The Soundtrack of My Life

When I hear this song, I think about my kids.
Sometimes, I think about humanity in general.

And when I heard this song the other day, I immediately downloaded it and played it for my teeange daughter:

The words, "Go and hide your crazy and start acting like a lady. Cuz I raised you better gotta keep it together even when yoy fall apart"....those words may be the only ones I want to see tattooed on her body.
And the advice to "never let them see  you cry" is exactly what I told her to do years ago when little girls were mean and cruel. I told her to come home and cry her eyes out, that I would drop everything and listen to all she had to say, BUT do not shed a tear in front of those girls. They want to take something from you. Don't give them anything but a smile.

And this song, ahhhh....this song....reminds me of my husband.

I actually have a video of him singing along to this, holding my hand. It was last December and we were driving to AZ for Christmas. It's too precious to share. Besides, he'd kill me, make it look like a diet coke overdose, and no one would ever know that you can't overdose on diet coke. Belive you me. I've tried.

This one reminds of my two little boys, who always ask me to put this on while we drive to school:

 

 

Its funny to me because Ethan, sweet 16 year old Ethan loved this song as a little boy:

 

 

 

From Aristocats to Pitbul. Ha ha.

Kennedy used to like this song:

I can still picture her sitting with her back to me, baby girl pony tails askew, subtly shaking her head back and for to the background beat.

Now Eric, gentle little Eric, was immovable during this song when he watched Fantasia 2000.

Actually, he was glued to the TV for that whole movie. And if you dont own this movie, drop everything. Find it  Buy it.
That video clip is only highlights. The complete clip is like 12 minutes long. The best 12 minutes of
your night if you look it up.



This song reminds me of being a girl, daydreaming about love.

I actually wrote the lyrics of this song in my journal, along with all the hopes and thoughts that I had on marriage.  When I went on my first date with Bryan, he was humming Tchaikovsky's piece. Not that I put 2 and 2 together. But years later I realized that my journal enrty was written on September 17, 1993- before I had met Bryan. And exactly one year before we were married. Signs, signs, everywhere signs.

This is another one that makes me think of Bryan...and Elliot. He was singing it once, out of the blue. Uh oh.

Now this song, this one....I LOVE this song.

It reminds me of driving around, dropping kids off, picking kids up;
 Elliot at age 4, pretending he's hold a mic, singing every....last...word...of that song.
And if I died tomorrow, I want these lyrics on my tombstone:


Pay my respects to grace and virtue
Send my condolences to good
Give my regards to soul and romance
They always did the best they could
And so long to devotion
You taught me everything I know
Wave goodbye, wish me well
You've gotta let me go
Are we human or are we dancer?
My sign is vital, my hands are cold
And I'm on my knees
  looking for the answer
Are we human or are we dancer?
I know they don't really make much sense, they aren't truly profound or graceful. If you want that, don't look at a cold stone on some hill top.
If you want profound and graceful, read my blog.

Sweet 16

This morning is my oldest child's 16th birthday. I've been so tender-hearted when I think about this almost man in my midst. He is growing up so fast. They all do and it's such a cliche. And the thing about cliches is, they're true. This man child is racing toward a future that doesn't include breakfast at my table on a daily basis.
Geez. That just made me cry.
And when I sit and watch him from across the room, I am so pleased to know him. I can't express in any form of language that I know, what it feels like to have him call me mother.
That made me cry, too.
Last week, he and  the teenagers at church went to an assisted living seniors center. He spent time talking to the residents there. When he came home, he played "Go Fish" with his two youngest brothers. He played so long I had to make them all quit and get ready for bed- which was difficult to do, the scene was so sweet.
Did you know this boy who is taller than me, stronger than me, smarter than me, has never raised his voice to me?
Actually, since the age of 3, none of my kids really have....My husband said its because we've taken the time and set the example of how to feel different emotions without behaving badly.
Breath is wasted telling people not to be mad, or angry.
Everyone feels those emotions. Better to coach them through the feelings; help them recognize stuff and come through it still liking themselves and everyone around them.

One of my favorite parenting moments with Ethan happened when he was 10. My husband was in DC and I was home with 5 kids, one being a teeny new baby.
I had caught Ethan in a lie. I don't remember the details, but I told him because he had been dishonest with me, he couldn't go to the birthday party he was planning on attending that weekend.
He was not happy. Everyone was in bed, including the baby sleeping in a bassinet at my bedside. I don't know if Ethan came in to talk to me or if we started a conversation when I tucked him in, but we ended up in my bed talking about the lie and the party.
We talked about actions and consequences. He acknowledged the lie, but wanted a different punishment.
I said something to the effect that when your 10 and you lie, you don't get to go to your friend's birthday party.
When you're  20 and you lie, you make a poor teacher and servant to those around you while you serve your mission (we're Mormon so this is what he'll be doing at 20).
And 30 year old liars lose the respect of their wife and break their children's' hearts.
Then I asked him which consequence he was willing to pay. I told him when he's ready to pay the price, he's ready to learn the lesson.
He stayed home from the birthday party and we have never had to talk about honesty since then.
I loved that moment. I'd live it again and again. And every other moment with him, too.
Except that time when he was two and he took his diaper off at nap time and smeared poop all over himself.
I could do without that.
But I could never do without my sweet boy.

Rachel's List of What Not To Do: Stealing, HighJacking and Getting In My Kool-Aid

Every home has it's own jargon;  words and phrases used frequently that may not make sense outside of those particular four walls.
Most of the jargon in my house seems to stem from Nacho Libre. Currently my two youngest sit at the kitchen table whenever I make them food and cheer me on with, "Momsies is the Number One. Her hugs, are number one. Her kisses, are number one. Her sandwiches, are number one."
It's my new favorite thing.

Kid generated jargon is pretty upbeat.
My jargon is usually more instructive.
But that's just the nature of motherhood, right?

For instance, when one child is excited to tell me about something, like a joke or  a funny commercial, chances are he/she will get half way thru the set up of the story and just as they zero in on the good stuff, another kid will chime in with, "And then Plankton got flushed down the toilet" or whatever the pinnacle of the moment was...
This is what I call "Stealing Someone's Thunder".
As in, "Don't steal his thunder. Get out of here. Go get me a diet coke." And then I have the other child start the story all over agin and give them a chance to explain to me the beginning, middle and end of their story.
I think this parenting rule is vital, especially in a house with  many voices and limited stories to repeat. As adults we know people how drop into conversations and do just that. They steal your thunder. And it stinks. So I'm teaching my kids not to do it.

Another phrase often heard in my house is "Emotional Highjacking."
With 4 boys and only 1 girl, I'm happy to say thar there isn't a whole lot of emotional highjacking going on. Boys don't seem to care enough to do i. But never fear, junior high girls and adult women do enough of it to garner the phrase as a legitamite phrase.
I consider emotional highjacking to be when someone EXPLODES on you. EXPLODES! and then won't give you the time of day. They won't say what you did, or let you apologize. They say things like, "I don't want to talk about it right now" or "I'm too upset to have this converstion." Or they don't return your call.
Bull crap in my book.
I judge it all to be a big lack of integrity. If you feel the need to throw someone under the bus, you should have the decency to follow it up with a conversation. Emotionally filleting someone and then shutting them out isn't fighting fair. At all. Which is a whole 'nother post I should write. Idon't think we should tell young couples to never go to bed angry. I think we should teach them how to fight fair. Because if you plan on being married for more than a week, something's going to irriatate you to the point that tempers flare and an arguement ensues. Fighting Fair....someone remind me later to tell you all my rules.

But back to now, if you really are too upset to talk, then don't open up a can of emotinal whoop-a$$ and then leave the other person shocked and confused.
Intgerity. Pretend like you have some.

And finally the phrase, "Getting All up In My Kool-Aid" is a lovely expression gifted to my kids by Kelly Foote (Pilling). She and her family came to spend Thaksgiving with us. I gave them turkey. She gave us words.
And my kids say it too each other daily. Like when they are laying on the couch reading a book and another kid lays on the back of the couch and slowly slides down  onto them. And then stays there.
Orignal couch kid will push the other kid off and say, "Get out of my kool-aid."
There are so many instances when it's used that this particular idiom now has variations. Like, "You're all up in my kool-aid", "Whoa, bro. Kool-aid" and my personal favorite,   "Dude. Kool-aid."

So there it is. The jargon I use on a regular basis to brake, bend and mold my crew.
How 'bout you? Tell me some of your jargon.

Why I Hate Mother's Day

I'm in the midst of my yearly nervous breakdown. My Mother's Day breakdown.
It's taken me years to figure out what it is that gets me so anxious and upset. One year, when my husband slept thru the morning hussle and I did the entire breakfast/church shuffle, I thought I was upset because I wasn't being pampered. When we got back from church and there was a gift and flowers and only 1 card (1 card! The jerks!), I made and embarassingly ugly display of pain and anguish over the lack of effort or care or whatever and, while crying, crying, crying, I grabbed my car keys and left. I went down to the grocery store parking lot and cried some more, until my head was throbbing. I was totally mortified I had made such a spectacle of myself and embarassed beyond measure that I had demanded more for myself. I feel ill now, just remembering. I came home to a shell-shocked and hurt household.

But today is Saturday, not Mother's Day and I'm already in tears. So, obviously, it's not about what doesn't get done for me. After some soul searching and a little chocolate, I think I have figured me out.

I don't like to be celebrated. I don't like to be told the things that cards, commercials and other people say about moms on mother's day. It just feels so stinkin' phony. Like I told Kelly, (in our theraputic texting session),
"When they make cards and commercials celebrating the lady who did a so-so job, could've done better, but just sorta phoned it in half the time, when they celebrate THAT lady, I'll feel way more comfortable."

So, at this point in my life, I have hives and tears; a husband who is pertrified of a certain Sunday, and I have to fake a happy face for the kids.
Oh, and I'm pretty sleepy because I took allergy medicine that I didn't need in a desperate attempt to end this day.

Am I hitting motherhood outta the park or what?

But, on the bright side, this is what Kelly shot back at me. She's freaking brilliant.

"Cut yourself some slack.  If you don't have 10 loads of laundry waiting to be washed or washed and waiting to be folded, or folded and ready to be put away, you're not normal. 
 If you've never sent your kid to school in dirty pants that you pulled out of the laundry in a moment of desperation, you aren't normal. 
 I hope you've yelled so loud your throat hurts, thrown a bowl of oatmeal across the yard, or said out loud in front of your kids, in the foyer;  "freaking 8 o'clock church!! It's just a conspiracy to drive moms freaking BATTY"

I hope your toilets occasionally have pink rings or other nameless ick in them,
 I hope you've left at least one kid somewhere or forgotten to pick someone up...Please admit that you've made up an emergency with another child, without a conscience, to explain missing a lesson or meeting.

Or have you ever felt blind panic that you are in charge of so many people... Or cried all the way home from the hospital with that sweet new baby because you're terrified of facing what's waiting at home...In the face of all this fear and guilt and feelings of inadequacy, you still get up every day- get your people washed, primped, fed, hugged, kissed, and off to where they need to be. 

 You take a minute between loading the dishwasher and switching the laundry (cause who are we kidding- its not folded)To let a sticky hand cup your ear and whisper a joke in nonsense words, and look into that expectant, breathless face and laugh- cause that's what they are waiting for.
You learn to drive exceptionally well with one hand so with the other you can hold the hand of your toddler cause she needs to be touched.
Just as you push start on the dishwasher at 11:30 pm, and your teenager who has been hanging around (unusual) says- "mom- I have a question", you know it's going to be a long night.  But you do it anyway.
You skip dance, piano, and practice for every other kid, because one needs a drive, a burger and a talk. 
 Those are the things that define my motherhood.  The things I do  RIGHT.  Not the things I do wrong. 
Whose wrong are we talking about, anyway? 
Pintirist's? 
 Or the girl down the street whose life looks so much better more together than mine?  So what if my floors are occasionally do sticky I'm afraid to walk barefoot?
  So what if my youngest often goes to school in the most, um... "Creative"outfits ever, and frequently doesn't have her hair combed? 
 So what if I made it all the way to the school before I realized she wasn't buckled?  To which, she said in a three year old's high pitched voice: "dammit mommy!  I need to be buckled!".

So what?
That's what therapy is for.
 And I can make a mean batch of cookies."


And then, THEN, because she's so brilliant and pretty much the most fabulous person I know, she added,

"Damn, I'm good."


And suddenly, I think I can face Mother's Day.
Not because I can now buy into my own greatness, but....


Crap. I had a reallly great point I was trying to make but my son just asked me a question and all of my poignant thoughts just scrambled. Rats.
Par for the course....


Well, Happy Mother's Day. I hope you survive the love. Or self loathing.

Here's How I See It

I'm not worried about what the Mayan calendar says.
I'm not sitting up at night, reading ancient scripture, trying to decipher when it all go down.
I'm not particulary frightened by a mass apocolypitic end of the world.
I'm more concerned that we will kill each other, one hurtful and hateful word at a time.


The most current political brew ha-ha is Hilary Rosen, a polical strategist, who said,

“Guess what, (Romney’s) wife has actually never worked a day in her life," .

Ouch. At least from where I sit. Because I, like Ann Romney, am also a stay at home mother to 5 kids.
And, in the interest of honesty and integrity, let me tell you how I got up today, toted my kids to 5 different schools and then went back to my little guys preschool for "Muffins with Mommy" day.

After that, he went to a friends house to play and you know what I did?
I took a nap.

In the middle of the day.

When I got up, I went to get a diet coke and begin the post-school pick ups.
By my own assesment, a super cushy day.

 I'm going to make dinner here in just a bit. I have plenty of food to chose from. And money and a car to use to get more if I don't "feel" like using any of what I have.
So how did I get so lucky?

I married at 19. My husband was days away from 22.
Before we tied the knot, we talked about the type of life and family we wanted. I wanted a bunch of kids. And I wanted to stay home with them. He wanted that, too.

His mom pulled me aside and told me she wanted to tell me something her mother-in-law told her so many years ago. It was, once the children come, don't work outside the home. Let him get 2 or even 3 jobs. It's more improtant for you to be home. Let him figure out how to make enough money.

We got hitched, packed up a few hand-me-down pieces of furniture (a bed, a dresser and a dining table with 2 chairs) and moved to northern Utah. My husband had only 1 year of college under his belt. He got a job in Utah inspecting circuit boards while also going to school full time. I got a job ironing pants at dry cleaners.

Worst job of my life.

I was over the moon when about 6 months later, I got a job working at a Blimpie's tucked inside a truck stop.

Best job ever!
I made $6.50 an hour.

In 3 days, I was promoted to mananger. I was offered benefits, which I cashed in for the extra $0.42 an hour.
Life was good. Easy.
We had next to nothing. No couch. Until I bought one for $15 at Goodwill.
We would go to A&W and buy  cheap little hamburgers and sneak then in our pockets into the Dollar movie theatre. Date night for less than $10.

Bryan worked hard. We spent our first summer as a married couple apart when he went to California for an internship while I stayed in Utah, afraid to let the truck stop job go.

The next year,  Bryan did another summer in Cali and I joined him. I worked as a receptionist during the day and, because I didn't have any appropriate clothes to wear, I worked part time at Ann Taylor. I used the pay and the discount to fund my day job wardrobe. Most days I was working 9am-9pm.
I always worked Saturdays because I had begged and pleaded to have Sundays off for church and time with my husband. I worked my tail off at both places and when it was time to go, both companies said they would always have a place for me.

Just as I got back to Utah, the  company my husband had been working for offered him a full time, year round position in California. Problem was, he had at least 2 years left of his under grad degree.
As part of the offer, the company would pay his tuition. Only problem was, when was he going to find the time? And, oh yeah, I was pregnant.

In all honesty, my father in law was CEO of the company. Despite what you may think, this did not make my husband's life or career easier. Bryan's boss and his boss above him had to convince my FIL that this was the right move; that his son (my husband) was working hard and a valuable employee. I wouldn't say working for his dad was a disadvantage, but it surely meant that he had several people carefully scrutinizing him.
Even at the dinner table.

He took the job, I came back fromUtah. I worked while pregnant. We lived in a bedroom in his parents house while trying to save money.

Just before our first was born, we found an apartment in Gilroy. The rent was $850 and applicants were required to make at least triple that each month. We didn't. I had to convince the landlord that we could afford the rent.
And we did. The baby came. We some how made it on one income, in California, while devotedly paying 10% of our income in tithing.

By the time my husband graduated with his bachelor's, we had two kids. I haven't used a punch card or collected a paycheck since just before our first.

We have had times of plenty. More than plenty.
We have had times when I have made pancakes for dinner because the budget wasn't stretching far enough for protein. There have been times when asked what I want for my birthday, I have answered money for school clothes.

We have given when we could and we have given when we couldn't.
We have been given to.

Both sides of pur families have pitched in and helped ends meet when there was a gap.

Sometimes I wonder, is it luck? Why do I get this privledged life? I know women who wish they could stay home.

For me, and I'm talking about me- not generalizing for all women-I think a huge part of my ability to live the way I live, comes from hard choices and discipline. And help. And karma.

So it bums me out to hear thoughtless words being thrown around, despariging women who stay at home. Despariging women who work outside the home. Or women who have 19 kids. Or women who have none. Each of us has a unique and sometimes complicated story behind who we are and how we got to where we are...no matter where that is.

I'm not interested in tearing someone down so I can look better. That's probaly what makes me despise political commentaries.

Because if there is one thing my unemployed self has learned, it's that love makes the world go 'round. And we serve who we love. And love who we serve. That's is why a mother's love is often described as the strongest type of love. So completely fierce, unyeilding and unwavering. Because as mothers, we serve our kids.
Night and day.

And I'll be damned if someone puts a mother down for being just a mom.
Or drawing a salary while she does it.

It's a Rachel Re-Run

It's not that I'm lazy, per se, but this post is why I love Easter. And I can't say it better myself. I mean, I can't say it better than I already did.


http://www.superrighteous.blogspot.com/2011/04/but-seriously-folks.html

Bri-ish Invasion

I've been obssesed lately with British things.
Accents, shows, people.

Blame Downton Abbey and Sophie Kinsella audio books.
And Robert Irvine from that show "Restaurant Impossible".

Everywhere I turn, I am greeted with that cheeky accent.

AND I LOVE IT.

The other night, I was lying in bed watching Robert Irvine tear down and then build up a restaurant and the restaurantuer.

(BTW, He has enormous biceps)

I started wondering what I would be like if I had a father who was that forceful and direct.
(in my head, I just said die-rect)

My dad is a bit of a lamb, dahling, so I asked my husband what he thought.
Of me. Raised by Robert Irvine.

I said, "Can you imagine?
'Whaut do you meeen you got ahh C on your report cod?' "

(Are you saying that in an accent?)

'Cause I did. And apparently it was a bad one.
Because my husband laughed and then I laughed and we sort of belly laughed together until it hurt.

And then I went to sleep.
And dreamt in a british accent.

So this, friends, is my new fah-sea-na-tion.
And it's lovely.

And so ah you.


POST SCRIPT:

I've just come back from dinner with my husband. As we were walking out of Chevy's, he hucked a big louggie (how in the world do you spell that?!)
Very unluckily, I saw him do it. And my gag reflex kicked in. I thought I might lose my fajitas in the rhododendrons. He quickly, quickly said he was sorry that I had to see that.
Then he blamed it on the lemonade.

I said it was ok, except for the fact that I can't stop seeing the way it fell, so heavy-not lightly like a snowflake,-but so fast because it was weighted down spit.
He said, "Wow. You really are thinking about that aren't you."
And then, THEN!, I said, (in my *best* british accent)
"I cahn't ba-leeve you just spat on thee ahss-fault."

Brillant, I know.

We laughed and drove out of the parkinglot making more chatter (me in the accent). We joked about playing a game called Downtown Abbey (whinkey face)  and blah, blah, blahed ourselves
 to another restaurant. (where the desserts are better)

Once we were seated, he handed me the dessert menu and asked me to read the descriptions in my best accent. (I love when he indulges me)

It was pretty bad, but we were laughing so hard, who really cares. Even the bartendar saw us and laughed a little. Maybe she thought we (I) were (was) tipsy.

The sweets were delicious and my husband told me about a collegue of his and how, while they were emailing back and forth, the lady said she would get him the information, "right quick."
He told me he thought, "Rachel would love that."

After eating little (whittle) bits of 3 different desserts, we paid and left.
On the car ride home, he told me about a friend of his from his highschool days in Singapore. She was british and she pronounced aluminun al-loo-min-e-um.

(Say it outloud. It's awesome.)

And then I thought about the time, when I was in highschool, when a guy friend took bites of a sandwich, chewed it all around in his mouth, and let a dog eat it out of his mouth.

And I thought, what the heck does my husband see in me?

I did get a wee bit sad. For just a second. Then my husband asked  me to say something in my cockney accent. And the insecure moment passed.

Do yourself a favor, give your inner monologue an accent. Especially if you are going to think crazy things.
It all so much betta bri-ish.