gym jam

 

Miss Petite's Christmas present was gymnastic lessons believe it or not. She had been begging for gym time for months. Apparently, every other kid in our surrounding area also wanted gymnastic lessons. So on Christmas morning we told Miss Petite "yay, you are going to get lessons!!" "Butttttt, you are on a waiting list and we have to wait for a spot to open." Luckily, that didn't phase her. Just knowing she was going to get lessons was enough for her.

 

Then the call came through one day three months after the holiday. Miss Petite got a spot. So every Wednesday she puts on a leotard and heads for the gym. And the girl loves it!! Thrives in the noisy, chaotic atmosphere.

 

The gym is huge and there are bodies flipping and swinging around everywhere. The whole thing makes my ears plug up and gives me hives. But not this kid. This kid shines as soon as she steps on the floor.

 

Last night was Miss Petite's scheduled Gym Jam....sort of like a recital for gymnastics. The kids show off what they've learned and the parents watch samples of what their kids could be like....if we empty our wallets and drain our bank accounts. But it's impressive none the less.

 

For now, I'm just happy my sparkly child is having fun and enjoys her time flipping around.

 

And she does.

times three

For all intents and purposes, I am an only child. I grew up in a house of one. I never shared a bedroom, had a sibling wear my out-grown clothes, or fought over too much time spent in a bathroom. So, being a parent of three children is like an out of body experience for me every, single, day. I'm constantly questioning "is this normal?" I wage war against noise, dirty laundry and hormones regularly. I toggle roles between playmate, tutor, chore master, chef, party planner, maid, comedian, life coach, muse, taxi driver, authoritarian and game warden to name a few. And, it is exhausting!

Some days I feel plagued by un-flushed toilets, a sink full of dirty dishes and laundry baskets filled with unfolded clothes. And clutter, lots and lots of clutter. The words “what the hell?!?!” is on a constant loop in my head. Unidentified, greenish in color, petrified something or other smeared on the wall? “What the hell?!” Food wrappers shoved in-between the couch cushions?“What the hell?!” Rocks and crayons in coat pockets only discovered after said coat went through the washer. AND the dryer! “What the hell?!” And, every time the loop is played it comes out with a different feeling or meaning. This simple, multi-purpose, three-word phrase can sound fast and mad like, “WHATTHEHELL!!” Or, slow and questioning like, “wwwwhhhhhaaaaa tthee hheelllll????” Seriously, books on how to raise kids should be titled, that’s right, What the Hell?!

Television shows often try to portray the overworked, overly frazzled stay-at-home mom type, but you know what, they never, ever get it right. The sets are just too perfect. The actor’s hair is just too coifed. The clothing is just too high-end. And, the children’s behavior is just too fake and annoying. My real-life is uncensored and messy, filled to the brim of mostly terrible and stress, sprinkled with dabs of magical.

Noise and chaos is what it really boils down to. Just noise and chaos. But when you least expect it, in the middle of all that noise and chaos are small glimpses of fantastical awesome-ness. Little, prescious, sometimes unexplainable, moments that, if you are quick enough and you let it, fill your heart to the brim and make all that horrible noise and chaos worth the trip.

Example! My youngest daughter is a major pain to put to bed. She pretty much always has been. Bedtime is not her thang. She beats to her own, sparkly drum and takes her sweet, excruciatingly painful time with everything. It drives me absolutely insane. Like drive me to drink copious amounts of liquor insane. Instead of brushing her teeth, she stands staring into the mirror while humming and examining her facial expressions for twenty minutes. Putting pajamas on takes another fifteen minutes because she can’t find that one tank top she wore two nights ago and nothing else (not even the cutest, brand-new pjs plus twenty bucks) will do. Then it takes another five to ten minutes to pick out the longest bedtime stories in the history of bedtime stories. Before you know it, that seven o’clock bedtime has turned into almost eight thirty, and, you know that show you've been waiting to watch already started. Exhausted and frazzled, the lights go off almost two hours after you’ve started putting the child to bed. But, just before you close the door all the way, that child, that same child that wore you down and chiseled away every patient nerve in your body will squeak out some over the top adorable sweetness like “I love you more than anything Mommy!” in the cutest, most sincere voice and with every fiber of your being, you know she means it. THEN! Then, your heart explodes.

That’s what raising kids is exactly like. Just when you think you can’t take anymore and you are about to push your own self off the cliff and die a most horrible death….your life saver comes in the form of teeny, tiny beautiful moments that are so pure and so amazing they're hard to explain with words.

time

It is true what they say, you know. Time heals all wounds. Although, Rose Kennedy disagreed and was quoted saying: “It has been said, 'time heals all wounds.' I do not agree. The wounds remain. In time, the mind, protecting its sanity, covers them with scar tissue and the pain lessens. But it is never gone.”

In my slightly bitter, younger days I would whole heatedly agree with her somewhat half-filled glass sentiment. I understand her point of view. I do. Once the negative feelings eventually erode away, you are left with scars. Sometimes they are physical but mostly they are invisible, and the carrier of these scabbed-over wounds are left to figure out how to deal with them.

For lack of a better explanation, my biological father abandoned me when I was small. He made choices and decisions for himself that negatively impacted my life. And, for a long time, I walked around the world with a giant, gaping wound no one could see. I felt an obligation to love him because he was my dad but yet I felt so hurt and angered and ashamed of his behavior at the same time.

Long story short, my father met another woman soon after my mother changed her life (and mine). One thing led to another, yadda-yadda-yadda, I was the brand-new owner of a step-mother and a baby sister. After a few false starts as a blended/every other weekend family, I rarely saw the three of them. Mom and I went on living. And, that was that. 

Time passed.

As I grew older I did struggle with feelings of being replaced. Heard rumors of untruths. Had my feelings crushed. Wondered why. But, all along, I understood there was really nothing I could do about it. The less I saw of him, the less hurt I became. The wound healed and the pain subsided.

Time passed.

Jump ahead to my adult life, I made a conscience decision to NOT make any more attempts at maintaining a relationship with him. I was pregnant for the first time and I wanted this start at my family life to be simple and unscathed. I wanted my unborn son to have two parents, two sets of grandparents and one family. (Something I secretly always longed for.)

Time passed.

I moved away from my home town. Had two more babies. And, filled my life with diapers, preschool, sports, pets and Facebook. Little by little, I opened my heart up to the people around my father and allowed them to get little glimpses of my world through the magic of the interwebs. My half sister is a married adult with babes of her own. My step-mother divorced my father and is remarried.

More time passed.

Currently I do not, nor do I wish to, maintain any communication with him. That is one small piece of my heart I protect. I don't harbor ill will against him. I just don't wish to rip that scab off. And, maybe, if I'm being honest with myself, it is one small way I punish him for his betrayal. WOW! Get out of my head Dr. Phil!!

My kids have grown older. My life has become crazy busy and full. And another Mother's Day was yesterday. My family and I celebrated with a couple meals and some major downtime. And, per my normal routine, I logged into facebook to check out the goings on.

But something was different yesterday. Something a little bit miraculous. A quiet and a rather simple gesture between two women that shared my life in some capacity throughout the years. My mom and my step-mom became facebook friends. Time had healed wounds for these two women. These two mothers. Which in turn healed my wounds as well. And I felt happy.

Time. Its pace often not what we appreciate. Sometimes too slow, mostly too fast. It sneaks up on us and disappears in an instant. But one thing I know for sure, if we are patient and allow it. Time does heal all wounds.

 

Happy Mother's Day and every day, my friends.

mepps

Recently I was reminded of a little goodie from my childhood. I was searching for some form of entertainment via 'onDemand' on the television when in the top, right corner a blurb about an old movie called The Coneheads was being referenced. Do any of you remember that movie??

The Coneheads was a sketch on the Saturday Night Live television show of the late '70s about aliens with cone shaped craniums that come to Earth to observe everyday life. My mother thought the comedy sketch was hilarious and when I was nine years old, she dressed me up as, you guessed it, a conehead for Halloween. [go ahead...laugh]

She worked painstakingly on my costume. She made a cone for my head that allowed all my hair to be tucked inside. Spray painted it just the perfect flesh color. And, even included a senso-ring. Ha! Oh gawd, how I wish I had a circa 1980ish picture to share with you right now.

So while all my peer counterparts were dressed as princesses and ballerinas, I walked into my third grade class dressed like an alien with a cone-shaped head. I! Know! Now you might understand where my sense of humor comes from a little better.

Those were the years kids wore their Halloween costumes to school for the whole day. And, Halloween parties were called Halloween parties not Harvest Festivals. Truth be told, I sort of loved the originality of my costume. I wasn't like all the other kids walking around in drugstore purchased, plastic costumes that were itchy and falling apart that day. I was a homemade freakin' Conehead! I wore my cone proudly.

After being hopped up on classroom party candy, It seemed like forever waiting for dusk so Mom and I could venture out for trick or treating. At the time we lived in a mobile home park. Mostly filled with young families and older, retired folks. Not the best area for prime candy collection, but the trailer houses were close together and the drives were filled with street lights.

With every knock on the door I was asked the same question: "what are you supposed to be?" And, with every question my excitement and love of my cone dwindled. Nobody in my neighborhood thought my costume was as cool or as funny as my mother and I did. Nobody knew what the heck I was supposed to be.

Jump forward to present day: I was on the phone with Mom. I mentioned to her how I remembered that costume and how nobody in the neighborhood appreciated the fantastic-ness of the Conehead. At nine, I was expecting laughs and instead, I only received puzzled looks. Which in a nutshell is pretty much how my humor is received to this day.

But, in reminiscing about that night almost thirty years ago, we decided the problem wasn't with my costume. Because lets be honest, a nine year old alien with a conical skull is pretty damn funny. The problem was the trailer park filled with older retirees that go to bed at eight o'clock. That was our big mistake!! If I had gone trick or treating in the near-by hippie community that shared in the hilarity of the Saturday Night Live sketch, I would have had success aplenty.

Moral:  Know your target audience!

the story of my life

...is simply baseball, baseball, baseball. I feel like I do nothing else but shuffle children around from practice to game to game to practice and do laundry.

 

White pants + PNW rainy weather + muddy fields = mama does a lot of laundry.
 

 

All three kidlets are playing baseball. Did I mention that already? Meaning the girls play BASEball, not SOFTball. Big difference around these parts. And, everyone we talk to always respond the very same way, "I didn't know girls could play baseball?!" Yup, they can!

 

We tried softball and I do worry my girls aren't making connections with the other girls, but after a couple years of really going nowhere skill wise and schedules being bounced around who had dance and gymnastic and horse riding lessons. Not to mention all the singing and dancing in the dugout. We decided to put the girls into baseball.

 

The kids are on the same schedule. Bonus! Plus, the boys don't dance or sing or even once mention an American Girl doll.

 

It builds some major confidence in our middle child, especially, being nine and all. Lessons she learns is that she can do the same things boys can do, and in most cases kick their butts at it. Not to mention the lessons it holds for the boys having a rocking girl play on their team. So I would like to take a minute and say "you are welcome" to their mothers.

play ball

It's that time of year again. Rain and all!

 

 

 

how much

I was in the pharmacy this afternoon to pick up a prescription I had refilled and I was gobsmacked when the clerk said "your total will be three hundred and thirty dollars."

I almost pooped in my bluejeans.

Three hundred and thirty effing dollars?!?!

The sad part is I really wanted my prescription and I just couldn't let myself pay that much for a teeny, tiny tube of cream for chronic cold sores. Which is currently my throbbing issue. A big fat cold sores on my top lip. I get them all the time. Anytime the weather changes dramatically, or if I let my lips get too dry or if I'm stressed or sick. Wham-O! Cold sore. It's uber annoying!

I thought I would just have to make due with the over-the-counter, supposedly miracle creams until one day I happened to be in the doctor's office and she commented on the hideous thing on my lip last year. With a sigh I told her all my about my embarrassing, painful problem and how I hate it. She wrote me up a prescription lickely-split and unlike what I can purchase in the grocery store, this stuff is a miracle cream.

How did I not pay three hundred and thirty dollars for my magic medicine last year you ask. Well, last year our insurance coverage was different and this potion came into my life free of charge. So when I called the drugstore and dialed in my prescription refill number I didn't think anything would be different.

But before all you Obama-hating-finger-waving Republicans start in how awful, terrible that black guy in the big office is making everything go south, let me say this. I do understand that because of ObamaCare, the company my husband works for had to (or more like wanted to methinks) change their policies. And, it's true our coverage is different and I'm not a fan. Not a fan at all. Mostly because the pay cut my husband endured to work for this company however many years ago was balanced out because of the fantastic benefits we would be provided. Except now, those benefits are no longer. I won't lie, it urks me. And, I also understand the reasoning behind ObamaCare and it's purpose. In theory.

That said, I think if you rally rumblers want something/someone to blame I think you should (we all should) start pointing our fingers at the pharmaceutical companies. I don't know much but I do happen to know there is a farmer in Costa Rica that earns himself about eight cents per plant on crops for a company that makes medicine for the U. S. of A. So how, I wonder, does my magic cold sore medicine go from eight cents to three hundred and thirty dollars?  Obama isn't making my magic medicine....in fact, I have a very strong feeling he could care less about my cold sore.

open letter

Dear Starbucks,

I know the little city I live in was voted "The Friendliest City in America" after all. And, who doesn't like a cheery town?! But, I must admit when I pull up to your drive-through coffee stops, I am faced with a few dilemmas.

Firstly, I can now pseudo skype with the cashiers as I order my drink before I even pull up to the window to see their faces in real time. I'm asked "how are you?" and "what can I get started for you?" and "did you want any food to go along with that?" Frankly, I'm not really sure how I feel about this whole skyping thing. It's cute and all, but I now feel like I HAVE to smile at the computer screen. Not smiling would mean I wasn't being friendly. Not being friendly would go against everything the city I live in stands for. It would be like when Horton asks all the Whos of Whoville to make noise so the Sour Kangaroo has proof the wee society exists. Except at first that old, hopping sourpuss doesn't hear the Whos because of one small shirker named JoJo. I mean, what would happen to the friendliest city with shirkers going about without smiling?! We might lose our title!!! GASP!

But back to you, Starbucks.....when I do finally inch my way up to the window after all the pleasantries, I'm asked 'what plans I have for the day'. Here in lies my real problem, Starbucks. I am stumped with just how honest I should or shouldn't be with the doe-eyed, coffee schlepping workerbees. What plans do I have??? I mean do your employees really care what plans I have? Do they really want to know I need to go buy my kid some new underpants because the washer broke and the new one hasn't come yet. Or that I need to find an over sized sweatshirt, with just one pocket in the front not two pockets on the sides, so that my hormonal eleven year old won't wear the same stinky hoodie every fricken' day. Or that when I get home I need to do the dishes and clean the toilets but how I'm stopping at Starbucks just to prolong the miserable tasks I have on my agenda? No Starbucks. No, I really don't think they want to know that.

So then begins the battle inside my very tired and overly frazzled brain as they stare back at me with a wide grin. What, exactly, do I say in return?? My standbys? "Oh you know, trying to stay dry" or " not much" or "off to run some errands". Or do I play with them a little and announce, "Today is the day I get my head shaved and that Mike Tyson tat on the side of my face I've been wanting!!"

But Starbucks! Thinking that much and that quick before caffeine is hard! I don't have witty comebacks or intelligent statements. I. Just. Want. My. Tall. Skinny. Carmel. Mocchiato for God's shake!!!! You've already forced me to order my coffee in codewords only people of  the Pacific Northwest understand. Other than that, simple 'pleases' and 'thank yous' and 'have a nice day' is enough for me. No questions. No insights into my day. No first names basis. Just give me my drink, take my money and let me drive off into the drizzly, occasional rain showers and possible sun bursts. Because I Am That One Small Shirker in the friendliest city in America.

Best Regards!
JoJo

march second

And then she was seven.

 

Our baby is no longer a baby anymore. She is officially a kid, full of sparkle and glitz. She bleeds glitter and has a rhythm of her own. Meaning she takes her sweet (often excruciating) time in everything she does but once she gets there, she is a solid force to be reckoned with.

 

True story. And, don't go thinking I'm some weird nut job. When my older daughter was born we knew what we wanted to name her and that was her name. But! About two seconds after our second little bundle slid into the world, another name came to me. A name for a girl. At that very instant I knew we would have a third baby and what HER name would be. [Insert Twilight Zone music here]

 

Our newly crowned seven year old announced she wanted a costume party so on November 1st, I headed out and scoured all the clearance Halloween goodies. But, because I got so sick before her birthday, we had to rearrange plans a bit. Instead of whooping it up at home with a big costume party, we celebrated with a costume bowling party. Kids came in their favorite getups and we bowled under the neon lights. All in all, it turned out great.

 

Being a big kid now (and because her mom feels some slight guilt for not being able to celebrate her big day) we've decided to take the baby out of her bedroom and make it fit for a seven year old. Sadly, the nursery elephants are coming down (sniff) and this girl is going glam. Which makes this little fashionista's heart skip a beat. Stay tuned.

hydration of thy soul

Costa Rica, in one word, is magical. I can't think of a better way to explain it. Everything about it fills me up and lightens my mood. Maybe I have a biased view because when I've visited Costa Rica it hasn't been as a tourist but more like a friend. And, I'm not trying to sound corny, but I do really feel like the people I visit and see and laugh with are my friends. Even if we don't always speak the same language.

 

You don't have to spend much time around the people and culture to quickly realize this humid, jungle runs at a different pace than Americans are used to. Things aren't so much important as relationships are.

 

I did my best to soak up as much of this hard working, fun loving, happy place as I could. Madre and I had the best time. We laughed a lot and wore our brains out trying to communicate with our non-English speaking pals. But enough chit chat. I'll let these photos speak for themselves.

Swinging Bridge tour

Most delish bakery

baby moo

every Tico, most often than not, can be seen wearing a pair of these

state bird

break time

ojo azul

can't you just taste the refreshing goodness

Ticos

finca

hola

locals

lush

Madre

typical tico casa

anything can be turned into a fiesta

mode of transport

rio

walking partner to the Super Kike

cluck?

sleeping volcano

afterlife

rojo

howler monkey

line dry

longest bridge

yeehaw

grocery

last day was bittersweet