The sad, irrefutable truth

Teenage Stie, in all her scary, big-haired, mini-skirted glory

When you're a teenager, you sneak out of the house so your mom won't see you wearing a mini skirt.

When you're a mom, you sneak out of the house so your daughter won't see that you're not wearing the gaudy, homemade princess necklace she crafted for you.

When you're a teenager, you stay up late partying with friends and can sleep in until midday.

When you're a mom, you stay up late doing laundry and cleaning toilets and have to pull yourself painfully out of bed early in the morning.

When you're a teenager, you wear clothes that look cool, regardless of their comfort factor. [Pegged jeans and shoulder pads, anyone?]

When you're a mom, you wear clothes SOLELY for their comfort factor.

Pegged acid-washed jeans and freakishly matchy-match-socks Stie & date
(whose face has been changed for his protection)

When you're a teenager, you freak out when your brothers walk into your room because you think no one respects your privacy.

When you're a mom, you find yourself unable to even pee in solitude because your children are always chattering on the other side of the bathroom door.

When you're a teenager, you have braces, pimples, and feel awkward almost all of the time.

When you're a mom, you have cellulite, under-eye bags, and feel only slightly awkward at the PTA meeting when you look down and realize you are still in yesterday's ponytail and your sweatpants.

Most scary & awkward of all the Sties: Middle School short-haired mullet Stie. Yikes.

When you're a teenager, you fight with your parents for control over your life.

When you're a mom, you fight with the world for control over your child's life.

And when you're a teenager, you eat everything in sight without fear for the future.

When you're a mom, you have to hide in the closet while snarfing down the last of the good chocolate...for fear the children will see you and want some.

Mom Stie: The Happiest (and possibly cutest) of them all

P.S. Have you seen all of the fabulous sessions happening here? Stop by and take a peek. Exciting stuff, people.

A fish out of water

[The victim of our murderous crime]

The past several weeks have seen the birth of a new obsession for my boys: Fishing.

They saved their own money and bought themselves fishing poles. They have researched gear and equipment ad nauseum. And when the idea to fish in our friends' backyard pond came up, I was not the least bit surprised. They even succeeded in getting the friend's daughter in on the project.

The planned Saturday finally arrived, and they found themselves with poles in the water as the sun arose. Within a few hours, they were back at my door, a huge catfish in hand. Excitedly, they talked over each other, sharing the story of how Chase had reeled the giant beast in. I looked down at the poor creature and noticed that he was still breathing. Noting wistfully that the Husband was out on an errand, I told them that they needed to knock it out so that it wouldn't suffer.

First, they smacked the fish against a tree. Still breathing. Then they tried the sidewalk. Still breathing. Even beating it over the head with a rock -- STILL BREATHING.

And the blood. OH MY HEAVENS, THE BLOOD.

This thing was dripping blood everywhere from what should have been its fatal head wound. Blow after blow, they tried to put the poor fish out of its misery.

and still it breathed.

It was Jaws, only in our backyard, and without the help and skills of Richard Dreyfuss.

I looked up to see tears forming in Chase's eyes, and knew that this was breaking his heart. Taking a deep breath, I swallowed the bile in my mouth, went against every fiber of my being, and offered to help them gut the fish. I knew exactly what was going on in his head and how this was hurting him - almost more than it was hurting the stupid fish. I also knew that if we didn't finish this to completion, he might not recover enough to ever eat meat again.

With my good kitchen knife, and no idea whatsoever what I was doing, I went to work.

And let me tell you, it was awful. This thing had a giant backbone that was nearly impossible to saw through. There was blood and guts all over my hands. You know that scene from Goodfellas where they are chopping the guy up using Joe Pesci's mom's kitchen knife? Sort of like that. Only not. Because we didn't actually kill anybody. But it was a bloody, stinky, traumatic mess.

And I'm pretty sure I might not ever be able to eat meat again.

I quickly extracted enough meat from the fish to make a meal and took it inside to cook. Finding the fattiest, deep fried recipe that I could, we cooked that baby up. It had to be delicious to help poor Chase forget the murder he had just committed.

And it was.

Though later that night, walking past the boys' room, I found Chase curled up and weeping in his bed. I put my arms around him, and his body wracked with aching sobs as he said he could not get the image out of his mind. His blue eyes looked into mine, pleading with me to help him understand how he could be so cruel. He vowed never to hurt anything ever again. In fact, he said he was not going to join the military because he didn't think he could kill a person.

I hugged him tight, fighting back my own tears, and I told him that he has just learned a skill which will enable him to someday feed his family, should the need arise. I told him that heavenly father created the animals for us to eat, and that he had done nothing wrong. I pleaded with him to forgive himself and told him over and over that he is not a bad person.

I think he believed me.

Though it will probably be a long time before either of us can eat fish again.

It was time for a facelift

Well, what do you think of the new look around here?

Stayed up way too late last night tweaking and changing - trying to figure out what I even wanted the little old blawg to look like, and ended up with this. Took me a while because I don't speak nerd html. Honestly though, who does?

But it may change; it may stay this way forever. We shall see.

Anyway, be back later today (hopefully) with a fish story you won't believe.

Happy first of September.

Where is my Joseph when I need him?

A few days ago I had a really bad dream.

You know, one of THOSE dreams where you wake up angry and resentful of your spouse for their behavior in your dream? And for the first hour or so of the day, you can hardly talk to them because the rage feels so real and so part of you?

Yeah. Needless to say, the Husband was thrilled.

He loves when I'm mad at him for no reason.

ANYhoo, I dreamed that the Husband had an affair. AND that he started smoking.

In the dream, I was really, really furious. I hated that he would cheat on me, but felt that I could work through it and forgive him.

What I could not forgive, however, was the smoking.

Oh wise internet, what does that say about me? That I'm highly tolerant or intolerant?

Discuss.

I am what I am, and that's all that I am

The other night, I was attempting to make dinner but something kept getting in my way.

That something was Chase's head.

Every time I went to add something to the pan or stir the food, his head was peering over the stove examining the bubbling concoction.

I had to pause, and was caught up in the memory of something I had completely forgotten about. I laughed as I saw this exact scene roughly 10 years before. It was during our early days in Seattle. Chase was about 10 months old and completely insatiable. His curiosity was so consuming that sometimes it drove me crazy.

EVERY. SINGLE. NIGHT. when I was making dinner, he had to be propped up on my hip, watching everything I did. He would lean out, one hand tucked safely behind my arm, and peer intently into the pan. Time after time, I would pull his head back out of the way so I could see what I was doing.

There was no activity interesting enough to keep him busy during this time. He would crawl over to the stove, pull himself to standing at my legs, and cry and fuss until I picked him up. There was no way around it. I eventually just learned to multi-task, as all mothers do. I was able to cook, chop, rinse, and stir with one hand and a 20-pound kid on my hip.

But what's funny is that he is EXACTLY THE SAME at age 10 as he was at age 10 months.

It got me thinking about the other two, as well.

McKay has always been a rule follower. Even as a toddler, he felt compelled to obey the rules. So much so, that often his free-spirited brother caused him a great deal of stress. He'd watch anxiously as Chase ran behind the counter in a restaurant or tried to jump up and operate the cash register in the grocery store.

Which was probably not at all annoying to the store employee actually operating the cash register.

Looking to me for help, McKay would wring his hands in worry and say, "Chase! We not s'posed to do dat!" Chase, meanwhile, was completely oblivious to it all and could have cared less about getting in trouble. By the time I could catch him for a scolding, he was already off exploring something else.

Today, Mack is concerned as ever with doing what he's supposed to. The very idea of stepping out of line causes him near panic attacks and ulcers. In fact, last year the Husband offered him twenty bucks if he'd get a pink slip at school just once. Pink slips are handed out for being late, missing assignments, goofing off, etc., and they entitle one to a lunch detention with the teacher. From what we hear, they are used on quite a frequent basis at the middle school. At the start of sixth grade, McKay was consumed with worry that he'd get a pink slip, and stressed constantly about it.

Even with the Husband's offer, he has yet to earn that twenty bucks.

This little chica is also exactly the same as her baby self.

She is, and always has been, everybody's mother. I often hear her correcting the boys' grammar, as well as their behavior.

Her teaching moments and lectures are usually met with eye rolling and a lot of sarcastic comments, which enrages her even more.

[Ah, the wonders she could have done with baby Chase.]

She is also extremely articulate (and was as a toddler, too). I have to constantly explain and negotiate things with her. It's not a simple matter of being told no. She wants to know what, why, when, and how. The ever popular phrase, "because I said so" is just not in her vocabulary.

I don't know why it's so surprising to me that they are the same people they've always been. I think I've known it, but not really connected the pieces of this puzzle together.

Do you think that means I was a stupid baby?

Never mind. Don't answer that.

Sharing my fascinating medical history, one rash at a time

Yesterday I went to see a dermatologist. Though I've had the bloody appointment for a good month now, it was the soonest they could get me in. Good thing I'm not dying of skin cancer or leprosy. Sheesh.

Impatient much?

ANYway, I went to the doctor because I've got terrible eczema on my hands. I've had it sporadically my whole life on various parts of my body. It's a vicious cycle that is the bane of my existence. I get it. I ignore it. I try and self-treat it, knowing it will take forever to get in to see a doctor. I get so miserable that I finally go in. I get a steroid cream. It goes away.

Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

This particular round, it is on my two pinkie fingers and my two ring fingers. And just this week, patches started appearing on my two middle fingers. It's like I'm this freakishly ugly, red, scaly mirror image of myself.

I mentioned this oddity to the doctor, and she very nonchalantly said that skin rashes tend to be symmetrical, even on different limbs.

I brought this bit of information home to the Husband last night. He laughed and said, "See! Even your diseases are OCD!"

I find a deep sense of satisfaction in knowing that my diseases are as crazy as I am.

After all, I am nothing if not consistent.