Dance, Dance, Dance

I was going to write a post today about the night that the song Lady In Red was completely ruined for me.

About how I went to a church dance at the age of 17, expecting to meet young single adults, but instead was asked to dance by a sweaty, balding foreigner who was closer to my dad's age.

I was going to tell you about how he half-sang, half-breathed in my ear throughout the entire song, sweat dripping from his face onto my sweater dress, while I tried to maintain a fair distance from him.

But I'm not going to tell you about that. Why?

My cousin Julie has written such a hilarious (but true!) description of a single adult church dance that it puts mine to shame.

Seriously, you need to go read it.

Fun First Aid 101

This is me.

I am not a nurse, but I pretended I was smart like one at our regional young women's camp meeting last Saturday.

I got to teach a class on how to make teaching first aid FUN!

I was going to tell you all about it, but you hear from me all the time.

Boring.

So, guess what? I am feeling kind of famous because my friend Michelle did a whole post about me and she makes me sound pretty amazing.

I was going to post a link to her post, except that her blog is private.

So I just stole her post and here it is.

Oh, yeah... is this O.K. Michelle? (She'll say yes. I'm just going to post it.)

what's a Gerb?

(Gerb trying to take a picture of the sky--in the middle of a lightening storm

& in the middle of a field)

I would like to introduce you to one of my favorite people. Her name is Gerb!! You might ask, "What is a Gerb?" If I had to answer it, I would respond that "a Gerb" is a person who is excited about life--no matter what is going on in the world, she is looking for the excitement that brings smiles to every one's faces!!

Today, we had a our Regional Mia Shalom Meetings for young women's camp. Gerb was asked to teach first aid. Side note...Gerb is not a nurse--BUT, she was able to entertain a group of young women leaders and teach them how to teach first aid. She was hysterical when it came to the bruised, stabbed, scraped, cut fruit that she had prepared.

(my little fruit friends)

Then, when it was time to create a compound fracture--that poor chocolate orange is...well, let's just say...it is no more. One lady asked Gerb if she liked horror films. Another asked if she was for hire. She told them that she would work for donuts. Gerb, you are one crazy friend and I am glad that you are my friend.

Sometimes, I think that when we teach youth about first aid, we are so serious. But, Gerb brought her personality with her and helped relate everyone to a fun way of learning!!! Thanks Gerb for taking on this assignment. You were simply fabulous!!! Great Job!!

(See? I sound all fun and amazing. Thanks, Michelle! I'll get you that $20 bucks later.)

Why I Love Kids

Sunday is not always my favorite day of the week. I go to church every Sunday without fail because it is where I need to be and where my family needs to be and I want my kids to know that. I do not ever regret being there, but it is still not easy.

For one, I have to get 9 kids out of bed, fed, dressed, and looking nice before 9:00 a.m. This includes finding the (often secret) location of 9 pairs of Sunday shoes. (Oh, the drama of the Sunday shoes!) And discovering, 15 minutes before church, that Coolister's white shirt has not been washed since last Sunday. And it has a large spot on it. Then when we get to church and are seated on OUR bench (5th row up, thank you) someone is already making someone else cry or remembering that they forgot their scriptures or needing a drink...

Etcetera.

Yesterday was the usual.

I dragged Curly to nursery and left her there, crying, because I already had Baby O in tow for Hubba's primary class and could not wrestle with them both. I sat in our assigned row in the primary room, checking to see if all of my class members had arrived, and noticed Hubba was ramming the chair on the end of our row into the chair in front of him.

I removed the chair.

SuperC, one of my little students, tapped me on the leg.

SC: "Sisto Bwack?"

Me: "Yes, SuperC?"

SC: "That chay-o needs to stay wight they-o."

Me: "Well, Hubba is playing with it. Would it be alright if I left it on the stack over there?"

SC: (exasperated) "I guess."

In the meantime, someone is asking the kids if they have done anything fun in the last week. Hubba's hand is up, but he is not getting called on, so he yells out, "I GOT TO TAKED MEDICINE BECAUSE MY TEEF ARE ROTTEN!"

I smile nervously, shrink down in my chair a bit, and think about how excited I am for that little tidbit of information to make its rounds.

Oh, the joys of Sunday I think to myself.

And then the primary music leader asks all of the teachers to come up and sing a song to introduce it to the kids. It is from the hymnbook, "How Firm a Foundation".

I take my place up front and sing along with the others, watching my class and starting to feel a little warmth gather around my heart when I notice they are all watching me intently and smiling.

When we finish singing, SuperC raises his hand.

He starts to wave it a little, but he is not being called on.

Finally he stands up, walks to the front of the room and loudly proclaims, "Sisto Bwack, you singed SO nice! You sangd the most beautifulest of all the teach-os! Gwate job, Sisto Bwack!"

"Thank you, SuperC," I responded, feeling that warmth spread from my heart to the top of my head and the tips of my fingers and toes.

A new thought took hold in my mind: Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe Sundays are my favorite day of the week.

And you know what? Even with a head-getting-stuck-in-the-chair incident during class (oh, how I wished I had my camera!) it turned out to be a pretty great day.

It's amazing how far a compliment can carry someone, isn't it?

Look At Me

ElemenoB and Thumbelina joined me for my bi-monthly all-day marathon grocery shopping trip last Saturday. As we were leaving the third store on our route ElemenoB made an interesting observation:

"People at the store just look at each others grocery carts when they walk past. Nobody looks at anybody's face."

I had never really thought about that before, but decided to see for myself if it was true in the next supermarket. Sure enough, not one person with a shopping cart looked at me. The more I thought about it, the more it bothered me. So I decided to do something about it at our last stop.

Let's call it an experiment in human nature.

From the time we left the car, I looked into the face of every person who passed me.

"Hello there!" I said to the cart-collector in the parking lot.

I got one of those slight-upwards-nod-of-the-head movements in return.

"Welcome to Walmart," the door-greeter said in his monotone, I-hate-my-job voice.

"Thanks! I LOVE shopping here!" I replied, which was a little bit of a lie, but it solicited a friendly half-wave as I continued walking. So I think it was worth it.

"How are you today?" I asked an older gentleman in passing in the produce section.

"Very well, thank you. You have a good day!" he replied.

This was fun.

Eye contact, smiles, and an occasional word met every shopper who passed my cart.

In frozen foods, a twenty-something scanned the Bagel Bites.

"Hi!" I called to her with a smile on my face.

She looked behind her. Nobody there. She looked back at me.

"Um, hi." she answered, closing the freezer and avoiding eye contact, as she pushed her cart past me.

No Bagel Bites today, apparently.

In the peanut butter aisle I passed a woman dressed in her Sunday best.

"I love your dress!" I exclaimed.

She looked at my cart.

"That's a lot of peanut butter."

"Yes," I replied, "I have a lot of kids and they all love peanut butter."

"Hmmm. Have a good one." she said as she continued down the aisle.

"You too!" I called after her.

In the dairy section I encountered my toughest case. Her hair was 3 shades of purple along with some of (what I assumed was) her natural brown. One colorful, glittery eye peeked out from behind her long bangs and I couldn't count all of her facial piercings. She was perusing the many varieties of yogurt.

"Hello," I said, looking her in the (one) eye.

She continued perusing. Yoplait or Dannon? Mountain Dairy or Great Value?

"I really like Mountain Dairy," I offered.

She went back to Yoplait. Ignoring me.

Should I give up? I thought to myself.

I am not a quitter.

"Have you ever tried this kind before?" I asked, holding up some Dannon.

She turned and looked me square in the eye.

She pulled her headphones out of her ears.

"Were you saying something to me?" she asked.

"Oh, I didn't realize you had headphones in," I answered, slightly embarrassed. "I was just saying hello. You know, making friendly conversation. Nothing important. Sorry to bother you."

"Hey, lady," she called to me as I walked away.

I turned. "Yeah?"

"Hello. And I like your shoes."

I looked at my shoes, then back up at her. "Thanks."

"No problem. You have a good one, ok?" she said with a smile.

"Yeah, you too." I responded.

Here I was, trying to see how others would respond to me, and this young woman's smile made my day.

Happiness can come in the most unexpected packages.

photo from personalnewtrition.com

Dad

-->

8 years ago today you silently slipped away

in the quiet morning hours

an escape from your pain, a beginning for mine

leaving behind only memories

in mental and tangible photographs.

It unsettled me

that the world could go on turning

without you here.

Time does not make the loss easier
does not fill the empty part of me
which still longs for one final dance;
the way we used to sway when I was young
and again when your time here was ending.

Yet, hope warms my soul

and your strength embraces me

when I need to face life's storms.

In moments of silence I often reflect
on the life you lived
and the love you left with us

a priceless treasure I hold closely guarded

until the promise of forever is kept.

Cake For Breakfast!

One of my favorite things to make for breakfast is baked oatmeal. The kids call it 'Oatmeal Cake' and they beg for the leftovers after school. The great thing about it is you can refrigerate the mixture overnight and bake it in the morning or you can even bake it the night before and just re-heat the individual servings as needed. I have thought about freezing slices of it but there is never any left to try that with.

Well, friends, it's your lucky day. Because now you have the recipe.

Oatmeal Cake

1 cup applesauce (you can use oil instead)
1 cup sugar
4 eggs
6 cups oats
4 tsp. baking powder
1 tsp. salt
2 tsp. cinnamon
2 cups milk

(optional add-ins before baking: 1 diced apple, 1 cup fresh or frozen blueberries)

Combine all ingredients and pour into a greased 9x13 pan. Bake at 375 for 35 minutes (or until lightly browned).

You can serve each slice 'as is' (perfect to eat on the way out the door!) or in a variety of other ways. Here are a few ideas:

-Pour some milk over it and enjoy
-Top with brown sugar and butter
-Whipped cream and fresh fruit make anything taste amazing!
-Dust the top with powdered sugar

There you have it. Cake for breakfast.

Oh, yeah.

The Music In Me

Want to read a post that is pretty disjointed and not very flowy? Then welcome! You've come to the right place.

My cousin Jen commented recently on one of my posts:

"I have noticed that you talk about music and can tell you have a love for it - but you don't have music on your blog?"

This is true, and there are reasons for that.

First, my tastes in music change constantly. I don't think I could keep up with a playlist.

And second (this may sound strange), music is a very personal thing for me. I'm not sure how to explain that so anyone could understand, but I'll give it a shot.

The earliest recollection I have of music in my life is of a beloved 8-track player in our kitchen. My mom would listen to various songs as she went about her day and I would listen, mesmerized by the melodies and the lyrics and the way the songs made me feel.

The first time I ever really performed in front of an audience was after I started taking accordion lessons. I played a song for a small group at a recital and the teacher approached me afterward.

"Why did you sing as you played?" he asked.

"Because there were words," I answered, "and the words help me know where the music goes."

"That's fantastic!" he said. And then, the unexpected words that still coarse through me today: "Keep that music in you. Don't stop singing."

And so I haven't.

I don't know... how can I really describe the music in me?

In my tween years I would sing every chance I got - others' songs as well as the melodies in my own heart, the ones I could never get written down for lack of enough technical knowledge. I would sit in my bathroom with my pink tape recorder at least once a week, recording the music and lyrics that floated around in my head so that maybe someday I could figure out how to write them down.

Music became a way for me to handle anything life could throw at me. A certain song's lyrics can speak the exact feelings of my heart. Another song's beat is the perfect rhythm to express my anger. The way some singers' voices mesh together in a perfect blend of harmonies help me feel at peace. Music inspires me.

I love playing around with different notes, trying to harmonize with the songs I love on the radio.

In my mind, poetry is another form of music. The beauty of certain words and the way they can come together to express something inside of me is almost unreal.

I love music.

Like I said, my tastes in music change constantly. I love different artists at different times for different reasons. Some for the story of how they made it big. Some for the words that are so fun to sing along to. Others for the imagery that their music brings to mind. Some impress me with their creativity or cleverness. Others help me see that I am not the only one who feels a certain way.

Emotions. Words. Meaning. Inspiration. Feelings... does any of this make any sense?

I often need to close my eyes as I listen. I always hope no one is looking my way and thinking I am asleep. Some music is just so much more when I see it behind closed eyes. When there are no visual distractions it is easier to wrap my mind around a certain phrase or harmony - and just bask in what I'm hearing.

Some music literally makes me catch my breath.

I don't know - it's kind of like trying to describe sugar or salt to someone who is unfamiliar with "sweet" or "salty".

Words are just not sufficient.

Poop Poop Poop Poop

I wonder, did you see the title of this post and consider NOT reading on? It is really funny to me how uncomfortable the word can make people feel. I mean, we all do it... me, you, animals.

As teens my brother and I even came up with our own acronym so we could talk about poop in mixed company: PONAS. Love it. It became my favorite exclamation.

Didn't make the cut for the play? PONAS!

Didn't get asked to the dance? PONAS!

Burned the cookies? POnAS!

(Have fun deciphering it. It's a little gift from me to you - a puzzle of sorts. You're welcome.)

That being said, my heart gave a little flutter when I saw this at the store the other day:

This toy "...comes with its very own newspaper, pile of puppy poop and pooper scooper accessories."

Cowgirl and I were looking for a birthday gift she could give to a friend from school. I thought, mission accomplished! the second I saw it, but Cowgirl was horrified and refused to gift such a thing. She thought it was disgusting.

That made it even funnier.

I would have bought it for myself, but I held back.

Besides, my birthday will be here before I know it.

It's ME!

I have been mulling over this post in my mind for a long time.

I have no words to describe what I want to say with any degree of eloquence - so I'll just come out with it.

Here goes...

I can do more than just make/raise children.

Most of you are shocked, aren't you? It's OK. Most people think that's what I'm all about. And hey, can we blame them? Of course not! I mean, admittedly, I do have quite the talent for birthing beautiful babies. And, well, nine is a pretty big number to most people when it comes to kids.

Take my mom for instance. When I went to visit her at work the other day she introduced me to every person we saw like this:

"Have you met her? SHE HAS NINE CHILDREN!"

Not, "This is my daughter, Gerberta. She can be SO funny and clever and creative! She loves to sing and has been passionate about music for as long as I can remember. And you should taste her homemade bread. Her cooking is fabulous. She can get pretty crazy, too - she even plays the accordion a little!"

I understand her introduction. I know she is proud of me and loves my kids, and that makes me very happy. But you know what? There is so much more to me! So much that has been bottled up and put on the shelf, preserved and stored carefully away for future use.

I have mentioned before that I have a hard time choosing and making friends. I have to know you're for real before I can open up and really be ME. I have to know I can trust you with the things I share. But you know what? Once you make it past that, I want you to know everything! I want to sit my true friends down and say, "OK, my first memory was of the time I was 4 and my brother and I were pretending to be chipmunks..." and not stop until I have showed you every photograph, told you every story, cried and laughed and even sat silent at times, covering my entire life's history, so you really know what you're dealing with.

I guess that's what my blog has become.

You catch glimpses of my life as a mother and wife, but I love to throw in the sweet and spicy stories of my childhood and teenage years so you can get a taste of who I really am - and how I got to where I am today. This place is my outlet for writing, a passion I have enjoyed from the age of 7 when I wrote my first poem and discovered the magic of words.

So.

I have nine children. This is true. And I LOVE it! But inside that mother, there is another person.

Thank you for coming here, for reading my blog. Thank you for taking the time to get to know the real me.

It is the most generous compliment I could be paid.

above photo found on flickr.com

Not So Super

You like reality T.V.? Here's reality for you: I am no supermom.

Many people believe in this illusion that I am some perfectly amazing mother. Well guess what? I'm human. No cape, no superpowers. And here is the proof:

-My smallest kids don't even get breakfast until 10 or 11 a.m. some days because I'm blogging or checking my email. Don't even get me started on the dishes and laundry.

-When my kids have to turn in their monthly reading calendars at school, I totally make up the minutes they read all month. I mean, I know they read. Probably more than most of the kids at the school all put together. I just don't have time to keep track of it every single day. Are you kidding me? Sometimes I even use two different colors of pen so it looks like I've been doing it all month long.

-Hubba (age 4) had been telling me that his "face hurts" for 2 weeks before I was smart enough to look inside his mouth. His molars are pretty much rotten because I let him brush his own teeth. The dentist was very gracious and said that his having a million ear infections in his first few years was a factor. I appreciate his trying to make me feel better, but the fact that poor Hubba has to be put under and have surgery to fix the problem makes me feel terrible. No more cookies for breakfast, I guess. (Just kidding. We only eat cookies for lunch.)

-If one of my kids wore something all day Friday, slept in it and then showed up at the table in the same clothes the next morning, you better believe I'm going to let them wear it again. It's Saturday! Who's gonna know?

-My husband is a big supporter of hot cereals for breakfast which to me = pasty nastiness in a bowl. So after I force all the kids to choke it down I put on a movie for the ones who don't go to school and have myself a bowl of cold cereal and a slice of cinnamon toast behind the door in the pantry.

-I totally chug milk out of the jug, right in front of my kids. It tastes better that way.

That's right, friends.

No supermom here.

Forget reality T.V. This is MY LIFE.

We Meet Again

I had to take Hubba to a pediatric dentist the other day.

I followed standard procedure: signed in, filled out a stack of paperwork and signed my life away while Hubba happily explored the kid-friendly waiting area.

There were Legos. There was a large playhouse. There was a huge fish tank, complete with real-life Nemo. And around the corner... an arcade.

My heart skipped a beat when I saw one of my best-friends from middle school: Ms. Pacman.

Memories of the Steve's Burger joint behind my middle school flooded my mind. My friends and I would all chip in for the largest order of fries we could get, grab a booth, and take turns trying to beat the high score on Ms. Pacman.

I couldn't help myself - I checked the high score: 22,500.

That's it?! I thought to myself. I could beat that in like 6 rounds...

"Hey Hubba!" I called to him, "Look at this fun game!"

He walked over to where I was sitting. "Which one? The guy in the car one?"

"No!" I responded, priming the pump. "I mean this cool chomping all the dots game with ghosts and everything!"

"Them ghosts gots colors and that chomper gots a pink bow. That's a girl game. I'm a he, mom, not a she" Hubba said as he moved towards the Mario Brothers game.

My time was ticking away! I said a silent prayer for a long wait to see the dentist.

"You know what, Hubba? If you beat two levels, then the girl chomper with the bow meets a boy chomper and you get to see a little cartoon! Want to try?"

"OK, mom" he answered with an eye roll, stepping up to the controls.

"You want mom to help you?" I asked, innocently.

"Yeah."

I stood behind him, joystick in hand. The old patterns started to come back to me... right, down, blinking dot, left, up, get the peach....

Before we knew it, I had beat level two. Child's play! I thought to myself as the animation of "They Meet" began.

"That was it?" Hubba asked. "Was that the cartoon?"

"Wasn't that awesome?!" I asked, a little too excited.

I continued to play, eating blinking blue ghosts left and right, foiling their plans for my capture when a little girl said to me, "That game is beautiful."

"Yeah." I responded, not wanting to lose my concentration.

"I am a girl, so I like pink. That is the pink game. It is beautiful. I want to play."

Where is this kid's mom? I thought. "I am a girl, too," I said, "so I like pink and I am playing right now." Go play with the Legos, kid! I thought to myself.

"Excuse me, but these games is for kids to play and I am a girl and I like pink so that is my game."

"Well, my boy likes this game, so he is playing...." I looked around. Where did Hubba go? Dang it! I checked my score: just over 20,000. I would have to stall for time.

"Why do you like the pink game?" I asked, chasing the banana.

"I am a girl, and it is my turn, lady." The kid was getting serious. There was no way I was going to let a 5-year-old take my turn and win my high score!

And then, "Hubba?" the nurse called.

From over by the Legos he yelled to me, "MOM! STOP PLAYING THE CHOMPY GIRL GAME AND COME HERE!"

The receptionists started. The little girl's mom gave me the evil eye. I gave them all my best fake-warm-smile and stepped away from the game.

Defeat. And as I walked toward Hubba to take him back to see the dentist, I heard the unmistakable sound of Ms. Pacman's death. (Wa-wa-wa-whump-whump!) Pretending to check on my car out the window, I quickly glanced at my score. Just 400 points away from victory! With a sigh, I left my middle school memories in the arcade and became a mother again.

But this isn't over.

I'll be back.

A Night At The Theatre

(Two of the audience members, eagerly awaiting the start of the play)

I am often treated to a play which is written, directed and acted out by my kids. Last night's was especially suspenseful. Here are the general rules:

1. It must take place in the basement.
2. Costumes and props must be used.
3. If anyone forgets their lines, any other actor may fill in.
4. The script can change at any time. (Improv is good.)

And now, without further ado, I present for your theatrical pleasure:

MURDER IN ALYSSA'S MANSION!

SCENE 1.

We begin in the kitchen where the maid is preparing dinner.

"What are you doing here, Miss Coleson?" the maid asks.

"I'm just visiting." Miss Coleson responds.

"Dinner will be late, madam." the maid says kindly.

And then Miss Coleson pulls out a pink plastic knife from her tea set and STABS HER TO DEATH!!
(dim lights, crew member drags maid off)

"Mom! I'm getting dragged to change my costume!" the dead maid calls out to me.
SCENE 2.

Miss Coleson tries to visit Alyssa in her room.

Lucky for Alyssa there happens to be a guard at her door who sends Miss Coleson away.

BUT! The guard turns his back on Miss Coleson. Big mistake!!

She pulls out her pink plastic knife from her tea set and STABS HIM TO DEATH!!

SCENE 3.

Alyssa meets Miss Coleson in the secret passage to her secret cellar and asks, "What are you doing here?"

"Ever since you invited me to your birthday party and your dog bit me I have been ANGRY!" Miss Coleson yells. "And now you shall never see daylight again!"

Miss Coleson pulls out her pink plastic knife (from her tea set) and STABS HER TO.... wait!

Alyssa ducks!

She lives!

A guard happened to be in the secret passageway to the secret cellar and saw the whole thing and called 911!

A storm trooper shows up with a rubber-band gun pointed at the guard! Is he in cahoots with Miss Coleson?
No one knows!

Because at this point the cast giggles uncontrollably, takes their bows, and declares the show over.

But WAIT!!

Regardless of the fact that most of the audience has gone, the storm trooper turns his rubber-band gun on Miss Coleson and shoots her dead with a loud "P-choo! P-choo!" sound.

THE END.
(close curtain)

Thank you for joining us for a night of mystery theater.

Tune in next week when the entire cast meets for a group counseling session.

Duct Tape, I Love You

To The Person Who Came Up With This Genius Idea,

Thank you.

I wish I had come up with this myself! Of course, I assume it counts as defacing public property or something of that sort, so in that regard I am glad it was you and not me.

But seriously - thanks for putting a smile on my face.

This was just what I needed on Monday.

Sincerely,
Gerb

What's For Dinner?

It had been a long time since I made Sweet and Sour Chicken for dinner.

I love this meal. Even though it takes a little more effort than usual, it is well worth it.

I gathered the ingredients and began to slice, measure, chop and mix.

Boy, did it smell tasty when it was finally ready to serve!

I dished up a serving for everyone, proud of myself for putting forth the extra effort.

I was a true domestic goddess!

As the kids gathered around the table, Princess looked upset.

"What's wrong, Princess?" I asked. "Why are you sad?"

No response.

Me: "You should be SO happy today because look! Did you see what I made for dinner? Do you know what it is?"

Princess: "Yeah. It is dus-gusting!"

Now I remember why it has been so long since I've made it.

I am the Domestic Goddess of Disgusting.