Things I've learned from being sick

The other night, almost simultaneously, everyone in my house started throwing up. I couldn't get from one person to the next fast enough to hand them bowls and ended up with a lot of soiled blankets (but hey, for the first time ever, my kids didn't get the carpet--I call that a success). Next, my husband started in. I wasn't feeling so good myself and decided to sleep on the couch where I could hop up easily without disturbing Bryan. Around 5:45 the bug caught me, too. Let me tell you, this thing was nasty. All I wanted to do was lie there and moan. I could not get up to help anyone else after that. Completely incapacitated, I laid there the next morning as the trash truck drove by without stopping at our house for the second week in a row, because, for the second week in a row, we had failed to put our trash out. And let me tell you, that trash needed to go out. But it was a simple impossibility. As I lay on the couch, staring at the ceiling, I learned a few things.

When I'm really sick--

1. I don't care that the baby has smashed banana into the carpet. Okay, I care a little, but not enough to get up and wipe it up.

2. I don't care if I have to watch the Hannah Montana movie three times in a row, because no one has the energy to get up and change the movie.

3. I'm highly emotional when I'm sick. It's almost like being pregnant. I cry at everything, even the end of the Hannah Montana movie when she sings, "The Climb." Ridiculous!

4. I don't care if Addy also spills Lucky charms all over the carpet. I didn't have the energy to get up and vaccuum it up. All day I laid there looking at the cereal-strewn carpet thinking, "I should really clean that up." But I couldn't.

5. I don't care who calls me, I'm not answering the phone. I'm not. Part of this is because the phone is hooked to the wall, and I can't get up to get to it. Part is because I just don't want to talk when I'm sick. So if you called me, I'm truly sorry. Kinda.

6. I can't write when I'm sick. It should be the opportune time to write. I'm down, without the ability to get up and my lap top is sitting next to me. But I just can't. I don't know why. My mind wasn't sick, nor my fingers, but the last thing I wanted to do was write.

7. It's the perfect time to read. People have been handing me books to read, right and left, but since I've gotten back into writing, it's hard to find the time to read other people's books and write my own. I know a lot of authors or aspiring authors who seem to still read tons, but I wonder what their house looks like or if they know some magic trick that adds an extra five hours to every day. I can't do both very well. I either read or I write. Usually, writing wins out.

On that note, I will say this. I was laying there on the couch thinking, "How am I going to make it through this long, boring, exhausting day when the fedex man rang the doorbell. My sweet son pulled himself up off the floor and answered it. Then he brought me a box. Hallelujah and all that--it was Allyson Condie's new book, "Being Sixteen." I laid there all day, reading, laughing and crying. And all I can say is that I love that book. You should all read it. It's about a sixteen year old girl who goes into her junior year of high school full of hope and expectations, only to have everything she'd been hoping for fall out from under her. But she pulls it back together in the end. It's realistic, sweet, frustrating, full of family, a little romance, and trials. All the good things a Young Adult message driven book should be.

You should all read it.

And trust me, the next time your whole family is bombarded with the stomach flu, it's okay for the house to be dirty, to get nothing accomplished, and to read a really good book. But now, I have to get up and clean up this mess.

Battle of the Tie

Yesterday my husband decided to make us all a real authentic Mexican dinner, with homemade tortillas, fish tacos (which I love) and Mexican hot chocolate. It was family night so he told us all to hop in the car so we could go purchase the ingredients.

The kids and I were sitting in the garage waiting for Bryan who was taking way too long. Finally, he climbs in the car and this is what he says, "You washed my tie in the washing machine. It's ruined and now I'll have to throw it in the trash!"
There is snarling and huffing to accompany this comment. Of course I get my back up and say, "Why did you throw your tie in the laundry then?" In my defense, I never saw the tie when I was putting the clothes in.
He denies that any of the fault lies with him even though HE threw the tie into the laundry pile.

I will admit this is a flaw of mine. I do not love doing laundry in any way. I do not like, sorting, dumping it in the washer or adding the soap. I do not love listening to the washer swish around so loudly that it sounds like a freight train running through my basement. I do not love rotating everything to the dryer. And I definitely do not love folding the laundry or putting it away. I do not love looking into my children's drawers and closets only to find that they did a hasty job of putting their own pile away. You get the picture.

For years my husband has tried to convince me that I should go through each and every pocket of everyone's clothes to make sure there are no crayons, candy wrappers or tissues, but I concede that this responsibility belongs to each person and not to me--the Mom.

Back to the story. We bickered over this the whole two miles to Walmart until I told my husband that it was JUST a tie and it could be replaced, unlike our relationship which was much more valuable than a tie. Yes, I'm good with the wife-guilt. That was the end of the battle, though I'm sure I haven't won the war. And who knows, maybe you think he's right. I'm humble, give it to me straight. Vote in my poll.

Who knows, maybe if I lose, I'll buy him a new tie to break the news.

PS-As Dora would say, the dinner was delicioso!

It's Burning!

Lately, my daughter Emma has been requesting to hear my own work as a bedtime story rather than a traditional book. Tonight, Will and Emma were lying in my bed, listening as I read part of the new story I'm working on. It's a romance, but it has rivalry and football, so Will was interested.

I got to a part where the main boy is about to express his undying love for the main girl. My kids could feel it coming. Will started squirming, and said, "I don't want to hear it. I know what's coming. I'm not listening." Then he covered his ears. But Emma insisted that I continued.

As soon as I started reading the actual confession of love Will started writhing on the bed, covering his ears and yelling, "It's burning!"

I don't know why, but I thought that was hysterical. And I wanted to share.

Things I Love and Don't

I stole this from Becca's blog, I think, or maybe it was Melanie's. Either way, kuddos to them both for having a great idea when you can't think of anything life-changing to write.

Love: A good book that has everything: romance, suspence, good conquering evil.
Hate: When someone turns that really good book into a cruddy movie. (Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince, Twilight, Anne of Green Gables: A New Beginning (but of course I own and watch them all, as if they'll age like a fine wine.))

Love: When my kids make me a present because they love me so much.
Hate: When they leave a huge mess from the present that they made me.

Love: To visit my parents.
Hate: When I've been there too long and my dad starts in on all the reasons we should move back.

Love: To visit my cousins in Utah.
Hate: That they live in Utah! (Only because it's far away not because I don't like Utah, because I do love Utah.)

Love: When I feel passionate about a new story that I'm starting. Love getting to know those new characters.
Hate: When I've tried to start a story so many times and I hit a brick wall each and every one of them. I'm finally learning that no matter how badly I want it, sometimes it's just not going to work. I'm so stubborn it's only taken me nine tries and countless bruises (from banging my forehead against that wall)to figure out that Cole just isn't going to get a story. Sorry, Cole. (Thank goodness he's fictional)At least for now. See, I'm still stubborn. I can't give up on him completely because I adore his character.

Love: When I find out that someone I know wants to write a book and actually does it. Go, Mikey! You'll be rich some day!
Hate: When someone I know says they want to write a book but I can tell they're never really going to do it. I'm the perpetual cheerleader and believe that people should live their dreams.

Love: Chocolate
Hate: Chocolate with mint. I know, I know, I'm not normal.

Love: To watch my kids when they're sleeping--no one can fight, talk back, cry or whine when they're asleep.
Hate: That they will grow up and I won't get to see that anymore. I'll just have to watch Bryan sleep. He's cuter when he's asleep, too.

I'll get a little sentimental now. I was kissing Cole--the real one--all over his cute little cheeks this morning and for once he was just standing there letting me.

He said, "Mom, why are you kissing me on my face today?" This whole time I'm still kissing him as he giggles.
I said, "Because someday you're going to grow up and I won't be able to do this anymore."
He said, "Mom, it's okay. I'll move next door and you can still kiss me on my cheeks even when I grow up."

Awww! I love that guy.

"But," I told him, "It probably won't be normal for me to kiss you all over your face when you're a man. Your wife might not like that. They'll be her cheeks to kiss then."

So we decided that I can kiss his kids' cheeks.

I think it sounds like a perfect idea.

Wake Up Calls

This last week has been an eye-opener. And I'm pretty sure I don't like it.

Wake up call number 1: I have a sister in law who has been widowed for eight years. She is raising three kids alone and doing a really good job. BUT, sometimes, (because she is human) she gets frustrated and overwhelmed. A few years ago when I was visiting she was having a little meltdown and one of her kids ended up crying. She admitted to me that she yells at her kids just about every day and that they cry just as often. Now, before you judge, listen to what I have to say.

I thought I was a pretty good mom. Not perfect, but pretty good. But then Bryan left last week and I realized, I'm seriously lacking. I've been frustrated and crabby and just not nice. All week I've been blaming it on my kids, but it's not their fault. It's mine.

I've gained empathy plus 1 for my dear sis in law. I'm fairly confident that my husband will be home, safe and sound in a week and a half. This single-mommyhood is just a temporary gig. But for SIL, it's permanent. There is no one coming home to help her tonight. When her daughter has piano at the same time that son number two has baseball and son number three has Cub Scouts she can't just pick up her cell and ask her husband to save the day. She is the Saver, the Giver and the Everything.

All week I've wanted to wrap my arms around my husband and give him a hug. I've been craving it. There's nothing like an unsatisfied craving. But what about an eight year long craving?

Wake up call number 2: I've taken my mom for granted the last few years. I haven't spent enough time talking to her and listening to her problems. She's been caught up in her activities and I've been caught up in mine. So when she sent me an email telling me that she'd had a ministroke the other day, I realized that I pretty much stink as a daughter. I've wasted too much time and I need to make it up. I need to be better to her because she loved me like no other woman could have when I was a teenager. She is the reason I have a testimony and she is the reason that I am decent and good and that I know how to love.

My friend told me earlier today--I guess there's always tomorrow. Most of the time this is true. But someday, for everyone, there is no tomorrow. At least not in earthly days or minutes. Eventually tomorrow runs dry.

So, I'm getting off my computer now and I'm going to go kiss each of my children on their sweet little faces before I kneel down and thank my Heavenly Father for my amazing family. I hope you'll do the same.

The Greatest Joy and The Greatest Frustration

Of course I'm talking about my kids. How is that my oldest can be so good at the piano yet he throws a fit for the first ten minutes of practicing every day? And how is it that son number two is so dextrous that he can take apart and rebuild just about anything yet he CAN NOT make his own bed? And why is my baby so cute yet at the same time such a terror? She's into everything and can trash the house just as quickly as her older siblings. And then there's the oldest girl. She's such a joy but she just can't clean up after her art projects or the fort she built yesterday, even though she promised that she would before she started. Even the dog is irritating. Why is she so sweet and gentle (everyone's dream dog) except that she rips open trash and pees on the carpet. Sigh. I told my husband dogs belong outside. Never again.

All of this is happening, mind you, while my husband is MIA.

I guess my real question is--Why does parenting have to be so dang hard?

I know, I know, it's payback for all the suffering I put my own parents through.

My Soapbox

So a sort-of relative of mine posted an article link as his Facebook status today. It was all about Twilight and the awful things girls learn from these books. Grrr. People who harp on Stephenie Meyer really chap me. I want to shake my fist in the air and yell, "Have you seen the book choices available to your teenage daughter at Wal-mart or Barnes and Noble or their own school library? Have you?" Well, I have and they are sad, sad, sad.

Now, I'm not saying that I would want my thirteen year old reading about how Bella feels faint as Edward runs his lips up her jawline. That's not my point at all. My point is this: at any given moment you can walk into Wal-mart in the YA romance section and pull a book off the shelve, flip open to any random page and there is most likely going to be a swear word (the really bad kind), or some reference to sex. I have bought a few of these books as 'research' and promptly had to huck them in the trash when I was done, or maybe before I even finished the book. I no longer buy them at all. They leave me feeling yucky and darker for having read them. I don't feel that way when I read Twilight. I don't feel amazingly wonderful like I do when I read my scriptures, but at least when I read Twilight, I don't have to shiver to shake off the invisible crud left behind after reading all those other books.

So I say, "Stephenie Meyer--you go girl!" No you didn't change my life and no I don't want to go out and do good in the world after reading about your vegetarian vampires. But hey, at least you got girls to love reading and to see how amazing a good book can really be.

Good People Everywhere

Today was an interesting day for me and not just because I had a tube shoved down my throat and all the innards sucked out of my lungs. I was reminded of something I sometimes forget. I think it's easy, being a member of the church, to get puffed up and think that God loves us above all else. I usually don't struggle with this because I live in good old southwest Virginia where the Mormons are scattered and spread. I'm surrounded by non-members. But sometimes I need a reminder.

I was kicking myself this morning when my brother dropped me off in front of the hospital for my outpatient procedure. The reason for the self-induced beating is this: My husband left last night at midnight for a three week vet school rotation in Mexico. I'd meant to ask him for a blessing before he left. (Maybe I'm a baby but I get a little nervous when people talk about knocking me out and stuffing things inside my body!) I forgot to get the blessing.

So then I thought, I'll just get my brother to do it before I walk into the hospital. As soon as he pulled away from the curb the kicking commenced. My hand reached down for my cell to call him and tell him to come back, but I hesitated too long. By the time I walked into endoscopy, my heart was racing and my palms were sweating. What did i just do? I need a man with the priesthood to put his hands on my head! This is what my brain was screaming. Thank goodness none of the people in the waiting room could actually hear me.

It is probably a large possibility that at any given time you could find a priesthood holder to give you a blessing at the hospital...in, oh say, Utah! In Radford, Virginia, not so much.

But then the craziest thing happened. First of all I was praying for dear life, literally. Then the first nurse came in and began chatting with me. I can't remember much of what she said because my brain was still sreaming at me for being such an idiot. But I did ask her if I was going to die. She looked at me like I'd lost my mind and said, "Don't say that in here! We don't talk about such things!" We had a good laugh for a moment. Then Polly, the phlebotomist came in. She asked me what book I was reading and I held it up for her to see.

Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet by Jamie Ford.

(See, I'm trying to be good and support my fellow LDS writers) That led to a discussion about the Book Club she'd started for the Endoscopy wing ladies (all the nurses, and anesthesiologists, doctors, etc.) She went on telling me about some of the books she'd read. One was a very spiritual one. So then I found out that she was very religious.

Oh Happy Day!

I felt so much better knowing she was a pray-er and that she was taking care of me. Next came in the Anesthesiologist. She hopped into our conversation and come to find out she's a Twilight fan, just like me. I was brave and admitted that Stephenie Meyer belongs to the same church as me. Of course Polly asked what church that was. So I looked right into her eyes and said, "The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints."

No gasping or faces turning red. She just gave me a smile. So then I was brave and told her about another book they could read for book club--since she'd liked my idea about the Jamie Ford book. So I told her about The Kingdom and The Crown series by Gerald Lund. My brain scanned into its recessed really quickly (which was a good thing because a few minutes later that was no longer a possibility) to make sure it wasn't Mormon-y. Nope, it's fine. She was thrilled and wrote the name down and insisted this would be their next book.

SWEET!

Somehow she mentioned to the anesthesiologist that I was worried and she too, the anesthesiologist, insisted that she had prayed this morning and would take good care of me.

Polly left for a few minutes and then ran back in my room to tell me that Mike, the Nurse Anesthetist that would be helping out was also religious, had even studied at the Seminary for a while.

And then walked in my doctor. I love this man. He is constantly reassuring me that I'm going to live a nice long life. I'll be here to kiss my grand-babies on their cute chubby cheeks and sit in that rocking chair next to my husband on the porch when we both wear dentures. He walked in and squeezed my hand. I looked up at him and said, "Did you pray today, Dr. Leslie?" He smiled and said, "I pray for my patients everyday. Yes, I prayed this morning."

Aw, sweet relief.

No, I didn't get my blessing, but Heavenly Father was watching out for me anyway. And it went perfectly.

I love this place where I live, down in the deep, cold, sweet smelling Appalachian Mountains, where the Good Christian Folk can be found everywhere you turn. I'm breathing it in deep tonight.