My nine-year-old son for his last birthday received an onslaught of Nerf weapons—all sizes, all shapes.

He hardly plays with them.  His birthday, just as a note, was last October. They normally just gather dust.

But as I sat at my trusty pink laptop last night, scanning Twitter and searching blogs (because that’s what I do instead of write novels now days), he decided to pull out the Nerf guns and spongy darts. Then he decided to involve his younger sister in a game called, “You’re a zombie/ No I’m not.”

It kind of went something like this:

The boy: “You’re a zombie.”

The girl: “No I’m not.”

The boy: “Come on, please. Just chase me around and try to bite me.”

The girl: “I’m not playing”

The boy: “I’m still going to shoot you, so just do it.”

The girl: “Why do I have to be the zombie?”

The boy: “Because I have the guns and you don’t.”

Girl moans her frustration (much like a zombie, hmmm). “Can I really bite you?” (This is the part in which a good parent, an observant parent, would have stepped in and put an end to the game. Sadly, I’m not a good parent. I’m just so-so).

I didn’t hear too much more conversation going on as the game got under way. They seemed to be enjoying themselves, running around, up and down the stairs, the dog chasing after them while Nerf darts littered the house. They seemed to be having a good time. A real good time.

That should have been a clue right there as well. (Again, a more observant parent should have raised a brow. These two children don’t tend to play well with one another. Not for long anyway.)

Next thing I know . . .

The scream.

“She bit me! Mommmmmm, SHE BIT ME!”

Yep, the girl sunk her teeth into the boy. Now, playing the devil’s advocate here, I did hear the boy say, “Chase me and bite me.” (See above transcript of thus said game).  So in her defense, he was kind of asking for it.

Me: “You shouldn’t have bit your brother.”

The girl: “But I’m a zombie. Zombie’s bite.”

Me: “I know. But you’re not really a zombie and so you should’ve just pretended to bite. Like this,” (I go on to demonstrate how a fake bite should be by fake biting her arm).  

The girl: “Then I don’t want to play.”

She’s a stubborn lass. She really is. But I get her point. She has two older brothers who terrorize her on a daily basis. I had a brother (have, he’s still around) growing up and given a free pass to bite him, I probably would’ve. I would’ve sunk my teeth into him and made him cry and beg for mercy (You don’t know my brother. Don’t judge me).

But now was the time for me to step up and be “Super Mom” and instill some kind of moral-like wisdom and advice on my dear daughter. “Don’t bite your brother,” I said.

The girl: “Why?”

Me: “Because I said so.” Sorry, that’s all I had. Moral-like wisdom is not my strength.

Off she went, the problem solved. (Just to clarify, the boy sustained no visible injuries. Lots of salvia, but no blood or teeth marks).

A while later, these little zombie hunters of mine came creeping into my room, Nerf guns tucked into elastic waist bands of their pants, a clear see-through rifle shoved down the back of my son’s shirt, both of their hands clutching mini Nerf pistols, and proceeded to pelt me with sponge bullets. They had reconciled their differences and found a new target—me.

“Get her!” The boy yelled. “Get the zombie queen!”

A queen? I could get used to that—even if it is queen of the zombies. (Dang! That would be an awesome Twitter name @zombiequeen . . . Dang! Just checked. It’s taken. I’m gonna go follow that person).

So I played my part and chased after them. They jumped on the sofa and called it their “free zone” to which I replied, “There is no free zone. Zombies don’t know what that means.”

They squealed in delight as I blew raspberries on their necks and bellies and tickled them all over.

A fun, yet disturbing kind of game, right? I know what you’re thinking. I do.

Here’s the thing—I’m writing a zombie western romance. All three of my kids know that.  Do I read it to them? No. Do they watch zombie movies? Heavens no. Do they know about zombies? Apparently, a little too much.

But it isn’t all my fault, folks. Scooby-Doo has them. Even Barbie (YES, Barbie) has them. Zombies are everywhere.

Was this my best mothering moment? Probably not. But I can tell you, playing a pretend zombie game with my children probably won’t be the worst thing I do to them either. I’m a so-so kind a mom, so I’m sure I’ll screw them up in a completely different way.

My book club is funner than yours!

And no, the wigs had absolutely NOTHING to do with that month’s book selection.

So what kind of funky book club makes you wear ugly wigs? Well, it all started like this . . .

The month before at our last book club, one of our members mentioned how she had a horrible haircut just days before she was to go on vacation to Hawaii with her husband. The haircut was awful, so she said. Devastating and tear enducing.

Her solution was to purchase a wig.

She told us all about this wig, how easy it was to maintain, how natural it looked, and how much her husband liked it. Well, we had to see this wig for ourselves (who wouldn’t?). She told us she would wear it to the next meeting.

We have a couple of tricksters in our group (my kind of gals) who decided it would be funny if we all came sporting a wig of our own. Out came the platinum blond wigs, the mullets, and the afros. (I’m the one in front, far left, who looks like the “Church Lady” from SNL—just the look I was going for too).  

Just so you know, the lady standing right behind me in the dark jacket is wearing the professional wig. And BOY was it nice! You’d never know it was fake hair. It looked that good.

It got me thinking . . . I want one too. Not just one either, but a BUNCH of wigs. I’d have me my “Pretty Morning Mom” wig (which would cure my Ugly Mother problem—see earlier blogs); my “Cher” wig, because EVERYONE needs a super long Cher wig (I know you want one too); my “Sunday Best” wig for church and other spiritually related moments in life; my “Blonds have more fun” wig, for reasons you need not know; Oh, and of course my “Lucille Ball” and “Dolly Parton” wigs just because. Maybe I’d even buy me an “I’m-angry-with-you-so-you-better-watch-out” wig.

 “Ma’s got on her angry wig, ya’ll better run!”  (Not sure why I hear “hick-talk,” but it seems right for the moment).

So how was the book, you may be wondering? The book we all came together to discuss? Oh that . . . well, it was okay.

Just kidding, Erica. It was good. Women, Food, and God by Geneen Roth (she was featured on Oprah, so it has to be good, right? Oprah wouldn't steer us wrong).  Most of the women enjoyed it and gained something wonderful from the book. A few others, not so much. But we had a wonderful discussion about how we as women see ourselves and the doubt and emotions that tend to lead up to overeating (or to any obsession, for that matter). Overall, we learned that unless we treat the TRUE reason why we struggle with food, we’ll never cure ourselves. Diets will fail (diets suck, I just had to put that in there).  But more importantly, we need to love and accept ourselves. As the book states: "It's never been true, not anywhere at any time, that the value of a soul, of a human spirit, is dependent on a number on a scale. We are unrepeatable beings of light and space and water who need these physical vehicles to get around. When we start defining ourselves by that which can be measured or weighed, something deep within us rebels . . . you already have everything you need to be content.”

THREE STARS


Five Stars:    Loved it. Read it in one day; Couldn't put it down
Four Stars:    Liked it; Read it in a week; Good read; Entertaining
Three Stars:   It's ok. About a Month to read; Average story
Two Stars:     Didn't like it. Took longer than a month, but I finished it.
One Star:        Hated it.Took several months to read. Bored to death.

(All my reviews are based upon my personal feelings, regardless of past or present hype for the book. I don't believe in book bashing either and will do my best to fair in my review).

You know those mother’s who slip from the bed, throw on a jacket over the pajamas (or nightgown, if they’re classy), and grab any old pair of shoes (or “World’s Greatest Dad” slippers if they happen to be closer), and then drop off their kids at school, praying all the while that no one they know will see them? Well, that’s me.

I am an Ugly Mother (Notice I titled it. It’s an exclusive club, of which I’m a member).

If I run a brush threw my hair, count yourself lucky.

My teenage son has come to accept it. He doesn’t like it, but it is what it is.

“Could you at least put some jeans on instead of your witch pajama bottoms?” he has asked in the past.

I like my witch pajamas. It reflects my true self. I even wear them when it’s not Halloween, because they’re comfy and I like comfy—I’ll take comfy over practical any day.

“No,” I tell him. “Just be lucky I’m awake and not making you walk.”

I’m in a carpool with four other teenagers besides my son, and not one of the four has mentioned my lack of proper driving attire. That makes me wonder . . . what do the other mothers do? You know what? Strike that.  It doesn’t matter. If they’re dressed in their designer jeans with makeup and hair all in place, kudos to them.  Every kid needs to have at least one Ugly Mother in the group, and I’m just fine with that (as long as I can sleep in a bit more, I don’t care).

I’m more of a “mid-afternoon kinda gal.” Two o’clock I’m at my prime.  I hate mornings. I loath them. Alarm clocks suck. But the afternoon, well, that’s when I come alive. I’m nicer then. I’m more patient then. And I usually have showered and dressed by then, too.

Around two I take off my ugly mother hat and put on the average-looking mother hat (pretty-looking mother is only a Sunday deal, sorry).

The kids know I have the ability to look good. They’ve seen me in the afternoon and on Sundays. They know I’m capable of more. I choose to look the way I do in the morning. It’s a choice, a part of my rights as an American citizen, tax payer, and sometimes voter to look the way I do.

I just have no desire to be up and dressed, primped and curled by nine in the morning. No desire whatsoever.

So if you come up to my van to speak to me in the morning, I will roll my window down and do my best not to frighten you with my Halloween pajamas and bad breath. I will talk to you. I will be a tad embarrassed, but obviously not enough to make me change and try harder the next day. I will look the same. That’s pretty much a given. Because really, it’s your fault you approached my car before 2:00pm.

Are you an Ugly Mother?  Tell me your worst morning moment. I’d love to know.

I still like my dermatologist even though I still think she’s spastic. I mean, last week I took my oldest son to see her for a follow-up for his own “dermatological issues,” and in walks our doctor dressed from head to toe (okay, maybe just neck down) in purple. Purple knitted dress. Purple tights. Purple high-heels. She’s young. She’s cute. She can get away with that, though I don’t think anyone else could.

Man, can that girl talk! She obviously has a ton to say, just like my last visit,  so most of the time I just nod and listen. Maybe I’m just getting old so all chatty young girls annoy me. I don’t know. So this second time seeing her (though not for myself) completely verified what I knew all along—Dr. Amy is kinda nuts. But that’s okay. I’m willing to give her a chance.

Anyway, I am four weeks into the search for the “Perpetual  Itching Angela” cure.  (Check out the 1/5/11 blog).  Dr. Amy took me off the prescription cream my previous doctor gave me and told me to take Zyrtec twice a day (twice the daily dosage), lather myself in moisturizing lotion and to cut my nails short.

Sounds good in theory and I have put it into practice, doing my very best. But well, it ain’t working. In fact, the itch has become worse, almost intolerable. I now have cuts, scrapes, and bruises (big bruises) from itching. I need the steroid cream! I do. I know it isn’t good for me, but I’m not sure what else to do. Oh, and by the way, the lab work came back negative. It’s not my thyroid or liver causing me to itch for the past seven years. I’m glad, but also disheartened. What the heck is it then? The mystery still goes on, dang it.

I’m hanging there, trying to make a full-blown effort to do everything my crazy doctor is suggesting. I use the moisturizing lotion. I take the Zyrtec even though it wipes me out. I think I will go back to Dr. Amy and see what she has to offer me at my next visit (in three weeks). I’m worried it’s neurological and she’s going to put me on the “crazy people pill” which takes away a person’s will to live (not literally, but makes you feel less energetic). I like my energy. I need my energy. But maybe I am crazy. No one seems to have the answer.

Actually, before the “crazy people pill” I think I will go check out a holistic doctor and see what he may have to offer me. I’m tired of itching. It would be so nice to feel comfortable in my own skin instead of wanting to tear it off all the time.

I just want to be normal! Well, as normal as I can get anyway (please don’t comment about the normal thing. I know I set you up. I get it. I do. But still).

I have lived like this for 7 ½ years. I probably gave up hope after around year two, realizing this was the way it was. I will always be itchy. 

Because, honestly, I had tried darn near everything to get rid of my perpetual itch to no avail—I mean, EVERYTHING.  Including: steroids (3x), creams, lotions, oils, oatmeal baths, cold showers, pills, Benadryl, flaxseed oil, dandelion extract.

AND, because I have experienced a 10 on the scale of 1-to-10 (10 being: rip-my-skin-off-and-put-a-bullet-in-my-skull), I figured a 2 or 3 was manageable (what I experience on a daily basis). The last six weeks of my pregnancy with Callie, I developed an intense rash that led to the worst, unimaginable, itching a person can experience (100 mosquito bites, poison ivy, chicken pox TIMES 10 rolled all into one lovely itching package). This kind of itching is called PUPPPS. Few women experience this in pregnancy (lucky us).

Now, seven years later, I fortunately don’t have the horribly ugly rash that I had when I was pregnant. BUT, I still have the itch. I start to scratch and BOOM it explodes right into hives. I scratch (more like dig) my skin to the point of bleeding and bruising. It intensifies the more I scratch, getting worse and worse until I force myself to stop. It’s ugly and awful. As I write this, my back is going crazy, but I’m controlling it with my mind. (I’m only a 2 right now—doable).

Well, I decided to go back to a dermatologist (a different one) and try again. The itch has become a bit worse now. Well, Dr. Amy (who is slightly spastic) had a plan. First, I was to stop using the prescription lotion my OBGYN had prescribed a year and a half ago, BECAUSE (per Dr. Amy) “it’s dangerous to use for prolonged periods of time”—sweet. I’m probably gonna get cancer or something. Next, I’m to go and have some blood work done to make sure my thyroid or liver isn’t causing the itching (I will do that this week). But for the next 8 weeks, I’m to take Zyrtec twice a day and put on plenty of moisturizer. The Zyrtec twice a day knocks me out. I’m useless and it isn’t good. So I’ve gone to once a day so I can participate in life (I still itch. I itch right now). Also, she told me to keep my nails short—no nails. Ha,ha,ha . . . the funny thing is that Dr. Amy underestimates me—I have been known to use hairbrushes, SOS pads, screwdriver, forks, and writing utensils. Short nails won’t stop me.

So, in 8 weeks I’m to go back. We’ll see. I’m not too hopeful, but Dr. Amy’s spastic personality is kind of fun. I like crazy people.

AND, if this doesn’t work, I have another plan: to see a “quack doctor” (a good friend calls him). He is a natural doctor who dabbles in herbs and such. Heck, at this point it’s worth a try.

I can’t even imagine what it’s like not to itch. The idea is so foreign to me.
 
I bet it’s amazing.

Oh, how I envy the well-decorated Christmas tree with all its matching ribbons, ornaments, and pretty tree topper. I see these trees in department stores, magazines, and friends homes and I’m in awe.

Now, our Christmas tree (we have two by the way and this statement applies to both) is not so “matching” and the ornaments are extremely random—from homemade ornaments we make each year, to BYU and the UofU ornaments we have hanging at equal heights at the top of the tree so no team is considered better than the other.

I do have the tree all in red lights, red and silver ornaments, red LCD ribbon (super cool by the way) wrapped around it with a matching red star perched on the top. But that is where all matching ends. Our tree is not magazine worthy by any means.

But our tree is remarkable and I love it. Because I know that when the day comes in which I have this ultra-gorgeous looking tree, my children will have grown and moved away. They will have taken with them the ornaments we make each year as a family tradition, the ballet girl, the princess crown, the Monsters Inc, the paper bird, the school-made ornaments (I still hang Caden’s preschool ornament), the trains, the horse, the Carebear, and Hello Kitty.

Maybe our tree isn’t fancy, but all you have to do is point to nearly ornament and I can tell you a little something about why it is there. The white and blue ceramic ornament—my church Sunday school teacher made it for me when I was twelve. The cream colored heart with two little red birds—the ornament I made for Scott when we were engaged to be married. There is an ornament for our first Christmas together, and one for each child’s birth. There are ornaments made by cousins and ones given to us by family members. Each is unique and wonderful, and each tells a story.

I love my tree. It’s a little goofy looking (a string of lights died on it just the other day) but that’s okay. It looks great to me.

Last night, I took the children shopping to purchase a gift for the person who’s name they drew. They were given their budget and sent loose to pick the perfect gift their sibling would enjoy.

Normally, when I go to the store with the kids, it’s usually a “me, me, me” kind of moment—Can I have a little toy?; Can I have a treat?; Oh, I hope Santa brings me this and this and this . . .

But this time at the store was wonderfully different. They each came back with their basket and their special gift hidden by their hoodies so the other ones couldn’t see.

Oh, my little Calder! He can be such a pill and such a selfish little bugger (ya gotta love him), was more excited than I had ever seen him be. NOT because of what he hoped his big brother picked out for him, but for the gift he picked out for his sister. “I bet she’s gonna love it? Huh?” or “When I saw the price, I KNEW I had to get it for her. I just had to.” or “It’s more than just a toy. She can play with it. It stands, plays music, lights up, and she can play with it on the computer too. She’ll play with it all day! Do you think she’s gonna like it?”  Over and over he asks that, “Do you think she’s gonna like it?”

Even this morning, he kept telling her how much she’s going to love his gift to her. For his sake, I hope she does. (I’m certain she will).

That is sweet. The smile on my face is huge.

They each took turns wrapping these special gifts and placing them under the tree. Callie teases Caden and tells him that she bought him a snow globe (it’s that shape, but it isn’t). The funny thing, Caden believes her and is upset that she spoiled the surprise. What a gullible kid.

Last night as well, we curled up on the couch and my little Callie yelled out “I call snuggling with mom!” (Now keep in mind, very rarely does Calder like to snuggle. Sometimes, but not usually. And Caden, my snuggling with him is more of me tackling him and holding him down. He’s much too big and too cool for that. So when Callie calls snuggling with mom, I quickly accept. She’s only going to be little once. They grow up too soon).

This is Christmas. Snuggling. Movies. Loving one another.

Oh, and as an early Christmas present to me—Caden cut his shaggy hair. Yippee! He hugged me and said, "Merry Christmas, Mom." Wow. I can see his ears—his ears!!! I haven’t seen those in months. It makes me teary.

In my plight (fancy word) to become less of a Scrooge and to try and find my holiday spirit, I had put a plan into action (see previous blog). Here is how day one proceeded:

Last night we piled the kids in the van (some more willing than others) and we drove to Layton where we had a wonderful dinner at the Noodle Co, together as a family. By the end of dinner, all 3 kids were happy and gave less attitude.

With Christmas music playing on the radio, we went and saw the Layton City Park lights. Christmas dinosaurs, mermaids, dolphins, bears, unicorns, and snakes all lit up the park and the kids enjoyed pointing out the various light-sculpted figurines. The line to drive through was long, but we were patient, sang songs together and enjoyed ourselves. Had we dressed better for the weather, walking through the park would have been ideal. Next year maybe.

But for me, and I really even think for the kids as well, the highlight of the evening was the spur of the moment idea to go and visit my step-mother-in-law’s parents, who happen to live in Layton as well. Her parent’s, the Quintana’s, are absolutely wonderful.  Even though Scott is the “step-son” of their oldest daughter, you’d never know it by them. They treat us with absolute kindness and love.  

Mr. Quintana has had his unfair share of life’s heath issues this past year or two—ranging from a brain clot that led to surgery and the removal of a large section of his skull, to more recently having been diagnoses with pancreatic cancer, which has kept him from being able to have his skull replaced (he is simply too weak for more surgery).  This 86-year-old man told us “I’m a fighter. I’m hanging in there and maybe I’ll get me a gold-plated skull someday.” And he smiled continually—one of the best smiles I have ever seen.

This family is a close-knit, very loving family. When we showed up at their door at 8:30pm, not only were Mr. and Mrs. Quintana there, but three of their five daughters and a son-law were there as well. We were quickly ushered inside the magical winter wonderland they had created in their home, complete with tree, lights, moving Christmas village and various Christmas décor that took up every inch of their small home. The kids were enthralled.  We were hugged and welcomed by everyone, and were quickly told to sit and stay.

I don’t know how long Mr. Quinta has. His health and time here on earth is slipping away. But watching his family care and love him was inspirational.  My prayers go out to them. I am completely grateful Scott had the idea to stop by and visit with them. Because having done so, really brought with it a great sense of the Christmas spirit I was desperately in need of.  

This is what Christmas is all about. It truly is.

I hope my children take away from that experience as much as I did. It wasn’t about the Noodle Co. or the lights at the park—it’s about family and time, and the people we love.