Rose-colored glasses

Most of my life is currently spent trying to understand the world through the eyes of a child. And it's really fun.

For example, this week a six-year-old paid me what I think was in her eyes the highest of compliments when she exclaimed, "Wow, you know a lot of stuff. You should work at Wal-Mart." And why not? Wal-Mart has everything. (except available check-out lines, quality customer service, and cilantro. But I'll save that post for another day.) Naturally, it's employees' intellect must be as abundant as the inventory!

My new calling as the ward primary chorister has also taught me that a child's coolness standard is based on how ridiculous I dress and act. There is nothing like watching a 5-year old roll with laughter because you are wearing your sunglasses on the back of your head. (A small part of me wonders if I've tapped into Lady Gaga's psyche with this one. Trust me, I don't dress like her though.)

I also love how children simplify things. Today in church Alaina candidly told the strangers in the pew behind us, "yesterday my mom went into her room and cried because she lost the carrot peeler." It's true. Let's just leave out the details about the entire tube of lotion squirted on the carpet, the Jesse-Alaina duo tantrum in Joanns, the daddy-is-gone-for-8-days exhaustion, and the discovery that, yes, Jesse did throw your nice and rather expensive carrot peeler in the trash--that was collected yesterday." But children aren't burdened with all of this emotional baggage. They call it like they see it. It seems so liberating, and  I love it. Except for the near-daily glares we get from strangers following a pregnancy inquiry.

Buenas noches

Caleb was on hour two of home teaching. With both kids asleep by 7:30, it seemed like a Netflix kind of night. I don't know why I still have any hope in Netflix. Thousands of movies, and there isn't a darn thing to watch. So, yet again, I got sucked into a ridiculously cheesy made-for-TV Christmas movie. It wasn't great, but the night improved when our home teachers dropped by some pumpkin chocolate chip cookies. (Must be the last week of the month.) It was during this binge watching/eating experience that Caleb walked through the door with---tamales. That man knows me too well. So I made some room on the couch for him and we watched ourselves some terrible tv together while enjoying some authentic Mexican food. 5.5 years later, and we're still keeping things "spicy" around here. :)

Turning the mother cheek

Who do I talk to about a hostile work environment? I think I live in one, but somehow I don't think OSHA is going to care, and I'm pretty sure they don't charge toddlers with parental abuse. I remember applying for a job where I'd be working with mentally handicapped adults, and the interviewer casually mentioned that some of the residents could get violent. "Don't be surprised if someone takes a swing at you every once in a while," chuckled the lady across the table. I ran out of there and never looked back. Well, the joke's on me, because now that's my life, and I've got the mother load (maybe that's where the term originated from) of reports to give whoever deals with work-related injuries for domestic homemakers.
Yesterday Jesse threw his noggin back into my jaw and I bit myself, taking out a solid chunk of my inner cheek. I have a minor abrasion above my right brow from the corner of a library book being hurled at my head. I have at least five things dropped on my toes every day, ranging from tv remotes to ceramic bowls to hammers (true story. He dropped a hammer on my toe). And I also currently have claw marks up and down my neck--that's Jesse-talk for "I'm dissatisfied" lately. I don't get paid enough for this, people! Wait...
Anyway, the amazing thing is that most of my injuries are acquired accidentally. I have the most clumsy children on the planet, which actually makes sense now that I think of it. I'm a total klutz. Last month I shut my face in the car door. And last week I hopped off the kitchen counter (don't ask why I was up there in the first place. Long story) and ripped an entire cabinet door off. No joke, my belt loop got caught on the cabinet handle and tore the whole thing off. I wanted be mad at myself, but I was too impressed by the quality of my jeans. At least they'll survive raising my kids, even if I don't.

"Prove me now herewith..."

I don't often share thoughts on things of a spiritual nature, but I'd like to more often. I thought I'd start with this: Caleb was on an NSF Fellowship for the past 4 years, and it expired last month. This means that his advisor now has to fund him until he graduates. Unfortunately his advisor is tight on funding, and told Caleb he would be taking a significant pay cut. We're talking $9,000/year, which is huge considering how we're already flirting with the poverty line. Needless to say, I have been STRESSING over this for the past few months.
Well, recently I discovered that I misunderstood how I get paid for my part time job as a school nurse. I thought I got paid hourly, but I'm actually on an hourly salary, which means I got paid all through the summer even though I didn't have to work. Do you know how much money I made? $9140,0. That, my friends, is a tithing blessing. Paying 10% of your income seems nuts to most people, but time and time again I have seen how the Lord has blessed my family with financial stability, ideas for thriftiness, and debt avoidance because we pay tithing. I LOVE learning how to make more with less, and having a frequent reminder that everything I have--money included--comes from the Lord. Paying tithing doesn't mean we'll ever be rich, but the Lord, as promised in Malachi, will truly open the windows of heaven and shower us with the blessings we need if we pay our tithing.

Maternal ethics 101

Mommy dilemmas. Sometimes seemingly mundane choices can have momentous consequences.

Take the following examples:

She falls asleep before brushing her teeth. Do I wake her up from her beloved (by me) sleep? Or...

Let it slide, and possibly let the "sugar bugs" rot her teeth out? They all fall out anyway, right?

The kids ask for a chocolate, and there's one left. Do I sacrifice my own wants and let them have it? Or...

Risk purgatory by telling them that the chocolate is all gone. We all know where liars go...

I've been dying to wear these shoes. Do I throw caution to the wind and sport them at church next week? Or...

Be reasonable and, knowing that Jesse always makes a break for the pulpit, save myself a snapped fibula.

In case you're wondering, I swirled a toothbrush around in her unconscious mouth, they got the chocolate, and I have embraced my inner mama-frump. If you're a childless size 8.5, they're yours.

Little mirrors

We've hit that point where my children reflect my unknown flaws right back in my face.
Did anyone know that I grunt when I get frustrated? Why didn't someone tell me?!? Now I have a 3 year old Neanderthal living in my house who snorts or groans at the slightest catastrophe. And I taught her that!
She isn't always subtle in exposing my weaknesses either: "Mommy, why are you always so cranky? I want Daddy to stay home with me." Ouch. She even made up a song to comfort me in those far-too-frequent bouts of melancholy. Most moms of girls have probably heard this song, but Alaina's lyrics go as follows:

"Everyone gets cranky sometimes
It's ok to hit, and it's ok to bite..."

I promise I didn't teach her that, but I must say I'm impressed with such creativity, which I have to assume was also learned from me. In fact, I'll go ahead and shamelessly claim that my kids learned every positive trait from yours truly. Alaina already has a talented ear for music and complements every stranger with "you look beautiful in that shirt!" or "I just love you!" So let's just say I taught her that. Jesse is showing signs of brilliance with his verbal abilities and sleuth-like escape tactics. Must be from my side of the family. (Let's just not mention that his father is a summa cum laude PhD candidate with an MIT acceptance and a perfect GRE Math score.)

Towanda

I think I'm having a mid-mid life crisis, because I just chopped my hair off, and I bought some crazy pants that are a wild deviation from my normally unremarkable wardrobe, and I put myself on a diet.
I'm not sure where this is coming from. Maybe it's the first signs of spring emerging from a dismal winter that make me feel like a new woman. Maybe my life has held fast to routine for so long that my psyche demands change before I have a nervous breakdown. Or maybe all the requests for bedtime stories about Pegasus Unicorn Princesses is slowly driving me insane. I can't really say. But I can say that I feel like I can conquer the world, and I'm slightly concerned for anybody who decides to cut me off in traffic.
https://youtu.be/lx0z9FjxP-Y

Lost

I can’t find my dustpan. This is a problem because a dustpan does not travel very far. It emerges twice—who am I kidding, maybe once—each day from the side of the fridge and then it gets shoved right back in there 30 seconds later when its job is through. This leads me to believe that one of the littles stole it, and it is therefore lost forever, or at least won’t be found for months until I randomly find it stuffed in the barbecue outside or something. Hmm. Mental note to check barbecue later. I think somewhere out there is a vortex of knickknack hostages. Every kid knows to take their parents’ important stuff there to disappear—just like every kid knew to blow into their Nintendo game every time it froze back in the 90s. It’s right up there with the infant sucking reflex. Kids are just born knowing this stuff, people.

So far I’ve lost approximately nine spoons, a dozen shoes (they never lose both shoes; just one shoe from every pair they own so they’re all worthless), dental floss, a can opener, and about a hundred sippy cups. Sippy cups are the calling card of the Miskin family. If we’ve been to your house, chances are you have one of our sippy cups under your couch. We won’t talk about all the toys we’ve left places, because it’s one of my best de-cluttering methods. Who cares about a few lost barbies, but try making soup without a can opener. It’s about as easy as EATING the soup without spoons.

The bully

I have yet to figure out exactly what to say to another parent after my own child hurts their kid. After all, she's, three, and I'm pretty sure she'll grow out of it--or at least I think she will. Otherwise I'm raising the world's first female bouncer. Like, isn't "Hey, I'm sorry Alaina pushed Gavin off a bridge" or  "Myles may have a bruise because Alaina strangled him with the curtain sash today" a bit inadequate? (Yes, both of these things really happened.)
The girl can be ruthless. She will search out a weak spot and destroy--and she likes to practice on her brother. (At least this way I don't have to apologize to anyone, right?) Jesse  got stitches after he sliced his nose open when he fell and hit our tv stand. So naturally, now when Jesse annoys Alaina, she pokes him IN THE NOSE. What's a mom to do! I feel so conflicted, because if I'm too lenient she may start torturing animals and then become a serial killer. Too harsh and I may crush that bright and spunky spirit that I love so much. No pressure.

Ions

Caleb convinced me to watch Rise of the Planet of the Apes last week, and it was so awful. I want those 106 minutes of my life back. But that's what you do when you're married; you sit through bad movies because your sweetheart likes shallow plots, terrible dialogue, and physics-defying special effects. Why? Because the next week he will sit through five hours of "Wives and Daughters" with you, despite its poor cinematography, sappy romance, and overly-dramatic theme music. It's give and take. (Let the record state that I LOVE Wives and Daughters despite its previously-mentioned shortcomings.) Thankfully we found an audiobook that required no compromise between us. It's called The Disappearing Spoon. We both are loving this book, but probably wouldn't recommend it to "normal" people because it's a history of the elements of the periodic table. So we may not like the same movies, but we've got chemistry! (I couldn't help myself.)

Old Fogey

My mom has always told me that I am an "old soul." I used to resent that statement, but as I am approaching "upper 20's" status (happy 27th to me tomorrow!) I have come to accept reality. I am an old soul. I love to go to bed early and wake up early. I am a school nurse (the next youngest school nurse in my district is older than my mother). I play racquetball with a group of ladies who are all over 65. I am already hitting the point where technology eludes me, and I don't even care. I've also hit the point where large groups of people overwhelm me, and I'd much have an intimate conversation with one or two other people rather than socializing with a boistrous group of 20. (Too much daggum racket!) I'm all about matinees and discounts, and I already have some gray hair. Time to come to grips with my identity.

Random thoughts that made me chuckle

My sisters recently read some of my blog posts and told me that I am ridiculous. They are probably right, but blogging is cheaper than therapy, so here we go.

When I was younger I had these huge gapped two front teeth. I basically looked like a beaver. My parents couldn't (or as I saw it, wouldn't) afford braces. They suddenly came up with the money for their third child. Justyn and I complained relentlessly, but Dad said she was the only one worth the investment. How kind. So anyway, every night I slept with a rubber band around my two enormous front teeth. I'm no dentist, but the gap is gone, and my teeth are all a uniform size. I attribute it to sheer will mixed with a little divine intervention. 

I took Caleb shopping for clothes over Christmas. It's his LEAST favorite pastime, but I decided it was time when he asked me to patch the patches in his shirts. I tried so hard to find things he liked, but he refused most of the shirts I picked out because, and I quote, "they won't look good with my lab coat." I have no idea what to do with this.

You know what phrase is an oxymoron? Urgent care. When have you ever received urgent care at an urgent care? We made a trip there the day after Christmas when Caleb had a nasty run-in with a box cutter. Either the staff were all descendants of turtles, or they were deliberately working as slowly as possible to punish us for making them work during the holidays. Four hours, four stitches, a hematoma, and a suicide inquiry later we decided that maybe next time we should try our luck with super glue.