cjmcgrey

God Blessed Texas. Indeed.

The first time I remember ever having an opinion about Texans, in general, was during  my freshman year of college. Up until then, the only thing I knew about Texas pride was what I learned from Pee Wee's Big Adventure.  Which was basically, if you sing "Deep in the Heart of Texas", Texans will clap and sing along.

  I attended a small Bible college for the first few years of my college career.  It was a strange phenomenon, how people from the same state would  flock together.  People from Ohio would hang out together, and cheer for their weird teams. (Buckeyes? Which apparently, besides being a delicious homemade candy, was a college team.)  The Floridians would come dressed for summer, and learn to adapt to the cold Missouri winters.  And the Texans*.  My goodness the Texans.  They yelled the loudest.  They criticized Missouri BBQ together.  And, in my freshman Bible History class, they all sat in the same row  and were obnoxious, united with the cause of furthering Texas propaganda.  One day, I arrived early to class and the entire row, before the professor arrived, was belting out "God Blessed Texas."  In my naive, 18 year old mind, there were several things wrong with this.  First of all, I wasn't sure that you were allowed to sing country music at a Bible College.  Second, it seemed a little bit blasphemous.  God personally told Texans he liked them the best?  Thirdly, i was just generally annoyed by the sheer obnoxiousness of it all.  I was quiet and liked to fly under the radar, and I silently judged people who went out of their way to draw attention to themselves.

Since my first initial run in with Texans, other things happened to make me realize that Texans, and the residents thereof, are truly a breed of their own.  While I was trying to find a career for myself, i worked as an associate underwriter trainee at an insurance company headquarters (if that title didn't make you want to fall asleep, the job would have.)  And while many underwriters had several states that the worked with, only Texas had to have it's own, specialized group of professionals, working to decipher and work with Texas insurance law.  Those special people generall walked around rolling  their eyes and saying "Oh, that's a TEXAS policy.  It's a whole different world."

A few years later, in 2003,  we actually took the plunge and moved to the state.  And indeed,  it was like a different country.  There were strange Wal-Mart rules.  You don't pay tax on groceries.  Shoelaces are taxed. But lettuce isn't.  There was odd weather. People go swimming in outdoor public pools from May-September. The way the state gets your money is strange. There is no state income tax.  But Lord help the person who moves in from out of state and tries to license a car or two and get plates.  You might have to sell a kidney.  When you get a mortgage, you might think  you are getting a reasonable house payment. Until you discover that the mortgage company tacks on hundresds of dollars extra per month for property taxes.  Which was a total mystery to me until I saw our town's football stadium.  In a town of then 25,000, the football stadium was bigger than many small college stadiums, and seated 10,000. 

And football.  As Missouri transplants, we were suspect.  And while we were warmly welcomed at our new place of employment(for the most part, except for a few people who thought we were spies), we were set straight right away by some well meaning and less than cheerful parents.  I think the exact quote to Larry was "Boy, this is Texas football.  You don't know anything about this."  And guess what?  He was right.  Texas football really is a breed of it's own. You may roll your eyes at me and just think that I have started drinking the state kool-aid, but I am not exaggerating.  It really is. And it took me a few years of struggling through allegience to my home state of Missouri to admit it.  It really was different.  Missouri does lots of great things.  Branson is one of my favorite places.  The Ozark Mountains are a haven for me.  Andy's Frozen custard, St. Louis, and the Katy trail through boonville are so wonderful.  But never in my life have I witnessed somethings as fanatical, flamboyant, and "git your blood boiling" as Texas football.  Our local NBC affiliate reported that during football season, 9 out of 10 metroplex residents are at a football game on a Friday night in the fall.  Now, i'm not sure if that is just more of Texans tooting their own horn, but at our small school, with a student population of around 500 at one time, the stands certainly did fill up with usually at least several hundred, if not a thousand, fans.  And it was a carnival atmosphere.

All three of my children have Texas birth certificates.  They were all born in the same hospital, and while they didn't get cowboy boots and spurs upon their departure from the maternity ward, they are born and bred Texans.  And now, 9 years into my residency in Texas, I am a Texan too.  I have voted.  I have been summoed to a jury.  I have gone to other states and wondered aloud (and probably condescendingly, on accident) why people complain about traffic in their little two horse town. Because everyone knows that the only thing worse than Dallas traffic is Houston traffic .  And I finally have a pair of cowboy boots. I just lack a belt buckle with my name on it.  And I heard they don't give those out until you reach 25 years in state, or get a horse, whichever comes first.

Is it the best state?  Maybe not. There are other places that had multiple seasons. Is it the hottest state?  Maybe.  But it is now home.  And if I could go back to my freshman year, I would and sit on the row with the singers and join in.

 *Of course this is hyperbole. I'm sure there were many peace-loving, fly under the radar Texans that I didn't happen to meet. Maybe.

Tale of a bank robber. Or: How I narrowly escaped interrogation by the Feds*

I have never actually robbed a bank.  In the normal sense. But at one point in time, I was pretty sure I was going to get hauled off to jail. By a bank examiner.  Or by the FBI.  Or the boss man(shout out to all country songs.)

The year was 2003.  I was working part-time at Bank of America in the downtown location in Springfield.  This was not my lifelong goal, but it was serving it's purpose. Working as a teller funded my dream of working at a television station.  And since the tv station gig didn't pay the bills, I applied  to BofA to make some extra cash. I had worked there in college, and still remembered all of my debits and credits and cash ins and outs. I could work the 10 key like a mad women. It was the perfect solution that allowed me to run a teleprompter for the 6 o'clock news while still maintaining my shopping habit.  So they hired me back, and my banking career began again.

It was the 6:30-11:00 morning shift.  Sleepy eyes, lots counting bills from deposits dropped off overnight, and hectic spurts balanced out with some lulls. Plus, the season's before "Bachelor" from the small screen lived downtown, and we would see him walking to his car every morning.  We possibly hollered at him out the window. Like teenagers.

There was not a lot going on at that lonely little branch during the early part of the morning. To combat the drudgery, we read a lot of magazines and snacked.  US Weekly, LTD Commodities**, plus some jelly beans thrown in for good measure.

After one strangely busy morning, made especially hectic by our computers going offline, I came up short $4,000 when I counted down my drawer.  Now, that might make a normal person panic.  But in the banking world, with a nice even number like that on a day when the computers go offline, it was pretty common for the amount to be sorted out in the paperwork and I would show up over the next day.  So I triple checked, had my manager count me down, and went home for a nap.

The next day, though, nothing came back.  And the day after. A week went by and I was still $4,000 short.  And I started to get nervous.  I didn't know these people very well. And I knew that I would never take money from a bank.  But they didn't know that about me.  What if they thought I did.  Even my happy go lucky manager wasn't so reassuring when I asked if anything had come back on my shortage.  I knew that in a few days, if nothing was found, I would probably be interviewed by bank security.  And then what?  Would I get fired?  Surely they wouldn't let a presumed thief continued to be employed.  And what would I put for my reason for leaving on my next job application?  Bank robber?  I worried about that for a week.  I didn't tell Larry.  I went to work, tried to smile, and imagined that everyone I worked with was already picturing what my mug shot would look like.

And then one day we were slow.  The girl I was working with decided that we should be productive and clean.  So clean we did.  We threw scrap paper away, dusted, and pulled the drawers out.  And that's when I saw it.  I had just taken the bottom cash drawer off its track, to get the magazine out that had falled back behind it.  And once I moved the magazine, I saw them.  Two straps of $100 bills.  Twenty bills in each strap, equalling $4,000 .I stopped what I was doing and and yelled for my co worker to retrive them, lest anyone think i planted them(i had probably been watching too much Magnum P.I. or something.) And once she pulled them out, i could see my teller stamp(#115, i thinkg), my initials, and the date that I had been short the money.  I almost fainted with excitement. 

It turns out that the drawer we had been stashing the magazines and jelly beans in was the same drawer that I used to keep my strapped money.  it got too full of magazines(which was against bank protocol, but bygones) and pushed some of the cash behind the drawer.  There was no way to see it without taking the drawer off its tracks and looking behind.  Which we didn't do on the day I was short.  I had never been so happy for deep cleanng in my whole life.  We filled out all of the paperwork, my drawer showed an overage of $4000 for that day, and I went home and told Larry about it.

Looking back, I don't know if my co-workers thought I stole the money or not.  And when my former manager and I became facebook friends after not seeing each other for years, I was convinced that was how he remembered me. As a shady, magazine reading, money stealer. When I asked him about it, though, he claimed to have completely forgotten about it.

And now, here it is, almost ten years later.  And since I may have just barely squeaked through without jail time, I'm pretty sure I am obligated to think up a moral to this story.  The grown-up moral would be something about people don't always assume what you think they assume about you. Or something.  But I'm going to go with the practical one.  Which is: if you keep a tidy work area, you will not lose $4,000.  The end.

*Hyperbole and dramatic license have been taken and slapped all around that title like a 2 year old slaps finger paint on a wall.

**this is the most riduculous, fascinating mail order catalog ever.  I dare you to thumb through it and not be tempted to order at least one item.

Life Lessons from an 8 week sabbatical.

Over the last month, the oldest turned 8 and the youngest turned 6 months. Those two, plus the one in between, have been through a lot of changes since the school year began. One of them was born, one learned to share a room, the 3rd has been trained to potty like a big boy.  And now it sort of seems like things have finally settled down a little(except that we have one million things going on this evening and my right eye has been twitching all day. And I am trying to figure out what on earth "festive formal" means. Maybe a prom dress and a fancy party hat?)  For the most part, though, I think that we have hit our stride. As much stride as we are going to be able to hit. And as I think back, it wasn't so very long ago that I was planning for my re-entry into the workforce after Thexton #3 was born.  People always asked me if I was sad to go back to work.  And here's why I wasn't:

a. I really like my job and the people and students I work with(that makes it sound like students aren't people.  They are).

b. Newborns scare me.  Even my own.  I am not sure what to do all day with them.

c. My 8 popsicle a day habit was not affordable. (they are sugar free, but yikes are they expensive). 

When I  think back over my maternity leave (like a television montage when they slap together clips instead of writing new content), i learned some significant lessons.  Okay, not significant.  But weird.  So here they are:

1. Laundry never has, and never will be a priority for me.*  It doesn't matter if I am by myself, for hours on end, with the fanciest washer and dryer and the snazziest kind of new detergent and fabric softener contraptions, it's just not going to get done.  I would rather clean out all the junk drawers in the world than do laundry.  So I'm going to quit kidding myself and embrace the piles.  Or build an extra room to hide the dirty clothes in.

2. Hormonal, post partum women should not be allowed to send text messages to their husbands. Ever.  Because you might just be sleep deprived, grouchy, and out of graham crackers when you come across your husband's socks from the day before, stuffed behind a couch cushion.  And that may infuriate you so much that you send him a text message asking him to please move out.  You don't mean it.  But still.

3. Just because graham crackers are 2 points plus per serving, you should not stock your pantry with them.  Because you will throw away a box 2 days after going to the grocery store, and the ugly reality of your consumption will smack you right in the face.  A box of graham crackers should last a week, at least.

4. I think I am best friends with Don Draper now. According to English People in the know, he is a tragic hero. And I am able to despise him and feel sorry for him at the exact same time.

5. Coin Dozer was a midnight feeding lifesaver.  Okay, stop judging. I love my baby. I looked at her with love and mush and etc when feeding her.  But 45 minutes at 2 a.m. seems like a very very very long time. So spending quarters to collect prizes and trade them in and POWER UP was sort of exciting.  Cookie dozer got downloaded and deleted quickly, though.  Because the cookies were delicious looking. Too delicious looking.

As you can see, no lives were changed.  No earthshattering revelations.  But the 8 weeks of solitude was not completely wasted. Baby toes were tickled.  Infant boot camp was mostly successful. And most importantly, we have sort of figured out our new family.

 *Don't fear, we all wear clean clothes. 

Starting the morning with Nuns

On the way in to work this morning, one of my very favorite* movie soundtrack songs came on. If you were hiding under a rock when Sister Act 2 came out in 1993, you should get your hands on it. Legally.    "Oh Happy Day" starting playing in the car, and in a matter of seconds, I went from fighting tollway traffic to shouting hallelujah. As I was performing a mini-concert in my vehicle, I was sort of overwhelmed by things I am thankful for.  I realize that I am always happy to complain about the rat race that is motherhood(sippy cups, potty training, and YES the 3 year old still has a pacifier).  I am quick to offer opinions and judgment on reality TV and how everyone who has a camera shoved in their face should stop saying "amazing" already.  But I have to be more deliberate about the thankfulness stuff.  And before the moment passes me, i'll get some of it out.

A cuddly baby.  This time last year I was not excited about baby #3.  I was indeed very scared.  Change does not make me jump up and down with joy, and I really didn't see how we were going to be able to make this work.  Now that she is here, and is a roly poly 5 month old, we couldn't imagine life without our stellar belcher.  She smiles, giggles when the other two make her laugh, and still has the delicious baby-head smell. Plus, they make baby jeggings now.  You can't resist a baby in jeggings.  Just try.

 A new job. It usually takes me a year to warm up to people in a new job situation. I am very shy when I feel like I am out of my element or comfort zone.  But the people in the office at my new job have made me feel like i have been here for years. The other day, I came back from a meeting and someone had gone on a Sonic run.  And there sat a diet cherry limeade, just for me.  They remembered my sonic drink.  And I felt love.

 A sleeve roller-upper. Seriously, Larry can be accused of being many things.  A fanatic Mizzou follower. A triple-option Nazi. And even a good scrap-booker.  But after being married to him for almost 12 years, I cannot accuse him of being lazy.  We have learned to parent 3 children together.  And through budget meetings and meal planning to schedule shuffling and all the hard work and rolling up on the sleeves that staying married takes, he has been in, with as much effort as he can possibly give.  It can be exhausting being married to me. Every once in a while I might be a teeny bit dramatic.

A library with no late fees. For you goody goodies who turn in your books on time, you will not understand this. But I forget to return books.  Sometimes, they will be weeks late.  Other times,I will find a library book while cleaning.  And remember that it has been 6 months since i've last visited the library. Oh my.  But our school library has scads of books, dvds, and magazines.  With no late fees.  So I will stock up for spring break.   Without fear of repercussion.

All manner of friendships.  In elementary school, friendships were formed at recess and  slumber parties. Junior high friendships were cemented by afternoons of jumping on the trampoline listening to Milli Vanilli.  High school and college bonds were made by late night talks eating cookie dough.  Married life friendships are a lot more complicated to maintain, though.  Right now, I practically shut down after 8pm and crash on the couch to watch season 1 of Arrested Development for the 45th time. I am not exactly up for a late movie or a round of toilet papering.  So friendships have developed for me differently over  the past few years.  I have running buddies. We have trained for 5ks together, problem solved on early morning runs, and jumped sky high when a sneaky dog pops up out of nowhere.   Travel buddies.  These are friends that I have road tripped with. We have navigated airports and car rental places and scary ghost infested grounds together. Even though we only see each other a few times a year, we have solid days to get caught up and forget we are grown-ups again. Texting buddies. There is nothing like a well-timed text to encourage me, or make me spit water out of my mouth, or to keep me from doing something silly.   WWF buddies. Those girls lived on my floor in college. We were not especially close then. But in the last two years, their friendship has completely developed into A God Thing. I really hate the word buddy, and I can't believe I used it that many times in the past paragraph.  But they all do mean so much to me.  To paint a food related word picture, they are the mint oreo cookie crumbs on my sometimes vanilla life. 

So there you have it.  I am thankful for things and I'm not even eating pumpkin pie. Booyah.(yes, booyah.  I know, it's so 2005.)

*Soundtracks used to be my specialty.  And then along came iTunes.

A Dangerous Rumbling. Also, I'm not that girl anymore.

So (apparently my new place of employment has caused me to start 67% of all my sentences with "so", making me sound like a 7th grade girl) I have mentioned at least 1,000 times that I am sort of shy. I don't like to draw attention to myself in large groups of people, I don't like to be singled out to come up on stage at events, and speaking into a microphone prompts me to have to psyche myself up the night before so I don't pass out.  When I am embarrassed, my face gets noticeably red, I stammer, and I start looking for a hole to crawl into.  But the older I get, the more I have noticed that although I still possess the ability to embarrass myself, I don't take it as personally as I used to.  This was played out perfectly during this past summer.  It was the summer of pregnancy.  The summer of nausea.  And the summer wherein I sort of humiliated myself and laughed about it.

I went to visit my parents at their home in Hot Springs Village, Arkansas, in late July.  Larry had football things going on and wasn't going to be home much.  So I packed up the kids and drove through the hills to Arkansas.  I was too far along in my pregnancy to be driving comfortably.  My back was killing me.  I had to stop to powder my nose every five seconds (that is code for something else.  I am feeling proper today and just don't want to say "GO TO THE BATHROOM". Except I guess I just did.) But I got to Arkansas, and my mom took care of me.  She had pitchers of Crystal light waiting for me, a comfortable bed, and a deck for me to lounge on while the kids played happily.  It really was nice.  We cooked in, went swimming, and, all in all, it was so relaxing.

And then one night, we went to dinner.  There is a hamburger joint down the road that is popular with the locals.  It was sort of a dive, the kind of place that serves a greasy burger and a great milkshake.  When we drove up, there was a large crowd of people waiting outside to get a table. So we stood around for about 15 minutes before we were seated inside.  I was trying to be healthy, so I ordered a grilled chicken salad and an ice tea.  (and I also knew that neither of my kids would finish their burgers, so if i really needed a bite I would steal one.)  I was super thirsty, so as soon as the drinks came I guzzled the tea.  And then our food was delivered to the table.  Mine looked delicious.  I put the dressing on, had a pre-salad bite of Cale's burger, and started to dig in.  Except something felt weird in the back of my throat.  And in a matter of 2 seconds, I went from getting ready to take a bite of my salad to knowing for sure that I was going to get sick all over the place.  Barely any warning.  The room went blurry, I forgot about everything else except getting out of the restaurant.  As luck would have it, the powder room was outside.  And between me and that destination was a crowded restaurant, a glass door (that at the time, I couldn't figure whether it opened out or in) and a passel of people waiting on the lawn outside.  In slow motion, as I went towards the door, I didn't make it. Most of the contents of my stomach went all over the glass door.  I stumbled outside and the rest of it went all over the grass.  Right in front of about 15 people waiting to eat.  I put my head down, rushed to the bathroom, and locked the door.  I was mortified.  For about 10 seconds.  And then I thought about it.  High school Caryn would have cried.  College/young adult Caryn would have a red face.  But 34 year old, two kids and 6 months pregnant Caryn couldn't stop laughing.  It was just so ridiculous.  Who does that?  Barfs right and left all over a restaurant?  Pretty soon, I heard a knock on the door.  As I stood in bathroom, noticing that I felt pretty good by then, I heard someone say, "GET a MOP!". Shortly after,  my mom knocked on the door.  She was pretty sure I was on my deathbed or something.  I felt fine.  Now don’t  get me wrong, there was no way I was going to parade back through that restaurant.  I asked for the keys to the car and sat in the back seat of my dad's Cadillac while I waited for the rest of the family to eat.  They brought me ice cream. I ate it slowly but with success. But by then, the whole thing didn't seem like a big deal.  I felt bad for making a mess for the employees.  I felt bad for spewing my guts in front of the nice people waiting outside.  But I would never see them again.  So no big deal.  

After the fact, as we drove home, my dad mentioned that as I ran for the exit, he shouted out, "She's not with us!" Which makes the entire experience absolutely perfect.

Embarrassing moments happen in life.  They sometimes seem like the end of the world in your youth.  But by the time you reach the ripe old age of 34, they might not seem so bad. Plus, when your daughter falls into a pond on a field trip, you have stories to remind her of.  Or you can at least say, as she stands there with mud up to her armpits, "At least you didn't ralph all over Arkansas!"

Do over. Again.

This past month, I joined weight watchers.  Again.  On the day before Thanksgiving.  Larry was less than thrilled, and offered to take my money in exchange for standing next to our bathroom scale and yelling at me.  I declined.  See, I don't have lots to lose.  My clothes mostly fit.  But I had a goal, and I want to attain it. 

This time last year, i was so close to hitting my goal weight.  Little by little, the pounds were falling off and I was almost there.  And then a baby was on the way, and WW made me drop out.   Not forcibly, of course.  But pregnant people are not allowed to be members, and I didn't want to eventually be escorted out. So I quit, just a little shy of my goal.  And all during the pregnancy, sugar made me want to die, so by the time i was home from the hospital, i weighed less than i started out.  I was a freak of nature.  But it only lasted a short time.  Because Halloween came, I remembered that the real me loves sugar, and the next thing you know, I was shoving graham crackers down my throat at breakneck speed. So I decided to give myself a do over. I have a goal.  And by golly, in the season of sugar cookies and nuts and popcorn dipped in chocolate, I am planning for success.

A few weeks ago , while I was rummaging around in the hall closet, I found a Bible study book that I never finished.  Really, I barely started.  It was a terrific study. But at that time in my life, I wasn't in any mood to actually look at myself in the mirror for real.  It was easier to pretend that I had it all together and ignore the giant problems that were hanging around.  So after a few weeks of sitting through an incredibly uncomfortable session where I was sure Beth Moore was addressing only me, I dropped out.  And shoved the book in the closet. So after unearthing the booklet again, I decided I wanted a do over.  I want to finish this time.  So i texted a friend who had the same book, and asked her if she would do it with me.  We are both going through the lessons.  And although I am in a much different place in my life, it is still hard.  Harder than I thought.  Because I am having to be honest with myself.  About why I act the way I do, with my husband, my kids, and even complete strangers.  It is much easier to pretend like everything is everyone else's fault.  It can get sort of exhausting to keep looking at myself, keep identifying areas that need work.  A do over, again.

So this time of year, as I think back over 2011, there are many things that I wasn't expecting that I am incredibly thankful for.  And while I thank God for all of my family, including the bossy oldest child, the weepy toddler, and the baby who doesn't have any identifiable annoying traits yet, Iam mostly thankful for do-overs.  Do overs with friends. Do overs with my kids. Do overs with Larry. And do overs with God. 

Tequila Lime Chicken and the Wonderpets. A dateiversary.

It was in a corner booth at Applebees, 13 years ago on November 18, that I first met my husband. My expectations for the date were pretty low. I planned to meet him, a stranger, at a restaurant, have some awkward conversation, and then return home without getting murdered.

It was a blind date.  I had never been on one before.  I don't really know why I agreed to go.  But I did.  And despite the people who set us up showing up and joining us on the date and sitting in between us, my date(a former bartender) trying to order me(a teetotaler) a drink, and a car breaking down before the evening was over, we kind of hit it off.  After the third date, despite holidays, final exams, and jobs, we saw each other every day and it was love. 

Remember that feeling you get when you first start dating someone?  Your stomach kind of gets nervous to see them, you can't wait to talk on the phone(what was texting?) and you spend all of your spare time trying to figure out ways to spend more time together.  The months leading up to our engagement and wedding were constantly up and down, but mostly fun. We officially broke up twice, and an engagement ring may have been hurled across the room at one point.  I blame the Ripped Fuel I was all hopped up on.  But even with all the aches and pains and jitters that come with meeting future in laws, learning the weird habits of the other person, and being completely freaked out by how many options there are when picking out a tuxedo, we pressed on.  A new life loomed ahead of us, filled with the prospect of wedding cake, new towels, and an all inclusive trip to Jamaica.

Fast forward to now.  We have been married 11 1/2 years.  We have 3 kids.  And there are very few times where it is just us. Between work and rugrats and grocery shopping and all the things that take up a day, things can fall into a pattern.  We had a date night a few weeks ago.  All three kids spend the night at places other than our home.  We ate dinner at a fancy steakhouse.  And then, we were both asleep by 9:30.  Right now, sleep is a hot commodity. And honestly, I miss the first date jitters.  I think all girls do.  The unknown possibility of a guy being your dream guy(or maybe a complete jerk) is kind of exciting.  Various sources say the initial "butterflies" of a relationship only last about 18 months.  After that, it's gone.  But last night, I started thinking about our relationship.  It has survived moves, babies, job changes, and a horrible haircut(I accidentally got a mullet.  And he called Valerie, my favorite hairstress ever in another state and got me an appointment ASAP, to get it fixed).  Last night, as I was washing bottles, I could hear Larry in the other room, putting the kids to bed.  And although we were not spending the evening at a fancy restaurant eating carbs by candlelight, there is something very deep and touching about working side by side with a partner.  Teamwork.  I can't run a house by myself.  Neither can he.  But we agreed, on our wedding day, to be a team.  And I can't imagine wanting to work side by side with anyone else. 

Summertime DJ

Every summer for as long as I can remember(or at least every summer since I have been driving), I have associated a particular song as the anthem of the summer.  I'm sure lots of people do this.  Millions. Sometimes, it's because it's been chosen for me, by radio conglomerates and savvy marketing executives and played ad nauseam on the radio.  Other times, it has been picked out by me, because of a particular event that stuck in my head.  I can hear one of these songs in the middle of December, and all of the sudden I smell sunscreen. As I started thinking about how I came to get these tunes lodged in my brain, I started remembering experiences I had with them.  I'm going to go ahead and scrapbook these memories in written form right now.  Follow along, if you wish.  Or go jump into the pool. Or into a pile of leaves.  The choice is yours.

Waterfalls, TLC. Summer 1995

There used to be a time when I sat around and watched MTV in between pool sessions and part time jobs.  This was a song that I absolutely adored, from the summer of 1995.  I had just graduated from high school and I was working on perfecting my tan and getting skinny at the local YMCA.  I would wake up, work out, tan, go to work, and come home and do who knows what else with my free time.  And when I stop and think about the lyrics and the video, it's a totally depressing song.  But it signified my entrance into adulthood(oh brother) and a summer before my life would transition from high school girl to college adult.

Scream, Michael and Janet Jackson. Summer 1995. It turns out I had two anthems that summer.

I might have tuned in for the premiere of this video.  I probably did.  While i wasn't working at my dad's church scrubbing bathrooms during the summer of 1995 and again, working on my tan, I watched a lot of music television.  I am a Jackson fan, and I couldn't wait to see this video.  I could watch it over and over again.  Will you think it is so super ridiculous that I think it's like a piece of art? The cinematography, costumes, dance moves, everything.  Perfection. And I really wished that I could work an eye liner like Janet's(and Michael's, for that matter) make-up artist.  For some reason I remember spending a lot of time driving around Branson with my friend Celeste in her mustang that summer.  I realize it might seem kind of weird to go to Branson to hang out for the summer.  But we did.  And I knew this song backwards and forwards.

Summertime, Will Smith. Summer 1991 and beyond....

I will go out on a the very unstable limb of a bradford pear tree and say that this is probably the anthem of any child of the 90s, whether you like hip hop or not.  Will Smith told it like it was, and even though my neighborhood was nothing like the one he was describing in the song, I felt like he was talking to me.  And I wanted to drive around in my Grand Am with the windows rolled down, looking gansta.  I would have loved to have a drop-top, but the silver car with the persnickety transmission was my ride(I just cringed typing that. And maybe I made one of you gag.  sorry).  Even though the song came out when I was in junior high, Hot 106.1 played it during my formative high school and college years.  Drums, please.

Men in Black, Will Smith. Summer 1997

The movie was kind of okay.  The song was the highlight for me.  More pool time, more lake trips, and a very memorable choreography performance at a rest stop in Arkansas. 

No Such Thing, John Mayer, re-release 2002

Ah yes.  The summer that I had lost my job, lost a contract on a house I absolutely adored, and sulked at the pool.  I commiserated with John Mayer and his earth shattering lyrics as I watched the lifeguards at the pool, wishing I could be young and fresh-faced again. I was 25.  Perspective has never been my strong point.

Cologne, Piano Instrumental Version, Ben Folds.  Summer 2010

Last summer I played this song over and over and over again.  It is heartbreaking, haunting, and depressing.  And I love the piano in it.  The lyrics give a shout out to the crazy astronaut who drove with diapers.  Which is just weird enough to make it a fun summer song.  It reminds me of New York.  Ben Folds always makes me cry. Yes, sometimes it is fun to cry. 

And now we come to this  past summer.  As the years pass, it's harder and harder to pick an anthem, because my days are not always carefree and poolside.  There are sandwiches to make, toys to step on, and wasps to avoid.  I waited for the perfect one to hit me on the head. And while I didn't get to choose it this time, the grand champion was Price Tag.  Oh my word I hate that song.  But my kids love it.  And we currently have 8 different versions on iTunes(which i had NOTHING to do with.)  So this next year, when i hear that horrible song with its cha ching cha ching and ba bling ba bling, I will not curl up in a ball and die, but instead think of two kiddos jumping on the couch, singing.  While I reminded everyone in the house I was pregnant.

 

House of Tears

Let me just start out by saying Poor Larry.  Poor, poor Larry.  Because right now, the football coach who likes to watch people crash into each other is living in a house where every single person except him is excited to boo hoo at the drop of the hat, no holds barred.  And I'm not sure he is completely sure what to do. Let me paint you a picture of what it is like right now for him:

Toddler-super sensitive, so if you talk in a loud voice he gets his feelings hurt, his little lip quivers, and he sobs in such a pathetic way that i'm pretty sure we are all going to keep feeling sorry for him and he will end up getting away with murder. 

2nd grader-She has a way with putting everything in one sad, mopey basket, and after the tears and heartache have bubbled high enough, the dam breaks, so watch out. Phrases like "my bed is flooded with tears at night" are not uncommon. 

Baby-cries when she is wet, dirty, bored, hungry, or when I play Michael Jackson.

Me-oh my word.  Who knows. Besides dealing with the  after pregnancy "broken body thermostat" of sweating one minute and shivering the next, the irrational tears are around as well.  If the groceries are not unloaded, i might take it as a personal insult that you think i am a servant and you will never help me and oh  my word no one loves me or appreciates me and here come the tears.  If there are dirty socks on the floor, same thing. And then I might imagine the kids going off to college and never calling and all of the sudden it's the end of the Notebook and I'm crying AGAIN.

So my advice to my husband, and all the other men out there who get the deer in the headlights look when the females in their life start crying:

1. Most of us are not trying to manipulate you.  Maybe in our younger days, yes.  But at this stage in my life, i have too much going on to orchestrate a giant emotional manipulation. 

2. Much of the time, we really can't help it.  Whether it be hormones or sensitive feelings, some things just make us cry.  Even if they are not rational.  Even if they don't make sense.  Even if we have completely taking a tiny little tidbit of our lives, blown it completely out of proportion, and predicted that this event will end up making us penniless and lonely in 50 years.  Some of us(me) have extremely good imaginations and that fuels our crying jags.

3. It is usually a lose lose situation for us.  We end up looking silly and emotional, first of all.  After it's all said and done, we usually feel dumb.  And also, who likes puffy eyes and not being able to breath out of their nose?  These are the signs of a truly wicked crying jag.  And if faced with the option of crying or not, we would pick non-puffy eyes.

4. You don't have to fix it.  You don't have to beat anyone up, sell plasma to buy us the prom dress we think we need, or threaten the weatherman until he starts forecasting temps in the 60s instead of the 100s.  Most of the time, we just want someone to listen.  That's why we love talking to our girlfriends.  Because they will listen to our crazy without rolling their eyes.  They will make understanding noises and nod at all the right times.  And if we happen to cry in front of them, its no big deal.  But in the unfortunate situation where we are sobbing in your presence 9 times out of 10, patting us on the head and telling us it's going to be okay will do the trick. Even if there is an asteroid heading straight toward the house.

So if you see my husband out and about, you have my permission to secretly feel sorry for him.  Because he is now surrounded by irrational females and has years of tears to come.  And if the prospect of this makes him cry, we will pat him on the head and tell him everything is going to be okay. 

The new normal.

This time last week(this time last week, month, year, etc, is probably my most favorite game to play, by the way) I was dying a slow, painful, high blood pressure death in the hospital while Larry and my parents were eating lunch at B.J.s.  Some of that last sentence was hyperbole, though.  After Amasa made her entrance into the world at about 8 am, and I came down from the anesthesia, I came back to the recovery room and ate ice chips while everyone sat around discussing who this new little person looked like.  Not me, maybe Cale, with a splash of Sheridan thrown in. The nurses had my family move my suitcases to my room, and assured them that I would be headed there soon, and why didn't they go get something to eat.  Except after they left, I didn't go anywhere.  My blood pressure spiked, and while I was too loopy to remember what the numbers were, I recognized the tense edge that my nurse's voice had.  No one was letting me go anywhere.  My newly remodeled room in the wing that had snacks and popsicles and ice chips flowing like milk and honey was now just a pipe dream, because of my stupid blood pressure.  I willed it to go down, which didn't work at all.  Every time I heard the machine turn on to take it again, i laid perfectly still and imagined my blood pumping at just the right speed.  Not because I was worried about my health.  But I wanted my fancy room.

Those of you familiar with medicine might already be aware that willing blood pressure to lower itself rarely works, and may sometimes result in you accidentally holding your breath, which leads to a whole other passel of "complications".  So there I was, alone, in a recovery room, while my family ate salads at B.Js in complete ignorance and bliss.  Now, i don't fault them, really.  The nurse told them to eat.  I didn't think they would go OFF CAMPUS to get something, but they maybe thought the cafeteria food was gross? The good news is, they gave me a high powered muscle relaxer that relaxed every muscle on my body including my eyelid muscles.  Which meant that if you got a text from me between 9/20 and 9/21, it is extra special, because i was seeing double and texting with drunk thumbs.  I must really love you.

So the drugs did their job, i returned to normal, and now i have a fun little guilt trip i'll try to completely run into the ground with my parents and Larry.  And according to the nurses, I was very good at walking, at reflexes, at getting my own ice chips, and maybe the worlds best recoverer they have ever seen.  Because of that, i got to go home on Friday, and this time(as opposed to the last two babies) I was actually looking forward to it.

And I was reminded(and still am) that I cannot compare these next few weeks to anything.  To my old routine, to my new work routine, to normal sleeping habits.  The  scary thing about bringing a baby home is how they completely turn your schedule upside down.  Nothing feels familiar, because for the first few weeks you are just mapping sleep times.  Just because you used to leisurely get ready for bed about 9:45 and retire at 10:15 does not mean that's what will happen now.  You have to be ready to sleep at a moment's notice.  Nothing feels the same. Your friends and neighbors go on with their lives like normal, but that is exactly not what your life is.

So I am trying to embrace this new normal.  This is our last baby, according to modern medicine.  And I am making a conscious effort to enjoy this time, instead of wishing it away.  Sitting outside, playing with baby toes, and watching Rockford Files on the couch instead of trying to be supermom.  Reminding myself that babies usually learn how to sleep through the night eventually, and the fact that mine hasn't done it yet does not mean: a. she hates us b. she is a low achiever c. I am being punished for playing the lotto that time at the bank when we all won lottery tickets and I scratched mine off.

So right now, the new normal is lazy days, and hoping and praying for lots of Friends reruns at night.  And spending 30 minutes searching online for the kind of pacifier that the hospital gives out.  The ugly green kind that my other two kids hated.  And this one loves.