Painful Procrastination

Ouch. That's the best description for this week. After years of dabbling periodically in our fitness, my hubby and I had discovered we were way out of shape. Like, winded on the stairs out of shape.

So, it was time to get serious. Extreme, ninety days of seriousness. Once again, may I say ouch.

It takes at least an hour to an hour and a half every evening. Which is a lot of our "free" time. My wise husband had an excellent point though. We'd put off our health long enough, it was time for other things to be placed on hold.

That got me thinking, what else had I been putting off? It's so easy to get caught up in the daily work, cleaning, bill paying routine, are there crucial life events we're procrastinating?

My first thought was about my relationship with Heavenly Father and returning with honor.

When my son was very small we were at the County Fair, waiting for our ride on a roller coaster to start, when my precious toddler looked over at our church building just across the field.

"Mommy, Jesus is coming." He was very serious, his little brow furrowed.

I have to tell you, my heart quickened a little bit. "He is? When Baby?"

He continued to concentrate, but shrugged his tiny shoulders. "I don't know, soon."

I've made sure since then that the same conversation wouldn't be so worrisome. Even though I'm much more prepared, there's still a lot I should be striving for. Reading my scriptures daily, praying more often, the list goes on. How long will I procrastinate on these items?

Next my thoughts moved on to my family and all the things I want to do with them. Every summer we talk about taking the kids into nearby Washington D.C. to see the monuments or museums. So far we haven't gotten around to it. Or, the other historical sites in Virginia. There are lots of other things we've done as a family, but these are memories I want my kids to have. I need to stop putting it off and get it done.

Most importantly, I need to make sure I've told my family everything I want to tell them. Do my kids know why church and God are so important to me? Will my husband know how much he has inspired me and lifted me up, if I leave this earth tomorrow? Can any of them grasp how all encompassing my love for them is? Did I teach them to pray? To have faith?

I don't know about you, but I can't afford to procrastinate any longer. My fitness rehab may be painful, but after one week I'm seeing amazing results. I don't want to be in pain down the road because I procrastinated too long on other goals. Besides, what kind of fabulous blessings could be awaiting me?

What can you stop procrastinating, today?

The Wedding Story of Life

Tis' the season for showers, bird seed, and floating bubbles. That's right people, it's wedding season. I've recently been asked to be a bridesmaid, something I haven't done in ten years. Believe it or not I'm completely stoked, not because I have a love of teal taffeta, but because I adore the bride. It's an honor to be asked, plus I think this is going to be a really special event for our family. Now after all that warm fuzziness, I have to be honest, my next thought was that I better start hitting the gym. I'm going to be standing next to my cousin who is about as big as my little finger, and the bride who's the "after" of my Jenny Craig commercial.

Weddings offer so many opportunities for entertainment. My cousin drug her father up the aisle and then had a cow moo during the middle of the ceremony. Unfortunately, as guests we sometimes miss the best parts of the event. The story that unfolds later.

During the set-up of my sister-in-law's wedding, her fiance left with the keys to her car. That normally wouldn't be a big deal, except large portions of the decorations were in her trunk. Using good old fashioned American ingenuity, I shimmied through her half open window and folded down the back seat to access the trunk. Yes, this was prior to the birth of my three children.

At that same wedding the groom realized just minutes before the processional that he had forgotten the CD of the bridal march. The home owner scrambled through their limited music collection. Would the bride really walk down the aisle to Wayne Newton? Luckily, I have a freakish obsession with the cannons. I find them relaxing, okay? There was a full disc of wedding music in my car, and it was unlocked.

Some of the most ridiculous wedding moments I've heard of, come from my own wedding. What can I say, I was young and didn't plan well, but it made for a memorable day.

Bubbles were just coming into fashion for weddings, but were still a bit expensive. I was wearing way too much hairspray to let our guests surround us with sparklers. Still, I was not interested in spending hours packing birdseed into tiny little bags. My bright solution? Fill a birdbath with seeds and each guest could grab a handful to toss. Simple enough. I failed to take the groomsmen into account.

My husband's dearest friends lifted the top off the birdbath and dumped the entire thing on our heads. I had to take down my hair on the balcony of our hotel room that night, to shake out the six cups of birdseed trapped in the intricate up-do. It was in our pockets, ears, shoes, anyplace you can think of.

I won't go in to detail about what they did to the car. My car, that my trusting husband left unlocked with the keys in the ignition. It was epic, I'll say that much. Even after a trip to the car wash, it was a conversation starter at every rest area we stopped at on our honeymoon.

With first dances, cake cuttings and socializing with distant family members my husband and I never had time to eat anything at our reception. Never fear, our family took care of us and packed a cooler with all the best snacks and finger foods. When we got to the hotel we were starving and couldn't wait to dig in. Except in all the craziness of leaving the wedding we'd grabbed the wrong cooler. All we had were extra broccoli and carrot sticks that had not been on ice all evening. Not exactly a pleasant smell.

At five minutes till midnight my groom and I rolled into a local McDonald's and super sized ourselves a first matrimonial dinner. I was stilling wearing my hairpiece, and we hadn't cleaned out any of the aforementioned birdseed yet. To say we were stared at would be a mild understatement.

The crowning jewel of the night, however, came right after we left the reception. Tradition holds that when the bride and groom leaves, the rest of the wedding party piles into cars and follows them through town honking, cheering and raising a general commotion. Our wedding party was exceedingly good at this task. As we were ending our rounds through town we passed a gas station where two not-so-distinguished country gentlemen were rolling out of their pick up truck. One looked up and with out missing a beat yelled out "You fool!".

No matter what hysterics take place backstage during your wedding or catastrophes that go seen or unseen by the guests you will be just as married in the end. Best of all you'll have some great stories to tell one day, when you're writing a blog about weddings during the week of your thirteenth anniversary. Who wants a boring "everything was perfect" story to tell?

Life, like our weddings, isn't perfect. That's what makes it a good story. It doesn't matter if you're a millionaire or a pauper. If your house is spotless or a mess. In the end we all meet the same maker, it's just about the story we have to tell.

How interesting is your story going to be?

I Still Carry His Picture

Mother's day is one of my very favorite holidays. I'll admit, I love the handmade cards and soggy marigolds. The stick figure portraits, that make me look so thin, are a special favorite. Mostly though, the adoration with which these gifts come are what makes my day. The joy bursting from their little hearts let's me know, yet again, that it's Mom that rocks this house.

Sure, Dad keeps us safe, warm, sheltered, the yard maintained, the cars in working order, he fixes stuff and he even grocery shops. But, can he make a pancake pig? Kids don't recognize the millions of sacrifices we make for them everyday, they notice the minutia that makes them happy in the moment.

Mom chases fireflies with them, sucks the middle out of honeysuckle and colors Queen Anne's Lace in food coloring. I turn birthdays into events and the entire Christmas season is a series of magical traditions. Are they head over heals about four wheeler rides with their Dad and his surprise trips to the movies? Sure, but this is about Mother's day. We can talk about him next month.

With this special day upon us I can't help, but count my blessings, and their fingers, toes, and little noses. As happy as I am with my little wonders, I always come up one short. In 2002, on a rather ordinary Wednesday, my first pregnancy came to an end with no warning. I will never forget the kindness of the emergency room doctor. Or, the normally terse head of radiology who was warm and reassuring.

Twenty-four hours later all we had left were a few journal entries, a faded pregnancy test and a small stuffed heart that now adorns our Christmas tree each year.

So many mothers have lost children. Many go on to have more, some are blessed through adoption and yet others never complete their family while here on earth. All of these women have something in common. They never forget those babies.

There are no photographs or baby books for these children, nothing solid to hold onto, but the memories are still dear. No miscarriage date is forgotten, or would've been birthday passed by. My son, I can't be sure it was a boy, is kept safe pressed between the pages of my scriptures. The ultrasound picture is one of the few things I have that makes him real. He was an adorable little blob, spitting image of his father. I will carry that picture until the day I die.

The world may not remember these mothers this Mother's day. There's not a special card and these children aren't here to make beaded necklaces and petunias in Styrofoam cups. I will remember these Moms this holiday in a special prayer, and I hope you do too.

Don't you think they would've rocked the house?

 

The Peanut Butter Sandwich

Do you remember your first friend? Chances are you're thinking about the buck-toothed kid that you grew-up next door to or the little girl in braids you met in kindergarten. If you take a look closer to home though you might find an even earlier friendship.

Your brothers and sisters are your first friends, enemies and hopefully the only people you ever try to maim or kill. My brother was all of those things to me. I often think fondly of childhood memories or cringe at the near misses we escaped, but this coming week offers me a special opportunity to do so. This Wednesday will mark the four year anniversary of my brother's death. All week I remember the adventures we had as children. After all no one really knows your childhood experiences like a sibling, someone who lived those experiences with you.

Though he was six years older we were forced playmates, because, we lived in the country, and our nearest neighbors could be spotted only through binoculars. Living on a farm gave us a super-sized playground with fields, forests and barns to explore. We could often be seen racing across the hills on his dirt bike. When I was very small I would ride cross legged on the gas tank holding on to the handle bars. (Safe, I know) As I grew I rode on the back of the bike hanging on to him. I couldn't begin to count the number of bumps, bruises and burns we obtained from motorcycle crashes. Who knew that two people on a dirt bike doing X-Games style jumping could be so risky? The force of that wipe out is nothing in comparison though to hitting a petrified cow patty at fifty miles an hour. Didn't know manure could turn to stone did you? Well it can, and when it does it can send a motorcycle and its riders flying through the air. Unfortunately you miss the whole flying part. One moment you're on the bike, the next you're slamming into the ground, and the next you're bloody and limping pushing a busted bike back home.

Just like with other childhood friends I didn't always play nicely with my brother. I can remember him chasing me through the house, I'm not sure what I'd done, but I'm sure it was a doozy. Reaching the brand new bathroom I slammed the door and locked it behind me. He hit the door so hard it cracked. That was it, the fight was over. We had to work together to patch and paint the door before our parents got home. On another occasion I'd grown so tired of his picking that I hid in the hall coat closet to surprise him. I'd been in there for quite some time when he jerked the door open to scare me. It worked. I was so startled I punched him right in the face, knocking him to the floor. Our parents were painting the living room, and could barely cling to their ladders they were laughing so hard.

My very best memory of my brother contains no blood or bruising and I think about it all year not just on February twenty-second. Even though we were not affectionate siblings I know he loved me. Not because of all the things we did together as children or because of the great lengths he went to in order to attend my college graduation. It's not even because of the trust he put in me with helping with his health and addiction issues in the last few years of his life. I knew of his love because of a peanut butter sandwich.

When I was around nine and he was fifteen my parents were going out for the evening and just the two of us were staying home. It was a warm summer evening and he and I were making sandwiches for dinner to eat outside on the picnic table. Around that time I'd developed an affinity for ham and cheese sandwiches on lightly toasted bread. Yes, I was an odd child and a very picky eater, but that's beside the point. I had already toasted my bread when I realized we were out of ham. Now my Mom, being a mom, insisted that I not waste perfectly good bread. Which I understand now, at the time I thought she was a lunatic it was just bread. The only sandwich materials we had were pimiento cheese and peanut butter, not even any jelly. A battle ensued between mother and daughter, which ended with Mom and Dad heading out for the evening and me having a peanut butter sandwich on now cold hard toast. I was completely distraught. Picking at my nasty sandwich in tears while sitting across the picnic table from my big brother. Suddenly he leaped up and grabbed the monstrosity.

"Haha, I've got your sandwich!" He ran across our back yard carrying it high above his head laughing. I still remember his red and white Hawaiian shirt flapping behind him. I gave chase just to see what he was going to do. When he reached the fence at the far side of the yard he sent that peanut butter sandwich sailing into the field, scattering wild eyed cows. Shrieking with delight I perched on the black board fence in my bare feet. He had saved me. We never said anything else about it, not that evening or in the next twenty-one years before his death.

It warms my very soul to see my children interact in a loving way. My daughters are best friends. They hold hands when they're scared and take care of each other at every turn. That is when they're not screaming bloody murder and smacking one another. Their brother tolerates their affection and will let them play Legos with him from time to time. Always though my favorite is to see him cheer them up after a bad day, he can't stand to see them sad. Sometimes he'll even offer the coveted sleepover in his room.

As the years go by many of us lose touch with our families. Differences and arguments can drive siblings apart as can miles across the globe. Shared blood shouldn't be the only thing that brings you back together. Remember your very first friend. The one who's been there since the very beginning, and knows all the wacky things you did as a kid. Actually encouraged you to do those weird and wacky things with them. You weren't just born into the same house, you were born into a friendship.

So who loved you enough to throw your peanut butter sandwich?

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