Landmarks

A friend recently came to visit us here in Fairyland. As I am a directional direction giver (ie head north for 5 miles, then turn East on Fairyland Road), she suggested I use landmarks, which is better suited to some people (like my husband). So, here goes.

If you want to come visit me and you're coming from the Deep South, you need to head towards the greatest concentration of trailer parks in the state. Don't stop, just keep passing them. Up on your left, you'll see a house (not a trailer) with a dump truck out front and the lower portion of the house is missing. Slow down slightly and bank right or you just might be the next car to skid out of control and land in their basement.

Continue past the last grocery store and gas station you're going to see for a good 30 miles. On your right, you'll see a wagon selling Hot Boiled Peanuts. Take the next right and head up the mountain. Shortly past the small cinderblock structure oddly being overrun by a giant forest of bamboo, the road will merge with another highway from the left. Continue up the mountain.

In another couple of miles, you'll pass a lookout spot, where, if it is a weekend evening, you should see a great number of cars. You can stop, make some friends and smoke some pot, or have a beer on the edge of a large rock overlooking a steep crevice.

If it is instead a Saturday morning, be careful of the bikers slowly huffing and puffing their way up the switchbacks. Roll down your window and holler: Keep it up! You've got just 10 miles of vertical incline until you hit the continental divide! That should keep their spirits up.

Once you've gone about 10 miles on this winding mountain road, you're HISRadio Gospel Rock and the Delilah Show will turn to static. You'll have to pop in a cd or listen to NPR for a while.

In another 4 miles, you'll come to the continental divide. Turn right here. If you start going downhill suddenly, you've gone too far.

In about 3 miles, you'll pass what looks like a wrecking yard, but upon closer examination you'll find there are a couple of trailers and a large chicken pen amidst all those inoperable vehicles and appliances. Keep going.

In another mile, there will be a lovely mountaintop view off to your right. Don't look too long or you'll go over the guardrail and down a vertical incline to your death.

Watch out for the herd of deer. Oh, and the skunks. And of course the flock of wild turkeys.

Just when you think you've come to the end of the world and must have gone too far, you'll see a driveway on your left. Then another, followed by several quaint signs that seem to be singing to you successively: Slow Down. You Move To Fast. At Gotta Make. You'll see another steep, narrow driveway on your left. That's our driveway. Ours is the house at the top with half white vinyl siding, half gray, rotting, wasp-infested siding. And there's a canoe out front named Moby.

Welcome.

Poop Happens

I've been changing diapers every day of my life now for nearly six years. That is an absurd amount of time dealing with poop that I'll never, ever get back.

I've dealt with poop of many colors, consistencies and textures in all it's glorious forms and fragrance. Tonight however, I was pushed clean over the edge.

I've been trying, to no avail, to potty-train my youngest child, in hopes of never having to do diaper duty again. After this evening, I'm happy to change diapers for a bit longer. My eldest child, long potty trained, enjoys various activities whilst doing his business. Though maddening, I can't necessarily fault him for this as I've been known to take longer than necessary doing my thing because it's about the only reading time I get anymore. He sings, he talks, and unfortunately he wiggles. Tonight I hear:

Mom, I have a clean up problem.

A what? How did you . . .? Matt! Ethan needs you!

Oh good heavens, what have we here? Somehow he managed to get poop all over the toilet seat, down the side of the bowl and on the bottom of his feet. Then he proceeded to step on his pants and the rug before his father stopped him. Yes, his father. I wimped out and called in the reinforcements. You see, I'd changed three poops on the three year old in the space of three hours today and was not prepared for what I saw when I walked in that bathroom. So, I turned around, walked out, and sent in his father. Had I not done so, I would simply have lost it. Besides, Matt's leaving for 8 days and needed something to remember his son by.

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Bwest Milk

I went into Motherhood Maternity for the first time in over three years. No, I'm not making an announcement, it's just that I so rarely go to the mall and unfortunately I had to go. And I was walking along, wishing they'd actually put a mall map somewhere near the entrances (but I suppose that would prevent you from wandering past all the stores you didn't intend to go to that day), and I noticed, like a beacon in the distance, a Motherhood Maternity.

Why was I so excited? I'll tell you. Several years ago, when I was pregnant and my upper half was swollen and tender, I discovered the benefits of wearing a minimal support sleep bra. I also discovered that Motherhood Maternity makes an awesome sleep bra. Technically a nursing bra because of its wrapped, easy pull down design, but it makes a great plain old sleep bra I bought a couple with each of my pregnancies, and the are now embarrassingly in shreds because well, I have officially entered old-ladydom; I wear a bra to bed--and not a red and black lace variety. I keep saying I should really go to Motherhood Maternity, but never actually work up the gumption to make a special trip.

Well, there I was, and the bras were on sale! Yay! Bra shopping however has a tendency to open some deep wounds. I was trying on the bras in the fitting room and Elliot picks up the fake tummy apparatus they provide. Mom, what's this? It's squishy! It's a pretend tummy, of course. I had to pick past all the strange bondage style snap, clip, and hook nursing bras and had terrible lactation nazi and breast pump flashbacks.

This leads me to a question that of late has been nagging at me. You see, a bunch of moms got all riled up on a certain social network of late because a picture of one of them breast feeding was deemed inappropriate to the site. So, a bunch of them protested by posting pics of them breastfeeding, insisting that because it is a natural thing, no one should feel uncomfortable about it. I could list several natural behaviors that would make me uncomfortable to witness. But that is beside the point.

My question is really regarding the continued breastfeeding of a child well past the age of one. From what I understand, the nutrient benefit of breastfeeding begins to decrease at about 6 months and by one year, there is little to no nutritional benefit. Now, I get the whole breast feeding thing and that it shouldn't be something deemed inappropriate and relegated to cowering in bathrooms and so forth (though I believe it behooves a mother to be discreet). I also understand that there is an emotional factor to the whole process (though how that can overcome the sheer physical, emotional, and practical pain in the rear of breastfeeding is beyond me, I realize that this is due to personal experience and preference).

What I don't understand is this; if the nutritional benefit is gone by age one, then why do women continue to breastfeed? Is it not because of the bonding and positive emotional connection that occurs? So, why therefore is it still okay to breastfeed a child over the age of one in public? It would certainly not be appropriate for your husband to curl up and find pleasure and positive emotional connection with you in public in such a manner. Why is it okay for a child? Isn't this the time when we can teach them (and ourselves for that matter) the boundary between appropriate and inappropriate public displays of affection? Or am I missing something? Is there more to breastfeeding a two-year-old than displaying affection (oh and perhaps that age old dilemma of actually saying no to your child)?

This all reminds me of the deleted scene from Baby Mama where the fruity birth instructor begins a class on bweastfeeding. Her child of about 9 years interrupts the class and asks Mother may I pwease have some bweastmilk? and she obliges. Eeewww! It is my opinion that if they can ask for it, they're too old (actually, it is my opinion that teeth pretty much signals the end, but that's not politically correct of me, so I won't say it.) Just my twenty-two cents.

Confessions of St. Jen the Martyr

I have sinned. It's been um, quite some time since my last confession. I think it's been since my days as a missionary-in-training, but I'll go into that later.

This past Sunday, I did not attend church. I know this may not be considered a sin in some circles, but in Mormon circles, it would be considered a sin of omission rather than commission. However, this past Sunday, my lack of church attendance was neither.

You see, church was snowed out on Sunday. I believe my sin lies in the happiness I felt when I got the call, oh and in the prayers I said prior to the call (Please let them cancel church! I really don't want to drive in this, but more so, I don't want to teach music to the children today and I have a lot of other things to do.) I had planned to take the kids to visit cousins later today and was torn between concern about driving in the snow and having extra time to pack while the snow melts away (hopefully). All in all, despite my sinful desires, church was canceled, the boys played in the snow while it melted away and I packed. Forgive me.

Perfect, the snow had melted and we were set to hit the road 3 hours earlier than planned. And we did. But, I was sooooo tired from staying up tooooo late. I began struggling to stay awake while driving. Elliot was asleep, Ethan was not. I pulled off at a gas station, on the Sabbath, bribed my elder son to stay in the vehicle with his sleeping brother while I ran in and purchased a Coke.

Now, technically Coca-Cola is not a direct violation of my religious law of health. I would say that it does not however fall under the general counsel of consuming things that are good for the body, but more likely falls under the group of addictive drugs I am counseled not to consume. Forgive me.

However, child neglect (as in leaving a 5-year-old watching a 2-year-old alone in a vehicle) is probably a sin, or at least a bad idea. We were at a gas station where I could see out the window and I did leave it locked, so that helps a little. Forgive me.

And then there's the whole sabbath day purchase to be considered. I really do my best to keep the sabbath day holy, which, in my book, generally includes avoiding doing business on Sunday. Forgive me.

And then, as a direct result of bribing my child with soda pop (purchased on the Sabbath), just 15 minutes before our arrival, he had an imminent need of a restroom. So I pulled off at the nearest establishment that wasn't a scary gas station; a sandwich shop. Of course we were the only people in the restaurant as we hurried back to the bathroom and as restrooms are for customers only I felt compelled to buy my children some chips. Forgive me.

All in all it was a decent Sunday, if a bit rough around the edges. I'll go into the missionary confessions in another post. I promise.

Of Bobby Pins and Thongs

I was once advised to lose a little time on myself (loosely translated from the Italian). The intent was to suggest that I spend some time applying make-up, doing my hair and the like (blah, blah, and more blah). But, on occasion, I get a hankerin' to apply some make up and spend more than 3 minutes on my hair. This usually occurs in the dead of winter (because seriously, in 90 degrees, 100% humidity, why bother?). Lately, I've been attempting to do something slightly different with my hair (seeing as I've had mostly the same series of hairdos for the past decade--short to shoulder length depending on how long I've avoided a haircut). So, as I stood in front of the mirror the other day, I began to ponder bobby pins.

I am reasonably experienced stage manager. There is a certain aspects of stage management and back stage jobs in particular that I really like; namely that these roles are precisely behind the scenes. Your job is to support the production and not be seen. This is why I find it so tacky when someone decides it is a good idea to pull the stage crew out on stage during a curtain call to take a bow. I mean sure, in middle school you can let it slide because well, back stage necessarily goes to those who didn't get cast. But by the time you're working on the Ya-Yas at the BYU (Do they still have The Young Ambassadors?), one should assume that someone choosing to work backstage does not need some sort of self-esteem boost, but actually prefers not to be in the spotlight.

This takes me to my point; bobby pins, bra straps and thong underwear. All of these items, like backstage personnel, are designed for a specific support role and should remain out of the limelight. So, when I spend way too much time adjusting my bobby pins so they cannot be seen, and when I give nearly the same look of revulsion to intentionally exposed bobby pins as to intentionally exposed underwear, you will understand.

I know we're sort of past the whole thong hanging out of the pants trend, but I've recently noticed a trend of sheer tops being worn over nothing but an undergarment and I'm concerned of the resurgence of a similar trend. I don't know if you are aware, but the original purpose of the thong was not to be sexy (because really, what is sexy about butt floss?), but to avoid unsightly pantylines. Don't pretend you haven't noticed unsightly pantylines. I know you have. And the purpose of a bra is to keep your boobs from bouncing and sagging in an unsightly manner. Again, not inherently sexy. I concede that avoiding pantylines and sagging boobs can enhance sex appeal, but this is a byproduct, not the direct purpose. I digress. My point is, underwear is intended to be under there.

Likewise, and returning to the impetus for this post (standing at the mirror adjusting bobby pins), bobby pins should not be visible. I know you've seen metalhead syndrome. This has nothing to do with leggings, big hair and loud music. It manifests itself in excessive exposed metal being worn in the hair (you know, barrets, pins, clips and more, all at once). Let us consider the barrett, particularly pretty, fancy barretts. These are the stars of the show. They are intended to be seen. Even some clips and small, plain barretts can have their place in supporting roles. But, the bobby pin is strictly backstage, folks. This is why they come in shades ranging from black to blond--to match your hair. They really don't want to be seen, I promise. That is why they chose a career as a bobby pin instead of a fancy barrett or a hair ribbon.

Alright. That about sums it up. These are the things I think about on the rare occasion I spend a few minutes in front of the mirror. I mean, you gotta think about something don't you? Really, what could be more mind numbing than primping?

Flowers

The other day I bought a newspaper. I live in the South. Around here brides to be post enormous photos of them in full bridal regalia in the Sunday paper. A bit odd, but entertaining. In this issue there was a pretty, but exceptionally large picture of an exceptionally large bride holding an exceptionally large bouquet of roses.

Remembering my own wedding day in my size 24 gown, I held the paper up for my husband to see and asked: Is this what I looked like on our wedding day?

And he of course responded:

No, dear . . . . (pause for comic timing) . . . you had different flowers.

Nice.

And very, very funny.


Disclaimer: You must realize the relationship I have with my husband. He married me at 250 pounds and my weight has never been his issue, and we are completely on the same page here. I had a roommate once, thin and fit, who liked to respond to any random comment with Is that a fat joke? It was hilarious, and has become an oft-repeated joke in our home and is even funnier given the fact that I am, well, fat. Hence, because weight is a non-issue between us, we are free to joke about it.