frazzled & frumpy

Foreshadowing  My pages are tattered, torn, Well worn. Each chapter brings new beginnings, And change. I have eagerly leafed through, Moments, days, years, Watching my story grow. This new page is crisp, white. A chapter filled with promise, For growth. And pain. I tease the paper, Curling its edge, I am unprepared for this plot twist. In the end, I have no choice.  I turn the page, And read.

Did you know when I started this blog, I wanted the title to be 'Drowning in Laundry'? It's true. But, that name had been taken. I'm happy with the title I ended up with, but the fact remains, drowning in laundry is my life. Especially today. So, I'm recycling a post.  Forgive me. Happy Arachnophobia Week  It isn't really Arachnophobia Week, but it should be. I mean, those of us who are afraid of spiders are obviously the smartest and most sensible people. So, in honor of my made up holiday, I'm composing a letter to all of the eight-legged critters who reside in my home. Dear Arachnids- I understand that you live in my house. I'm willing to let you stay, if you will agree to abide by a few basic rules. These will help us live together in peace. You will not hide in the dirty laundry so that when I put it in the wash, I find you crawling among the clothes. This makes it  impossible  for me to take the clothes out after the cycle

My name is Chandler.  I'm a dog. This is Sadie. She's my girl. She's my favorite.  (I used to be little.) I like to jump on her and lick her face and take naps with her.  I like to chew stuff.  Chewing is my favorite. I chewed all the couches and  20 shoes. I'm good at chewing. This is Patrick. He's a dog, too. He's my very best friend. He's grouchy. I try to play with him and he growls at me. I think that means he likes me. I like to bark. I bark at people and cars and the sprinklers. Barking at night is fun. I'm a very loud barker. Barking is my favorite. Mom doesn't like when I bark and chew. She makes me stay outside. She's grouchy, too. She's my favorite.

Today is Pioneer Day. It's the day we commemorate the pioneers entering the Salt Lake Valley. Parades, carnivals, picnics and fireworks abound. Personally, I celebrate the fact that I was NOT a pioneer. I would have been lousy because... The pioneer women had to cross the plains, walking for days and weeks on end, with their children. I don't even like to take my kids to the store. Most of their belongings were left behind. I can't go for an overnight trip without a suitcase. One look at that hand cart and I would have been all- "President Young, I need another handcart. I don't know if I'm going to want to wear the blue calico dress or the red one. Plus, I just can't leave my bonnet collection behind." Some pioneer women walked 1000 miles pregnant. Pregnant . And, they gave birth on the trail. Oh, no. Me, pregnant, with the thought of walking everyday, would have made me into a great negotiator. I could have gone out to the mob and tried to

On Friday, I was catapulted back to my childhood as I climbed into the car with my parents, Dad at the wheel. We picked up my older sister, Heidi, and were on our way. A five hour road trip, with licorice and Gardettos and bubbly cups of diet Coke to keep us company. There may have been some sisterly bickering, but if so, it was all Heidi's fault. The reason for the trip was the funeral for my Aunt Lanell. She was a tiny woman with a huge personality, who gave birth to 12 children, raising ten of them to adulthood. I grew up playing with her children that were my age, Lynette and Dana, and admiring their older brothers, teenagers who drove cars and played popular music on the radio.  Their house was large and well-organized. The basement was a fantasy land, with foosball and a pool table. Aunt Lanell's death was not all sad. She had Alzheimer's for the past few years. She was in her 80's. I told myself I had no reason to cry. This was a release. A passage to a new a

One of my favorite things about Sunday is music. I love the hymns we sing at church, and I love listening to "Sunday" music at home. Here's a little something for your Sabbath-listening: (If you've never heard Alex Boye before, you can hear more on his website alexboye.com .)

Do you love where you live? I think most people have a fierce loyalty to their home state for many different reasons. I love Utah. I didn't grow up here, but I've claimed it as my home. I don't ever plan to leave.  I thought I'd share some of the reasons I love living here. Reason #1- These people-  Lucky for me, all of my siblings, and my parents, live within 90 miles of each other. Which means we can see each other. Often. Here's a map I drew to give you a better idea. I should really think about a career in art. Or map making. (Tell me something you like about where you live.)

You know how my last post was about not feeling old? Yesterday, Max was on my bedroom floor.  His ADHD meds were wearing off and he was doing the hyper-dance around the house. So, on my floor and looking under my bed. I'd like to say the underside of my king-size is pristine, or just collecting dust bunnies. I'd be lying. (Don't know where to put something? Hey! Shove it under the bed!) It's a plethera of treasures and junk. So, Max is down there and he suddenly stands up with something in his hand and he says- What the crap is this? I just sprouted 4 new gray hairs.

During my stint at work last month, I met a lot of new people. A couple times, when I introduced Adam as my son, I got this response -- "You do not look old enough to have a 20 year-old son."  To which I would demurely bat my eyelashes and say, "Why, thank you." I don't mind looking younger, I mean, come on, who doesn't want to? I don't usually feel my age, either. Not what I thought it would feel like, anyway. And, with 50 looming on the horizon, I'll tell you, that big number doesn't seem so old now, either. But, sometimes, I want to wear my age. It weighs on me, and I'd like to it to be acknowledged. I've earned all those gray hairs I so carefully hide with the help of L'Oreal. I may not have a bunch of crows feet yet, but trust me, my body has signs. For example, when I was told I look young, I could have lifted my shirt and showed off the stretch marks and stretched skin from carrying 7 extra large babies. (Of course, t

The day I've been looking forward to (and dreading) has finally arrived-- the Listen to Your Mother 2013 Video Launch!  Thanks to national video sponsor The Partnership at Drugfree.org. We're proud to promote their message of preventing prescription drug misuse and abuse! Join the growing number of parents pledging to end this epidemic.  Check out The Medicine Abuse Project and make a pledge. ** I watched myself for the first time today. I won't go into the issues I'm having with watching and hearing myself on video. I will just say, watch, and enjoy. (And, please, be kind.) Tired Mom - And, then, watch the others. I know there's a lot, but at least watch the Utah ones. It's our first year and I think the whole show was amazing.  LYTM-Northern Utah .

I am a woman of faith. This is what I believe. I grew up going to church, praying, reading scriptures, I even served a mission. All because I believed.  Throughout my life, my faith was tested. But, I always came out victor-through trials and tests, my faith got me through. One test though, I wasn't ready for. It happened when Sadie was a newborn. She was my sweet baby girl, a gift of ease after a couple of trying boys. Her birth was easy, she nursed like a champ, and slept only in her own bed. Then, one day, I woke with a strange hardness in my breast. The lump was red and hot. Just touching it brought me to tears. Without a computer, or the ease of the internet, I turned to our medical book, scouring the pages as I was too embarrassed to call my mom. What I found was that I had mastitis--a nasty breast infection. This terrified me, not because I feared medical treatment, but because I feared the cost. We had no health insurance and I knew we couldn't afford a doct

  This is a series I will be writing as I try to find a way to get past my self-criticism and love myself 'As I Am'.  I hope you'll join me in the challenge. I don't think I called myself 'fat' in front of my kids. (I don't think.)  I do remember times when one of them would say something about me being fat. My husband would get angry, I would tell  him, "It's ok, they're not being mean, just truthful." I smiled and brushed it off. Inside, it felt like a white-hot dagger. While I may not have called myself fat, I know my attitude and actions said it loud and clear. Not wanting to put on a swimsuit, not doing activities (like volleyball or other sports) because I worried about how I'd look, cringing at myself in the mirror. Yesterday, I read this article, which is a letter from a daughter to her mother. It gripped me and made me cry.  It needs to be read. By mothers, sisters, friends, anyone who is a role model to young girls. I

Friday morning, we drove around my mountain. We left our children and our worries at home as we headed toward Park City. I was looking forward to cooler temperatures and time to sit and sleep and visit without any thoughts about kids or books or bills. We arrived at the condo just after my sisters and parents. Throughout the day, our family trickled in-each one greeted with hugs and smiles and great anticipation. This was a celebration of the half century that my parents have been married. We planned a weekend with only them, their children and spouses. No grandchildren allowed. It was perfect. We talked and made food, catching up on our lives. Some of us napped, others played cards, or pool. All of us looked forward to the sun going down and taking the temperature with it. (No AC in a place where they don't normally need it. The 98 temp. was sort of unheard of in the mountain setting.) After a dinner of grilled chicken and steak, and too many sides to finish,