Boogers on the Wall

My mom never let us take a home lunch to school. We begged, we pleaded, we cried, but we didn’t get it. And that’s okay. We survived.

Well I thought I was granting my boys a great privilege by allowing them to choose each month what days they got to bring a home lunch.

Yesterday that privilege backfired and I’m almost thinking my mom knew what she was doing.

At the end of the month I sit down with my boys and we look over a printed calendar filled with a menu of the next month’s lunch options. We cross through the days that the boys think the food sounds “disgusting” and I plan on packing them a sandwich those days.

Yesterday’s menu options were not crossed through. At some point a couple of weeks ago either the penne pasta or chicken tenders sounded good to my boys because each of them said they’d eat school lunch and that’s what the kitchen was serving yesterday.

My 7-year-old’s taste buds must have changed since then because about 10 minutes before we were supposed to walk out the door to drive to school he suddenly wanted a home lunch.

I refused and he started crying.

The dilemma: I could give in and scramble like a mad woman to slap peanut butter on some bread and shove it into his lunch bag or I could make him stick to his choice and eat the penne or chicken.

Visions of him starving while out at lunch recess almost led me to cave in. But there was no time.

Do you know how many things we have to get done in those precious last 10 minutes before we leave? It’s amazing we ever make it to school before the tardy bell rings. Let’s just say I am not a morning person and I am the queen of procrastination.

I tried to explain to him that there was no time; that we had that lunch calendar for a reason – so I knew ahead of time when I needed to prepare yet another thing during our morning scramble.

I felt really bad yesterday for not giving him what he wanted but I forced the mom guilt away and stood by my I’m-not-making-you-a-lunch-because-we-have-no-time decision.

It was hard because to be honest, I like making home lunches for my boys.

I wasn’t going to let my kids have them – my mom didn’t let me and I turned out just fine, so why would I let my kids? Yet my oldest son had a difficult time adjusting to kindergarten and having a meal that he knew he would like seemed to help with all of the uncertainties of starting school full time.

It’s turned out to be all right – most of the time. I feel like I can make the lunches for less than I pay for school lunch, especially because we usually have all the items for a home lunch on hand. And I LOVE writing my boys love notes and sneaking them inside their lunch bags.

But I felt like this time I needed to let my son know that I couldn’t drop everything just because his tummy didn’t feel like that day’s menu.

How did the chicken strips turn out? It sounds like they were delicious. When my son got home and I asked him about it he said, “Actually they must have been catered today because they were really good.”

For the record I don’t think the school “caters” their chicken strips. But I’m glad he liked them and I’m glad he didn’t starve during lunch recess.

Confession: Sometimes I don’t have time for my children.

I want to. I just don’t.

The tasks at hand tear me away from them and I end up telling them empty phrases like, “I can help you after…” or “Just let me finish…”

I’m embarrassed. I’m disappointed in myself and I wonder if I’m the only mom who feels this way.

Am I the only mom who has to fill her time with laundry, dishes, grocery shopping and checkbook balancing? Are there other moms out there who have to schedule doctor appointments, clean the bathroom and change the sheets on the beds?

The list goes on and on for me. I could fill my entire day with “I can help you afters” and all I’d end up with is a whole bunch of empty nevers.

I’ve got to start letting other things go so I can let the important things go.

That’s what I did this Sunday. And it was liberating.

The first snow fell at our house and there was maybe an inch of white, wet packing skiff on our lawn when we woke up.

I was tired – I stayed up way too late the night before (thank you daylight savings) and I needed to get things ready for church.

But my boys were hypnotized by the white fluffy stuff. They bundled themselves up – without my help – and headed out our front door just after 8 a.m. I was nice and warm and comfy in my home working on getting things ready.

That’s when I heard the laughter. They were having a blast – without me.

I looked out the window and my 7-year-old was rolling up his very own snowman. What? I was missing this!

I whipped out my bright pink snow pants, bundled up the baby and we headed outside. Yes, we did it. It was before 9 a.m. It was cold. I had a million other things to do and yet I set it all aside to spend time with my boys.

And it was great!

We rolled up what little snow there was to make two small snowmen. Then we headed into the backyard to fly down our tiny hill on our sleds.

You should have heard my baby squeal each time we landed at the bottom. He loved it. And you should have seen him try to waddle around while wearing his puffy snowsuit.

My oldest two kept trying to pack the snow and throw fist-sized snowballs at me. Then they got brave enough to try to scoot down the hill snowboarder style. They’d fall and we’d all laugh. (Until I made them stop because I was worried they’d get hurt.)

We stayed outside for a little more than an hour. Not long at all. But long enough.

When we came back home from church that afternoon, all of the snow on our lawn had melted except the snow on our snowmen.

There stood our two white roly poly snowmen surrounded by a sea of green grass. That’s when I thanked myself for taking the time – even when I didn’t think I had it – to play outside in the snow with my boys.

It made me realize that I can fill my whole day, my whole month, my whole year with chores and obligations. Meanwhile all the fun and memories melt away.

I’m going to make an effort to put my boys first. They truly are the most important things to me. I need to make more time for them, before all the time melts away.

My boys will pull off grasshopper legs, drown black widows and lick slugs. They chuck fake grenades at each other and wrestle until one of them is screaming.

They love man-eating sharks and poisonous snakes.

So it shouldn’t have surprised me when they wanted to be creepy characters for Halloween.

I should have seen this coming.

But I don’t like horrific monsters. I don’t love skeletons and I hate spiders.

I don’t like blood, guts or death.

That said, I had to let go this year when it came to controlling what my boys wanted to be for Halloween. Sadly, long gone are the days when I can hold a cute pumpkin’s hand as he knocks on the door and shouts: “Trick or Treat.” No longer will I get to drive Hook around town.

This year I will be escorting a zombie and Dracula.

And although I’d rather they went for a cute family-themed costume – like the year we made dad be the bald Voldemort while I was Hermione and my two oldest were Harry and Ron, or last year when we were a pack of Ghostbusters who each had a proton pack – I had to come to grips with the fact that those days are gone.

Instead of grumbling, I decided there could be worse things that my kids wanted to do. They could be blowing up neighbor’s mailboxes or lighting a grassy field on fire. They could be test driving my minivan or trying to steal candy bars from the grocery store.

All they want to do is to walk around stiff-armed and groaning or swishing around a cape while chanting, “I vant to suck your blood.”

No. Big. Deal. Really.

Despite my dislike for creepy and disturbing I’ve decided to roll with it. I’ve decided I have to let go a little, one costume at a time.

So tonight I will walk around a purple-skinned eyes rolling into the back of his head moaning zombie and a caped blood-sucking pale-faced vampire.

And I will do it while smiling. I will also be dressed as a princess and will be carrying my cute one-year-old frog prince. At least I still get to pick one of my kids’ costumes.

I don’t have a lot of reasons to do stuff for my third son. I don’t cook him toast for breakfast, I don’t fold his laundry and I’m not sewing him a Halloween costume.

I don’t buy him presents for his birthday or chase him around the back yard while kicking the soccer ball.

Because he died so young I don’t have the chance to do the things I want with him.

But every October I do have something I can do for him. I can walk for him.

Each fall at the Utah Share Walk to Remember I meet with hundreds of others who walk for a baby family member who has gone to soon.

Each of us carries a single balloon. It floats behind us in memory of our tiny loved ones as we walk the footsteps our babies will never take.

I imagine that my baby Luca is floating near me as I walk – that he is drifting aside me like the balloon.

We walk around the Layton Commons Park then meet in the amphitheater where we all wait quietly to hear our baby’s name read aloud. That’s when we send our balloons into the sky.

Most balloons carry special hand-written notes – messages sent to our heavenly angel babies. I love watching the balloons float up into the sky. It’s mesmerizing.

I like to think they float so high that Luca can snatch them from the sky and read the notes we write.  I hope they help him know how much we love and miss him.

Because even though I don’t do very many things for my third baby boy, that doesn’t mean I didn’t want to – that I don’t want to still.

I may not get to do very many things for him and I don’t have very many official opportunities to celebrate his life. But I hope I get to keep walking each year for him.

It helps heal my heart to be able to openly express my love and devotion to my tiny angel.

This Saturday I will run my first 3-mile race. Three miles may not seem like very far – especially to my 26.2 marathon-running husband – but for someone who was born without hip sockets it’s pretty far.

Especially since this someone said she’d never run. EVER.

Until 6 months ago I had never ran in my life.

Seriously. I had gone nearly 30 years without running.

I didn’t even run when I played t-ball as a little girl. I remember having to buy my coaches a coke every time I didn’t hustle to first base.

Our team was awesome, but no thanks to me. I was known as the right-field dandelion-picking player.

No drive. No desire to hustle. Just easy going hopping around the bases.

A lot of that may have stemmed from the fact that I was born without hip sockets.

You now how they rotate a baby’s legs during their one-week check up? For me, there was nothing for the doctor to rotate. I had a ball but no socket to hook it into. My legs hung limply from my body.

When I was 3 months old a doctor took me into surgery and carved sockets out of my bones. I was in a lower-body cast for several months.

Miraculously the surgery worked. But by the time I was out of my cast I was behind. Most other babies my age were rolling around and crawling all over. I hadn’t done any of that.

I was slower physically.

But I eventually learned to crawl, walk, ride a bike and all of the other things kids learn to do.

Most of the time I was like a normal kid.

But there were times when my hip joints ached like mad. When I was in junior high and high school I remember limping around because of the pain.

I was given anti-inflammatory medicine and did a round of physical therapy to try to strengthen my leg muscles to help take strain off of my hip joints.

Needless to say, I wasn’t a cross country star. And that was all right with me.

I used my congenital hip dysplasia as a legitimate reason not to run.

I remember “running” the mile in junior high. I am pretty sure it took me about 16 or 17 minutes because I walked the whole time. Wanting to get a better grade, I came early before school another day to try to beat my time. I ran, jogged and walked my way to an approximate 15-minute mile.

When I got done I went outside to cool off. I’ll never forget the vice principal coming out to ask me if I was OK. I’m sure my tomato-red dripping sweat face caused him some alarm.

I was OK – just not prepared, or able, to run a mile.

In high school when we had to run the mile in gym class, I brought a doctor’s note. That guaranteed me a certified spot at the finish line – as the official timer.

I’m sure it irritated my winded classmates to see me standing there, smiling while clocking their times. I was exempt from running the mile.

But I don’t want to be exempt anymore. Part of me wonders if I could have run sooner.

I haven’t had any hip pain since I started running this past May. None. It’s kind of amazing.

Don’t get me wrong. Starting to run hasn’t been easy, but I honestly believe that if I can do it anyone can.

The first time I ran I made it down to the corner of my street. Not even one block. My lungs were burning, my legs were burning and I was shaking from head to toe.

I came home red-faced and ego-bruised. I couldn’t see how it was ever going to get better.

But I kept going. Why? I have no idea.

It’s a little easier now. I still get bright red in the face, but my legs don’t ache nearly as badly, I don’t get nearly the same amount of side aches and my lungs don’t feel like they are on fire any more – at least not all the time.

What made me want to start running? Who knows? Maybe it was the fact that I hang out with a lot of runners, who talk a lot about running. They act nonchalant about it. They talk about it like it’s a piece of cake.

So I decided to buy a pair of serious running shoes and hit the pavement. Trust me it isn’t that easy. The first time I wore my fancy shoes I rubbed a giant blister onto the side of my left foot.

But I strapped on some moleskin and went out again.

Maybe I was inspired by the different types of people I have seen crossing the finish line at all of the races my husband has ran.

I have seen big, little, old and young cross the finish line. I have seen runners and walkers cross the finish line. I have seen my own 6-year-old son cross the finish line. Talk about inspiring.

Whatever the reason, I can guarantee that I have asked myself “Why” a lot. Especially when I am a mile away from home and I’m panting, sweating and nearly collapsing.

Why did I start running?

I don’t know for sure, but I know that it has been liberating. I have been able to do something that I NEVER thought I could. When I can run for a mile without having to stop and walk to catch my breath – which doesn’t happen very often – I feel alive.

I’m not a professional by any means. I still have a long ways to go.

A couple of weeks ago I nearly threw up while on a run with one of my best friends. She urged me to throw up in the bushes next to us but I refused.

I was horrified, embarrassed and dejected.

I am sure there will be times when I have to walk to catch my breath. Times when I rub a blister onto my left foot. Times when I come home exhausted with aching thigh muscles.

But even so, I am doing something I never, ever, thought I could. And I’m sure I’m not the only one who never thought I would be able to run.

If any of my old classmates want a rematch, I’ll head over to the high school with them. This time they can time me.

They say the early bird gets the worm. Well if that’s the case, my one-year-old could fill an entire Styrofoam cup full of worms for his older brother to take fishing.

He is an early bird.

Unfortunately I am not.

The past few weeks have been grueling, as he’s fallen into the exhausting habit of waking up at 5:30 a.m.

It was cute the first day. I could make the excuse that he was so excited to see his mom that he just couldn’t sleep. It was even OK the second day. I thought maybe he was awake because the two tiny teeth that are poking through his bottom gums were causing him pain.

But after two weeks of my baby waking up before the crack of dawn I’m tired. And I’m terrified that I’m going to have to accept his morning cry as my new every day extra-early alarm clock.

I don’t know what to do.

I don’t dare let him cry himself back to sleep at that hour. I’ve made him do that on other occasions earlier in the night, but by 5:30 a.m. I’m afraid he’d wake my other two boys.

And it’s not like I can snatch him out of his crib and cuddle up to him in my bed and go back to sleep. I’ve tried.

We end up tossing and turning, him pulling my hair, then steam rolling me over and over again while periodically screaming to get down. Not restful.

And he always wakes up bright-eyed. It’s not like I go in his room to find him groggy and sleepy. He’s rip roarin’ ready to go. At 5 a.m.!

It’s incredible.

But don’t be fooled. Even though he’s wide awake at that time, that doesn’t mean he’s always pleasant. Sometimes he’s happy and playful. Other times he’s so grumpy I can’t get anything done.

On those days I pray my oldest two boys don’t need me to pack them a home lunch. I don’t even think I could put him down long enough to put it together. And it’s wicked hard to spread peanut butter and jelly onto a sandwich one-handed. I’ve tried.

It’s not like I hold him until he falls asleep and then lay him down. I fight my every urge to swaddle him in my arms until he closes his eyes, and I lay him down while he is tired, yet awake. He goes to sleep easily. He just doesn’t stay asleep LONG enough.

I just don’t get it.

I’m going to look into it. I’m welcoming any advice and suggestions for getting my son to sleep longer. If you’ve read any good articles or books on baby sleep patterns lately, please let me know. I’d love to read them.

Because I’m dragging these days. I’m tired. I’m feeling run down and I don’t have any motivation – which is not normal for me.

I’ve got to figure this out before the time change. Otherwise this 5:30 a.m. wake-up time will really feel like 4:30 a.m. I get tired just thinking about that.

Help!

Last week I drug my 9-month pregnant butt off of the couch and out of the house for a fancy night at a local news station. KSL Studio opened its doors to a group of Utah women bloggers last Wednesday to meet the new Eyewitness News team, tour the studio and eat cheesecake.

It was a great night. I was able to meet a bunch of amazing bloggers who are all much more creative than I.  We swarmed the station for a couple of hours before the nightly 10 p.m. news taping.

Ethan Millard and Alex Kirry let each of us introduce our blogs on the their KSL nighttime radio show The Nightside Project. It was a blast talking about Boogers On The Wall into a microphone nearly the size of my head.

We bloggers wandered around the studio rubbing shoulders with Kevin Eubank, Mike Headrick, Dave McCann, Brooke Walker and more. It was fun to shake hands with the local celebrities who I enjoy watching on a regular basis. (I always have to fight my husband to watch channel 5.)

I finally got to meet Deanie Wimmer — one of the reasons I went into journalism. You would have thought I would have run into her while reporting for the station’s partner newspaper, The Deseret News, but I only made it to the news station a couple of times during my Deseret News days and never saw her.

Deanie started at KSL right about the same time I was deciding what to major in at college. I really liked her style and thought I would like being a broadcast student.

Turns out I’d rather do the writing than camera face time and chose print instead, but I have still always liked her.

And as you can see below in the fake news segment I taped during the event, I am probably much better suited for print.

Boy was I terrible. My co-anchor Nike Peterson was awesome, but I couldn’t figure out where to look or what to say.

You would think with my communication degree I would have known a little about what to do, but somehow I skipped out of taking any broadcast classes during college. Here’s the rough taping. I had a great time. Enjoy!