Fix the shop then I’ll come get my car fixed

28 Jul 2011 Leave a comment

by Natalie in Uncategorized Tags: , , ,

I absolutely hate dealing with car mechanics. Especially when I know they are trying to pull one over on me.

I know nothing about vehicles and therefore have to rely completely on what a mechanic tells me is wrong with my car, how much it is going to cost me and if he actually fixes it. I have sworn off a local body shop forever because I had my old van in four times within six months for the same problem.

The traction system starting acting up last December. By April it was still having problems despite being “fixed” by this shop a couple of times.

When oil started slipping down the side of the tire blackening my hubcap and smelling like burned grease, I brought out the big guns. I finally made my husband call the shop. The owner didn’t make any excuses for him, like he had done for me in the past, he simply told him to bring it in at our earliest convenience and they would take care of it.

That made me mad for two reasons. First, he made it sound like it was a piece of cake for me in my spare time to drop off my only way of transportation to have him try and fix it again. Bring it in at our earliest convenience? I think he meant at our earliest inconvenience. Because it’s never convenient to drive 20 miles, park my van at the shop where I can either hitchhike a ride home or wrestle my boys for hours in the lobby while mechanics try to work on the problem. Normally I have to call my mom to rescue me and drive me home so I don’t freak out at the shop.

Secondly, I hate the fact that they think I won’t notice that they haven’t fixed the problem the first three times I have brought it in. I am sure they look at me as a young, mostly blonde, female and figure I have no idea what they are talking about. I may not know the mechanics of how they fix my car, but I know when it doesn’t actually get fixed. Especially it it’s spewing oil out its hubcap.

A lot of it is probably my fault. I chose this shop because it had the lowest price in town. That should have been a red flag for me, but honestly I don’t think I should have to pay an arm and a leg to diagnose and fix my vehicle.

Finally, the thing that makes me the maddest is I feel like they try to take advantage of the situation because I am a woman. The shop owner seemed to be a lot more accommodating for my husband than he was for me. He definitely had less excuses for him.

I hate sexism – even on the smallest scale. I mean I wasn’t trying to bust through the glass ceiling or anything. I was just trying to get my minivan fixed without having to get my husband involved. Luckily I have not only sold that van but I have vowed to never step foot in that shop again.

Churchtime Fun

21 Jul 2011 6 Comments

by Natalie in Parenting Battles, What's a mom to do?

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It’s 10:58. We’re running toward the chapel doors. My four-year-old leads the way to the left side of the room where we normally sit. I pull my 2-year-old along as he races to keep up. “My pants,” the 2-year-old yells. I turn around to see his slightly too big black dress pants around his knees. I turn forward again and see the four-year-old booking it to the front of the chapel. A nearby sister helps shove my son’s pants up and I race to the front of the room and sink down next to my oldest — on the front row. I look up to the stand and catch my husband’s eye. All he can do is smile.

All in a Sabbath day’s worship.

Sunday mornings are crazy at our house. My husband has meetings so I am left alone to get the kids and myself ready for church. How I am supposed to have a spiritual experience after yelling at my children to get out the door is beyond me.

I don’t know how we do it, but most of the time we get to the church in one piece — we’re not early by any means — but we manage to plop onto a pew relatively close to our meeting’s start time. We bring with us a church-time circus that I am sure is not only disruptive but highly entertaining for all.

Half of the time I sit down and glance at my Sunday best and find I’ve spilled toothpaste, cover-up or breakfast down my dress. One Sunday I splashed butter all the way down my skirt and leg while rushing to get rolls ready before church. I spent the first five minutes of sacrament trying to wipe away and camouflage the long grease stain that ran down my side.

Most Sundays I spend a majority of the meeting drawing pictures at my 4-year-old’s command only to erase them and try again, because to him they don’t look like what he requested.

Then there’s the 2-year-old’s drama. He refuses to go to the bathroom before we leave our house but something about Sacrament brings it out of him. Many times he’ll scream, “I need to go potty,” during a quiet part of the meeting and I rush him to the nursery toilet — sometimes twice.

I’ve given up on singing hymns. At most I get through three measures before my children either need me for something or slam the book in my face. If I’m lucky, the chorister will choose a song I have memorized and I can sing off and on while I do other things.

I pack three hours worth of treats and activities in an oversized beach bag “just in case.” In case one of the boys burns through the games, paper or goldfish I have packed and I’ll have to dig down deeper to find something that will pique his interest and buy me a few more minutes of reverence.

I spent hours making quiet books (see slideshow above) for Christmas hoping they would help. I’ve affectionately nicknamed those books the “not-so-quiet books.” When the boys play with them, they fight over the pages and pieces — even though they each have their own identical books. It’s gotten to the point where I don’t even feel bad if they don’t want to get the books out.

By the time the meeting is over we have left a trail of destruction all across our bench. I swear if the kind old man who brings treats for my boys each week gives them Nerds one more time I am going to flip.

Normally I can’t wait until the closing prayer. Then I can set them lose to find their dad while I clean up our whirlwind of devastation.

Why do I put myself through all of this? Why do I sit nervously in a quiet chapel worrying about my child’s next outburst? Why do I get out of bed early each Sunday morning so I can start getting ready for a stress-filled sacrament?

I do it because the Lord has given me everything. My meager three-hour Sunday worship is only a small way I can show my gratitude.

I do it to show my two crazy boys that my religion is vital to my happiness on Earth. And even if I hear less than 5 percent of what the speakers say, I am following my heart by dedicating myself to my worship.

It’s not easy taking my boys to church alone and I am sure I will complain about it at least a few more times before my life is through.  But if I don’t start taking my children now, how will they learn reverence and respect for a Heavenly Father who gives them everything?

Thank heavens for good friends and neighbors who let me sit by them and help me entertain my irreverent monkeys. Because no matter how crazy our church-time circus becomes, I will continue to go each week. Heaven help me find the patience to survive.

My Hunger for the Games

14 Jul 2011 Leave a comment

by Natalie in Uncategorized

Spoiler alert: If you have not read the Hunger Games and plan to, don’t read this post. I don’t want to hint toward anything that will ruin your personal discovery of what happens during the three-book page-turning series.

I finished reading the Hunger Games series this morning and found that it had a surprising impact on me, catapulting me onto an emotional roller coaster with every page I turned.

I resisted reading the books until now, trying to hold out and withstand the urge to read them only because everyone else was. But I found a copy of the Hunger Games in my sister’s bedroom a few weeks ago and dove right in. It took less than 50 pages to hook me.

I had to know what happened to Katniss, to Peeta, to their happily ever after. It really tore at my own heartstrings. Because with my son’s death last year came the solemn, desperate feeling that even though I married the man of my dreams, who despite my many weaknesses and daily drama loves me like Peeta first loves Kat, we are not immune from heartache and misfortunes.

I related completely to Katniss from the beginning. I shared a lot of her emotions portrayed in the book. Sometimes I’m scared to think that life is going good…because I’m worried that something will snatch me from my happiness.  Sometimes I worry I inflict suffering and pain upon those I love because I’m a selfish, rotten person. Sometimes I feel completely focused and resolved, yet other times confused and disoriented.

The beginning of book three is when I felt the most like Katniss. When she is transformed into the Monckingjay- a symbol of strength and power despite her inner grief and weaknesses.

It reminded me of the people who have told me that my attitude through my recent trials has given them strength through their own personal tragedies.

I’m taken back by their perception of me. Because sometimes I don’t feel strong. I feel like Katniss – lost and out of control and literally like I don’t want to do anything.

Luckily my moral compass and my religious views keep me from turning to drugs and shutting the world out completely, but I feel like I can relate completely to Katniss when she crumbles up in an empty bathtub in a broken-down building to escape from it all – the pain, the memories, the sorrow.

I have to give Suzanne Collins credit for accurately portraying raw, true emotion. I don’t know much about her personal life, but you can tell she knows what sorrow feels like. I thoroughly loved the series.

My favorite part of her storyline was how Kat and Peeta were forever changed by what happened to them. They couldn’t go back to the way they were before.

So they learned how to cope and adapt.

Unfortunately I think that’s exactly how real life is. Our personal trials and triumphs forever leave an impression on our hearts and minds. Good or bad.

Now I know that my death isn’t being targeted by government-made killing machines and I have yet to see a human killed before my eyes, but deep down I feel like I have witnessed some personal tragedies that will forever change me.

Luckily I am not alone. I have good friends and family to help me through my trials. I have my own “Peeta” who wraps his arms around me and tells me it’s going to be all right. And I have my religion that brings me hope that this life is really kind of like a game. A game that if I can figure out and play out well, will only lead me to a better prize. A prize filled with a lifetime of true immunity for all of its victors

No More Nightmares

07 Jul 2011 3 Comments

by Natalie in Dealing with Death

I dream of the day I can actually dream about my angel baby. I’m talking about sweet, peaceful dreams, not wickedly horrifying nightmares.

I have only had a handful of nightmares about Luca since his stillbirth last spring. But those nightmares are powerful enough that they burn into my memory making them impossible to forget. As if the nightmare of giving birth to a non-living baby isn’t bad enough. Try reliving it a number of times while you are trying to catch some ZZZs.

I don’t know why I can’t dream of him in a white robe floating on a cloud. Or hanging out in heaven with my grandma Fern and grandpa Leo.

Instead I either relive his nightmarish birth, or dream that I’m in denial about his death and therefore carrying around his dead little body. It’s horrible.

I have heard of people who have peaceful, even helpful dreams about their deceased loved ones. I’ve even heard of people being visited by their loved ones spirits. Not me. Not yet anyway.

I wish I new what triggered the nightmares. I’m afraid they get worse when I do things like flip through his picture book or think about the day I had him. But I can’t just forget about him. Even if it means I chance having another nightmarish flashback.

There’s a song that plays on his memory video with lyrics that haunt me. It says, “Are you really gone? Are you? Whisper to me, come to me in a dream, promise it’s more than it seems.” I both love and hate that song. Sometimes I think the whole experience with his pregnancy and birth was a big dream. Then I look at the pictures and realize it was real. I really did have my baby die.

I want him to whisper to me. I even want him to come to me in a dream – but not a nightmare. Let’s be honest. Life without him is nightmare enough. I don’t need that raw panic feeling eating at my broken heart during my sleep. It’s bad enough when I’m awake.