Mine

I never liked babysitting. 

I hated when people would ask me to babysit. They just assumed that all fourteen year old girls love little kids and babies, and I was too nice to tell them no.

I hated it though. Every minute of it. 

I hated the whiny voices and the messy meals. I hated how all the toys in the house were always sticky and dirty. I wasn't comfortable holding babies. They were so wiggly, and their heads bobbed around unnaturally, and I just knew that I would break them. And when they cried? It was all over. 

I think the little ones could smell my fear.

I didn't want to play with the kids; the idea of hide-and-seek or pretend play was so dull to me. I would simply plug them in front of a movie and then write notes to my friends that I would give to them the next day at school, (sadly for me, there was no texting or Facebook when I was a teenager).

Yeah, I was pretty much an awesome babysitter.

I have just never been crazy about other peoples' kids. 

I didn't melt over their photos, or want to hold their babies. I just had no interest in them, and yet, I always knew I wanted my own kids. I knew that all I wanted in life was to be a stay-at-home mom. And I wanted lots of kids.

When I got pregnant with Jacob, I wasn't scared to be a mom. I was ready. I was excited to have my own baby. I remember when I had my first ultrasound done at 10 weeks, and the doctor printed off the pictures and gave them to me, I had never felt so proud in my whole life. That's my baby, my very own baby, and look at how perfect she is! (I assumed Jacob was going to be a girl until we found out otherwise). 

Nevertheless, when I was leaving the doctor's office and went back out to the waiting room I had to bite my tongue because all I wanted to do was shove my ultrasound pictures in the face of the waiting room attendant and tell her all about how awesome and perfect my baby was.

When I was in labor with Jacob, I remember being in horrible pain, it was the worst I had ever felt in my life. I had my eyes squeezed shut and was just trying to get the process over with. All the sudden my mom said, "Oh my gosh, Kellyn, look!"

I opened my eyes, and Jacob was out, and they were holding him up in front of me and oh my God. 

All that pain instantly went away; I had never seen a more perfect, beautiful sight in my whole life. It was amazing. I just fell in love.

And then they put him in my arms and I melted into him, and it was perfect. It was like he'd always been in my life, and I was so comfortable holding him and caring for him.

While Ryan's birth was a little more complicated because of his prematurity, the same thing happened. It was like he had always been a part of our family and even though I worried over his skinny limbs, I wasn't afraid to hold him or love him.

Now my sons seem so big in my eyes and they make me laugh every day. I love getting on the floor and playing with them and tickling them. I love making them meals that they enjoy. 

I love how Jacob's finger nails are always dirty, and how Ryan always seems to have grape jelly in his hair. I think they are adorable when they have little runny noses, and when they get grass stains on their clothes from playing outside.

I'm so different with my own children, versus the teenage Kellyn who used to babysit. Becoming a parent is truly unlike anything else in this world. There is a bond that no one can replicate. 

When I used to babysit, I would watch the clock and pray the hours would go by fast so I could go home and get away from those loud, messy kids. 

Now I pray that God will make the days go just a little bit slower, and keep my babies from growing up too fast.

Flash Back Friday - Like Father Like Sons

My friend Chris very kindly pointed out to me that I have been neglecting to do my "Flash Back Friday" segments. 

I admit, it's been harder to do than I originally thought. I had planned to put a lot of old diary entries, and college papers on here. But, as it turns out, most of those college papers aren't very interesting to read, and as for the diary entries - let's just say I won't torture all of you with the musings of a dramatic 15 year old girl.

But I think it's fine for me to put pictures on here, which leads me to this week's theme.

When Richard gets home from deployment I am planning to blow up photos of the boys, and put giant words on them that say things like "Welcome Home Daddy!" and, "We Missed You!", etc. Then we're going to place the welcome home signs along our street leading up to the house.

I took these pictures of the boys yesterday evening, wearing miniature Sailor uniforms. These are the photos I plan to use to make the signs:

Jacob in his Sailor uniform

My kids are so patriotic

After I uploaded the pictures to my computer though, I was instantly reminded of a similar one taken a couple decades ago...

Richard, wearing a similar uniform. Awww!

 

 It's funny though, because I have always thought that Ryan most resembles Richard, but when comparing the photos I took of the boys, to this one of Richard, I kind of think that Jacob looks more like him, at least at that age. 

I really see the similarities in this photo in particular:

Happy Flash Back Friday!

I am Never Washing My Sheets Again

I was reading a friend's blog the other day and he had written about how his wife was teaching him to wash their bed sheets every 1 to 2 weeks.

It got me wondering when the last time was that I washed mine. I think it was in August. I'm pretty sure.

I didn't even know you were supposed to wash your bed sheets on a semi-regular basis until I was in my early twenties.

Before that, I thought it was a good thing for your sheets to mold to your body's shape and to take on your odor, after months and months of you sleeping in them.

I have made an effort to be more on top of it, but sometimes I forget. Plus, since I'm the only one sleeping in our bed at the moment, I obviously feel like our bed is only half as dirty as it would be if Richard were here.

When he is home, I swear, every. time. I wash the sheets, he comes home from a long day at work and the FIRST thing he does is lay down on the freshly cleaned bed, while wearing his filthy combat boots.

I always bite my tongue because I know he gets nagged at all day by people at work, and he shouldn't get it from his wife too, the minute he walks in the door. 

But believe me, in my head, I am totally screaming.

So anyway. Yesterday I got inspired to clean the bed sheets. I opened our bedroom window to let in some fresh air, ripped off the pillow cases and sheets and threw them all in the laundry.

At that point I was feeling so motivated that I went through my closet, pulling out old clothes or ones that I never wear. I packed up two huge garbage bags full of clothes to give away.

The rest of the day we were busy: I took the boys for a car ride, then we went to the park, then it was time for dinner, and soon after, bedtime. That's when I settled on the couch to watch TV, most importantly, my very favorite show, "Modern Family", which premiered last night.

Afterward I suffered through the premier of "Cougar Town", which I personally think is the most mindless, boring piece of trash on TV - BUT - Jennifer Aniston was guest-starring and I wanted to see her and Courtney Cox together again, hoping against all odds that it would be reminiscent of "Friends".

I was horribly disappointed.

Just as that show ended, Ryan started to cry. I waited a couple minutes, to see if he'd get himself back to sleep but he didn't. 

I got him out of his crib but he wouldn't stop crying, it was a horribly pained sob. I've never heard him cry like that before. And the worst part was that I couldn't get him to calm down for at least 20 minutes, which is so unlike Ryan. It scared me. 

So I decided to keep Ryan out on the couch with me so I could observe him. He finally calmed down and closed his eyes for a bit. I thought he was asleep for good.

At midnight he woke up screaming again. Even though I did get him calmed down and into his crib after this, we went through this cycle the entire night. Ryan would fall asleep, then wake up suddenly screaming.

After I got him quieted down shortly before 1am, I was just out of it and exhausted. I stumbled to my bedroom, craving my nice, comfy bed and soft sheets...oh but wait.

My sheets were still in the washer, soaking wet from hours ago. 

And there were two huge garbage bags full of clothes sitting on my bare mattress. 

And my room was freezing since I had left the damn window open. 

So I ended up having to sleep on the couch. All because I decided to do some laundry.

I am never washing my sheets again.

Mama in the Moon: International Sensation

So one cool thing about this blogging site, is that I can see where in the world my readers (you know, all six of them), live. Obviously, the majority are in the U.S. (hi, Mom). But since I started this blog, I have had readers from The Netherlands, Denmark, the U.K., Germany, Belgium, South Africa, Russia, Honduras, Italy and Canada. So to all of you I want to hi! Thanks for reading this little blog here. 

Who knew I would one day become an international sensation, right?

I mean, my parents must be so excited to get this news. Before, when talking about their kids they were probably like, "Our son is so brilliant! He is a commercial pilot and he flies all over the country, and do you know how smart you have to be to get a job like that? He is just our pride and joy. Oh, and we have a daughter. She stays at home and writes a blob? Or blog? Something that she claims makes use of those very expensive college skills, which we are still paying for."

But NOW:

"Oh we have a son, he flies planes and stuff. But our daughter! Wow, she is an international sensation. She is a published internet writer! People all around the world read her blog, and she is the funniest! We are so proud of her. Seriously, she is like right up there with all those A-List celebrities, like, everyone knows her name".

You're welcome, mom and dad.

Anyhow, so I just wanted to give a shout-out to my international community! Say hello sometime, I would love to hear what's going on in your part of the planet. 

Even you, Canada.

I See London, I See France...I See Girly Underpants

Last week I wrote about how I've been having problems with Jacob taking his diaper off. He even knows how to unhook a diaper and pull it off through the leg holes of a onesie. So I decided to try to outsmart him by putting him in a Pull-Ups diaper, since those don't unhook. The only problem is that Pull-Ups aren't designed to be peed in for 8 hours, so I had to search for Nighttime Pull-Ups. I was so excited when I found them in the diaper section at Target. I bought them and took them straight home.

They have been working pretty well, except that I recently noticed a small problem.

The Pull-Ups are Disney Princess-themed.

It wasn't until like the fourth time that I was putting one on Jacob that I actually stopped and looked at the cartoon printed on the front of the diaper. 

Yeah, I'm super observant.

I'd be that parent that buys their child a toy that is supposed to "I love you!" but instead, we get the defective one that says "I'm gonna kill you!" and I wouldn't even realize it until five years later when we're selling it at a garage sale, and some other parent, who is far more observant, points it out.

That's me.

So now I have a pack of Sleeping Beauty Pull-Up diapers that are half gone at this point, so I obviously can't return them now, and I'm certainly not going to throw them away when I paid $15 American dollars for them. I just distract the boys when I change them, so that they don't notice the pretty princess on their underpants, (to avoid causing them any sort of confusion about their masculinity). And I try to use the diapers as often as possible so that all the evidence will be gone by the time Richard gets home, because I have a feeling that my military husband would NOT be okay with his sons wearing these:

Seriously! How did I NOT notice??

_ _

So yesterday was a very lazy day for me. The boys and I are still shaking off the last bit of this cold we've had all week, and I had no energy whatsoever. 

Around 4pm I turned on the TV and saw the a Law and Order: SVU marathon was on. This basically meant that aside from feeding my kids dinner and putting them to bed a couple hours later, my butt was glued to the couch until 11pm when the marathon ended.

As I was laying in bed a short time later, I was feeling pretty down, just thinking about how I did squat yesterday. Then I started thinking about how Richard is coming home soon and that I just don't feel like I have really rocked it in the self-improvement category during this deployment.

That's when I got an idea.

Richard will be home in _ _ days. (Sorry internet folk, can't share the actual number with you. Loose lips sink ships, ya know?). So I was thinking that _ _ days is not long at all, and I have committed myself to eat completely healthy every day for those next _ _ days. 

I admit, my self-control with food is shaky, at best. I usually give in to the ebb and flow of my emotions, boredom, or PMS. But I am determined to be strong and in control from here on out for the next _ _ days, because it sounds totally doable to me. And I am putting this out there so you all can hold me accountable.

Also, I plan to work out every day for the next _ _ days. Whether it's walking, or doing a workout video, I will get my heart rate up.

I am realistic here, and I know I won't be my dream size at the end of _ _ days, but once I finish this, I know I will feel accomplished, and like I did improve myself while Richard was away. He will come home to a wife that is confident, healthy and happy, and that is the hottest thing I could possibly wear anyway. 

Or maybe that's just what us non-skinny people say. 

In any case.

I am excited and feeling totally pumped up about this challenge to myself. I hope you all will encourage me! And if anyone feels like joining me that is great too.

After all, it's only _ _ days, you can totally do it!

I Drink the Same Water Jesus Drank

So for the last four weeks, my kitchen sink has been broken. 

The pipe underneath had become detached, and leaked water EVERYWHERE unless I had something to catch it. I had to put my largest cooking pot down there (I think we all know I never actually use those to cook stuff). Normally that pot was more than enough, but when I would run my dishwasher, it was a whole new ballgame. I would have to empty it at least four times throughout the washing cycle, and it still always ended up flooding my kitchen.

It was SUCH a headache. 

It probably would have been fixed last month, when it first started, but I had mentioned it to my landlord really fast the day I was leaving for Tennessee, and he told me he didn't have the tools for it then. So, rather than manning up and calling him as soon as I got home, I just ignored the problem. Well, as much as I could. It was hard though, because it really changed the way I live.

I already mentioned how I had to practically babysit the pipe every time I ran the dishwasher. And because the water would come out so fast and inevitably flood the kitchen floor every couple days, I would have to use all of my bath towels to mop up the huge mess. This meant that since there were no towels left, I had to go without showering. 

I'm kidding. I only did that like twice.

Also, and please nobody send me hate mail over this, but I tend to waste water. I know, I KNOW! That's so not PC, and I am supposed to care about saving the earth and blah blah. But ya know what? I watched a video in second grade that said there is JUST as much water today as when Jesus walked the earth, and when Abraham Lincoln was around. So I choose to believe that video, and tell all of you to just chill on the whole "wasting water" thing. 

Anyhow. So, like I was saying. For instance, when I brush my teeth, I leave the faucet running the whole time that I am brushing. Richard always turns it off, but that just drives me crazy, because I know that in two seconds I will just need to turn it back on. Sheesh.

And when I am rinsing dishes in the sink I just let the faucet run continuously. And I like to wash my hands in the kitchen sink, since the only place I typically handle eggs or raw meat is in the kitchen. Like, 97% percent of the time.

But since the pipe started leaking, I really had to rein in my water-wasting ways. I had to start washing my hands in the laundry room sink, and I would only turn on the kitchen sink if absolutely necessary.

I was getting really tired of never having any clean towels though, and having to live like people did a hundred years ago, before they had running water. So I broke down and called my landlord. I get really intimidated by people in authority positions though, and I was kind of nervous that he would get mad at me for not calling him sooner, (never mind the fact that he is a nice guy and has never once gotten mad at me, that is completely irrelevant to my fear). So when I called him, I tried to play it all cool.

"Uhm, hi Mike, this is Kellyn. Uhm, I just wanted to let you know that I'm still having some trouble my kitchen sink. It's totally NOT a big deal though, so if you can't make it out here till sometime in 2012 that is fine, we're really flexible, cause like I said it's not a big deal and I am fine with waiting, that's why I didn't contact you at any point in the last four weeks, that's how fine we are. So to wrap this up, everything is great and I'm sorry I bothered you, talk to you later."

I'm awesome at confrontation.

Anyways, so you can imagine my relief now that everything is fixed up. This morning I let the kitchen sink run water for like 10 whole seconds. 

Just for the heck of it.

I Probably Belong on Some TLC Show

I am not an organized person. I hate cleaning and organizing. Labeling is definitely not in my vocabulary. I let things pile up until my mom comes to visit and kindly suggests that we have a cleaning day, because she "loves" doing it, but really I think she just doesn't want her grandchildren living with a disgusting hoarder of a mother.

The other day I decided to finally organize and put away that stack of photos that had been accumulating since last winter. I got photo boxes, one for Binker's pictures, one for Bug's pictures, and one for various family pictures, (basically my catch-all). And of course, I had to write on the back of each photo, which took an eternity! The whole time I was cursing it, as my handwriting got worse and worse. But I know that in 15 years, my boys will be looking through their pictures and they will want to know where and when every single one was taken, and I won't remember then. And it will matter! 

When I went to put the photo boxes away in the cabinets though, I realized an even bigger problem.

As I was going through my cupboards I saw, well, basically a bunch of crap. 

I have a Dip Master Pot. For, you know, all of those dinner parties I am always throwing. And I have a ton of casserole dishes, even though I wouldn't know the first thing about making a casserole, and I'm pretty sure the one time I announced I was going to look up a recipe and make one, Richard made a face and said he hates casseroles. 

I also have this antique glass, that kind of looks like a milkshake glass with a lid, that an elderly woman from church passed down to me when we got married. I was super touched that she chose to give it to me, but now I'm all, what the heck do I do with this? I'm not even sure what it's for, and if I give it away that's got to be a huge sin since this nice old woman gave it to me in a church.

Then there are the 80 bajillion books I have crammed into the cabinet that I am currently trying to sell on Amazon for like a nickel a piece (but with $3.99 shipping I make a small profit, it's simple math). Only, those books have been for sale for months and they haven't budged. 

People, all of these crazy dishes and books are overtaking our alcohol cabinet, and that is just unacceptable.

But with my cabinets so full, surely my counter tops must be spotless, you say?

Oh, but you would be wrong. We have a lovely marble-top bar, which you cannot see whatsoever, due the stacks of receipts, insurance documents, check books, and some old, unused 'Happy Birthday' napkins from one of the boys' birthdays this past spring. 

This is all sharing counter space with my computer, our printer, 10 photo frames, (because it's the only place the kids can't reach reach them and turn them into frisbees), about five DVD's, some sparklers I got at a wedding three months ago, our dust buster (which also needs to be kept out of the reach of our children), my "In Case of Emergency" cheat sheet for Husband in case I die so that he will know how to access our bank accounts, our radio, Husband's medals, and a vase with my dried wedding flowers. 

I know, I know. Why did I keep my dried wedding flowers? Well, my Grandma has this shell that she found on the beach on her wedding day in 1942, and I love that she has kept it all these years, and I thought it would be neat for me to save my wedding flowers, so my own grandchildren can wonder at them someday too. But for now I just have a vase with dead flowers that are taking up space. And obviously I can't throw them out now because that would be like blaspheming my marriage. Or something.

Sigh.

So what's a girl to do? Something's gotta give. Or at least get thrown out/given away. But dang if I am not super exhausted from organizing those pictures. Maybe I'll just wait another 10 months or so before I make any rash decisions.

Teen Mom

I'm getting older. I'm not sure when it happened.

The last thing I knew I was only 23, with years and years separating me from the dreaded big 3-0.

Now I am 26 and getting closer to 27 with each day. The years are closing in on me, and I'm not even sure where my mid-twenties went; now I am practically in my late twenties, which is totally depressing. I can't be this old! I still feel like I am only 18.

I see these fine lines appearing under my eyes, and the very beginning of creases in my forehead. MY FOREHEAD! I've never had creases there before. I used to walk right past the wrinkle creams in the drugstore, opting for fun shades of eyeliner and flavored lip gloss. Now I find myself slowing down as I get to mature item section, and wonder if it wouldn't be such a bad idea to start using those anti-aging creams, you know, as a preventative measure?

I'm not even going to tell you how many gray hairs I pluck out on a weekly basis, it's just depressing. 

It's not only my outsides that are aging though. My body can't handle salt anymore. In high school I could drink endless amounts of soda, and eat an entire box of Cheez-Its, and the next morning I wouldn't wake up feeling hungover from the salt and sugar. 

Nowadays, if I eat something high in sodium, the next morning my eyes feel like they are glued together, and I am certain that some invisible force must have slipped a mickey in my nightly tea (and OMG when did I start drinking nightly tea??). 

Oh, and I also have to take off my wedding ring because too much salt apparently makes my fingers grow to twice their normal size.

I can't believe my 40th birthday is only about 13 and half years away. I mean, that is seriously not long at all before I will be middle-aged. When did this happen??

There is another side to this though.

Not everyone thinks I look old, and no, I'm not just talking about my mom.

Last winter I was selling my lovely driftwood art at a local retail center. Every time I would go there to restock my items or check on sales, I would have a quick chat with the manager. I would tell her about my husband and our two sons, and blah blah blah, small talk. Well, around December, my mom went into the store one day to buy some of my driftwood, (I found out later she was the only reason I made any money). 

The manager (who didn't know who my mom was), started a conversation with her and was talking up my driftwood. She said, "Oh, it's lovely handmade art from a local stay-at-home mom. She's so nice, she's got two little boys. She's only 20 years old".

20?? Wow. Thanks...I guess. I don't think I want to be a 20 year old with two kids though. That's a little too teen mom-ish for my taste. When I was 20 the last thing on my mind was having kids. I was mainly concerned with finishing yet another 15-page essay and is Jessica's brother going to buy us some Smirnoff Ice for this weekend?

Then I went to that writer's conference last month, and I was talking with a fellow participant on the first night. I mentioned that I have two kids, and her eyes got really big and she said, "Whoa! Wait a second - can I ask...how old are you?"

When I told her I was 26 she said she thought I was still in college!

So when I am looking in the mirror after a tiring day of chasing around my two beautiful boys, and I can't help but scrutinize this face of mine, I will try to tell myself that it's okay, because strangers apparently think I'm a super young, skanky teen mom. 

And that sure beats getting older.

Diaper Dilemma

I wrote a couple months ago about a very horrible incident I dealt with regarding Jacob and a diaper he removed during naptime. It was not fun. 

Unfortunately, things only seem to be getting worse. Jacob's aversion to diapers is growing, but, I just don't think he is quite ready to be potty trained. I don't feel like torturing him with the potty when he is unprepared, and doesn't understand, and dumping loads of frustration and tears upon both of us. I just don't want to go there. 

I don't mind waiting until he is closer to three years old, I really don't. I have visions of potty training taking just a couple days at that point, when he will fully understand and be more than willing to leave diapers behind forever. I know he is not to that point yet, and I don't see any need to force it.

And yet.

He HATES diapers. He will go to unbelievable lengths to take them off. And just when I think I have outsmarted my two year old, he goes and one-ups me.

Take last night for instance, I put him in a onesie when he went to bed, because regular pajamas - the sleeper kind, that zip up the front - don't work. He simply unzips them, and in two shakes he is naked as the day he was born. 

So I put him in a onesie, knowing that he doesn't know how to unbutton them. And what did I find this morning? Jacob, still in his onesie, still fully buttoned. But, my Houdini-esque child had somehow gotten his hands inside the onesie, undid the diaper and took it off through his shirt. Like how a woman would take her bra off. And I didn't learn to do that until I was like 20, so this kid has some serious skills.

Annoying as they may be.

Then after nap time today I went into his room, only to find him buck naked, he had taken off his pants, sweater and diaper, and was standing there saying "All clean!"

Obviously he doesn't care for them, and I am not so fond of this situation myself, but I honestly don't know where to go from here. I looked up suggestions on the internet of what other people have done. Some suggested actually duct-taping the diaper, and someone else recommended putting a t-shirt over the sleeper pajamas, so he can't undo the zipper. 

I guess I will try both of those, but if anyone of you out there have another suggestion that I haven't tried - PLEASE share. I am getting desperate.

Fear

I was nine years old when I saw the movie "It". The scariest freaking movie ever, about a clown that lives in the sewer and kidnaps children and then eats them or something terrible like that.

It is especially frightening when you are only nine years old and possess a very active imagination. For three months afterward I slept on my parent's bedroom floor. I remember keeping my mom up late every night because I was afraid to close my eyes, and about six weeks into this routine she told me emphatically that I was never allowed to watch another scary movie again in my life.

At 26, I am scared of obvious things like spiders and snakes and serial killers, but to this day I still hate clowns. I am pretty certain I will never get over that fear. I have watched dozens of other horror films though, (shhh, don't tell my mom!), but none of them have had nearly the same effect on me as "It". It's interesting, the things that frighten us, and the things that don't.

This past week while we were in California, we pulled out some toys for my kids to play with in my Grandparent's front yard. Ryan loves balls, he can usually be found carrying around one in each hand and saying "Ball!" over and over and over again. My Grandma brought out three balls for him to play with, a large purple one, a green one and a soccer ball. 

For whatever reason, as soon as Ryan saw that soccer ball, he decided he DID. NOT. LIKE. IT. We kept trying to show it to him, to convince him that there was no reason to be afraid of the soccer ball, but he wasn't having it. In fact, he was so scared of it, that we ended up placing it down a walkway that we didn't want him wandering down, because as soon as he saw the ball, he started running in the opposite direction. The soccer ball worked better than any toddler gate!

Well, it was just too quirky of a fear to not have a little fun with. And we totally got it on video:

Epilogue: I am proud to say that my brave little boy ended up conquering his fear. By the end of the trip he was carrying around the soccer ball like they were best buds. Now if only I could be that brave about clowns.

Nah, I don't think so.

Worst Flight Ever

The wings were iced over. 

The ground crew kept deicing them, but within a couples minutes they were iced over again. We were nearly 45 minutes late taking off because of this continual deicing process. 

My worst flight ever.

It was December 2003, in Billings, Montana. My brother and I were on board a Horizon flight, all packed and set to go home for the Christmas holiday, except that it was five degrees outside, snowing, getting dark, and those freaking wings wouldn't stop icing over.

My brother Tim is a commercial pilot, (I know, cool huh? Sorry girls, he's married). But in the winter of 2003, he was still going to school for aeronautical science. He had been flying for several years at that point though, so I liked flying with him. Whenever I would get nervous about a bit of turbulence, or a strange sound, I would just look at him, and if he appeared relaxed and unconcerned, then I knew there wasn't any reason to be worried. 

The fact that we were delayed getting off the ground due to bad weather and ice didn't seem to bother Tim, so I tried to not let it bother me. I was so thankful when we finally took off and got above the clouds. I figured we were good to go for the next hour and a half to Seattle. It was a small plane, and Tim and I were seated in the very front row. The flight attendant was preparing to start the beverage service. He stood only a couple feet away from us, getting his cart ready.

All of the sudden, we heard a pop and then an alarm started screeching. Loud. Piercing. Terrifying. The flight attendant's face froze and he ran - RAN - to his seat at the back of the plane. He had abandoned us! I looked at Tim - my last resort - for comfort. He looked at me, serious as I'd ever seen him, and said, "Tighten your seatbelt. It can't hurt."

OMG! OMG! OMG! We're all going to crash and die!

That alarm went on for what seemed like an eternity, although it was probably less than two minutes. No joke, folks, it sounded like the roof of the plane was going to rip off, sucking us all out into the frigid air with it. My heart was racing and I was saying as many prayers as I could. 

Finally the captain came on and gave some explanation, that, honestly, I didn't even hear because I was still too frightened. In the end though, we landed safely in Seattle. But that was my worst flight ever.

When you have kids, the things that used to scare you about going on airplanes kind of shifts. As I mentioned a couple weeks ago, I still worry about the plane crashing. But when I travel with my kids, my thoughts are usually occupied with worrying about whether or not they will behave on the flight, and hoping that they don't make a terrible scene.

I've had some pretty interesting flights since becoming a mom. In fact, it started before Jacob was even born. 

Richard was taking me to Virginia to see where his parents live. We were on a red-eye flight. I was about 10 weeks pregnant with Jacob, and while I hadn't dealt with any real morning sickness, I had bouts with nausea every now and then.

Everything was going fine, to begin with. Richard was sitting at the window, I was in the middle, and a man, who I did not know, was in the aisle seat. About an hour into the flight, I started feeling notsogood. I was afraid to tell Richard, because I didn't want him to freak out, so I tried to convince my stomach to chill, and to understand that it was seriously not a convenient time.

It didn't work. 

Richard looked over at me at one point, and said, "You look kind of pale. Are you feeling okay?" 

Right then, my nausea kicked into overdrive. I knew we had a problem! I shook my head no, afraid to open my mouth to speak. Richard started searching desperately in the seat back pockets for barf bags, and OF COURSE, we were the only two seats on the entire plane that didn't have them. 

Uh oh. 

Vomit was coming up my throat, I slapped my hand over my mouth, in an attempt to keep it down. Richard looked terrified, thinking I was about to puke all over him. I knew I couldn't wait for him to ask someone if we could borrow their barf bag, so I literally jumped over the stranger next to me, and raced like 13 rows up to the front bathroom. I just barely made it. I didn't even have a chance to shut the door behind me before I was throwing up.

So that was a bad flight.

Then we had a nice break for awhile. Jacob was a really easy baby. Before he was six months old he flew to Hawaii, California and Virginia, and he did great on all those flights. After that we didn't do any flying for awhile. 

Last December we flew to Illinois to spend Christmas with Richard's parents and extended family. At that point, Jacob was 20 months old, and Ryan was 9 months. I had Jacob in my lap, and Richard had Ryan in his. Because of airplane rules we weren't allowed to sit in the same row, so Richard and Ryan were seated about three rows behind us. I knew Richard was nervous, since that was his first time flying with both the kids.

Not even five minutes into the flight, Ryan barfed all over Richard's shirt. Since I was so far ahead of them, and in a window seat, there was nothing I could do to help, so he sat there for the next three hours with a whimpering Ryan, and dried puke on his sweater.

Jacob didn't throw up on me, but I think I might have preferred that. He spent the entire three hours screaming and kicking at me and thrashing his arms. It was exhausting to say the least, and only slightly embarrassing.

The minute we landed in Chicago and the four of us were reunited, Richard looked me straight in the eye and said, "We're not having any. more. kids. And we're never flying with them again!"

That was our last trip with them. It's been almost nine months, and today we are heading to California to visit my mom's family. I keep telling myself that it's not even a three hour flight, and that this will be Jacob's first time in his car seat on the plane. He normally loves being in his car seat, so I am keeping my fingers crossed that we don't wind up being that family that the rest of our fellow passengers shoot dirty looks at, and then recant to their family and friends for years afterward of their "Worst flight ever".

Please tell me about your worst flight ever, so that hopefully, whatever ends up happening today, won't be as bad as the stories you share. 

And if they aren't worse than today's flight, then I guess I will just have to update this post on my worst flight ever.

I've Never Told this Story to Anyone Before

In Washington, as in most states, you have to complete a driver's ed program before getting your license. Like any other teenager, I longed to get my permit and eventually my driver's license. As soon as I turned 15 my parents enrolled me in Defensive Driving School.

The classes themselves were pretty typical of what you would expect. Once a week though, each of us students would have to go for a practical driving lesson in the student car with the driving instructor, James.

James. The devil. 

When I think of that man I get a pit in my stomach. He was a horrible, mean human being and the very last place he belonged was in a car with two or three terrified 15 year olds who were learning how to navigate a vehicle on the road. 

James was impatient and harsh, and he spoke without a filter. He never had a positive or uplifting remark to give. He was notorious for making students cry; I witnessed it several times, myself. Girls, boys - it didn't matter. He could reduce anyone to tears as they sat behind the wheel, feeling ignorant and stupid. 

I was not immune to his antics, he made me cry many times. To put it simply, I was scared to death of him. The only thing that made those driving trips bearable was the fact that there was always at least one other student in the car, and that other kid and I could exchange sympathetic glances in the rearview mirror.

It's because I had come to rely on having an ally on those trips, that I was horrified the day I showed up for a driving lesson, to find that the other student had canceled. This meant that instead of only having to drive for half an hour, James and I would be driving alone for one whole hour. 

Just us two. 

I envisioned him screaming and insulting me for 60 agonizing minutes, and my mom coming to pick me up afterward and James telling her I was an incompetent driver and a lost cause. I was certain that I would never get my driver's license because of him. 

I didn't know how I would survive that next hour.

As we drove around, I noticed that James seemed somewhat calmer that day. He didn't immediately begin berating me or telling me how horrible of a driver I was. I remained tense though, waiting for an sudden outburst or for him to go off on me at any moment.

About halfway through our hour o' torture, we came to a red light in the left turn lane, so I brought the car to a stop. It was late spring and I was wearing shorts. 

James glanced down at the pedals, and all of the sudden he said:

"Your ankles...remind me of my grandmother's".

Uhm, what the....?

And then. He started. To cry.

Like, full on sobbing in the passenger seat.

I was sitting there thinking, what the hell is happening?

I was torn between my shock that I was witnessing a grown man cry, and the fact that I was completely insulted that he would compare my 15 year old ankles to his grandmother's. 

I didn't even know what that meant. 

Or why he was still crying. 

And OMG what is going on?!

We drove around in awkward silence until that hour finally ended. I was never so happy to see my mom. I would have rather had James yell at me for the whole hour; at least I would have expected that. I was so confused by what had transpired though, and slightly embarrassed, that I couldn't bring myself to tell other people this story. I was worried that whoever I told might agree with James, that I had old lady ankles.

James never acknowledged his crying spell, or explained how my ankles reminded him of his grandmother, or freaking apologized for his psychotic episode!

On my last day driving with him, as he wrote out the final numbers on my score card he said, "Well, you're going to kill yourself or someone else. But you pass."

Okay, Crazy. I had passed! Freaking passed. And I never had to see his stupid face again.

I still have issues with my ankles though. Every time I look at them, I wonder if they really do resemble the ankles of some old woman. I hate that James is still messing with my head 11 years later.

And now you totally want to see my ankles. Admit it.

I'm so glad we can share like this.

The Evolution of a Straight-Laced Girl

I hate getting in trouble. 

When I started school, I was terrified of having my teachers get mad at me or (Gasp!) send me to the principal's office. I'm pretty sure I would have straight up died from the fear of having to face the principal, I was so scared of punishment. Because of this, I was pretty much the best student a teacher could hope for. I never talked when the teacher was speaking, and I sat at my desk looking ahead to the blackboard with my hands folded neatly in my lap. 

Breaking the rules never even entered my mind.

In second grade, I was heartbroken when my teacher, whom I really liked, yelled at me for sitting on my desk. I took it personally. Oh, and I almost puked at the reality of actually being yelled at. I was such a naive kid that when a classmate in third grade offered me ABC gum, which stood for Already-Been-Chewed, (although I didn't know that at the time), I quietly whispered, "I'll take some after class", because, you know, we couldn't chew gum in class. 

The kid looked at me like I was a nut case.

In fourth grade we had the "Card System", where everyone started with a green card for the day, and if you misbehaved once you would get a yellow card, as a warning. If you acted out again, you would receive a red card, which either got you detention, a visit with the principal, or some other horrible, life-ending result.

One day I was talking with a friend, and didn't hear the teacher calling the class back to order, and I guess she thought I was ignoring her, so she gave me a yellow card. I turned beat red, and had to contain myself from completely breaking down into a puddle of sobs. A yellow card?? I felt destroyed.

Thankfully I learned to loosen up over the next few years. I was still a quiet, well-behaved kid, but I didn't have a freaking heart attack every time a teacher looked at me the wrong way. 

By my senior year in high school, I was pretty much tired of school. Well, I was tired of high school, that is. Tired of the cliques, the drama, the immaturity of it all. I began taking college classes and only had to show up to high school for the last period every day. One day I got to school and saw that the last period was cancelled because the school was having a mandatory pep assembly. 

When I started high school I was all about pep assemblies - I would deck myself out, head to foot, in blue and white, our school colors. I would put ribbons in my hair and paint my nails and face. I would write "GO MAVERICKS" on my jeans and cheer as loud as I could at the assemblies. I was a glittery mess of school spirit. After three years of that though, I was pretty worn out and just didn't have it in me anymore. 

I was dreading going to the assembly when my friend Sara approached me and suggested we just skip out. 

Skip out? As in, ditch school? At first I was horrified by the idea. Only bad kids skipped school. But then I got to thinking. At that time I was in the, I'm 18 years old, I'm an adult, I can do whatever I want, stage of my life, (the one that parents just love, I'm sure). So I decided, what the heck. And we left. 

And it was THRILLING! As we sped out of the school parking lot, hoping the security guard didn't see us, and that no one would miss us, I couldn't help but wonder why I had never taken any chances before? Why had I lived my entire school career being so straight-laced, so by-the-book? 

That day changed me. From then on out I took a much more relaxed view toward school. The two classes I still attended at high school were Yearbook and Drama. When I felt that I had done enough work on the yearbook, I would just quietly slip out, leaving school 20 or 30 minutes early. And if I was in Drama, but I knew that I wasn't going to be asked to rehearse any scenes, I would escape through the back door of the theater which led, conveniently, right into the parking lot and to my car.

By the time I got to college I would sometimes opt for taking a nap rather than going to class. Don't worry, mom and dad, I didn't do that too often. And I only napped through unimportant classes like P.E., and that lame class on sociology that was taught by a drug addict who had mother issues. 

That dude is another story for another day. 

I still managed to graduate college a year early with honors, so I don't think I did any damage to my educational career by taking a few classes off here and there. It's funny for me to look back at the way I was when I started school, where if a teacher would raise their voice to me, I would practically pee myself. By the time I finished school I wasn't looking to be any teacher's pet, I just wanted that shiny degree that promised me a job that paid lots of money. 

So that's my story. And now I'm totally freaking out that my parents are going to yell at me for skipping classes. I hate getting in trouble.

The Name Game

It took Richard and me a long time to agree on a name for Jacob. I, of course, wanted to go through all the name books and consider every single name that is in existence, while Richard wanted me to consider the name David. 

That was his one suggestion. 

It was exhausting; we would talk names every night for months, never agreeing. For the longest time I was set on Benjamin and Richard was stuck on David. We had come to an impass. 

We got to Jacob in a sort of roundabout way. There was one other name Richard was willing to consider: Jack Bauer. But it had to be Jack BAUER. As in, Jack Bauer MacQuarrie. And omigod there was no way any child of mine was going to have that name. 

I did like Jack though, but Richard wasn't willing to separate the Jack and the Bauer, and so while thinking about a variation of Jack, Jacob suddenly came into my head. Neither one of us had thought of it yet, but once we said it, we both knew Jacob was going to be our first child's name. For a couple weeks we had chosen Isaac to be his middle name. Jacob Isaac MacQuarrie, we thought we were done. Then one day Richard's mom called, and suggested that we use Andrew as a middle name. Everything seemed to click then. Andrew is my dad's middle name, and with the initials J.A.M., Jacob would be just like Richard's dad, Jeff.

When it came time to name Ryan, I think Richard was still worn out from thinking of a name for Jacob, so when we found a name we agreed on pretty early in the pregnancy, he settled on it, and would not budge. We named Ryan backwards, in a way. 

Richard had always liked the name Walker, and I did too, but I couldn't picture it as a first name. I kept getting tripped up when I would imagine our future son learning to walk, and I thought I would sound ridiculous saying, "Walker is walking!" So we decided it would be his middle name. At that point, I thought it would be cute for this baby to have the same initials as Richard, since his middle name also starts with a W. We began going over R-names, and we agreed on Ryan. It was only after we chose it, that I realized what a perfect fit it was. Richard and I both have cousins named Ryan, and my Great-Grandma Miller's maiden name was Ryan...But, if I'm being totally honest, about 50% of my reasoning behind agreeing to Ryan, was simply because I thought RyRy was the cutest nickname in the world. I swear, Ryan will be 40 years old and begging me to Please. Stop. Calling. Him. RyRy.

Some people think my boys' names are plain, and, okay, fine. I will give you that. They're not unusual names or names you have never heard before. I suppose we could have named them Rainforest and Tundra or something along those lines, but for me, their names would be lacking. There would be no meaning behind them, other than a desire to be different from what society expects, and honestly, I already went through my rebel-phase back in high school. I didn't feel like condemning my children to a lifetime of mispronunciations, ridicule or strange looks, by giving them crazy names.

I love the names we chose for our sons, and the family connections within those names. I think it's important for them to be reminded of the family members who came before them, and that, not only do they have the MacQuarrie name to honor, but the relatives who inspired their first and middle names as well.

Actually, now I see it typed out, maybe I will keep Tundra in mind for the next kid.

Flash Back Friday - The College Years

Below are two posts from my one of my old blogs in 2003. I was attending college in Montana, but when these posts were written I was in Washington on a short weekend vacation from school.

Friday, October 17, 2003

Greetings from Washington!! Right now I am sitting in my brother's old room back home, just enjoying every relaxing familiar sight and sound. It is great to be here, and not have a thing to worry about. This morning I awoke at 5:45 am and went for a 4 mile walk with my dad in the POURING rain, and it was fabulous!! Oh how I miss the rain of washington.  This trip is bittersweet though...our house, at the moment, is filled with boxes and all of the shelves and drawers are empty, all of the walls are devoid of pictures, even the refrigerator door, normally full of uplifting phrases, and photos, is bare. My parents are moving to Camano Island in 3 weeks, and are preparing in a very organized, yet quick manner.  I get to see the new house tomorrow, and by the sounds of it, it's gonna be awesome. It's really close to the beach, and it has a deck to go sit out on, and look at the water, or the stars. In a few years my parents may even get a hot tub to put out there. I think next summer is gonna be awesome, and hopefully I'll be able to have my friends come stay with me, and we can go swimming every day and just chill out. Anyway, more to come on this trip later...I gtg shower now. Hi to all my get alongs back in Montana ; what's up Tim, we miss you here; and hi to all my fellow Washingtonian friends! This is the best place on earth.  Sunday, October 19, 2003 Well in about half an hour I am going to embark on my way home. Crazy how fast time flies, but it must. I had a good weekend though. I got to hang out with my parents, I stopped by my old work, I checked out how the mall has changed, I hung out with my friends Chester and Tina, I got to eat some teriyaki and Jack in the Box!! (Both rarities in Montana). And I got to say goodbye to this house, so overall, I'd say I had a very good weekend. Oh, did I mention Jay Buhner was on my flight coming here? I can't remember if I did or not, but yeah, he was, and I was only 2 rows behind him!  Anyway, now I have to head back, then drive the 2 hours from Bozeman to Billings....woo woo. And then it will be crackdown on homework time. Booooo But it's all good. Once I get through this stressful week, and my 4 essays (UGH killer), I get to relax, and yeah, it's gonna be all good.  I am happy to be going back. I miss my friends so much. I probably accumulated a phone bill up the ying yang from calling them all weekend, but it's worth it.  It's cool because I remember last year at Gonzaga, everyone told me that when I went home I would miss the school and my friends so much that I wouldn't be able to wait to come back. But that never happened. I never missed anyone or anything, I just wanted to stay at home with my family, and my friends, and my dog, and all of the familiar things of Edmonds. But this year is completely different.  It's always nice to come home and get a break from school, but I can't wait to get back to RMC, and just be silly with my friends, make memories from college, and live life to the fullest. Have a good one all. So Mom and Dad, you ever going to get that hot tub??

While They Were Sleeping...

I remember as a kid, my parents telling me how they would sometimes come check on me at night when I was asleep.

I never understood why.

Did they think I was going to run away? Did they think aliens were going to abduct me (even though they told me aliens didn't exist)? I mean, why did they come into my room? It didn't make any sense to me. I just assumed that primetime TV must have been pretty dull in the 1990's if it was more entertaining for them to simply watch me sleep.

Well, a few years went by, and I eventually became a parent myself. All of the sudden, I developed this fascination with watching my boys sleep. As infants, they were so tiny, and I was terrified that they might stop breathing at any minute, so I really couldn't look away. Then they got a little bigger, and watching my chubby babies as they snoozed in bed at night was just hypnotizing; it was the cutest darn thing I've ever seen. Then they got a little bigger. 

Jacob is nearing two and a half and Ryan will be 18 months on Saturday. They are so busy during the day, running and jumping and climbing and yelling. They are full of such non-stop energy, that when they do finally pass out at the end of the day, in their cute pajamas, with those sweet little faces set in such innocent expressions, I cannot keep myself from checking on them every now and then. 

Yes, I want to make sure all is right in their perfect little worlds, but I love it. I love just watching them in that peaceful state. I talk to them, and tell them how much I love them, and how I want them to have every joy in this life, and never know a moment of pain. And when I know that they are both content, and hopefully dreaming pleasant dreams, I leave them to their sleep.

If I was half as cute as these these two are, then I totally get what my parents were doing now.