to help if the situation had been reversed. Friends who it turns out- couldn't care less. Yep. They don't give a rat's hiney that I need help. They are not really even concerned about the fact that I got hurt. And THAT is what sucks. Finding out now. Like this.

This story has a bittersweet ending though. It turns out I do have a couple of friends that I was not even aware of. Friends who know my name and what's going on with me. Friends I can count on when life beats me at extreme kitchen sports. It's nice to know that somebody knows my name. And I didn't even have to get sloshed to meet them.

Second verse, same as the first

I got my stitches out. More importantly, I got out of that nasty splint. Into a slightly less nasty, marginally more comfortable, exceptionally more festive splint, which I will be sporting throughout the holiday season. Still can't change the diapers.

My father disappeared again. Wonder how long he'll be under the radar this time?

What the BEEP?!!!! (-More like a shriek, actually)

So the power went out. Of my house. And my tirade. I was just getting a nice froth worked up there when everything shut down and the super-duper surge supressor thingy-muhgadget my sweet hubby has on the computer started beeping at me- more like a shriek, actually- as if to say, "You better get the heck off this computer in the next 10 seconds or I am going to explode and YOU'LL BE SORRY!!!". So I had to shut it down and post my blog as finished as it was. I had no closure. I felt empty all night. It was terrible. Like when you have sex and he finishes just before you get there. So I got back on here tonight with every intention of editing it to say what I wanted it to. And do you know what I discovered? I was finished. There was nothing more to say about that. (Would you like a chocolate?) It's a strange sensation to know that you hit your climax and you missed it. So weird.

So I've had more adventures in MySpace. I finally found some of the people I went looking for. Not Barneys. Mostly. It's been good. And sad. For the friends I loved who have ended up where I hoped they would, I am filled with a sense of happy satisfaction. It is lovely to see them all doing so well. For the friends I loved who have gone down other roads, I am filled with deep regret. I wish they were... well I don't even know how to say that without offending. I can only say that I wish the best for them.

Today I went to the OB/Gyn for my 6 week postpartum visit. (I'm almost 10 weeks postpartum, by the way. This was the soonest they could see me.) So I got there for my 4:10 appointment at 4:11. I felt a little pang of guilt for being late as I signed in. I was not overwhelmed by the feeling mind you, I'm late often enough that it's amazing I even still notice the guilt. You would think I would have become desensitized to it. Nonetheless, I felt it, if only for a moment. I sat down and pulled out my phone so I could catch up on my missed calls and messages for the twenty minutes I would be sitting there. (My apologies to anyone who is annoyed by this behavior, but I can't waste any minutes of the day. With 6 kids, time is just too precious.) So, I called my sister-in-law to chat. We talked for about 15 minutes and she had to go. This left only a few short minutes to sit and peruse a magazine before I would be called to go to an exam room. Or so I thought. Little did I know. I am very naiive considering how many visits I've made to lady-doctors in the last decade. By 4:40 I was up, pacing. At 4:55, I asked the receptionist how far behind were they running? I explained that my babysitters (aka- my in-laws) had to leave for southern Utah in a very short while and I really needed to get going. She said it would be "any minute now". Then she told me she would go check and see as soon as she finished helping the person standing next to me and that I should go sit down. I did not go sit down and now as I think it over I'm wondering if what followed was punishment for failure to follow directions. I wonder this because from where I stood pacing and trotting in place, I witnessed her help four more people without getting off her fat butt to ask anyone anything. Then a girl from the book keeping office came out and they gossipped together for about 6 minutes until another patient entered the office. She helped that woman and then, after shooting a look in my direction, walked back to the nurse at about 5:08. She came back and said it would probably be about ten minutes. I'm thinking- ok, if I get back there in ten minutes, strip, get my "pap" smeared, talk-talk-talk, get dressed, I could be out of here by 5:35. So then I asked, "Once I get back there, how long will I have to wait?" She looked me straight in my eye and said "you won't have to wait back there". Ah, how comfortable a false sense of security can be! I happily stood there waiting, though a little antsy, for the ten minutes to pass. And they did. So did eleven minutes, and twelve minutes, and then pretty soon it was 5:50. When my head was starting to beep- more like a shriek, actually- as if to say, "You better take me back there in the next ten seconds and stick some swabby thing up in my nether-regions RIGHT NOW, or my head is going to explode and YOU'LL BE SORRY!!!", the nurse came out and said in the most irritatingly calm voice, "amy?"- like she fully expected anyone in their right and sane mind to have left by now. I walked back and she insulted me with her stupid scale and her "we need to get your weight"- if they ever took it that would be one thing. But they never get my weight. They all remain their happy little 120 lb. selves and just insult me with the fact that I am their weight if there were three of them. So, she "gets" my weight, we walk into the exam room, and she asks me pointless stupid questions like, when was your baby born? (it's in that chart you're holding writing down the answers to the stupid questions you're asking me. ON THE PREVIOUS PAGE!!!) Was it a boy or a girl? (chart! Hello?) What is her name? (Why is that relevant? She's not here and even if she were, she doen't know her name yet.) and have you had a period? Ok, maybe that one isn't so totally pointless, but asking it after all those others, seemed to make it ridiculous. Then she handed me a tiny gown and a teensy sheet and told me to get completely naked and put this on. At this point I had to ask, "How long is it going to be until she gets in here?" The nurse looked at me with the confused expression of "what-a-strange-question" with her head cocked to one side like a poodle, and said, "Probably at least 20 minutes. She has back-to-back IUD implants so that will take a while." I think my eyes must have turned some evil, luminous color at this point- I KNOW that my nostrils were flaring- but I just looked at her like- I am going to KILL that receptionist. BEEP!!! She left, and I sat there in my tiny hospital gown on that comfy butcher-tissue paper they always put on 2/3 of the table to make it all nice and clean for you with my naked ass hanging out. I picked up and read the only thing in the room- Us Magazine, whose cover story was all about Brittney Spears and her estranged mom beginning to make amends for the first time since Brittney went into rehab. and thinking "damn you, for not bringing a book." (Time is precious. And when it comes down to spending it onBrittneySpears... there just aren't enough hours in the year.) Well, fortunately, I only had to wait for the doctor for half an hour and therefore never really made it into the Brittney article. The tedious wade through all the Brangelina pages before the feature took up most of that time. In the silent space of that 30 minutes I could actually hear myself getting dumber. When I finally got to the suspenseful moment of revelation that all the cover headlines had teased about, I read one sentence and in came the doctor. Of all the moments she could have come, she had to wait until I was about to learn the secret inner workings of Brittney Spears and her mom's relationship. (A moment of silence. I think my standards died today. The bar dropped, at least....) And to think I felt guilty for being one minute late. BEEP!!!!!

So I had all that lady-doctor stuff they do done, and then raced to dress again. My sister-in-law called me ten minutes after I had left the office (6:30) and was amazed that I was just leaving. She suggested it would be something to blog about. I wasn't sure if I was up to recounting the longest afternoon of my summer, but then tonight when I got on MySpace I discovered that she has started her own blog and so I was inspired to put into words the story of The Eventual Lady-doctor Appointment From Hell. So now I have but three questions about all of this:

1) What did they gain by having me wait an extra 4 weeks to have the appointment?

2) What on earth was that receptionist thinking when she looked at me and without blinking said it would be ten more minutes? Would it have killed her to tell the truth? Is she under strict orders not to reschedule any patient for a time that would be more convenient for them? Is that why we're called patients? Because we have to be? And how long can someone go before their head explodes and SHE IS SORRY!!!?

and

3) Will Brittney and her mom ever be able to overcome the rift that is between them? How will I ever know?