He Doesn't Love You Unless...

**Disclaimer**

The following post should NOT be read by any man, particularly any who are married/in a relationship with any of my friends.  I will not be held responsible for any adverse outcome of people/person(s) not heeding this warning.

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So if you didn't notice the abrupt shift in advertising from a mucky stew of political ads to holiday deals....then you DVR everything like I do.

One particular category always gets my attention: Diamonds.

No, not in a good way, not in the shallow manner you'd expect from a vagina owner.  In a much more realistic, pseudo-pessimistic way that you should expect from THIS vagina owner.  Staring at the screen I wonder: do these guys really think that I'm going to whither away convinced my man doesn't love me if he doesn't immediately run to the nearest jewelry store to collect and have his most willing female relative/coworker wrap for me this season's hottest "tell her you love her" sparkly treasure?

But it does work.  A lot.  It always has.  De Beers and their "A Diamond Is Forever" campaign (which they came out with in 1947) is considered the BEST advertising slogan of the 20th century.  Problem was...once you got that diamond....not a lot of other diamonds followed.  What to do?

Got it.  Make up some ridiculous NEW shape/configuration to convince people that last year's jewelry purchase has lost the love luster that it once had.  Tell her your love for her "has no end"....buy her an eternity ring or pendant (or a matching set!).

It's a circle.

Reflect on the path your relationship has taken with a journey pendant...tiny diamonds representing your beginning together and slowly taper and swirl into a big diamond to represent the two of you today, sitting on the couch, wondering how many months it will take to pay this off.

Eric, you're a douche, but she'll still love it.

How about a trilogy ring?  Acknowledge your love's past, present, and future with that one.

Even especially if you're an NBA player,
she's gonna know you just cheated on her.

Even Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman got into the jewelry biz with her "keep an open heart" collection.  When the line for women was exhausted they started suggesting you buy them for little girls, too.  The REAL irony of this one is that this past February (right after Valentine's Day) Jane Seymour came clean about the actual origin of her design inspiration.

You're gonna regret this tattoo selection in a minute, trust me.

www.uwmcforum.com/2012/02/29/jane-seymour-finally-admits-true-origin-of-her-open-hearts-jewelry/:

“The design originated with one of my paintings,” Seymour had said truthfully. On Thursday she admitted that her painting had absolutely nothing to do with hearts.

“I was painting my husband, James,” Seymour said in her trademark British accent. “And when I came across his ballsack . . . the elegance of the motion of the brush on the canvas just struck me as remarkable. I became obsessed with painting just the ballsack,” she said. She began experimenting with her strokes and, over time, the ‘Open Hearts’ design, as you know and love it today, evolved.

Kinda makes you gag at the thought of draping one of THOSE around your little girl's neck now, doesn't it??

Love not enough to convince you?  For the single (or sass-mouth) ladies, you MUST buy a "right hand ring"....buy it for yourself (who needs a MAN??) and wear it as a symbol of your independence.

That's still not your right hand,
but we get the picture, lady.

This trickery is not limited to diamonds.  A few years back Italian charm bracelets were pretty popular in this same manner....today Chamilia seems to be the prevalent charm bracelet setup.

And in this mix lies my poor husband....who likely longs for something as simple as a sparkly bauble to shut me up during the holidays.  Who wishes his wife could be "normal" like the rest of them who ooh and ahhh over something shiny.

Sorry honey, you're going to have to try WAY harder than that.

This is not to say that I didn't swoon over every diamond he's given me.  It's just that they were super-charged with emotion and not given willy-nilly.  I remember the exact moment their light hit my eyes, but even more so the light in his eyes across the table from me.  It was NOT, however, any of these trendy must-have ways to say "I love you."  It was much classier, traditional, and given to me while my hair was still wet from a much needed shower and I was in a bathrobe and hospital slipper-socks.  THAT is love.

In fact, we're headed back to that same spot soon...though I would never expect a repeat of that gift, it does make me reflect on the one that was given then....which I haven't taken off since.

Sleeping With Jacks

I've been reserving comments on hotel-living until I'm firmly planted in a new home and can clear out the situational delusions that I'm sure are clouding my judgement.

That said: there are FOURTEEN days to go.  Fourteen.  We can do this.

The dark circles under my eyes today are a direct result of my actions last night.  I found myself in bed with Jacks.

Not Dawson, Sparrow, Daniels, -The Ripper, -In The Box, or even that one dude from Sons of Anarchy that I think needs a haircut (and wash)...nor the French boyfriend of the New York Housewives' Countess Luann.

I have never trusted this guy's moustache.

No, in my constant state of inflated uncomfortability, I spent hours wriggling, rolling over, stretching, and still could not find a sleepable position.  It felt like there was something jabbing me all over.  The baby must be screwing with me, I thought...but then I could feel it in my legs.  I reached down in the covers to feel around and found them.  The olden-days-childhood toys.  Jacks.  Esten had picked them from the dentist's treasure box, one of the two prizes they afforded him for all his trauma at their office yesterday, and apparently felt the ideal place to play with them was in his bed.  Like IN the bed, between the sheets.

I had switched him places in one of the two queen sizes after giving Clayton some cough medicine, my initial source of sleeplessness.  I figured if I stayed close I could hear him better to re-dose him throughout the night.  A bit of hackiness followed, then the sound that ignites every mother's midnight cat-like reflexes: the sound of an impending puke triggered by a coughing gag.

1. We are in a hotel room, did I mention that?
2. I have no way to launder bed linens myself.

The leftover popcorn bucket from the evening's movie proved handy, with almost no overspray at all.  A trip to the bathroom *which is very close by, and a drink of water later, Clayton and I were back in bed.

He zonked right out and didn't move, cough, or puke the rest of the night.

I laid awake at the ready for him to move, cough, or puke for the rest of the night.

This morning we got up and I asked him if he felt like going to school.  He didn't have a fever, and the school's breakfast menu sealed his deal: pancakes.  No way would he miss pancakes.

So just when I think we have this figured out, life keeps throwing me curveballs like last night's shenanigans....and somehow I keep living through it.

Fourteen more days.  I may be able to shed a humorous light on it when it's all over with but right now all I can do is count the days.

Ain't Mutton But A Good Time

The addition of mutton bustin' as a competition at our local rodeo was mixed with opportunity for us as parents this year.  The opportunity to create some new childhood trauma memories for our boys.

When I told Hubs of the offering he didn't hesitate.  He wanted them to participate.  I filled out the requisite forms and held my breath awaiting confirmation that they were both accepted under the deadline and the participant number cutoff that was advertised.

They were in.  OMYGOD.  What now??

I'm the only half of our marriage who isn't a scaredy-cat when it comes to livestock (though Hubs insists his issues are limited to LARGE livestock).  Still, closest he came to cowboyism was the late summer of his youth spent bucking hay bales for local farmers.  Cowshit (or otherwise) likely never gushed upon the soles of his high tops.  Also given his work schedule, I knew it would be me who would hand-hold our minis through this process that I really knew nothing about.

Someone at work mentioned that there were RULES.  ??? I thought the only rule was hang on and don't let go.  Apparently there are a plethora of rules associated with the particular level of rodeo-association-ish entities that spilled over to all participants, workers, or volunteers stepping foot inside the arena.  Rules about clothes.

Thank God for the internet.

Not that it helped my situation, but it did clarify a few things.  Like I was gonna have to suck it up and drop some dough at the cowboy clothes store if I wanted my kids to not risk a disqualification.  Knowing it was probably going to be their only shot, I not only cringed at having to shell out the cash for clothes they wouldn't wear the rest of the year, but at the possibility that if they DID perform well, they could possibly lose out to a technicality.  I wasn't taking any chances.

I also failed to inform the kids of the actual prize, which included a belt buckle.  First of all, Esten refuses to wear denim.  Secondly, his motivation is CASH.  He dreamed up a dollar amount (there really was some money involved but I'm sure not the amount he was thinking of) and set his mind to winning it.  So much so that when he overheard someone talking about a belt buckle for the winner he asked me:

"Whattheheck is a bell buckle??  Like something you hold when you're ringing a bell?"

There was a maddening lack of information about the event for participants to reference.  I chalked it up to being the first year they were doing it, but continued to look and ask around.  One of my friends' kids was in the selection as well, so she and I traded info until we got the lowdown.

The kids were stoked.  I had talked about what to expect and we got into technique.  I did what any parent/coach would do leading their children into a sport they'd never seen:  I showed them YouTube videos.

Don't judge.  It's a most handy tool for instructional purposes.  I used it to diagnose and fix appliances recently.  Our brother-in-law used it, in interval trips, to walk his way through gutting a deer.

We practiced on stuffed animals.  I feared the outcome if we practiced on any live ones.  They may back out.  We couldn't have that.

We showed up on time for the number assignment.  #49 and #50, in a row...big brother first.  Their nervousness waned as they surveyed the sheep in the pen, until they spied one with horns.

Who has to ride the one with the horns?  They asked.  "Whoever's luckiest I guess", I replied.  They consulted with other mini-riders.  They were miniature versions of real-live cowboys.  I waited with fingers crossed that we could just get through this without one or both of them hating me and needing to spend time in either the ER or the school counselor's office.  I showed them different parts and places across the grounds.

"That fence, over there, when it was wooden, used to be Grandpa's favorite place to watch the rodeo.  He sat on the top rail, and sometimes he'd jump down to help a princess on her horse.  That was after he was too old to open the chutes over there..."

We quietly breathed in the cloudy combination of dust and animal crap as the tractor made its way around grooming the arena.  Esten looked especially reflective.

"I bet Grandpa's watching us right now and I bet he's super proud of us, Clayton."

"I KNOW that, Esten.  I got a new angel kiss last night.  That means he told me Good Luck."

They lined up between numbers 48 and 51 and waited patiently.  I asked them whether they would be good listeners for the men giving them instructions so that I could go into the stands and take their pictures.  They insisted they were fine. 



Really, Mom, I'm a professional. I even got this sweet bandanna to prove it.
You can go now.


In the first group of four, they climbed up by the stalls and looked nervously around and down at their fluffy white rides.  A coordinator approached Esten and asked where his mom was - when Esten pointed in my direction the guy wanted to know if they had someone there to help them, or if he needed to get someone.

I pointed at my protruding belly.  "It's not gonna be me, that's for sure."

Clayton got a misty look of unsureness across his face about that time, and then their helpers jumped into the chutes from the other side, scaring both the boys and the sheep.  Clayton's was trying to jump out.




I wonder if use of these helmets on a sheep is in violation of X-Games rules.


Our friend's son was first to go, and boy did he go.  His sheep ran half way to Mexico before he jumped off, I'm guessing out of boredom and the assumption that it may be getting past his bedtime.  An awesome ride.

Then Esten.  His sheep stayed so close to the fence line and he fell so fast I didn't even have time or the angle to get a picture.  Crap.  Then again in my head all I could think was please be able to walk all the way past your brother's field of vision before you have a meltdown or he will back out for sure.  But you know Esten, even when he's nervous his contagious smile sticks to his adorable face.




"I think I either changed my mind about this, or I need to go poop.  I'm not sure."


When Clayton came out and subsequently hit the ground he immediately began to cry.  I knew he wasn't hurt, but he was freaked out.  I ran down to scoop him up and dust him off.  Back in our seats by our family and friends of cheerleaders who came out to watch, both boys were over it.  They wanted to go home.  I insisted we stay and cheer on the rest of the competitors.  I had just settled them down a bit when, after an almost identical run to Esten's, the announcer commented "awwwww...I think that calls for a re ride, what do you think, judges?"  Esten LOST it.

"WWWHHHHHAAAAATT?  That kid's gonna get another ride.  That's not fair."

And it wasn't.  But unfortunately for Esten I'm not a Toddlers in Tiaras kind of mom.  I'm not the mom who runs down to the judges and raises hell and says "then give my kid another chance too".  No....I'm the mom who instead strokes her son's hair and says "sometimes things happen that aren't fair, and people don't treat everyone the same, and you just have to be okay with it anyway".

In the end, six kidlets who did not belong to me qualified for the Sunday competition.  As we buckled our dusty selves into the car, between the sniveling in the back seat I asked, "So what would make you feel better and quit your crying?  Ice cream?"  They answered in unison without a pause:

"Dollar store."

And so I dragged them, dirt and all, to seek out the treasures that would soothe them.  A bath and a book later, they drifted off to sleep.

In the morning, my phone was blowing up with calls and texts, something about my son and the newspaper.  I pulled up the online edition.  Holy crap.  There was Clayton, holding on for dear life on the front page.  He tiptoed sleepily out of his room.  I offered to stop for cocoa on the way to school if he got dressed and woke his brother up and said, "Because guess who got famous today?"




(Photo: Steve Hanks, Lewiston Morning Tribune)


Then I showed him the picture.  He beamed.  I checked the news station's website.  Esten was in their video prepared by the sports reporter.  One of each.  Even Steven.  I know my kids, and I know that it no longer mattered to them whether they won or lost.  They got MEDIA COVERAGE!  They were going to be talked about at school that day.  It was better than winning in both their minds.  Clayton examined the picture one last time.

"That wasn't my sheep.  Mine was psycho.  In fact, that's what I named him.  Psycho.  That sheep looks nice."

So all was well again in our little home, and we were better able to focus on cheering on those boys (and girls) who did qualify for another run.

Because really, after all...what WOULD we do with a bell buckle?

Little Red Barn

This morning, to add a special sprinkle to the end of the first (half, anyway) week of school, I shuttled my shorties out the door a few minutes early in order to surprise them with an on-the-way hot cocoa and strawberry milk from my local drive-thru beanery.  It's a rare treat that is always met by them with gratitude, so long as the barista remembers the gummy bears on top, and it's something that I reward their good listening with, yet always in a surprise fashion...I don't want to ruin it by shifting it over to my bribery category just yet.

As we pulled in on one side of the two-service window hut Clayton said to Esten:

"When this place gets all done and closed up, we should use it for a playhouse."

To which Esten, preserver of justice, replied:

"We can't do that.  It's like stealing.  There's video cameras in there and they'd know that we came in to play when they were gone.  We'd go to jail."

I understood what Clayton was getting at though, so I helped clarify for him:

"I think your brother means when they're done with the BUILDING, like if the business completely closed forever, not just for the night, is that what you meant, Clayton?"

"Yeah, when it's old and they don't want it anymore.  Maybe we could have it for a playhouse."

Esten decided that would be kind of awesome, so long as no laws were broken in the deal.

With the rodeo coming up next weekend, I couldn't help but think of and share with them about the Little Red Barn.  It's the place where the public can go purchase advance tickets to the rodeo, a small, portable shed-like building that seasonally plants itself in the parking lot of a local business and is known immediately by either its name or by sight.  It's been part of our town's rodeo (which is a stop on a semi-serious circuit) tradition for years, just like the parade.  I told the boys that over the years they've had to replace the Little Red Barn because it's deteriorated or they've outgrown it...and that when I was a little girl and they upgraded to a new structure, that Grandpa had somehow finagled and gotten the old Little Red Barn for me to use for a playhouse and put it in the back yard around where Grandma's swingset is now.



Today's Little Red Barn...does it look like it's leaning a little to you?
Photo: Lewiston Roundup


They looked at each other for a moment, then to my eyes looking back at them in the rearview mirror.  Esten was speechless.  Clayton was not.

"Ahh. You. Theeeweeeeuth?"

"Yeah.  Only it was kind of shaped like a hexagon instead of a rectangle.  So people could come up to different sides of it.  I played in it for a lot of years, until it started falling apart from being out in the weather and wasn't safe to play in anymore, then Grandpa tore it down."

Clayton thought it was the coolest thing ever.  Esten got misty-eyed because it had been torn down before he got to see it....like about 30 YEARS before he got to see it.  It was a prime example of the personality differences in my two little men.

We now live overlooking the rodeo grounds, this place that is so geographically close to us, yet we're not really a 'livestock' kind of family...so my kids' exposure to the culture has been minimal.  This year we've decided, collectively, that the boys are going to try their hand at mutton busting.  I don't know that it will work out, probably once they see someone else attempting it they'll change their minds.  For now, though, that's the plan.  Clayton would like to wear his Oakland Raiders helmet.  That's been vetoed, both for safety purposes and so that the judges won't disqualify him on the basis of liking the Raiders.

My children will need therapy after this.
Photo: Lewiston Roundup

I was going to buy our tickets online since the Roundup Association has made that option available in the past few years, but instead I think I'll take the kids down to the Little Red Barn so they can experience it for themselves.

Grandpa's In The Ground Now

*Correction:

The service was a beautiful remembrance of his life, and my family is awesome.

The end.

Inside the HotDog Factory

image: http://hotdogfactory.blogspot.com/

So apparently we're just gonna go with churning out boys.  Hubs only knows how to make XY chromosomes, not XX chromosomes.  The news delivered last week first to me by the sonographer, then passed on to my children, my husband, and the rest of our family and friends was met with mixed reviews.

I loaded a cardboard box with blue balloons and let the boys open it.

Clayton was clearly ecstatic.  He was "Team Boy" all the way.  Another wrestle partner.  WooooHoooo.

Esten looked like he'd just unwrapped a Christmas present with a dog turd in it.  He scrunched up his nose and said, "NOOOO!"

Disappointment.  Obviously.  But I didn't really understand his angle.  He clarified his upset was due to the "fact" that "girl babies won't eat Legos, but boy babies do".

Duh.

He also insisted that I "try again for a do-over".

So I made them squish the balloons back in the box so we could surprise Daddy, and swore them to not only secrecy, but containing their emotion about it because we both knew the boys disagreed on their preference.

They helped him remove the ribbon, and once again the blue orbs lifted into the air.  That's when I was really surprised by Jason's reaction.

"Are you SHITTING me??  ANOTHER boy?  I thought we were gonna be done after this one, but now I'm thinking maybe we should try again for a girl."

Wait....WTF?  Can we get one out before we go talking about the NEXT one???

I suppose it's the exact opposite of the conversations that happen in the Real Housewives of New Jersey home of Joe and Teresa Giudice.


There's actually one MORE, and SHE's not a boy, either.
That's a giant estrogen ticking timebomb.
(bravotv)


The overwhelming majority (126%) of those with an opinion (everyone) had previously mentioned they were really pulling for this one to be a girl.  It made the most sense, following our family's pattern of two boys, then a girl.  I think there are many feeling a little sorry for me right now, having sealed my fate of being suffocated by the testosterone tornado tumbling around my house.

I fortunately don't see it that way.  I honestly wasn't leaning one way or the other on this, perhaps because I have a habit in general life of not setting myself up for disappointment.  We're somehow surrounded by other parents who have wanted to be surprised about their little one's gender until they're born, something I maintain is ridiculous given that I don't live in a cave in the 1400's.  There's a REASON I'm having kids now....ultrasound, epidurals, disposable diapers, breast pumps that plug into my car's cigarette lighter (do they still call them that?), and society's spin on dads helping provide more care than in the past.  I didn't care what this baby turned out to be, but I'm a planner and I wanted to know.

What will be a surprise is the name, which we'll keep under wraps until he makes his appearance, and to us, the surprise will be his personality.  Given the opposite nature of his two big brothers, anything is possible.  Until then, my hotdog factory will keep getting bigger, rounder, and heavier, and I'll get waddlier and more tired and it will all be worth it and the not-so-great things will be forgotten quickly.  After all, it did last time, and that's probably why we're in this situation today.

Pretending to Be Homeless...Just for the Fun of It

There are some things that most people are clearly on one side or the other about:

• Chocolate or vanilla
• Shower or bath
• Pro-life or pro-choice
• Underwire or soft cup
• Bikinis or briefs
• Paper book or Kindle
• Angelina or Jennifer

and

Camping.

Not exactly our tent. Our bathtub was on the opposite side.
(photo: http://www.actionafrica.com/fisheagle.html)

Any guesses on which side I'm on for that last thing?  Yeah...so I maintain that I bust my hump to pay a mortgage for that roof that's over my comfy bed, and when the question of camping comes to mind all I can think is "why on EARTH do people find such joy in pretending to be homeless, just for the fun of it??"

But they do, and that's fine...and for some reason those who have seen my face when I'm invited on a camping trip almost always say, "If you don't like camping it's because you've never been camping with US...it's soooooo fun!!"

I know there are some folks reading this who I've had that conversation with, so it's legit.  After this past week/weekend I can tell you with certain authority:  It's really NOT about the s'mores....it's about being a thousand percent thankful that the washer and dryer are fully functional when you get home and have to wash the 800 articles of clothing/blankets/pillowcases that you took with you.  It's about attempting to create a bit of a memory for your kids, who at the end of an exhausted day, though they're slightly too old for it, squabble over who gets to lay in your arms in a lawn chair by the campfire, but not to let them enjoy it too much or be so comfortable that they'll ask to go again next weekend...because you know in your heart it just is NOT happening.

I've been camping exactly twice in the past 8 years.  Both times I've been pregnant.  I've concluded this MAY be the reason I'm not enjoying myself as much as everyone else.  My alcohol intake is in direct opposite proportion to those around me....making my vigilance to ensure no child steps in deer poop higher than normal.

Was it fun?  Yeah, it was.  Were there issues?  Yeah, there were.  I made some important discoveries that I'll take with me going forward.

• I need to put more effort into finding a sunscreen that doesn't make my kids break out in a rash.
• Always use the handicap accessible shower.  It's cleaner since it gets little use, and you can bend over without your butt touching anything.  On the off chance that someone rolls up in a wheelchair and chews you out...well, don't worry, they won't.
• Taking a battery-powered white noise machine and Twilight Turtle really DO keep your kids feeling more like home and less likely to get up every five seconds saying they're scared.  It's worth it.
• Conditioner.
• Camping in a group lessens the impact of forgetting major contents of your cooler back at home in the freezer.  So does an incredibly prepared mother-in-law, who was a Campfire Girl, and thus can roast the shit out of a marshmallow.
• Remember that most state laws do not afford for "differences of opinion when interpreting tent assembly instructions" as legitimate grounds for divorce.
• No tent fits back in the bag it came with.  Just buy a bigger bag.

Having a husband who makes a huge attempt at making things as easy as possible does help.  A lot.  So does being surrounded by family and/or friends who are easy to laugh with, share your sandwich bread with, and who always remember to pack the hammer that you forgot.

Hopefully I will save this list to reference next time we go camping, which will likely be no less than one year from now...when I'll have long forgotten about the not-so-great parts and only remember how....FUN it was.

I still can't fully say I don't feel at least slightly like I'm slapping actual homeless people in the face when I walk away from my perfectly good house to "try on" their life a few days at a whack....and that my failing at it is borne out of the choice to go home.

So.  If you see me at a campground anytime soon please know this:  I have probably been kidnapped and am being held against my will.  My captor is likely armed and dangerous.  Proceed accordingly.