1. Navel Gazing           On Sunday, I taught a lesson at church about giving service to others. It went really well---I love teaching in Relief Society (the women's organization of the LDS church). In fact I think my next entry will discuss that lesson. BUT. I thought this was funny. I said something like "our focus should be on others, we shouldn't be sitting around navel gazing" and I got THE strangest looks from several of the women. So I stopped to explain that "navel gazing" means that you sit around and just think about your own existence. Then I felt weird, like I had said something thoroughly strange. First thing I did after church was search an idiom dictionary to verify that navel gazing is, indeed, a thing people say. Maybe just not in Utah?
2. Mom of The Year Award Is In The Mail              So. You know that woman in Target you saw the other day, the one whose toddler would not stop crying? Even with popcorn-and-Sierra-Mist bribes? Yeah, that'd be my child. My child who is in the habit of crumpling to the ground when he no longer wants you to hold his hand, thus effectively hanging by his arm for a few seconds in the parking lot until we could get it all sorted out. My child who managed to dislocate his elbow when he did this. Oh yeah, talk about the Mommy Guilt. The very kindly after-hours pediatrician (because things like this only happen when my regular pediatrician is done for the day, it seems) assured me that it really does happen all the time, and I shouldn't feel guilty, and then he popped the bone back in place, with nary a whimper from Kaleb. Immediately his arm was restored to its rightful use, which is holding his blankie. Still, I keep feeling bad. And it amazes me that after four children, we can still have some "common" medical aliments that are new to us. I mean, we've had stitches-on-the-knee-from-a-misthrown-knife (as Sophia!), we've had every strange virus and rash you can imagine but have never heard of anyone else ever having, we've had trip after trip to the ER for stitches. But the dislocated elbow is a new one.
3. Funny Baby                  Kaleb has started to sing a little bit with me when I'm singing to him. I'll sing along, and at key parts I'll stop and he'll add the words. His favorite song to do this with is "Little April Showers" (the song from Bambi, right at the beginning when it's raining). Last night we were singing a song called "Jesus Once Was  A Little Child." The lyrics in question go like this: "So, little children, let's you and I try to be like him, try, try, try." And here's K's version: "So, little grandmas, let's you and I try to be like him, trike, trike, trike." I continue to giggle the next day!
4. of Eyedrops and Target's Pharmacy (which has officially Lost Me Forever)            You know the signs, right. The red eyes, the sensitivity to sunlight, the lovely feeling of waking up with your eyes glued shut? Yeah. It's been a LONG time since I had an eye infection, but I got one this week. Neither my optometrist nor my regular doctor would phone in a prescription, so I had to actually see the doctor. Prescription in hand, I strolled into Target. Waited a very long half hour with smarting, running eyes. Only to be told that they couldn't fill the meds until 3:00. I can't even tell you how annoyed I was---why did I have to wait a half hour before they could tell me that? Couldn't the pharmacy tech who took the prescription---the new one who is, well, not very kind to put it kindly---have read the prescription and made an educated guess that it would take awhile? Added to the fact that my previous two prescriptions were also messed up and as much as I love Target? I'm SO OVER their pharmacy. (Once I did finally get my eyedrops, though---at 4:00 instead of the 3:00 they promised---I am feeling much less like a cat, which is how an eye infection makes me feel, and more like a human being. One who can actually open her eyes outside. And in the morning.)
5. It's All About Harry                       Yes, maybe I AM raising my children to be slightly obsessed with The Scarred One. Oh well. Over the weekend, they watched Happy Feet and discovered that there's a preview on the DVD for The Order of The Phoenix, coming in July. They remembered to tell me about it this morning and we spent a good fifteen minutes watching that 30-second preview over and over. Once we went frame by frame. Yep, we're all geeks I guess.

During the last two weeks of my pregnancy with Haley, we had a couple of scares...she didn't seem to be growing like she should. So I was relieved when my doctor asked me if I was ready to set a date to be induced. I wanted her here and safe. They wanted to induce me on April 20, but that's my birthday, and I had this gut feeling---this baby would want her own birthday. I talked him into waiting one more day, till April 21. And so Haley was born into a little circle of almost-birthday-twins; my best friend's birthday is on April 19, and Haley's best friend was born on April 20, and she has two other friends with birthdays within two or three days of hers. I was SO right about the not-wanting-to-share thing. Haley is definitely her own girl and I'm grateful every time our birthdays roll around that she was born on her own day.

I can't believe she's twelve. Where did all those little-girl days go? It hit me this weekend that two thirds of her time with us is nearly over. In six short years she'll be getting ready to go to college. And I have found myself seriously pondering both the mistakes I've made and the things I want to do better during those next six years. I don't have much longer to teach her what she needs to really fly when she stretches her wings. Stretches her wings---I can hardly stand the thought of her growing up. I don't have to try hard at all to remember her face when she was just seconds old. Right from the beginning---even when I was pregnant with her---she had her own fierce quality about her, a trait I have taken to calling "Haleyness." Just her, independent and funny and unafraid. Fully herself. Truly a girl who needs her own birthday.

But I am still glad we share the same birthday weekend. If for no other reason, it takes the focus off of my birthday, something I don't really want to think about. But it also makes me think we are more connected in a way...almost like I am watching an alternate version of myself grow up? Tonight she said "I just LOVE birthdays!" and of course I did that old-lady chuckle, the one that annoys adolescents, the one that means "one day you won't," but then I said "I love OUR birthdays, Hay," and maybe she won't understand it for many, many years, until she has her own daughter. But I am so lucky to have her.

This birthday was one when she wasn't supposed to have a friend party---I only do those every other year. But twelve seemed like such an important year that I couldn't just let it slide by, so I let her have a little sleepover, with only two friends, which turned out to be perfect. We barbecued steaks on the day of her birthday, and then tonight we had our traditional Grandmas and Grandpas Party, which involves the birthday child picking out the meal, blowing out the candles, and opening presents. I think three days is a good long celebration for a birthday, don't you?

she said in the middle of the rush to get out the door and on her way to school. "How come you're sad?"

"Why do I look sad?" I asked, adjusting her hair clip.

"Because your eyes are blue," she said. (My eyes are brown.)

"I guess because bad things happen," I said. "But really I'm just tired."

"OK," she said. "We said our prayers today so maybe nothing bad will happen today," she said. And then she was out the door and down the street with her friends, laughing and all the spring-morning light tangled in her hair.

And now I am just thinking---all day, entwined with shopping for her birthday and getting donuts for her class party, running to the grocery store, cleaning the kitchen, eating lunch, making a baby gift for a friend, working on my new BP class---all day, this thought: does her recognizing my sadness mean that I have taught her empathy? Or that I have taught her to worry about me?

When I was growing up, I think I saw my mom cry five or six times. Only receiving the news of a death or attending funerals were occasions when she allowed us to see her cry. And seeing my mother cry was terrifying to me, terrifying and horrible. As if the reality I knew wasn't reality at all. My mother crying proved that she wasn't in control of the world, and if she wasn't in control then who was?

I love my mom, but she and I have different mothering ideas. I didn't want my children to think that mothers only feel a small handful of emotions. I wanted them to know that I feel everything, just like they do. I didn't want my tears to be something equally terrifying to them, a rent in their everyday existence. I wanted them to see me crying as just something else I do. And so they've seen me cry, they've seen me angry, they've seen me ecstatic. The whole gamut.

But I don't know if my way or my mom's way is better. Maybe letting them see my emotions, maybe not pretending my way through bouts of blueness, just makes them feel that terror I felt at my mom's tears---only all the time. And how could I answer that question this morning with any honesty? How can I say that I am sad because of the bad things that happen (I cannot stop thinking about all the lives just gone, yesterday, because of the shooting at Virginia Tech) that seem so out of anyone's control? That I am sad because of the way a few people I thought cared about me are acting? That lately I keep dreaming about people I used to love---probably still do---but will never have in my life again, save for memories and the occasional bumping-in-to? That one thing is the trigger for sadness, and then all the other sadnesses come sprawling out, too, in a mental catalog of mistakes and accidents and bad choices.

But then, that's not my intent, either, to share all my emotional baggage with her. The worries of an adult are far too weighted for the frame of an almost-12-year-old. That's how it should be. That she can see just the beginning of the sadness as blueness in my eyes, but that she still gives me that gorgeous smile and strolls off to school without a glance helps me think that maybe she does know empathy. And just her presence here---the sunlight in her hair---always makes the blueness fade a bit. Always.

1. WD-40 works great for times when someone has scribbled with a gorgeous sage-green Sharpie in great big swirls across the computer desk, the keyboard, and the mouse (but in sink-to-your-knees-in-gratitude kind of luck, not on the new monitor). Even though that someone clapped his hands when you saw his artwork, mistaking your shocked breathing for pride, and shouted "Wook, wook, wook! Wook Momma! I cowor!" and it will break your heart to clean it up, use the WD-40 anyway, as you want to avoid future annoyance. Simply spritz a little, watch the Sharpie ink swirl to the surface, and wipe away. Continue as necessary.
2. Do not believe any website that tells you peanut butter will remove Sharpie. Because they're only telling half of a truth. It will only fade the sharpie. Trust me. After an hour of scrubbing, wondering as your arms and fingers ache if it only works with crunchy peanut butter, you'll wipe the whole mess up and then dig the WD-40 from the inexplicable place it's residing in the garage.
3. Say you forgot that last year you threw away all the grass in the Easter baskets. Say you don't remember this until the Friday before Easter, and then say you don't make it to a store that might possibly carry Easter-basket grass until Saturday night at 9:00, just hours before the Easter Bunny's probable visit. Say you can only find two tiny bags of white candy grass on the decimated shelves at Target. Say the concept of candy grass causes you nightmarish visions of messes ground into the carpet and a very unhappy husband. No biggie. All you have to do is 1---empty your paper shredder. 2---shred a bunch of scraps of coordinating cardstock. 3---declare yourself a genius of creative solutions. 4---ignore the voice that's insisting that if you'd remembered you'd thrown the grass away in the first place you wouldn't have to use your creative-solution genius in the first place.
4. In dealing with: your mother, your post-partum niece, your stressed-by-high-school niece, your grumpy ex brother-in-law, a bunch of Shade Ts, and Easter Sunday, always remember Occam's Razor. Avoid the drama by going with the simple route: never mix those six things together. Ever.
5. Fathers and/or Grandpas with Alzheimer's might not have the best swing set placement skills. Either reposition the swing set yourself or get your baby pushed in the swing by a niece who doesn't mind catching the baby in the swing and falling into last year's tomato plants when the swing set tips over. Seriously---pay attention to this one.
6. When the wind is blowing so hard it tips your full-to-the-brim garbage can over (the one that's waiting for the garbage man to come in the morning), don't assume that you can wear your pajamas outside and the cover of night will protect you. Oh, no. Your across-the-street neighbor will come outside to pick up his tipped-over garbage can at the same time you step out from the shadows, and you will be thoroughly embarrassed at being seen outside in pink, stretchy high-water PJ bottoms. Just put some pants on!

I've never been an American Idol fan. The only time I'd seen it was once when I was visiting Sophia. Kendell watched it but it held no appeal for me. Most of the music wasn't my taste, obviously. But the main reason it didn't hold any appeal to me is because by my nature, I get prickly when something is held up as the thing most Americans love. Dubbing the winner "American Idol" says that he or she IS America's favorite, but generally they're not my favorites. It's the same feeling I have about Oprah's book club. If a thing---a singer or a song or a book or a movie---is liked by everyone, is it because of true greatness or true mediocrity? I don't want to like something just because everyone else likes something, but that, I think, is the sort of group mentality A.I. fosters.

BUT---somehow I got sucked in this season. Never really addicted but I watched bits and pieces, mostly because I wanted to see how Gina did---she was my favorite. And we all know how well that turned out.

What I really don't understand, though, is just exactly what all the people voting to keep the worst singer in the running are trying to prove. Say they succeed and the silly and pointless Sanjaya wins. What have they done, save added even more mediocre music into the world? No, not even mediocre. Sub-par. What have they accomplished except to prove the power of stupidity? They will have taken the group mentality to its ultimate end: pointlessness.

So I've decided that my very brief engagement with American Idol is over. Not really because my favorite singer is gone, but because it has stopped being about music or singing or talent. Now it's just an illustration of what's been called the "dumbing down" of America. Voting for who you think is best requires some critical thinking skills at the very least. Voting for who you think is the worst is just inane.

Anyone care to convince me otherwise?

Two dreadful episodes. So. Yesterday Nathan and two of his friends played at our house for a bit. Then we were busy with soccer games and fixing dinner and taking cookies to one of my neighbors, who is fighting breast cancer. (Like cookies will help that, but her son also left on his mission this week, so I thought she'd need extra cheering up.) When Haley went into her bathroom to start getting ready for bed, she did that "MOM" scream, the high-pitched shocked one that means something disgusting is somewhere near.

Disgusting indeed. Somewhere in the time those two neighbor boys were playing, one of them used my bathroom. And he left a sopping wet rug (not wet with water, mind you), a filled toilet and, um, shall we say bathroom products (not the kind you use for cleaning, mind you, but the kind that requires bleach and gagging to clean up) smeared on the cabinet, the wall, and the bathtub.

It was like a scene from a horror movie. I was stunned. I've known these boys since they came home from the hospital---why would one of them do this? And which one? I know for certain that it was either Nathan or his friends, because I cleaned that bathroom on Monday afternoon and I put clean towels in the cupboard on Tuesday afternoon. I immediately quizzed Nathan, and I didn't get that I'm lying vibe from him. Which leaves one of his two friends. These kids are SEVEN YEARS OLD. WHAT is up? I was dying. I couldn't deal. So we locked the bathroom door until this morning.

So, episode one of Amy's Dreadful Day: cleaning up bathroom products that don't belong to my children. Gag, shudder, heave, liberal use of Bleach with a follow-up rinse of Lysol and then some Comet for good measure. Next I cleaned all the toys, because hello: If the offending child doesn't hesitate to smear, how diligent is he going to be in washing his hands, and who knows what he might have touched? (You can stop gagging now.) Then I washed my hands for approximately the 29th time. Next I called the moms of the two neighbor boys, just to clue them in. I really have NO idea who did it, and I don't think I ever will know, but I'm certain that the three of them will play outside my house from now on.

Can't that be enough? No.

Today at 4:00 I remembered that my neighbor Julie (mom of one of those boys!) and I were taking dinner to a different neighbor who had surgery last week for a different kind of cancer. (I am freaking out a bit thinking about two people on the same street with cancer. It's just strange.) We'd said we'd bring the food at about 5:30, and I still had to run to the grocery store. When I walked in the store, they had a display of lovely ripe strawberries, and I decided on the spot to change the dessert from ice cream to strawberry shortcake. Grabbed three containers of berries along with everything else I needed.

When I got to the register, I noticed that one of the strawberry containers had a moldy berry in it, so I asked the cashier if I could just grab a different container on my way out. She assured me that'd be fine. So I did just that...grabbed another container on my way out. Note that I had already paid for this container. And someone STOPPED ME from leaving the store! Not even an employee, but a customer.

"Excuse me, but I saw you steal those strawberries," she said in a huffy tone.

"         ." (That is the sound of my blank stare and open mouth, not to mention the raised eyebrow.)

"I think we should just turn around and go right to the customer service desk," she continued, apparently failing to notice that my face was red out of anger and not out of embarrassment.

"Um, I don't think so," I finally managed to say. "I paid for those strawberries already," and then I started to explain---until I thought wait a second, I don't owe her any explanation, and then my bad day caught up with me. "Listen, lady. I just spent eighty bucks on groceries and do you honestly think I'd risk jail time to steal a dollar-fifty worth of strawberries?"

And then---she asked to see my receipt! Like she's the grocery store police! Some people. I told her I'd be happy to show my receipt to someone who worked at the store, but as no one else had a problem I'd be leaving. And I left.

And now I'm giggling. Because really---I'm sort of wimpy. I hardly ever say what I'm thinking. So for me to give that woman what for and then walk away? Well, totally not me. Apparently, cleaning poo gives me more of a backbone. Ah, there's the silver lining!

And now for the recipe. Julie and I had decided that she would do the main course (something vaguely Mexican) and I would do the sides (Spanish rice, cornbread, and dessert). We met at my house, since I live closer to this neighbor, and when she came in I could smell it: green chicken enchiladas. Yum. As I had two side dishes already made that would match that main course, I decided I'd make green chicken enchiladas, too. Only, the recipe I had for them never was quite "great." Just OK. So I asked her what she put in the sauce. And here's my new recipe for Green Chicken Enchiladas, which is a combo of Julie's sauce and my filling. They were excellent!

1 can green enchilada sauce
1 can cream of chicken soup (I've started buying the reduced fat kind and honestly, no one notices any difference!)
2 cans white chicken (I know, I know, I'm pitiful but I'll admit: I used canned chicken a LOT. I like cooking but I DETEST doing the whole chicken thing, all the unfreezing and the cutting off the gross stuff, and then the cooking, and who am I kidding, while I have an entire freezer full of frozen chicken, I am just never prepared in advanced enough to wait for it to defrost, but if you are the good kind of mom, you can use shredded chicken instead)
8 ounces ricotta cheese
8 ounces jack cheese (separated)
4 ounces pepperjack cheese
4 ounces cheddar cheese (separated)
1/2 tsp cumin
salt
pepper
7-9 tortillas (Ideally, I like corn tortillas for enchiladas, but as I had already been to the store once today, and been accused of being a shoplifter, I decided I would make do with the flour ones)

Heat the green enchilada sauce and the cream of chicken soup till hot. Meanwhile, shred chicken. Grate 4 ounces of jack cheese, 2 ounces of cheddar cheese, and all of the pepperjack. (Those ounces are estimates, by the way...you just need some cheese!) Mix this cheese mix with the chicken, the ricotta, and the spices. Add about 1/2 cup of the sauce to this mix and stir well. PAM a 9x11 pan, then spread a bit of the sauce on the bottom. Spread the chicken and cheese mix onto the tortillas, roll them into enchiladas, and put them in the pan. Grate the rest of the cheese. Spread half of it right on top of the enchiladas, then pour the sauce on top. Sprinkle the remaining cheese on top. Bake for about a half hour at 375.

Yesterday, even though I had a mountain of laundry to finish folding and put away, I spent an hour surfing Amazon. The way I keep track of the books I want to read is to just add them all to my Amazon cart, and every once in awhile I let myself buy some of them. Or when I get a book from the library or buy it somewhere else, I take it out of the cart. Only I'd not done that for awhile, so yesterday part of my surfing was browsing through my own cart (all 637 bucks of it...imagine if I accidentally submitted that order, lol!) and found some books I'd forgotten I desperately want to read. One of them is The Road by Cormac Mcarthy. There's something intriguing about post-apocalyptic novels, the surviving with nothing and the idea of most of humanity vanished. (Oryx and Crake is my favorite one.) My library even has a copy sitting on the shelf, and I decided I'd go get it today, since they're holding something else for me (can't remember what, though).

And then I got an email, this morning, about Oprah's new book club pick. You guessed it: The Road.

Sigh.

I'm not sure why this bothers me. I remember when I finished my English degree at BYU, I had a long discussion with my favorite professor about how you go about finding real books (meaning books with literary value, texts that push you to think outside of your own mental pathways) when you don't have a reading list from a professor. I've since formulated my own trial-and-error methods, but I like to think that I'm intelligent enough to pick out books without the help of Oprah. I wouldn't be bugged if this was a past Oprah selection. But she's reading it right now. Reading it now feels like...like I'm following a trend instead of setting one, which is fairly dumb considering that probably only my sister Becky would follow my "trend"!

Of course, I'll still end up reading it---even though that library copy has already been checked out. But I am stating here, to all loyal English Geek readers (LOL) that I'm not reading it because Oprah told me to. I'm not on the bandwagon.

Although I am already looking forward to seeing Cormac Mcarthy on TV.

I'm such a dork!