Influenza Has Mommy?

Being a mommy does something odd to the psyche.  I think I'm so far deep into motherhood that, at some point, I forgot that I could actually get sick.  This isn't to say that I haven't been sick in the past 6 years, but more like I haven't been so sick that I couldn't ignore the symptoms along side the rest of the little humans in my life.  I'm fairly certain that I could be dry heaving into a garbage bag and any one of my three children would tap me on the shoulder and ask me if I could please get them some more milk.  Or wipe their buns.  Or could I please kiss their owie that they got when they smacked their brother in the face?

So on Saturday, I started to feel odd and easily exhausted.  On Sunday I started to cough uncontrollably.  On Monday I woke up and I thought I was going to die.  Fever, dry cough, congestion, you name it.  Total misery.   I couldn't stand up, I couldn't eat, drink, whine, nothing.

One thing you have to know is that Chris Garland is infamous for being a hypochondriac.  He will deny this until the day that he dies, but the fact remains that as soon as I mention a symptom, he literally has that exact symptom in about 3 nano-seconds, with of course the exception of things like a fever or congestion, etc.  For example, one of the very first symptoms I ever got when I was pregnant was cold symptoms.  My nose would get stuffy and I would swear that I was getting sick.  Then, coupled with a few other symptoms, I would take a pregnancy test and it would explain it all.  Chris got my "pregnancy cold" every single time and it was cured by my pregnancy test....every single time.  Mention a symptom, and Chris is instantly ill.  It's adorable/annoying/adorable.

So, over the weekend, Chris was obviously feeling "tired and sick".  He even took loads of over-the-counter cough medicine, even though he never coughed even once. Then Monday came, and he was refreshed and ready for the week.  I was hit by a Mack truck, but since I couldn't barely put a sentence together to express my symptoms, Chris was unscathed.  I stayed in bed for three straight days, with the exception of when I went to the doctor for ear pain and came home with influenza and antibiotics.

Which reminds me.  I'm sitting at urgent care, my head in my palm, coughing into a mask when the doctor gently asks me "Mrs Garland, did you get a flu shot?"

My mind immediately flashed to the traumatic events of every fall when I get my three children flu shots.  It is pure misery.  They cry, scream, go hysterical and respond to each other's cries as if their lives are truly endangered. As a tribe of psychos, they absolutely panic until the three of them see something shiny and then life goes on, leaving a rattled, exhausted mother in their wake.  Within four minutes, nobody remembers what happened except me.

But wait a minute...I obviously didn't get a shot that day at the pediatric clinic....and then I realized....I completely forgot to get myself a flu shot.  Me.  Unbelievable.

So I tell the doctor that I didn't get one....but can't stop myself from rattling off my life story just in case he thinks I'm a complete moron.  "I didn't get one, but I have three kids and they all got one.  I just forgot to get myself one.  See?  They are....covered, so...that doesn't count...but if the world had any ounce of justice in it, it would....right?"

"Mrs. Garland, I think you have influenza.  The real one" and then, as I look entirely defeated, he quietly jokes "do you need a mental health evaluation?"

Of course I do.  So when I come home and tell Chris, his face goes white and he takes a few steps back from me.  He says under his breath "Oh my God.  My wife has the black plague.  I'm going to die."

I step over all the garbage on the ground that has accumulated in the past 72 hours and return to my bed while Chris is giving the kids a bath.  I am so exhausted that I have to ask Chris to get me some water, but it takes him awhile to respond.  When he finally brings the water, which clearly he would like to hand to me with a 10 foot pole, he looks frazzled.  I ask him what is wrong, and no joke, he says "Oh nothing, just trying to handle my pre-flu symptoms."

So I was incapacitated for 5 straight days.  Chris got the kids ready for school each day and I swear, Adelai literally had a bee hive as she went to daycare each day.  For three straight days, they ate pizza and eggs for almost every meal.  They never had a bed time, but rather passed out on the floor and were placed into their beds.  They had free access to cookies and drank non-stop Gatorade.  It was probably the best time of their lives. And when I finally rose from my bed this morning, the house looked like a war zone.  Not to disrespect the survivors of WWII, but does anybody remember the scene in The Pianist when the main character finally comes out of the house at the very end and the whole entire place is decimated for as far as the eye can see?

 That was kind of like my house.  Except that instead of bombed out structures of houses, I had straight filth and garbage.

I used to feel like a total failure as a parent because my house almost always looks trashed.  No matter how hard I try, I have three little sabotages following behind me, ruining everything.  At least this experience has shown me that I do actually keep total filth and decimation at bay.  Sort of.

And FYI, Chris is still freaked out by me.  When I cough, he does everything short of duck-and-cover.  Luckily, he is still at the "pre-flu" stage, so I think we'll be just fine.

Although, speaking of the need for a mental health evaluation......

Marriage

Dear Chase, Justin & Adelai,

Daddy and I recently celebrated 8 years of marriage.  I'm writing this letter to you kids mostly because, as I've wandered around my life the past week, nobody seems to remember what it's like to be married 8 years.  I personally have the hypothesis that they've blacked out the trauma, in light of the ease that bursts through at 20 years....or something.  I'm banking on an ease occurring at the 20 year mark, so stay tuned for that letter too.  Likely, by the time you are bursting onto 8 years, I'll stare at you with a blank look and have nothing at all to offer.  At least I hope.  

At eight years of marriage, I think you know that the person you've married is human.  And he/she is never going to be anything better than human.  Perhaps earlier in the marriage, I might have delusionally convinced myself that your dad might eventually morph into a superhero....as if he was a work in progress, and I was simply hanging on (in my perfect state) until he progressed to cape status.  But recently I noticed that he hasn't.  And he won't.  And even worse? (gasp) I'm not perfect.  

I know right?  I bet, as my own children, this blows your mind.  Come talk to me after you read this and I'll point out my few flaws that I've noted over the years.  

Anyway, the idea that your spouse is human is a nice lesson to learn because it alleviates a lot of stress to realize that your spouse is going to let you down....as humans do.  And your spouse will also pick you up...but not the way that restores you and makes all of your troubles go away.  You will have troubles when you are married that your spouse cannot fix.  If you look to your spouse as if they are super human....or even worse, like they should be super human,  all sorts of troubles come your way.  A long time ago, (and by the time you read this, a frickin LONG TIME AGO) there was a famous movie quote from Jerry Maguire in which Jerry says to the woman "You complete me."  

It's about the 8th year in marriage where you realize that this can't possibly be true.  If that's true, then every time that sadness or stress comes and your spouse doesn't fix it, the marriage gets rocked.  This past year, your daddy and I figured out how to live and love without being dependent on each other for our solid footing in life.  Maybe up until the past two years, we felt invincible together...mostly because it's just so easy for your daddy and I to be together.  We fit together fairly effortlessly. Then, life got stressful and it's wasn't easy to be us at all.  

I think you end up in one of two places in that time.  You 1) turn and point fingers and wonder why the other person isn't fixing everything or 2) put down your arms and stand next to each other until you are both ready to get down on your knees and submit to the One who really completes you.  And then, He makes you, as a couple, brand new and shiny.  And He becomes a river of Life, flowing through your home.  And you don't look at each other anymore with frustration or anger about things not working out, because you realize that you are both simply human.  

And then you look around and see that, given the 3 children under 5 years old, the mortgage, the small business, the three cats, the dog, and the budget from hell, life really should be stressful.  

So at 8 years, you sit back, hold hands and laugh with each other.  You accept that it's hard, and you thank God that He offered you a life partner who is your very best friend in the whole world.  And then you briefly fight about how your spouse never rinses off the dishes before he puts them into the dishwasher, therefore making every dish nasty and hardening the leftover food until it's a substance that resembles cement.  And you might, in the midst of that fight, be completely flabbergasted by the idea that your spouse would then put said dish into the cupboard anyway.  And you might, after that, become amazed that this does not faze him, pointing out that this might be indicative of a mental disorder or something.  Then, you'll suddenly realize that he's not looking at your eyes, but rather looking just past your head at ESPN on the TV behind you.  And then you briefly lose your mind before you come back to reality.  And then you laugh again. 

That's 8 years of marriage.  

So what I can say is this.  When you pick your person, pick somebody that you would easily call your best friend.  Pick somebody who has a good heart with great intentions.  Pick somebody who would joyfully sacrifice anything for you.  And after many years, when things get hard, don't ever forget that marriage is a gift, but life is about being refined by fire.  Your marriage should be a retreat, but God is in the process of making you holy...and He will use your marriage to refine you.  With that in mind, one might even say that the challenges are the biggest gift.  (I would not be willing to admit this when I pull out a dirty dish from the cupboard, however.)

I started praying for your marriages already.  And one thing that I pray is that your spouses love you the way that your daddy loves me.  I am well loved, that is for sure.  

I may have to do the dishes again, but I am well loved.  

Love you, my babies.  Forever and always. 

Love 

Mommy

Mommy and Daddy Christmas 2011

Jess vs Bacon; the Sequel

I am on a serious quest to become domestic in the kitchen.  It has sunk in that we are not the people that eat out every single day anymore, and so faced with the tension of having taste buds beyond Hamburger Helper, I've been backed into a corner. 

I'm the wife/mother.  We are hungry.  There is nobody to turn to except me.  Our situation is nothing if not desolate.  Just like my ideal camping trip is running barefoot through the Marriott, my ideal time in the kitchen is grabbing a soda on my way to the phone book to call for pizza.  Thus far, I've really enjoyed the kitchen.  It's a really great place to get cereal each morning. 

Everything about the kitchen baffles me.

For example, about 6 months after we married, we moved into a new apartment.  I had the pleasure of unpacking the kitchen and about 6 weeks later, Chris confronted me with the information that he had located the clothing iron in the kitchen drawer with the mixing stuff.  He was looking for the actual mixer, and could I please inform him of the location of the actual mixer?

I thought for sure that he was a total idiot.  (I didn't love Jesus then, clearly.)  I rolled my eyes and said "Ugh.  You are such a man.  That is the mixer.  I'll show you the iron."  I grabbed his hand (real condescending like) and walked him over to the closet.  I swung the door open and grabbed the iron.  "Here it is. See?"
"That's the mixer."
"No it's not."
"Yep, look closely."
I looked at the item, but only to gather evidence to prove to him that he was, in fact, an idiot. 
And the idiot was me. 
In my defense though, they look really similar.  Next time you are at my house, at least give me a chance to show you that they kind of look similar.  They are almost the same color....and they both have handles.  I mean, if that doesn't justify the confusion, nothing will. 

So my full assault, all out combat against the kitchen is going pretty well.  Sometimes I get flashbacks though.  And because I wanted to clarify for any reader of this blog that I am not one to look up to in any way, I thought I would share a vintage Jess & Chris story.  Yesterday I made homemade baked potato soup, which involved cooking bacon.  On the stove.  By myself.  I give you: 

Jessica vs Bacon; the Day it Disappeared
- - - - - - - - - - - -
It was a cold morning in 2004.  Chris and I were living in our very first apartment together.  We had been married about one month.  This was pre-children, so I have absolutely no clue how we spent our weekends.  I think we just sat there and took it all for granted.  We probably slept in, went to a movie, worked on homework when we felt like it, and basically just did nothing.  What do people without kids even do?  I can't even make a joke about it.  Seriously.  What do people do?

Anyway, it was mid-morning and we decided to make a big breakfast.  And by "we", I mean Chris.  Chris was making breakfast, and I was planning on eating it.  I was watching TV and Chris was cooking when he realized that he had forgotten something critical at the store.  I think it was eggs.  Anyway, he gave me the option.  Did I want to go to the store and buy the eggs, or did I want to stay home and watch the bacon?  I was intricately involved in the cribs episode on MTV, so I decided to watch the bacon.  I became frantic as he was leaving though.  "Chris, you know that I don't know what to do with bacon, right?"

"Honey, it's not hard.  Just turn it over a few times.  I'll be gone for less than 10 minutes.  You'll be fine.  Just keep an eye on it."  And he left.  Me.  Alone.  With bacon.

I walked into the kitchen and stared at it.  It was sizzling.  So I turned it over and it the grease popped and burned my finger.  I felt that was inappropriately aggressive for a pork item and, grabbing my finger that had been set aflame (not really), I went back into the living room, thinking to myself "I'll just watch until the next commercial and then flip it again."

I walked out of the kitchen into the living room and noted that 50 Cent's house was insane.  I watched his cars, and his living room and his ridiculous kitchen.  I wondered if being shot hurt.  And did he know what it was like to drive a 1998 Jeep Grand Cherokee and make 8.37/hour right out of college?  And I wondered if I could rap.  What if I had, like a secret talent that I didn't even know about?  Then I could rap and have a gold toilet, just like 50.  Except that I wasn't sure if going number 2 on a gold toilet was that enticing. 

The commercial came on.  "Time to check the bacon!" I thought.  I looked up and couldn't see anything.  The entire apartment was full of smoke. 

I ran the 5 steps from the couch to the kitchen and couldn't see the bacon at all.  I turned on the fan, and there was nothing in the pan.  Even when the smoke was being blown away from it, there was nothing there.  So I grabbed the pan and took it out to the porch. I put it on the ground and, leaning up against the wall, I slowly slid to the ground.  What happened?

Just then, I heard the front door open. There was a long pause (presumably as Chris' vision became accustomed to the wall of smoke), and then I heard Chris yell "Honeyyyy?....Helloooo?....Where are you?"

"I'm out here, Chris.  Outside."

He joined me and looked concerned.  "Are you okay? I was gone for 8 minutes....."

"I don't know what happened!  The bacon is gone.  Where did it go?"  I pointed to the pan that was completely black and devoid of any substance indicative of food.

"I think the bacon is the black clumps on the pan."  And gosh darn it if there weren't several black clumps of ash.  He looked incredulous.  Kind of like a man that married a woman 6 weeks ago and found out that she can disintegrate bacon in 8 minutes.  After he pledged to stay forever. 

"I can't believe it! I just watched one portion of the Cribs episode, and when I came back, it was all gone! Did you know that bacon disintegrates?"

"No.  No I did not."

"Me neither.  Well.....do you want me to help you with the eggs?"

"Um...nope.  I...uh...think I'll take the breakfast from here, sweetie."

"You sure?"

"Really sure." 

"Is it because I'm horrible in the kitchen?"

"Absolutely.  100% yes."

That was the last time I was allowed to look at bacon on the stove.
- - - - - - - - - - - -

So last night, I'm happy to report that after almost 8 years of shying away from the diabolical bacon, I cooked it from start to finish.  And it didn't disappear or anything.  It was touch and go for awhile there, but I'm happy to report that it was a success. 

Take that, bacon.
Pretty soon, all the kitchen appliances are going to be in the kitchen and I'm going to be known for cooking food that people eat. 
I can't promise about where the clothing iron will be though. 
That machine right there is a straight mystery.   
Maybe I'll try the iron in my 40s.  Don't want to get too crazy over here.

Conspiracy Theory

I have been on a mission for 17 months to get my daughter to say my name as her first word. 

It's true.  I worked with moderate effort to get my boys to say Mama, but both said "ball" clear as day way before they ever uttered the name of the woman who carried them for 40 weeks and then had them cut out of her body.  But I'm not bitter.  I'm awesome like that.  Totally graceful, totally not self centered.  A real mom.  I just want them to be happy, healthy and great contributors to society. 

And I also want them to remember that I am the most important person in their life.  Is that so much to ask?

So with Adie, I realized that I needed to step up the effort.  And I bumped it up several notches.  But she has been speechless for 17 frickin months.  Much to my dismay, she has created an entire language of grunting and squeals that every person understands.  Do you know how many times you have to say MAMA in 17 months when you feel like her first word could come any day? 

By the way, she has been saying "Hiiiiiii" upon greeting people for about 2 months, but I refuse to acknowledge that.  Clearly it was a fluke.  That would be a stupid first word, so it's not a contender. 

And Chris? He pretends he doesn't care at all.  He never says his name, and relies on me to introduce Dada to the mix.  Big mistake, Mister.  Because secretly?  When you are gone?  I call you "That One Guy" and "The Biological Contributor To Your Genetics".  Gotcha.  I did say I was on a mission, didn't I?

So my dream came true.  She has been saying mamammama for awhile, but finally a few weeks ago, I heard her yell "Mama! Mama!" when she wanted out of her crib.  And it has become consistent and I have lept for joy every time.  She probably thinks that "Mama" is the word to say when you want the tall lady to stop everything, scream and clap her hands furiously with a big smile on her face. 

And suddenly Chris is not feelin it.  His mouth dropped and he feigned pessimism.  "I didn't hear mama at all" and then "she thinks everything is called mama" and then "I can't friggin believe that she can say mama and NOT DADA". 

So he's gone into overdrive and I've caught him enrolling Adie into DADA boot camp.  Too bad she's so stubborn that she just stares at him.  I bet she is thinking "Why is Biological Contributor To My Genetics saying "dada" all the time?"

We also happen to play a lovely game in the Garland house where "No Nose" has to change poopy diapers.  Who ever touches their nose last after someone yells "No Nose changes diaper!" has to chase her down, pin her down, and engage in 5 minutes of a poopy wrestling match with a 17 month old who squeals like a pig. 

This morning, I promptly yelled "no nose!" and laid my head on my pillow, victorious. 
"No way!" I heard.  "She can make her own choices now.  Adie?  Do you want MAMA or dada to change your diaper?"  Chris said, ever so smugly. 

I thought I had been duped.  So screwed.

"DA." She yelled.
Both of our mouths dropped.
"Did she just say Da?" Chris asked, clearly flabbergasted.
"Yep." I said, totally delighted in my daughter. 
"This is a conspiracy.  A Garland Woman Conspiracy." He said, totally defeated twice over as he stood up to do the duty. 

That's my girl.  Nice try, That One Guy.  Nice try. 


 

Rafting without Dying

Yesterday Chris and I went rafting with a group from Oasis for a family event.  We definitely didn't bring our children though.  If you have met Chase for 32 seconds, you know that bringing Chase on a raft down the smallest of rapids would be akin to strapping him to a dentist chair and ripping out a molar without anesthesia.  Had we brought Justin, he would have jumped off the raft for fun.  So we left them and Adelai with two wonderful girls and went on an adventure. 

I floated the river once or twice in my childhood, and it has remained one of my most favorite memories.  Something about leaving the world behind and sitting on a raft or tube, surrounded by nature and slowly riding down the river just speaks to me. 

Now if you know me, or have read my blog for any time at all, you might feel like you have just experienced a shocking change.  Jess likes something on water?  Whaaaa? 

First and foremost, let's get some perspective.  Two weeks ago I sat in the Urgent Care center for 3 hours (even though I had an appointment and had showed up 10 minutes early) and was happy to read my book in peace and quiet.  I love to sit in waiting areas and just relax; I'll leave my children for any reason at all.  So it's not like my bar is high right now.  Are there screaming children on the raft?  No?  Alright I'm in.  It's going down a waterfall?  I'm going to give that some thought....while I'm on the raft. 

The other shocking contribution that I'd like to submit to you is that I can be on a raft for 3 hours in rapids and come out with 100% dry hair.  I have certainly rode on an inter tube behind a boat and come out with a dry face.  When you have the level of panic that I can attain with water next to my nose, you develop some type of magical ability to remain dry in the most challenging of circumstance.  In retrospect, I might have preferred a different magical ability....like the ability to do 14 loads of laundry a day without noticing.  But I guess this one will do.

So Chris and I got on a raft.  We were joined by a remarkable young girl from the youth group.  Poor girl.  She was so sweet.  She had no idea what she was walking in to.  Because this sweet girl sat between Chris and I as we attempted to navigate the river together....in the context of a 7 year old marriage with 3 children.  We may or not have had additional baggage on the raft.  There the girl was, so innocent and so unaware.  She really was wonderful and it was a joy to get to know her better. 
But she may never be the same.

To provide some context to this trip, you need to know that Chris and I rented a kayak in Maui in January of this year.  I sat in the front (just like this trip) and Chris sat in the back.  We could not pull it together.  In the effort to obtain a unified front, we argued about who was responsible for steering the thing.  Chris was emphatic that it was my job, and I was emphatic that no matter how much effort I gave, I could not make the boat go a direction.  He thought I wasn't trying hard, I thought he was flat out wrong and we ended up nowhere.  In a hurry.  That day in Maui, I thought we would float out into the Pacific Ocean and I would never drink a Mai Tai again.  The horror.  We never did come to agreement, and only after we stumbled upon a current did we actually return to shore. 

So really, this was effort #2, 7 months later.  See? 
Baggage. 

Right away, I can't figure out how to sit comfortably.  I've been given a paddle and explicitly told that I can't lose this paddle.  I've also been told that I need to direct the raft, but I can barely even reach the water while I'm sitting in the raft so I climb up onto the top of the raft at the front where there is a handle and I can reach the water.  Kind of a precarious spot to be, if I do say so myself.  But, if there is anybody to rely on keeping my face dry, I've got like a 88% success rate, so I'm pretty confident. 

And I'm totally sucking at directing the raft.  We hit several rapids right away going sideways or backwards.  But, if I can say anything about this trip, regardless of how the directions went, it was so seriously fun that even in those moments where I thought I might die, I was smiling and laughing.  So fun. 

The scenery was gorgeous.  The people were wonderful.  And for the life of me, no matter how hard I paddled, I couldn't figure it out.  At some point I started to wonder if I was more stupid than I could have ever imagined.  I thought hard about where to paddle to turn the boat, but no matter how much effort I put it, it never worked out. 

At one point, from the back of the raft, Chris said "Jess, it's not hard.  Just put your paddle to the left if you want to turn right like this (as the raft turned 360 degrees immediately in a circle), and to the right if you want to turn left."
"But Chris, when I do that it doesn't work.  See?" (I then tried to turn the raft and it actually spun in circle if I paddled as hard as I could with a fervent pace).
"See honey?  There you go.  Do that." 
"Chris, I think you are the director guy and I'm just for show in the front.  Like an ornament of beauty."
"Nope, you are definitely the steering guy."

So we hit another rapid sideways.  This was a doozy.  Remember when I told you about my precarious seat?  Well somewhere in the middle of the rapid, I fell backwards into the lap of the girl with my feet over my head and was stuck there for the whole rapid. (A precarious spot, indeed!)  I even hit my mouth with the handle of the paddle and thought I had given myself a fat lip. Eventually the girl helped me up and both of us are laughing so hard that it's difficult to breath.  I yell for Chris to paddle because we are headed for a tree and a rock, and then I grab my paddle to direct us.  Surprise surprise, it doesn't work.  Suddenly there is a jolt on the raft and I hear Chris yell "don't worry, I'm back!"

"Where were you?"
"What? I fell off the raft! You didn't know?"
"Nope?"
"Yep, I fell back head first into the rapids and had to swim to catch up to you girls."

This is definitely a moment where you look around at your surroundings and wonder if the pastor's wife just told you an outright lie when she said that "Nobody dies today" as encouragement that this trip wouldn't be life threatening.  Chris just fell ass buns over tea kettle without anybody noticing at all, and I hit myself exceptionally hard with a paddle in the face as my feet flipped over my head.  I'm no expert on death, but one begins to reconsider the safety part when you sense the sudden lunge of a 200lb man onto your raft who, prior to that moment was not known to be even missing at all. 

What's more, we quickly found ourselves between packs of rafts floating all by ourselves.
And the bottom of the raft seemed quite thin, as evidenced by the moment where my knee smashed remarkably hard into a big rock.  But I thought that was all normal until we floated up to a place where the group had reconvened. 

They all seemed to look at our raft with a measure of surprise and concern. 

Because our raft had lost a lot of air.  A lot.  And it turns out that there was a visible hole in the back where Chris was sitting.  But do you know what's amazing about Oasis?  I didn't realize this until I was standing on the bank of the river, but I never expected anybody to care about my raft.  They quickly realized that our raft was a mess, but I would have never expected that they would have concerned themselves with it.  I know that makes me a bit weird in retrospect, but I think I've lived a lot of my life as a person who doesn't anticipate that anybody else will assume care of my problem.  But here was Oasis, all involved in the problem and before I knew it, the raft had air again.  It kind of reminds me about how life was before Oasis.  We didn't have any air, and we didn't even know until they showed up. 

And while we were on the bank of the river, I clarified that the back paddle was the steering guy and the front paddle was the power guy. 

And this is where the girl came in quite nicely. 
Because what's the first thing that Chris said in response to that news?
"Right, that's what I said."
My mouth drops to the ground.
"NO IT'S NOT!"
"Yes, I said you are the engine and I'm the driving person."
I can't pick up my mouth. 

So this lovely young girl is 12 years old.  I really like her, and it takes me a few nano-seconds before I decide that, despite her age and her innocence, winning a disagreement in a marriage is so much more important than anything else in the whole world.  So I invite her into the center of a 7 year old marriage and essentially demand that she pick a winner.  Both of us are staring at her expectantly, except that Chris has a smile on his face that full on reveals that he knows he is totally wrong.  But we've played chicken with the girl, and she is now being stared at by two adults.  She can't look away, and quickly reveals that I'm the winner.  I knew I liked that girl. 

So we were back on the raft and one thing became quite clear.  Rafting with air is so much easier than rafting without air.  And it's even easier when the person who is able to direct the boat actually directs the boat, and the other person just vigorously paddles.  Chris and I could definitely work on communication though, as several times when he was changing the direction of the boat, he would yell from behind "sweetheart, we are going that direction now." 
"Which direction?"
"That direction."
"I need more information".
"We are going towards that rock."
"What rock?"
"The one on that side."

The rest of the trip was riddled with me and Chris accidentally hitting the girl with our paddles.  Multiple times....totally by accident.  She really was a trooper. 

I also hit myself with the paddle in my mouth one more time.  Nobody could see the swelling part, which is actually much worse because when you smack yourself in the face, it's kind of nice when someone can actually validate your sense of shame and dismay by acknowledging the pain instead of look at you like you've lost your mind. 

When it was all over, I couldn't wait to do it again. 

Moral of the story:  It's really important to properly identify the driver of the raft.  And air is pretty darn important.  And finally, there are certainly people out there who genuinely care about the state of your raft and will take it upon themselves, without asking, to help you.  If you find those people, keep those people.

And always bring a 12 year old girl wherever you go so that she can tell you the winner of the argument.  That was very convenient. 

I Love Not Camping

Chris and I took a 4-year-old, a 3-year-old and a 1-year-old camping.  Because we are brain damaged. 

You might be asking yourself....How could Chris and Jess possibly consider this to be a good idea? Well for the record, I did not ever think this was going to go well.  But our church goes every year, and we most definitely didn't want to miss out on the fun. 

We did go camping last year and it has been a point of contention in our marriage.  Last year, I looked at the forecast and noted that it was going to be about 50 degrees at night and we didn't have any adult sleeping bags.  I asked Chris for a sleeping bag, and at that time, Chris said "What?  No, we don't need to buy a sleeping bag.  I'll just bring blankets.  It's only going to get down to 50 degrees.  No problem."  And then unbeknown to me, Chris brought an afghan.  Two afghans.  And as I was laying there covered in sweat shirt and pants huddled under that ridiculous blanket, I distinctly remember glaring at Chris and saying "I freakin knew 50 degrees was cold." to which he replied "Oh.  I just realized I've never camped sober.  Turns out 50 degrees is cold.  Who knew?"  

Imagine how well that went over. 

So this year, I was emphatic.  Bring a sleeping bag.  Non-negotiable.  And I was very anxious about keeping Adelai warm.  I planned for long underwear, and two pairs of pajamas to wear.  And I got a sleeping bag, but Chris decided to just bring the down comforter from our bed for himself.  The boys had new sleeping bags that they were very excited about, and I had made lots of snacks for the children. 

In our life, warm + lots of food = a chance at happiness.  I was hopeful.  But do you see that my only concern was warmth?  And food?  As if that's all you need? 

So naive.  So ridiculously not outdoorsy.  So caught off guard.
Did you know it can rain when you camp?
Because I did not.

It started raining at 8pm on Friday night.  I had just put Adelai in her pack and play to go to sleep.  I should have seen this disaster coming, because when I put her down, she looked at me as if I had completely lost my mind.  Sleep in this tent in this crib?  Mommy, do you not remember that I sleep in my crib in the house with the heater? Have you completely lost your mind?

Then she pooped through two of the three layers of pajamas that I had put her in.  Awesome. We got her cleaned up and down to just one layer of clothing, and I laid down with the three kids in the tent.  They briefly played an intriguing game of Adie throwing her toy and the boys attempting to trick me by stealthily picking up the toy for her before settling down.  The rain kept increasing in intensity and I marveled at how romantic it was to sleep in a tent with the four loves of my life. 
For 90 seconds I marveled at that. 

Chris joined us and appeared remarkably surprised that I had taken the whole sleeping bag. Apparently he had some vision of us sharing the sleeping bag and the down comforter together.  I laughed so loud that it startled the kids.  That was not happening.  So, he wrapped himself in the comforter which just happened to be littered with dried up fruit snacks.  It looked that splotches of stains all over the comforter, except that they were sticky.  Interestingly, at some point you just stop wondering where the stains/sticky stuff/boogers come from after the third kid.  Suddenly you just accept what you see.  Expensive down comforter littered with sticky goo?  Naturally.  Chris made comments to support his decision of no sleeping bag again, saying things like "Wow, it's kind of hot in this blanket.  I'm sweating" and "I'm really glad that I didn't have a sleeping bag because this is so comfortable, like I'm being hugged." 
It continued to absolutely down pour on our tent.  I again marveled at how this tent was able to hold back the water.  The five of us slept for about two hours.  And then.....Adelai woke up.  I don't know what time it was, but I think it was about 1 in the morning.  She woke up screaming as if offended that she had been left in this circumstance.  I was immediately concerned that she might wake up other campers, so I broke my rule of allowing her to soothe herself and I scooped her up and made the infamous "shhhhhh!" sound that is gifted to a mother the day that they take their child home.  You get the "shhhh!" and the tired, worn out, beaten up body as a reward for your sacrifice. 

And then it happened.  She looked at me and smiled a huge smile.  She might as well have said "good morning, Mommy! I'm ready for my sippy, eggs and toast."

I would rather meet a bear in the woods than see my 1 year old daughter awake for the day at 1:30am. 

I picked up her toy bear that she was sleeping with, which had been flung onto the ground.  One of the legs was dripping wet, as if somebody had dunked it in the lake and then brought it back.  I checked all around her bed for wetness, but it was dry.  Then I stood up in the middle of the tent and found myself standing bare feet in oh, I don't know, an inch of water. 

I must have stood there for at least one minute, trying to understand how my feet could possibly be wet.  I'm inside a tent....and my feet...they have water on them.  How can this be? This isn't right.  This is wrong, isn't it? 

Then I groped around in the dark to further evaluate this crazy fact, and lo and behold, everything on the ground was drenched.  And because this is the way my life goes, that included all of Adelai's clothes, my shoes, her baby, her blanket and my joy. 

So I shook Chris awake, who realized that somehow his whole back was wet despite sleeping on his side, (where is the freaking water coming from?!?) and he started to rock her while standing.  She enjoyed this immensely and cooed with him, clapping her hands because clearly she was so proud of him.   Then we brought her to our air mattress, where she smacked us in the face for fun and threw her sippy cup into the lake of water in the center of our tent.  Every time we tried to lay her down on the pillow, she made a sound reminiscent of a squealing pig being attacked by another squealing pig. 

Our pillows became wet from the magic water coming into the tent from somewhere as it just down poured for the entire night.  Somewhere around 3am as we were wrestling with this baby trying to keep her quiet, she lunged across my face and became totally still.  It seemed like maybe she had just gone to sleep instantly.  Can you imagine this for a moment?  I'm laying there, praying that this baby will pass out suddenly so that I know God loves me.  Then, she lunges across my face and stops moving.  Her breathing becomes even and she is quiet.  And I'm thrilled beyond imagination, but a bit hung up on the fact that my head is at a 90 degree angle with 20lbs pushing down on it.  And while her diaper is fresh, the part where her diapered buns are smashed up against my face is a little concerning.  I wonder to myself how long I can keep this, and after three tortured minutes, determine that I can't do it.  So I move her as gently as possible, and she sits straight up and is ready for the day, part II.  Chris turns to me and says "Really?  You couldn't hold that?"

About 30 minutes later, she laid down on Chris' pillow while he was moving around the tent trying to find the water.  Again, she went completely quiet and stopped moving.  If you have ever been around a young baby, you might recognize this move.  It's called the "freeze-stop-breathing-never-move-again-or-you'll-wake-the-baby" move.  It seemed to work, except then Chris didn't have anywhere to sleep.  I was okay with that, but he was not. 

So after a couple minutes of the freeze game, Chris gently tried to climb behind me (Adie on one side, me in the middle and that would press Chris up against the tent wall).  And then he whispers "my blanket is wet so I need to use the sleeping bag too". So he was reaching for the zipper as I was making sarcastic comments, saying  "Really?  Your down comforter didn't work camping?  So shocking."  Maybe it was because I had been awake for so long, but this absolutely cracked me up.  I started laughing so hard that I couldn't contain it.  And then I was laughing because I wasn't supposed to be laughing.  Then Chris started laughing and....the baby woke up. 
So now it's been hours and I realize that if nothing changes, I'm not going to get any sleep and that puts me at risk for seizures.  So I say "honey, maybe you should take her to the car so that she can scream it out and go to sleep." I anticipated that he would look offended that I'm sending him out into the rain to an inhumane sentence of listening to her cry in a confined space.  But he looked almost gleeful. 

"You mean like put her in the car and close and lock the door and come back to bed?"
"What?"
"That's what you mean, right?"
"No.  Not at all.  And just to clarify, I'm also not asking you to put her in a boat and shove her out to the middle of Triangle Lake either."
"Oooh, now that's a good idea."

So they went out to the car at about 4:15am, and Adelai didn't sleep until 6:15am.  I immediately fell asleep to the sound of continued down pour of rain and had a lovely dream.  I dreamt that I woke up in the day light, peeked my head out of the tent and the whole church had packed up everything and gone home.  One might guess that I would have been offended, but instead I jumped for joy and yelled "we're outta here!"

The boys woke me up at 7:15 and informed me that their shoes were dripping wet, the towels were soaked and all of our jackets and sweatshirts had been outside.  And no, the camp had not packed up to leave, much to my chagrin. 

So, here is what I know about camping.  The children love it to death and can't wait to do it again.  The parents of teenagers seem to love it because they never see their kids for the entire weekend.  The teenagers love it because they get to see each other all weekend long and have fun.  And the parents of young children?  They have a diagnosable mental illness. 

I very much want to finish by stating that the next camping trip will be over my dead body.  However, in reality, I love Oasis so much that I consider them to be particularly irresistible.  So I'll go.  And the best I can hope for is that my children won't remember the constant look of shock and horror on the face of their mother.

Moral of the story?  I love not camping. 


Her face says everything you need to know about camping.



Three Babies and a Man

I think I've tried to explain what it is like to stay home for an entire day with three children, all under the age of five, but ultimately it's just not possible. 

Simply put, being at home is harder than working in the ER and assessing psychotic and suicidal people.  Even if those people are screaming at me, incontinent and stinky, that job is still easier than staying at home with my children.  Because guess what?  At least I can lock them in a room and walk away.  At home, those same screaming, incontinent and stinky people are not allowed to be locked away.

At least that's what I've been told. 

I love my kids, but fact is fact.  And I do believe that Chris has never questioned that statement, but in the past two weeks he's had the punishment opportunity to stay at home with them twice while I've picked up a couple extra shifts at the hospital. 

Now to be clear, even though I know that staying at home is excruciating, I hate being away from them.  Two days a week of work is a good break for me, three days a week and I'm pushing it, and four days a week my heart just aches.  I still like my job, but I'm anxious to get home and kiss their faces.  Obviously, four days a week away from my babies drives me into a state of psychosis. 

So today was day #2 of Chris staying home with the children while I took an extra shift at the hospital.  I was at work by 8:00, and by 10:00 I was aching to hug my baby.  I called Chris and he begrudgingly agreed to bring the kids to the hospital for an early lunch so I could see them.  Again, clearly I was psychotic.  Sane Jess would see the complete disaster coming without any problems.  But crazy Jess who misses her babies?  It smacked that girl square in the face. 

The first clue that this was going to go badly for me was provided to me immediately when I came out of the door to meet them.  The first thing I saw was Adelai in her pajamas.  At 11:00.  In the morning.  Then I saw Justin wearing shorty shorts and a t-shirt that can best be described as a mid-drift.  And his shoes were on the wrong feet (which is actually true 90% of the time).  And also his face was totally dirty, as if he had smashed chocolate onto his face about 3 days ago, and nobody loved him enough to clean him up.  Then my eyes were drawn to Chase, who was wearing his signature look with one knee high sock and one ankle sock with shoes that were meant to be without any socks at all.  And he was wearing a shirt that had his name tag on it from school. He was the worst, because he looked like somebody thought that was okay.  Justin and Adelai just looked neglected.

The second clue occurred when we entered the cafeteria and the boys screamed at the top of their lungs and ran past a few elderly people to see the fish tank.  Like I said, Sane Jess would have turned right around and called it a day because the writing was on the wall, so to speak.  But I missed them, so I powered through.  We all sat at a table....or Chris and I sat at a table.  The kids actually ran up and down the dining room screaming and racing each other.  No matter what we said, they were spinning and yelling and incapable of even hearing our corrections because, well, they couldn't hear our voices over the low roar of their own chaos. 

And hey, guess what?  You can't go all psycho on your kids when you are at work.  I forgot all about that when I invited them, but as I was sitting there wondering if I could quietly stand up and walk away as if they were complete strangers, I remembered.  Boy, did I remember.

I forgot to mention Chris.  He looked like he had run a marathon and stayed up for 24 hours.  In short, he looked totally defeated.  I recognized defeat, because I always feel like that.  Outnumbered, tired and hopeless in the face of two boys and a toddler who have energy to spare.  So I didn't wander away, but we did wrap up the lunch very quickly.  And by very quickly, I mean that I suddenly grabbed all their crap, threw it in the garbage and rushed them out the door. 

They behaved for 39 seconds, so once again, I lost my brain and invited the kids to see a waterfall on campus on the way back to the car.  As we were walking to the water feature, a bird flew by to the roof above and the boys yelled "I'm going to scare that bird away!"
And Chris said, ever so quietly, "I hope that bird poops on them." 

Because that just sums up everything about being home with the children. 

So they ran to the water feature, and immediately Justin was climbing into the water and trying to jump off the rocks as I stood next to the sign that explicitly said every single action he was doing was not allowed.  And at one point, as he was preparing to jump off of a bridge-like thing into a rock filled ravine, I decided that I should probably begin to stop him.  So I ran towards him and he immediately flopped his body (with his shorty shorts, mind you) onto the cement and screamed. 

In front of the people. 

So I stood next to him and said in my nicest mommy's-boss-could-come-by-at-any-moment-so-get-your-butt-off-the-ground voice "Justin, I have to go back to work so it's time to go to the car with daddy."  And then a physician walked by and said "It doesn't sound like he agrees with that". 

My face turned florescent red, and I shoved the kid into Chris' arms and said good-bye.  I then returned to the haven that is the psychiatric patients. 

So the children went home, and at some point they dressed in bizarre (and largely inappropriate) clothes, as evidenced by this picture that Chris sent me that afternoon:



Chase just saw this pic and said "See? That costume was too short." (it's an 12-18 month costume)

He also informed me that Justin had picked up a yellow racer snake and was bit on the hand. 

Naturally.

I came home to Adelai wearing her clothes completely backwards, as if that was normal.  Chris seemed surprised and said "they're backwards?  I didn't even notice." 

And finally, as I came into the house, Justin yelled "Mom! Come see the rat in our backyard! And the snake!"  I never saw the snake, but I did see the dead mouse which I insisted Chris remove.  Justin then broke down in tears because the dead mouse was thrown away. 

For a moment, I almost felt sorry for Chris because I know they abused him all day long.  But then I remembered that Chris was able to return to work tomorrow, and I will once again return to my position as victim primary care giver. 

Clearly God chose me to be the mommy because even though they act just as crazy under my care, at least they are dressed like normal people when they are bit by snakes or throw public tantrums. 

I do have standards.

Girls & Boys are Different?

Sometimes I wonder if God is up in Heaven, sitting on His throne and just laughing to Himself when He hears men and women talking.  To each other.  In an effort to communicate.  On purpose.

I think maybe it's taken me about 10 years of relationship with Chris before I came to the conclusion yesterday that it's a very real possibility that I've never really understood a single word he has said.  Because it dawned on me that his words and my words don't actually mean the same thing. 

For example, a major challenge in our life is the much hated, much detested task of budgeting and paying bills.  Neither of us like it.  In fact, both of us would rather live in a van down by the ocean then actually pay bills.  (Yes, darling, I said it.  I would join you if somebody would actually buy all of our crap from us.) 

We both hate checking the mail. 
We both hate opening mail. 
We both hate looking at mail.
We both hate looking for the lost checkbook for an hour. 
We both hate sitting down and focusing on something super lame. 
We both hate adding/subtracting/thinking about numbers. 
We both hate looking at the final number. 
Get the idea? With respect to the financial world, I married my twin...not my opposite.

We have settled the debate (at least for now), and Chris is taking the lead.  Because I won the battle by noting that God identified him as the leader, and I'm the submit person.  So I SUBMIT.  Winner me. 

So yesterday, Chris announced to me while driving me to work that he was going to be some sort of lion about the finances and go hunt stuff and kill it a lot and bring it back because he was tired of waiting for it to fall over dead. 
Side note: See?  I can't even paraphrase it right because I don't have any idea what the words meant that were coming out of his face.  WHAT?

So I'm really very delighted at what he's saying.  Or should I say, I'm so happy to hear what I think I'm hearing, based solely on his tone and inflection.  But beyond that?  I'm lost. 
So I said "Wow! That sounds awesome.  But what does it mean?"
"It's like I'm just going to engage and then hunt the animal and be the leader.  Because nobody wants to be the leader."
"Oh....kay.  Wait. Can we redo this conversation and talk about your feelings?"
He stares at me.  Long pause, then a simple "no".
"Okay.  So you thought the lion would just fall over dead at some point?"
"No, blah blah blah blah blah furry animal." (He didn't actually say that, this is just word for word what I heard.)
"Okay.  I'm not the furry animal or the lion, am I?"
"Nope." He sounds exasperated. 
"Well yay then!" I say.  "Good for you."

So I'm pretty sure that he's doing something different now, but for the life of me, I'm not sure what it is.  I'll just roll with it.  But it does have me pondering....could I have gotten him to hunt some wild game or whatever a long time ago by using man language?  Because I certainly said a lot of feeling words in an attempt to get him motivated.  BUT IT NEVER WORKED.  In the past, our conversations go something like this:

"Chris?  I want you to do (insert project here) because I feel (insert feeling here)."
"Okay."
Nothing happens.
"Chris, you never did that thing."
"Why didn't you just ask?"
Cut to Jessica getting all crazy and Chris looking totally confused.

I think boys and girls are actually different.  Maybe in the next 10 years with him, we'll actually have a conversation wherein we both understand what is being said. 

That will be nice. 
By the way, I really hope I'm not the lion.  Or the furry animals.  Seriously...WHAT?

Shopping Without Felonies

So it happened and I'm thirty.  And life didn't end, though I suddenly stopped allowing my family to wear shoes in the house.  That frankly came out of nowhere...but somehow I'm resolved and I'm annoying.  It's a strange combination to be, and likely a strange combination to be around.  And also I have pink hair right now, so nobody has called me "mam" for awhile.  I'm safe...for now.  Really, I should say "they are safe".  Because let's face it.  I was getting feisty.

So on my birthday, Chris agreed to go shopping with me.  Not sure if it was a gift, or a sacrifice in the name of support, since this was my first shopping trip since having Adelai.  I'm still waiting for a few more pounds to effortlessly and suddenly drop off my body, so I wasn't all that excited.  But I did have a substantial amount of gift cards from Christmas, so I reluctantly planned the trip.  To Nordstroms.  Because I like pain. 

I love Nordstroms, so please don't misunderstand. Or maybe I should say, I loved Nordstroms when I could look at my body without vomiting in my mouth a little bit.  The thing about Nordstroms is that not one of their employees looks like they struggle to look presentable.  It makes me want to explode in a somewhat psychotic rage every time one of the gorgeous, meticulously dressed people approach me and ask if they can help somehow.  I muster up the words "No, thank you.  I'm fine." However, what I'm really thinking is this:

Can you help me?  Clearly not.  You weigh 104 lbs and I could break you in half if we were both competing to reach the cheeseburger first.  But we wouldn't, because you would be eating a salad.  And I'd be all greasy, and you'd be all hungry, and neither of us would be happy.  Except that clearly you wear a size -2, and I'm enormous.  If I wanted to be that skinny, they'd have to remove bones from my body.  And how did you have time to put on jewelry?  Don't you have a two year old who will immediately notice that you have something on you that can be grabbed and swung on?  Doesn't anybody try to hang off of you 20 hours a day?  And what is that in your hair? Is that product? Did you ACTUALLY have time to DO your hair?  Oh.  And your makeup? Oh. Kay....ummm no.  You can not help me.  I wear sweatpants 80% of my life.  You clearly wear these amazing clothes in your sleep.  I bet you know exactly where the matching socks are in your house.  We have nothing to say to each other. 

So Chris just cracked me up while shopping, because if there were a poster boy for total discomfort, it would him standing in the middle of the women's section.  He's trying desperately to be supportive, but somehow that comes in the form of sitting in a small seat, hidden in the midst of clothes attempting to immerse himself in his Blackberry.  He is kind of holding my purse, if by "holding my purse", you are referring to him putting my purse under the seat next to him and using absolutely no effort to "watch" it. 

I'm not sure why this is an improvement.  Wouldn't a man want a woman to claim in that department?  The other possibility is that you would just be some creepy guy sitting in the women's department pretending to attend to your Blackberry.  For fun. 

Every once and awhile, he says "oooh, cute!" randomly.  This usually occurs after I pick something off the rack that is so awful that I have to look at it more closely.  Then I say "really, honey?  You thought this leopard print shirt was cute?" and then he's all terrified that he's been discovered as uncomfortable, and says "Oh. No way.  That's hideous. I was being sarcastic?"  

So I go through the process of trying on a pair of pants that Skinny Girl told me - "were super cute! I tried them on last night.  I loved them!" - as I'm walking into the dressing room.  Great.  Immediately I'm picturing her and I wearing the same pants.  She probably wears the same size jeans as Chase, my four year old. 

I try them on and I try not to become instantly depressed to the depth of my core. I also try on 7 shirts with just 1 wearable and I plan to sneak out of this store as soon as is humanly possible.  Skinny Girl is ringing up the total.  I ask her if I can get the pants tailored when I finally lose the weight (in 32 years).  "Oh yes.  I totally understand.  I have 2 boys.  It was so hard to lose the weight!  I totally had to work out, and I never work out.  How old is your baby?"

She never works out. 
SHE NEVER WORKS OUT?
EVER?
NEVER EVER? 

I look down at my shoes.  My vomited on, peed on shoes.  "Umm...10 months. She's uh....10 months old."
Is that a stunned look on her face?
"Oh." She says. "Sooo cute....."
Silence.
I look at Chris.  He shakes his head silently.  After 9.5 years together, I understand that he is quietly communicating that I should not release the murderous rage.

I take the bag from her with a forced smile and Chris and I start to walk out of the store. 
"Good for you for not killing her."
"I know, right?"
"So...mature -" he says slowly, and realizes that he's just called me a name that has the potential to freak me out.
"Maybe mature isn't bad.  I don't have to go to jail today.  Mature could be good."
"True.  Mature could be good."

So on my birthday, I was felony free. 
That's a good birthday. 

The Grown Up is Here

I'm turning 30 in 36 hours. 

I'm turning 30, and I'm about 30% hypochondriac, so it's fitting that I think my ankle and my knees just got strained for no apparent reason, except that I'm almost elderly, so that's what happens naturally.  I'm abruptly turning into the old lady who breaks a hip on the way to the fridge and all things go downhill immediately.  I know I'm headed that way for a fact because I saw somebody's cell phone yesterday and had no idea how to use it.  That only happens to the elderly, and the natural conclusion is that 30 is going to be so much worse than I expected.  I mean seriously.  Not only that, but when I stand up it takes a few seconds to actually stand up straight.  Oh. My. Gosh. 

So anyway.  Thirty.  Time to make some adult decisions.  Time to go where no twenty-something would ever dare go. 

That's right. 

I cancelled the satellite TV. 

Take some time to really let that sink in.  Because I didn't. 

It all started when I was staring at the black hole of sadness that is our budget and realized that our bill was nearly 80 dollars.  Last time I checked, it was hovering around 49.  (Clearly I last checked when the dinosaurs were wandering the earth.  Because that was back in the dark ages, and clearly I was alive at that time because I'm THIRTY.)  

So I urge Chris to call the nice people and inform them that we have approached a point where we are unable to be ripped off any longer.  He calls and immediately I can hear him wavering on the phone.  Obviously she has informed him that the hike in the cost is somehow related to our subscription to the Fox Northwest Sports Channel.  This is the channel that is on 24/7 in the summer...the channel that just happens to televise every single Mariner game.  I know what Chris is thinking.  No Fox Northwest Sports Channel?  Why be alive? 

So in my wise age, I grab the phone and engage Amy the service woman, (who strangely seems to be quite effortful in her English pronunciation, by the way) in a nitty-gritty conversation. 
"Amy, I'm the wife.  Give it to me straight.  How much is this additional package costing me?"
"Well Mam, the base package is 59 dollars, and with the (insert name of super awesome sport package here), it's then 69 dollars. You then pay taxes on top of that, resulting in 79 dollars a month."

In this moment, I'm already furious.  She called me "Mam".  That's so inappropriate, I can't even breathe.  I'm a girl.  She should have called me "Young lady" or "little girl".  Obviously she can hear that I'm almost 30.  I turn around and meet the eyes of Chris. 

If ever a grown man ever looked more pitiful, I would be shocked.  I could literally see the joy of life leaving his eyes right in that moment.  He was even holding sweet little Adelai, and it didn't matter.  The Mariner season?  Gone?  What's the point of living?  Why even have a stupid summer then?

I look away from the sad boy and out the window. TEN DOLLARS.  That's not going to do a darn thing to the deeply depressing piece of paper that informs me that I'm enslaved to my debt. 

He looks pathetic.
I sound like a "Mam".
Amy (as if that's actually her name) the service person is waiting expectantly, working deligently to sound like she is American. 

"Amy.  So are we saying that the bottom of my option is 59 bucks?"
"Yes Mam."
I'm going to jump into this phone and strangle this woman if she calls me that word one more time. 
"Okay, let's just cancel the whole thing."
My own mouth drops.
His mouth drops.
She sounds stunned.
What did I just say???  Can't turn back.  Mam's don't turn back.  Mam's move right on forward.
The deed is done.  Like a big girl, I have dropped the hammer down on the household entertainment.  The boys are going to be devastated.  I'm devastated.  Visions of ESPN channels 1, 2, 3 and 4 just flashed before Chris' eyes.  He is a shell of a man.

"Effective today or would you like to start tomorrow?" She asks.
"Right now please", I say, shockingly firm.
I turn and witness the screen on the TV go black.  I hang up the phone.  Shock.

Can I just say that my kids are going to give me the most aggressive amount of hell that ever rained down on somebody?  And as Chris left to go and pick them up from their grandparents house, I turned to a quiet house and stared at the face on the Dave Ramsey book.  Thirty years old, and bored out of my mind instantaneously.

But you know?  The truth of the matter is that if you can't find a place to tithe, yet money is escaping your death grip because entertainment is so critical, well than a 30 year old needs to make some changes.  Because heaven help me if I meet Jesus face to face and can discuss the details of the Bachelor but I didn't find a way to put my treasure where my mind, heart and soul are. 

Oh my gosh.  I forgot all about the Bachelor.  That just proves that I'm losing my memory too.
When did a grown up move into the Garland home?  She is going to ruin everything.

My Most Embarrassing Moment EVER

In Hawaii, one of Chris' favorite things to do was to be in the ocean.  The real ocean...the one that is the Pacific.  And he just happened to marry me, who responds to water like a cat.  I could go my whole life without putting my face under water and I would be so happy about it.  One of my favorite things to do in Hawaii was to lay by the pool, get sunburned, repeatedly smell the suntan lotion and read book after book after book.  This was especially wonderful because not a single person would ask me to wipe his or her buns.  And I often had a Mai Tai in my hand....not because I like to drink (I don't), but because a lady came to my side every once and awhile and asked me if she could get me something.  I said yes, she scampered away, brought it to me and allowed me to charge it to my room.  Sometimes I ran out of stuff to ask for, so often the Mai Tai was ordered.  So she was my best friend, and that's how I ended up drinking a lovely drink next to a pool. 



There would come a time in the day where Chris would get bored and announce that it was time to go in the ocean.  We paddleboarded, went out into a canoe and on the third day, he offered me the suspicious opportunity to "body surf". 
"What's that?" I asked.
"Oh, it's really fun.  You'll love it.  You stand in the ocean and the waves come by and you ride them into the shore.  It's really fun." He said.  I thought about this for awhile.  Chris would rather die than sit by a pool for more than 3 minutes.  I did need to compromise because I knew full well that he could not do what I was doing.  So I agreed.  And by the way, I agreed because I assumed that Chris would never put me in a situation where I would suffer. 

Could I have been more wrong? 

So we wade out past a few waves.  The water is warm, my hair is dry (just the way I like it), and I'm so unaware of what is about to happen that I actually wear a headband.  I'm not actually concerned about my hair, really.  It's more about the fact that I hate water by my nose, and consequently I never get my hair wet.  So why wouldn't I keep my hair out of my face?

As the water comes up to my chest, I start to panic a bit, but Chris instructs me to "jump when the wave comes, and it will go right by you."  I try it a few times, and it works.  It's actually kind of fun.  I'm struggling a bit though, and when I say "Chris, this is getting kind of hard...", he looks over and grins.  "I guess I didn't know you were going to bust out the doggy paddle." 
"Really, honey?  Did you think I was going show up with the backstroke?  I don't even know what you are supposed to do in this scenario to keep your face dry." He is laughing.  A lot.  Waves are passing us by, and every single wave Chris acknowledges as "the perfect wave! I can't believe I missed it!"

They all look the same to me.  And the water seems to be getting deeper. 

He tries to surf one, and it kinda looks like he's going to drown.  He is swallowed up by water and surfaces far away from me.  He swims back to me treading water in the ocean and says "that was awesome! Did you see me go, like 40 feet?!?!"
"You did that on purpose?" 
"Yep.  That's body surfing, honey."
"Really?  That looks horrifying."
"Okay, well the very next one we'll do together, okay?" 
"Chris I don't think that I can do this.  You went under the water and I think breathing in salt water won't work for me very well."
"You'll be fine. I promise. Just hold your breath."
Honestly, if I had ever been successful in the my whole life at holding my breath, I think I might actually like water.  But I suck at that. 

The waves seem to be getting higher.  I report this to Chris, who, rather than looking petrified appears to be excited.  Obviously he's never seen his life flash before his eyes. 

So I tell him that I think I'm going to be done now.  He acquiesces and I start to swim towards the shore when I feel a tugging sensation from behind me.  For some reason, I feel like I'm being pulled back towards the ocean, which is weird because I'm swimming back to the shore.  It starts out as a small sensation and grows to a point where I'm actually being pulled backwards.  I'm in a place where I can stand and the water is at my chest. I turn around just in time to see a wall of water above me.  Did you catch that?  ABOVE ME.

And do you know what I did?  I tried to jump.  Because that's what my loving husband who adores me said to do.  I jumped and got smacked in the face with a wall of water.   Do you know what doesn't work when a wave is curling over on top of you?  Jumping. 

All at once, my feet are above my head.  I feel like I'm in a washing machine.  My head smacks the bottom of the ocean and all I can hear is water rushing all around me.  Salt water rushes into my nose and mouth.  This is my worst nightmare.  I'm rolling all around with absolutely no control over my body.

I was under water for 30 minutes. 
Okay, it was like 30 seconds. 
But it was a really long time. 

I roll up onto the beach, and stand up, spitting out water.  My hair is plastered to my face.  I taste salt. I smell salt.  I feel salt.  I hate salt.  
"Whoa!" I hear my husband say from behind me.  "That was awesome!"
I turn and look at him.  I'm sure I looked at him with a look of death.  SERIOUSLY.
"That was not awesome" I say, with an unavoidable hint of rage.
I touch my head to rearrange my headband and realize my headband has been removed from my possession forever.  "Chris! I lost my headband.  That sucked."
People are looking at me.  They must have been worried that I was dead.
He's gesturing to me, pointing downwards.  I'm confused.  He should be on bended knee, asking for my forgiveness for placing me in hell. 
"Honey.  Your umm....boob fell out of your swimsuit."

And that was the last time Jessica Garland ever went in the ocean again.  FOREVER. 

Chris' Ultimate Dream

One thing I wish I would have known when I was dating was that the man you marry is exactly the man you marry....as in, he's not going to change.  What you see is what you get. 

Don't get me wrong....I most certainly would have married Chris.  However, a moment in Hawaii reiterated this fact for me.  He is exactly the boy that I married.  It's been nearly 10 years since I met him, and he's the exact same guy. 

In Hawaii, after about 4 days of relaxation, we finally arrived at the moment where you start to just talk to each other about whatever comes to mind.  We were sitting in this great Cheeseburger restaurant (Cheeseburger in Paradise), a musician was playing and we were both enjoying the atmosphere.  We were seated next to an open air balcony with gorgeous Hawaiian plants surrounding us.  This is probably, like our 5th date ever since having Chase.  (We need to work on that.)

So we are both enjoying the music, and I break the comfortable silence by saying "Okay.  What would be your wildest dream come true if there were no limitations at all?  You could have anything or accomplish anything you want.  What would it be?"

I absolutely kid you not.  I exaggerate always on occasion, but this is literally what he said:

"I would get a van, park it on the beach and do odd jobs to make enough money to buy beer at the local bar.  And then maybe I would bet on a horse or something so I could live large for like, four days." 

You. Have. Got. To. Be. Kidding. Me.

What does a wife say to this?  The thoughts completely leave my head.  I'm speechless.  I've had three children with a man who wants to live in a van down by the river.  Chris Farley style. The musician is playing Jack Johnson and our food arrives.  

So I eventually respond:  "Really?  With absolutely no limitations to your dream, you would be a homeless person living in a van?  Like that Chris Farley skit where the dude lives in a van, DOWN BY THE RIVER?"

Chris nods, watches the musician and sort of bobs his head to the music.  He pops a fry into his mouth and nods.  "No, not by the river.  By the ocean."

Oh.  Duh.  Cause that's 100% different. 

A few minutes pass, and I finish my drink.  The air is warm, the air smells sweet. the food tastes amazing.  I'm loving the time, but wondering how this "man of my dreams" is dreaming of homelessness.  I'm remembering that he's essentially describing exactly how he lived in college, where he would receive money, "live large, for like four days" and then return to essentially homeless status until the next money arrived.  How has 10 years passed and he is the same boy?

His eyes return to me and he says "Your turn.  What's your dream?  No limitations."

Deep breath.  Do you know how awkward it is to share a farteched dream with this man who dreams of periods of starvation until he "hits it big on a horse"?

Here goes nothing.  "I would write a book and it would be wildly famous."

Awkward silence. 

Then Chris says "Oh.  So...like....you would contribute to society....and do stuff."

Long pause....and then I said "riiiiight."

Chris looks pensive for a moment.  He never looks pensive.  I wonder to myself....maybe he'll replace his dream of homelessness with hopes for bringing clean water to Africa.  The moment is heavy with anticipation.  He's going to whip a dream out that's amazing.  I can't wait for him to speak again.

"Well I thought it was just our dream if we didn't have any kids.  I guess I would choose to have like, a ghetto apartment or something instead of the van."

At least he's consistent.

"Put the Brick Down, Jess..."

Let's imagine that there is a competition for best mom for 2011. 

Let me go ahead and just announce that I'm already in the toilet bowl.  I made it until January 3rd at 4:30 before I was booted out of the running.  This isn't even counting the fact that my son Justin just ran out of his room, announced that he pooped his pull-up that he's had on for 23 seconds, and I ignored him.  Geez.  A girl can not get a flippin break around here. 

I locked my children in the car with the engine running.  We don't have a spare key.  Because apparently that's just the way it goes.  Here's the story.  Enjoy.  (And Chris, you may commence the mockery.)

So it's Monday afternoon, and Justin has been preparing to "go pick up Chase" since the moment Chase left for school at 8am.  The promise that we will go pick up Chase from school can make Justin do anything.  He takes great naps, he lets me wipe his buns without much fight, and he cuddles all day long (whispering "Mom, let's go pick up Chase" the whole time).  He's a completely different child on Mondays.  Normally, I wouldn't much mind locking this kid in the car, but on Mondays?  Heartbreaking. 

So on this day, both Justin and my sweet little love Adelai are sick.  Snot, fever...the full gambit.  I have had my hands full all day and Adie-girl is obviously not feeling well.  She slept very little, ate little, cried a lot and is generally just not feeling great.  She's instantly upset that I've put her in the car seat.  She dreams of being plastered to my hip 24/7 while in this state.  I'm planning to drop her off at Daddy's office so that she doesn't have to hang out in her car seat too long.  Because it would be torture to be sick and stuck in your car seat, for oh...I don't know...28 minutes.  So as I exit the house, I'm carrying a diaper bag, a gym bag, a purse and a backpack, as well as carrying the car seat and holding Justin's hand.  This sounds like a lot, but after a few years of juggling, somehow it just works. 

I throw my bags up front.  I situate Adelai in the car, and then I turn and work on Justin, who must be instructed in no uncertain terms that it's time to stop running in circles, jumping off the curb and squealing.  Luckily, "let's go get Chase" fixes everything.  He's full of glee.  All smiles.  All dimples.  As I'm strapping him into the chair, I remember that yesterday he squirmed out of the seat straps and freaked me out on the freeway.  I pull extra hard on the strap and think to myself "there is absolutely no way he's getting out of this.  Winner me."  I climb into the front seat, turn on the car and turn up the heater full blast because it's unbelievably cold.  I'm sitting there rubbing my cold hands together when I see our cat bound out of the trees and sprint as fast as she can to the garage that is closing.  She looks cold.  I think to myself that I could take a second and help her out.  I get out of the Expedition and shut the door.  She freaks out from the sound of the car door shutting and runs back into the trees.  I turn to get back in the car, and it's locked.

Who locked the door?  No big deal.  I'll just open Justin's door.  Wait.  What?  It's at this moment that I realize what I've done.  All doors are locked.  And then, a plastered smile (for the benefit of Justin) comes out as I frantically attempt to look calm on the outside while I'm freaked on the inside.  This now looks like I'm suddenly psychotic.  Internal hysterics, almost giddy and joyful on the outside.  I think I did some sort of dance move just to reassure Justin.  Picture the moonwalk without any rhythm.

The following is my thoughts as I'm having hysterics:
I should call Chris before I use his driver club thing to bust a hole through the passenger side window.  I bet that's what considerate spouses would do in this situation.  I'm going Tiger Woods all over this car's ass exterior.  I open the garage to pick out my golf club as the phone is ringing. 
He doesn't answer.  Redial. 
Scanning the garage for a better weapon.  He doesn't answer.  Redial.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see some extra tile from the roof. 
It looks heavy.  It's got girth.  Perfect. 
He doesn't answer.  Redial.
I look inside the car to see how the babies are handling it.  The windows are tinted, but initially it looks like Adelai has the biggest smile on her face I've ever seen! This strikes me as strange, considering the day we've had, so I smash my psychotic face up against the glass to see more clearly.  I realize that she isn't smiling so much as she is actually screaming so hard that she is having a hard time catching her breath.  Justin is looking at me, pointing at the drivers side chair and saying "Mom, go get Chase! Get in the car".

Brick/roof tile thing it is. I pick up the tile thinger and walk to the car, trying to figure out a good grip.  Chris finally picks up the phone.  He starts by saying "Honey, I'm on the phone with a client.  Can I call you right back?"
J: "Yep, just wanted to let you know that I locked the babies in the car with the keys inside, the engine running and I'm going to throw a roof tile brick thinger through the window.  Call me back?"
C: "Whaaaaaaaat???  Say it again?"
J: "I locked the babies in the car, and we don't have a spare key, so I'm going to bust them out.  We're going to need a new window."
C" Put the brick down, Jess.....put it down..."
J: "Adelai's upset."
C: "Have you the called the tow company yet?"

Folks? I had not even considered calling somebody for help. This is where I smile at Justin, turn my back to the car and become outwardly hysterical.  "I cannot call the tow company because I have to get my baby out now and I don't have their number and I can't wait for them and I give up!!!!"  Chris tells me that he will call them and call me back.  He then says the two words I hate most in the whole world. 

"Be patient."

My immediate response is "No, YOU BE PATIENT."  Super adult-like, super mature.  Super awesome. 
He hangs up and I get to stare at Justin.  I start doing hand motions to him, motioning all the things he should be doing to try and get out of the car seat.  He smiles back, confused and points to the seat he wants me to sit in.  It is about 26 degrees outside and I'm getting really cold, but I can't go inside because I suck and sucky moms stand outside.

Chris calls and notifies me that they will be here in 10 minutes...that it's considered emergent since there are children inside.  I'm still hysterical, so Chris decides he'll come home.  He's probably worried about his driver.  He should be.

I continue to dance outside in the cold while my daughter is crying so hard that she's doing the breathing thing where she can't catch her breath.  Justin is laughing, though he appears bewildered over my antics.  It's safe to say he doesn't see me doing interpretive dances very often. They didn't come for 28 minutes.  Then Chris took the kids because I was so tired all I could do was go to a staff meeting and sit quietly, listening about the details of how our team of mental health evaluators will help the psychotic/crazy people.

If they only knew.

The story of Us

You may be surprised at how Chris and I met. 

In retrospect, I am.  It's an odd story, really.  We celebrate 7 years of marriage in a week and if we are counting blessings, well then this would be the first one; the foundation of all the blessings I've received. 
In order to tell this story, I have to embarrass myself beyond recognition.  I need only to return to this memory in order to humble myself.  But here goes. 

Chris and I met when I was a junior and he was a sophomore in college at the University of Puget Sound.  He played football and I played volleyball.  It was the fall season and both of us found ourselves at the Hawaiian party on campus.  I had just come home from Eastern Washington and I was exhausted.  But I went to the party and ended up sitting on the porch.  A few minutes in, a male friend of mine put his arm around me.  His big, muscle-filled, slimy arm. 

He put his arms around a lot of girls.  I wasn't ever hoping to be one of them.

I was not a fan of this.  But he was my friend, and I didn't want to hurt his feelings.  So I sat there and quietly panicked.  I decided to speak to whomever was in front of me and potentially find my way out of this situation by distraction. (This is just about 1000 ft outside of my comfort zone, FYI.)  I looked up, and there leaning against the wall was a boy.  He had a hat on, and he couldn't have been more uninterested in what I had to say.  It took a few minutes for him to actually interact with me, but he told me his full name (Chris Garland) and I found out that he was the son of the coach that I worked for as part of the work study program.  I don't remember anything he said.  My heart was pounding.  What I do remember is that he was nice, and he didn't try anything shady, even when I eventually was freed of the arm of my friend.  I went home early, but found myself seeking Chris out to say good-bye.  He barely looked up.

Two weeks later, my good friend complained that there weren't any nice boys around.  I remembered Chris and replied that I had met one (literally just one).  It was in this moment that I impulsively chose to call security on campus and find his number.  Before I could change my mind, I called and left a message with his roommate...something to the tune of "Hi.  Can you tell Chris to call me?  I'm Jess Davis and we met at the Hawaiian party a few weeks ago.  He won't remember me, but have him call me."  He didn't call.

Can you believe that?  Also, another kicker to this story is that I couldn't remember what he looked like.  He wore a hat, and essentially I walked around campus wondering if I was standing next to somebody that I was looking for.  Very bizarre. 

Then September 11, 2001 came.  My volleyball team was scheduled to travel to Missouri, but travel was canceled.  The next day, as I was running through my house to get ready for practice, my roommate briefly mentioned that "some guy called for you." She couldn't remember his name.  She didn't get his number.  After some badgering, she agreed that "it could have been Chris Garland".  I went to practice, got sweaty and earned myself a very unattractive sweaty hairdo, and went to dinner at the campus cafeteria.  I had finished my meal when I recognized Chris walking by.  I couldn't help myself.  I leaped out of my chair and followed him out into the parking lot.

I heard myself yell "Chris!" and ran to catch him.  He stopped, turned around and I caught up to him.  Then I was speechless.  I just stared at him.  (Seriously.) I don't do this...probably for this exact reason.  Shyness steals my words and I end up looking ridiculous.  Luckily, he filled the awkwardness of the situation.

Chris: "I called you.  You're Jess, right?"
Jess: "Yes.  Right.  That's me. (4 hour pause..okay, more like 15 seconds)  Ummm...I was wondering if you would like to hang out or something someday.  Or whatever.  Or not.  Or I just...you know."
Chris (with a breezy tone, as if  he doesn't recognize my awkwardness): "Sure.  How about tonight?"

And literally, we've been together ever since. 

Literally.  More than a few times, I thought to myself early on that I could not end up with this boy because this story could not live on for eternity.  But now, I have three lovely children and a life built on impulsive action and finding my soul mate amongst craziness. 

Don't judge.  Nobody likes a judger. 










I'm a lucky girl.