We’ve been so busy the last 6 years

On some level, I must love the chaos.

This week has been particularly busy with Kim doing her pre-proposal defense.

Afterward her advisor wrote me to say that Kim did a good job.  I think we’re finally getting through.  For the first time, I actually BELIEVE that Kim will be finished in May.

And now that finishing in MAY feels like an actual possibility, I’ve decided to apply for law school.

Yep.

I have to get my ass in gear and take the LSAT in September and apply to the places that Kim applies for a job and then just wait and see.

I posted a facebook update saying that I had an epiphany that I was going to apply for law school this fall and I received quite a few comments on my status.  Most were positive I’ll admit.  But then the negative ones filled my inbox.

One friend told me to have a beer with her husband (who does not like being a lawyer) before deciding on anything.  Another wrote the following: “if you like your soul, you will reconsider.”  Another wrote about her law school regret – the the tune of $100,000 of debt.

I know it seems quick.  But really it isn’t.  When I was 22 years old I knew I wanted to go to law school and the only thing stopping me was the cost.  Looking back, I think that is a miserable reason not to pursue my dreams.

Don’t worry.  I have a lunch lined up with a friend.  Advising lined up at the school.  And Kimmie’s giving a couple of days to study for the LSAT.

My dad thinks we should just give ourselves a break.  But I’ve had a break for the last decade, and I’m itching to get back to school.

More soon.  But not too soon, I’m going to be out of town for the next week.

News according to a not so impartial source

So there are random tidbits of news that have been popping through my head all morning – news that keeps invading my thoughts while I try to figure it all out. Some site, Princeton Review or someone, just ranked BYU as the #1 Stone Cold Sober school in the nation. Newsworthy? Why not. But surprising? Not really. In other news, an elephant is about to give birth at Utah’s zoo – after being pregnant for almost 2 years. Again, probably not worth the time I keep thinking about the event, but I have so much empathy for this poor mamma elephant pregnant in the heat of Utah’s summer. Can’t they ship her off to Alaska for the last few months or so? Seems so much more humane. But really, having to be pregnant for 21 months + doesn’t seem too humane either.

The real news. The stuff I can’t get out of my head is this story. The amount of money that Utah spends on education. And this story, the kiss-in at Main Street Plaza.

Okay, so here goes. I feel like anger like battery acid corroding my stomach and seeping out.  I’m angry because the state of Utah spends less money per pupil on education than any other state. The state spends less than $6000 per pupil – more than $4000 less than the national average and about $9000 less per pupil than states like New York and New Jersey (who lead the pack on money spent.) There should be widespread outrage. Top education officials in Utah are saying things like – this means larger class sizes for Utah students. Fewer course offerings. Less professional development dollars for teachers – fewer counselors. Continued low teacher pay. But the mass outrage doesn’t arrive.  Instead, I’m hearing nothing but praise for the state.   The nutjobs, and I am not just talking about the crazies who call into KSL, but actual people, the nutjobs we call the citizenry of Utah – people in the office, people in the neighborhood, people in the news, people on the bus are RAVING about Utah. Can you believe it? The state spends the least amount of money per pupil to educate and we aren’t dead last in achievement.   Isn’t that great? WE AREN’T DEAD LAST IN ACHIEVEMENT.  I’m surrounded by people who think that Utah spends our money more efficiently than other states and that we should just jump up and down to celebrate the fiscal responsibility. Some are even saying that we should be a model to other states. We educate cheaply, efficiently, and our children don’t suffer THAT MUCH. Can you see the slippery slope here? It isn’t too much of a logical fallacy leap – and not much of a leap at all for people who think that Jesus lived, Jesus died, Jesus hopped on over to North America to spend some time with indigenous folks, wrote another book and then was resurrected.  Or whatever Jesus timeline we’re dealing with here. Point is, we aren’t exactly following logic now are we? What I was saying is that there isn’t too much of a leap to,
education is such a bargain
equals
I think I’ll have another kid
equals
maybe I can get eight or nine and really cash in on the deal before it’s too late

The second bit of news that keeps flying around my head is the kissing on Main Street Plaza event. This thing just won’t die down. Since July 9th when a gay couple was detained and ticketed for trespassing on Main Street Plaza, this thing has been in the news. And before I launch into any more rant, I want to take a teeny weeny break to post a couple of pictures of us – the H-Ps kissing in front of god and everyone.

As much action as we ever get while holding one kid, trying not to lose the other.

Sharing filthy kisses.

Riley was just glad we didn’t get arrested, Riley’s “nightmare” the night before we went.

Kim, giving one helluva explanation as to why those people are chaining themselves to the gate, and those other people are in their face yelling about how god hates us and we’re all going to hell.

Yes we went.  And I am glad we did.  But I keep thinking about the event – all the events.  The two men walking home after a concert and sharing a moment in the serenity and beauty of downtown Salt Lake.  And then the  “kiss-in” in response to the harassment.  And there we were protesters on private property.   And there they were.  The protesters who were protesting the protesters who were shouting the land is sacred religious space and that we’ve violated it with our filthy kisses.   And a protester emerging as a leader, his voice calm and inviting against the backdrop of the shouting telling us that all are welcome here and to please gather closer and respectfully be seen and known and kissed.  And the reason I keep thinking of this is that this thing illustrates the gray. The hues of black and white mixed together in such a complicated concoction of private property and human rights, and issues of access to the downtown of a city and hurt and harassment and Proposition 8 which I really cannot just write like that, I actually am now compelled to write Proposition h8 because really we have to address the hate “the everyone is a sinner, but YOU PEOPLE take the cake” attitude that prevails here.  But private property.  I value that.  It is so gray.

There are some people who want to know if the kiss was “inappropriate.”  They want to know whether the incident was a peck on the cheek.  Or a bigger kiss.  Or a grope.  And I guess I want to know too.  But truth is, no matter what the kiss was like, it was deemed “inappropriate” long before those two young men engaged in it.  And lets be real here.  I’ve seen some heavy action on the Plaza.  Typically hetero-action where the gal is in a long white dress and the guy in some fancy tux and there’s also usually a photographer catching the lip-lock for time and all eternity.  What about those filthy kisses?

The language around this subject is also fascinating. Whether you call the space the kiss occurred the Main Street Plaza or the Church Temple Grounds depends completely on where you align on the issue. And NOBODY wants to talk about the time that the city owned Main Street Plaza and in fact, it was called the Free Speech Zone, and people actually had a fundamental right to gather and protest. But here, when the church wants something it gets it, and a controversial land swap happened shortly after and Main Street Plaza is now part of World Domination Headquarters, I mean Mormon Church Owned Property.  Supposedly this is still public access private property.  But there’s obvious caveats to the “public.”  No gays.  No smokers.  And if you happen to be the foul-mouthed profanity-spitting type, you might want to walk the extra block to State Street with the gays.

Its not possible that the Founding Fathers could even conceive of churches owning empires when they granted tax exempt status.  Farms.  Businesses.  Tithing.  Now that’s a greater plan even than a ponzi scheme.  In a ponzi scheme, there are investors expecting to be paid.  But with religion, you pay the 10% hoping that god will grant you blessings and if he doesn’t then you must have had it coming.  Maybe you should try harder.  Maybe your reward will come in the afterlife.  Maybe, just maybe, you should have given 15%.  We’re talking a business with billions in assets – who really knows – because these churches don’t have to file taxes.

Then I feel the shame.  The shame that I am spouting bitterness through clenched teeth just like the rest.  And a shame that’s even more raw than the clenched teeth shame, the shame that writing my truth, my bitter truth, actually makes me feel better.  Even if just for now, just for the moment, I’ve let the steam off.

The real problem is that the hurt hasn’t healed. The scars of childhood get opened again and again as I watch my children endure what I endured.  What I continue to endure.  I know that I simply cannot internalize it. I know that I simply cannot let my children internalize it. And the truth is, a church shouldn’t own Main Street Plaza.  Or a city. Or a state. But it does. And that plaza.  That city. Indeed that state. Must make room for me. Because. At least for now. I live here too.

It is true. She wanted to pee at IKEA

Kim read my last post and apparently didn’t approve of the spin I put into the post.

Spin.

This isn’t a political blog.  ”What spin?” I inquired.

“I won’t be happy until you post the picture and ADMIT that I WANTED TO PEE AT IKEA.”

Alright.  Alright.  If it is important enough for my partner to want Internet folks to know, I guess I had better post the picture and admit that she wanted to pee at IKEA.

But first, the only reason I didn’t want to pee at IKEA is that it was close to 7 PM already and the Kennecott Visitor’s Center was going to close at 8 PM.  And what kind of a self-respecting Visitor’s Center doesn’t offer restrooms?  Besides, IKEA makes me uncomfortable with their family restrooms and free wet wipes and yummy smelling hand soap.  I wouldn’t want my offspring to inherit their peeing entitlement from their OTHER mother now would I?

That’s right.  I got to be the one to teach our toddler how to pee in a porta-potty without touching anything.  And it was only fair.  AFTER ALL, SHE WANTED TO PEE AT IKEA!

As beautiful as destruction can be

This past weekend we decided to take Saturday afternoon and have a family date.  Casey has wanted to go to the zoo for the last few weeks so we gathered the boys up with the intention of going.  We made it all the way to the glass recycling drop-off to deposit some beer bottles before making it to the zoo.

The engine was shut off for merely 10 seconds when I realized I was, in fact, NOT, going to make it to the zoo.  It was hot.  And I mean burn the rage right into my gut hot.  I mean, sweating from pores I didn’t know I had hot.  I mean, “stop touching me, you’re sticky hot.”  The bitch comes out when I’m hot and I just wasn’t going to make it through the stank that is July at the zoo, especially in Phoenix weather, no matter how much I love the kid.   Casey cried and I did feel bad.  What kind of a parent loads the kids up and says, “hey kiddies, you get to go to the zoo today” parades them right past the zoo on the way to the recycling spot, and then announces, “umm.  Never mind.  No zoo for you.”?

I knew I owed the boys something special, and nothing says special like an air-conditioned IKEA with free babysitting, and meatballs.  I knew Casey would forgive me.  And promptly he did.

Since we were in the neck of the woods anyway, and since we’d never been before, we decided that we’d swing by Kennecott Utah Copper Mine after Ikea.  By then it was almost 7 PM and I figured it’d be a bit cooler.  I had no idea that the mine would be such a hit for the kiddies.  I guess nothing says redemption like land destruction so large you can see it from the moon.  It truly was awesome in a sad, this used to be a beautiful canyon and now it’s a ¾ of a mile deep pit sort of way.

The boys ran around, begged for quarters to peek in binoculars to watch the active mining that continued well after we left.  And Casey was in his own version of heaven.  There were trucks everywhere – tractors, dump trucks – huge trucks that could trounce our house in a second.  And the boys held still and watched the wonder of the activity below.  It was like watching Casey playing trucks in a sandbox, but the trucks held people and continued an assembly line of efficiency below.  The largest man-made excavation on earth became Casey’s playground and the wonder of his face continued well after Riley lost interest and bounced into the gift shop and the visitor’s center.

We really truly do have a boy.  A boy boy.  A trucks and big holes and sandbox boy.  And with that, I give you a few pics from the day.

Twilight sucks but I keep on reading

I am sick, disgusted, and ashamed of myself so it makes it hard to admit (much less to THE Internet) that I have been sucked into the Twilight series craze that I have seen snowballing for the last few years. It all happened a couple of weeks ago when my 13 year old niece left the Twilight book at my house. This young lady had already read the book a few times, and had seen the movie countless times. She left it and one night I picked it up. It was a quick read. Misogynistic. Lusty. A guilty pleasure I suppose. I then felt compelled to read the whole series and the further I get the more I want to scream. To put them down. To throw them out. But they are truly like a bad drug and I am so far in, my only option is to ride out the high and finish the damn books.

My niece returned to my house this weekend to reclaim her book. I made the mistake of asking her what she thought of the books and she responded with something like, “I know that I will wait for MY Edward.”

How many gorgeous, vegetarian, overprotective vampires are there out there? I’m not sure she’s going to find her Edward. Is it really Edward we should be chasing here? This is the real problem I see. Jacob Black is safe. He’s nice. He’s even lovely. He loves her. She loves him. She even refers to him as her soul mate. But no. She has to throw that all away for a scary, strong, exciting, “I might crush you by accident” vampire. There’s just too many parallels to domestic violence for me to be comfortable telling my niece that she should definitely wait for someone she lusts after, keeps secrets from, and who can break her in half at the first sign of losing his temper.

I know. I know. I’m overanalyzing. But that’s who I am. My nieces (yes plural) are reading trash and getting more and more tied to the idea of some dangerous and exciting man who will swoop in and protect them for the rest of their lives. AND THEY LIKE THAT IMAGE!

It just bugs me. Yet here I am picking up the 4th and final (thankfully!) book. Sorry. I’ll blog soon. I have 700 disgusting pages to read.

A coconut for the nuts

Two weeks ago we had my 14 year old nephew stay with us for the week to take care of Riley during the day . School got out one week and summer school didn’t start until the next full week, so Squishy came out to keep Riley company. Riley LOVES hanging out with teenagers. He feels so important being included in the video games and the electric guitar sessions, and the late nights. Squishy is a beautiful kid with an appetite of a horse. We could not keep the food in the house. I think the boys sat home each day and ate. Then we’d get home at night and they’d eat. Bedtime would come and they’d eat. Squishy apparently even eats more at home due to 2-a-day football practices. I don’t know how my sister can afford to feed him. We bought some special sorbet for the week. Fruit sorbet served in the natural fruit. There was lemon sorbet in a half lemon. There was pineapple in part of a pineapple shell, but the boys loved the coconut sorbet the best. They held onto the coconuts and jokingly put them under their shirts. They were so stinkin’ cute together. Anyway, the coconuts became his new favorite toy and I promised not to throw them away….for awhile at least. The week passed, summer school started, and Squish went home. As an aside, my sister said he lamented for the entire week how he almost starved to death at our house because we never fed him enough and what we fed him tasted like tofu and cardboard. What? Tofu and cardboard?

A few days ago Riley was over at a friend’s house after summer school riding bikes when a neighborhood kid on his own bike ran out in front of Riley and cut Riley off. “On PURPOSE!”, he asserts. Riley swerved to miss the kid and ran Smack. Dab. Into a tree. I told Riley that next time he ought to just run into the kid but instinct, poor planning, or whatever led to his impact with said tree. The tree won. And poor Riley racked himself in his precious parts. This is the first time Riley has ever had an injury THERE beyond a tiny bump. Until this event Riley had no idea how painful his privates could be. I’m told that as soon as he was able to take in a breath of air, he promptly screamed an obscenity. Later he told me, “You’d say Fuck too Mamma, if you had a penis.” (Indeed I would.)

He also tried to strip down naked right there in the middle of the sidewalk, bike and self smashed against a tree. The dad of the friend whose house Riley was at ran outside to make sure that Riley was okay. This dad is a real sweet guy. And we adore him. But he’s got a big voice and a big presence, and he’s physically a very big man and he’s not quite used to boys like Riley. You know, sissies. Riley was wailing. Carrying on. As I said before, Riley was also stripping. Right there in the sidewalk to assess the damage.

Friend’s Dad, “Dude, you gotta take care of your junk in private man. Come on. Lets go inside and I’ll get you a wet towel, and you can gather yourself back together.”

Riley, through sobs of drama“But. I. Can’t. Walk.”

Friend’s Dad, “You gotta be a man, man!.”

Riley, through DEFENSIVE  sobs of drama, “Boys can cry. Men cry too.”

Friend’s Dad, “Of course we do son. But we don’t do it in the street.”

Riley, “When we get hurt in the street we do. I want my MOM. N.O.W!”

So the dad drove Riley home and Kim promptly started mothering Riley. He took a cool bath and then stripped down on the couch to watch a re-run of the Golden Girls with a bag of frozen peas on his lap. He insisted he needed to go directly to the emergency room. And I even called my DAD to ask at what point you take your kid with his swollen and bruised ball sac to the ER. My Dad people. I talked to my dad about my kids penis. Meanwhile Riley can’t pee. (It hurts.) He can’t eat. (It hurts.) He can’t cough. (It hurts.) Apparently getting sacked in the sac feels a lot like a C-section. Except with a C-section you get a baby. And with the other injury you just might never get a baby.

In any case, Riley carried on all night. We even had to let him ride in the wagon for our nightly walk. Because, that’s right, it hurt to walk. After dinner, Riley’s friend and both his parents stopped in to check on Riley. The dad also wanted to make sure we felt he handled the injury okay. He said he was uncomfortable dealing with someone else’s kid and he was worried about “doctoring” Riley. He wanted to be sympathetic but also keep those privacy boundaries. In retrospect, he felt like he could have been more sympathetic. (I love this guy. He is so darn sweet.) In any case, he gave me the above commentary between him and Riley right after the “incident.” They left. And we finally got Riley to sleep.

The next day Riley awoke and seemed to be in good spirits. He got up and got dressed for school. He acted like nothing was wrong. I was afraid to even mention anything because I didn’t want it to remind him that he got hurt. I couldn’t help it though. About the time we were to walk out the door for school/work, I asked him if he felt better. He replied that he did. And then he leaned over and whispered that he was wearing the coconut shell he saved from the sorbet.

He was wearing a coconut cup. And no convincing otherwise could have gotten it off of him.

Goodbye Lucy, Hello Jasper

Lucy – our 11 year old Saturn- and the first purchase Kim and I made together, has gotten too old for us to take care of her.  I know she has a good 30 or 40 thousand miles left in her, but she’s at that point in her life that she needs a little bit of TLC.  But TLC takes TIME.  Time is what we don’t have.  Over the past year Lucy needed new tires.  Then she needed a “tune up.”  Then it started burning oil.  Now the radiator is leaking fluid.  I mean, if its not one thing its another.  And since we haven’t gotten the time to invest in her, she sits for weeks at a time in our driveway while Kim has shuttled Casey to daycare, Riley to school, me to work, and  back again.  Being an unpaid shuttle driver just isn’t the best way to write a dissertation. 

So on Friday when we found out Lucy had a crack in her radiator, we decided it was time for a new car.

Only this is the first time in my life that I decided on a purchase where I couldn’t actually afford the purchase I was making.  Please.  No judgment.  I’m an American.  It must be in my genetic structure.  Besides, I feel like I’m doing my part to get the recession over with.  Isn’t that what we’re supposed to do?  Spend!

I called my dad to get some advice on how much under the MSRP sticker we ought to be getting, and how to know when a salesman is screwing with you etc?  My dad’s advice was pretty deep.  And accurate.  First he said, if you buy a car, you get took . Its as simple as that.  Then he said, and this is where is gets profound.  My father confessed to me that, HE’D RATHER BE A PIANO PLAYER IN A WHORE HOUSE THAN BE A CAR SALESMAN. 

I thought he was exaggerating a bit, but after a long day at dealership after dealership and getting the same lines, I realized he’s right on. 

Don’t let them leave.  Make them think you’re their best friend.  Make sure they know you have no problems with their homosexuality.  Hell, tell them a story about your only gay cousin.  Or better yet, your gay friend!  Let them know you’re the only guy in town who is honest, and how much return business you get.  Don’t look desparate.  Pretend cars are flying off the lot.   Make sure to get them talking about montly payment, not interest rate. 

It’s a racket.  And it’s the same game all over town.

We did end up buying a car.  A car we’ve already named Jasper.  Another Subaru (why mess with perfection.)   I’m pretty sure we got took.  I mean, we left with a car, so I’m pretty certain about it.  I couldn’t quite bear trading in Lucy for a mere $750, so we’re selling her ourselves to a good friend who will keep her in the family for a while at least, and maybe by then my slow-to-transition children will be able to part with her. 

And my new best friend named Terry sold me the car.  He bought my son a soda while we were negotiating.  I guess I’m supposed to think, “Ahh this guy bought my son a 50 cent soda, he’s a real swell guy.”  Really I just thought to myself, “this guy has no idea the hyperactivity he just opened up with the crack of that can lid.”  So while Riley bounced around the dealership, I signed my name on the dotted line.  And that’s when I decided that I’d rather be a WHORE than a car salesman.  ACTUALLY, I’D RATHER BE A WHORE IN THE SAME WHORE HOUSE WHERE MY FATHER PLAYS PIANO.

The Latina named La Teena

Because of a busy work schedule the last few weeks, I postponed several doctor visits and speech/language testing for Casey until this week.  This meant that Casey had an audiologist appointment, an ENT appointment, speech language testing, and an IEP meeting with the school district all this week.  He was also scheduled for another ear tube surgery, but the ENT allowed us to cancel it and wait until fall to see if he still needs it then.  It was a long week and was trying for the little guy.  The speech language testing itself required Casey to sit and focus and speak – for 2 hours!  These folks are professionals.  They noticed when Casey was getting bored and restless and changed games.  They tried to stay a step ahead and it helped a lot, but in retrospect, this was just too busy of a week for the little guy.

He’s had ear infections since he was a wee one.  He got tubes.  They fell out.  He got tubes again.  He was slow to develop speech.  His tubes fell out again.  Anytime he’s had fluid behind his ear, he’s had slightly impaired hearing and he can’t hear higher frequency sounds.  So this means that his speech, hasn’t developed clearly and frankly, I can’t understand but maybe 40% of what the child says.  When I do understand, he says things like, “Mommy, my train had a malfunction.  Me probably have to fix it.  The train.”  And I think to myself, this kid is brilliant, there’s no way he needs extra help.  But most the time he’s probably uttering equally complicated sentences, it just sounds like gibberish.  And he gets so frustrated when we can’t understand him.  Sometimes he takes me by the hand and shows me what he’s talking about.  He has such great coping skills.  The other day he was trying to tell me something about a “star” and I kept thinking he meant “car” or “jar” and he responded to me, (singing) “you know tintle tintle widdle tar.”  (Twinkle Twinkle Little Star)

Hanging out this week at the appointments was actually enjoyable.  He is so fun to watch and you can actually see him think.  He can sit still, stay focused so much longer than Riley can now, much less at the age of 3.  And even as he gets bored with the games they have him play, he’s fun to watch adapt.  It wasn’t good enough at the audiologist to just put a chip in the can when he heard a sound.  After 10 minutes of this, he grabbed a puzzle and put a piece of the puzzle together every time he heard a sound.

So after we endured a long week of appointments related to communication, I gathered up all the documentation from the week to take in to Head Start.  We’re trying to get him in the same pre-school that helped his brother out so much with his ADHD and I needed to supplement his file with the new IEP and the new documentation.

I walked into the office and approached the woman at the front desk and our exchange went like this.

Me:  “I have some supplemental information for my son’s file.”

Her. “Who requested the information?”

Me. “Um.  I’m not sure of her name.  She’s the nurse.”

Her. “Ma’am.  We have a number of nurses.  Can you think of her name?”

Me. “No.  But she’s probably in her 40s.  She’s shorter than I am.  She’s Latina.”

Her. “LaTeena?”

Me.”No.  I mean, she’s Latina.”

She stared at me like I had 7 heads.

Me.  “The Latina Nurse.  You know, Latina.” (In desperation…)  “The Hispanic nurse in her 40s.”

Her.  “Oh no.  Her name isn’t La Teena.  It’s Laura.”

Me. – obvious that I was not going to successfully communicate with this woman.   “Um.  I’m sorry.  Yes.  That’s right.  Laura.”

Her. “I’ll go get her for you.”

The poor woman still had no idea what I was trying to say.  And we’re both full grown adults.  With decent hearing.  And no required speech and language therapy.

How frustrating it must be for Casey.

When the shit hits the fan…and the vanity…and the floor

I really struggled with what to call this post, because the options were endless.  I thought of everything from “A Memorial Day to Remember.”  to “I had a shitty weekend.”

I had a work commitment on Saturday which required that I get up early and work until about 2 PM.  I rushed home after that and got Casey then headed to Moab where my family was convening for the long weekend and where Riley was already playing with cousins.  The 4 hour drive seemed endless as Casey slept and I struggled to keep alert and focused as I drove through sunshine – then pouring rain – then sunshine – then rain like I had never seen it come down before.  I’m talking flash flood rain, and I creeped along the interstate doing about 40 miles per hour.

I arrived in Moab just after a downpour as the sun peaked through and the most gorgeous, vibrant rainbow filled the entire sky.  I felt myself relax.  My work commitments were over, and I planned on having a fabulous weekend of tacos, tequila, and family.

As I pulled into my sister’s driveway, I had but two things on my mind…using the bathroom, and eating dinner.  I had called from town and said I was almost there.  She said Shrimp tacos were being served even as we spoke.  My mouth watered.

I entered the living room and started to beeline to the bathroom when I heard someone say, “I hear water running in the bathroom.”  I glanced into the bathroom to the most gruesome sight I had ever seen.

The toilet was a volcano.  More aptly put, a geyser, and it was forcefully exploding raw sewage.  A little more powerful (though about the same color) as the mud pots of Yellowstone, the sewage erupted with force from the toilet.

My first thought was relief that I hadn’t arrived a minute earlier.  I was sure that I would have been sitting atop ole’ faithful getting a shit-water enema.  Not exactly what I had in mind for my holiday weekend.  I was equally relieved that I hadn’t arrived five minutes earlier.  I would certainly have been blamed for “clogging” the pot – an accusation thrown my way since childhood.  My second thought was, “How am I supposed to go pee with this happening?”  It wasn’t until my third conscious thought that I realized the horror that was now pouring out of the bathroom and into the hallway and living room.  “What in the world is my sister going to do?”

She and her husband jumped into action.  She called the city.  It was Memorial Day Weekend.  She called the on-call number.  She finally got a hold of the on-call guy who had clearly been 5 beers into the game, but said he’d be right down.  Her husband got busy throwing down towels and blankets and rugs and anything he could, and my nephew and I picked up their new couch and carried it to the kitchen.  We picked up anything on the floor, saving most everything we could.  But the sewage kept coming as the toilets (we discovered the master bathroom was having the same problem simultaneously) exploded for a good twenty minutes.  My sister announced that we all had to vacate the premise due to the presence of methane gas.  (Umm.  Duh.)

That’s when my survival instincts kicked in.  I ran to the kitchen and grabbed myself a shrimp taco and proceeded to eat it while standing in ankle high sewage and inhaling the stinky air.  At this point, Riley’s survival instincts must have kicked in too.  He gathered up all the children and himself and climbed atop the trampoline, because “if the flood keeps coming, we’ll be safe here.”

The brown water (and I use that term loosely) was now about 4 inches deep in spots and rising.  It was clear that the 15 of us would not be able to spend the night there.  My dad and I gathered up the 7 children and took them to the park where incidentally I was finally able to use the facilities.  Though the facilities were port a potties, I had never been more thankful.  I called every – and I mean every – hotel, motel, hostel, condo rental, and campsite in 20 miles, only to find that Moab had no.  And I mean NO.  VACANCY.

At this point my dad said we all needed to pile into the cars and drive to Roosevelt, leaving Carrie and Miguel to sort out their house.  It wasn’t hat we weren’t willing to help.  I mean, I’ve had a hepatitis shot and all, but really, I was more of a hindrance.  Chasing two children through a poopy living room isn’t exactly the kind of dig in and scrub assistance they needed.  There was no way I was getting back into a car for 4 hours.  I had been up since 5 in the morning, was busy and stressed out coordinating the work event and post-reception and then drove for 4 hours already.  While driving back to the house to see the progress my sis was able to make, and hopefully to make a plan, Casey chimed in from the back seat, “Casey no want to go to the shit house again.”  I assurred him that he would not have to go in.   I was just about resigned to the upcoming 4 hour drive when my sister’s friend offered up her house.  I quickly agreed to the charity offered by my sister’s friend.  She had naively offered that we could stay at her house for the night.

And the 15 of us did exactly that.

So Sunday morning we all drove back to Roosevelt, and left Carrie and Miguel to strip the carpet, linoleum, and wood flooring from their house.  We spent the day and then drove back to Salt Lake City on Monday.  It wasn’t the Memorial Day Weekend I wanted.  Indeed I feel a little self absorbed even to label it a shitty weekend.  Because it certainly was shittier for my sister.

Happy Belated Birthday

This post is over a month late, but I told myself I would post it no matter how much time passed.

It, happens to be Casey’s third birthday.  Which just happened to be a blast.  He celebrated his 3rd as a joint party with his cousin who just turned 1.  And since Kim’s tradition is to bake and frost the tastiest and most adorable cakes ever, I thought I’d start with a pic.

I know, it looks like Mamma Kim baked a cute little train cake for her 31 year old son, but take a minute, I’m sure you can figure it out.

Casey was exhausted from the festivities and cousins being in town, but he managed to keep it together through pin-the-caboose-on-the-train long enough to get to opening presents.  He even got to ride a train.

Granted, it was the commuter train, and all we did was ride it up to Ogden then get back on it and ride it back.  But it was much cheaper than the Heber Creeper.

Here are the two final images.  I speak from personal experience when I say that this precious age is gone so fast.  (Even though it seem like yesterday that Riley was only 3, I have to admit, I love 7 too.) For memory sake, here are two favorite pictures of what this little angel looks like at 3. The first one, having fun.  The second one, getting tired.

Casey, I am honored to be your mommy.