24/7

Time: 2:45 am
Place: Denise's bedroom

I'm slumbering peacefully after going to bed "early" at 10:30. No dumb children's songs making the rounds in my sleepless skull. No worrying about money or the future or how likely it is that my daughters bedroom is going to catch on fire by it's close proximity to the utility closet and planning my routes to her bedroom to rescue her. Just some random dreams and some much needed rest.

Suddenly I feel a hand on my lower leg. I'm instantly alert and automatically reach down to lift a stumbling child into our bed. As a general rule she has never slept with us. Except for a short period when I was nursing and I'd nurse her in bed and we'd both fall asleep and when I'd wake up the sheet would be wet and I'd be so tired I'd lay Ava back in her bassinet and lay down a towel over the wet spot and fall into a dead sleep. But other than that zombie-bessie-the-milk-cow time I have been blessed with a child that sleeps through the night and has never wanted to get into bed with us.

Now that Ava is in her big girl's bed I've worried she'd start getting out of it. She hasn't really...except for when she has colds. For some reason she wakes up and instead of staying in bed she comes into ours and demands in the voice of a dictator that is used to getting everything she has ever asked for "Rub my back, Mom!" There's been a few nights I have done this and have soothed her back to sleep while my arm feels like it's going to fall off. But I was in no mood to tango with her last night.

I've been going through a period of having a hard time falling asleep. It was so bad last week that one night I think I got 2 hours of sleep total and I kid you not I actually fantasized about making some excuse to get out of the house and go and get a hotel just so I could have a completely husband and child free night to myself just to sleep. No giraffe legs to contend with, no night breath in my face, no little child under the assumption that I'm a 24 hour masseuse. Would it be weird to plan a vacation for one? Myself. It would be, and I'd never do it because I'm too paranoid that every stranger I meet is a serial killer.

Now Brig has come in to contact with my evil middle of the night twin before, (the insistance he brush his teeth after he's vomited before he comes back to bed, the vicious kicks to the shins when he's tried to push me back onto my side of the bed, the elbow to the back when I dreamed he kissed my friend) but my sweet little innocent child has never come up against that very un-motherly persona of mine. This time when she demanded that I rub her back I told her no! As she whined I told her to go back to bed. But her pathetic tears must have broken the evil twin's will because before I knew it, the mostly nice, mostly caring mother she knew was back and asking if she needed a drink and then carrying her back to bed and tucking her in and even indulging her request for a song.

While I croaked out "You are my sunshine" I marvelled at the way this little child of mine can soften my edges. I closed the door to her room and felt my way back to bed. I then fell blissfully back into sleep with only a few neurotic thoughts plaguing my psyche. I guess that motherhood is alot like being a convenience store. But still 2:45 is not very convenient for me. Maybe that's what the clerk behind the counter thinks to themselves as well. Except those clerks are being compensated with money and big gulps. Motherhood has it's own compensations though, and I'm not talking about stretch marks and the excuse to wear sweatpants. Really though, if any of you know of a travel agency that caters to sleep deprived mothers, let me know. All I need is a cool dark room and the sound of the air conditioner going all night long.

Something Real

This is Kim Kardashian. She's basically famous for being someone like Paris Hilton. She's on a reality show on E! called "Keeping Up With the Kardashians". I've always thought she was a beautiful woman. I've always wanted straight shiny black hair and an olive complexion, but as genetic luck would have it I have medium brown curly hair and ghost pale skin and hey, that's okay.

A news story came out recently where a magazine did a photo shoot and accidentally put in a photo of her untouched. As you can see up above the untouched photo is the one on the left. I was happy to see this picture. I obviously know that all celebrities are photoshopped for magazine covers, but it's nice to see Kim is a real girl. I don't think she looks bad at all in her "real" photo. She's a curvy gal and along with curviness usually comes a few bumps and lumps. Why does the media feel the need to make things appear differently than they are?

I've been contemplating the world we live in and it struck me how few things are real now a days. The internet, video games, t.v. shows, while all entertaining they are so inconsequential while compared to things that truly matter. The other night after I cleaned up dinner my evening to do list was as follows: Check Facebook, Check Blogs, get caught up on The Biggest Loser, Get on the treadmill. My husband was watching basketball upstairs. I just walked in to tell him I was headed downstairs and he then did something he never does, he asked if I wanted to snuggle! I didn't marry Mr. Affecionate by any stretch of the imagination. For whatever reason he finds it difficult. It's always been something that has bothered me but something I've just dealt with. So you'd think when he offers to snuggle and talk I'd jump at the chance. But I admit my first thought was, but what about my to do list? I would have been a fool not to spend time with my husband and so I did and I was glad. Often times I think we are spending time together, but really he is on the computer and I am on the computer or he is watching t.v and I'm reading a book. That's not really together time when you aren't communicating.

Sometimes I just want something that is real. Nothing embellished. It's so hard to tell when so many blogs are like the fancy facade of a city building. You never really know what's going on inside of it even if the outside is beautiful and shiny. It's 11 am. My hair is in last night's ponytail. I have on no makeup and I'm wearing jeans and my husbands shirt from high school that says Bear River Basketball on the front and UNFINISHED BUSINESS! on the back. My daughter is sick and miserable and is currently laying on the floor with her old raggy blanket watching Go Diego Go! I have a bunch of laundry sitting dejectedly in laundry baskets at my feet waiting to be folded. Life isn't one big glamor shot. People should stop pretending like it is.

And that includes the folks at magazines. These celebrities are already beautiful, on the outside at least. Sadly in our society they wouldn't be famous if they weren't good looking, so why do they have to fabricate these images? Would it really be that horrible if the general public knew that not all celebrities have flawless bodies? Gripes.

P.S. This was the last song I was rocking when I thought High Tops were cool. (See SLC Podunk)

All the Cool People are Wearing Them!

SLC Podunk

This weekend we went down to Salt Lake City to visit Brig's dad and to take in the urban scenery. Now I grew up in a town with a population of 700 and that amount hasn't changed much in the last 100 years. While I'm scared of chickens and cows I'm more scared of homeless men and dark alleys. Which brings me to my first SLC adventure of the weekend...riding Trax.

My mother in law, who is made of tougher stuff than I am needed a break from the hospital. So we walked across the street and tried to buy a ticket for the "choo-choo train" as Ava kept saying. She loves trains and I promised to take her on a train ride for her birthday back in November, but it never happened. Here was our big chance, right. After grappling with the ticket kiosk we were finally ready to board the next train.

Now I've ridden the bus a few times and know from experience that there's all sorts of different people that like to hop the bus and in this case Trax. Boy, I can see why investing in an ipod is well worth it while riding Trax. We had quite the talkative and very informative man sit across from us and he kept up a running converstation with us from Murray to Temple square. Here's what I found out: His line can be traced back directly to Joseph Smith. He rides Trax all day long. His mother has Cherokee blood and they once had a cousin by the name of Drinkwater show up at their door. He once rode Trax where a baby wouldn't stop crying for half an hour. He's also German/English/Irish/Scottish. Super. I nodded occasionally but mostly held on tight to my slumbering three year old and looked out the window at the passing urban decay. But my mother-in-law, ever the polite woman, smiled and nodded and even challenged him on some of his assumptions. Like I said, she's made of tougher stuff than I am.

We reached our destination: The Gateway. I never feel trendy enough to blend in with the city folk. Who wears high heels to go shopping? The fashionistas of SLC apparently. Can you imagine my surprise and then horror as I came face to face with the new hip trend...high tops?!? I'm sorry, it's not happening. I'm not doing it and nobody can make me. LA Gear 2.0 what are these people thinking? Kids these days.

That's about all that happened this weekend. I was sad driving back home and looking at the land lit up like a Christmas tree imagining myself living in some place like California where the cities blend into one other and you have everything at your fingertips but no open spaces to breathe. It could be a reality for us. My husband has been looking at jobs in Southern California. I'm not sure how to feel about it besides apprehensive. 47 years ago my dad and his family left California to move to Cache Valley because of the unrest in the community. It seems odd to me to be thinking of going back to a place my grandparents left so their family could have a better life. I'm open for adventure. Maybe not that kind of adventure.

Finally, my father-in-law is doing well. He's a little stir crazy but we're glad he's getting better.

Update

Thanks for your prayers! Brig's dad got out of surgery at 4 am this morning and all went well. He is resting and recovering and the doctors are keeping an eye on him. We will probably drive to SLC and see him tonight. I've been thinking about the donor and their family. I'm so glad that my father-in-law was able to get a new healthy liver and prolong his time with his family here on earth, but I was also thinking of the donor's family and how they are grieving for their lost loved one. Modern medicine is amazing and so are those willing to be organ donors!

The Praying Sort

I'll be brief because my husband is a very private sort of person and this very blog is an affront to his sensibilities but I figure we can use all the prayers and good thoughts we can get. My Father-in-law just got a call today telling him that he has a liver ready for them to transplant. His liver has been failing since January and he's been very sick. So tonight at 8 pm they are giving him his new liver. If you are the praying type please remember a complete stranger in your prayers. Thanks so much!

Smooth Away: Denise Buys,Tries and Cries.

If you are a fan of infomercials you may have watched one about a product called Smooth Away. Now I did not order it off of t.v. I bought it from Target for $10. I decided to whip it out last night and try it on what I believe is my exorbitant amount of peach fuzz on my face. I know, what a dumb thing to be self conscious about but I can't help it I am. So I follow the directions and begin rubbing the patch clockwise three times and then counter clockwise another three times. Um, no luck I am not getting any off of my face. The instructions said to not rub too hard. Hmm, that's rather subjective. What's too hard? So I decide to just give up and I put it back in it's box waiting to be used maybe on my legs sometime in the future.

Here's where things go horribly wrong. I woke up this morning and decide to give that peach fuzz the heave ho. I pull out the Nair for faces tube and decide I can handle the sick smell if only my peach fuzz is annihilated once and for all...or at least for a few weeks. I rub it on and try not to notice how my daughter is staring at me wondering why I'm putting on Daddy's shaving cream.

In five minutes I walk back into the bathroom to gently remove the offensive peach fuzz and the offensive smelling Nair. As soon as the water hits my face I know that I've made a mistake of epic proportions. OUCH! Where I had tried the Smooth Away, which by the way is just glorified sand paper, which is about half of my left cheek and the top of my left upper lip it is burning something fierce. I recall a scene I saw from an old film version of The Phantom of the Opera where he got acid thrown on his face and I cringe. I run upstairs and pour some milk into a bowl and proceed to dip cotton balls into it and apply them to my chemically burned face. This was the advice on the Smooth Away box if irritation occurred. Okay, things are calming down. I go down to rinse my face again and the burning persists. I gingerly apply my facial lotion and swear off makeup for the day. As of now my face is still red and my signature "Cindy Crawford" mole is not looking too great. Which by the way, is about all Cindy Crawford and I have in common. What if it falls off?!? Painless hair removal my foot! Although I'm pretty sure that it was never meant to be used in conjunction with Nair. I definitely won't be using it on my legs, let alone any "sensitive areas" . Yikes!

It's Twins!!!!

Call it spring cleaning (although winter's reared it's ugly head once again), call it feng shui, but I had a nagging need to get rid of a bunch of stuff in my bedroom and perhaps rearrange furniture. If you're like me your bedroom is the last room to get cleaned because the only people who usually see it is me and my husband.

Like I said I was tossing away homework from 2003 and boxing up movies I never watch when I came across Ava's original Baby Nina. She's a baby Sleeping Beauty doll my mom and dad gave to Ava on her first birthday. It's been very well loved and it shows. That's why this Christmas I perused my options to replace Baby Nina. On Amazon I could purchase her for a bargain $60. Right. Santa's not that wealthy. I finally found one a few weeks before Christmas on ebay for $12. Much better. Although I felt sorry for the seller because she could have started her bidding much higher. Oh well. So I bought it and all I had to do was to pry Baby Nina away from Ava. Not easy, as she sleeps with her and practically clings to her for most of the day. I convinced her to leave her under the tree for Santa so he could work his cleaning magic on her. There were a few tears but my plan fell into place and all was well when Ava discovered Baby Nina sitting pristinely underneath the Christmas tree the following morning.

Why did I keep the old dirty rag of a doll that both Brig and I were embarrassed to be seen with? Part of it was just in case Ava wised up. But part of it was honest sentimentality. It gets harder and harder to watch Ava grow up. So I kept Baby Nina # 1 in a box behind the entertainment center. Well as I was cleaning I pulled her out and was reminded of what a disease ridden pitiful little doll she really was and tossed her in the garbage sack. When I'm in that cleaning zone I'm likely to throw away wedding photos. I'm not sentimental when I'm cleaning. As luck would have it Ava woke up in the middle of my cleaning frenzy and came walking into the room and I realized just as she turned and clamped eyes on her lost doll sitting atop the garbage heap what I had done. First of all her eyes filled with tears as she turned to me and asked why Baby Nina was in the garbage. Then a slow dawning came upon her features as she ran back to her bed and grabbed Baby Nina number 2. Honestly, you could have played "Reunited and it feels so good..." to the scene that played out. Ava was jumping up and down and hugging both dolls to her and screaming, "Two Baby Ninas!"

That's right. Now we won't be keeping track of just one dishevelled dread-locked doll, but two. "Twins," she said, "just like Aunt Holly has in her belly!" Yes, my dear. Twins. I give up!

One of these things is not like the other! Baby Nina #1 is on the left. She's filthy, but Baby Nina #2 is not far behind, I'm afraid. Why don't I throw her in the washer? You're not the first to ask. She has a non detachable battery pack in her back because when you squeeze her her little flower lights up. Heaven help us!

The proud Mama.

Those Pervy Plumbers!

I dread running errands. What I dread more is running errands for my husband. Can I pick up some light bulbs? Sure, that's easy. I'm plotting my escape strategy before I even step foot in the store of how I'll use the self-checkout and won't have to bother with any human contact. Yes, I'm one of those people. I've had far too many conversations with bored cashiers about things I really don't care about. Am I a cold heartless person for feeling this way...maybe. Am I just trying to get out the door without my daughter throwing a fit...absolutley! As I'm wielding the limosine length shopping cart shaped like a racing car my phone rings. It's my husband. I answer it knowing what it will be. "I also need 10 gauge wire blah blah blah." NOOOOOOO! Talking to a hardware sales associate about things your husband needs you to pick up is second only to talking to a mechanic about whats wrong with your car. I'm sorry. I'm not that handy. I have absolutely no interest in finding out what all half of the products in these stores are meant for. It would be like my husband getting excited about hair products or books.

So I find an associate who can cut some 10 gauge wire non spliced or whatever. I keep my husband on the phone just in case. Then my husband says, "I also need a butt splice." My mouth hangs open as I try to decide if he really just said "butt splice". I guess I'm just juvenile to think that's a ridiculous name for something but I giggle and then ask him to clarify what it is he needed again. The associate smiles patiently as I quietly say into the phone, "I thought you just said butt splice..." The associate then nods his head in recognition. I honestly thought my husband was pulling my leg there, trying to get me to say something embarrassing. Butt splice? Really? Really???

I guess I shouldn't have been surprised. When I worked at Lowes, ironically as a cashier (no I was not one of those cashiers. I kept the chit chat to the very minimal) I remember thinking that some of these old men were real dirty birds. I had one guy buying a bunch of plumbing supplies. He asked me how many of the "female parts" I rang up. I remember looking at him funny and then looking at my screen and sure enough it said female connectors. There were also a bunch of male connectors and that's when I knew that those plumbers were pervs. You couldn't come up with a different name than what the part looks like when reduced to it's crudest form? I wasn't surprised when a while later I rang up some nipples. Men! Add Electricians to the list with butt splice.

These shoes may be hazardous to your mental health!

Embarrassing Story #138

Age: 18
Location: Clarkston Church House

It was a warm spring Sunday. The final hymn had been sung on a fast Sunday and you know what that means. It means you bolt for the exits with mom's Sunday roast and funeral potatoes on your mind while your stomach growls like a chained dog. I congratulated myself on manuevering around Mrs. slow walker and her chatty husband. My little sister was not far behind. I clomped out of that chapel at break neck speed. My shoe of choice for the service that Sunday? Why these lovely platform flip-flops pictured above. Looking back now my bad fashion karma was just coming back to bite me in the butt. This all could have been avoided if I had listened to my mother and worn those low conventional heels that sat gathering dust in my closet. The trouble arose as I began galloping down the dramatic wide staircase that is characteristic of old church houses. I remember feeling a vague sense of foreboding. A thought that maybe my platformed feet were getting away from the rest of me. Then it went into that slow motion time frame when you have a million thoughts buzzing around in your head while you slowly watch your body cartwheel out of control. The foremost thought being, "WHAT COLOR UNDERWEAR AM I WEARING?" I'm not exactly sure how it happened but I remember an ankle twisting here and then a leg jutting out there. A brutal carpet burn on my elbow and then rolling down the stairs like a hotdog. I slid on my bum like a child for the remaining stairs and somehow ended up at the bottom of the stairs on my back. Mayonnaise white legs askew and pale yellow skirt around my waist. I lay stunned for a few seconds and as I rolled my eyes back to glance up at the stairs I saw dozens of shoes coming down the stairs. I jumped to my feet as my sister came towards me asking me if I was okay. I was the color of a red ripe tomato and I mumbled, "Yeah." To her credit she had the decency not to laugh. I intentionally ingnored other congregation members thoughtful inquiries as to my sense of well being. I began limping out the door as diginified as one possibly can when one has flashed one's purple fruit of the looms to a good portion of your local religious neigbors when I heard my name called. I gritted my teeth and turned around. There was Miguel Gonzalez holding a black platform flip flop. I snatched it from his hand and trudged out of the building with one shoe on and one shoe dangling from my fingertips. It's ironic that my shoe savior was Miguel. He is the subject of embarrassing story #139, but I'll save that for another day.

Why can't life be one spontaneous sing along?