hair scare

Today, while helping out at Jack's school,
I had a little girl look up at me and say,
"What happened to your hair?"
"My hair? Is it looking crazy?" I touched it gingerly.
She looked at me perplexed.
"How did you make it black and white?"
Black and white....black and white....
This kindergartener must have been referring to the new hair
style that is all the rage with young mothers.
It's called color-your-hair-once-a-year-and-let-it-go.
And really it isn't so much black and white.
But a nice dark mousey brown root area laced with gray
and then fringed with yellowish whitish blonde ends where the sun
has frazzled the life out of the over processed hair
and turned it into the texture of straw.
I have a few hairstyles... pony up and go,
a couple of twirly knots at the base of the neck or slicked back.
I've worn it down a total of maybe 12 times since Addison was born.
That was 18 months ago. Today I wore it down.
And today, the reality of the situation was revealed.
We are in hair crisis, people.
The bangs are so long, they have limply grouped together
over to one side as a "unibang".
And whereas I used to have straight hair,it is now kinking and curling
in a rather unattractive Gene Wilder type manner.
And saddest of all, is that my hair stylist, who is a dear friend,
has sent me messengers.
People who go to her, who know me,
that are trying to do a hair intervention.
My sister, Jenny, brought the last message.
"Just go in, Sue, it will be okay."
I don't think she could look directly at my hair....it was too hideous.
The thing is I don't have the time or the funds
to repair the neglect that has been taken place.
You can't undo this look at supercuts, tsgs.
And did I mention there's a party this weekend?
What I really need is a spa day but I will have to settle for a self-trim.
Don't try and stop me. It must be done.
I just need to make sure the hands are steady
and I that I don't keep trying to even things out like I did that one time
when I ended up with Jim Carrey's dumb and dumber bangs.
As my mother-in-law says,
"Pray heavy, girls, pray heavy!"

the evil one

It has come to my attention, with much apprehension on my part,
that this tired supergirl has an evil alter ego.
Kind of like the bad spiderman vs. the good spiderman in spiderman 3.
Except that she's not really so much evil as she is
weepy, irritable and enraged at the thought of cleaning.
And who is this malevolant creature,
who keeps rearing her ugly head in the tired super realm?
None other than psycho-hormonal girl (phg for short).
No, really, I'm not kidding.
In my my 20s, I was pretty much on an even keel.
There were moments of insanity and hysteria, mind you,
but it wasn't the norm.
My husband even went as far as to compliment me on
my lack of hormonal behavior and the absence of mood swings.
But no more. My 30s have ushered in the crazy.
And I've talked to some of my supergirlfriends
and they say they feel same.
It doesn't bode well, tsgs, it doesn't bode well...
for us or for our tired superguys.
Now it seems that on a semi-regular basis I have
a smidge of crazy going on,
thrown in with some general shortness of temper
and a whole lot of crying for no apparent reason.
It seems that with all the fluctuating hormone levels of 3 pregnancies
that somehow, my body forgot how to fight the good fight,
and return to normal Sue, and instead invited phg to join the party.
And the craziest thing of all is that in the moment,
whether I am feeling extremely irritated, teary-eyed or hot and angry,
I feel totally justified in that emotion.
It is only when I see the scared wide eyes of my children or
Scott giving me the "cuckoo for cocoa puffs" look that I think,
"Could I possibly be overreacting?" And then I think,
"No, I'm pretty sure everyone hurls themselves to floor sobbing
when they see how much dust is gathering on their entertainment center."
The other night, we were saying prayers and Jack added to his prayer,
"And God, please help mommy to not be so cranky
when she wakes up in the morning."
"Am I cranky?" I asked.
"Just a little," he said.
It is in moments like these when I think,
"Oh, Eve.....what have you done? WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?"
Because you know if it wasn't for that crazy apple business,
we would all be completely normal and child bearing would be
as pleasant as sitting down for a hot fudge sundae.
But no, instead I am dealing with raging hormonal issues
and my child is pleading with the creator of the universe
to give him a nicer mommy come morning time.
I'm not really sure where to go from here
but one thing is clear....
I need to start saving for my children's therapy now.
That and someone needs to get me
a life time supply of 62% cacao dark chocolate.
It's the only thing that seems to hold psycho-hormonal girl at bay.

thankful

I have decided I am a creature of habit.
I get into a groove and I like to stay there.
It's not that I don't enjoy new things....
Give me a new place to visit or a new food to try
and I will be right on it.
But I tend to be very comfortable in my comfort zone.
So today was one of those definitely out-of-my-comfort-zone days.
I did two things with a very un-Sue like groove.
I spoke at a women's breakfast and
posted a blog on Faithchick, a website for christian women authors.
A women's breakfast meaning women other than myself
and authors meaning those who have already published a zillion books.
There was a little angst involved.
I couldn't finish my delicious quiche,
due to the general nervousness of my stomach
and it took me more than a few minutes to pull together my thoughts
for the post but I also had a few larger than moments,
for one who is so entirely ruled by fear
and has a huge compulsion of comparing myself to others.
Fear and comparison can pretty much kill all the joy God has for you
in any new work he is trying to accomplish in your life.
And I feel like God stepped in and gave me words today -
words to speak and write.
I can't remember what exactly I said at the breakfast but
no one left the room screaming or refused to make eye contact.
And I didn't feel the normal amount of self-loathing that I often feel
as I stack myself and non-accomplishments up against those of other
writers who are far more accomplished, published and gifted than I am.
So I am thinking that at a time when I was willing to say "yes"
to something new and uncomfortable, something beyond myself
and out of my league, Jesus met me.
He overcame my lack and my apprehension.
He put words in my mouth and peace in my heart.
And that is no small task, where I am concerned.
So I must give credit where credit is due.
He did what I could not do on my own.
And I'm thankful.

verse for this season

Some people have a life Bible verse.
A word that God has whispered into their heart for their life's journey.
I don't have a life verse.
But I think I may have found a season verse.
Because my life seems to wrap itself around chunks of time.
I don't think the same verse would inspire me, say, during college,
as now, during this mommy season.
I've had lots of different seasons. I think that during my
"I-like-boys-that-that-are-detrimental-to-my-well-being season"
a good verse might have been Matthew 16:23 that says,
"Get behind me, Satan."
And when I was in my "I'll-never-find-my-soul-mate" season,
when I tasted loneliness and I doubted I would ever find
a man I could dream with, laugh with and grow with,
I could have definitely leaned into Jeremiah 29:11 that says,
"For I know the plans I have for you," says the Lord.
"They are plans for good and not for disaster,
to give a future and a hope."
And in those early days of marriage, when God answered my prayers
and gave me a wonderful man I could dream with,
laugh with and grow with, and I enterred my
"I-want-him-to-be-perfect-because-I-have-control-issues season",
it probably would've aided both Scott and I,
if I had known about Proverbs 21:19, that says,
"It is better to live alone in the desert
than with a crabby, complaining wife."
Maybe Scott wouldn't have wanted to move to Arizona
and we could have enjoyed that season
for all the fun and goodness that it afforded us.
But now my season is different.
It is harried and fast, with endless shuttlings and activities,
It is unpredictable and exhausting,
just yesterday we had an unplanned doctor visit when
Jack sustained trauma to his gums, yes, his gums,
as well as Will's screaming melt-down at pre-school orientation,
that left me bereft, shell-shocked and
fearing the first day of pre-K class next week.
There are spurts of joy and moments of loneliness,
I'm loving these three little boys but there are mornings
when I can barely drag myself out of bed,
and there is a sort of monotony and hopelessness,
in doing the same things over and over again,
like the laundry, the dishes, the 3 meals and 14 snacks,
the packing of lunches and disciplining and setting boundaries,
that tends to wear down the heartiest of women.
And I feel like God has shown me a scripture I can grab on to,
and immerse myself in.
And I think it shall have to be the Tired Supergirl anthem.
The one we can shout from tall mountains of dirty undies,
and sing ourselves to sleep with as we crawl into bed,
wiped out and depleted.
And the one we can whisper when we see small glimpses of this
promise coming true, in all those monumental moments,
when we are suffused with other worldly energy and happiness,
like when we witness first baby steps, or recieve unsolicited kisses
or when we overhear our children tell their friends about Jesus.
Isaiah 40:29-31 says,

He gives power to those who are tired and worn out;
he offers strength to the weak.
Even youths will become exhausted, and young men will give up.
But those who wait on the Lord will find new strength.
They will fly high on wings like eagles. They will run and not grow weary.
They will walk and not faint.

I think we're ready for some high flying and running without being weary.
So stencil it on your kid's favorite sippy cup
or onto the visor in your minivan.
Because this is one promise a tired supergirl can sink her teeth into.

gettin' jiggy with it

Back in the day, Scott and I had the moves.
In junior high, during the height of the Michael Jackson craze,
I mastered the moonwalk. Oh, if I had only had some sparkly socks now.
In college, I prided myself on the roger rabbit.
Come to think of it, it is a very unfortunate dance.
It almost looks like you are performing the Heimlich on yourself,
as you thrust out your chest and pop your knees and elbows forward.
I just demonstrated it for Will...
I think I may have thrown my back out.
All he could do was giggle.
Scott, on the other hand,
took the dance world by storm in parachute pants.
He could tut, he could pop and he did a fine centipede.
My sister-in-law, Cheri, is I think, inspired by our dance skills.
That's why she put together a little video starring us at our disco best.
The pictures she used may not be the most flattering but you can't
deny the skill, the precision, the masterful musicality we possess.
Sometimes, tsgs, we all just need to bust a move.

Disco Love starring Scott and Sue

sidenote:
I just found out that Scott injured himself this afternoon,
tryingto show off with the centipede to the kids in his PE class.....
right around the same time I injured myself
doing the roger rabbit for Will.
It truly is a love match.

dinner magic

Scott and I were only gone for a few days.
But it was magic.
There was magic found in being a couple again,
laughing with friends, having long chats and holding hands.
But mostly it was magic because we were able to sit down
for 5 uninterrupted meals in a row.
6, if you count the Togos sandwiches
we downed in the car on the way to the ministers retreat.
And I did count out the meals, tsgs, because
this is not something that happens in the Aughtmon universe.
Usually, when I call everyone to eat, I am like a cowgirl
trying to rope an entire herd of cattle using an overcooked noodle.
Scott is my partner in this crazy round up.
We start with prayer and the passing of food.
Within seconds there is a cob of newly buttered corn on the floor.
Corn is redistributed. I forget to pour water for everyone.
Scott gets the water. Someone spills their water.
I am up for a towel and down on the floor, wiping the water,
where I find the remains of lunch's pb&j crusts and other niceties.
I get up quickly before I spot anything else disturbing.
Addison hurls his bowl to the floor, giggling.
He wants to see me crawl under the table again.
Luckily, he is strapped into his high chair because
Scott is having great difficulty keeping the older children in their chairs,
as they are like human pop corn,
and every few seconds shoot up out of their seats.
I become the veggie hound.
"When I said eat your corn, I didn't mean lick all the butter off,
and put it back on your plate."
To which the one child says, "I love corn."
And the other says, "I don't care for corn."
Because they know if they say "I don't like corn",
Their mother, who has lovingly made the corn,
will manifest an unholy personality and start saying things like,
"There are children all over the world with no corn whatsoever,
who would love your corn, who have prayed for corn. Eat your corn."
We have the rule that you must try one bite of everything on your plate.
My children have mastered the technique of the teensy-weensy bite.
"Take a bite of your corn."
"I did take a bite."
"I don't see a bite."
"Right here."
"Where?"
"Here...see?"
And there is, when I pull out my electron microscope,
the smallest of grooves on an individual kernel of corn.
"Is that enough? Because I don't care for corn."
And by this time, I am very tired,
and not holding to principles of any kind, and I say,
"Yes, one atom of corn qualifies as a bite in the "official rulebook of bites".
Clear your plate. I am done with you.
I have aged an entire year just trying to get you to eat
some of the most fantastic corn in all of America."
And come to think of it,
I don't know why I am so fired up about the children eating their corn,
when I'm pretty sure none of it actually gets digested.
But that is beside the point.
All of this takes place, before Scott or I actually take a bite of food.
That's just how it goes down.
We usually end the meal with another spill,
a fork in the trash we have to dig for,
and Addison running some kind of food through his hair.
So believe me, when I say, that one meal served to me by someone else,
accompanied by fine coversation and a hot cup of coffee, borders on bliss.
But 6 in row? It's not of this world.
It's magic.

times have changed

I realized this morning,
when I remembered that my lipliner needed to be sharpened,
that I am a different woman than I was 6 years ago.
First of all, I haven't worn lip liner in months
because it is so dull that the sharp shards of wooden pencil
on the sides had been exposed and were gouging at my lips.
And while it did add a bit of color, it was only because it was
actually shearing off the top layer of lip skin.
Not pleasant. So it has lain dormant in my makeup bag.
But I am going on a minister's retreat
with Scott for the next couple of days.
Alone. Can I get an "Amen"?
Scott and I haven't been away together, sans children,
since our 9th anniversarsy, 2 years ago this October.
We went to San Francisco, stayed at the Savoy in the theater district,
ate at a fantastic Indian bistro and went to see Rain by the Cirque d'Eloise.
It was amazing. Just being the two of us again.
We were without children and we began to pick up
that couple relationship.
That relationship that just included me and Scott.
We laughed a lot. We slept in. We drank coffee without interuption.
And that relationship is so very far away in my memory
that it is almost hard to recall.
It is lost amongst the mayhem of life with three children
and the inability to secure a date night for ourselves.
It's a little too sad...so let's not dwell on it.
So I am gearing up for 2 1/2 days without kids in lovely Monterey.
I will be able to sit in sessions and hear things about God
without little people clutching at me and asking "Why?" and "How come?"
We'll be able to chat with friends without making potty runs-
unless we are the ones who need to go potty.
We'll be able to sleep through the night.
That thought alone brings tears of joy to my eyes.
We'll eat leisurely meals and spend the afternoons any way we want.
So I thought it might be nice to wear some lipliner.
And in thinking of lipliner, I realized
I am truly changed from that woman I once was.
I am no longer the woman that existed, before I birthed
unbelievably large children who look exactly like their father
even though I was the one endured months of nausea,
midnight leg cramps and 20 hours of labor per kid.
The woman who wore outfits that matched and made it places on time.
The woman who read books and went on dates every week.
The woman who had the tools of beauty close at hand.
Because six years ago, I would have reached into my makeup bag
and pulled out a sharpener, whisked away the shavings of the dull pencil
and applied a fresh coat to my lips.
I would have had tweezers, nice lipstick
and an eyelash curler at the ready.
Instead this morning, I rummaged through a drawer
filled with toothpaste tops, lotion bottles and cotton balls
looking for anything that slightly resembled makeup.
And then, without any shame, actually, with quite a bit of pride on my part,
I knew just where I could get a sharpener.
Jack's backpack.
Times have changed, tsgs.
Times have changed.

soak it up

I've been introspective this week,
bound up in the house with my stomach flu ridden family.
Scott kept calling me "Typhoid Susie".
He said even though I never got it,
I was the carrier who kept passing it on to everyone else.
Maybe it's true. I hope not.
But either way, it's left me a bit exhausted and emotionally spent.
Being locked up in the house,
I found myself saddled with time for thinking.
Time for looking at myself and how I am doing on this quest
of learning to follow Jesus and be more like him.
And I found, in a way, I am struggling with the same things
I struggled with ten years ago. My longing for control.
It may look at bit different but it's still me,
trying to get life to be the way I think it should be.
I really do want to let God do what he wants to do in my life each day.
But I was extremely irritated with how the flu rearranged my world.
We had plans last week, people. We really did.
My mom was coming to stay.
She lives far away and her visits are like gold.
Precious and to be treasured.
The world stops when Mom and Dad come to visit
because you want to soak up every minute of being together with them.
There were cups of tea, a birthday party and
a tour of Filoli Gardens on the horizon. Oh the joy!
And on Saturday morning, the dreaded flu, took Mom down
and took our plans down with it.
Try as I might, I just could not get that flu under my thumb,
no matter how much Purell I made my family use.
I became a hand sanitizer nazi this week.
And no matter how much I wish I was otherwise,
I get a little cranky and mean when I don't get my way.
And while I know that no one likes to be around a control freak,
that doesn't keep me from being one.
And while I also know that I don't have any control in this life,
that it is all an illusion, I still keep grabbing for it,
trying to reel it in, trying to get God to do things my way.
Most of my prayers these days revolve around
what I would like Him to do for me,
how I think he should arrange the world,
and wondering why, for goodness sakes,
is he taking so long to answer my prayers.
And then I had one of those hurtful thoughts,
that the Holy Spirit likes to squeeze in
between your thoughts of Radio Disney and pepto-bismal,
a question really, of do I really love God or
am I just trying to see what I can get out of Him.
Am I soaking him up, all his goodness and mercy and love, to pass on,
Or am I trying to squeeze him dry,
fit him in my mold and make him answer to me.
And it shook me a bit.
Because looking back on this week of flu,
I think I've been trying to put the squeeze on God.
And you'd think after 36 years, I would realize it doesn't work that way.
And all my lunging for control, has left me a bit on the dry side.
Like an old crusty sponge. I have nothing left to give.
I really can't tell you the last time I actually sat down,
with no agenda, and had a good conversation with God.
I'm so busy trying to get things laid out evenly in my life,
I forget to hang out with God and just soak up who he is.
Or listen for his voice and see if he has a few thoughts
on how I should be living this life he has given me.
I'm thinking I need to spend some time with Jesus.
Because time with him is like gold.
Precious and to be treasured.
I want to be full of his goodness instead of feeling wrung out.
And if I happen to find some of that sweet grace and mercy
and a little forgiveness for trying to rule the world....
I'm gonna soak it up.

here we go again

Here I am, like Rapunzel stuck in her tower, unable to get down.
Okay, I'm not really like Rapunzel because I have a lot less hair,
I live in a one story ranch single family home.
and I've actually been to the store for gatoraid a couple times.
But I feel like Rapunzel.
I am being held hostage by this demon some call influenza,
some call can't-keep-anything-down-for more-than-24-hours.
By the grace of God, I have not yet caught it.
Which, I feel, is nothing short of miraculous.
Thanks for all of your prayers, tsgs!
(new acronym I just created for "tired supergirls"...
this virus is getting to me.)
But sweet Mr. Addison, love bug that he is, is still having issues.
We have a train table with pullout drawers underneath,
that hold thousands of legos. Thousands of legos.
And Addie likes to sit in the drawer and play.
The other night, I heard a frantic cry go up and Jack, call out,
"Mom, Addison pooped in the legos!"
I rush in for clarification, saying,
"You mean Addison pooped, while sitting in the legos,
but all the poop is still in his diaper, right?"
"No," said Jack, pointing to the drawer,"There is POOP IN THE LEGOS."
And for goodness sakes, he was right.
And I say, for goodness sakes,
because it's better to keep the other things I feel like saying to myself.
If you are familiar with legos, you know that the backs of them are open,
tiny little vessels, mini cups, if you will,
perfect for holding small amounts of liquid.
And here I am staring at hundreds of little building blocks
filled with something they should never ever be filled with.
NEVER EVER.
They had to go to lego heaven where they joined their friends,
the potty toothbrushes, from an earlier Addison episode.
Jack was distraught. But he had to learn the hard way.
Mom will clean lots of dirty things but poopy legos, she will not.
The line must be drawn somewhere.
The line I have drawn says, "Say bye-bye to anything that touches poop."
That's just good clean sanitary thinking on my part.
So all of that to say, that today,
just as we are winding down on soda crackers and electrolyte beverages,
Addison loses his breakfast. Literally.
And so we must begin again with the sippy sipping,
the tiny nibbles of banana and the parceling out popsicles
for breakfast, lunch and dinner.
And I have only one thing to say.
For goodness sakes.

Confession #9: I'm addicted to Disney

As the saga of bodily fluids continues on here,
one seeks solace in things that tend to take the mind away
from the situation at hand.
While some in my position may prefer to think on things
that matter...like Jesus or social justice or
pry deep into the inner workings of one's soul,
I tend to veer towards the frivolous...like decorating magazines,
or say, pondering the meaning of Disney songs.
It all started when we were searching for some kid appropriate music
for our little guys in the car and happened upon Radio Disney.
Actually, my love affair with Disney really took off with
the show Even Stevens (Shia LeBoeuf is hilarious) and
with Scott catching me fully enthralled
watching Cheetah Girls 2 on our vacation last year.
When he asked me what I was doing, I answered,
"They're in Spain, Scott, in a singing competition. And they're dancing.
Look at little Raven...all grown up! Who knew she could sing?"
Scott backed away slowly... a little perplexed.... a little scared.
It doesn't matter that I'm in my 30's...this stuff speaks to me.
This summer I've had the chance to enjoy a little Hannah Montanna and
witnessed the tween craze of High School Musical 2.
It must be said....I tried to replicate the "Bet on it"
Zac Efron dance in my sister's living room. It inspired me.
The leaping. The pent up emotion released through running and dance.
At a pivotal part of the movie, Zac says, "Hold Up!"
He realized he was being a jerk and he was going to change that...
you could "Bet on it".
Disney at it's best...back to the Radio Disney.
Listening to KMKY 1310 AM, Scott and I were caught up in a struggle
to understand the words to the Jonas Brothers song "Year 3000".

The chorus says:
I went to the year 3000
Not much has changed but they live under water.
And your great-great-great granddaughter.
Is doing fine. Doing fine.

Scott, with his old school rapping skillz,
was upset by the elementary rhyming of "water" and "granddaughter".
He requires more depth from a rhyme master than that.
I, on the other hand, was more undone by the poor math in the song.
There is no way, even with extreme genetic longevity,
that your great-great-great granddaughter
will be alive 1000 years from now.
Having discussed our problems with the song,
we sat back to enjoy its sugary pop goodness and believe me,
if you happen to hear this song,
(Scott has a link to it and other Disney faves on his blog)
you will be singing it for days, irregardless if you agree with the math.
So. There it is. I love Disney.
Erica just told me that this weekend there is
a High School Musical 2 Dance-A-Long on the Disney Channel.
That means they will be teaching all those sweet moves step by step.
I don't get the Disney channel.
That means it's up to my nieces,
Aly and Claire, to tape it for me and send it to me.
I know they will come through for me.
And when the tape arrives, I will be Dancing-A-Long.
You can "Bet on it".

lock down

We're on lockdown here at the Aughtmon home.
Somehow, somewhere Addison caught the stomach flu.
The wee hours of Saturday morning were spent
cleaning up a defiled crib and holding him as he got sick.
Poor little guy.
But the terror that struck my heart was the terror
that strikes the hearts of every mother of more than one child.
The gripping fear that the stomach flu will be passed on.
And you will spend days on end, dealing with buckets and towels,
passing out popsicles and rationing sips of gatoraid.
We thought we made it.
Saturday - no takers.
Sunday morning - still no sickness.
And then I got cockey -
I thought we had conquered this vile foe with only one child getting sick.
I bragged to friends on the phone. I tempted fate.
I lost.
Because all hell broke loose yesterday afternoon.
Jack and Will both starting throwing up - in tandem.
What kind of devil virus makes two children sick at once?
Jack very quietly announced he'd been sick.
Will threw back his head and howled.
I think he takes after his mother.
Thank God, we have two bathrooms
and that it took place in the afternoon...
one night lost to stomach flu is enough.
And now Scott is down for the count.
We are officially quarantined.
No one can come in....no one can leave. Lockdown is never pretty.
We are clawing at walls, hoping for the endless potty runs to end soon
and nibbling at saltines.
The popsicles were running low
so Brett, Jenny and Mom came to drop off rations.
We waved at each other from the two ends of the driveway.
I grabbed a quick shower and am taking time to send out an SOS.
To all you tired supergirls out there....send up some prayers on our behalf.
While I do believe that families should stick together,
I would prefer to not join this party.
I am eating gingerly, carefully,
wondering if my number will be called next.
I am a little hungry but I'm putting the kybosh on a big dinner.
It seems with this flu, the more you eat, the more that revisits you.
I'm praying Jesus lets this one pass me by.
But I'm sticking to saltines and fresca...just in case.