The Fairy Godmother

We had a very special guest in our home yesterday, someone I never in a million years thought would  be sitting in my living room. After 15 years, I thought I knew almost everything about my husband. I did not, however, know that he went to high school with Cinderella's Fairy Godmother. True story. When he told me several months ago that a high school friend who lives in Tampa wanted to bring her teenage daughter by to ride a horse, he mentioned that she worked at Disney World. We later found out that she is in fact, Cinderella's Fairy Godmother, in addition to being a hairstylist for princesses and little girls who visit her shop.
Now everyone knows that other people's lives sound much more interesting than our own, so while my children were sitting at this woman's feet completely entranced by her stories about what princesses and fairies do behind the scenes at Disney World, all the Fairy Godmother's daughter wanted to talk about was what it was like to be a barrel racer and a veterinarian! Like everyone else, I sometimes forget that to people on the outside any job can appear glamorous and fantastic. And no, I didn't burst sweet Katelyn's bubble. Not entirely, anyway. I don't think she was expecting to hear that in order to be a successful veterinarian you had better love people as much as animals. Unfortunately, it doesn't matter what you know how to do, if you can't convince the one holding the checkbook to let you do it, Fluffy's still out of luck. Oh, well, at least I got to tell her some of the stuff that no one bothered to tell me. And I resisted the urge to look at her and say, "Don't do it! Go to medical school instead," completely aware that if someone had given me the same advice when I was her age I would  have completely ignored them.
As I sat there watching my girls having their hair put up by Cinderella's Fairy Godmother, I started thinking about our upcoming trip to Disneyland. They were so excited when she told them to close their eyes and make a wish while she placed a tiny tiara on their heads. Even my skeptic, who long ago asked me if the characters at Disney on Ice were just people in costumes, was totally sold on the story about how Tinker Bell shrinks Mrs. Tammy down to her size every day with Pixie Dust so that she can fix her hair!
It was a fun-filled, magical afternoon. My girls got to ask every single question they've ever come up with about a Disney character, and the Fairy Godmother had an answer for all of them! Listening to them talk made me think about how grateful I am that I've fought to preserve their innocence as much as possible. It has always seemed to me that people around them were trying to rush them into becoming little adults. They aren't teens, and they aren't "tweens." They're little girls, who should be able to believe in cartoons, magic, and fairy tales for just a little longer. They have the rest of their lives to learn that life isn't fair, that sometimes dreams turn into nightmares, and that there are people out there who are pure evil. Slow down, my girls! There will be time for nail polish, cell phones, and bikinis MUCH later on! I want to let you be little for as long as you can be, and if that's wrong, then I'm just wrong. Love you guys!

Santa Sucks

I have mentioned before that I was more than a bit frightened when it dawned on me that my husband and I were now responsible for the childhood Christmas memories of three people. It also occurred to me recently that one of the surest signs you have become a grownup is when you are no longer particularly concerned about what is inside your own packages, but you can hardly wait for their children to open theirs. There's nothing quite like knowing your child has been longing for one special toy and being able to finally give it to them. I always try to be mindful of the fact that we are so blessed to be able to grant our children's Christmas wishes when there are so many parents out there who cannot. My own mother shared with me that one Christmas many years ago, when my grandfather was stationed in Germany, she was certain she and her siblings wouldn't have gotten anything for Christmas if it hadn't been for the Salvation Army. To this day I make it a point to donate whenever possible to such a worthy cause.
Not long ago, one of my girls asked me how many days were left until Christmas. "Seven. Why?" "Yay! Almost the time of year to find out whether we get coal or not!" Then her sister informed me that she didn't "really care if I get coal or not. I mean, we can paint it, or build a fire with it!" I think they were scared. Consequently, I also learned this from Savannah: If you are on the naughty list, you get coal in your stocking and underwear under the tree! I will have to remember that one, because one year I'm totally wrapping underwear and hiding all the other gifts! Better wait until they are a little older, but I can't wait to do this one!
I am happy to say no one received coal or underwear. As usual, Christmas morning at our house was filled with squeals of delight and more than one negotiation over who gets which color this or that. I have to say that this year I was pretty impressed. My six year olds were able to hold incredibly diplomatic peace talks which ended with everyone getting what they wanted, which in this case was the appropriate pair of unicorn house shoes and character themed night lights. I will forever refer to this year as the "As Seen on TV" Christmas. Every single toy my kids asked for was a direct result of who spent the most money advertising on the Disney Channel. We bought Stuffies, Stompeez, Dream Lights, Moxie Girls, and Moxie Girl Mermaids all simply because they monopolized the airwaves between Disney shows for two solid months leading up to Christmas.
The baby has entered a wonderful phase of life, the two year old year, in which the prevailing mindset is, "Everything in this house is mine. If it's yours, it's now mine. If I want it, it's mine." That very thinking landed her in time out not once, but twice on Christmas Day. Sorry, little one. Allowing you to club your sister in the head because she won't give up something belonging to her is something I just won't do. Even if you are stinking cute.
Oddly enough, it was truth in advertising (or lack thereof) which led to my girls learning a very important lesson this year. After their bath last night, I said, "Well, girls, were the Moxie Girls all you thought they would be? Do you just love them?" One of them looked at me very seriously and said, "Well, Mom, not really. On the commercial, these girls just spin around all by themselves and the kids aren't even touching them! These do NOT do that!" Ah, yes, my babies. An important lesson indeed. As seen on TV doesn't always mean as seen in real life. If it did, we would all look like Cindy Crawford and prepare delicious gourmet meals in under fifteen minutes, just like the infomercials said we could. I couldn't help but think of poor Ralphie in "A Christmas Story" and his Little Orphan Annie decoder pin!
More importantly, Santa goofed up this year. Truthfully, I felt like we had done pretty well up until this point. But this year, Mommy brain got the better of me. I think. Several weeks ago, I loaded a cart with wonderful little stocking stuffers - candy, suckers, candy canes...the works. No oranges or underwear here! I then brought them home, stuffed them in a WalMart bag, and hid them. Well. So well, in fact, that they've never been heard from again. I have looked from one end of this house to the other, more than once, and I still have no earthly idea where the bag is. Yep, I admit it. I hid it so well that I hid it from myself. Talk about feeling like a sucky Santa.
After ridiculing me in only the nicest way for losing my stocking stuffers, my husband sighed and said, "Do you need me to go to town?" Keeping in mind it was 10:30 PM on Christmas Eve, I said, "Nope, I've got it under control." And so, in the interest of full disclosure, I worked with what I had. Leftover goody bags from the girls' birthday party, school Christmas party bags, unopened Halloween Skittles, and my recently purchased Peeps hoard were all pressed into service. And so, not in the manner I would have liked, but the stockings were indeed stuffed. What can I tell you, girls? Santa sucks. But she sure does love you! Enough to give up my Peeps...and that's saying something! :)    

Merry Christmas!

On this Christmas Eve, while listening to my kids entertain themselves by looking to see which of their toys were made in China,  I want to express to everyone my most sincere thanks for liking, reading, and commenting on my blog. I write because I enjoy it, and I write so that my children will be able to look back at their childhood memories and know what their mom was thinking. And last, but certainly not least, I write because the stuff that goes on around here is funny! I couldn't make this stuff up, and I hope that those of you who have taken the time to read about our lives have gotten a giggle out of it as well.
At one point, I was taking my life way too seriously. The best thing I could do for my husband and my kids was learn to laugh at myself. If I can encourage just one person to loosen up and enjoy the time you have with your family, then I feel like I have done something very worthwhile. A very Merry Christmas to all of you. I hope that you are getting to spend it with the ones you love. A sincere thank you to those American soldiers and their families who are not. Merry Christmas and God Bless You!

The Book...It's getting closer!

I am very happy to report that I am done reviewing my manuscript and making the editor's suggested changes! My files are now on their way back to the publisher for some final tweaking. My cover concept is scheduled to be ready for review by Christmas Eve, so I am eagerly awaiting that. It's looking like this project may finally be coming together. Merry Christmas to me!
I have lots to share about this wonderful time of year. My girls are so full of questions (and answers) that I often just sit and listen to some of the stuff they come up with. For instance, tonight they were involved in a lively discussion about whether Jesus hired Santa Claus. They are growing up so very fast. Their wonder and innocence will be a thing of the past soon enough. I am planning to enjoy every second of this Christmas with these precious girls. Santa, they've been good!

Redneck Balls

For those who didn't grow up in the South, I am about to let you in on a well-known fact of Southern life. The official sport of the redneck Christmas season is driving around in your car admiring critiquing other people's Christmas lights. Yes, yes, I know-deer/duck hunting ranks a close second, being that NASCAR is over until February, but light-looking is clearly first, due to the fact that everyone from my two year old to your ninety year old mother can participate. And everyone has their own opinion. The very same display that elicits a "how tacky" from my sister-in-law can evoke squeals of delight and "I wish our house looked like that" from my kids.
Here's how it works. You load up as many people, family or not, as you can possibly stuff into your vehicle, or in the case of the people we were behind last night, as many people and your blue heeler dog. He actually seemed to be looking at the lights, as best we could tell while we were tailgating them. Then you drive around until you spot Christmas lights, and have at it. If it's a particularly large display, such as the one we were at last night you may have to make several slow laps around the house, a la stalker, to get the full effect. Serious lookers turn their headlights off, which could explain the uptick in car wrecks around the holidays. Just a thought.
Many years ago, when my husband and I were merely dating and not yet the blissfully happy parents of 47 children, the latest, greatest, most amazing Christmas decoration ever hit the market. Often imitated and never quite duplicated, it was essentially a collection of clear plastic cups arranged in a sphere with a colored light bulb in each one. No doubt the creation of someone who had just finished a game of beer pong, you could customize these fabulous items with light bulbs in the color of your choice to match your decor. My soon to be husband immediately christened them "Redneck balls." He and I took great joy that year in riding through subdivisions and making fun of admiring the houses that had one.
Although she would never have said it aloud, I was able to discern that my sweet mother-in-law felt the same way about these amazing creations that we did. And then my husband's grandmother got one as a Christmas gift. As luck would have it, she was living with his parents at the time. Needless to say, he and I nearly hurt ourselves laughing as we watched my poor sweet MIL agonize over what to do with such a lovely gift. Just to give you some perspective, her Christmas decor always includes very traditional, tasteful lighted wreaths with red bows and a tree glistening in the window. A Redneck ball was not in her plan.
If I haven't mentioned it before, my MIL is as clever as she is sweet. She can delicately manipulate a situation until she gets exactly what she wants without you ever knowing a thing. In this instance, she settled for placing the ball in an elegant brass planter, plugging it in and displaying it...in her living room, which is the least used room in her entire house! Nobody ever goes in there. It was perfect. I can't be certain, but I'm pretty sure I saw a twinkle in her eye and a tiny little grin every time someone mentioned it.
But the story doesn't end there. My grandmother and my MIL were from the same generation, and close to the same age. To give you some background on my dad's mom, I never saw her wear jeans. Ever. Her hair and nails were always done, and her hourglass figure was always tastefully complimented by her clothes. I don't remember ever seeing her wear any type of shoes other than high heels. Her house was like a museum, and you knew better than to touch anything. So when she told us that she couldn't wait to show us her new Christmas decoration, I thought my husband was going to pee on himself when we pulled up to her house and there it was...a Redneck ball in all its blue glory hanging on the porch! I don't think I've ever worked so hard to stifle a giggle in my entire life. Love you, Granny!
With such a rich family history, we knew it was up to us to keep the tradition alive for our kids. So last night, we loaded up and headed to Fulton. We drove straight to the one guy's house who has at least fifty lighted animals, story book characters, and Santas in his yard. After ten laps or so at 5 mph, the kids decided that maybe they had seen it all. As we were driving up the street looking for a spot to turn around, totally infuriating the guy behind us who was just trying to get home from work, I saw it. Something I'd never seen before in my 35 years of experience critiquing Christmas lights. It was...a Merry Christmas tapestry, proudly hung in the front yard with all the other decorations, just to the right of the nativity scene. It was lit, it was festive, it was...a HUGE picture of ELVIS PRESLEY.
We were so blown away by the sheer beauty of it that my husband was immediately compelled to take a picture to put on Facebook. I mean, something like this is worth sharing. We drove by several times, trying hard to get that perfect shot with our non-iPhone camera phones...but it just wasn't working. So we did what any responsible redneck would do. We pulled over, my husband got out of the car, crossed the road, and walked up INTO THEIR YARD to take a picture. I was already getting my story ready for the cops when they got there. "Well, you see, Officer, we just wanted to take a picture so we could put it on Facebook. Does that really count as trespassing? Where is your Christmas spirit?" Fortunately, he didn't get shot or mauled by a dog and even got back to the car before the police got there. So, to our FB friends who were able to enjoy this moment in Christmas history, you're welcome.      

Book Project Update!

I am thrilled to say that I have just received the edited copy of my manuscript from the publisher. Now I have to go back through the whole thing and make the suggested changes! (This could take awhile.) I promise to try to get it done as quickly as possible, even if it means not posting anything for a couple of days. I am so ready to see this project come to its completion. It's definitely a "bucket list" item for me! Provided the world doesn't end on Friday (ha, ha) maybe I will be able to start 2013 with my first book in my hand. I can't wait!

Fear Not, I am With Thee

Like any parent, almost everything I do seems to be for my children, and this blog is no exception. I record my thoughts and feelings so that someday my kids can look back on their childhood and know what their mom was thinking at the time. If I am still alive, it probably won't mean a whole lot to them. But if they ever have the misfortune of being in my situation, they won't have to rely on other people's stories and memories of their mom. Not that I don't have plenty of my own memories - it's just that, since I am now a mother myself, I would love to know what she thought about certain things and how she handled difficult situations when I was a kid.
Last night, my sweet baby was singing "Twinkle, twinkle Little Star" while I was putting her pajamas on her. As her dad leaned over her, listening to her sing, he looked at me and said, "Don't you know those parents would give anything to hear that one more time?" So today I'm going to tell my girls what I think about the awful tragedy at Sandy Hook Elementary School. As a parent, I can't imagine anything more devastating or life altering than losing a child. To lose a child in such a violent way is a pain that no parent should ever have to endure. The media is currently saturating the airwaves and the Internet with every morbid detail of this horrific event. I have tried my very best to shield my children from the coverage of that day, simply because I don't want them to be afraid to go to school. It breaks my heart to even think about discussing children their very own age who died in such a painful way simply because they went to school.
Various groups are having a field day trying to decide which issue is the most important-gun control or mental illness. The CT authorities are conducting a full scale investigation into the events leading up to this tragedy. I have to confess that I'm not sure what good an investigation is going to do. All of the major players (the shooter and his mother) are already dead. In my eyes, there's no one left to hold responsible. No discovery made by law enforcement will bring even one of those precious children back. But if this investigation in some way leads to preventing something like this from happening again, then it will be worthwhile.
A third issue that has been brought to the forefront is the issue of religion in schools. In America, religion has been systematically removed from our public education system a little at a time. There are many people who want to say that the awful things that happened on Friday could have been prevented if this was not the case. So here's what I think about that: If anything good has come out of this tragedy, it has gotten people talking about God and about prayer. I confess that I was shocked to hear a children's choir sing, "Silent Night" on the Today show this morning. They even used the words Christmas, God, and prayer during the telecast. As this show typically leans way to the left, and completely ignores many stories in the news simply because they might offend someone (unless it offends Christians, they don't seem to mind doing that) I have to say that I was pleasantly surprised to hear such things.
Here are my thoughts on religion in schools: Teachers are amazing, selfless, wonderful people who have the immensely important task of educating our children. Their job is to teach our children to read, write, and spell, not to teach them how to be productive members of society with a good moral compass. That, my friends, is a parent's job. More specifically, it's a mother's job. Among the several thousand other small jobs, a mother is responsible for making her precious child feel loved and secure, for teaching them right from wrong, and helping them to understand that each and every human life has value. It is also a mother's job to teach her children about their family's religious beliefs, not a teacher's. As amazing, creative and wonderful as they are, a teacher cannot be expected to do a mother's job for her.
For me, my relationship with God has always been an intensely personal thing. I was taught to believe that "my Lord is near me all the time" like the hymn says. I believe, and have taught my children that we can pray no matter where we are at any time. My children do not need anyone's approval or permission to speak to their God. No piece of legislation can keep the angels of protection that God has placed around my children out of their school. I ask for his favor and his blessings on them each and every day before they walk out the door. And that's all we can really do.
It's time to wake up, people. No one knows what's going to happen next. The very idea that we are in control of what's going to happen in our lives or even in our own bodies is ridiculous. If anything good can come out of this most evil atrocity, I hope it will be a restoration of faith among God's people and a call to action for mothers everywhere. We need to take back our children from the media. It's up to us to teach our children that violence in movies and games isn't real, and it isn't okay. Think about who taught you that your actions have consequences. I bet it was your mom. It's time to quit blaming the games, the media, and the magazines and take responsibility for raising productive members of society.
My girls' favorite lullaby at the moment is a hymn I learned as a child, "There's Within My Heart a Melody." It includes the words, "Fear not, I am with thee." I hope that my girls will remember that. Jesus is always with you, whether some politician from Washington says he can be or not.

The Wedding

Good morning! Although of course the tragedy at Sandy Hook Elementary school is on my mind, and I have plenty to say about it, I wanted to write today about something happy and hopeful instead. My girls' first and best non-family babysitter, Jennifer, got married Saturday night. She has been keeping my babies since they were only a few months old and she was a teenager. I have to say that I didn't know how hard it would be to trust someone else with my children until I became a mother. For those (including myself, now that my kids are in school) who have to do it on a daily basis, I know how difficult it can be. I also know what a relief it is to be able to leave them with someone you know loves them and would do anything for them. There are so many opportunities that I personally and our family would have missed out on if it hadn't been for Jennifer, so when she asked our girls to be her flower girls, of course we agreed.
My big girls have been in a wedding once before. Their Aunt Casey got married when I was 8 months pregnant with Sheridan. They don't remember a whole lot about that one, but I think this one will stick with them for awhile. After the ceremony when they came back in, both of my kids were bawling. Literally. Tears pouring down their cheeks. I scooped one of them up and asked what on earth was wrong. She looked at me, face all red and blotchy, and said, "I'm just so HAPPY!" Yep, that's my girl. I can't wait until PMS hits around here. I swear I'm moving into the pool house.
So with one child's crisis handled, I proceeded to ask her sister the same question: "What on earth is wrong with you? Why are you crying?" She sobbed several times and then said, "It's just so SAD. Now that Jennifer's married, she'll have to leave her parents!" Trying really hard not to giggle, I said, "Sharlee, she wants to leave her parents! That's why she got married. She's not moving away!" "But we might never see her again!" "Well, I guess that's possible, but I think she's coming over on Tuesday."
It was really sweet. I guess Jen will know that they love her! I have to admit, it was pretty emotional for me, too, but not just because Jen was the one getting married. Her 5 year old niece was dressed in nearly identical wedding dress, and was totally Jennifer in miniature. But seeing that kid in that dress really hit me hard. I had a flash forward to my own daughter's wedding day, and I couldn't help but think: Is that how I will see her? Looking just like she does now, playing dress up in a wedding gown? I would say the odds are pretty good. And will we have a wonderful man like her Daddy to "give her away" to?  I sure hope so. I pray about it every day. Now that I am a little older (gasp) and can look back on the decisions I made in my late teens and early twenties, I marvel at the fact that I'm still alive and happily married to boot. If you are looking for proof that there is a God and he is in control of my life, there you have it. My own stupidity and impulsive decisions could have led me to a very different place than I am in now!
But back to the wedding! As all children are, my kids were totally enthralled by the wedding cake. It was beautiful (and delicious,) made by the bride's mother and adorned with the initials of the bride and groom. They were dying to look at it, so after their dad issued a very stern "two foot halo rule" about that cake, they took off to marvel at it. When they came back, I said, "Well what did you think?" and my daughter replied, "Well, it's really pretty, but there's not a little tiny man and woman on top." She sounded so disappointed. Guess they think all weddings are supposed to be like the ones in the cartoons!
Naturally, the highlight of the wedding for us was our kids being in it. ALL of our kids, even the two year old. To say that I was nervous about how she would do is an understatement. I was on pins and needles all day hoping I could keep her clean in her white dress until the wedding. And true to form, she tried to steal the show. My three kids came in together, walked slowly down the stairs into the room, and stopped for a picture, just like they were supposed to. And then it happened. The big girls did perfectly, heading to the front on the room in unison, waking slowly and dropping flower petals. And then I realized that I couldn't see the baby. She had obviously stopped, so I strained trying to see what was going on. I was trying to video, but I couldn't see from where I was. I heard about twenty people whispering, "Sheridan" trying to get her attention, so I stood up, about the time she realized she was supposed to drop the flower petals. And then, my child proceeds to turn her entire basket upside down, empty the petals, and then beat on the bottom of the basket at least five times, just to make sure she got them all out. Naturally, the whole room just died laughing. When she turned around to head back up the stairs, her dad reminded her to go to the front, so she did. At a dead run. I can't be sure, but I'm thinking she may have set a land speed record for flower girls.
All in all, I think they did pretty well. Providing some comic relief seems to be the family business these days. My kids are loads of fun at parties, and watching them dance I became aware of another topic we need to revisit. I'm fairly certain we have outgrown the days of if all else fails and you don't know how to dance, just pull your dress up over your head...

Christmas is Coming!

I am excited to say that I'm looking forward to Christmas this year! Yes, yes I know, this may not seem like big news to anyone else, but for me it's huge. I have mentioned before that I have struggled with depression on and off throughout my life, particularly when dealing with my mother's death and following the births of my children. For many years, I was like so many other people you know - the holidays were just hard. Decorating our home for Christmas simply reminded me how very much I missed my mother. Christmas was her absolute favorite holiday, and she enjoyed every second of decorating, preparing, cooking, shopping - all the zillions of things that went into creating the perfect Christmas Eve for my cousins and I each and every year.
And they were perfect - as far as I was concerned. It's really funny now to talk with the adults in my family about those Christmas Eve parties at my parents' house. My cousins and I were so innocent. It's amazing to hear about all the family drama going on behind the scenes that no one ever let us in on! Looking back on it, those gatherings could have been the script for National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation, although we never did burn down the Christmas tree. But for me, looking at them through a child's eyes, they were perfect, each and every one.
I can remember how terrified I was the moment it set in that, as parents, now WE were responsible for someone else's childhood Christmas memories. That's a lot of pressure, boys and girls! And when the boss mare of the herd isn't feeling jolly, it's material for the therapist's chair later on! Here's hoping we don't do any permanent damage this year!
I am constantly reminded that everything looks different through the eyes of a child. For instance, just the other day one of my six year olds looked at her sister, who I thought looked adorable in a black and white striped sweater, and said, "Gee, Mom, she looks so cute! Like a little tiny prisoner!"
See what I mean? It's all in how you look at it. The other night, my daughter achieved what was for her (and for me) a lifetime goal: she actually opened a Happy Meal toy by herself. Again, not a big deal to a lot of people - huge deal to the two of us!
From the back seat I heard:
Child 1: I DID IT! I mastered it! I opened a Happy Meal toy all by myself! Whooppeee!
Child 2: (with wit and sarcasm that made her mother proud) Amazing. Here, (tossing her own toy that she couldn't open at her sister) see if you can master another one!
Child 1: Um, I'm not opening that for you. If I did it, you can do it!
And here's the shocking thing about this conversation - I found so much to be proud of in this exchange. Savannah's clever use of sarcasm in her attempt to get her own toy opened without admitting that she couldn't do it, her sister's accomplishment, and most importantly, Sharlee's refusal to take orders from her twin. This one has been a long time coming. She has always been the follower, so maybe she will step on out there and believe in herself. Hey, a mother can hope.
So bring it on, Christmastime! I am happy, I am healthy, and I am ready for you. Here's to making memories that my kids won't need therapy for later on! Maybe...because really, where's the fun in that? One of the best things about getting married and meeting all the nuts in your spouse's family is realizing that your own family wasn't as crazy as you thought! Merry Christmas!
 

Grace Under Pressure

Today I'm going to write about the other loves in my life - my horses and barrel racing. The Wrangler National Finals Rodeo is going on right now, and for those of you who have no idea what that is, it's the Super Bowl of professional rodeo...only it lasts for 10 days! Based on the amount of money won during the year, the top 15 contestants in each event qualify to compete at the NFR. Each contestant has a chance to work their event every day for ten days in a row, with first place each day paying a little over $18,000 per event. Not too shabby for a day's work! Actually, it's more like a few seconds of work! Making the NFR is the dream of every little kid who ever entered a junior rodeo. It's like making the Olympic team or playing in a Super Bowl. For some competitors, it's a chance that only comes around once in a lifetime.
I have to confess that I'm completely in awe of the girls who made it. These fifteen women got off their butts and on their horses, sacrificed countless hours in pursuit of a dream, missed family functions, took incredible care of their horses, and MADE their dreams a reality. Instead of talking about making the NFR, they are running down that tunnel every night looking for that perfect first barrel. I can't imagine the amount of pressure that they are under, just by being on television every night for ten nights in a row. With social media being what it is now, they get the added bonus of advice from everyone - from their trainer to their second grade teacher who has no idea which end the feed goes in and the poop comes out! Facebook and Twitter allow people to communicate with these professional athletes on a daily basis, and although most comments are positive and supportive, there are those who are critical and downright nasty. Seems like those things just add a little more mental stress to the whole experience!
This year, Mary Walker has been the big story. She was injured just last year when the horse she is riding this week fell on her, breaking her pelvis and landing her in a wheelchair, then rehab for months. And did I mention that she's in her fifties? It's an amazing, inspiring story. And it really makes me feel like a jerk when I think: I don't want to ride today. I'm too sore, it's too cold, and I have too many other responsibilities.
But the barrel racers that I'm most impressed with are Christy Loflin from Colorado and Christina Richman from California. These two remarkable women accomplished the goal of a lifetime! They made the NFR - and then had their horses get hurt shortly before it started. They have had to climb on borrowed horses and compete against the very best horses and jockeys in the world.
The only thing I can even think of to compare it to is this: imagine you and your beach volleyball partner had been playing together for years. You knew each other so well you could finish each other's sentences. You didn't have to ask each other anything, because you already knew the answer. You knew what your partner was going to do almost before she did. You had complete faith and utter trust in her and in your ability to accomplish your dreams together. And you did it! You won and won all year and you finally made the Olympic team. All of those dreams of winning that gold medal were about to come true. And THEN - a few days before the Olympics your partner got hurt and was unable to compete. Someone else was kind enough to loan you their amazing and fantastic partner, who you had never met or played with before. And oh, by the way, this person couldn't talk at all. You had to play the ten most important games of your life with a partner you barely knew, with the entire world watching and offering you their take on how you were doing. As all of your dreams were crumbling before you, you had to suck it up and go on, knowing that you may never get this chance again.
That's my idea of what it would be like to be in Christy Loflin or Christina Richman's boots this week. I am totally impressed that (publicly, anyway) Christy has remained composed, positive, and had nothing but wonderful things to say about the horse she is riding and the special young lady who trained him. That, girls, is the definition of professionalism and class. I was not a Christy Loflin fan before this week, but I am proud to say that I am now. She has kept it together under an unimaginable amount of pressure. Here's hoping that she totally kicks butt in the next three rounds!
And to Christy and the other NFR barrel racers, just remember that all of us who are offering you our opinions on your performance are doing it from one of two places: the stands or the couch! ;)  

Panty Pop

I have been waiting to write this post since it all went down, but unfortunately yesterday a deflated Santa Claus got in my way. Never fear - now I can share with you the chain of events that was my Sunday. I have mentioned before that I devoted an entire chapter in my upcoming book to Sundays with my family, simply because the Lord's Day, what should be the most restful and relaxing day of the week, often turns into the most hectic and humiliating day for me. Allow me to explain.
We live in a small town where everybody knows everybody else, and most of their business as well. And if they don't know all the details about your business, well, don't worry - they'll just make something up. The church we attend is one of those small town churches where everyone has their pew reserved. Well, not really reserved, it's just sort of understood that this is where so and so sits every Sunday. Want to get the stink eye in a small town church? Sit in someone else's seat. Go ahead, I dare you.
Before we got the amazing opportunity to appear on America's Funniest Home Videos, I used to think that sending my children down front on Sundays for children's time was the most terrifying thing in the world. I confess that while everyone else was praying for dear old Granny Jones who fell and broke her hip, I was sitting in the back praying that my kids didn't say something too horrible or inappropriate in front of the whole church. I now stand corrected, however. Having someone hand your kid a microphone on TV is the most terrifying thing in the world. That gives them the chance to humiliate you on a global scale.
Anyway, last Sunday my kids headed to the front of the church at a run (doesn't seem to matter how many times I say, "we don't run in the church.") I think what we are missing is one of those terrifying old ladies that I grew up in church with who would have clotheslined your ass and then told your mother they did it. It was perfectly acceptable to discipline other people's kids AND tell your parents so they could tear your butt up when you got home. Now you would have a lawsuit on your hands.
When my kids got to the front of the room, our sweet, patient, retired school teacher of a pastor's wife told her story slowly and carefully about a family of bears getting ready for Christmas. I'm sure there was some extremely profound Christian message in there somewhere, but again I confess I was busy praying they got back to their seats without telling a fart joke or using one of Daddy's "sale barn words." When she had reached the end of her story, Mrs. Linda said, "Let's pray." And suddenly, with the immediate and awful recognition of one of my children's voices, I heard, "Wait a minute, wait a minute! I have a question." Oh, hell, here we go. "Mrs. Linda, did those bears really talk?" Awesome. Obviously she was listening carefully to the content of the story as well!
The completely unflappable Mrs. Linda kindly explained that another child had asked her the exact same question, and that the characters in the story spoke "bear" but she didn't, so she had to tell them what was said in English. Well played, Mrs. L. Well played.
Our fun at church continued when the offering plate was passed. My children have not yet learned the fine art of simply placing your money in the plate. They have to hold it themselves in order to feel that they have done their part. When the first sister refused to turn loose of said plate, a silent but violent war broke out. It was a struggle to the death over who was going to hold that plate. As visions of money flying through the air flickered through my brain, I silently reached over, placed one hand on the arm of each child, and squeezed it as hard as I could. I then returned the plate to the usher and glared at my kids while the people across the aisle snickered uncontrollably.
The most memorable moment from this particular service came, however, when we stood up for the closing prayer. My underwear was, as rodeo clown Lecile Harris used to say, "Indian underwear - it keeps creeping up on me!" It had indeed crept up on me, so I thought the appropriate thing to do was wait until the prayer. At least that way most of the people in the room (and hopefully the ones behind me) would have their eyes closed. So I waited, and waited, and then it was time. With tremendous amounts of stealth and my head bowed, I reached around behind me, grabbed both sides of my undies and "POW!" Quite possibly the loudest sound elastic has ever made since the dawn of time. My husband snickered under his breath, right on the edge of losing it all together, and I'm pretty sure everybody in the church who doesn't use a hearing aid heard it. I know the people behind me did!
And here's the kicker - I thought that was the most embarrassing moment of my day! Little did I know there was more to come. After a relatively uneventful meal at our favorite Mexican restaurant, I headed to the restroom. As we were getting ready to leave, our overly friendly waiter walked up behind me, tapped me on the shoulder, and informed me that the back of my dress was tucked in my underwear! Before I was a mother of three (I'm pretty sure most of my modesty left my body with my babies) I would have literally passed out from the horror of it all. As it was, I laughed until I cried and decided I needed to go home. Fast.
I'm thinking I should invest in new underwear. Maybe it will change my luck. Perhaps a thong! Or maybe not.
 

Santa's Flaccid

Those of you who have ever had the pleasure of meeting my husband know how funny he is. He can come up with some off the wall remark to make pretty much any situation funny. I mean really, once when the baby pooped in the bathtub, I was totally freaking out. The germophobe in me was absolutely about to mutiny over the fact that I had to touch my child who had just been sitting in poop water. But the mom in me won out, and I rescued her from the cesspool. My husband, meanwhile, actually managed to calm me down, make me laugh about the whole situation (by re-enacting me standing there by the tub screaming, "OH MY GOD! SHE POOPED! SHE POOPED IN THE TUB! HELP! OH MY GOD! IT'S SO GROSS!") He then carried said baby bathtub way into the woods behind the house and dumped the whole thing, bath rag and all, walked back in the house, and in the spirit of Chevy Chase in National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation when talking about the squirrel in the house, said loudly, "GONE!"
After 15 years, I'm pretty well acquainted with his sense of humor, but I have to admit that he caught me off guard this morning. I was standing in the kitchen half asleep making my breakfast shake when he came in from feeding horses. Keep in mind that we had not seen or spoken to each other yet today, as I was asleep when he got up. Our conversation went something like this. He came in the door, took off his coat, and said this.
Husband: Santa's flaccid.
Me: Excuse me? That sounds like a personal problem there, Santa!
Husband: I meant the 12 foot tall inflatable one in the front yard. It's raining and the wind is blowing so I deflated it. Santa's flaccid!
Me: Well, get him some Viagra.
Husband: You used him up. I thought I saw you kissing Santa Claus!
We spent the rest of the morning making up Christmas songs with risque lyrics. For example, "Santa Baby, don't be waiting under the tree for me. Send an elf here instead!" and "Hurry to the drugstore tonight!" LOL
I freely admit that there are only a certain few who can truly appreciate our sense of humor, but it's always good to start the day with a giggle. You know who you are.

Something Happy

My heart is very heavy today thinking about the niece of my high school classmate. She's having surgery today to remove a brain tumor, which will be followed by chemotherapy. She's FOUR years old. Merry Christmas, little girl. I can't begin to imagine the pain that not only she, but her parents must be in. My thoughts and prayers are with her family, and I've definitely hugged all my kids a little tighter this week. Here's hoping for a Christmas miracle for that family.
So, in light of such tragic news, I have decided to write about something happy. Many of you know that my family adopted an old, sad English bulldog from the shelter a couple of weeks ago. I am proud to say that she is doing very well. She weighed approximately half as much as she should have when we got her. Although she is still underweight, she has begun to gain. She had a terrible cough and a runny nose, which have cleared up with aggressive antibiotic therapy. One eye was extremely red and cloudy. It looks essentially normal now.
She looks better, she feels better, and she actually played a little bit yesterday. She has also wormed her way into my house and into my bedroom, although I draw the line at letting her sleep in my bed. She smells bad, she has horrible breath, and she snores like a chainsaw, but our family is officially in love with her. It's funny - I catch myself telling her over and over again what a good girl she is. It's like I feel the need to make up for the fact that some person used her for what they could (having puppies,) starved her, and threw her away.
And by the way, it's worth pointing out that people tell themselves when they turn an animal over to a shelter that someone will "find them a home." I'm about to dispel a popular myth, so get ready. Unless your animal is young, healthy, adorable, or otherwise desirable (purebred, etc) the chances that they will be adopted are extremely low. The chances that they will be euthanized are very high. Our sweet Zoey would not be alive today had it not been for my tenderhearted husband. And frankly, that would have been a real shame.
Naturally, since he's the one who brought her home, she has adopted me. She follows me everywhere I go in the house. She can be dead asleep, sawing logs, and if I get up to leave the room she wakes up and comes with me. It doesn't help that her expression is so sad. I'll pretty much do anything for her at this point. If there is such a thing as gratitude in a dog's eyes, she has it. Granted, us adopting one old, sad dog isn't going to make a huge difference. But it did to her. And you know what else? It did to me, too.

Momtrepreneurs

"Slow down, Mommy! There are red lights up ahead!" Advice from the two year old in my backseat. I thought it was fitting, because after watching a segment on the Today show this morning, the topic of "stay at home" working moms has been on my mind. The segment was about something they called "momtrepreneurs," who were women that had launched businesses from home while raising their kids. While I applaud the ladies they had on the show for being successful businesswomen, I also started to really think about people like myself, moms who work from home.
I am really torn on this issue. Part of me says that being able to "work" from home is the most amazing thing ever. People who know me know how much I enjoy writing, and that I would be thrilled if I were able to do it well enough for it to become my job. I actually finished writing my book earlier this year, which I couldn't have done if I had a full time job outside our home. I so sincerely appreciate each and every person who has shared this blog with their friends. My readership has begun to increase, and that's what will be necessary for me to turn this into more than just a hobby. Thank you!
Another part of me thought, here we go. We women are doing it to ourselves again. When we have a job outside the home, we feel the need to be Supermom. We must be all things to all people. We simply must bring home a paycheck of equal size to a man in our position, provide a spotless home, pay for every little thing that our children's hearts desire, prepare healthy meals for a sit down dinner every night, and spend quality time with our little cherubs, all while maintaining a size 4 figure and functioning on little to no sleep. Does anyone else realize how ridiculous that sounds? But women really do try to live up to those standards! Just ask one of them if you don't believe me. And they continually beat themselves up if they are unable to live up to their own impossible expectations.
So what do we do? We quit our "real" jobs so that we can stay at home and raise our families. I admit that I take pride in the fact that when the ABC Mouse commercial voice informs me that birth to 5 years are the most important years in a child's life developmentally and then asks where my kids are during those years, I can answer with a hearty, "At home with their mother!" But here's the kicker. Now, society is telling us that staying at home and being mom isn't enough, either. It's not enough to take care of your husband, home, and children. Now you have to do all those things and run a business from home as well. Just to play devil's advocate, I have to say that working is working, no matter where you do it. Granted, your kids aren't in daycare, and kudos to you for that! But it is really right to tell women that mothering and doing it well isn't enough? That they must also bring in money and do something to "contribute to the family?" I love that line!
In the interest of full disclosure, when I quit my job as a veterinarian to be a mom to my twins, I did feel guilty. And I did use those EXACT words. I can vividly remember telling my husband that I just wanted to make a "contribution." The feminist media had drilled into my head that it wasn't a good thing to be dependent on a man. Fortunately, my guardian angel of a mother also made sure that I married a really, really good man. A real man, who knew how to go out and kill something and drag it home. He put his arms around me, told me how proud he was of me, what a great mom I was, and that the most important job I had now or ever was taking care of his babies. He reminded me that the reason he was able to go out and do a great job at work supporting our family was because he wasn't worried about where his kids were or who was taking care of them. They were with their mother, and that's where they were supposed to be.
Remember when I said he was a really good man? He's also quick to tell me how proud he is of me and to remind me how capable I am of accomplishing anything I set my mind to. He completely supports my desire to be an author (and still get to barrel race), and because of that I try to make sure that he and the kids don't suffer because of it.
I guess the moral of the story is this: I think moms who want to work from home because it's something they enjoy and it makes them feel good about themselves should do it, particularly if it means they can spend more time with their kids. (That's what they want, moms. Your time. The latest greatest toy can't kiss their fears away and tuck them in at night.) But I also think that moms shouldn't feel pressured to work at home because society tells them that the contribution they are making is somehow less than the one their husband is making. Being a mom is the hardest job in the world. It's also the most important. Think for a second about the role your mom played in your life. Pretty darn significant, whether she was a PTA mom or not. Exceptional people come from exceptional mothers, those who bring home a paycheck and those who don't. I'll say it again, motherhood is the hardest job there is. It's also the most worthwhile.     

The Trip

Here are the rest of the details about our trip to California that I forgot yesterday. Hey, what can I say, three kids and a house of cards to keep standing have left my brain fried. My memory isn't what it used to be!
First of all, when we stepped off the plane my "middle child" - and yes, I know how ridiculous it sounds to refer to a twin as the middle child, but she is thirteen VERY important minutes younger (just ask her sister) and if there is truly such a thing as "middle child syndrome" this one has it in spades. Anyway, as soon as her feet hit the ground inside the airport she began to tell us how beautiful California was. Although we were given the option of a rental car by the TV show, my husband and I wisely decided that neither of us had any business driving in LA traffic, especially since we had very little idea where we were or where we were going. Therefore, a wonderful driver from the car service was waiting for us at the airport baggage claim. Judging from my kids' reaction, you'd have thought they sent Justin Beiber to pick us up. I'm not sure, but I'm willing to bet that guy has never gotten that kind of reaction from the people he was sent to pick up.
As we were pulling out of the parking garage, middle child starts again telling him how California was the most beautiful place she had ever seen. Keep in mind, we had been to LAX and the parking garage at this point. Apparently we need to get out more.
When we arrived at the Manhattan Beach Marriott hotel, my kids experienced for them what I think may have been the highlight of their trip. USC and Oregon were playing that weekend in LA, so floating in the hotel fountain was a bright yellow rubber duckie, complete with sunglasses, no doubt placed there by some clever Oregon fan. My sweet little sheltered children thought this was THE most amazing thing they had ever seen in their lives. Talk about feeling like a redneck out of their element. It's like I could hear the hotel staff under their breath going, "Yep. That's got to be an AFV family. Listen to them talk! Those little hillbillies have never seen a rubber duck before!" We had to take pictures of the duck, try to touch the duck, and listen to them talk about the duck during our entire stay. Although I have been accused of exaggerating before, I really think that if you asked them what was the best part of the trip, the rubber duckie would be right there with winning the $10,000. Heck, I'll go out on a limb and say the smug little sucker might win. And no, we didn't steal it, although my kids totally would have if I had allowed it.
 Like any good mother would, when I found out on short notice that we were going to be on national TV, wait, make that worldwide TV (AFV comes on in all kinds of other countries) I immediately went out and bought the kids new clothes. Notice I said the kids. Kirk and I were like, "Well, I can wear this." I think it's a mom thing. Anyway, dad got a new tie, the kids got new clothes, which I have mentioned before were extremely hard to find while abiding by all the rules about what we should and shouldn't wear on camera. The day of the taping, we all got dressed, my stress level completely at the max, and my husband looks at us and says, "Gee, we look like we're going to a funeral." Thanks, Honey. Here I thought we looked sort of chic and all matchy matchy. Perhaps I will let them dress themselves next time. I'm sure a Sponge Bob glow in the dark t-shirt from the school fundraiser and jeans will look awesome on TV! (By the way, I'm only kidding. There's no way in hell I'd let my kids dress themselves to go out in public for an event like that. My OCD would put me in the hospital.)
Anyway, we found out last night that we will go back on January 19th to film the $100,000 show. Naturally, after I have told everyone that I've ever met that we will need them to vote for our video, the show has changed its procedure for selecting the winner. Now the voting will be done at the taping, by a studio audience that is a lot larger than the one from the first show. Too bad the kids have to stay in the green room until the vote is over. No chances to persuade the audience voters at all. Oh, well, I guess whatever happens, happens. We have had an amazing journey thus far, had a lot of fun, and won some money to boot. Life is good.

The Book Project

For those who have asked (and thank you very much for doing so) my book project is underway. The publisher's first self-imposed deadline is today, so I an anxiously looking forward to hearing from them. I will be posting more on the whole AFV experience later, but this morning I am excited to say that I have a rehab case to tend to. Miss Kitty will be getting a laser treatment on her bowed tendon shortly. More to come!
Oh, and one more thing...yesterday's post was read by more people in a single day than any other post. THANK YOU! As I hope to increase my readership enough that this will one day become my job, I am very appreciative of any sharing with your friends. Thanks again!

The Secret is Out!

So our secret is out! After the longest month on record, my kids can now tell everyone that our video won the $10,000 weekly prize on the show America's Funniest Home Videos! Whew! I can't tell you what a relief it is to just be able to say it out loud. I'd never said the words "nondisclosure agreement" in my life until November 3rd of this year. For the last month I've said it at least three times a day. And to the people who begged me over and over to tell them the outcome of the show, all I can say is, "Look, these people flew us to LA, paid for our trip, and gave us ten grand to boot. I'm not tyring to piss them off for ANY reason whatsoever!"
The taping was a blast. Getting three small kids ready on time and to the taping was interesting, to say the least. Because the show has a rule limiting the studio audience to 7 years of age and older (and kudos to whoever came up with that...you'd never get an entire show filmed with my kids in the audience) my sweet husband sat with the kids in the green room while I watched the taping from the very back row.
The funniest moment of the day for us came when the producer suggested that if we won, we should "act surprised." My husband blurted out, "Really? You're giving someone ten grand on TV and you're telling them to act surprised?" Have you MET my kids?" I was pretty sure there would be glass shattering in the studio if we won.
The studio was a brisk 55 degrees, so I tried to dress everyone warmly, even though it was 75 degrees outside when we left the hotel. We were given guidelines about what to wear, which were fairly tricky, to be honest. Things like no polka dots, no harsh plaids, no solid, one color outfits, no harshly contrasting colors, etc. Totally blew my plan to combat the 10 30 extra pounds the camera adds by wearing a long black dress for camouflage. And may I just say, my hair is NOT actually the lovely neon red color that it appeared to be on TV. I'm not sure what was up with that, but I really don't go around looking like Bozo the clown, for those of you who were worried.
While sitting in the audience (and before the show) I tried to size up the competition. I listened very carefully for whether the audience laughed, and how much, at the other finalists' clips during the taping. When they played ours, I held my breath until I nearly passed out, but was relieved that the audience laughed. I surveyed the room several times. Lots of Asian college students. I wasn't sure that was a good thing for us. Then when the voting took place, the one person's keypad I could see did not vote for our video. Not what I was hoping for!
Hope was restored, however, when my kids came into the studio and I heard a collective, "Aww!" Audience members and producers were high fiving the kids. That had to be a good sign, right?
Sheridan spotted the TV camera and gave it her best "CHEESE!" which got another laugh. Maybe we were going to be okay.
I'm fairly certain I didn't breathe again until the results were announced. Our mouths fell open, we looked totally shocked (because we were) and the kids went bananas. One of them danced out of her shoe. I completely forgot that the host of the show was about to interview us. On national TV. I snapped out of my fog when I realized the host of the show was talking to Savannah. You want to talk about an instant heart attack? Let someone hand your six year old a microphone on TV and ask her what the grossest joke her dad has ever played was. Holy cow. I'm surprised I didn't pass out on the spot.
What a crazy and amazing ride it has been! We get to go back in February for a chance at $100,000! If we win that one, look for me on the floor. I'll be the unconscious one.

Being Thankful

We've all seen the posts from our Facebook friends all month about what they are thankful for, and while I think it's wonderful to be thankful (I try to make it a part of my daily life) I heard something the other day that just stopped me in my tracks. Those of you who know my husband know how easygoing he is. He pretty much has a good time no matter where he is or what's going on. He's definitely a "glass half full" kind of guy. So when our pastor asked him to drive the van on Wednesday nights to pick up kids for church, he agreed but immediately began to make jokes about it. Not being disrespectful in any way, he always leaves home by announcing, "I'm going to drive the Jesus bus!" And since the custom is to pull up in the kids' driveway and honk the horn, he always follows it up with, "You know me, honkin' for Jesus!" It never fails to make me giggle, and the Bible says we are supposed to be joyful, right?
Anyway, since taking on the assignment, he has had the chance to observe and overhear some of the interactions between the kids in the van. It broke my heart the night he told me about one teenager whose situation was so bad that he asked to be taken home last, just to avoid being there for a little while longer. I have always wanted our home to be a safe, happy place for my kids. To think that this kid would rather be anywhere but at home was just so sad to me.
After hearing about the teenage kid, I thought surely there wasn't something worse, until my husband came home the next week and repeated the following conversation.
Little boy: Do you know my name?
Little girl: Yes.
Little boy: Do you know my Daddy's name?
Little girl: No, I don't know it.
Little boy: My Daddy's name is John. What's your Daddy's name?
Little girl: I don't know my Daddy's name. I don't know who he is.
Little boy: What's your Mommy's name?
Little girl: I just call her "Mommy." I don't get to see her very much, so I still just call her "Mommy."
Wow. If that doesn't make you stop and think, I don't know what will. Has it ever occurred to you to be thankful that you know who your father is? I know it certainly hadn't occurred to me until I heard about this.
As parents, heck just as people, we are all imperfect by definition. My parents weren't perfect, because they were people. But they were there, a constant in my life every single day until my mother died. It never occurred to me as a kid that I should be thankful that I knew who they were.
The point of my post is this: while you are being thankful for all of the elaborate blessings in your life (barrel horses, promotions at work, etc) don't forget to be thankful for the most basic of blessings: imperfect parents like me who loved you enough to be involved in your life.

A Crappy Night

Last night was one for the record books. My new dog woke me up around 1 AM, breathing rapidly and looking really uncomfortable. Still half asleep, I held up my cell phone flashlight to survey the situation. She was lying on her blanket grunting and next to her on the floor was something small, skinny, and brown. "Dang it, Zoey!" I muttered under my breath and headed to the bathroom tripping over a toy or two in the dark. "This is why I hate having a dog in the house. Ugh. So gross!" I grabbed some toilet paper, eyes still half closed, bent over, and picked up...a plastic loaf of bread from my daughter's cooking set! I couldn't help but laugh, even if it was one o'clock in the morning. Zoey just looked at me as if to say, "See? I told you I didn't do it. Everyone always blames the dog!"
I turned my attention from phantom turd pick up to my still uncomfortable dog. Even though she is slowly gaining weight, she's still pretty skinny, and every time she eats or drinks she ends up looking like one of those Ethiopian kids in those ads you see on TV. Her belly looked bloated, her breathing was rapid, and she seemed to be trembling. The vet in me immediately went to work. What could this be? Had she had a seizure? Congestive heart failure? I kept coming up with things, and none of them were good. So I did what any good vet's spouse would do...I woke my husband up.
Me: Something's wrong with Zoey.
Him: Huh?
Me: Something's wrong with Zoey. Look at her!
Him: Did you really just wake me up in the middle of the night to look at a dog?
Me: YES! Now what do you think? Think she could have had a seizure?
Him: No. I think she needs to pee.
Me: What?
Him: I think she needs to go outside!
Me: Really? Will you take her? (Thinking to myself, I bet you don't bring home another dog from work!)
And so, Superman walked my dog at 1 AM in his underwear. I just love that man.
Zoey looked much happier when she came back in, and I decided that a diagnosis of needing to pee was certainly preferable to anything else I had come up with. So I snuggled back into my nice warm bed and went back to sleep, until...
My bedroom door flew open at 4:30. There stood one of my six year olds, looking surprisingly bright eyed and bushy tailed. "Mom and Dad, I need your help!" she announced, almost in a singsong voice. What the hell is wrong with this kid? It's 4:30 AM. Why does she sound so chipper? "My sister pooped in her bed!" And there it was again, a hint of...glee, perhaps?
I sat straight up, cleared the cobwebs from my poor, tired brain and processed this information. Poop. In a bed. And not the baby's. "CRAP." Literally. I headed upstairs, where the child in question had already shed her defiled pajamas and was now sitting on the toilet wailing. (Approximately six feet or so from the door to the nursery.)
"Baby, I'm sorry you're upset, but please be quiet. If you wake your sister up, you are going to have more problems than poop in your bed!" Between sobs I managed to figure out that the kid had pooped in her sleep and didn't wake up. How in the blue blazes does one do something that foul and not wake up?!? I have no idea. But for whatever reason, the kid who has never so much as wet the bed now had dried poop welded to her skin.
I sent downstairs for diaper wipes and went to work, trying my best to make my "I'm so sorry, Honey" face and not my "I'm about to barf and I didn't know I signed up for this before I was a mom" face. I have to confess that I thought about Ashley Judd's poop in the bed scene in "Ya Ya Sisterhood" but at least I didn't step in it, and I'm proud to say that my reaction was nothing like hers.
I got my kid cleaned up and tucked back in, her sister happily chattering away like it was 4 o'clock in the afternoon.
Back downstairs, her dad said, "Why can't I get her that awake for school in the morning?" "I'm sure I don't know." "Well, it's nearly 5 AM, we might as well just stay up!" Um, no, Chatty Cathy, we might as well try to take advantage of another HOUR of sleep!
Now everyone is up and out the door to school and work. Zoey, completely worn out, is snoring like a chainsaw at my feet. So glad she's getting some rest. All in all it was a pretty crappy night.  

The Mall Trip

I often marvel at how drastically my parenting has changed since my twins were babies. The other day my husband came home to find our two year old wearing her older sister's Strawberry Shortcake Halloween costume from last year. Our conversation went something like this:
Him: What is she wearing?
Me: A Strawberry Shortcake Halloween costume.
Him: Has she had that on all day?
Me: Yep.
Him: Seriously?
Me: Yep.
Him: Wow, you sure have changed!
And the sad part is, he is so right. I would never have allowed either of my first two children to spend the day in a leftover Halloween costume. For any reason. Whether we were going somewhere or not. Just would not have happened. End of story.
But for some reason, this time around is just different. Is it because I'm older? Tired? More relaxed? Less OCD? Or is it just the fact I've come to accept the idea that every day is NOT a Hallmark card in anyone's home, regardless of what they post on Facebook? One can never be sure. But at least I'm willing to admit it. I'm also happy to report that the baby doesn't seem to have suffered any ill effects from lack of proper clothing for an entire day. Her older sister helped her put on the dress, and she obviously enjoyed wearing it. Everybody wins!
Fortunately, I haven't strayed THAT far from my normal state of being. We got ready to go to the mall later the same day and I did make her put on actual clothes. My big girls have been begging us to take them to the mall for at least the last 6 years. It's not that they particularly enjoy shopping. They just want to go to the playground, ride the carousel and the train and that spider jump thingy and any other stupid thing (clothes, shoes and panties for a Build a Bear, etc) they can find to spend Daddy's money on, eat and come home. My oldest (by 13 minutes, and don't you forget it) had been feeling ill all day. After lying on the couch moaning like death was imminent for hours, the moment her ears heard the word "mall" she was miraculously restored to health.
Somewhere deep inside the furthest reaches of my brain, that still small voice kept saying, "this is not a good idea" but I shut it up with cookies and off we went to the mall. We bought the stupid bear clothes, we rode the carousel, the train, and got the kids' picture taken with Santa Claus. And then I said, "I need to run down to the Children's Place for just a sec to get some shoes and jeans." So off we went. Daddy and the baby headed for a bench to wait and the twins and I headed to look at the item I despise more than any other, children's shoes. While we were in the store, the child who had NOT been lying on the couch all day said, "Mom, I don't feel good." Yeah, yeah. None of us feel good. It's winter time. "Mommy, I feel like I need to throw up." What? Oh, crap. Now, in hindsight, Supermom should have simply asked the cashier for a garbage can. Quickly. As it was, I couldn't really decide what to do.
This kid has said something like this before, and no actual vomit was produced. So I figured I had some time to play with. Not so much. I looked at my daughter, whose face had become the same shade as a piece of printer paper and said, "Well, at least get out of the store!" We headed for the exit, and naturally the moment I got within six feet of the door the store's alarm went off. I had forgotten that I was holding two pairs of shoes, jeans, and two pairs of tights.
As I wavered there in the doorway, trying to decide exactly how to handle the situation, it happened. My child puked all over the floor, smack dab in the middle of the doorway to the store. Chicken soup, peas, and carrots in all their glory were sitting there on the floor staring up at me. Now what?
To say that I was feeling a bit overwhelmed is the understatement of the century. I dropped the items I was holding rather unceremoniously on the floor and went to work trying to get my husband's attention. As I was frantically dialing his cell, I could see him standing there talking on the phone. Great. Some woman with a stroller stopped and offered me diaper wipes. As I was wiping the floor and wishing it would swallow me up, it never occurred to me that she had offered me the wipes for my child, not the floor. Poor kid was still standing there with vomit dripping off her chin. About that time my husband got there, so at least I had a fresh supply of wipes. I cleaned up the kid and the floor as best I could, and what has become officially my most memorable trip to a shopping mall was abruptly over.
I'm really beginning to have some doubts about this whole mall Santa thing. The first time we went for a picture after the baby was born, a leaky diaper landed me with a hand full of warm, wet poop in the middle of a restaurant while wearing a new white coat. Then she fell asleep on the way there, so in her first Santa picture she is wearing jeans and a shirt that I dug out of the bottom of my diaper bag and her sleeping head is turned at a completely unnatural angle. It looks like something straight out of "Awkward Family Photos."
Fortunately, the one from this year was taken before the whole barfing incident, but I'm not convinced the two are not related. I think we'll find another place to get pictures taken next year. Nothing personal, Santa.
  

Sick and Tired of Being Sick and Tired

Today I am blogging from one of my least favorite places on the planet, the waiting room of a doctor's office. I have an ear/sinus infection that I have been unable to shake for going on six weeks now. The last time I was here, they sent me home with ten days of antibiotics, which I took religiously and still didn't get well. So I'm here again, ready to admit defeat and ask for  demand a shot of some kind. I am officially sick and tired of being sick and tired. I haven't been able to hear properly through the fluid in my left ear for over a month now, and while I confess that it has been a blessing to have the shreiks of my children muffled somewhat, I've gotten tired of sounding like Si on Duck Dynasty every time someone speaks to me and I respond with, "Huh?" Yep, I'm ready to be well.
My kids have been out of school for a week now (that should explain the lack of blog posts.) But take  heart, I have lots of  new material. Today officially marks the end of my third child's bout with the stomach bug that invaded our home and made my life (I mean my kids' lives) miserable. Each one of my girls has been sick, and they were kind enough to do it one at a time, so that we could stretch the fun out over several days. All of them have run fever, and I'm woman enough to admit that, although I hate for them to feel bad, having one or two of them lying around and sleeping was preferable to having them fighting over toys and trying to kill each other. Talk about me if you want, but I rather enjoyed the relative quiet. I also enjoyed rocking and holding my sleeping baby, which does NOT happen unless she feels bad because she will not allow it. When she held up her arms and said, "Mommy, will you rock me to sleep" wild horses couldn't have kept me from it.
So hopefully after today we will all be back among the living. Being sick sucks. Being sick and still having three other people to take care of takes it to a whole new level, even if you are married to Superman. "Screw it, I'm going back to bed" is no longer an option when you become a parent. The short people don't really care if you're sick. They just know that you are the source of Cheerios, Tylenol, and clean underwear. When you feel like death, little ones will also push you to the breaking point and then have the nerve to look surprised when your head blows off. It's just what they do.
The nurse just called my name. I'm off to show my arse to a total stranger in hopes of feeling better. Steriod shot, here I come. What a fine way to spend a Sunday afternoon.
  

Sisterly Love

Listening to my girls giggle in the bathtub, I am reminded again how quickly they are growing up. I have often remarked that whole sibling concept was something completely foreign to me, as I was an only child. Luckily, my kids are doing their very best to break me in right. Or are they just trying to break me? I can't be sure.
On the first morning of their Thanksgiving break, I told the twins I was going upstairs because the baby was awake. "Hooray!" They shouted. How very sweet, I thought. They can't wait for her to get up so they can play together. What precious kids I have. And then my daughter added, "The baby's awake! Yesss! NOW we can SCREAM!" I should have known.
People often ask me if my girls have that twin thing going on. And the answer is yes, they do. When they were babies, they could communicate with one another months before they could say anything that remotely resembled any word in the English language. They would chatter away at each other, sounding like two chipmunks, and it soon became obvious that each knew exactly what the other one was saying. Even now, I can bring them into another room to pick out clothes and they will both pick similar outfits. If one chooses a shirt and jeans, 99% of the time the other one picks a shirt and jeans without having discussed it. It's really freaky. They definitely have the whole love/hate thing going on, too. They can say whatever they want about each other, but you'd better not. I consider myself extremely fortunate that for the time being, they will still tell on each other. I know that those days are quickly coming to an end, but I'm going to enjoy it while it lasts.
Because twins come with a built in "freak factor," my husband and I get asked a lot of questions. If I had a dollar for every time someone asked me if my kids were twins, I'd be filthy rich by now. At least one person has asked me that question every single time I've ever left the house with these two. Okay, maybe I'm exaggerating a little. But not much. My favorite question is, "Are they just alike? Or do they have different personalities?" To which I always want to say, "Are you just like your sister? Is your personality different from hers?" But I don't. Usually. Depends on what kind of day I'm having.
Yes, as much as it pains me, my babies are growing up. Today someone mentioned that my youngest child was getting bigger. Without a second thought, her sister replied, "Yeah, she's getting meaner, too!" Sisterly love at its finest. And that's as it should be. I think.
   

Zoey and Birthday

Thanks so much to everyone who has asked about Zoey. She is doing very well, and has claimed my love seat as her own. She sleeps, snores, and eats a lot. And she needs to - rarely have I seen an animal so very thin. The people who relinquished her to the shelter claimed that she wandered up to their house a month ago, and I am forced to wonder if she was in this deplorable condition when she got to their house or after she spent a month there! Every rib is visible and her little backbone is sticking up, so it's really hard not to feed her all the time. She patrols under the table every time we have a meal, and I've decided that any morsels that hit the floor are legally hers. She drinks a lot of water, and the vet in me is suspicious that she may have an underlying medical condition like diabetes. Hopefully I am wrong about that one! For the time being, we are trying to put enough weight on her that I feel safe putting her under anesthesia to have her teeth cleaned. Maybe we can do something about that dragon breath! Oh well, at least she will never miss another meal. As I write she is lying at my feet, basking in the sunshine and snoring like a chainsaw.
In surveying my animal population for a previous post, I can hardly believe that I forgot my new horse, Mr Birthday Dash! I'll blame it on mommy brain. I'd forget my head if it wasn't attached to my shoulders. Thank goodness for the alarm feature on my cell phone. Otherwise my kids might get left at school much more often!
I'm telling you, it's something about vets and mangled animals. When I decided not too long ago that I was ready for another open barrel horse, I never thought I would end up with another damaged animal. I read about a horse online, and my husband and I agreed that he was in our price range, but perhaps a little under priced for the kind of horse he was supposed to be. So we loaded up the kids and drove 5 hours to try him over in Alabama. When we arrived, the owner unloaded "Birthday" from the trailer and we began our inspection. A few nicks and scrapes, a little scar on a back leg. Normal wear and tear for a 12 year old horse. So far, so good. And then I walked around to his right side. His owner had neglected to mention on the phone that he had several enormous scars covering his abdomen and right hip. She quickly told us that several people who had looked at him passed immediately because of the scars. Apparently at some point in his youth he had been allowed to grow very thin and laid down in a burn pile in his pasture trying to stay warm.
Was it a coincidence that this animal came to me? I don't think so. He seems to fit right in around here. Thinner than I would have liked when we bought him, he has since put on fifty pounds or more and has filled out nicely. He has a knee that doesn't quite straighten out all the way and a scar on a back leg from an old injury. Add that to the scars on his body, and at least we knew why he was priced the way he was. Not just anyone was going to look at this horse. My immediate thought the first time I saw him was the line from "Seabiscuit" about how you "don't throw a whole life away just 'cause he's banged up a little." Fine, I admit it, I'm a sucker. But I just knew he was supposed to be mine.
And here's the kicker - this horse is fast. Really fast. Faster than any other horse I've ever owned. And he truly loves to run. He completely enjoys his job, and believe it or not he is sound. I haven't quite figured out how to run him clean yet, but I know that when I do, it will be worth it. Oh, and to top it all off, he's also one of the sweetest animals I've ever owned. He loves to be petted, talked to, and just generally fussed over. And while I truly hope we win a lot together, it doesn't really matter. We've already won. I got him and he got me.

What Miss Kay wants, Miss Kay gets.

I have a confession to make. I love Duck Dynasty! Yes, I realize that these guys are not doing much to promote the idea that the South is not entirely full of rednecks. Some of us are extremely well educated, we wear something other than camo, and we don't believe that you should either "shoot it, stuff it, or marry it." But they are so freaking funny! I just can't help myself. I don't really know if they have to try, or if it just comes naturally, but I laugh out loud every single time I watch that show.
So last night, my husband and I did our traditional Wednesday night teamwork, getting the kids in the bed precisely on time so that we could enjoy the one show we actually sit down to watch almost every week. In this particular episode, Miss Kay kept changing her mind about which couch she wanted in her living room. Since I, too have been known to change my mind a few times, I could completely understand where she was coming from. Then her son asked his dad, Phil, to take his side in the debate. (Mainly, he didn't want her to change her mind because he was tired of moving and returning couches to the store.) And then Phil said something that really struck a chord with me. He said something along the lines of, "Hmm, let me think about this. Is Miss Kay an incredible cook? Yes. Does she take good care of me? Yes. And has she ever turned me down for some lovin'? Nope. What Miss Kay wants, Miss Kay gets." And here's what I loved about those statements: my husband has EXACTLY the same attitude.
Now, I am the first one to say that "incredible cook" does not describe me. But I make the effort, and that's what's important. Do I cook a full meal every night? Of course not. But when I do, I try to consider what everyone in my family likes to eat, most importantly my husband. And I do try to take care of him, whether it's by having his clothes clean and ready, or listening to him talk about what a rotten day he had at work. And I don't make a habit of turning him down for some lovin' either. What men don't get at home, they will look for elsewhere. I'm just saying.
All of this made me really think about marriage in general. I have told my husband a hundred times that he should write a book on "husbandry" because he's so good at it. It really drives me nuts to hear a woman run her husband down in front of her friends, on Facebook, or in a crowd. It always makes me want to say, "Look, at some point you thought enough of this ol' boy to marry him. So either you chose poorly or you're being too hard on him." Please let me qualify the previous statement by saying that I know and understand that some men are dogs and they deserve to be kicked to the curb. I'm talking about the ones who are basically good people who all of a sudden can't live up to their wives' expectations.
That said, marriage takes two people working together to be successful. I had always heard that marriage was "work" and I didn't understand what that meant until I was in one. Falling in love with my husband was the easy part. He is easy to get along with and easy to love. The "work" part of it for me comes in when we are tired, stressed, and feeling overwhelmed by life in general. The work is being patient, loving, and supportive when what you really want to do is be cranky and selfish. And one person can't do all the work.
My favorite times with my husband are spent discussing our future and how we plan to accomplish our goals. I love to feel that I am part of a team; that we are working together to get where we want to go in life. And while part of my role is to be my husband's girlfriend and his cheerleader, I'm also an integral part of what keeps the ball rolling around here. I think women should acknowledge and embrace the power that they have, and then use it wisely. Just remember, the husband is the head of the household, but the wife is the neck. She can turn the head any way she wants. Use your power for good, ladies! ;) 
 

Do You Want a Dog?

Something amazing happened this week. For the first time in my girls' lives, we got a new dog. Our three-legged German Shepherd and two Corgis were here long before my babies, and my husband and I pinky swore years ago that we were going to work our way down to one old, heartworm positive Labrador that would just lie on the porch and sleep. Since my husband works at the animal shelter, there is more than an adequate supply of those! But nonetheless, as I was grocery shopping this week, my cell phone rang. It was my husband, getting ready to do his least favorite and most difficult part of his job as a shelter vet. "Do you have any use for a really old, sad English bulldog? One eye is really cloudy and looks bad, and she has some teeth missing. Her tongue hangs out on one side of her mouth. She's real skinny. Looks like she has had several litters of puppies, crawling with fleas. She's going to be euthanized today." Hmm, not exactly what my girls had in mind when they were begging me for a puppy last week. But I have to emphasize just HOW rare this phone call was. As in, in a year and a half of shelter work, it's never happened before.
I have often marveled at what I like to call the mangled animal phenomenon among veterinarians. Nearly every vet I know has a collection of blind, crazy, crippled, or otherwise mangled animals that no one else wanted. At one time we had a three legged dog, a three legged cat, a runty, parrot mouthed horse whose twin died, a cat who was dropped off for a bath and never picked up, and a dog who had been run over at least four times. The run over dog was accidentally picked up as a "stray" right across the street from his house! He was given to my husband at a feed store in town, and after he lived and slept with us for a year, his original owner turned up. He was an older man, who came to our office, surveyed the situation, and decided to leave his dog with us! And that was a good thing, because I had already told my husband to get out the checkbook, because I wasn't about to lose that sweet little dog. He did, however seem to think he was a cat with nine lives. He had surgery three times while we had him, once to repair a diaphragmatic hernia and twice for dietary indiscretion (he ate sodasorb, which is an adsorbent that goes in an anesthesia machine, and garbage) and ultimately met his demise crossing Highway 78 on his way home from raiding the neighbor's garbage.
So as I said, the phone call asking if I wanted another dog was exceedingly rare. I thought to myself, "He must want this one bad." Why not? We have extra horses around here, we might as well have an extra dog. "If you want her, bring her home." And so, sweet Zoey has come to live with us. She has terrible breath, she snorts like a pig, she snores, I'm still not sure that we've gotten all the fleas off of her, and she needs to gain a lot of weight. But she's ours. The kids adore her, and we get the satisfaction of knowing that we saved one deserving animal from certain death. She seems to know it, too. If there's such a thing as gratitude in a dog's eyes, Zoey has it. I guess it's going to be awhile longer before we are down to just that Lab. 

The Book

Just a quick update for those of you who have asked about my upcoming book project (and thank you for asking!) My manuscript and cover images have been submitted and are currently under review. The company has given me two dates to look forward to, December 4th for the inside formatting and December 24th for the cover format to be completed. This project has been in the works for so long. I can't imagine what it will feel like to finally hold the finished product in my hands.
I hope that someday when my girls are older they will enjoy reading our book as much as I have enjoyed writing it. In addition to our family's TV show appearance on December 2nd, having two book completion deadlines that month will make December even more fun than usual around our house. We can't wait!

An Attitude of Gratitude

I am continually amazed at the not so obvious ways that God reminds me to be thankful. The other night the girls and I had been out on a call with Daddy and it had gotten a little past supper time. We stopped at a restaurant with a playground so they could eat and have a little fun, which they did until the baby reached the top of the playground structure and decided she was too afraid to slide down. Her older sister who has the mother hen gene rushed to her rescue, much to her own delight. I've never seen a kid who enjoys taking care of a baby sibling the way my Sharlee does. Such a warm and fuzzy family moment. And then in an instant we were all reminded that our baby is in the middle of her terrible twos when we announced that it was time to leave.
I have to give her credit. The kid has got moxie. She was wailing with the gusto of someone having a limb amputated with no anesthesia. With her dad holding her and me giving it my all, we still couldn't get her boots back on. Every time I'd get a boot on and move to the next foot, she'd kick her legs until the first one went sailing across the room. I'm not sure if she was aiming at me, but after the second near miss, I'd had enough.
Feeling my body temperature shoot up like a mother's always does when her children begin to draw attention to themselves for all the wrong reasons, I stuffed the boots in the diaper bag and quickly we devised a plan. My husband would carry her out the playground door and walk around the outside to the car, while the big kids and I walked back through the main dining area. Yes, distraction. That's the best policy. Divide and conquer!
So off we went, the baby still shoeless, red-faced and shrieking. I couldn't help but look at her sisters and say, "And when you guys did that, it was times two. That's why I didn't take you hardly anywhere by myself when you were this age!" As much as I miss them being little, some days I am SO very glad we are past that particular stage in their lives.
As we wound our way through the dining room, I was completely lost in thought about how stressful this whole motherhood thing was and how we were never eating at another restaurant again when I was given a good swift kick in the pants, metaphorically speaking. As I opened the door to walk out, a van pulled up and unloaded its passengers. All of them were special needs and/or physically handicapped adults. Immediately I was compelled to stop and thank God for my three precious, healthy children, even the screaming one in the parking lot. I thought about those sweet people as children, how difficult life must have been for them and for their mothers. What strong and amazing women they would have to be to parent a special needs child. They say that God doesn't give us more than we can handle, and I freely admit that sometimes I wish he didn't trust me so much. I bet those mothers felt the same way at some point! And I thought about the woman driving the van. What a special person she must be to have taken on such a job. How lucky those people were to have her!
God's little tune-ups never cease to amaze me. He yanks my chain pretty much on a daily basis, which is why I try to remember to start each day with gratitude. Even though I haven't listed the things I am thankful for each day on Facebook like so many of my friends, it's certainly not because I don't have anything to be thankful for. My life is overflowing with blessings, even if I need to be reminded what they are from time to time.  

OCD and ADD

Stolen from a friend's Facebook status: "I have OCD and ADD. Everything has to be perfect, just not for very long." I have what I like to call "selective OCD." Some things really bother me, to the point that I can't think about anything else until I take care of that particular issue, and other things I can let linger for months on end, no big deal.
My children's cleanliness is one of my issues. I mean this in only the nicest way, but I had no idea that kids were so disgusting until I had some. Everyone associates diapers with babies. And yes, dirty diapers ARE a huge, completely revolting part of the whole parenting experience, but no one ever seems to mention the other stuff. And by other stuff, I mean things like snot, vomit, boogers, pee, spit, and any other bodily fluid or function that you can think of.
Children have no fear of germs. I have often remarked that I don't understand the completely irresistible urge to wallow on the floor like a pig that is brought on by the wearing of a freshly ironed dress. But the germ thing hit home for me the first time I took my newly mobile twins into a public restroom. Unbeknownst to me, children have an uncontrollable urge to touch every single surface in a public bathroom (or any other bathroom, for that matter.) Want to see me in a total panic? Imagine me trying to use the bathroom AND keep two kids from touching anything. Yeah, it didn't go well.
That said, I have to admit that I am completely amazed by the difference in my attitude when it comes to my third child. Don't get me wrong, the whole bathroom thing still freaks me out. But the five second rule is totally in play. Stuff that would have been completely unacceptable the first time around I just laugh and shrug my shoulders at now. Am I more relaxed? Am I more lenient? Am I less OCD than I used to be? Or am I just tired? No one really knows for sure.
I mentioned that I had ADD. I'm only half kidding about that. I think if my parents had been willing to go down the medication path when I was in school, my teachers would have totally drugged me every day to shut me up. My mind tends to change directions at a moment's notice, which drives my husband completely crazy. His favorite thing to say to me is, "You're jumping stories again!" And I'm sad to say that at least one of my kids is exactly the same way! She runs a wheel off on a regular basis.
One of the perks of being married and having kids is that you have someone to point out any and all unusual things about yourself. You will be asked to consider everything from why you dress yourself in that order to why you squeeze the toothpaste tube a certain way.
I messed up years ago. I asked my husband to interview me to help get ready for a pageant. He pointed out that I made a clicking sound with my tongue every single time I started to answer a question. Annoying? Yes. Was I glad he pointed it out? Absolutely. But now he analyzes me all the time (in only the nicest way, of course.) As I obviously enjoy talking, now one of his hobbies is pointing out when I get stuck on a particular word. The other night he mentioned that I had used "Mommy's favorite word, "apparently!" So as I was opening my mouth to set him straight, one of my daughters perked up and said, "My favorite word is tortilla! Or cluck! I really can't decide." See, told you she was just like me.