If I had my life to live over...

These words are not my own, but I read them every year or so when they happen my way. I thought I'd grab them this time around and save them while I had the chance. Love to you all!

If I Had My Life To Live Over
by Erma Bombeck (1927-1996)

The following was written by the late Erma Bombeck after she found out she had a fatal disease.

If I had my life to live over, I would have talked less and listened more.

I would have invited friends over to dinner even if the carpet was stained and the sofa faded.

I would have eaten the popcorn in the 'good' living room and worried much less about the dirt when someone wanted to light a fire in the fireplace.

I would have taken the time to listen to my grandfather ramble about his youth.

I would never have insisted the car windows be rolled up on a summer day because my hair had just been teased and sprayed.

I would have burned the pink candle sculpted like a rose before it melted in storage.

I would have sat on the lawn with my children and not worried about grass stains.

I would have cried and laughed less while watching television - and more while watching life.

I would have shared more of the responsibility carried by my husband.

I would have gone to bed when I was sick instead of pretending the earth would go into a holding pattern if I weren't there for the day.

I would never have bought anything just because it was practical, wouldn't show soil or was guaranteed to last a lifetime.

Instead of wishing away nine months of pregnancy, I'd have cherished every moment and realized that the wonderment growing inside me was the only chance in life to assist God in a miracle.

When my kids kissed me impetuously, I would never have said, "Later. Now go get washed up for dinner."

There would have been more "I love you's".. More "I'm sorrys" ...

But mostly, given another shot at life, I would seize every minute... look at it and really see it ... live it...and never give it back

The Wilds of Girl-dom

The hours I’ve spent at Boy Wonder’s school have rendered me melancholy lately.

Funny how little boys rarely change over time—the ones I see walking the hallowed halls still talk about sports, they still play pranks on their buddies, still make those armpit farting noises with reckless abandon. Still ignore girls for the most part…

But the girls? No, I don’t see the same faces I grew up with in some of today’s girls.

There have been days when I’ve had to re-orient myself just to make sure I’m not at a nightclub on a random Friday night.

That I am, in fact, at an elementary school.

My ears have burned at the way they talk to each other. I’ve hidden my broke-down cellphone away in shame when they pop out the latest G4 gadgets at the sounding of the afternoon bell. The mini skirts I was never allowed to look at. The knowledge they’ve picked up long before they should have it.

It’s all led me to one conclusion:

I never would have made in today’s elementary school world.

These poor girls are body conscious by the time they zip up their first princess Ariel costume. Some have boobs in second grade. They have boyfriends and are breaking up with said boyfriends before they can spell the word boyfriend. They have little girl alliances that work surreptitiously to topple the nexus of power of the other little girl alliances. They trade friends like we used to trade worn out copies of “The Babysitter’s Club” and “Sweet Valley High.”

I’m actually intimidated by some of these girls. I’m afraid of making eye contact, lest I be deemed less than worthy.

In fourth grade I had a mullet.

No, really, people. It was a mullet with a capital M. Add to this mullet what’s known as a “rat tail” and you’ll not have to wonder why my first date wasn’t until nearly my junior year in high school. I was a late bloomer and in the 80s, that was just fine.

Friday and Saturday nights were spent at the neighborhood roller rink where I sported neon wind shorts, a Bobby Brown t-shirt with the sleeves rolled up (and tucked in to my neon wind shorts, thankee very much), my god-awful hair, and bright blue roller skates with an orange stopper on each toe.

I sang along and whizzed around in large circles to Rick Astley and any Def Lepard track they graced us with. I was never, ever the object of anyone’s affection, except, perhaps, the snack bar guy…but that’s only because I’d spend a small fortune on churros and Cherry Coke. The couples skate was lame and nothing more than an opportunity to clown the teenaged girls unlucky enough to have to skate backwards for an entire song. I loved it when they fell.

I was a nerd. Plain and simple. I had a best friend who went everywhere with me. Who I encouraged to do stupid things so that I’d have someone grounded the same time I was. Back in those days, there were no Ipods with songs like “Birthday Sex” or “Tooted and Booted”. There were songs we taped off the radio and played over and over (always fast forwarding through commercials) on our boom boxes. Double Dare came on every afternoon and if I wasn’t grounded for some infraction or another, I was allowed to watch it. Social Networking consisted of spying on my neighbors from the top branch of my tree with Smurf binoculars my grandparents gave me. Whatever.

The sad truth is that I would have been eaten alive in 2011.

I would have been banished to the back of the class and become queen of the paste eater tribe. That odd-looking recluse that cut her bangs with safety scissors when the teacher wasn’t looking. Pretty sure I would have had an excuse and phantom ailment every morning for my mom—anything to avoid returning to the wilds of modern elementary school.

Thank goodness my first child is a boychild. And my second child is a boychild. I consider them lucky, and myself doubly so for a chance to learn the ropes well enough before baby sister arrives.

Somedays it looks like she’s going to need all the help she can get.

Burdens: A round for everyone!

I read a great post on one of my favorite Web sites about pride.

The writer was very clear that pride can mean quite a few things and she even provided a list of examples. With bullets, people!

Do you understand how shocking it can be to find your own personality traits on someone else’s pride list? My reaction ran the gamut.

Humbling. Embarrassing. Annoying.

I mention the pride thing because lately things have been relatively smooth. And then I go and trip on my own big ego…

Well, smooth up until the root canal and the brakes going out, and now… money/tax drama. I’d been doing fine, feeling fine, acting fine... thinking I’d finally gotten my stuff and stuff together and whatever wasn’t together, well, it didn’t matter. Obviously.

I guess I’m here to tell you, it most certainly does matter.

This lack of attention to detail…this ignoring the unpleasant tasks in life…guess what? Form of pride. It’s refusing to lower myself to tasks I dislike just to get them checked off my list. And DAMMIT, does it sting when they bite back. That whole Pride before the Fall thing really chaps my hide…

I called P in tears and explained the various stuff and stuffs and sniffled and snotted all over the place and you know what the man told me? Not buying into my pity party, he told me to get it together and keep a little perspective. Not exactly the pity party I wanted, but it got the job done. I un-smudged my mascara and hauled my carcass back up to my desk and went about my day. Work still needed to get done. Kids still needed to get picked up. Dinner still needs to be made.

Life goes on.

I know God has a plan for my life and that it’s a good one. I’d just like a copy of it…complete with a table of contents, a few appendices for further explanation, and a chance to voice an opinion now and then for scheduled and unscheduled surprises. Not gonna happen anytime soon, I know…

An informal poll of my friends revealed that at every given moment, every single one of them is dealing with some sort of energy-sucking trouble. Money. Cars. Spouses. Kids. Houses. Bills. Deadlines. Health scares. The list is endless. But so are the cures.

So while I am not happy that you are rowing your boat against the current alongside me, I am happy for the company.

And when the waters calm, maybe we can split my peanut butter sandwich. Or whatever you packed if it’s better tasting. Just sayin'...

Here's to a better week all around.

A baby by any other name may not smell as sweet...

Do you know that Boo was very nearly named "Bilbo Baggins"?

Well, it was an idle threat I lobbed at his father out of sheer frustration around month number five when the man still refused to have the name discussion with me. He's a "wait and see what name sticks when thrown against a wall" and I'm the obnoxious "let's talk about every name in the name book until you wave the white flag" sort of namer.

The other possibility was naming Boo "Polamalu" as the dude was due on the very same Super Bowl Sunday that the Steelers were playing. The deal was that if the stinker hadn't arrived yet, and he happened to make his appearance on Super Bowl Sunday, it was a done deal. He came a week later and blew that attempt right out of the water. Oh, and because of his tardiness (SIX WHOLE DAYS) the turkey weighed over 9 pounds. Just in case you forgot...'cause I haven't!

Dominic hovered on "Aiden" for a minute. Not much longer than that. Then it was "Luke" (I was going to a St. Luke's Church in New Mexico at the time and lacked creativity.) Then it was "nameless" baby until inspiration struck one evening I sat outside with a lonely telescope in the front yard. St. Dominic, patron saint of astronomers. Done deal.

Andrew, well, his name wasn't at the top of my list by any means. I was all about "Griffin" and "Gabriel" and all sorts of cool, hip sounding monikers and his dad was having NONE of it. Andrew was weakly on my list and was the one name that stuck to P's wall that I didn't make gagging noises at. And there it was. Not the big epiphany either of us were hoping for, but it worked out well in the end. The name is perfect for him.

It seems easy to name a boy--your one job is to make them sound manly and tough. Distinguished and non-pansy-ish.

But, oh my lord, a girl? So many parameters you have to abide by. Nothing too froo froo, but nothing too boyish. Sweet and girly with a touch of toughness in case she's destined to be the state wrestling champ of 2028.

And we all know P's refusal to really entertain/decide on anything too early. Coupled with my ever-changing, ever-growing list of "This is totally the one! Maybe..." and it seems we're going to have another case of "Bilbette Baggins Applegate" come mid-summer.

That, and truckloads of dirty girl diapers...which I hear are thirty times worse than dirty boy diapers. Just rumors.

It's a lot of pressure, really. The chance to name your daughter (when you are a mother) is a chance to undo all the teasing, all the poking, all the wrong your own mother caused when naming you. (Not that Debra did all that much wrong, mind you, I've just always thought my name was damn boring. And common. Uninspiring. The least she could have done is thrown an arbitrary "y" or "h" in there to shake things up!)

Growing up, I wanted to be Marsha Brady. Changed my name to "Marsha" for about a week and a half. Then it was "Daisy Duke" in the summer of '84. Names are powerful, powerful tools and I've always been aware of the fact.

And now it's my turn to make the big decision for my own daughter and I'm coming up clueless. Sure, we like this and we like that...but nothing has really slapped me upside the face and shaken me yet. (Well, the root canal last week did, but that's another story that I'm still recovering from.)

Dom's contributed his part. He's still onboard for "Emily Elizabeth" in honor of his very first television crush from "Clifford the Big Red Dog." Not sure that flies with me, but it's damned cute.

And Boo? Well, he'll probably end up calling her "NO! NO! NO!" regardless of what her birth certificate says. Call it a premonition.

Onward, people...onward. Save us from Bilbette Baggins Applegate...

To Andrew...on the occasion of your second birthday

"Up, up here we go..."

To our very own little Rocketeer,

The fact that I'm writing this in the midst of you cutting your two-year molars and I'm still being nice to you really says something about the type of impression you have made in our lives.

Last year I wrote to you about what an individual you are and, m'dear, that hasn't changed one bit. In fact, I think if it were possible to be MORE of your own person 12 months later, you have figured it out.

Yet, at the same time, there's this full-on affection you bring with you that just takes my breath away. You can melt your daddy with a hug and you can make any owwie better with an "You alright, Mama? You alright?"

Your compassion and your concern for your family is beyond touching and something that is all you...came from within and expresses itself in all sorts of creative ways through your everyday actions.

But let's not forget your sense of humor. As I write this, you are running laps in your diaper around the kitchen table while your Dad studies. You're a raging ball of white hot energy and you make every day with you an adventure.

At this point in your distinguished career you love the following things in the following order:

• Elmo
• reruns of America's Funniest Videos (or what you call "Andrew's Show")
• monkeys
• going to the "pool" (bath tub!)
  
• watching basketball with Mama
• anything chocolate (with peanut butter is a bonus)
• dragging a chair to the kitchen and helping during dinner prep
• doing everything your brother does
• stealing whatever your brother has
• diving into bed with your brother at bedtime (his bed, not yours)
  
• the dog
• the cat
• leaving in the morning (you're very busy and important these days)
• stealing bags of chips from the hall closet

Life is beautiful and full with you in it and it seems as though you've figured out your place in our family with very little assistance and in your own style. As you get ready to leave the position of "baby" in the family behind, I'm excited to watch you grow into a big brother. What sort of boy will you be? Will you be protective? Will you take all the pink and tiaras in stride?

We have no doubt you will, little man. Family is what drives your world these days and it's going to be a beautiful thing to watch.

Happy Birthday, Boo! We love you!

To All the Germs I've Loved Before...

"who've traveled in and out my door..."

Do you ever feel like your family is in the cross-hairs of some vindictive bacteria crime syndicate? That each time you step outside your house (or maybe it's each time we step INSIDE our house), another loved one gets "offed" by the nasty buggers? Well, I'm about to go all Elliott Ness on their a##es with a can of Lysol and some Clorox...

Week the first: It started at Boy Wonder's birthday party a few weeks ago. Two days after swimming in the Alaska Club pool and climbing all over the Alaska Club rock wall, poor little Boo wanders out from his nap with one crusty, gnarly looking eye. By the next morning, both eyes are filled with goo and we're sitting at the urgent care clinic discussing bacterial conjunctivitis. Ewww. Seven days worth of stinging, smelly drops later, we seem to be OK. Well, other than Boy Wonder conveniently announcing to the entire crowded Old Navy store (on Christmas Eve) that "My baby brother has the gross pink eye!" This, after Boo has already wandered up and down the aisles man-handling the merchandise and touching every debit pin machine in the store. I gave a non-committal shrug and a weak smile and threatened the first grader's life in a low voice as we left the store. Snitch! (Yes, he takes after me...)

Week the second: P has an "ingrown hair" on his arm. He squeezes the CRAP outta the thing and within 15 minutes, his entire forearm and wrist have doubled in size and grown angry (pissed off!) red. Oh. Holy. Sh^%. In a house with two parents who do jiu jitsu and a dad who has wrestled since he could put a singlet on by himself, those types of reactions don't bode well so P jumps in his truck and gets the beasty-looking thing checked out. Hello, Staph!! Ten doses of cephalexin later, and we don't have to amputate his arm or build a shed in the back for him to sleep in. Yay! P can stay with the family with all his limbs in tact! Yay!

Week the present: It started out when Anchorage decided to melt all its snow and ice in a freak temperature drop this weekend. I wake up Monday with a stuffed nose and the inability to swallow anything solid. Great. By night, I'm trying to beat my children to bed at 7 p.m. and I'm colder than a Puffin in the Arctic. (I don't know if Puffins get cold. I just think they're cute.) Then I'm hot. Then I'm crying because my bones hurt whenever someone else breathes. (Stop breathing upstairs, dammit! You're hurting my back!) By Tuesday, I'm so doped up I think I'm fine until 4 p.m. hits and I can swallow, breath, or sit because the couch cushions are too hard and the noise from the television is making my leg cramp. One visit to our favorite urgent-care clinic (Hello again, Dr. Kilkenny! Have you named the new wing after our family yet?) and one giant Q-tip down the throat later and I have strep. Hooray for my long-time nemesis, group A beta-hemolytic streptococcus--the bane of my sick existence since I was 8-years-old. (Oh, how I miss the good ol' days...the blissful gland-yanking times before removing tonsils became faux pas...take mine, really. No, please take my damn tonsils.)

After a z-pack, a pot of Matzo ball soup, three gallons of gatorade, and a big ol' bottle of Tylenol, things are looking better. Not sure I'll tell P just how much better because I really, really love the concern and constant babying. But I'm definitely not in tears at the drop of the hat and my sense of smell and taste are returning. Hurrah!

You'll notice in this narrative how Boy Wonder has somehow gotten through unscathed, despite hosting the birthday party that started the bacteria festival rolling around here.

Ironic, right?

After last year's bout with Fifth Disease, he has earned his "get out the sick house free" card, but knowing our luck, the kid will have bronchitis before the week is out.

Here's hoping things are less germ-y where you are...and God Bless this wonderful, itchy, sneezy petri-dish of a home we have!

2011 Doesn't Scare Me!

Let's be honest here: 2010 ended with a bit of a stumble, trip, and slide across the finish line on my face. The energy was down. My feelings were always hurt. I had no motivation to do anything but fight with my loved ones and feel sorry for my fat, pregnant self. Great image, eh?

I talked about how I pulled myself together about 48 hours before Christmas and thank you, Jesus, for small miracles, right? But it was a close one and I'm pretty certain that neither my sanity (nor my marriage!) can survive too many more scrapes with the doom and glooms of that magnitude.

I love resolutions. I love thinking about them. I love writing them. And I love torturing myself for about nine days trying to keep them, but they never really make it to MLK Day, and that stinks. Last year I adopted the practice of the one-word resolution (I think I chose "brighten." Don't laugh, a##holes! I tried!) and it's something I'll do again for 2011...but not just yet. 'Cuz I don't have a word picked out at the moment--that's why!

So while I cogitate on my word for the year, I'd like to make a few observations I picked up in 2010 and hope they help me focus my efforts in 2011.

1) Marriage. With the right person, it's a blessed, chaotic, thrilling, tiring ride. With the right person, you're allowed to laugh and fight and not give up. That's a new concept for me--not giving up. Without a doubt, P is the rock that keeps me sane. I am so lucky God introduced me to such a stable man!!

2) Friends are the family you chose. OMG, doesn't that sound incredibly cliche? It does, I know, but this year more than ever, I learned that these girls that I read books with, that I drink coffee with, the special ones that I work with...these are my sisters. These are the stand-in aunties for my boys because their real aunties live on the other side of the country. Their children are my nieces and nephews and life would be incredibly dry and sad without them. I turn all hermit-y every once in a while and for that I apologize, but the bottom line is that my girlfriends make my world go round and I have learned how much I need them and need to be there for them.

3. Time flies. This has been a tough lesson in my 30s. All of a sudden the days and weeks fly by. Two weeks have come and gone and I haven't called my dad or mailed a postcard to my mom. I haven't gone to church or met my friends for coffee. Haven't gone to the gym or updated my beloved blogs. Good intentions sometimes remain just that...intentions. More than any other time in my life, I understand the sacredness of the gift God has given me. In the coming year, it's my goal to make the most out of the 1,440 minutes He's given me each day and do something with them...anything to make them count for my family and I.

I know, I know. A little cliche, but I had to get it out. I'll spend the day watching College Football and thinking about what I want to accomplish in 2011. And eating. I'll spend my day watching football, writing goals, and eating cinnamon rolls. Good plan.

Happy new year to all our friends and loved ones. Here's to a fantastic 2011!

Getting the most out of the season

I can't believe it's the day after Christmas already. For the first time in about two years, I took consecutive days off from work (on purpose and planned ahead!) and did nothing but run around like a mad woman and fight with my family. In other words, I prepared for the holidays.

In the midst of the madness, P and I took a look at each other and realized we were going to miss it all if we didn't slow down and soak it in. Because of custody agreements and crappy logistics, we only get our Boy Wonder every other Christmas...so if we spent this entire past week bickering and stressed...well, guess what? It would be another two years before we got to celebrate with him again. (Oh, gosh, I even hate reading those words.)

So long about Wednesday night, we called a time out. We ate dinner, gave the kids their baths, and loaded everyone up in their pjs into the truck. We stopped off and got hot chocolates from a coffee stand, and we went out in search of adventure. We found crappy light displays, great light displays, living nativity scenes (our personal favorites). We listened to the Christmas music station and we had a contest to see who was the most excited about Christmas. ("Me!" "No, mee!" "Meeeeeeeee!")

By the time Christmas eve rolled around, we were happy and in love with each other and the season again. Which is probably the ONLY reason I didn't freak out and cry when there were no seats at the Episcopal Christmas Eve mass and we had to leave. (Trust me, church is the LAST place you want to feel like you don't fit or belong. I hate it.) Packed back into the truck in our fancy church clothes, I made the off-hand joke that maybe we were a little like the first family thousands of years ago trying to find a place that had some room for them. So we kept going. And we found a church that I used to go to years ago and there was plenty of room and they were happy to see us. The feeling was mutual.

We stayed up late putting together plastic kitchens and basketball hoops and wrapping more presents than I remember buying. As I had just closed my eyes (at least it seemed that way) I heard a tiny voice saying "Mom! Santa came!" It was 3:30 a.m.

By 6:45 a.m., the destruction had hit and the boys were love drunk with new toys and stockings full of chocolate and match box cars. P was exhausted and had blisters on his hand from the 12-hour stint assembling toys. I was comatose and hid underneath my new electric blanket (yes!). My mom took a four-hour nap. But we had made it a beautiful Christmas with a little help and a lot of faith.

Merry Christmas and here's looking forward to an incredible new year.

Searching for this year's Christmas Eve-ning

Remember last Christmas Eve?

Well, I'm sure you do, but what I'm specifically referring to is the Christmas Eve traditions post I wrote last year. With shrimp and pajamas in place, sorta, (minus the spiced wine, thanks to the whole pregnancy thing...boo!), our family is in need of a "movie" that night to distract ourselves from the copious amounts of little shelled sea creatures that will sacrifice themselves for our holiday enjoyment.

My personal favorite is "It's a Wonderful Life," but let's face it...it's in black and white and is a little too introspective to attract the average dweller in my house. We love, love, love the Griswold's "Lampoon Christmas" and after the last couple weeks we've been having around here, well, let's just say maybe we can relate a little more than we should. Ha! But maybe I'm sending the wrong message with that one? (Listen, between the double pink eye infection Boo got himself and the epic meltdowns and face-scratching arguing in these walls, it's enough to want to give up all together and break out the prozac...but we can't. 'Cause that would be cheating ourselves out of the wonder and magic and chaos of the season, right?! That, and we all really like presents around here. Just sayin'.)

Boy Wonder likes "Santa Buddies" and Boo is all about the Caillou Christmas Special (Yuck!). P loves the original "Santa Clause" movie from the 80s and I'm too wrapped around the clothing and hairstyles to let the message sink in much. And me, well, with my penchant for old movies, you can bet I'm usually up late during the holidays watching Turner Classic Movies by myself.

So, if you have a favorite, let me have it. Odd, hard to find, out of date...send them my way. Our Christmas Eve may very well depend on you! (Well, maybe not so much, but at least you might save us from an evening of Santa Buddies and Caillou! Ugh!)

Good luck surviving the last few days of the Christmas crush...we've got a few days left and my to-do list is miles long (including the nagging desire to make these salted caramels! Nums!)

xoxo
me

Seven is a grand number

Just ask Boy Wonder.

Last week he had his birthday and I'm still having a hard time remembering that he's no longer five...let alone SEVEN!

I started the letter-writing tradition last year and figured I'd keep it going as long as he seemed interested in hearing them. So here goes.

Dear D,

Seven!!! I can hardly believe it. Just yesterday I was baking you a dino-cake for your fifth birthday at the museum, and now here you are all grown up and leaving me on the side of the pool while you swim with your friends.

There are no two ways about it, Sir...you are born to swim. In the past year we've dipped our toes in the proverbial pools of about a million sports and activities and they all stick for about 14.5 minutes before you'd rather stay home and watch cartoons than brave the cold weather. But not with swimming. From the moment we started your first lesson when you were three, swimming has been the one thing you never tire of. And you're good at it, kid. We like to joke that with that stretch torso and long legs, you're bound to put Michael Phelps to shame some day. Could happen...

First grade started off as a challenge. Not really because you weren't prepared, more because it was new people and new experiences that were waiting for you after your trip to Texas this summer. You weren't overly thrilled for me to leave your classroom on the first day and after the SHOVE out the door you gave me on your first day of kindergarten, I have to admit I kind of liked it! But you did fine. You've made some great friends who come over and eat all our food and never want to leave because our house is so, well, animated? Yes... that's a good word for it.

You shine in math, little man. Numbers are kind of like legos and you figure out places to put them and make it work. I'm amazed. You're on the road to reading and it's exciting to watch the wheels turn in that brilliant head of yours.

You're learning that being a big brother isn't always easy and sometimes a toddler is a challenge...especially when you have to let go of the power struggle, despite the fact that you're bigger. It's just what you do, kiddo, and you get it. You're protective of Andrew in a fierce, loyal way. I'll probably never forget the hike we took as a family at the end of the summer and Andrew did what wild, carefree toddlers do...he wandered off the path and into the thick of things. The tears on your face were real and you would not calm down until I had him back within arm's reach and safe from the dreaded Cow Parsnip! But that's you...even at such a young age you think it's your job to keep the ones you love safe and happy.

As you grow, I pray you learn balance...that sometimes your job is just to be a kid and laugh, fart, and get in trouble for putting gum in the dog's fur or something harmless like that (though be warned, you will learn what grounding is sooner or later and if you're anything like me, you'll spend a good portion of 4th through 6th grade under house arrest!)

Six flew by, my love. I see a pattern now, and it's bittersweet. Before long, we'll be packing up your room and shipping you off to college (Texas A&M, hopefully! ha!)...but not yet. You're still the boy who wanders around the house with one boxing glove on and a kitchen spoon tucked into your belt like a weapon...and I love you so much for it.

Always,

me