Sewing

This year I took my birthday money and bought myself a sewing machine. I know sewing is the Mormon thing to do, but I did not get it to aid in my salvation. (Hello--I already canned jam this summer.) I got the sewing machine because of my addiction to Project Runway.

Every week as I watch the contestants create their masterpieces, I can't help but think about how fun it looks and how I could do such a better job than Mila. So I got myself a machine, ready to sew up my own fashion creations.

Now I took cooking and sewing 4-H when I was in the third and fourth grade, so I knew a little something about sewing. This is what I remember--sewing is hell. But an older, wiser Kodie was sure it would be better twenty years later.

I bought myself a pattern at Hobby Lobby. I only picked from certain types of patterns. Those were the ones in the bright yellow and black packaging labeled "Sewing for Dummies." As I began reading over the instructions, I mumbled, "This might be too hard for me." Chris who was listening asked, "What do you need? Sewing for Simpletons?"

So today I pulled out my idiot pattern and $2/yard Walmart fabric and attempted to make McKay a pair of shorts. Halfway through the process I noticed something had gone terribly wrong.

If you can't tell from the picture, half the shorts are sewn right side out and half our sewn inside out.

Oh, Sewing for Simpletons, where are you?

Patience is a Virtue

There is a story behind the title of my blog. Eleven years ago I had just finished my freshman year of college and was home for the summer to make money. I worked with disabled children in a special summer program. It was a lot of fun. I could handle the tantrums, outrages, violence, bodily fluid without batting an eye. I never lost my temper. There was a reason for my boundless patience--all those children went home at four o'clock. Then I went home where I had a nice home-cooked meal that my mom had prepared for me, from groceries she had bought. Then I did whatever I wanted until I crawled into the bed my mom had made for me, and slept the entire night without getting up for anyone. Ahhh, what a glorious life.

However, to get to that glorious life I had to drive home after work. I commuted from Meridian into Emmett everyday. The Emmett highway is one lane in each direction. After spending a long day being drooled on, I would find my day lengthened by stupid drivers. Drivers unaware of how to correctly operate a gas pedal and farmers driving their tractors or trailers loaded with hay would often have 10-20 cars backed up behind them. I would find myself yelling, not casually suggesting, but yelling at laryngitis strength, "Pass him!!! Pass him already!!! What are you waiting for!?!" In one such heated moment, a song popped into my head. Yes, I became a songwriter with this original tune: "Patience is a virtue. I can be more patient." (There is also the extended re-mix edition. But very few have been lucky enough to hear that version.) I began singing this song, and it calmed me down. So I sang it pretty much everyday as I was driving home from work. My mantra of peace. Then the next year, my sister Riki, got hired on with me. As we carpooled back home, and I began singing my song, she started laughing hysterically. "That is the stupidest thing I have ever heard." Yep, she was singing it, too before the summer was over. (And apparently she also sang it over the pulpit in a talk once--but that's another story.)

Now Chris sings the song. And Parker. And McKay. And Deacon. And the words even reside in my home. Thank you Riki for the artwork you sent me on my birthday this year. (See picture.)

So today after a very long stressful day, my kids were fighting in the van. I instinctively yelled at them to knock it off before every toy they owned became mine, TV became a thing of the past, and I wrote Santa a letter telling him not to come this year. They quieted under the wrath of Mighty Mom, and I began singing "Patience is a Virtue." From the far back seat of the van, Parker's voice broke the child quiet. Muttering to himself, I heard him say, "It's about time."

Gender Roles

Tonight I went searching for the missing library books. The first place I looked was my kids' baskets.

In a truly Davis moment, I bought each of my children their own color-coded basket. These baskets live in my hall closet. The Theory: When I found my kids' toys downstairs I would dump it in their basket. At nightly chore time they would dump their baskets in their rooms and put away their toys. It would be a win-win situation as my downstairs would stay neat, and I would not be putting kids' toys away all day. In Practice: I attempt to put coat away in coat closet which (surprise) actually does contain some coats. As I cross living room floor, I trip over metal baseball bat that is NEVER supposed to be in the house and definitely NEVER supposed to be in Deacon reach, landing in a pile of Legos leaving the letters L-E-G-O imprinted in my knee. Finally I reach coat closet to find toys spilling out everywhere. I then yell, "Dang it! Kids, come empty your baskets in your rooms before I empty them in the D.I. box." Living room is not neat. Coat closet is not neat. Coat closet actually cannot close due to excess toys spilling out of it. But I digress from the purpose of my story....

The purpose being when the library books went missing, I knew the first place to look was in the baskets. Sure enough Deacon's basket contained Go Train Go! Parker's had a Batman book and The Lego Star Wars Visual Dictionary. McKay's had a book about fairies and planting flowers in your garden. As I looked through their baskets I realized not only their books, but their toys defined what they like, who they are right now.

Contents of Deacon's basket: One plastic hammer, one Thomas the Train Engine ball, one plastic firefighter hat.

Contents of Parker's basket: One baseball, one slingshot, one Nerf gun, two baseball hats, and a golf ball.

Contents of McKay's basket: One pink, ultra-fluffy ballet tutu, one Strawberry Shortcake doll, one Hello Kitty puppet.

I'm all about gender equality. But it does my heart good to see boys that are all boy and girly little girls.

Honor Thy Mother

This morning Deacon was yelling and screaming and trying to hit me as I attempted to change his diaper.

"Deaky," I said, "Jesus wants you to be nice to your mommy."

He looked at me, unconvinced, and then told me, "Deaky not talk to Jesus."

The Good, The Bad, and The Messy

Good idea: Painting pictures for preschool.

Bad idea: Letting Deacon paint a picture, too.

Dirty Little Secret

So yesterday I was using the bathroom when I looked down only to see an army of ants swarming a sticky substance. The unknown substance looked suspiciously like a piece of Pop Tart ground into the rug, but I was unsure.

A normal person would have cleaned up the ant mess. Apparently I am not normal, because I decided to leave this mess. I figured that due to the frequency of my husband's bathroom trips, I wouldn't have to wait long before he discovered the Ant Tart and dealt with it himself.

Sure enough ten minutes later the door to the bathroom closes, and I hear Chris say, "Eeeww. There's this ant-goo mess on the rug."

Now there are many things that I struggle with--basic math computation, assembling children's toys, addiction to reality TV (When will they finally eliminate Mila on Project Runway? Enough already!), but honesty is generally a strong point for me. So it kind of surprised me when I said, "Oh, really?"

I pretty much tell Chris exactly how it is. I should have said, "Yeah. I know. Your department." This is only the second time I have stretched the truth with him. The first time was back in Utah when he brought home this hideous purple-gray paint square that he wanted to paint the bathroom in. When I noticed the dog eating this paint sample, I let the dog go for it. Then when Chris asked where the paint chip was I answered, "I don't know." But I did know. It had been digested and was hiding somewhere in the backyard waiting to be scooped up. But I confessed to that, and I am confessing now. Chris, I knew about the Ant Tart. Thanks for cleaning it up. I love you.

Yold

Two people in our family had birthdays this week. One of them is still young, turning only two.

And another one of them is yold. That would be yours truly, who turned....(gasp) 30. Parker told me on my birthday, "You're not young anymore, and you're not old yet. You're yold."

It made me realize that a lot can happen in a decade. When I turned 20, I was an unmarried college student who stayed up until 2 a.m. by choice, whose sole mode of transportation was tennis shoes, and who lived with a family of crazy girls (see picture) in apartments built out of cinder blocks and lead paint. Life was good.

(Sorry Jenni--don't know why you turned out so dark.)

Then in my twentieth year I met the man in this picture.

As you can see he got a hold of me. So I decided to marry him. Also he wouldn't go away.

Fast-forward ten years, 3 kids, 2 houses, and 1 insane Airedale Terrier later, and I am one yold woman. I have been up about one bazillion times at 2 a.m., never by choice, nursing babies, calming nightmares, and cleaning up vomit. I drive the standard-issue, Mormon-mom, Cheerio-encrusted minivan. I live in a 2450 square foot house, and one closet of it is mine, all-mine, where no child would dare enter, much less leave a Polly Pocket or Bakugan lying on the ground. Life is good.

Which is why I am not having a crisis about turning 30. Which is why when I went in for a check-up I mentioned to the doctor I had gained 10 pounds in a month. "Hmm...," she said. I needed much more than a "hmm" to alleviate my fear that my weight gain was caused by my aging metabolism. "Hormones can contribute to weight gain." Hallelujah! I'll take that. Medical excuse for getting fat. I will not meltdown over weight gain.

I am not having a crisis about the perma-circles under my eyes or the crow's feet at the edges. I may have bought age-defying makeup with a "magic eraser" that is supposed to erase fine lines. "What do you think?" I asked Chris after erasing my face this morning, "Do you think I still look like a youthful 29 year old?"

"Oh, yeah, you definitely look two days younger."

"Hey mom," Parker said, "now you're too old to be a contestant on American Idol."

FYI: I am not having a crisis about this.