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It is a well known fact that a group of mothers cannot get together without the conversation eventually leading to labor and delivery. . . and boobs. I get into trouble a lot with my "sharing"- you know the common side effects that accompany such spontaneous regurgitation of thoughts: putting my foot in my mouth; offending; nausea, dry mouth, and diarrhea; grossing people out with my way too personal details; and most destructively, gossiping. So I stood there, washing dishes, imagining myself on a snowy night, pressing my face up to a frosted window, and watching another family inside my house, opening their Christmas presents. I bid them one final "wa-Ha-HA" as I blew out the candles and closed their door for a peaceful nights rest. One day I will get it all together, when I can make a batch of sticky buns without getting myself into a sticky situation. Maybe some day, somewhere, when a seminary teacher doesn't have anything planned for the day, the story of our cipher in the snow will be told, and someone besides me, will shed a tear for our sorry tree. The child wants to, more than anything, go out and play in the snow. She just doesn't understand what it means when the loving, kind mother says, "It's too cold outside. Your fingers will freeze and fall off." I, of course, was running after her, calling out her name, but it didn't help that she had quite the head start, and I was slowed down by, shall we say, heaving bossoms and a not-so-very-supportive nursing bra (that's not even the graphic stuff, folks). Okay, so technically the honorable thing would have been to not write things that I would feel uncomfortable having anyone read, but apparently honor falls just behind speaking my mind, which falls slightly behind saving face, which falls somewhere behind my amazing ability to load dishwashers full and efficiently, in my list of attributes. "What the hell?" And the only reason I bothered to write this part is because it is one of the stars that aligned to create the perfect storm, that nearly robbed us of our lives. . . Cody relinquished his hold on the rod of normalcy and stumbled off onto a scarlet path paved with sunburned napes.
But when I come home to find my husband, still in his camo, boiling the top of a deer head in my kitchen, I draw a line. Do I want Claire to tell her little three year old friends I love you, by saying, 'Your skankin' shirt is super blinging it, girrrl!" And you realize, that no matter how much you have envisioned yourself on So You Think You Can Dance, you seriously aren't coordinated enough to pick up the simple step aerobic combos that the peppy instructor is shouting out unintelligibly into her headset (all you hear is "wah, wah, wah, knee") and you find yourself flailing in circles trying to keep up with everyone else all while being awkwardly conscious that the girl behind you is most likely focusing on your furry calves. In fact, the next time you meet a new person, if you think about this post, and think about me, and how I actually did once name the hair on my arm Harriet, well, I think you will be feeling pretty good about yourself and the conversation will go a lot better. No daughter of mine is going to be paraded around the mall in her red-neck, my-father-might-be-my-brother, viva-la-nascar, camo shirt. "Ooh, i did not. . I did not always want these. It's not fair!" Next time Morgan takes a bath, she is getting her bum scotched-taped first. It is small, it smells like your grandma's house, has a random toilet in the basement, and it doesn't believe in the value of closet space, but it has been our first house. Actually, he got injured five days before playing soccer and suffered through the pain (of which I gave him zero sympathy for, made him lift heavy furniture much to his peril, and called him things like 'sissy' and 'little dancing flautist') all that time.I was stuck pondering how I was going to convince Cody that we needed to have at least five more kids. I remember having a fairy tale book when I was little, and it told a story about three sisters, and the prince agreed to marry the one who could keep a secret. Two of the sisters just couldn't keep the secret inside, it ate at them until finally they let out the secret- into the thickets and down a well. The third sister kept her secret and married the prince. Now as a grown up, I realize what kind of sister I am- the one who needs to let the secret out, even if no one is listening. Thats why I write.