Water Weenie Woes

Water weenies are fantastic little inventions that can turn an otherwise boring lake trip into an exciting and somewhat dangerous adventure. Back when I was in the Springville Singles Ward (it has been over 9 years since then, which makes me feel incredibly old), my sister Tiffany and I went to a young single adult activity at Starvation Reservoir.

We had a couple of boats, lots of young adults, and a single water weenie that sloshed around and gave us plenty of bruises and possibly minor concussions as it bucked us into each other and sent us careening into the boat-manufactured waves.

I usually chose to sit next to people I knew well on the water weenie, and I always wanted to be smack dab in the middle. But there was a moment when the water weenie needed one more person, and I didn't know most of the people who were on it very well. The empty spot was right at the back of the water weenie, which was the most dreaded location because whoever sat there got flung around like a rag doll and was typically the first to fall off.

I finally succumbed to peer pressure and swam to the back of the water weenie. Every time I tried to get on, it dipped down towards the water and I slid off the back end. After repeatedly trying and failing to get onto the back of the slippery little bugger, the guy who would unfortunately sit in front of me (and unknowingly become victim to my clutziness), helped to pull me up. Finally, I was in place. I grabbed the black handle and held on securely, knowing I was in for an unforgettable ride. 

The boat's motor thrummed to life, then started to pick up speed at an impressive rate. I noticed with alarm that I was already starting to slip backwards towards the tail end of the water weenie. My handle was stretching! The handles weren't supposed to stretch! And yet, mine was, and it was sending me towards a painful and watery crash-landing. I looked down to investigate the problem, and I found myself staring right into the unexpected crevice of someone's... uh... derriere. Instead of grabbing the black handle, I had accidentally grabbed the black shorts of the guy in front of me! As the boat picked up speed, the shorts stretched out more and more and I slid further and further backwards.

It only took me a moment to realize what I had to do. I let go of the shorts and crashed into the waves. I don't know which hurt worse: my high-speed impact with the water or the sting of the shorts as they slapped back against his skin. I guess I will never know.

Everyone was pelting me with surprised questions as they circled around to pick me back up. "What happened?," "Why did you fall off so quickly?," "Are you ok?" I answered the questions without revealing what I had done. I was too embarrassed to tell anyone what had happened, and I was certainly too embarrassed to get back on the water weenie behind the guy whom I had seen way too much of. I don't even remember his name or what he looked like. I am sure I blocked it out. But I can guarantee you that if I ever get back on a water weenie again, I will be much more careful to make sure I know what I am grabbing onto before we take off.

Recharging

Being a mother is the most beautiful and rewarding experience I have ever been privileged to enjoy. But it is also the most challenging, maddening, aggravating, and absolutely draining responsibility I have ever had. The difference between motherhood and every other job that I have had is that I never get to take off my "mom" hat. My most important and constant responsibility is to take care of the adorable little monster who calls me "mama" and wipes her boogies on my shirt.

Most days I am ok with that, but some days I feel like there is nothing left of me to give. Today was one of those days. It was a day that I think was meant to test my patience, and I failed miserably. Due to a succession of sleep-deprived nights and an aggravating sore throat, I was already feeling less energetic than usual. I woke up late, had to quickly put Nicole in the tub because she greeted me with a morning blow-out, and barely had time to throw my hair up in a messy ponytail (not the cute, stylish kind of messy), then throw some food in a bag for lunch before rushing out the door with the realization that I was going to be late for work... again.

I returned home to a disastrous, smelly house that I had plans of taming while Nicole took her afternoon nap. But she had other plans. She decided today was not a day that she wanted to nap because she would rather cling to my pant legs and whine than sleep. Here is a snapshot of my day after returning home from work:

I give Nicole a snack and a drink, which will entertain her for a grand total of 10 minutes.

I frantically pull up a recipe on my computer for peach chicken while Nicole sips her water and watches Disney's Twice Upon a Christmas. I know, it's too early for Christmas. But she loves it.

Nicole pulls on my legs. Chicken juice covers my hands. I can't make it to the sink to wash my hands because she won't let go of my legs. She cries. I try to entertain her with nursery rhymes while I waddle to the sink dragging my angry cargo. Rinse, lather, rinse, then pick her up with dripping wet hands. She stops crying.

I try to put the rest of the ingredients together while holding a squirming child. I spill soy sauce on the counter and peach preserves on my toes. I mutter under my breath a few words that I am not proud of, then bend over to clean preserves off of toes. I accidentally bump Nicole's head on a kitchen drawer. She cries. I start to sing "Mooh Brothers' Farm" to her. She stops crying.

I give her two animal cookies (she prefers to have one in each hand), then gingerly set her down on the deck with the door propped open and slowly back away when she doesn't cry. I finish putting ingredients together and finally get chicken cooking on the stove. It is so blissfully quiet. Too quiet. I don't want to investigate because I'm enjoying the silence, but I know I must. Dark potting soil is scattered across the deck and part of the kitchen floor. Nicole is squatting next to it with brown fingers, brown feet, and a brown mouth. I sigh.

I clean her up, sweep up the mess, and let her play with the broom until she hits herself on the head with the handle. She cries. I pick her up and play "flying baby". She stops crying.

I remember the chicken. Frantically, I put her down, lift the lid on the stove, and gingerly prod the chicken with a fork. Tough as nails. Nicole pulls a pot lid out of the cupboard and it lands on her foot. She cries. I cry too.

Kevin gets home and I escape like an animal that has been caged for years and can't wait to be free. I desperately need to recharge. Computers, iPads, and cameras need recharging, and it turns out that moms do too.

I take Shiloh for a  walk in the rolling hills behind my house. You see the rounded hill poking out between that clump of trees? That is the destination I am aiming for. Night is creeping in, but I am determined to make it, as if reaching that destination will somehow help me erase all of my failures today.

While I am walking, I notice that the terrain is so varied. Some spots are smooth and the dirt creates puffs of powder beneath my tromping flip-flops, while other spots are littered with stones that threaten to twist my ankle and make me lose my footing. Kind of like life. Kind of like today. But that solid hill looms steadfastly in the distance, never wavering.

 

Finally, I get there. I have stubbed the same toe several times and Shiloh is dragging behind me in exhaustion instead of running in front of me, but we make it. I realize that I am still strong, even though I have felt weak and defeated all day. I can still do hard things.

I make a wish on the sliver of moon, then head back home - ready to be the type of mom I want to be. I just needed to escape for an hour and forget I am a mom, wife, employee, homemaker, and horrible cook. I just needed to become a tiny speck on a hillside and let myself recharge.

Sunday Musings: The Power of Music

Music is a glorious medium of communication that can be understood much easier than the spoken or written word. It has a way of entering the heart and soothingly convincing even the most calloused souls to embrace it and to feel something change inside of them.

I feel extraordinarily blessed that music has been an integral part of my life for as long as I can remember, thanks to my musical parents and siblings who have been blessed with incredible talent. Primary songs, Raffi, nursery rhymes, and oldies such as "Moon River" and "You Are My Sunshine" created a mosaic of music that touched my childhood heart and will forever have a special place in my old, weathered treasure chest of memories. Later on, my brother's beautiful hymnal arrangements would weave themselves into my life and my being as my sisters and I sang them together for sacrament meetings, firesides, and around the intimate setting of our childhood piano. Music has continuously enriched, enlivened, and empowered my life, and I am forever grateful to everyone who helped infuse a love of this incredible art form into my young and impressionable mind.

A few Sundays ago, I sang one of my favorite versions of "I Stand all Amazed" (by Michael R. Hicks) in Sacrament Meeting. I had practiced meticulously for weeks, until I felt that my voice was strong and clear even on the "high notes" (which would not be high for the average singer, but I am undeniably an alto and quite incapable of singing moderately high musical pieces). I wanted to execute the song perfectly so that I could effectively convey the message and hopefully touch someone's heart.

But even the most well-intentioned musical plans can be completely destroyed when you throw emotion into the mix. You know the "ugly cry" face that happens when you completely lose your composure? Well, there is also an "ugly cry" voice. Emotion can make the voice crack, shudder, and squeak on high notes. And once you lose your composure as a singer, you can forget about getting it back (except for one woman I know who defies this rule. Her name is Heidi, and she has always had the superhuman ability to sing like an angel, even when tears are literally pouring down her face). I had only begun to sing the second verse when I felt the dreaded "ugly cry" voice coming on.

I tried with all my might to block the emotion, but my voice started to wobble as I sang the words:
"I marvel that He would descend from His throne divine
To rescue a soul so rebellious and proud as mine".
Memories of past mistakes and the absolutely indescribable feeling of being swallowed up in the Savior's merciful forgiveness came to mind. How could I sing such beautiful words without feeling them in my soul?

And then, these words from the last verse put me over the edge:
"I think of His hands, pierced and bleeding to pay the debt.
Such mercy, such love and devotion can I forget?"

With a trembling voice, I barely sang the notes on-key. I started to feel panic as I realized that I was no longer in control of my vocal chords. Somehow I managed to regain some semblance of composure as I sang the last few lines with conviction: 

"No, no, I will praise and adore at the mercy seat
Until at the glorified throne I kneel at His feet.

Oh, it is wonderful that He should care for me enough to die for me!
Oh, it is wonderful, wonderful to me".

As I sat back down on the bench, I felt defeated. I felt like I had not been able to convey the message of the song because I did not sing it perfectly. Kevin was very sweet and told me that I had done a good job, but I was not convinced, and I was disappointed in myself. I had failed.

But the next day, Kevin told me that a neighbor had said that the song was "moving". I have never heard more beautiful words. I realized at that moment that although my performance was greatly flawed, the spirit had been there to cover up my mistakes and carry the pure meaning of the song into the hearts of those who were listening. I cried over that simple compliment, and I thanked God for music. Because even though imperfect vessels are used to play it or sing it, when the spirit is there, the message of the music is perfect.

So, if you tend to beat yourself up over an imperfect performance like I do, do not underestimate the ability of the spirit to cover up all mistakes when you sing with your heart. Music is powerful like that, which is one reason why I love it.

You Get a Massage WHERE????

My older sister Kristy is an avid cyclist. Not only does she love the feeling of competing with herself and others, but she gets completely swallowed up by the rush of pure freedom that she experiences while riding. Although I am not nearly as good at it as she is, a small amount of her excitement and passion for the sport have rubbed off on me and we have both entered cycling races together. These races have proven to be some of the most challenging, painful, and rewarding experiences I have ever had.

One of the races we signed up for a few years ago was a relay race for women called "Pamperfest". Touted as a fun and challenging race with some pampering and relaxation thrown in the mix, it was greatly anticipated by female cyclists across Utah and beyond. Cyclists looked forward to receiving a massage or relaxing with their friends as soon as their portion of the race was over.

Some of my co-workers had heard me talking about my preparations for the race, and one of them decided he wanted to find out more about it during our weekly Operations Meeting. There were about 8 of us gathered in one office, giving updates on specific tasks that we had been assigned to complete for the week. During a lull in conversation, Paul asked me "So, why is the race called Pamperfest, Shelly?"

Without even thinking, I responded "Oh, it's called Pamperfest because you get a massage between the legs". Now, anyone who has ever entered a relay race before knows that each section of the race is called a "leg", but apparently that is not common knowledge among individuals who do not enter races. I noticed that the room had suddenly gone very quiet and that my co-workers were looking at me strangely, but I wasn't sure why so I continued talking. I even noticed that my boss, Fred, had broken eye contact with me and looked down at his hands with a silent, surprised expression.

After a few seconds, another one of my co-workers, Jens, bravely interrupted my continuous chatter by exclaiming with a laugh "Woah, Shelly!". I looked at him with confusion for a moment, then everything suddenly made sense - the troubled expressions, the raised eyebrows, the surprised glances flickering back and forth, the shock that plunged the room into complete silence apart from my rapid and oblivious rambling. As the realization of what they thought I had meant hit me like a brick wall, I felt smoldering lava creep up my neck and engulf my face in merciless heat.

I quickly threw my hands up and stuttered through my sheepish smile "No, no, that's not what I meant! I meant that you get a massage between each leg of the race!!"  Immediately the tension in the room shattered as everyone laughed in simultaneous relief and genuine amusement. The comical incident became a favorite good-natured jab and was brought up quite frequently for months afterward.

So, if you have ever had the burning question "why exactly is it called Pamperfest?", now you know!

Happy Friday everyone!!!!

Uh... Can I Help You?

Growing up, my siblings and I often had to perform small duties in exchange for the privilege of driving my parents' attractive minivan around. :) One of the duties that I had to perform every so often when I was a teenager was to pick my little sister Alicia up from work. She usually came right out to the van as soon as she saw me from the grocery store window, so I would pull up close to the sliding doors and wait for her.

One day I pulled up to my usual spot, and soon afterwards the passenger door opened. I looked over, and to my surprise, some strange guy who looked like he was a couple of years older than me started to get in my van. My initial reaction was panic. I was clearly being carjacked and was certain that I would soon be held at gunpoint and demanded to drive to some secluded location that would end up being the site of my demise. I contemplated jumping out of the van while I still had a chance. But then I realized how nonchalant the guy was as he got in the van and shut the door. It was obvious by his demeanor that he clearly thought I was someone else. When he realized that his driver wasn't going anywhere, he glanced over at me, then visibly jumped when he saw my face. The next few moments were a blur, but I clearly remember that he did not say a word to me. He practically jumped out of the van, slammed the door, and hurried back into the store. He was SO FAST!

I immediately realized the humor of the situation and burst into laughter. Alicia came out soon after that and told me that I would have to wait for her to bring in the rest of the carts before she could go. She asked me why I was laughing and I explained to her that I would tell her when she was done.

I knew it would take her about 10 minutes to bring in all of the carts, so I pulled into the first available parking space, rolled the windows down, and leaned my seat back so that I could relax while I waited. I kept giggling periodically at the thought of how silly that poor guy must have felt.

I had only been parked there for a few minutes when I heard a male voice say "Yes, I got in her car! I thought she was you!" then I heard another male burst into laughter. A little imp in me wanted him to know that I had heard him, so I slowly raised my seat up so that they could both see me smiling through my open window.

The young guy stopped, inhaled deeply, and whispered (quite loudly) "Oh my gosh, that's HER!". The older man who was with him (who I learned later was his father), laughed even harder at his son's embarrassment. Imagine my surprise when I realized that I had parked right in front of their van! So, of course they had to come right up close to me in order to get in their vehicle. The younger guy was beet red and he completely avoided looking at me as he climbed into the passenger side of his vehicle as quickly as he could. His dad could barely contain his composure as he came up to my window and said between chuckles "my son is too embarrassed to say so himself, but he's really sorry if he scared you". I was laughing too as I replied "It's ok, that totally made my day!".

As they drove away, the young guy finally mustered up the courage to look out his window and give me an embarrassed smile. It's funny how one person's most mortifying moment can be the best moment of an entire day for someone else.

Brown Is Beautiful

I used to despise my brown eyes. I would look in the mirror and wish they were blue or green or hazel, or basically any other color but brown.

To me,  brown was boring, bland, and barf-worthy. 

Maybe it had something to do with the fact that one of my brothers used to tell me:

"Your eyes are so brown because you're full of crap".

Yeah, I'm pretty sure that had something to do with it. Associating your eyes with feces is bound to make you a little self-conscious about them. 

Of course, it doesn't help that almost every song on the radio that even mentions eyes at all seems to obsess about blue ones (except for the song "Brown Eyed Girl" by Van Morrison, which I absolutely love).  

When I was pregnant with Nicole, I used to lay in bed with my hands on my rounded belly and imagine what the little soul who lived there would look like. I crossed my fingers and hoped that she would look a bit like me, but without my icky brown eyes. 

But then, she was born, and everything changed. Staring into her eyes was like looking into a mirror, and for the first time, I realized that brown eyes are beautiful. Her eyes inspired me to write this:

Her dark, soulful eyes are the color of a mature red oak 

and the impossibly rich and fertile brown earth of a Japanese field 

on a mist-drenched morning.

Like the smooth, unassuming surface of a cocoa bean

and the soft, warm fur of a chocolate-colored bear lazing in the warm sun.

Like a forest floor littered with crunchy fall leaves

and muddy, sacred waters that give life to a parched African desert. 

Brown is blissful. 

Brown is brooding. 

Brown is beloved. 

Brown is beautiful. 

Happy Friday!

I have a long-standing tradition of giving and receiving funny emails and pictures on Fridays, which naturally makes it my favorite workday of the week. Now that I have a blog, I get to share some of my very favorite Friday giggles with the rest of you.

This one hits close to home because I just discovered last night that I had run out of my favorite root beer ice cream bars (a.k.a. Kevin ate them all ;).


For all my friends who have been wondering what the secret to happiness is, here is your answer...

I don't know why, but this one threw me into a giggling fit and it took me a while to recover.

Happy Friday, everyone! The rest of the day is waiting for you to make it yours.

The Monster in Our Minds

My little sister Alicia and I were inseparable growing up. At any given moment, we were either fighting violently or playing Barbies for hours (and I mean HOURS) in our room. We weren't allowed to have any boy Barbies, so we cut the hair off of some of our girl Barbies in order to turn them into makeshift boys. We were very imaginative. :)

If we weren't playing Barbies, you could typically find us outdoors, running like crazies in the yard, jumping on the trampoline, or frolicking on the mountainside where we lived. Yes, I just used the word frolicking. Deal with it. :) The world was our playground, and we took full advantage of the fact that we were fairly isolated in such a gigantic and mysterious wonderland. However, when the sun went down and the last of the evening light faded, we were more wary than usual due to the fact that mountain lions, coyotes, and other terrifying creatures lurked in the shadows of the same mountainside that we lived on.

One evening Alicia and I were outside after the sun had gone down, and we wisely decided that it was time to go inside for the night. We began making our way up a small walkway covered in rocks and pebbles that wrapped around the side of our house when we both suddenly stopped dead in our tracks. Shhh! What was that?? There was an unmistakable sound of a footstep behind us. We stared at each other in breathless silence, wondering if we had imagined it. After a moment, we heard it again, only this time it was two footsteps, and they were coming towards us!

I don't know which one of us panicked first. We may have both panicked at the same time, because in an instant we were screaming and running down the walkway towards our house like two terrified bats out of hell (it's not a swearword when used in that context, right? ;). Due to our intensely freaked out state of mind, all of our attention was on the monster that was following us rather than where we were going.

Suddenly, we were both flying unexpectedly and haphazardly through the air. We had simultaneously tripped over the beastly lawn mower that was left out on the walkway. Before we knew it, we had landed in a tangled heap of screaming, shivering terror. Scrambling like ants from a hot fire, we managed to get to our feet as dad came tearing out of the house to investigate the commotion. We blurted out that someone or something was chasing us, while tears of fear and pain clouded our eyes. Dad quickly went to investigate while we ran into the house.

Moments later, he came inside, chuckling with amusement. To our utter relief and simultaneous mortification, we found out that the bajeebies had been scared out of us by... wait for it....

a frog.


Definitely not the proudest moment for either of us.

Jesus, Wait!!!!

Don't worry, this post isn't sacrilegious. It is, however, one of my most favorite humorous memories of all time.

This story starts out in a very ordinary way, about 9 years ago when I was working at R.C. Willey as a cashier. It was a particularly busy day due to a special promotion that was going on. For every $500 spent, you received some sort of free gift, although I can't recall what the gift was during that promotion. 

On this particular day, a cute and very professional saleslady (I won't reveal her name in case she somehow ever reads this blog) was working. I heard rumors that she was one of the most successful salespeople there, and it was easy to see why. Hard-working, demure, friendly, and attractive, she had a faithful following of "Willey" regulars.

However, on this busy day she seemed to be a little flustered as she tried to take care of all her customers' needs. She brought back a Latino customer and handed me his invoice so that I could ring him up, then thanked him graciously and walked hastily away. I pulled up his account and asked him to confirm his name. It was Jesus (pronounced "hay soos"). I rang him up, handed him his invoice, and he was soon on his way towards the exit at the front of the building. 

A few moments later, the cute little saleslady ran breathlessly up to me and asked if the man had left, because she had forgotten to give him his free gift! I pointed to where he was rapidly approaching the front door, and she started to walk hastily towards him. After glancing down at his name on a copy of the invoice that she held in her hand, she looked back up, reached her arm out and yelled (in the English pronunciation) "Jesus, wait!!!!". He continued to walk towards the exit, so she started to jog while waving her arm and yelling more desperately "Jesus, WAIT!!!! WAIT, Jesus!!!!". Of course he didn't react to her at all, but she was getting plenty of reactions from the other customers in the store. People stopped dead in their tracks to watch the crazy saleslady who was clearly having some sort of hallucination and believed that Jesus was leaving her alone in this cold, cruel world. The saleslady was so stumped that her customer wasn't responding to her that she didn't even notice she had become the sole focus of everyone's attention. 

Of course, I knew what the customer's name really was, and I was sitting in the back crying with laughter as I watched the spectacle unfold before my eyes. Finally, a fellow salesman had pity on her and laughingly told her to stop yelling. He whispered something in her ear and her face turned from complete confusion to absolute embarrassment as she looked around at her unexpected audience. She took it very gracefully and laughed right along with the rest of us. Jesus never did get his free gift, but the rest of us got a memory that we'll never forget.

Sunday Musings

Today was a refreshing and renewing type of Sunday - the kind that prompts you to sink your feet into the cool grass and look up at the sky while tiny raindrops splatter your face. So, that is exactly what we did, until heaven unleashed its fury and the raindrops became the size of marbles. Then we scurried inside the house and continued to watch Mother Nature's impressive Sunday evening show through our windows.

But before that, I had a soul-filling day at church. It was one of those Fast Sundays that made an indelible impression on my heart and made me think of things in a new way. The recurring themes: gratitude, and changing one's life for the better. It seems like there are others who have also decided it is time to wake up and remember what is really important in life, and it was inspiring to hear their stories.

As I sat there on my comfortably padded bench, I briefly entertained the thought of going up there myself and sharing some of my feelings and beliefs. But as soon as the thought entered my mind, it whirled around and ran away with its tail between its legs. Public speaking makes me want to lose my lunch, and when I do muster up the courage to walk up to the podium, what ends up coming out of my mouth sounds a lot like somebody's lost lunch. Word vomit. Public speaking is definitely not my strong point. But that's ok, because today was a day to "fill up my bucket", rather than trying to fill up someone else's. Sometimes Sundays are like that. And those are the Sundays we tend to remember with our hearts as well as our minds.