gloves are of the devil

This morning was a yelling morning.

What a terrible way to start the week. Winter is here, and I’m still getting our gear organized. (Which is to say, I finally put away our bathing suits and beach towels and replaced them with gloves and hats.)

The problem is with the gloves. I’ve decided that children’s winter wear is of the devil. Seriously. The gloves all get together at night and scatter—quick! We match! Run to the other side of the house!

We probably have eight matching pairs of gloves for the noisy boys, which we keep in the blue plastic basket in the entryway. (I know. I am SO CLASSY.) In the morning, it should be fairly simple to dig out a pair of gloves, a hat, and scarf and get geared up for the walk to school. Except it’s not. Not even close. Which is why I start yelling things like, "If you'd put your gloves away when you come in, you'd be able to find them," and "I don't care if they don't match, just put them on. We're going to be late."

So there you go. Not a good excuse to yell at everyone. I’m redoubling my efforts at organizing our winter gear and actually bought two more pairs of mittens today to add to the stash.

Bring it on, snow. Bring it on.

Door County

I wake up early to the chatter of my youngest, sleeping in a pack and play at the foot my bed, “Daddy? Daddy?” he says over and over. Suddenly, he remembers where we are and he begins to yell, excitedly, “BAMMA! BAMMA!” (Grandma.)

I dress quickly, guzzle a cup of coffee, and throw him in the bike trailer for an early morning let’s-not-wake-up-anyone-else bike ride. The town of Ephraim is completely still, and I ride along the lake, listening to the birds and the chatter of my almost-two-year-old.

“Ducks! Ducks!” he points.

I ride back, have breakfast, and then another crew is out on their bikes. Llama Papa, Uncle Llama and the cousins all go for a ride.

And so our first day of vacation in Door County unfolds.

A week of digging in the sand, throwing rocks, swimming in the lake, reading books on the porch, going out for ice cream, and just hanging out follows.

As vacations go, it was a perfect 10.

just say no to mom guilt

“Finish your waffles and get your shoes on. We’re going to the gym after breakfast.” I tell the noisy boys.

“Can we do the climbing wall?” Twin A. mumbles, his mouth full of syrupy waffles.

“Not today.”

“Aww.” Twin B. whines. “I don’t want to go to the gym. I’m cold.”

“Sorry buddy. I need to work out, and Dad took baby b. to the doctor.”

The boys whine all the way to the van. It’s raining. I feel terrible dragging them out on a day like today.

“I’ll keep it quick,” I tell the boys as I drop them off. The childcare center is packed. “Stick together!” I call out to them as they wander in to join the huge mass of children.

After ten minutes on the elliptical, I move on to the weights. I can go for a run tomorrow morning before church, but I can’t do the strength training at home. I skip the ab work. Thursday’s session with the trainer still has my abdominal region screaming in pain.

Thirty minutes later, I grab my purse from the locker room and go back to the childcare center to pick up the noisy boys.

“You're back already? Can we please stay a little longer?” Twin B. asks.

“Please?” Twin A looks hopeful.

“I thought you guys didn’t want to go to the gym today?” I ask.

“We changed our minds.” Twin A. explains.

Of course.

I head back to the workout room to finish my cardio, wondering why I bother with the whole mother-guilt thing. It’s highly overrated.

soccer

I don’t like sports. I don’t like playing sports and I don’t particularly like watching sports. So, suffice it to say, I’m surprised by how much I enjoy watching my children play soccer. Like, I’m really into it.

The noisy boys are on the same team, and have a game every Saturday. They are adorable in their uniforms, and I love sitting on the sidelines cheering them on. The team is comprised of eight Kindergarten boys and one very patient coach. His own son is on the team, and on Saturday when this boy ran the length of the field kicking the ball the wrong direction, he said, “Buddy, you went the wrong way. But good job dribbling!”

God bless that man.

I do wonder what the kids on the field hear while they're playing. A loud chorus of parents shout, “Go, Johnny! Go after the ball! Kick it!” for an hour while the kids run around, fall down, and routinely lose shoes.

Now, is there any better way to spend a Saturday morning? I didn’t think so.

ouch

I joined a different health club. This one has fun childcare—we’re talking computer lab, climbing structure, open gym kind of fun. The noisy boys were having so much fun today they didn’t want to leave. Twin B. actually said, “Can’t we just stay five more minutes?” This is a good thing.

Now, note to self: next time you’re on the elliptical and a trainer stops by and invites you to a “free” circuit training class, don’t go. It might sound fun, but trust me: that workout will kick your butt.

The ironic thing is that before the trainer came by, I had somehow talked myself into quitting my workout early, taking a nice, long shower, and getting a cup of coffee in the café before picking up the kids.

Next time I’ll do that.

Seriously, people. I’m not sure I can make it up the stairs tonight.

the jewelry party

If you know me, you know the unadorned truth: I am not a jewelry person. Oh, I wear my wedding ring and a pair of diamond earrings, but that’s as far as my accessorizing goes. It’s not that I don’t admire people who are put together and polished. I do. I just have no idea how to do that.

One of my dear friends has a theory. In junior high, all of the girls were rounded up and taken on a weekend away where they learned how to apply make-up and put together outfits and do hair. She missed that weekend and has been playing catch-up ever since. I feel much the same way. It was just never a priority, and now I simply don’t know how. It’s sad, really. A thirty-five year old woman who doesn’t know how to accessorize, and, quite honestly, doesn’t really care.

I wanted to laugh out loud last night at my neighbor’s house. It was like the jewelry lady was speaking a foreign language and I only understood every fifth word. She actually asked, “Do you prefer Jewel or Dominicks? This is a great necklace for Jewel. And if you’re going to CASEY’S, well, then you want something more dramatic…”

Is she kidding? Seriously. Wearing jewelry to the grocery store because…why exactly? Is this what housewives do after their children go to bed? Polish their jewelry for the grocery store tomorrow? Come on. I’m too busy wiping pee from the toilet seats to worry about my jewelry.

Sometimes I think I live on another planet from everyone else.

reflections

I spent this past weekend in Bloomington at Hearts at Home, a professional conference for Moms. I’m refreshed, energized, and full of new ideas. My boys appropriately call this conference, “Mommy School,” and worry that I’ll come home a little bit mean and change all the rules on them. (“As of today, no more Sponge Bob!” kind of rules.) I have more than a few thoughts and ideas I’ll share in the weeks to come, but the following are my reflections in the middle of it all, scribbled on bits of paper at a coffee shop:

Intoxicating. The smell of roasted coffee permeates my being, and I feel my weariness lift even before the first drink. And to think I almost missed it.

Ten minutes ago, I was wandering through the student center, eager to get to the next workshop. If I could just grab a quick cup of coffee on my way, I think, maybe I’ll be able to focus. I walk by Pizza Hut. Burger King. And then, in a sea of a thousand Moms, I see a college student. Impulsively, I ask, “Where can I get a good cup of coffee?” Without missing a beat, she responds, “Downstairs in the back corner. Go to The Cage.”

The smooth latte fills me up, and I decide to just sit. In the four years I’ve been coming to this conference, it’s my first time at The Cage. And I could have missed it so easily. I could be sitting in another workshop, drinking Burger King coffee from a styrofoam cup. How many times in my life have I settled for Burger King coffee because I was too insecure to ask for guidance? How much of life—real life—do I miss because I’m in a hurry, scurrying on to the next thing I’m supposed to do? In my fear of missing something, I miss everything.

An Unexpected Day!

Tonight, the Llama Momma is resting comfortably in the Llama Hospital.

She woke up this morning with stomach pain that quickly intensified. Grandpa came over to take care of the noisy boys and the baby. About 45 minutes later, the ER room was able to do an initial diagnosis that her gallbladder was the problem and then get her some pain relief. It took a couple of more hours and an ultrasound to confirm that she had gallstones. Upon reflection, Llama Momma realized that she has had several previous incidents though much less severe.

The arthroscopic surgery should happen tomorrow though, due to the Bears game, we haven't talked to the surgeon yet. After a hearty dinner of clear liquids (Would you like chicken broth or vegetable broth?) she was able to relax by reading a book . . . in a quite room . . . without interruptions from any five year olds. (She really hated that, by the way.) We were both reminded how very blessed we are to have good health insurance, a great hospital nearby along with family and friends willing to help out when we are in need.

Thank you for your prayers.

[Editor's note: This post was not written by the Llama Momma and should not reflect on her ability to spell, string together cogent sentences or otherwise communicate with the written word. And besides, who knew that gallstones had nothing to do with the French?]

Confession

The noisy boys got some really cool new puzzles for their birthday. One is a big map of the United States, and the other is a big map of the world. So, this afternoon while their baby brother was napping, we got out the U.S. map and tried to put it together. "Tried" being the key word in that sentence. Everything was going along fine as we went around the edge, matching up the happy fish pictures. Then we got to the middle section.

"What state is this, Mom? Where does it go?"

Um, let's see. Where DOES that go? I spent most of the afternoon staring at this little picture of the U.S. on the box, trying to match up the states and get this puzzle together. And a big part of the problem is the fact that I cheated in geography. (Math too, but that's another post...) I wrote all of those little states in order on my arm and copied them onto the test. The whole cheating process probably took longer than actually LEARNING the states in the first place. I never did get caught. But here I am today, a college educated woman, and I don't know where all of the states in a children's puzzle go. (Even worse, where the actual states are in relationship to the other states!) So, now you've got a good illustration as you warn your kids against cheating. "Let me tell you about the Llama Momma..." Of course, it's never too late to learn.

Please don't hold it against me, dear blog reading friends!

The Pressure's on!

Our Christmas cards went in the mail two days ago. That means in the next day or so, 188 people will have this blog address. Up until now, like eight people have been reading my blog. Nine if you count my husband, which I don’t since he only reads the short posts. (And now that I’ve said that, I’ve got to keep writing so he doesn’t know I’m talking about him!) He’s also the one who insisted we put my blog address in the Christmas newsletter; after all, what’s the point of having a blog if nobody reads it? Right. Um. Sure.

And speaking of Christmas cards, I got a little nervous after dropping ours in the mail. The picture of the boys is adorable, of course, but the letter is…well…different. People will either think we’re really funny or seriously whacked! I mean, really, who writes about overwhelming piles of laundry and their husband’s vasectomy in a CHRISTMAS LETTER? Ah well. Too late now. I wonder if our friends will tell us they don’t want to be our friends anymore, or if they’ll just slowly slink away? Only time will tell.

Spring Blossoms

The branches are barren and cold. I remember the beauty of the blossoms, though. They were real. Last March, seemingly out of nowhere, small buds appeared on those barren branches and became beautiful, delicate blossoms. The shades of pink and white and mauve lulled me into complacency—I’ll take a picture tomorrow, I thought. I’ll sit outside tomorrow, when it’s a little bit warmer, and I’ll take a hundred pictures. And then suddenly the wind came, blowing my picture all to hell. It’s unfair. I put up with this messy tree all year, sweeping squished crabapples up off of the patio and dealing with soggy, slippery flowers trampled into the grass, all so I can enjoy a month of beauty. But this year the beauty only lasted a week, and I feel gypped. Do I trust those brittle branches now, to become grand again? Can I live with the ugly and barren for a season, in order to experience the splendor of spring? Or do I chop spring-hope down because I’m in the middle of winter?

For my Father-in-law...

Or anyone else who want to buy me a Christmas present!

Here's my List:

• Starbucks gift cards (I'm down to only 9 cents left on my card -- crisis!)
• Subscription to The Sun (http://www.thesunmagazine.org/)
• Did I mention I'm down to only 9 cents on my Starbucks card?

I'm sure I'll think of something else. What did Linda want? A new mixer? Maybe I could swap her mine for a few days of babysitting! Heck, who needs a mixer anyway? :-)

Is your Mama a Llama?

I can't believe I'm starting a blog. Seriously.

I love reading blogs, though, so I suppose it was only a matter of time. And since I bought a llama today, my blog name is perfect: Llama Momma. Actually, I'm only part-owner of the llama. And he lives in Ecuador, I think. A friend actually coordinated the llama purchase. Let me explain.

Two years ago I got a call from my Aussie friend, who was turning 40. She wanted to do something outrageous, and so she organized a llama hike with a few other friends. (I was priviledged to be invited!) Now, if you've never been on a llama hike, you really must go. We all flew into Salt Lake City, Utah, rented a car, and drove to the middle of nowhere. Our guides let us stay in their "guest house" overnight, and the next morning, we were on our way. We each carried a day pack with water and snacks, and our llamas carried the rest. For the next two days, we hiked beautiful trails with our llamas. They really are amazing creatures. And that business about llamas spitting? It's not true. Only llamas who have been mistreated actaully spit at people.

We wanted to get llama tattoos to commemorate our trip, but Salt Lake City seems to be a bit short on tattoo parlors.

So here we are, two years later, and we've bought a real llama instead. My friend emailed the old llama gang, and we all pitched in $37.50 and bought a llama for a family who lives in Ecuador, or someplace where a llama would be useful. I think I'll get a llama photo or something in the mail.