My Reality

Here's my dirty little secret:  I love reality shows.  And I'm going to announce that proudly, without a hint of the shame and embarrassment that I occasionally feel from enjoying something so worldly, so lowbrow, so unimportant as watching regular people do things that I may or may not ever be able to do myself.  It's almost as bad, although maybe not quite, as the stigma around liking McDonald's.  Sheesh, after Supersize Me came out I felt like I needed to put my quarter pounder with cheese in a Whole Foods Market bag so no one would know that I don't mind eating processed foods.  

There are a few things I like about reality shows.  It's nice to see a different reality than the one that I'm currently in.  Not that I don't like my life;  I do, mostly, but there's not nearly as much adventure and excitement as in your standard reality show.  When's the last time I was required to bungee jump off a bridge, for example, or rappel down the side of a building?  Never, that's when!  Not that I particularly want to do those things, but my point is that my life doesn't require a lot of adrenaline for me.

I love watching people using their talents in an extreme way.  I've watched American Idol, but my favorite talent reality show is So You Think You Can Dance, mostly because I've always wanted to be able to dance.  These are some gifted people, and I love watching them use their talents.  I'm not so crazy about them being scorned by judges for not doing well enough, but at least on SYTYCD they aren't quite as brutal as Simon can be.  

I think by far my favorite part of reality shows is the competition factor.  I love contests of skill and could probably get emotionally involved in a snail race if there was money for the winner.  There is something about seeing people's true colors come out when the pressure's on that is really telling about their personality.  Nowhere is that more apparent than on my favorite reality show, The Amazing Race.  These are the ultimate regular people - they don't need to have an iron will (and stomach) like the Fear Factor contestants, or ruthless ambition and a need to dominate like Survivorites.  Amazing Racers are just people who think it would be fun to do crazy challenges while they travel around the world.  The excitement on their faces when they find out where they are going next is the closest to kinship that I'll ever feel with a reality show contestant.

But it's the other behavior of those contestants that keeps me from being on that show.  When the chips are down, some of those people get ugly with a capital ug.  I've told Ryan that there's no way I'd subject my marriage to that kind of laboratory experiment - some couples end up completely falling apart and while I'd like to think that we'd be mature enough to handle the stresses of the game, I would never take the chance of putting our worst arguments on national television.  

Here is a list of reality shows that I've enjoyed:

The Biggest Loser

The Amazing Race

Project Runway

Survivor

Iron Chef

Top Chef

The Next Food Network Star

The Next Iron Chef (can you tell, I really like cooking reality shows?)

So You Think You Can Dance

The Apprentice, in the early seasons

Most of these shows is pure fluff, nothing but entertainment, but every so often I learn something.  Like the other day I was at the gym and struggling to run longer than I have before.  I could hear Jillian (from the Biggest Loser) screaming at me to keep going, and while in person I would have hated being yelled at, being yelled at by a voice in my head was somehow motivating, and I ran for a whole mile.  (I know, that's nothing to get excited about, but I don't know that I've ever run a mile before.)  And the cooking shows motivate me to try new techniques in the kitchen, and learn how to chop onions faster. 

So, judge me if you will, America, for my love of reality shows.  But if you're going to judge me, make sure you call and place your vote for me, Emily, as The Next Big Reality Show Lover!  

March Madness

Well, it's March again, folks, which must mean it's time for us to take away a giant backyard toy because it is "dangerous" and replace it with something which may or may not be safer. Yes, the Simmons' own version of March Madness. If you recall, last years match-up was Evil Trampoline vs. Traditional Wooden Swingset. The Swingset was a sure bet. After all, it hearkened back to good, old-fashioned family values, you know, with kids using their imaginations and the whole thing being built out of wood, just like the pioneers build their kids' swingsets, not this new-fangled steel-and-rubber pain machine that you just know Laura Ingalls Wilder never would have tolerated. Plus, we had the added bonus of sacrificing real dollars for our kids' safety - the swingset was like $800, but there's nothing too good for our kids, right?

This year, the Traditional Wooden Swingset is going head-to-head with Sturdy Metal Swingset, and while the odds are about even, it looks like the Sturdy Metal Swingset might come out the winner. I honestly thought the Traditional Wooden Swingset would be the Champion For Life, like we'd have to retire the whole sport of Backyard Play Equipment due to its infalliability. I thought this would be the swingset our grandchildren would come over and swing on, and there would be a grown-up Brad and Noah telling the story to their kids about how originally they didn't want to see the trampoline go, but how they had come to love this swingset. Yes, there we'd be, sipping our lemonades on the porch while the boys recount their glory days on the ol' set while watching the young'uns swing on the very same swings they once did. It looks like the story is going to be a different one than I had hoped.

We knew there was a problem with the swingset pretty much as soon as it was finished, not only because on Day 1 the blood started flowing from various children's bodies after they proved the swingset-is-safer fallacy. No, the problem was that the whole contraption swayed from side to side when anyone swung on it. It made Ryan sick to his stomach to see just how not sturdy the thing he had spent 20 hours or more building was. But how do you return something like this? Do you take it apart, throw all the pieces in the back of the van, and haul it all back to Toys R Us? I suppose we had that option in the beginning, but it seemed ridiculous to do that.

It seems less ridiculous now, a year later, when the swaying problem didn't magically fix itself. I don't know what I was expecting, that a year out in the elements would toughen it up a little? Like once the swingset knew that weakness would not be tolerated here it would brace itself for the storm that is a neighborhood full of kids? Well, here's a news flash - if you ignore a problem for a year, the problem is just a year older, not a year better. It turns out that I am pretty good at ignoring problems, I think it comes with being an optimist. I'm not an extreme optimist, like my friend Kathy who could see the bright side of the sun imploding, but definitely try to look for the good in things. There are some problems that are minor enough that if you ignore them, it eventually doesn't bother you. Swingsets are not one of those things.

Now that the snow has melted and we are venturing out of our caves again, we see the swingset problem in full bloom. And it's worse. At last count, we've got four separate pieces that have broken off, one of which (a monkey bar) left a giant screw sticking out of it, which Noah cut himself on last fall. I called Toys R Us at the time to complain about the thing breaking, and they couldn't have cared less. I suppose if it had been made in China and dipped in lead, then we could have had a discussion, but simply falling apart is not nearly as bad. I tried to call the manufacturer, Adventure Playsets, but it was on a weekend, and by the time they were open again I had forgotten. And now, naturally, it's out of warranty (except for defects in the wood).

Ryan approached me today with his concerns. Well, "concerns" is putting it mildly - he has resented this $800 wooden intrusion into our lives since it first started wobbling. Today he very nicely asked me if he could take a sledgehammer and destroy the thing, and replace it with a metal swingset. No, I said, it's here and it's staying. I am not throwing away $800! He said that it had gotten worse, and I should take a look - we don't want it seriously hurting someone before we decide to get rid of it.

I wanted to blow him off about this, but after he left to go see his grandparents for their birthday (I stayed home with sick kids) I watched Brad swinging. And Ryan's right, as much as I hate to admit it. Something is going to go seriously wrong. Not only is the swaying worse, but one of the arms that holds a swing bows dangerously when Brad swings on it. Not just a little, either, it bows by several inches. I had to tell him not to swing on that side at all. Plus, two of the giant screws that hold the monkey bar assembly onto the playhouse structure have popped out.

So now the question is, what do we do? Do we call it an $800 loss and start over with something else? Do we rent a backhoe and level a piece of ground, and move the swingset? It's my opinion that the problems are caused (or at least, exacerbated) by the ground not being level, although Ryan is pinning the problems on cheap wood. Both are probably true. But do we toss this one, or try to salvage it? Are wooden swingsets really disposable? Or at least, recyclable?

It would be an easier decision if the original swingset hadn't been so stinkin' expensive. If it had been, say, a $300 swingset, this would be an easier decision. Ryan and I keep a mental list of the stupidest things we've ever wasted money on, the worst financial decisions, and so far $500 is the most we've blown at one time. When Brad was about 6 months old, we got suckered into a uniquely Los Angeles scam, where we paid $500 for the privilege of a company called FlashCast Kids to try to get Brad cast in a commercial or something. What can I say, he was awfully cute and they were awfully sure he could be successful. Dave Ramsey (a radio financial guy) calls this kind of thing, where you waste money, a "Stupid Tax." We still regret those $500 (and the stupid decision it represents.) Will this wooden swingset replace FlashCast Kids as the phrase that one of us utters to remind the other about how stupid we can be?

My current position, which I am only tenuously holding onto, is that I'd like to repair this swingset before we toss it completely. Ryan's position, which is substantially firmer than the swingset itself, is that the wood was too crappy to be salvaged, and as the one who built the whole thing with his bare hands, he has an intimate knowledge of the wood in question. Why waste the time and money on something that was substandard to begin with?

Ryan's vote in the Traditional Wooden Swingset vs. Sturdy Metal Swingset is the metal one. The boys spend almost all of their time swinging or sitting on top of the monkey bars - they rarely slide or play in the playhouse, so all they need are swings. Ryan also votes for getting the crew of Mythbusters in to blow the thing up, he thinks that would be a fitting end to the whole situation. Me, I'm still on the fence. Which is a safer place to be than on the swingset.

Parenting On Parade

I think something in the cosmos knows when I haven't blogged enough, and so throws an event in my path that the only way I can recover from it is to write it for the world to see.  I've been thinking recently that I just haven't had much to say, but yesterday solved that for me.

Parenting is hard enough in the privacy of your own home.  Going out in public with the kids is like putting your parenting skills on a leash and trotting them around the Westminster Kennel Show stage, with all of the judges marking each misstep on their clipboards.  On yesterday's trip to Costco, not only did I trip and drop the leash, but that puppy pooped all over the stage.  My parenting skills took a serious dive in the scoring, I believe.

It started innocently enough.  Brad and Noah had some allowance money burning a hole in their pocket, and I needed some milk and (in all honesty) a churro, so I loaded the four kids in the minivan and headed to Costco.  The two older boys headed for the candy aisle, while I pushed Zack and Darcey in the cart, loading up with groceries.  They were both sitting in the front seat, and Zack would randomly announce which thing he had to have as we walked past.  

We were heading to the dairy section when we walked past a large display.  "I want one of those!"  Zack said.  

"A kayak?  Where do you plan to use a kayak, the bathtub?  We're not exactly a kayaking family."  I said this as I rounded the corner and passed a sample lady, setting out her display.  She must have kids herself, because she caught my eye and we both smiled at each other.  Kids, right?

As our cart passed her down the dairy aisle, Zack, whose back had been to her, sees the sample lady and in his loudest outside voice said "Hey!  Look at that big guy!  That guy is really big!"  He's pointing straight at the sample lady.  I go into shush-overdrive as I try to get him to shut the heck up, but naturally, it just makes him talk all that much louder to be heard over my shushing.  "Look at that big guy, mom!  That's a really big guy!"

May I take this moment to remind you that she was, in fact, a woman.  

Alarm sirens in my head are wailing as I try to get this situation under control.  I want to run out of there as fast as possible, and I want to mitigate the damage as much as I can.  I am in mental torment.  I end up quickly walking down the aisle just to try to get Zack out of the woman's earshot, or at least give him the chance to be distracted by something else.  And then I pull over and give Zack The Lecture.

This is the same lecture I had to give Noah a couple of years ago, strangely enough, also at Costco.  He had been staring at a 5 year old boy with an eyepatch (not the piratey kind, the medical problem kind).  I tried to distract him but Noah wouldn't stop staring.  Finally, the kid started crying and told his mom, "That boy is staring at me!"  Which was completely true, of course.  I apologized and left before I could start crying myself.

This is also the same lecture that I had to give Brad 4 years ago, shortly after we moved to this neighborhood.  I was big and pregnant with Zack at the time and while we were outside chatting with a neighbor who happened to carry her extra weight around the middle.  I was hoping a hole in the earth would open up and swallow us all when he asked her "Do you have a baby in your tummy too?"

The lecture goes something like this:  Don't say someone is really big.  It hurts their feelings.  Okay?  Don't say someone is big, it's not nice to say it.  Okay?

Naturally, this lecture is completely adaptable to any embarrassing situation that a kid might put you in - Don't stare at the kid with one eye, Don't ask our 45 year old neighbor if she's pregnant, etc.  And the kids' responses are all pretty uniform too:  But she is really big!  He only has one eye!!!  But how do you teach tact to a 3 or 4 year old?  It starts here, with the lesson that not all truths need to be announced at the top of your lungs in a warehouse store.

I gave Zack The Lecture while we were in the same aisle as the woman, so that hopefully she saw that I was taking his comment seriously and trying to teach him some manners.  And then I had to get some milk from the case where we were standing.  But I only grabbed one instead of two to speed things up, and then I slunk out of there just as fast as I could slink.

I felt horrible.  I was so embarrassed.  Mortified.  The last thing in the whole world I wanted to do was make eye contact with that woman again.  So I stuck to the backs of the aisles as I walked through the store and found the older boys in the candy aisle.  They both had decided on gigantic bags of candy which on any other day I might have tried to bargain them out of, but not today.  No, today's goal was get the heck out of there as fast as possible.  

I left without confronting my shame, which I think is probably the natural response.  I harbor a microscopic hope that somehow she didn't hear his comment, or thought he was talking about some big "guy" which couldn't possibly have been her.  Or maybe she is good-hearted enough to keep the kids-say-the-darndest-things attitude that she showed about the kayak and apply it to something personal.  

Whatever the case, let me just throw out a blanket apology - I'm sorry, world, for all of the things that I haven't thought to forbid my children from saying.  Let me apologize for the future wrongs against society, too - for when my kids are teenagers and don't leave a tip for the waitress at Denny's, or think it's okay to talk to their friends in a movie theater, or make fun of the fat kid in the pee-wee football game, until the kid finishes the game and ends up sitting with his parents one row in front of them, who must have heard every word.  (True story, but not mine thank goodness.)  For picking flowers for their mom from someone's flower garden.  Kids are kids, they don't mean to hurt anyone's feelings - they are just now figuring out that other people have feelings.  And if we don't train them to be out in public, can you imagine the havoc they'd wreak when they are adults and haven't learned these things?  For now, though, maybe I'll keep a shorter leash on Zack.  And carry a pooper-scooper to Costco.

One Year Older, and Wiser Too

We're coming up on our one year anniversary here on the parenting front line, and to commemorate I'm going to, basically, do nothing.  I'd throw a party for all eight of my readers, but since only about two of you are in the same city, the logistics are just too complicated.  But let me just say for the record, thank you for listening to my incessant ramblings for the last year, for giving me an outlet for my frustrations and my amusing anecdotes, because otherwise they would just sit inside me and ferment like old apple juice or a can of peaches with botulism.  

I thought it might be fun to do another day in my life, just to see how things have changed, and how things are sadly the same since a year ago.  Naturally, we need to start in the middle of the night.

3:42 a.m. - Zack wakes me up, asking for help pouring his cup of milk.  I am at once grateful that he didn't try pouring from the full gallon and cause me to clean up his mess in the middle of the night, and also frustrated because the tv was on, and it looked like he'd been camped out downstairs for quite some time.  He threw a minor (though loud) tantrum as I turned off the tube and carried him upstairs, but it petered out after a minute or two.  I went back to bed.

6:59 - Darcey is awake and crying, but it's Ryan's turn to get up with the kids this morning, so I wake him up and he stumbles off to feed her a bottle.  I shut off the alarm and try to get some more sleep, but I stink at sleeping in.  Still, I'm not one to quit without giving it a real college try.

8:30-10:30 - I attempt to make myself a bowl of cereal and end up knocking the container of frosted mini-wheats off the counter, covering the floor with shredded goodness.  Ryan tries to convince me it's still edible, and while I am a firm believer in the 5-second rule, I refuse to eat anything that has been swept up with a broom.  I settle for the last little bit of Special K with Berries for breakfast instead, which is pretty good if you can let go of the fact that you are eating strawberry-flavored styrofoam bits.  The morning continues without much happening.

10:30 - Ryan drops something loud on the floor in the kitchen and coincidentally, Darcey wakes up and starts crying.  At the very same second.  Even I have a hard time blaming Ryan for that, I mean, she was a whole floor away with the door closed.  But since she's awake, I decide it's time to go to Costco.  

11:00 - Zack decides it's not time to go to Costco.  He is very busy playing pbskids.org and screams at me when I attempt to pry his fingers off the keyboard.  If he were, say, an abusive teenager with a hangover, I would expect this kind of screaming.  But I am completely out of energy for dealing with this, so I let him keep playing and I work on some homework for my Microeconomics class.

11:30 - Ryan's got a bad situation at his office, and he's called on the big guns to deal with it - me.  The office park where he rents an office has this bad habit of moving him randomly to new offices whenever someone wants the room he's in.  The owner told him last week that they'd need to move him again (this is the 4th office in two years) but didn't give him any details about when or where.  He told them about our travel plans (we were gone from Thursday until Monday night) and was very cooperative.  Allen (the owner) kept mentioning how sorry they were to have to move him again, since one time they needed to move him was while we were in Malaysia last year and I ended up bringing my dad (and several kids) with me to move all of his stuff.  I don't think I was rude or anything, but I wanted them to know that this was not convenient and I wasn't going to pretend it was.

Naturally, no one gets back to Ryan about the move, even though people keep walking in on him, surprised to find anyone still in that room, so the day before we leave he leaves messages for everyone involved, reminding them about his travel plans and taping a note to the doorknob saying "Please don't rekey the door."  When we get back on Monday, there are three or four messages from the head security guy asking Ryan to please move his stuff out, and could he have it out by Friday, or Saturday at the latest?  Circus monkeys could be trained to run this place better.

Our big mistake comes on Monday night, when Ryan moves his stuff out of his office, without having secured a new place.  Now that there's no big obstacle in their way, no one cares at all where Ryan goes.  We lost our bargaining chip, and I feel stupid for letting that happen.  Ryan spends the week calling, leaving messages, and working from home.  He gets a false start when someone directs him to a room in Building B, but before he could move in the security guy says, No, that's the wrong room.  (That was actually welcome news, because the room was a total dive, with a hole in the ceiling for the thermostat, which is dangling from wires overhead.)

So long story short (yeah right) it is now Friday and Ryan is still at home, in the craft room, when he finally decides it's time for me to call and raise Cain.  I ask him if he feels emasculated by having his wife call to get this done, and he says it's no secret that I'm the one in charge here.  I feel the need to let him know that he is wrong about this, but doubt that I'd be able to make my point, especially since in some ways it's true, and in some ways, he likes having me available to do his dirty work.  I guess it would be stupid to pretend I'm some kind of shrinking violet that would feel faint if I had to stand up for myself., although I wish I was dainty and demure like that.  

I call Allen and leave a message.  Then I call Marie, who had given Ryan the Building B room, gave her the lowdown, and she told me to talk to the security guy.  Here's where the backbone comes in handy - I tell her that he had said to talk to Allen, and Allen is not around, and then I just waited and let her be the next one to say something.  She told me she'd call Allen and get the information for me, and when I gave her my phone number I also asked her to tell Allen that we needed to be credited for this week's rent since we've been out of our office for 4 days.  

Within an hour, Allen called back - he approved the week's rent credit and the room that Ryan's going to be in is $50 cheaper a month than the current place.  So it's all good in my book.  And I was nothing but polite the entire time, I swear.

1-2:30 p.m. - I finally go to Costco with a shopping list of about 4 things, which naturally ends up costing $165.  Granted, that includes a $40 box of diapers and a $27 can of formula, but the rest was all extras.  I have a love/hate relationship with that store.

2:30-4:00 - The boys are home, and it's homework time.  This month the school is doing a reading contest so the boys are supposed to read an hour a day.  It's fine for Brad, he can read on his own, but this means that I have to read to Noah for an hour.  In the ideal world that I'd like to live in would be part of our day anyhow, right before piano lessons and after the family sing-along, but in my real life it is exacting a toll on me.

I brought home churros from Costco for the boys, and I sat at the table with Noah while he ate and watched tv and I read my textbook.  We weren't talking to each other at all, and out of nowhere here is the conversation that Noah and I had.

Noah:  It's a good thing we're safe in winter.

Me:  Safe from what?

Noah:  Bears.  Except not polar bears.  Cause they are around all the time.  Except when they're dead.

(pause)

Noah:  Are there bears in heaven?

Me:  I think so, probably.

Noah:  Oh, shoot, I'm gonna die!

Me:  Well, you'd be dead already.

Noah:  Oh yeah, right.

This is the reason, folks.  It is conversational gems like this that keep me a stay-at-home mom - you can "quality time" me all you want, but you can't schedule this kind of spontaneity.

4-5:00 - The boys scatter to the four, well, three winds and Darcey contentedly eats a cracker and plays on the floor while I write this blog entry.  She can really move now, and while her form is pathetic (total army crawl, using her toes to propel her on her stomach across the floor) she can get anywhere she wants.  And some places she doesn't want, too.  I looked over right as she grabbed the fake potted plant in the corner, and tipped it over on her head, burying her in layers of dusty leaves.  She didn't cry, in fact she didn't even move, as if she was so surprised at this turn of events.  Who knew that pulling over that basket would end up landing this small tree on her head?  

5-8:00 - I leave for my Microeconomics class, which I am habitually late for, no matter how hard I try.  The topic of the class is interesting, but it's gotten very math-y and the teacher just isn't that great.  I wonder how much better my education would be if I was taught by actual professors instead of adjunct faculty who are teaching classes that they aren't even getting their advanced degrees in.  I like the small class sizes at UVSC but I think I might learn more from BYU.  I doubt that this summer, when UVSC becomes Utah Valley University, I will magically get more professors instead of adjunct teaching my classes.

8:15 - I get home, we do scriptures as a family, and Ryan thinks it's a good idea to show the kids the first 10 minutes of Raiders of the Lost Ark.  It's not.  

9:00 - Ryan is leaving to move his stuff into his new office.  Brad is on his way to bed, and I'm going to watch some tv while I work on some digital scrapbook stuff, so I think the rest of my evening should be uneventful.  Tomorrow we're going skiing as a family (Darcey and Zack are getting a babysitter) and I've asked the kids to take pity on me and help me down the hill.  I'll be sure to report if anything interesting happens.  But in the meantime, thanks for being around this year.  It's been good for me, I hope it has been for you too.

Three Year Olds Expound On Theology

Zack and his friend Jonathan were eating their lunch while singing the First Article of Faith (which are the tenets of the LDS faith) and then had a discussion on the nature of the Holy Ghost.  I wanted to add subtitles, because you have to be fluent in three-year-old-speak to understand it all, but give it a shot anyhow.  

The Greatest Snow on Earth

Yesterday a guy took me in a back alley, beat my thighs, knees, shins, and calves with an aluminum baseball bat, then for good measure, rolled me over and gave me a few good thwacks on my shoulders and back. Afterwards, I handed him $100 and made plans to come back and do it again next week.

No, no, just kidding. In actuality, I went skiing for the first time since my sophomore year in high school. It just feels exactly the same as getting beaten up.

You know how method actors spend weeks "in character" trying to get a good feel for who their character is? Well, if they ever want to feel old and crippled, have them go skiing. I'm limping through the house, taking stairs one at a time, groaning a lot and I smell like Flex-all which is the quintessential old-person smell. I should apologize to my grandparents who, while technically in the "old person" category, are the youngest old people I've ever met, and could have skied circles around me yesterday, artificial knees and all. They could have been the ones with the baseball bat, for heaven's sake.

The day started out, as most days do, with me getting lost trying to find the parking lot. I had to park in the overflow lot, which when I drove past, had giant piles of dirt and a bulldozer, and no cars parked there, so I assumed that it was not the lot I was looking for. There were no signs, except for the one a little further up the mountain that said "No parking unless directed by an employee." Well, I had been directed by an employee, right? So on I went, and ended up in an unplowed construction zone, to which I can only say, thank goodness for snow tires. I turned around and went back to the bulldozer parking lot, and now I saw other cars in there, and shuttle busses. It's a lot harder to be cheerful about getting lost when it makes you late for something.

And late I was. The lesson was supposed to start at 10, and when I rolled in at 10:03 without having rented my skis yet, the woman threatened me with having to wait until the afternoon lesson at 1:30. But the person on the other end of the walkie talkie had her send me over, so it was all good.

I got fitted for my medieval torture devices, I mean, my ski boots, and clumped ungracefully over to the yurt where the lessons start. Could they make those things (the ski boots, not the yurt) any more painful than they are? I suppose they could be covered in spikes, or maybe full of molten lava, but maybe the most deceptive thing is that they start moderately uncomfortable and then by the end of the lesson, they have grown spikes that you weren't previously aware of.

My instructor was Steve, and I swear, they must pay these guys in confidence, because he acted like the whole learning-to-ski thing was just a piece of cake. And it wasn't too hard, the basics of it anyway. The sum total of my previous ski skills was the snowplow, but I picked up on the "how to turn" thing pretty quickly. The rest was all technique.

Which is too bad, because unsurprisingly, I have pretty bad technique. Steve was generous, though, and told me I was learning quickly and doing a good job for a relative novice. He showed me how to stand tall and crouch down, how to keep my torso straight and my knees bent, how to aim down the hill when every cell in my body is convinced that aiming down the hill is the fastest way to end up in a full body cast. When I told him that my thighs were cramping, he showed me how to keep my shins pressed against the front of my boots (you know, where the spikes are) and told me to pretend that my husband had tucked a $100 bill in each boot and in order to keep it there, I have to keep my shins pressed against it. That proved to be a distraction, though, because I asked myself, Where would Ryan have gotten $200? Did he go to the bank? And what am I going to do with $200 anyways? Shouldn't we be saving that for our trip? Shouldn't we have discussed this before he took $200 from our savings account? You see my dilemma - you can't throw a $200-in-your-boots analogy at me and expect me to keep going like before.

But somehow, it worked, and I tried hard to keep the bills in my boots and my hips forward and my weight leaning down the mountain. We skipped the tow area, which is the tiny beginner's hill, and went right for the main lift. My three primary fears were: a) Falling off the chair lift, b) Going too fast and not being able to stop before I crashed into a tree or flew off a cliff, and c) Interacting with other skiers. All of these fears were going to be faced right there, 10 minutes after my lesson started, and I was nervous. My falling-off-the-lift fear is because when I went as a teenager, I fell off the lift every single solitary time. There was not a time where I got off the lift and remained on my feet. This was true over the course of several trips, and I was afraid it would be no different 16 years later. Miraculously, I got off the lift and did not fall! I even said to Steve, "Hey, I didn't fall!" Maybe my luck had changed! (No, it hadn't - the other two runs I made that day, I fell off the lift both times.)

My fear of interacting with other skiers also stems from my previous ski experience. My very first time skiing was at Ski Liberty in Maryland, although I don't remember doing as much skiing as falling. And then getting up, and trying to put my dumb skis on again, over and over. It was so frustrating that I wanted to scream. One time I had fallen, and had just barely gotten my skis back on, when this crazy lady comes flying down the hill yelling "I can't stop! Get out of the way!" And then she barreled into me, knocking me back down. I somehow made it down the hill and then plopped down out of the way and vowed never to ski again. After about half an hour, though, I went back up, and I must have skied more than I fell, because that's when it started to be fun.

So getting in people's way was a major concern for me. Steve tried to assuage my fears by saying that the Rules of the Mountain dictate that the person in front has the right-of-way. I didn't have to keep craning my neck behind me to see if some maniac was flying down the hill like a heat-seeking missile with me in their sights. Instead, I could focus on my biggest fear - being the crazy lady screaming "I can't stop! Get out of the way!" and plowing into an innocent bystander (I mean, byskier) or right off a cliff.

Why is it that they don't put up concrete barriers on the edge of the mountain to stop people from falling off? I was so petrified of the edge that I hugged the mountainside (i.e., the side with all the trees) - I didn't want to get anywhere near the edge because I could picture myself shooting right off the side. Maybe a concrete barrier would cause injuries too, maybe a rubber padded concrete barrier, or some netting, or a giant pile of marshmallows. Anything to give me the slimmest hope that I might not die a horrible, painful death if I accidentally turn left instead of right.

For the most part, I felt in control of my turns and my speed, and I think I was doing a decent job. Any time the hill started to look steep, I would get intimidated and Steve had to coax me a little to keep me going. He had a great attitude, never got impatient with me and when one analogy didn't get the desired results, he'd switch to another one. (For example, leaning down to "pet the dog" in order to aim my body down the hill wasn't the best analogy for me, since I pretty much only pet dogs at gunpoint. Since no one there had a gun, he switched to having me point my arm downhill instead.)

Halfway through our second run, I told Steve that I thought I was keeping my shins against my boots, but that my thighs were still on fire. He watched me go down, to make sure, and then said, "It could be that your muscles aren't used to this." Ohhh, yeah. I forgot that I had packed the ski muscles in a box back in 1992 and hadn't ever taken them out to dust them off until today.

I went down with Steve twice. We still had thirty minutes of our lesson left, so he asked if I wanted to go back up for one more quick ride down. As they say, the spirit was willing but the flesh was weak. My legs already hurt so much that I asked him if it was okay if we just quit for the day. I was afraid if I went back up I wouldn't have the strength to slow myself down, and therefore bring to pass the whole flying-off-the-cliff scenario. He helped me take off my skis and directed me to the restaurant when I started down the path that led to, well, I don't know. But it was the wrong way if I wanted a snack. Would it cost Sundance so much to install a few signs, for crying out loud?

I rested in the deli area with a bottle of Fiji water (btw, I want to move to Fiji - their water totally rocks!) until I felt some strength returning. I didn't want to leave without trying it one time on my own. After all, Ryan had given me the whole day to ski if I wanted to. (He really, really wanted me to enjoy skiing so we could go together sometime. But no pressure.) I certainly didn't want to waste a whole day of freedom by throwing in the towel. So I clomped back up to my skis and strapped them on. Then I slid over to the chair lift, which I got onto with no problems, and I dangled up the mountain. When I got to my stop, BAM! I fell right off. But having been versed in falling-off-the-lift etiquette, I scootched over to one side so that the guy didn't have to stop the lift for me, then wrestled with getting back up.

Once up, I headed down the mountain. Somehow, the whole process is much, much scarier without someone there to help me, guide me, or at least, tell the search and rescue team where I fell off the cliff. I was totally on my own. So I went at a snails pace as much as possible. Well, a snails pace isn't actually possible - I went way too fast, then came to a dead stop, so that my average speed ended up at Snail. Maybe if I get good, I can end up going Turtle, but that's too much for me right now.

Any time the hill looked intimidating, I would pull over to the side. If anyone was coming up behind me, I was convinced that my s-turns would be completely unpredictable to them, causing them to crash into my back, so I'd pull over. At one point a swarm of 5 year olds came flying down the hill past me, like a kindergarten field trip gone awry, giving me the simultaneous thoughts of "Wow, they are amazing!" and "Why aren't they in school?" I pulled over once next to a stand of trees, and noticed the broken branch on the ground and bark scattered on the snow, and thought "There, but for the grace of God, go I." Comforting thought - there was no blood on the snow, and no tracks of a body being dragged away.

My other concern was, naturally, getting lost. There are all sorts of turns that a skier could take to make the run more challenging. Brad and Noah, who have gone skiing 5 or 6 times this season, are already pros, like the kindergarteners I mentioned. They have no fear, and take all the winding turns that go off through the trees and have jumps and the like. But I did not want to end up staring down some black diamond run with no way to get home but down. Why is it that kids have no fear of this? Is it a lack of imagination - they don't have the mental pictures of crumpled bodies with limbs bent the wrong way, of the phone call letting someone know there's been an accident, the knowledge of just how much pain surviving a ski accident could bring? So much for kids and their creativity - I can picture worst-case scenarios that they couldn't even dream of.

I inched my way down, terrified of losing control and going too fast, or finding the tree with my name on it. I was so scared that every time I stopped, I had to talk myself into moving again. The self talk would sound something like this: "You can do this. You can do this. Just go out there, and turn right. You won't go too fast. It's okay. It's okay. Look at all the other people who are doing this. You can do this." Then I would go out, get a little speed, try to turn, go a little wider than I wanted, then head back over to the side to regroup. The worst was the final hill, which was impossibly steep and so packed down that it was practically ice. I told myself that I could do it, that the end was in sight and it's not that big a hill after all, then I went down. I tried to snowplow, but my skis got no purchase on the rutted ice, and I flew down that hill. Finally, right at the edge of the course (and the bright orange netting), I turned, slowed down, and coasted to a stop only a few feet away from the chair lift.

I did it! I did it! I was so relieved I could barely function, but happy too. And proud of myself. I have a general dislike for not being good at things, and I am clearly not good at skiing. But there's a "yet" at the end of that - I'm not good at skiing yet. I had to call it a day then, because my muscles were sobbing and begging to be put back in the box, but I decided that I want to do it again. I want to go back, have another lesson, and get some confidence. I think I've got the basic concept, I just need to get good at it. I doubt I'll ever be fearless like my kids. I've had 31 years to come up with all of these horrible mental pictures (tree branch stuck in my eye! chair lift cables breaking!) so I don't think I can erase them quickly, if ever. But I'm no longer afraid of being jumped in a back alley and beaten within an inch of my life, because I already know what that feels like, and it's survivable. Expensive, but survivable.

Lasts

A new baby causes a family to focus on a bunch of "firsts." First smile, first solid food, first tooth (which happened for Darcey this week), first steps. As kids get older, we have first days of school, first time driving, first dates. Firsts are easy to note, because they happen once and you can write it on the calendar and even have anniversaries for them.

I feel like we neglect the other end of the spectrum, the "lasts." Not in a sad, "last time I saw my spouse before he died in a fiery car crash" kind of last, but in every day things. Noah brought this to my attention last week when he said, "Mom, have you noticed that I haven't had to go to time out in a long time?" I hadn't noticed at all, as a matter of fact, which is a horrible thing. How many times did I consider moving his bed into the time-out room just to make it more convenient, given the fact that he was in there so often? And now that time out is a distant memory, I didn't even notice. When was the last time he was in there? Shouldn't that be cause for massive celebrating? It should, but because it's a last and not a first, it goes unremarked.

The problem is, it's just so hard to tell when something is going to be a last. When I left home at 18, my mom says she knew I wouldn't move back home, even though that was the plan. In some ways I'm glad I had moving to California as a temporary thing, with going home as the back-up plan so that the plunge didn't seem so dramatic. But on the other hand, I missed marking a lot of lasts. The last Christmas at home. The last Sunday afternoon grilled-cheese sandwiches made by my dad after church. The last evening I'd spend with my high school friends who, for the most part, I haven't kept in contact with.

So even though I may not have a date circled on the calendar, I want to start noting the lasts. I want to pay attention to the last time I have to use the "car cart" at the grocery store. The last $25 jumbo box of diapers I buy from Costco, and the last jar of baby food. The last time I make dinner that no one eats, preferring cold cereal instead. (I know, wishful thinking, as is this - the last time a child wakes me up in the middle of the night!)

I am hoping that today is the last time I wake up to the sound of glass breaking. Zack had poured himself a bowl of cereal in a glass bowl, and knocked it onto the floor, so within 10 seconds of waking up I was clearing shards off the floor and mopping up Froot Loops and milk. Not the kind of lazy Sunday morning I would have envisioned when I didn't have kids.

My guess is I have not dealt with my last blow-out diaper, the last potty-related accident, the last tantrum in a public place, the last time I have to stand outside a restaurant while a child screams. I am looking forward to the last time I have to wipe someone else's runny nose. Darcey has a cold and is draining so badly that if snot could grow crops, our cul-de-sac could be the new Fertile Crescent.

All of these lasts are milestones, just as much as the firsts. It's a sign that these kids are growing up. Most of the lasts are great - I can't tell you the last time I had to change wet sheets off the older two boys' beds, and I love that it's been so long. There's a bittersweet trade-off with every last - I realized yesterday that I've had the last time I can comfortably hold Brad's hand in a parking lot, but Ryan got to watch him and Noah as they went up the chairlift by themselves for the first time. I'll eventually trade the 2 a.m. "Mom, I threw up!" for the 2 a.m. phone calls that can never be good news.

But I'm okay with all of that. In fact, I'm grateful that I'm aware of the lasts, so I can appreciate them as they come, and as the stages of childhood pass that those lasts marked. So maybe like a mother who forgot to record her baby's firsts grabs a calendar and starts randomly putting in dates for first roll over and first word, I'll arbitrarily assign a date for Noah's last time out. That is something worth throwing a party over. (Now, can someone predict when I'll have bought the very last Star Wars item??)