iPrank

Parental fail.
You recognize it when you're in the middle of it, but by then it's usually too late.

So let me tell you about Kearstin's 'big gift' for Christmas 2014.
I'll start by listing all the things we did right.

1.  We bought her an iPhone 5S.

Yep, that's pretty much the only thing we did right.

As you know, the goal with any Christmas gift, much less the big gift, is to see their face when they open it with the family at Christmas.  Her current phone had to be mailed back within 7 days of receiving her new phone.  The dilemma arose when we received her new phone 2 weeks before Christmas.  Crap. 

How do we get her old phone away from her for a week without telling her about her new phone?

We discussed options:
Tell her about the new phone?  (Unthinkable!)
Ground her and take away her phone?  (Hard to justify doing that to a 15 year old who gets straight A's and shows zero signs of teenage rebellion...knock on wood...) 

That was pretty much the end of our options list.
Until one night, an option presented itself.

We were leaving her basketball game on a cold rainy night and she didn't want to get her cheer shoes wet so she jumped into Ron's arms and he carried her out to the van.  Somewhere along the way, she dropped her phone and while Ron and I searched the dark parking lot, an idea occurred.  "Let's not tell her when we find her phone!"

It doesn't matter whose idea it was, okay?  Why throw around names?  I mean, history would indicate that it was Ron, right?  So let's just go with that.

Get off my back, it was me, alright?!?  IT. WAS. ME!!!

When Ron found her phone, he slipped it to me, I hid it in my purse and we climbed back into the van explaining that it was too dark and told her someone would surely find it and turn it into the office.

As I gave Ron a sly smile and a thumbs up, the sobbing began in the backseat.  What the...

I looked back to see tears streaming down her face.  Ron gave me his frantic what do we do gesture.  I answered with my how the crap am I supposed to know gesture. 

By the time we arrived home, we'd decided that as much as it pained us, we had no choice but to fess up and give her the new phone.  I mean we couldn't have an honor student sobbing around the house for a week acting like a normal hormonal teenager.  Geesh. 

While she lay in her bed crying, Ron and I unpacked the new phone and he said, "Oh, no...this isn't her phone...this is yours.  Merry Christmas."  Son of a !!! 

So we headed to her room to crush her soul twice in one night.  I put a phone in each hand and both hands behind my back.  In my cheeriest mom voice I said, "Hey Kearstin, pick a hand!"  She looked at me like I'd just said, "Who wants to go to the doctor to get her shots?"  It took 5 long minutes of convincing, but she finally decided to put an end to this psychotic game and pick a hand.  I pulled out my arm and revealed her old phone and smiled and said, "It's not lost!"  and waited for her to jump out of bed and give me a hug.  Instead she screamed "WHY DO YOU HATE ME?!?"   I said, "Wait!  Pick another hand!!!"  and she screamed, "GET. OUT!!!!"

Holy crap, we've unleashed the teen years.
I whipped my head to Ron who shrugged with his deer in the headlights look.

If our bottom-of-the-parental-barrel "pick a hand" move isn't solving this, we're screwed.  

So I pulled out the new phone and put it in front of her.  The sobs stopped as her eyes adjusted to what she was seeing.  She looked up at me with her tear stained face, gave me a huge grin and said,
"Is this mine?!?"

"Well, no, this one's actually mine."

We totally rock this parenting thing.

Remembrance and Resolution, 2015

The only resolution I felt God telling me last January was to 'Be still.'  I didn't understand why or know what it meant.  Looking back, I see it as the warning I didn't heed.

If my life were a snow globe, 2014 was the year somebody picked it up and shook the crap out of it, or as I call it, 'The year my children tried to kill me.'

I survived, albeit with 8 extra pounds, 12 new wrinkles and countless stray grays popping out of the top of my head every time I look in the mirror, but I survived.

Event after event after event and in between events was all the prep work for the next event.  Bridal showers, graduations, marriages, baby showers, holidays, birthdays, receptions, parties, work,...life...and the panic within of what mine would look like when the snow in my globe finally settled to the bottom.

My remembrance of 2014 is as the year of change.  On every level.  Change.

Half of my children moved out of our home.  We're a family of 4.  They each married their best friend.  We're a family of 8.  I left my job at the salon, cut my massage hours down to one day a week in my home office and in a leap of faith, jumped into the world of Freelance Writing.  I still don't know what that even means, but I know that God told me to do it.  Other aspects of my life that I won't share were suddenly altered.  Things around me that I never thought would change.  Boom.  Changed.

Basically, most of 2014 spun wildly out of my control and let's just keep it real here.  Although a lot of it was good, I spent most of it in fear.

Then, on November 12th, something amazing happened.  My son and his wife welcomed a son who will call me 'Sassy.'  And with that, we're a family of 9.  Different.  Natural.  A new normal. 

There are two images in my mind of this past year that I want to carry into the next.  The first is an anchor.  On the surface, I might feel like a ship rocking wildly out of control as life's storms rage and the waves of circumstance crash against me.  But as long as I'm tethered to the One who is holding me firmly in place, I'm safe.
'We have this hope as an anchor for the soul, firm and secure'.  ~Hebrews 6:19~

The second is a seed.  What good does it do to keep it held tightly in our hand where we think it's safe under our control when we're actually preventing it from becoming what it's ultimately meant to be?  The harvest of the seed comes after it's break through the shell.  We have to let go.

Growth through pain.
Beauty from change.

As I sit in my office recliner with my laptop on my leg and my grandson in my arms, the crashing waves have settled to a relaxing ripple that soothingly sway me in the calm after the storm and I look ahead to the new year of unknown.

My resolution for 2015 is to practice really trusting God.  Sounds simple, but I'll have to constantly remind myself that nothing is going to rock my world that He doesn't already know about, hasn't prepared me for, or won't bring beauty from in the end.

Therefore, I'll allow Him to unclench my fingers and spend this year with open hands, sewing seeds into the roles that He's entrusted to me; wife, mother, sassy, writer, massage therapist and yes, zumba instructor because as Ecclesiastes reminds us, there is most certainly a time to dance. 

Aaaaaand I'm gonna lose the 8 lbs, find a super powerful face cream, diligently visit my hair stylist...and most of all, the next time I feel God telling me to Be Still, I'm gonna freakin crawl into bed and sleep till it passes.

Hey, I can't let go of everything at once here, people.

A (Birth) Day In The Life

With my birthday falling a couple weeks before Christmas, it's not uncommon for my gift of choice to be family portraits.  Therefore, it's also not uncommon for my birthday to end in disaster.

You might remember our attempt to include our gassy dogs back in 2002 that infamously went down in history as Family Photo Day.  Ron swore off dog-inclusive family portraits after that one.

You might not know about our experience last year because it's taken me a year to muster the courage to go public with it.  A photographer rented out a space in Walmart for 'Antique Canvas Photos' and Ron decided to surprise me.  It was scheduled 2 weeks post-tummy tuck.  Still not able to move around well, I was hopped up on Vicodin and made the fateful decision to venture out of the house without my safety net...the velcro wrap that squeezed me tight.  There was snow on the ground and as we left the house Caymen said, "I won't get snow on my dress, will I?"  and I said, "Not if everything goes well."
Why didn't I just say "Yep.  Vomit too."  Sometimes it's like I've never met us before.

Ten minutes down the road, the gagging started for who knows why.  Ron pulled over and Zac started videoing, because he's been in this family long enough to know.  (click here to watch if you dare.) It began with Caymen jumping out of the van and falling down.  Snow on dress.  It went down hill from there.  Mind you, this video will win me no Mother Of The Year awards, but I've accepted it for what it is.  I'll blame my gag reflex and the Vicodin.  But if you're appalled by this and you read my blog at all, you've probably already decided that we shouldn't be friends anyway.  I can't blame you.

Anyhoo, if you listen closely, you'll hear Ron swear off family portraits.  Again. But unlike last time, we didn't turn around and go home, because you might've also heard Ron say, "I paid $20 for this!"

So we walked into Walmart; Ron disgusted, me slightly bent at the waist and moving slowly, Caymen permeating a foul odor in her now splotchy white dress and all of us disheveled.

But thanks to our inappropriate sense of humor, it all turned around when the photographer had Ron get down on his knees and then she turned to me and said, "Mom, you'll go down on dad here."  I think we maybe could've held it together but then Zac said, "I didn't realize it was those kinds of pictures"...and we lost it.

As it turns out, Antique-style canvas completely disguises vomit, but this photo has yet to be displayed in our home.

That brings us to this year.  Our family now includes a new son-in-law, daughter-in-law and grandson, so it only made sense that for my birthday, I would want family portraits.  When Ron groaned, I explained that the photographer would come to us this time.  We don't even have to leave the house.  That makes it fool-proof.

Aaaaand, since we're talking fool-proof, we may as well include the dogs.

There was no way I could've known they'd be covered in mud when we let them in from outside.

Merry Christmas...

 ...from what Ron promises to be our last family portrait session ever.

Gramm-o-mam

The words have become synonymous.

Annual. Mammogram.

No biggie.  Because in my mind, this little ritual has absolutely nothing to do with my age, but rather the distant connection of breast cancer in my bloodline.  It's a completely non-age-related formality to put my mind at ease and that's all it is.  The fact that this became an annual tradition the year I turned 40 is neither here nor there.  I mean, come on, their first question to me when I check in is always "Do you have breast implants?"  Not yet, but that's so sweet of you to think I might.

This, my 3rd annual mammogram, pushing my 43rd year on this earth, was not a big deal.  I still run, I still Zumba, I still lift weights and still buy my clothes in the Kohl's Juniors Dept...I mean, really, nothing has changed.

Sure, half of my children got married and moved out this year, we have a grandson, our 3rd child is getting her driver's permit this week and our baby Caymen has an adult tooth pushing through her gums that we fear might be larger than her face, but other than that, no change.  Nada.  Everything.  Same.

I showed up to my mammogram last month with no dread...and no deodorant and no lotions and no perfume and no powder and no jewelry...and no dread.  I'm going to put on a gown blouse, a very nice lady is going to throw me the implants question, I'm going to feign surprise and humbly thank her for the compliment, then she's going to apologetically invade my personal space, place each boob between 2 pieces of plexiglass and flatten them beyond all recognition while I tap into my socially adequate side and attempt small talk, thus making this process way more awkward and uncomfortable for her than for me.  This ain't my first rodeo.

So when the technician came into the room and I couldn't tell if it was a woman or man, let's just say I was thrown off my game.  As quickly and as casually as I could, I glanced down to the name on the smock.   

Pat. 

Holy crap, I've stumbled into a Saturday Night Live skit, and the theme song started through my head.  While my mind sang, "a lot of people say what's that...it's Pat..." I realized I was being asked a question.

Um, could you repeat that?
Barely hiding frustration, Pat repeated, "Do you have regular menstrual periods?"

What. The. H***. Is that supposed to mean.

My socially inadequate side that is my comfort zone wanted to say, I'd like to ask you the same thing...aaaand, if I had my Victoria Secret bra on, these things would be standing 6 inches higher and you'd be asking me about my implants right now.  Boom.

But instead, I said, "OF COURSE I DO!" because I've been working on the Fruit of the Spirit of self control.  You're welcome, Pat.

What followed were 15 of the most awkward minutes of my life and that says a lot because I've had an awful lot of awkward minutes in this life.

If you know me at all, you know I was dying to ask.  I had to clamp my teeth on my tongue to keep not asking.  Fifteen long minutes, face to face, while I was man-(woman?)-handled when all I wanted to do was ask Pat one question.  The question.  I wanted to know.  I needed to know. How could I leave there without asking...

DO YOU REALLY THINK I'M OLD ENOUGH TO BE IN MENOPAUSE?!?!

In silence, I let my boob roll off the plexiglass and smack back into place before jerking my gown closed.

Now if you'll excuse me, Pat.
I have a grandson next door in the birthing center.

Good day, sir...or whatever...

Tuck-date

Yesterday marked the anniversary of my tummy tuck.  People still tell me their stories and ask about the procedure.  Ron says he's not sure which is scarier; how freely people ask to see my stomach or how willingly I show them.  I guess I don't hesitate because it still doesn't feel like me.  It's more like I'm just showing them my new ironing board.

So I thought a little anniversary update might be in order.

My final follow-up with the doctor was last January.  The nurse asked me if any stitches were coming out.  I told her those were all taken out in December.  She explained that sometimes internal stitches make their way to the surface and will begin to protrude through the incision.

Well, THAT'S not going to happen because Jesus loves me.

So when the doctor came in to look at my incision and said, "You've got stitches coming out,"  I questioned my entire existence.  Again.

Two nights later, while climbing out of the bath, (note that all bad tummy tuck related incidents happen after bathing), what appeared to be a knotted piece of white fishing wire had broken through my incision.  Enter Ron armed with a pair of tweezers, scissors and a manic grin on his face.  When he asked if I thought I would "actually pass out" if he just kept pulling the stitch until it broke off or if it would open my incision like a zipper, I explained that the future of our marriage rested solely on this moment.

I'm still trying to forgive him for the delay as he mentally weighed the risk and reward before quickly and uneventfully snipping it off while Caymen watched.  Oh the things our children see around here. 

But that was the last of my recovery drama.

The surgery had it's desired effect.  I'm still not miraculously a size 4, but I don't have to debate whether to button my jeans over or under my roll anymore, either.  I still face a life long battle of a love for food, an addiction with the scale and a compulsion to exercise, but it is what it is. 

I still don't have much feeling, especially around and below my belly button.  Which, speaking of the new belly button, nobody is allowed to touch it, pretend to touch it or talk about touching it, and Zac describes it as "That things not natural."  I consider that my penance for ruining the one God gave me.

And while we're on the topic of that's not natural, my emotional attachment to the velcro girdle lasted through May.  I thought I could do without it for a weekend away in April, but ended up in a full blown anxiety attack that finally ended when Ron wrapped a towel around my midsection and squeezed me.  That gesture speaks to his unconditional love for me, which makes it easier to overlook him saying, "You know you're a freak, right?" while we stood swaying in the hotel bathroom.

Side note; much to our surprise we were informed by our accountant that my procedure qualified as an out of pocket medical expense and we claimed it on our taxes, so I guess you could say it was tucks deductible. 

Barring any unforeseen freak of nature surprises, this should conclude the Tucks Series which works out well because I've run out of ways to inappropriately use the word tuck.

If my doctor noticed a decrease in business because of me, I offer my deepest apologies.  But if he happened to gain some new patients and would like to offer me a discount on a couple of implants, I'd be more than happy to blog that experience and do my best to rack him up some more.

Stay tuned, because just maybe, the breast is yet to come...

Your final look at my new stomach...unless of course you ask to see it, in which case, I'll apparently whip up my shirt and happily oblige.

Fright Night

It was a Saturday night and Ron took the older kids to see a horror movie and then through some haunted caves.  They dubbed it 'Fright Night' and I wanted nothing to do with it.

I planned a fun quiet evening for Caymen and myself at home.  An evening that unexpectedly kicked off with a dog fight.  Not a playful oh-look-how-cute-they-are-wrestling dog fight.  No no.  This started over a rawhide chew stick and ended with Quincy attached to Summer's face, drool flying, me screaming and throwing things at them while Caymen cried until it finally broke up and they bolted into separate rooms.

I broke the awkward silence that followed.
"Ok!  Who wants to make cookies?"

A fast food dinner of her choice eventually consoled her.  "Can we take the dogs, mommy?"
You've gotta be kidding me.  But seeing as she'd just witnessed me pelting them with 2 tv remotes and a cell phone, I caved.

I loudly asked the question that brings our dogs running.  "Who wants to go bye bye?!"

Apparently I'd been forgiven because they all showed up in the foyer.  While I gathered my purse and keys Caymen yelled, "Where's Summer's eye?!"  What the... I looked down to see her wagging her tail and excitedly looking up at me with one normal eye and what appeared to be a bloody hole where the other one should have been.

Oh my dear Lord, as I teetered between vomiting and passing out.  Blissfully unaware, Summer anxiously waited with Tia and Quincy for me to open the door and I suggested that maybe Summer should stay home.  Caymen scolded, "You already said bye bye.  You'll hurt her feelings if you don't take her now."

I'd have so much more power here if she hadn't seen my involvement in that dog fight.  "FINE!!"  Then I sealed the deal by opening the garage door and saying, "Load up."

That's when I realized Ron had taken the van and there sat his giant pick-up truck, the back end loaded down and piled high with stuff intended for the dump with Caymen's old motorized police car balanced on the very top of the junk pile.

I looked down at Caymen with pleading eyes but she firmly said, "I guess we're taking the truck."  Dammit.

Tia and Quincy sat in the front with me while Summer jumped into the back with Caymen.  As we pulled out of the driveway I heard Caymen say, "Just don't look at me, Summer."
Can't blame her there.

We miraculously made it the 20 miles to the Wendy's drive-thru without the police car flying off the back, placed our order and pulled around to the window where all hell broke loose.  Quincy began barking and trying to climb through the window toward the attendant, which prompted Tia's low threatening growl that combined with her 90 lb German Shepherd body is enough to scare the pee down someone's leg, and then Caymen started screaming from the back seat, "She's looking at me!!!" over and over while Summer sat on her lap.

These are the moments when we count it a success if nobody calls the police on us.

When Ron got home we compared evenings.
Him:  "Ours wasn't that scary."
Me:  "Ours was terrifying."

Update:  Summer went to the vet.  Turns out her eye isn't gone, but it either rolled into the back of her head or something about dogs having a 3rd eyelid.  I don't know.  The important thing is, the eye is back.  It's bloodshot, doesn't blink and it's always looking off to the right, but hey, it's back. 

In other dog news this week:  Tia awoke with explosive diarrhea in the middle of the night, I turned on the hose in our pitch dark yard to wash out her cage, a startled bird flew out from under the overhang, slapped me in the side of the face and I spent the next 48 hours cooking her giant servings of rice and force feeding her doses of Pepto Bismol.

But I digress.  That wasn't fright night.
Around here we call that Wednesday.

Happy Halloween

 From our freak show to yours.

Anti-Socially-Awkward

Prepare yourself for a little insight into our personalities because I feel like this title might become an ongoing sequel.  You've been warned.

Opposites attract. 
So many areas we could discuss, but the one that seems to present itself the most is the difference in our social behavior.

If you know us well, you're probably aware of a few basic facts.
1.  Ron thrives on interaction with lots of people.
2.  I do not.
3.  Ron cares very highly about what people think.
4.  I do not.

My husband lives in a complicated world of pretty colors.  Someone might walk away from a lengthy conversation with him feeling like his best friend, having no idea that as soon as they're out of earshot he turns to me and says, "Who was that?"  When he's asked to do something he doesn't want to do, his response is, 'Sure!' and then develops a detailed excuse to get out of it later.  He's the life of any party and no one gets offended in his presence.  He loves the social scene and the social scene loves him.
The upside for people is, Ron knows them and likes them soooo much.  The downside is...what downside?  The dude rocks.

I, on the other hand, live in a simple world of black and white.  I either remember who you are or I don't, in which case I'll say, "Please remind me how I know you"  or "What's your name, again?"  I either want to do something or I don't and I'll answer yes please or no thank you with sometimes little or no explanation.  Social interaction on a larger scale is fine in occasional doses, but my happy place is always small, real and intimate, with people who know me well.  My goal is not to offend, but anything less than sincere is taxing for me.
The downside is, some people might think I'm anti-social...or a jerk.  The upside is, I'll always be honest with you.  So if you don't want to know something, please, for your sake, don't ask me. 

Classic Introvert vs. Extrovert.

But believe it or not, our differences in our dealings with others isn't always a social disaster.

Within our family, it's a non-issue because our kids know no different and the entire dynamic leads to lots of laughs.

Professionally it works, too.  He the loveable Engineer who spends his day surrounded by people and conversation; me the Massage Therapist who's content to spend endless hours a day in a dark room listening to soothing music with someone who most likely doesn't want to hear the sound of my voice while they're trying to relax. 
It's a win/win.

And we both play killer Bad Cop.  After 21 years of marriage, we're pretty good at falling into the role...a DirectTv service rep who may or may not have a restraining order against my husband can attest, as can Mark from Orkin who might never agree to come to our home again, but if he does I bet he doesn't open with "Mam, your treatment from 2 weeks ago is still working."  Hey, Mark from Orkin.  Let me tell you a little story.  Once upon a yesterday, there was a flea on my arm.  The end.  He was pulling his gas mask over his face when I backed out of the driveway. 
How miserable would life be without Bad Cops?

Here's another fun fact about us:
1.  Ron says awkward things to people.
2.  So do I.

I've mentioned before that strangers love to tell Ron their life story.  My reaction is to look at them with my best 'please stop talking' face but not before Ron has asked them a follow-up question encouraging more conversation.  Cashiers are the worst.  So I lean against the cart until the conversation ends...and sometimes I'm treated with a great ending.  One cashier told Ron that she lost her grandmother the previous day.  That conversation ended when Ron said, "I hope you find her."  Two weeks ago, an elderly cashier in Hilton Head told Ron all about her recent move to the island, complete with the exact housing development she's living in.  I really wish I'd been looking at her face when Ron closed with, "Hope you have a safe day."  Pretty sure she's still sleeping with one eye open.  And I'll never forget the time he was home when a massage client arrived and he said to the guy, "Enjoy my wife."  Not okay, Ron.  Not. Okay.

But his lapses happen when he's not on his A game.  Mine happen when I'm actually trying.  On our drive down to Hilton Head, I awoke to find us parked at a gas station at 4am.  Ron was inside using the bathroom, so I decided to go in and get some coffee.  While I was checking out, the employee asked me where I was headed, then asked where Hilton Head is and where I was from.  Considering the early hour and my aversion to small talk, I thought I was handling this guy's attempt at conversation really well, until he asked how much further I have to go and I said, "That depends. Where am I right now?"  I'm betting he kept the video footage of me leaving with the big man who exited the bathroom at that moment in case my picture appeared on the news that night.
See, no good comes from talking to strangers, kids.

God brought us together because it works...or maybe God makes it work because we somehow got together. 

Either way, somebody might owe the world an apology.