This one's for Darin (who I still think is AMAZING)

After my post yesterday I haven't been able to get ironing out of my head. Yeah, trust me, it's a crummy thing to have stuck in your head.

Anyway, I was thinking about how the last time my sister, Darin, and I were at my brother's house (the house we all grew up in, by the way), we discovered that my brother had installed a fold-out ironing board in the hallway. It's very cool, with an outlet and storage for the iron, plus a task light, all hidden away by this lovely door so you'd never know it was there unless you're nosy like I am and say "Hey, this cupboard didn't use to be here!" so that your sister-in-law will feel obligated to show you.

Anyway, my sister and I were just insanely jealous and immediately called my brother to the scene to find out what it would take to get him to install ironing cupboards at our houses. I'm not sure if other people can have a conversation like that with their brothers and sisters without resorting to umm, childish tactics, but ours quickly unravelled into a who loves who more and who owes who more debate until finally my sister said to me, "Wait! You never iron anyway!"

"Oh. Yeah. That's right. But I WOULD! If I had a beautiful and convenient ironing cabinet like this one."

But I couldn't lie. I probably wouldn't. "FINE. You win!" I had to say.

Anyway, I realized I haven't posted a random memory from my past in quite a while so I'm going to cheat and post something that I wrote a long time ago for a college English class. You'll understand why I chose this one in a bit. I'm guessing I was 21 or 22 when I wrote it...

I remember when she first told me she was moving out. "It’s Grandpa Rose’s house,” she explained. He’d lived there most of his life and raised three sons there. Now he was over ninety years old and his children were moving him into a nursing home and putting his house up for rent. "It’s the two-story Victorian across from Harvey and Ila’s. You must have seen it a million times. It’s white with a little balcony. I’ve always loved it and now I ‘ll get to live there!" I pretended to be enthusiastic, but I was too caught up in my own thoughts to care about some old man’s house.

My big sister is deserting me, I kept thinking. All my life she’d been just a couple bedrooms away. Every week we snuggled up in her bed to watch "Little House on the Prairie,” my brother laughing at us when we cried at the sad parts. She ' d set my hair on hot rollers and let me wear her lip gloss for special occasions and I would tell her about who I had a crush on , and asked her questions I was afraid to ask anyone else. She even bought me my first training bra, assuring me that, "Yes, someday you too will have boobs." On weekends, we’d go to the bookstore together and then lie out in the backyard reading our new books. I hoped I would be just like her when I grew up. Though I was eleven years younger than she was, she never treated me like a little kid. Now she was leaving and I was afraid everything would change between us. How was I going to get by without her?

A couple of days after she moved, she invited me to spend the weekend. "My first house guest!" she said, obviously thrilled to show the place off. "Let me give you the grand tour , " she said enthusiastically and then led me from one end of the house to the other , pointing out all its special attributes , as if she were a real estate agent and I her prospective customer.

"Here in the bedroom we have a lovely antique bed and dresser!" she said with a wide sweep of her hand.

"They’re beautiful, just beautiful!"

"Notice the high ceilings. They give the house such an airy, spacious feeling. Don't you agree?"

"Oh yes, definitely, " I answered, taking an exaggerated deep breath. "Very airy."

"The bathroom is bright and sunny. Notice that the tub has feet."

"It’s lovely. I notice there's no shower…but really, who needs a shower when your bathtub has feet?"

"Exactly. Let’s move on to the kitchen where you'll see that the stove is -- is – "

"Really, really old. Does that thing actually work?" I asked sarcastically.

"Antique. That’s the word I was looking for. And wait 'til you see this, " she said as she pulled open what looked like a long, thin cupboard. "A fold-out ironing board! Folds in and out in under two seconds," she said with more enthusiasm than anyone has ever used when referring to an ironing board.

I couldn’t help but laugh, thinking of all the mornings she'd come flying through the kitchen door, running late for work. She would pull the ironing board out from beside the refrigerator, and lock the folding legs into place with one hand, while she dialed the phone to wake up her boyfriend with the other. She'd stand there in her underwear, ironing her skirt, drinking a glass of chocolate milk, and talking to her boyfriend all at once. And I would be sitting there watching her in adoration, thinking Wow, she’s amazing!

"And now here we are in the breakfast nook."

"Breakfast nook?" I practically gushed, "That’s the most adorable thing I’ve ever heard of. They actually built a little room just to eat breakfast in…and they called it a nook?"

"Well yes, breakfast was the intended purpose, but for right now we’re going to call it the 'laundry nook'"

"What a lovely view!" I cried, pointing out the window to what appeared to be just a huge expanse of dirt and some kind of pitiful structure that might fall down if you blew on it hard enough.

"Oh yes, the backyard. Follow me," she said, leading me outside. "Now at first glance, it doesn’t look like much, but if you imagine a swimming pool there, and a hot tub there…" she offered, pointing in two different directions.

"Yeah, that’s much better. How 'bout a deck right here, and I bet with a few nails and a couple of boards, you could turn that chicken coop into a gorgeous guest house."

"Now you’re getting it. Oh, I almost forgot!" she cried, grabbing my hand and yanking me back up the stairs. Standing on the back porch, she stood pointing to a window. The window to Grandpa Rose’s room. The only room in the house that was off limits, according to her landlord. And locked tightly for storage, it was the room that, of course, held the most mystery. "Look inside," she said, her voice dropping to a whisper, either out of respect or maybe a sense that we were doing something wrong by intruding on the quiet privacy of this room. The window shade was pushed away just far enough so that if you looked closely you could see inside. "Go ahead and look!" she said, more anxiously this time.

I held my breath as I leaned in close to the window, unsure of what I was about to see. I cupped my hands up against the sides of my face to block out the sunlight and as my eyes adjusted, the contents of the room slowly came into view. I glanced around quickly at first and then went over it again a little more slowly.
It looked a lot like the other two bedrooms, except it was overflowing with furniture. The enormous bed in the middle, old and tired from so many years of faithful service, looked as if it would be content to sit there forever surrounded by the other strong, dark pieces. Night table, bookshelf, two chests of drawers, a couple of lamps and an overstuffed chair. But nothing out of the ordinary, as far as I could tell. "Yep, it’s a storage room all right," I said sarcastically, backing away from the window.

"The headboard, look at the headboard!" she practically screeched. And I leaned in again, letting my eyes fall on the sensible, sturdy looking mahogany headboard. It was in good condition except that there were two round spots where the smooth, shiny finish had worn away. "Oh!" I said, finally understanding.

"Head prints. One for him and one for her," my sister said in a tone that I would imitate from then on, every time I gave someone a tour of the house, ending with the head prints.

Since I had never heard anything about Grandpa Rose’s wife, I had created her in my head. I’d imagined an early death for her. Some quiet, horrible disease killing her when she was still young and beautiful, leaving her adoring husband behind to care for three young children. But this headboard conflicted with my story, proving that she had been around a long time, probably long enough to become "Grandma Rose."

I couldn't help but smile as I pictured the cute little gray-haired couple , spending lazy Sunday mornings in bed together, side by side, drinking coffee and reading the paper, one pausing every once in a while to read an interesting passage to the other. "This is a great house," I said, really meaning it.

After the tour she insisted that I take a bubble bath in the old fashioned tub. The perfect hostess, she made sure I had all the necessities: a good book, my favorite radio station, and Dr. Pepper in an elegant wine glass. "And don’t get out until you’re all pruney, okay?" I could hear her in the kitchen arranging her new dishes in the cupboards, singing happily off-key to one of her favorite songs. She’s definitely my sister, I thought, knowing then that everything was going to be okay.

Heredity saw to it that we got the same awful singing voice, the same funny little toes. Time spent together caused a lot of who she is to rub off on me. Same taste in music, same ability to fry the perfect egg, same sense of humor. We’re sisters. Moving across town or even across the country won’t change that. Our lives are wrapped around each other in a very permanent way.

And I think about that every time I iron in my underwear.

Ten Minutes

These pictures were taken last weekend while the girls and I were waiting to go to Costco with Scott. They were going stir-crazy by the time I finally managed to pry Scott off the couch to start his ten-minutes-to-out-the-door routine. So to entertain them for a bit, we headed outside and took some self-portraits with the remote for my camera. Mostly the girls just fought over the remote, which is supposed to be so tiny that you can't see it in photos but it didn't turn out that way. I guess I could edit the remote out of the pictures but right now it makes me laugh because I spent so much time telling the girls to keep it down and out of view and then I notice that I'm the doofus holding it up to the camera for all to see.

"I can be ready in ten minutes."

I’ve heard that line approximately three million, four thousand, five hundred and forty-six times during my relationship with Scott. I don’t know if it’s a guy thing or just a Scott thing but he swears that he can be ready for ANYTHING in 10 minutes. From a prone position in front of the TV or sound asleep in bed he can be showered, shaved, dressed and out the door in 10 minutes. Whether it’s a trip to the mall, or the end of the world. Just give him 10 minutes warning. He will be ready.

AND he would prefer that the girls and I be completely ready to go before the 10-minute warning is given. If he could have it his way we would not only be READY but sitting in the car with the engine running. Because nothing on earth is worse than sitting around waiting for your wife to get ready. Because you never know how long that could take.

Because after your wife says she’s ready she always has at least eight more things to do before she’s actually ready… And even then she probably won’t really be ready. She’ll have to run back inside for the sippy cup she left on the counter or run to the bathroom just one last time or SOMETHING.

You might be wondering if he can actually get ready in ten minutes, and yes, he can. Because anything he can’t actually achieve within ten minutes can simply be delegated to ME.

In the early years of our relationship, many a battle was fought during the 10 minutes before we were supposed to walk out the door before a wedding or Thanksgiving dinner, when I would already be running around like a crazy woman and he would say, “Could you find me some brown shoe polish?” or “Can you find me some black socks?” or “These grey pants don’t fit me anymore, can you find me something else to wear?” or my personal favorite, “Hey, could you iron this shirt for me?”

Can I iron this shirt for you? Are you f*#ing nuts?

Those might sound like reasonable requests to most people but being ready on time has always been something I’ve struggled with. A lot. I know this about myself so if I’m going somewhere important I do as much preparation ahead of time as possible. This includes getting clothes, shoes, jewelry and any other random accessories all lined up and ready to go. During that preparation time I ask Scott, usually multiple times what he’s going to wear and almost invariably he will say, “I don’t know. Don’t worry about it,” or “I’ll figure it out later.”

Uh huh. I know exactly when you’re gonna figure it out.

But that particular battle ended long ago when I started telling him if he needed anything found, washed, shined or ironed he better tell me long before it was time to leave because I would not be available at ten minutes before take-off.

I knew just how far we’d come when shopping for work clothes for the job he’s doing now. He carefully checked all the labels and wouldn’t buy anything unless it was marked “wrinkle-free” or “no ironing.” When he told the sales guy “My wife doesn’t like to iron,” other women might have been embarrassed but I wanted to kiss him right there in the middle of the department store. Ahh, look at him, he’s come so far!

And as long as I’m wandering off in random directions I will never forget when maybe a year or two into our relationship, we broke up for a while. It was a friendly break up that we’d both agreed was for the best and in a very un-Scott like moment during the big break-up speech, he wanted to talk about what we’d learned from each other.

Anyone who knows us knows that Scott is an extremely practical guy and I am his polar opposite. So I guess it makes sense that when he reeled off his list of what he’d learned from me they weren’t practical things at all… they were in fact very warm and fuzzy things… I wish I could remember now what they were, but imagine Scott saying something like, “I’ve learned to look for the good in people and to stop and smell the flowers and that sometimes it’s okay to let people go in front of you in line at the store, and always take your shoes off when walking through the grass…” It was total sunshine and puppies stuff. Totally not Scott, but totally me.

I was STUNNED. But then when he asked what I’d learned from him I just blurted out: “OH! I learned that if you fold or hang up your clothes as soon as you take them out of the drier you will never have to iron again!”

He was also stunned. But not in a good way. “That’s it? That’s what you’ve learned from me?” he asked, totally deflated and sad.

"Well no of course not. But that’s one of the big ones. I didn’t mean anything bad by it. Not at all. I mean do you know how many hours of my life I’ve wasted IRONING? I totally could have spent all that time smelling the flowers or running barefoot through the grass. It’s big. But I’ve learned other things too. Like do tons of research before making any large purchase. Never buy anything unless it’s on sale. Coupons are our friends. Max out your retirement plan. Never ever use the ATM at someone else’s bank…Open an IRA. Lots of stuff! Really, I’m a better person for knowing you, okay?"

But the ironing thing? That's huge.

A bit of an update

Here's the scoop on what's going on here lately. We're all okay other than the same crummy cold and nasty cough that just keeps going around and around and around in our house.

Amanda has already started blaming me for everything that goes wrong in her life. I didn’t expect this to happen for a few years but apparently she’s very advanced in the highly emotional drama and angst department.

She'll say,“I wish I were in the early class instead of the late one.” I know, Sweetie but it was up to the teacher. I told her we could do either one and she decided. There’s nothing we can do about it now. “It’s all your fault.” Well no, it’s not really. “I’m going to blame it all on you anyway.” Okay.

And…

“I really want to go to the drive-in tonight, Mommy.” I know, Sweetie, I really wanted to go too but your Dad says no, so we’ll go another time, okay? “It’s all your fault.” But I’m the one who wanted to go in the first place. I’ve been trying to talk your Daddy into it all day. “I know, but you couldn’t. So it’s all your fault.” Okay.

Wow. What have I done to this kid? I told you she’s a teenager disguised as a five-year-old. I’m telling myself that she’s practicing the whole mad thing on me because she feels safe with me or something. Because it’s easier to tell myself that than to write a Dear Dr . Phil, I think I must be a bad mom. Can you help me? And while you're at it, can you come to my house and plant cameras everywhere so the entire world can see how inept I am at this mothering stuff instead of just the people reading my blog? letter.

Other than that, things are not too exciting. Though I have to admit there’s a lot of drama around getting dressed these days. And I'm not even talking about me. Because I'm not about to admit to the entire world wide web that I'm packing some extra pounds right now that are making it NOT FUN to get dressed. I'm talking about my little sweeties. Both of them. And I say that through my smiling gritted teeth.

Amanda is all about wanting to be a grown-up right now. Look like a grown-up, dress like a grown-up, act like a grown-up. All she wants to wear are jeans, a long sleeved t-shirt, preferably one of her three grown-up looking ones, a headband in her hair and pink sketchers on her feet. (The pics are of her in her "uniform".) Fine, whatever. But it's getting warmer. So I bought her these cute little denim capris. They’re JEANS only shorter. so I thought she’d love ‘em.

“I AM NOT WEARING THOSE THINGS! Those are BABY PANTS, Mommy.” When I pointed out to her that Kailani, Luciana and Ariella were all wearing baby pants that day she said, "Yeah well they can but I NEVER will." And the next day when her fashion diva friend, Holly, showed up in them I said, "OH! Look… Holly’s wearing baby pants! Doesn’t she look cute?”

“Yes Mom. They’re cute….ON HOLLY. But I’m never wearing those things!"

Alyssa, after going through a month or two of being satisfied to wear whatever dorky thing I put on her has returned to being extremely picky too. It seemed to start the day I decided to try on her Easter dress. Yes, in retrospect, that was a really stupid move. Considering all the trouble it has caused, what difference would it really have made if on Easter morning her pink sundress had turned out to be too big? Couldn't I have just scotch-taped it to her shoulders like any other decent mother and been done with it? OH NO. I had to be sure that it fit so I could buy a different size if not.

But Alyssa doesn't seem to understand the concept of "trying it on" yet. So after we put on her cute little dress and her cute little pink and green matching sandals and proclaimed her the cutest thing on the planet earth as she twirled around and around and around the living room, for some reason she did not want to take the dress off. She pitched a fit at just the mention of it. A BIG fit. She wanted to keep her pity dress on. PITY! PITY! I PITY!!!

Now she's all persnickety about everything she wears. “I hate this shirt!!!” she will say as she frantically tries to take it off twisting and turning as she tries to remove it as quickly as possible like it's burning her skin or something. “I hate this shirt, I hate these pants...”

Why the hate? Can't we crank it down a level? Hate is a pretty strong word. Especially for a harmless purple shirt that you loved only an hour ago.

Mostly all she wants to wear are pretty dresses. Apparently Amanda went through the same phase at this age because when I dragged out a box of Amanda's old warm weather clothes for Alyssa I was thrilled to see that we are now rolling in pretty dresses. No occasion is too small to get all dressed up. Going to pick up Amanda from school? Want pity dress. Going to the grocery store or Home Depot? Need pity dress! Going to bed? Can I sleep in my pity dress?

There's a whole lot of pity going on around here.

Oh and Shutterfly is featuring my "50 Reasons I Love You" scrapbook on their home page! How cool is that? Of course the first thing Scott wanted to know was, "How much are they paying you?" Umm, nothing. "Well what did you say to them?"

"I said, 'Thank you!'" 'cause how cool is that?