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.