Things That Must Go

When I used to take Ava to preschool in the mornings I would listen to a local radio station's morning show.  They have a segment on there once a week called, Things That Must Go which is basically a list of complaints they compile.  While I've been trying to focus on the positive lately I think I'll have to descend into negativity for just a few minutes.  There are a few things that have been, well, bugging me.  Indulge me.

My list of Things That Must Go -

1. Websites tailoring their ads to what I've been looking at on the internet.  Anytime I look at almost any retailer online the next website I go to, like KSL or my homepage has the exact same piece of furniture/shoes/dress that I was looking at.  It reminds me of that movie Minority Report with Tom Cruise where it's set in the future and when he walks into a shopping mall all these ads pop up addressing him.  I feel violated.  I know it's just a chaise lounge or five inch stilettos I'll probably never wear because I've never gotten used to walking in heels, but it bothers me that "Big Brother" is watching.  I'm moving to Washington and stocking up on the ammo.  I'd rather live next to Sasquatch.

2. Nursing Bras.  Skip this one if me talking about my decolletage makes you uncomfortable (I know I do it often).  What is the deal with nursing bras?  You've never had bigger boobs in your whole life but these bras have NO support.  When I bought some bras from my local "Lactation Station" (true story, that's the name.  Made me think of pulling up and have milk pumps instead of gas pumps.) The fitting expert discouraged me from buying under-wire because she was afraid it would hurt my milk supply.  I'm sorry but that cotton/spandex band at the bottom of this "bra" is not going to cut it.  I might as well wear a tent because there's no way I'd want to go out in public looking like that!  When I told her that she made me feel vain, like I was putting my vanity ahead of what was best for my baby.  I've nursed before.  I know I am not going to have a problem with my milk supply lady.  

3. Ladies making you feel guilty about nursing/not nursing/duration of nursing.  It's a personal choice.  Nursing basically takes over you life.  I can understand why it's not appealing to everyone.  Likewise, people getting uncomfortable when your baby is hungry in public.  Personally I use a nursing cover, because I'm not comfortable letting it all hang out.  I was at the park the other day with my friend, who also has a young baby and the kids were hungry so we nursed them both using our Hooter Hiders. This older lady leaned over and said, "I really commend you women for covering up.  There was a woman here last week, she was European, and she just nursed her baby out in the open.  She had no decency.  It was disgusting."  I was pretty cool toward the woman and didn't say much because it made me mad.  First of all lady, nursing is a totally natural thing.  We are mammals and thus provide nourishment for our young through lactation.  That's right, boobs aren't just for ogling.  I can understand how someone might feel uncomfortable, but you don't have to look.  Get up and move if it bothers you.  If my baby is hungry and screaming I'm not going to make her wait until I get home or nurse her in a filthy, disgusting public restroom.  Our society is so messed up when it comes to boobs.  I promise that's my last one about boobs.

4.  What's New Scooby-Doo?  My daughter loves Scooby-Doo.  I used to watch the older ones and was interested to see what the new ones were like.  I'm not a fan.  The Velma and Daphne characters have been totally sexualized.  (Which is ironic since the old series was from the sixties.)  It floored me for a kids show that even at that young of an age our kids are getting messages about women as objects.  In one episode entitled Camp Scare, the gang goes boating.  The "camera" zooms in on Velma and Daphne as they emerge from the dressing room in their swimsuits and then it cuts to Freddie and Shaggy slack-jawed with lust.  In another episode Freddie has gotten his shirt caught on some hook that in turn hoisted him up to the ceiling.  He asks Velma and Daphne for help.  Daphne (the "pretty" one) struggles with the controls and can't figure it out.  Freddie cries out in frustration, "Surely, Velma (the "smart" ie ugly one") can figure it out!"  Velma it turns out, can't figure it out either.  Maybe I'm just being sensitive, but it bothers me that my five-year-old is being fed this through a cartoon.  I guess it's time to put my foot down about Scooby-Doo.  Pretty sad that a kid can't watch a "cartoon" intended for them.

5.  The smell in our apartment.  Sometimes it's a gross sewer smell coming up through the drains.  Sometimes it's over powering moth balls.  Sometimes it's stinky ethnic food filtering through the vents from our neighbors.  Oh and the fish smell.  Our neighbors eat a lot of fish.  I've tried every known good smelling scent to combat it.  Nothing has touched it.  It's time to move.

6.  The skinny jean.  Not everyone is skinny.  Enough said.

7.  Me thinking that dilemma was spelled with an n as in dilemna.  I swear I was taught this in elementary school.  Likewise, blond.  I've always spelled it with an e on the end.

8. My husband's dumb "smart" phone.  It is the proverbial other woman in our marriage.  He's always playing games, or surfing the web on it.  What do I have to do to get your attention?  Draw a tic-tac-toe board on my stomach?  You want to play games?  Let's whip out Clue or Uno.  I guess I'm old school but I don't see the appeal of the smart phones unless I'm somewhere I'm not familiar with and need to find a specific location.  Annoying.

9.  Kids running into your legs in a crowd.  Including my own.  I'm always telling Ava to pay attention.  Before I had kids this used to bug the crap out of me.  I know, I know, I sound like a grouch.  I guess it's a jungle of legs out there for them but I can see the looks of annoyance when Ava walks wherever and nearly gets run over by a shopping cart of a fellow customer in a hurry.  I feel like I'm wrangling cattle sometimes with that girl.  I can only imagine having a bevy of children.

10. I read online recently of a celebrity that was getting "scary" skinny as the article noted.  It posted several pics in which, yes, the celebrity was looking to my eyes like she might have an issue.  I then read the comments, which I never should do on any article on the internet because inevitably it becomes a free for all and people are just mean.  What struck me was that in the media there is always women being attacked for gaining too much weight or on the flip side losing too much weight but I've never seen an article like that about a man.  It's such a double standard.  I guess the message being portrayed is do what you have to do to be skinny because being fat is gross, but don't get carried away because then you might look gross too. 

11.  I'll end on a positive note if anyone is still reading after boobs and lactation and me getting my feminist dander up over a cartoon.  Things That Must Stay: Strangers coming to the rescue.  I've been having some issues with my car.  It's died several times leaving me stranded with two kids in the back seat.  There were two times my husband was at work and I didn't have a lot of options.  Both times within minutes at least two people came over to ask if they could help.  I'm not a very trusting person.  I always assume someone being nice to me has an ulterior motive.  I don't know why I'm this way.  It's not a very open way to live one's life.  But I was so grateful for the men who helped me out.

I guess if I just cut out all technology in my life it would solve 4 of my 10 problems.  I've blogged about the appeal of Mennonite lifestyle before, maybe I'll convert.  Or else you'll find me packing heat up in the Pacific Northwest.  

Summer Lovin'

 

I haven't been able to get that song from Grease out of my head for days.  As I was laying in bed last night with it repeating over and over again I started to contemplate the deeper meaning of that show.  Yes, Grease is what I choose to dissect.  Basically the message of the show is that if you want the man of your dreams to love you, you better shimmy into your skin tight body suit and put on twice as much makeup.  Then he's yours forever.  Anyway, we've been enjoying the warm up (finally!) and here's what we've been up to...

I'm enjoying the relaxing mornings now that Ava is out of preschool.  Ava likes to pick out Brielle's outfit for the day and it usually ends up matching hers in some manner. 

Swim lessons.  They weren't my favorite.  It's an indoor pool and I was definitely wearing too many layers.  I kept looking around at the other mothers trying to determine if they were sweating as much as I was.  It was a sauna in there I tell you. 

Ava on the other hand loved swimming and cried the last day of class.  She's a tender heart, my Ava. 

Playing Chop, Chop, Timber!  The teacher chops their legs while they're standing poolside and when she says timber they have to jump in.  I was proud of Ava.  By the end of the two week session she was jumping in without worrying if her head was going to go under. 

Her teacher Erika.  She was so sweet and patient with the kids.  I think Ava was only one of two children who didn't cry on a regular basis when asked to try out a new move.  She had her work cut out for her.

This past weekend we drove up to Cache Valley to help my older brother move.  Here is the girls on the front steps.  My job was to keep the girls occupied while the men did the heavy lifting.  We had a blast.  I painted all the girls toe nails and finger nails Rock Star Pink. 

Ava and Ellie played so well together.  The twins are just so adorable, even though they are everywhere and into everything at once.  I was slicing watermelon for lunch and between the two twins I found that they were eating it almost as fast as I was slicing it. 

Running through the sprinklers here at home.  We've been struggling lately finding things to fill our days.  Ava seems like she needs constant activity or else she is bored. 

I realized I have a photo of myself at this age with a swimsuit that is so similar.  I will have to try to post it later, if I can find it.

 My cheap Foster Grants had a slight accident. 

 Weird.

 Weirder.

 Weirdest.

Brielle was a little fussy yesterday.  I don't know if she is struggling with her teeth coming up through her gums or what.  But you couldn't tell she was fussy from the picture.  My smiley girl.

With crazy hair, might I add.  Her expression here looks just like her Daddy's when he smiles big.  Life is pretty good.  I do miss Cache Valley like crazy...still.  I wonder if I'll always miss it.  For those of you lucky enough to reside there drink it in.

Dads

Growing up I bemoaned having the strictest father I knew.  I always had to tell my parents every possible detail of each and every social outing I ever went on.  Who would be there, what we'd be doing, what time I'd be home.  I should have typed up an itinerary and just handed it over before I went out, it would have saved a lot of explaining.  We didn't always see eye to eye on things.  We still don't.  Let's just say politics are not something we can discuss with one another.  As I've gotten older I have realized what a blessing his over protectiveness was in my life.  I'd be lying if I didn't admit that there were many times when I thought twice before doing something because I'd imagine having to face the wrath of Dan. 

I've learned a lot of things from my dad.  He taught me how to ride a bike.  He taught me how to drive.  He taught me how to check a car's oil and how to change a tire, although I've never had to actually change one by myself.  He's come to my rescue on numerous occasions.  He taught me to never give up on yourself.  In the basement of my parents home there was a handwritten note attached to the freezer for many, many years.  In my dad's clear, upright handwriting he had written three lines in bold black marker  I will.  I can.  I am.  To me it's always been a recipe for progress.  He put it in a spot where he'd see it each day when he was training for a cycling event, or a marathon.  More than that though, I think he's used it as a blueprint for his life. 

He is the product of depression era, working class parents.  This means he is frugal and hardworking.  He once took my mom to a high school dance.  At the time he could not afford to go out and buy a new pair of black shoes to match his tux.  As my mom tells it he showed up at the door in a tux with his brown pair of shoes painted black to match.  There is something very sweet and touching about the gesture and it says a lot about what kind of a man he is. 

My dad worked full-time while finishing his degree at Utah State.  At the time he had two children and a wife to support.  I can't imagine how hard it must have been for him.  I so appreciate what that sacrifice meant to our family.  Although we weren't wealthy by any means, I never lacked for anything I needed.  I think, for the most part, moms get all the glory.  Because traditionally they have been the ones caring and nurturing full-time.  My dad woke up every morning for thirty plus years and put in 8 - 10 hours.  As a child I didn't really think anything of this.  This is what dads do, right?  Never once did it cross my mind that there were probably a million other things he would have liked to be doing.  He did it because he wanted to take care of us.  He sacrificed a lot of his wants for our needs.  I understand it more now and am grateful for a man of that caliber to be my father.  I love you, Dad. 

I can't let Father's Day slip by without giving a shout out to the man who gave me my two beautiful daughters.  When I met and fell in love with my husband I didn't give any thought as to what kind of a father he might be.  Heck, I didn't even ask him if he wanted kids!  In hindsight I'm sure that's a big one.  Kids, talk to your prospective mate about how they feel about fathering your babies.  As Martha says, "It's a good thing."  Obviously my hormones were making the decisions back in 2002.  Tall? Check.  Dark?  Check.  Handsome?  Check.  I do. 

As a couple, our journey has been well documented.  Probably more than he would like.  He's a very private man.  I don't think he talks to near strangers about awkward honeymoon nights or intimate, though very obvious body parts you wished you could get surgically reduced.  Yes, just the other day I found myself talking to a woman in our neighborhood about boobs.  It's who I am I guess.  In many ways we are opposites.  In some ways it's been a blessing, especially as two people trying to parent our girls. 

He is patient when I am flustered.  He is calm when I'm freaking out.  He is firm when I'm so tired of hearing it I'd just rather give in.  He is in control when I feel overwhelmed.  He's a man who loves his children deeply.  I don't doubt for one second that he'd protect them with his life.  Having given birth twice, my favorite part of the experience besides meeting my babies for the first time was watching his face when he saw them and held them for the first time.  And for me it never gets old.  I still love watching him interact with our children.  One day I hope my girls will fully realize how lucky they were to be raised by him.  Although I'm sure this post embarrasses him for me even mentioning him I'd like to stand and bare/bear (Which is it?  I've always wondered.  Is a testimony something you bare...like throwing open the bathrobe on the truth beneath?  Or is it something you bear, like something you carry around with you?  Will someone get back to me on that?  Random tangent over.) my testimony of my husband's devotion to being such a wonderful daddy.  Happy Father's Day, Sugar Britches!  (Embarrassing enough for you?)

Oh, how they grow!

Two years ago this is what my then only child looked like.  See those curls!  They are no more.  She was obsessed with this song we found on Youtube.  One day I recorded her watching it. 

Blood on the Walls - a short story by my 6th grade self

I haven't had much to blog about.  Which is why I was delighted while cleaning out our file cabinet to find a bunch of old essays and stories from my younger years.  I pulled out a green folder with BUDGET MOTEL emblazoned in gold lettering across the front.  Inside I had stapled a short story I had printed out on our old control-alt-delete computer from 1991.  The gray lettering was single spaced and faintly reminiscent of type writer font.  Apparently my masterpiece was written in a little under a month.  How do I know?  At the top as if it were a school assignment (which it wasn't) it reads Denise Cooper, 6th Grade, Oct. 8, 1993 - Nov. 2, 1993.  I think I wanted to record it for future generations, you know, when my story was included in an anthology entitled Best Loved Short Stories of the Late Twentieth Century.  I give you fair warning that I was deeply enamored with anything written by R.L. Stine at the time.  For your reading pleasure I give you -

Blood on the Walls

Chapter 1

It was a rainy night.  Pitch black and freezing cold.  I sat close to the crackling flames, warming my hands.  It was only the end of October but my house was a creepy century old Victorian mansion and was heated by and old fashioned wood burning stove.  Some of the people in town said it was haunted  Dong! Dong! Dong! Dong! Dong! Dong! Dong! Dong! Dong! Dong! Dong! Dong!, I about jumped out of my wits.  I was relieved it was only the old village church bell.  Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! the clock on the mantle chimed twelve. (Yes we know because I just included, for accuracy, exactly twelve chimes of both the old village bell and the mantle clock.  That's some bell if she can hear it out in the country.  She lives out of town as you will shortly learn.) Time for bed.  I climbed the creaky steps up to my bedroom.  It was dark in my bedroom it was one of the many rooms that didn't have a light so I struck a match and lit a candle the orange flame burned bright.  (Did I mention I was the queen of run on sentences?  Also, I know it was an old house, but to not have electricity in many of the rooms????  Maybe she just forgot to pay the electric bill that month.)  I yawned and stretched and climbed under the flanel quilt.  I just about sank my head into the down pillow when suddenly I heard footsteps coming up the stairs faintly at first and then it got closer.  What am I going to do?  Who was in my house, a burglar, no it couldn't be it must be my imagination.  Then there was a knock.  "Who's there?" I whispered hoarseally. (I do believe I meant for the character to whisper hoarsely, unless I intended for her to have a Mr. Ed. moment.) Somebody entered my room.  It was a dark figure who ever he or she or it, was tall wearing a cloak of some kind.  I heard screaming but who was it?  To my horror it was me. (GASP!)  I heard a loud thump and instant pain came over my body I felt dizzy and there was a warm sticky liquid tickeling the back of my neck and then darkness danced around me, my head hit the pillow and I was out.  

Dun! Dun! Dun!  I know you're just wondering what has happened to our cold, dark-house dwelling, protagonist...who ever he, or she or it is!  Stay tuned for the next chapter of Blood on the Walls.  If it was a story written by me today about my daily life it might be entitled Boogers on the Walls.  Yeah, my five year old needs to find a more appropriate place to dispose of her nose waste.  Sorry for the gross out!

Puddle Jumping and Lagoon

During the recent rainy spell we had we decided we'd had enough days indoors watching cartoons and playing Uno, Ava's new favorite game and so we booted up and went puddle jumping.

The only thing was the puddles were sort of scarce.  Odd, right?  Ava decided to trek up the swift running gutter water.

 We finally found some good puddles in our church's parking lot.

 About this time Ava started to complain about puddles inside of her boots.  It was time to head home.

Brielle stayed warm and dry in her stroller with her double fleece blanket.  It's raining cats and dogs out there.  Better you, than me Big Sister.  Sometimes it's good to be a baby.

This is Red Butte Creek that runs through the back of our church's grounds.  It was crazy fast and way higher than normal.  It still is last time I looked.  Ava said it looked like chocolate milk.

This is the sole picture I took of a "kiddie track meet" I signed Ava up for a few weeks back at the scary Fairmont Park here in Sugar House.  Although there is playground equipment I've never seen kids playing on it, and for good reason.  There are transients that wander the park.  The joys of city life.  I thought she'd enjoy it because she loves to run.  Turned out to be more standing in line than anything else.  They had a tennis ball throw, standing long jump and two different races.  Ava's age group had about forty kids in it, thus the standing in line.  Ava was more excited about the free swimming pass to the local aquatic center and kept asking when we could go swimming. 

A couple of weeks ago we went to Lagoon for the day for Brig's work party.  We had fun.  It also made me feel old. 

Ava just had to have her face painted.  A half hour of standing in line and $4.99 for this work of art on her cheek was totally worth it for that smile.  I say that with just a touch of sarcasm.  Originally she wanted one of the elaborate full face paintings, but at $10.99 it was just a bit too rich for Mom's wallet.

Shortly after this picture was taken one of Brig's co-workers offered to watch the girls so we could go on a couple of rides.  I've never exactly been a dare devil, but have enjoyed a few roller coasters in my time.  Somehow I let Brig talk me into going on Wicked.  The roller coaster that zooms you straight up into the sky and somehow manages not to buck you off at the top before sending you straight down.  Neither of us had ever been on it.  We waited in line for about 45 minutes all the while I started to wish I had at least told somebody, anybody which family members I wanted to raise my girls after I was gone.  I was sure I was going to die.  To make matters worse we were in line behind a big group of high school students, all paired up and joined at their pelvic bones as they kissed and cuddled their way to the front of the line.  I guess it was just payback for all the PDA I used to subject others to with my high school boyfriend.  When it was finally our turn to strap ourselves into the ride of death I started to almost hyperventilate.  The girls next to me started head banging and flashing what I always knew as the coyote sign, you know...mouths shut and ears open.  I'm pretty sure it doesn't mean that to today's generation though.  "Oh my gosh, oh my gosh, oh my gosh."  I kept repeating as we curved around to begin our flying descent to the pants wetting crest at the top.  It happened so fast.  Not the pants wetting mind you, I managed to keep it together, but barely.  We were off and in my case screaming all the way.  As we reached the peak I felt as if I was leaving my seat.  All I could think about was what it was going to feel like to fly through the air before crashing to my death on the hood of some poor sucker's Chrysler LeBaron.  Somehow I survived though.  We made it back to our progeny with nary a scratch upon us, unless you count the mental anguish and damage done to my vocal chords.