TWIST TIES

I apologize for my absence. Several days ago I was seized by a migraine which turned my brain into a black hole. Thank goodness it finally let me out of prison this afternoon.

Speaking of prison, I read in the paper about some people who zip tied their pre-teen daughter and kept her caged and living in a 5x7 "playhouse". Or maybe "pooh-kitchen-bed" would be a better description.

Now having had a pre-teen daughter, I get it. I can understand that sometimes, you are just plain out of ideas. You have punished and you have rewarded and you have cajoled and you have pled until all you can do is stab a fork into your own skull hoping to generate a fresh approach. About then, a twist tie for her mouth seems like the very best option, if you could just. get. her. to. pucker.

I will also admit to several (thousand) failings as a mother. My name is not Lisa Completely Stable Bingham, okay? I've also heard there are some rumors floating around out there about me allegedly telling my daughter that she "looked like a little pig" when she cried like that. But that was a REALLY LONG TIME AGO, YOU GUYS! If it even happened at all.

Of course, if it had happened, I would have also gone into another room to calm down, then returned to her side and held her and apologized and smoothed her curly tail—I mean hair—to make amends. Mothers are imperfect. This we know. Which is why Heavenly Father created "I'm sorry. I'll do better."

However, some parents really lose their way. Like the designers of pooh-kitchen-bed playhouses. I would imagine it happened over time, as satan always works with subtlety. (I lower case his name on purpose, so as to diminish him. I'm a disturber and annoyer of his kingdom.) Something that starts out small eventually escalates.

Just today my husband mentioned passing through a neighborhood where a woman sat in the freezing cold on her porch, sucking on a cigarette and enthralled with her cell phone. All the while, her child stood in bare feet, tugging on her sleeve, trying to capture her attention.

She ignored him.

And like a twist tie to his spirit, he became small. Just imagine what he'll have to do over time in order to be noticed.

I also witnessed a parenting situation today. A two year old child fell to figurative pieces in the middle of the aisle at TJ Maxx. Defeated, he finally gave up his will and howled, "MOMMMYYYY!!!!! I NEEEEEEED YOOOOUUUU!!!" The mother crossed the distance in seconds, swept that boy into her arms and patting his little bum, held him tight while he sobbed into her neck. I could almost hear his self worth expand.

Two mothers, two children and two very different expected outcomes.

So basically, we have two options. As the gardeners, either we grow our children, or we shrink them. Physically, mentally, emotionally and spiritually. Every day, we make a choice—whether to use a twist tie, or an empathetic heart. To cut off the water supply, or let it flow freely. To take a hoe to their self esteem or pull the weeds that gather around them threatening to strangle their potential.

May I remember this the next time my daughter asks me to unpick her sewing project the night before it's due, or to stay up late to help color diagrams of clogged arteries. When I point a finger of shame at her for failing math (that she'll never use anyway) or feel compelled to call attention to the third eyeball some might call a zit.

Surely, something is bound to flourish from my efforts...or lack thereof. And I'll either need a jail cell or a porcelain vase to house it.

NAKED DREAMS

As the last red rose withers and slumps, having given all and fulfilled the measure of its creation as a wedding reception centerpiece, we come to the conclusion of this magical season of fairytale love.

And now, I feel it's my obligation to answer the question you've all been pondering—How did Lisa handle it all so beautifully?

I think you know the answer to that. But just in case, two words:

Naked. Dreams.

Yes, that's right. Naked Dreams.

For whatever reason, it was imperative for me to spend every night, from engagement to wedding, talking to people for a really long time before looking down in horror to find I was completely naked in church/the grocery store/a political rally/China. It didn't seem to matter where I ended up, just how I ended up. Which was naked.

And don't quote me on this, or go ahead I don't care, but pretty sure that's why everything turned out so well. On account of me taking one for the team and satisfying the mean spirited, job loving, every day is a naked day dream gods.

Also, I have some tips for you when it comes time for your own child's wedding. Because only one who has experienced this storm can tell you where to find shelter.

First: Every day is the perfect day to start your diet "tomorrow". I had 89 tomorrows to lose 30 pounds—each one more promising than the last. And they only failed me on the very last day. Fortunately, the heavens smiled down and gave us "freezing cold" and "snow" for our forecast, allowing me to keep my coat on for every wedding day picture. But you should have SEEN all the stuff going on underneath that vintage jacket! My only regret was my chins. If there had been a way to suck those in, it would have been fake champagne all around! I just feel sorry for my sister who has to photoshop me into what I think I look like. A moment of silence for her.

Next: If your son lives close to his fiancé, you'll need to move him across the nation immediately, if you hope to get any sleep on chastity watch. 'Nuff said.

Third: If you forgot to invite somebody, blame it on them. When you see them, tell them you were really disappointed they didn't feel it was important to be at your child's reception. Then purse your lips, turn away and with emotion, whisper, "I'm sorry. I just can't talk about it right now." BAM! You're welcome.

And last, DO NOT, under any circumstances, TELL YOUR HUSBAND HOW MUCH THINGS ARE COSTING! Because to him, all things wedding are luxuries, not necessities. But bullets are crucial to life. And when he does hear an off-hand comment about how expensive the luncheon is, or that you're in charge of paying for the tuxedos, he will suddenly turn sullen and fatalistic, stating, "So, basically, what you're saying is, we're all going to die?" Don't know how he got to such a dark place, but it happened faster than I expected.

Then you will have to cheer him up with lies, like, "BUT they gave us a 40% DISCOUNT because the bride and groom are so good looking!" Or, "I could have opted for the steak, but it was going to be $10,000 per person. Instead, I chose the chicken and it saved you half a million dollars so here, I bought a box of bullets for you."

See? It's all in the delivery. And the subterfuge. Which is what a happy marriage is all about.

In the end, Madelyn and Ashton became Mashton for all eternity, I'm starting my diet tomorrow and if you didn't get your invitation, obviously you're lying. Not me. And Sterling, I have no idea why thousands of dollars are missing from your account. Probably a hacker.

For those of you who TOTALLY received an invitation, but didn't bother to show up, here is what you missed. Even the heavens color coordinated. 

I LIE

Soooooo...I forgot to cancel my dentist appointment. And no, I didn't have anything else going on at that time, it's just what I do. I buy purses and cancel dentist appointments. My dentist's office and I have had an arrangement for the last little my whole lifetime, which goes something like this:

Bust a tooth.
Curse mashed potatoes (It couldn't be candy and pop—they have my back)
Get dizzy and start sweating profusely.
Hand Sterling the phone and ask him to push the numbers for me.
Make an appointment with every intention of trying to get out of it.
Start to feel confidant that I can live with a jagged, decaying bone in my mouth. I'll just never chew on that side...or that side...okay, so I ran out of sides. I still have a tongue.
Cancel the appointment.
Almost pass out with relief.

Sometimes I feel a cold coming on, like, the following month, and don't want to risk getting the hygienist sick. Because I'm thoughtful.

Other times I just feel like everybody needs a break, and sense that they wish they could call me to cancel, but they feel obligated, so I do it for them and let them off the hook. Once again, because I'm thoughtful.

And then, after a few years of emotional eating, I suspect they might say something rude, like, "Lean forward so we can check the size tag in your shirt. Whoa, wait a second...why is it missing?" So I just want to avoid that whole situation all together.

Thus, I cancel.

Unfortunately, this time I was distracted with Christmas and a wedding, so it slipped by me like an unplanned pregnancy. But with way worse repercussions—in my subjective opinion.

Now I'm fully aware I'm the kind of patient they hate, on account of I shirk then I lie. Like, today she asked, "When was the last time you were in for a cleaning?" So I lied to her. I had no choice, because I'm a pleaser. Plus, I kind of think they expect to be lied to. They're basically in the same category as driver's license weight.

"Um, I do belieeeeeve...it was...a few months ago. (tapping my jaw in faux retrospect) Maybe, at the most, last year."

She looked at me, looked at the computer screen which is a FREAKING TATTLE TALE, YOU GUYS, and pulling down her mask said, "Yeah, no. Try four years." Then she covered her face like only terrorists do, and held up something meant to kill me. Or it could have been a water pik. Either way.

She dug the hell out of my face, friends. And sure, I was the one who put the hell there to begin with, but whatever. She also left a clump of bloody plaque shard in my eyelashes and exclaimed loudly that I was bleeding, "A LOT!" Information I could have done without. Even worse, a really good hair day WASTED. When I rose from the chair, I looked like a neglected baby with pancake skull.

As she unclipped the drool bib, she said, "When you return in 6 months, this will be a cinch," and I nodded my head in agreement, even while pretending to enter the next appointment in my phone...



...I told you I lie.

THE PURGE

First off, it's important to note that today is a really good hair day. Ratted to highest heights, and lacquered like a hockey helmet. Which has empowered me to begin blogging again. Honestly, I am intimidated. That's what happens when you shirk your blog responsibilities for well over a year (or two). The creative juices that used to be your friend now ferment into rancid stomach acid and keep you awake at night.

I've tried to rationalize not writing. "Can't. Too hard," and "I've been sad," have dribbled from my lips for many months. Then, as I read my scriptures this morning, I noticed that a very wealthy family offered up all of their worldly possessions in exchange for a record of their people, and I was ashamed. For there is no record of my children or life experiences over the last few years, available for someone to buy at an inflated price. And let's face it—in a century or two, for sure there's going to be a bidding war on my memories. Even if it's only to destroy them.

And sure, these most recent years might have felt like a bucket of still warm feces to my face a good portion of the time. But there have also been tremendous joys. And nobody will know about them, because I kept them in my heart, certain I'd remember them forever because I intended to write them down in my children's baby books...just as soon as I got around to buying them. (how late is too late?)

I was a fool. What made me think I'd recall something that happened several years ago, if I can't even remember how to spell hoo?

So for time's sake, here is a Readers Digest version of the last few years: Spent a fair (huge) amount of time in my pajamas, cut the tags out of all of my shirts and sweaters (because they're scratchy, you guys. Not because they say X-large—everybody knows I'm not), bought some new towels, sent a son on a mission, got snagged by the Iranians in the mall skin-care kiosk, forgot to bring in the delivered milk every other week, pulled my achilles tendon, bought a purse, bought a purse, bought a purse, bought some shoes, bought a purse, bought a purse, went to Hawaii and spent most of the week in Sam's Club accumulating chocolate covered macadamias (culture), ran for office, resigned from office (long story), moved my parents into our home, piled my sewing room to the ceiling with, "Where does this go?" "I don't know—just put it in mom's sewing room," lived in a constant state of pucker lips and clenched jaw—don't know why, started dating Amazon Prime (we see each other every day—it's going really well) and finally, married off my first born son.

Whew! The purging is over and we can finally start fresh together! Now if you'll excuse me, I hear the siren song of a Ralph Lauren purse wailing at a pitch only I can hear. It's my job to shut it up and show people my hair.

LOVE YOU ALL, and look forward to many moons together.

The newlyweds, photo credit to the very talented Kara Elmore. You can find her on Instagram @kara_elmore

I GREW A MOTHER'S HEART

True confession time—I didn’t really want to have a baby. Shhh...shhhh...sh...sh...sh...this is a judgment free zone here. Shall I go on? Okay then. I knew I was supposed to want to, but I didn’t. In fact, when I was expecting our first child, we signed up for prenatal classes and one of the things they had us do was write down a list of what we expected with the birth of the baby. Every single thing on my list was negative. 

Seriously. 

Every. Single. Thing.

Because childbirth to me was a mix of screaming terror and stirrups. And to be honest, I wasn’t really convinced I liked children. Plus I wasn’t even remotely ready. The last thing I remember, I was putting my permed hair into a banana clip, watching our wedding video on VHS when somehow, the ball must have gotten away from me, because the next thing I knew, my head was hanging over a garbage can and I only liked the taste of dirt. And I had no idea what else was coming, I just knew it was going to be horrible. HORRIBLE. And I also knew this; I was going to be the one who had to give birth here. There was no way out of it—NO WAY OUT OF IT—because believe me, I’d have FIGURED a way out of it, if there was one!

And so yes, every single thing on my list was negative about having a baby. It was just something I was resigned to do, because I was a grown, married woman, and that’s what grown, married women do. But I didn’t have to like it.

You can imagine my surprise when a few months later, I held that beautiful boy in my arms and felt otherwise. So much otherwise, in fact, that I sat there in the baby’s room, holding him and rocking him and whispered to Sterling, 

“I just love this baby so much.” 
And he said, “But…?” 
I replied, “No ‘but’. I just love this baby SO MUCH I CAN’T STAND IT!”

And it was true. I could hardly stand how much I loved that baby.

My only regret was that the children that followed would obviously never know that same love, because I was sure my heart was only capable of adoring one child that much. Thus, I would have to work hard at faking it, so that my other children never understood what a counterfeit life they were living.

Once again, imagine my surprise when my Grinchy heart broke the magnifying glass each time another child was born. For, just like air, there was ENOUGH LOVE FOR EVERYBODY to go around! Who knew?

Well, guess what folks? Those same children who gave me my Mother’s Heart are now responsible for destroying it. Yes. Turns out, the day comes when those children leave—for whatever reason—and a big, giant, metaphorical rolling pin and cookie cutter action takes place, wherein your heart is the dough and pieces are removed in the exact size and shape of the children you love, and when you go to remold and reshape, what remains is a stupid, sloppy mess with gaping holes reminding you of what once was and will never be again. And you’re left to wander around in a stained nightgown, drinking Dirty Diet Cokes for breakfast, clutching at your chest trying to stop the excruciating pain.

Which leads me to my next point: “Emotional Shopping,” or what I like to call, “Mother’s Heart Filler Putty”. And because of that whole back story, I think you’ll agree with me that I had absolutely no choice but to use what could have been our children’s inheritance to self medicate. Because really, if it weren’t for them, I wouldn’t be in this mess in the first place. 

Fortunately, I have found that every day is an emotionally centered day at Farmington Station, TJ Maxx, or when I place an order through Amazon Prime. And every time the doorbell rings, it’s kind of like meditating, because chances are, there is a brown box on my front porch holding something so special…so vitally important to my existence…that I have COMPLETELY FORGOTTEN WHAT IT WAS until the moment that I rip it open to find that it was JUST WHAT I NEEDED and another squirt of putty goes into my heart hole! Half the time, I’m just as surprised and delighted as my husband is. His wide eyes tell me it is so. Bless his heart, when I am happy, he is happy.

Some people—specifically my husband—may ask how long this will last. The answer is, “I don’t know.” Because who can put a price tag on a person’s emotional well being? The answer is “My husband.” Also the credit card company. So apparently, there is some sort of time and monetary limit here. But hopefully, the chasm is filled before I reach that vague and unsettling point. 

In the meantime, if you see something you think I might like—shoes, purses, convertible Jaguars, whatever—send me the link or just go ahead and buy it for me and I’ll pay you for it later…just as soon as I figure out how to cash out these savings bonds...but let's keep that between us. Sterling likes a little mystery in his woman. ;)

ABSOLUTELY PRICELESS

In writing this story, I assumed you were all comfortable with bathroom humor. If so, you may proceed. If not, turn back now.

My mother hated camping. Hated it. With a passion that only equalled any sort of exercise and finding a spider in the bathtub. And because I wanted to be like her, I had no choice but to hate all of those things, too.

This really became an issue when we made the yearly pilgrimage to the Stewart family cabin at Bear Lake. Of course, just saying “cabin at Bear Lake” is a lie. “Vermin house of ill repute” would be more honest—an old A-frame with no running water, no electricity and one bed in the middle of the room with a mattress that drooped so low in the middle, a couple of grandchildren were lost in the folds, never to be seen again.

Now as a kid, I was too stupid to realize how horrible this was, and instead thought it was THE MOST AMAZING PLACE IN THE UNIVERSE! There were sunflowers! And aspen trees! And a hundred acres to explore! Sometimes we’d sneak a can of Pepsi and a cinnamon sucker, and be gone for hours. HOURS, PEOPLE. And not one adult came to find us! Of course, now we know this as “child endangerment”. But back then, we just called it “lucky.”

Most years, we only spent one night at the campsite, even though the children begged and sobbed for more. I have no idea where my parents or siblings slept—could have been in the car. Maybe they drove home for the night? Hard to say. Because I was too happy to be aware of their misery, since I was on top of the world, lookin’ down on creation, sleeping in the loft with the other cousins.

The next day it was time for Bear Lake. We’d pile into the campers and trucks, wearing nothing but a worn out swimsuit and tube socks. Not one of us sought out a seatbelt, but rather found a spot around the outer edge of the truck bed and just held on for dear life.

The hours at the beach were spent in search of little baby shells and squeezing sand through our fists to make piles of fake pooh. I don’t ever recall putting on sunscreen, but that doesn’t mean we didn’t...even though I’m pretty sure we didn’t. Sometimes a scream of pain cut through the sound of the waves, as a child stepped on a pull tab from a pop can, but the sand soaked up the blood pretty good and we kept on making our pooh piles, because yes, it was that intriguing.

Well, the years passed by and our camping excursions came fewer and farther in between. Then I got married and had children of my own, which is when I finally realized what a helluvathing it was for my parents to take us kids camping, even for just one weekend. 

I’ll never forget the year that, as a young family, we nailed our tent to the trailer bed to keep it from getting wet in a torrential downpour...forgetting that nail holes in a tent make for sopping wet EVERYTHING. We angrily mopped it up the best we could and retired for the night. 

Around 3:00 that morning, my two year old son woke me up, needing to go to the bathroom. There was no way I was going out into the muck and mud to take him to the outhouse, so I flung off his underwear, held onto his waist and arched his aimer out the tent door, whispering for Sterling to get me some light.

The seconds ticked past and still no flashlight could be found. This meant I had to try to retrieve his underwear in the pitch black, which proved to be nearly impossible. While groping around and hissing for Ster to hurry up and find some light, I came upon a big ol’ wet, melted candy bar on my lap. What the?!

I didn’t know how it had gotten there without me knowing, but I was getting SO annoyed. I whisper-screamed one last time for Sterling to turn on some light, cursing all the while as I used a dirty sock to grab and pick up the candy bar. And right then, the lantern light flickered on...just in time to illuminate...an ENORMOUS HORSE SIZED PIECE OF YOU-KNOW-WHAT CRADLED IN THE PALM OF MY HAND!

Yes, that’s right. Not a candy bar. It seems when he said he needed to go to the bathroom, he was a little bit vague about which kind. And how something that big came out of a bum that small, is beyond me. 

Well anyway, I won’t bore you with the details of the horrendous clean up. Let’s just return to the notion that it really is a big sacrifice to take your kids camping. In fact, let’s break it down:

Camping gear—$1,000

Swimsuits and tube socks—$30

Pepsi, cinnamon suckers, lanterns and nails—$Gobs of money

Every single word I’ve just written in this article that make me laugh until I cry while I relive and retell, and the people who made them possible, bless their hearts—Absolutely priceless

BIG, FAT, BAD IDEA

So glad I'm not covered in puke anymore...

I was scrolling through Instagram today—and yes, I did just name drop a social media term to prove that I’m cutting edge—and saw a girl who grew up with my son. She and Ashton were in nursery together, and her cute little fingers were always covered in warts. Not that that’s important...just kind of hard to forget.

Anyway, now she’s a beautiful, wartless grown woman, about to have her first baby, and she took a picture of her and her husband in the doctor’s office, as they waited to find out their baby’s gender. He was buoyant, but she looked, well, not. Turns out this was because—her words—she was “covered in puke.” 

Seems she was asked to drink a gallon of water before the ultrasound, and then proceeded to throw it all up on the ride over to the clinic. Which made me say a silent thankful prayer, that I belong to a different season.

Not that I didn’t love that season while I was in it...about as much as I now appreciate the sweltering heat of summer—but remember how excited we were about hot August nights when it was February? Yeah, it’s a lot easier to love a season with fore or hind sight.  

Thinking about it I realize that, back then, a lot of people lied to me. One thing they said was that pregnancy only lasts nine months. Freakin' lie. It’s ten. Which, in pregnancy years is, “NEVER, EVER, EVER GOING TO END!”

Another thing they said was that after the first three months, the morning sickness would pass and my world would resemble a Downy commercial. Another freakin' lie. Because just the THOUGHT of laundry softener at that point was enough to start the gagging process, just like the scent of my toothpaste, deodorant, shampoo, the sight of my living room couches, my new Avon lipstick, my husband’s entire aroma and my own spit.

I remember one lovely spring afternoon, we drove to pick up our new car at a friend’s house. On the ride there, I had lain back and closed my eyes, hoping the nausea would pass and my head would stop spinning. 

A few minutes later, while squatting in the gravel behind the running car, retching so hard that my nose actually started to bleed—NO REALLY, IT STARTED TO BLEED—I considered that maybe this had been a bad idea. Not just the laying back in the car thing, but also that whole “Let’s have a baby” idea. It was just one big, fat, bad idea.  

But I was not alone in this big, fat, bad idea. I had grabbed my husband and locked him in the seat restraint right alongside me. I remember one night, I started a fight with him. Just out of the blue, I went COMPLETELY ape-pooh crazy.

At first, he valiantly tried to figure out what was wrong, so he could appease me. When that didn’t work, he began to argue his side, believing I’d eventually realize he was innocent. But I would have none of it, and quickly escalated into near hysteria. Finally, in complete anguish, he cried, “LIS! I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO! I REALLY DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO! WHAT DO YOU WANT ME TO DO! WHAT CAN I DO? TELL ME! TELL ME SO I CAN FIX THIS!” 

The poor dear. 

I stormed up the stairs, sobbing and renting my garment, shouting that he’d never understand, and blah, blah, blah, a bunch of other trite, emotionally overwrought phrases that made matters worse. 

I locked myself in the bathroom for about an hour. There I went from weeping to whimpering to thinking to realizing to being absolutely humiliated that I had started the fight in the first place, on account of it was pretty clear to me then that I’d made the whole thing up.

So I opened the door, skipped down the stairs and, to his credit, found him still sitting there, unblinking, in the same spot I’d left him. He hadn’t even fled!  

I gave him a sheepish grin and said, “Sorry, hon. I don’t know what that was, but I’m better now. Wanna go eat?”

And eat we did. I ordered three bags of french fries. 

“I MEAN IT! GIVE ME THREE BAGS OF FRENCH FRIES!” snarled the pregnant demon from Hades.

We threw 2 and 2/3 away. But bless his heart for giving in to my unreasonable demand(s)...back then, and now...over and over and over again. And for taking my apology at face value every single time it is offered.

In the end, we ride this ride together, from one season to the next, looking back at our past lives with a soft focus lens. Beyond grateful that what seemed a big, fat, bad idea turned out four times over to be the best things we’ve ever done. 

Which is why I continue to lie to the next generation about what they can expect when they’re expecting. It turns out I was once somebody’s big, fat, bad idea. And look how great this turned out!  :D