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.

Born In the USA [At the Right Time]

So, I'm a little lippy.  Sometimes.  Usually not at the inappropriate times, but still.  I have been pretty reflective lately about how thankful I am for being where and WHEN I'm at.  This great country of ours affords me the opportunity to be a little mouthy, yet have my message heard and not muffled through my burka.  Not that anyone's listening.  But still.

I feel fortunate to have been born into a generation that gives me what I sure couldn't do without: epidurals, air conditioning, automatic appliances, and disposable diapers.

One of those things is being a real stinker lately and it's not the diapers.  For now.

Last week, when Hubs was doing his laundry (oh, there's another reason I'm happy to live now and not the 50's), he noted, "The washer is leaking."

Interestingly, this did not deter him from completing subsequent loads of his laundry.

I'm used to him making random, generalized statements like this.  The most common is simple: "The toilet's broken."

Nothing more specific than that.  I envision, when someone indicates "toilet's broken" that there are, in fact, two perfect halves of a porcelain throne lying sideways on a bathroom floor.  This is almost never, and certainly in our house has never been the case.  Most often the chain between the flush handle and the flap has become disconnected.  On occasion it will be something other than this, and to be honest I know far too much about it from my far too many encounters repairing toilets.  More than a normal woman my age should, if a psychotherapist were to weigh in on the issue.  On one of my more recent trips to Home Depot for more parts, I was approached in the "toilet repair" aisle by one of their helpful clerks in their smart-looking orange aprons.

"Can I help you find something, ma'am?"

Clayton immediately interjected before I could get a response out.

"Nope.  My mom's fixin' Grandpa's towit.  She's a expert."

Awkward silence, clerk waiting for my response.

"Yeah, he's right.  I kinda already know what you guys have.  This is my 3rd toilet this week.  I'm good.  Thanks anyway."

And off I went to crouch in front of and beside of and around that chilly bowl again, all the while thinking how normal people only hang out around their toilets this way while their best friend is holding their hair back and consoling them about the boyfriend fight they shouldn't have had.

Accurate depiction of me doing plumbing repairs.
Kidding.  I look ridiculous with brown hair.
And I show more crack.
(credit: artisticfootprints/zazzle.com)

So now, the washer - the clearly out-of-commission essential laundry appliance gets the screwdriver put to it.  It took me a little while to find the problem, which I initially assumed to be a hose.  It was not.  It was a leaky gasket seal between the inside and outside baskets.  A quick Google search directed me to what I needed (oh, I guess there's ANOTHER reason why the 50's woulda sucked...no Google!!) and I had how-to repair videos at my fingertips.  One thing was curiously missing from all these instructional mini-movies: WOMEN.  I just find that...interesting.

Anyhoo.  I ordered the part.  It's not here yet.  Our bunghole town isn't home to an appliance parts store, so I'm at the mercy of the FedEx guy, who is scheduled to be at my house tomorrow, according to the tracking status.  Fingers crossed.

Almost out of the woods with the washer and the dishwasher suddenly won't latch tonight.  Nice.  Typical.  It's been an ass for a week, the handle sticking and not powering up when it should.  Tonight, the handle totally broke.  I know this because the dishwasher got the same screwdriver put to it that the washer did.  I removed the faulty handle, then remembered to turn the power off only after I got shocked (I tend to get into an impatient hurry).  Another quick internet search for the replacement and there it was, along with a statistical 97% of other customers reporting this same problem with this same manufacturer as me.

Now this new part is on its way, and I'm trying to stay positive about the fact I'm gonna have to go hand wash that pile of dishes like it IS 1950.  I'm thankful, however, that I am able to handle these repairs myself, and that I don't have to rely on a service guy to do it for me.  I don't tend to have great experience when I DO end up at the mercy of an expert, because they usually give me the "girl" treatment, overcharging and acting like I couldn't possibly understand how my thingamajig is broken, but that they're my knight in shining armor who's gonna save me.

Right.

If any of my lady friends out there need encouragement to dive into a project fearlessly, I'm your biggest cheerleader.  I might even be able to give you a tip or two, since I unfortunately know more about fixing things than I should.  I shouldn't just keep that to myself.

*DISCLAIMER* Hubs may not be mechanically inclined, but he makes up for it with other talents.  The best and most successful couples are those that complement each other, not that are identical to one another.  He can clean a mean toilet....right after I'm done fixing it.

Home Is Where The Heart Is

There is just about nothing I hate more than moving.  When unpleasant tasks present themselves I often say, "I'd rather get a pap smear and a root canal at the same time than do this".

Some people think that's a lie, but it's true.  I'd prefer my dentist keep his hands to my mouth area (or at least do that part FIRST), but other than that I'm up for the slippery salad spoons over lots of other bothersome things in my life.

Actual convo with my OB/GYN:

"You're not due for a pap until November, but we could get it out of the way now.  Or you can wait.  It's up to you."

"Why would I wait?  Just do it.  I already took my pants off."

"Wow, most people will do ANYTHING to get out of or postpone a pap."

"I'm not most people."

Don't get me wrong, it's not like I'm chomping at the bit to get in those stirrups.  It's just that it seems I get handed the biggest piles of manure to deal with on a daily basis that laying back with my feet up seems a nice alternative.

Like moving.  Did I mention I hate moving?  It's not the change part that I have a problem with.  It's just the actual handling/sorting/finding a home for all the SHIT that you pack around and around and around with you.  It's wrestling with decisions about holding onto something out of sentiment or guilt and deciding the ratio of possible future use to storage cost (which is both financial AND emotional).  Extra stuff means extra room, and the direction we're moving there's NO space to spare.

We're cramming our family back into our too-tiny house, and it's going to get smaller by the end of the year as our family gets bigger.  It's a home that we have loved, put actual blood, sweat, and tears into, that we brought our babies home to, that we first fell in love and got to know one another in.  The house that grew us.

My kids LOVE this house.  They love that their room is so close to mine.  They love that I bought them bean bags to watch TV in their room.  They love the shop.  They have been enthusiastic about this move since we announced it to them.  They haven't yet had the pleasure of weeding out their CRAP (luckily we do that behind their backs) in order to address the absence of a playroom.  They inject just the right amount of sunshine attitude into the situation that all it takes is observing them in all their joy to make me push through sifting through another bag of clothes that our closets won't hold and deciding which of the small appliances deserve a spot inside the kitchen and which will make their homes on a shelf in the garage.

We're not staying here forever, though.  Soon we will begin our quest to seek out our (hopefully) forever home.  The one the kids will all grow up at and leave (sniff) one day.  The one our grandkids will visit.  The one that has room for all of us AND all of our stuff.  But even as the prospect of that day shimmers in the distance, so too does the prospect loom for the ACTUAL MOVE...which I do NOT look forward to.  With any luck, we will have sufficiently pared down and weeded out during this go-round that we won't have difficulty with the next transition, and we won't lose any friends or family members over having to help us.  I appreciate all the ones who did help, and those who offered their help too.  It makes a move one step further away from "I'd rather get a pap smear" when you're surrounded by supportive people, and that's huge for me.