I Don't Do Natural Anything

Every semester I teach my students about trigger words, terms which create a strong positive or negative emotional charge in you when you hear them. I don't have many negative trigger words, as I consider myself rarely offended. However, I do have a class of trigger words that could be grouped under the heading of All Things Natural: herbal, organic, health food store, holistic, homeopathic, naturopathic, psychopathic (just kidding about that one -- sorta). If I hear these words, I redirect my path away from the lips of he who spoke them. If I see them at the grocery store, I mutter a word of disgust and purposefully approach them, only to select a produce item next to them, but from the completely unnatural, inorganic and non-herbal section. Then I look at them and say, "Ha!"

I wasn't always this way. Through years of unfortunate encounters with extremists, I have come to loathe it all. I hate their phony propaganda and false claims. I've witnessed the system in which they gather gullible followers and take their money. They produce anecdotes for evidence instead of scientific studies.

In the end, these quackerpractors hurt innocent people who are fooled into thinking that anyone who promises to heal, cure or help improve the health status of the human race must be a bona fide physician. The quackerpractors watch people deteriorate under their care until they are only minutes from death. Then they abandon their own rules and betray their supposed ideology by finally referring the sick to a physician. When the patient fails to make a recovery, the quackerpractors exclaim, "We told you that medicine was bad and would harm/intoxicate/kill you." The MDs shake their heads in sorrow and say to each other, "If only this patient had sought verifiable treatment earlier..."

In hospital settings, Clint has already seen the effects of this. Some doctors try to practice tolerance of naturopaths; and some have dealt with them more than anyone should have to and dread them entering the clinic doors. It's safe to say that those who aren't sick of the wacko agenda will turn that way at a future point in their career. Overall, doctors have seen too many people deceived and hurt beyond repair by these crooks and they've had it. One doctor has devoted an immense amount of time to demystifying the falsehood of imitation health care practitioners by providing scientific evidence against their claims. His vast work has received high acclaims and can be viewed at quackwatch.org.

Have you spotted a quack?

Essay: Why My Kids Deserve a Mom

Nicole often gives me a hug and exclaims, "Mom, you're the best!" While I feel highly inadequate to accept such a compliment, I feel it my right to bestow it upon my children. They're truly the best. And as such, they are deserving of the full-time presence of a mom.

Reason #1
If you think about it, they are already one parent short since their dad works 100 hours per week at the hospital. It's happened, on occasion, that the children wake up after Daddy leaves in the morning and retire to bed before he arrives home in the evening (hence not see him at all). One morning Nicole woke up and asked, "How come Daddy didn't come home last night?" But he had.

Reason #2
For a brief period during my very early childhood, my mother took me to daycare while she worked. I have one memory of standing next to the organ speaker, which was positioned near the entrance of the half-bath and at the top of the stairs in our split-level home. My mom had already dressed me and curled my hair under. It was still dark outside and my mother spoke to me in a quiet voice. I didn't answer her, but I knew where I was going. Upon arrival at the babysitter's, I cried and begged for my mom not to leave me.

Now we certainly can't compare me going to daycare with my children staying with Grandma. However, in Nicole's dreamworld, when we drive north for Grandma Day, she would like me to stay there as well. She regularly petitions, "Mom, 'cause why you have to go teach? Please don't go."

Reason #3
Two times per week, I enter the children's room an hour before dawn to wake them. Each in their respective beds look so peaceful and like they are dreaming of angels. I wait until the last possible moment before kissing their foreheads and alerting them that it's time to wake up. Then we trudge out to the car and begin our forty-five minute commute.

Reason #4
Even though my classes only take me away for less than eight hours each week, I still have other duties associated with my job, such as planning lessons, writing exams and grading. When I'm up against a deadline, I tend to lose patience more easily and sometimes over things that don't really matter. Fact is, I'm a better mom when I don't have the demands of work hanging over me.

Reason #5
God planned it that way.

Not only do my kids need me, I need them. They cheer me up with their smiles, songs and incessant babblings. We tease, read books and visit fun places. Together we form a team that prepares the house for Daddy to come home. If the only reason my kids want me at home is simply because they want me to be with them, then it's the only reason I need.

All kids deserve a mom, especially mine.

Mommy Radar

My children were born with a built-in microchip that senses when I get out of bed in the morning or when I leave the house with Daddy in charge.

No matter the hour in the morning, no matter how quiet I creep around the house, no matter how long I slip away, my kids' microchips sound an alarm the instant I am available for service or if they think that I will be unavailable for awhile, it sounds then, too, to bring me back as quickly as possible.

A famous saying that circulates in our family is "Kitchen Closed." This means that Mom has cleaned up dinner, filed away all of the dishes and is done playing cook and maid for the day. Last night, when Nicole refused to go to bed and insisted on making more demands, I rightly informed her, "Mom's Closed." Unavailable. Please turn off your radar and go to bed.

Didn't work. Maybe one of these days I will find the switch to set operation to Daddy Radar.

Mama Knows Best

The last time I cleaned the toilet, as I sprayed disinfectant on the screw covers at the base, I somewhat proudly and obviously naively thought to myself, "Thank goodness my kids have never played with that disgusting piece."

When Nicole began to walk, my mom warned me that babies like to remove those and place them in their mouths. Not once did Nicole ever approach the toilet, probably because (1) she didn't get into as much as Grant and (2) she was repulsed by the toilet since I always said, "Yuck!" anytime she stepped within a 2' radius of it (which caused a traumatic first day at potty training years later).

Last night I heard Grant walking down the hall babbling something important. I ran to him to see what the fuss was about. When I found him, he held up the white cover with a big smile on his face.

"Aaagghhh!" I shrieked. At least it wasn't in his mouth ... this time. I hung my head in shame and thought, "My mother told me!"

Where All My Journeys End

Toward the end of Clint's mission (for reference's sake, let's say the last six months), both of us began to wonder if our weekly letter exchange had flourished into more than friendship. Since neither of us knew what the other was thinking, I made a brave move when I asked Clint about post-mission dating plans, specifically about the two of us.

If I remember correctly, his reply went something like this: I would love it if you would wait for me, but don't feel obligated.

"Success!" I thought when I read his words. "He kinda likes me, too."

A few months went by and Clint started making arrangements to return home. He sent me a letter at the beginning of September requesting that I attend the big bash at the airport. Since we're old and this was pre 9/11, all of the missionary families used to gather next to the gate with posters, balloons, cameras -- you know the drill.

At first, I said no. Then he asked more emphatically and I said yes. Two weeks before the anticipated arrival date, I visited one of my friends from BYU. I remember her apartment so vividly. It was in the basement of an old house that was situated directly across the street from the Marriott Center. Since her apartment had a large view window in the living area (into which cars' headlights shone every three to five seconds), she and her roommates had affectionately nicknamed the apartment "The Fishbowl." It was true -- anyone who walked (or drove) past could get an eyeful. It was also a cluttered apartment. The girls who occupied it had so much stuff: clothes, makeup, videos, you name it. But it was here that my friend Heather told me to lie on her couch, close my eyes and listen to a song by an artist of whom I had never heard.

As I listened, I got the feeling that the words had been written for Clint and me. I must have listened to the song a couple of hundred times during the next two weeks just to make sure.

Since I first heard The Promise by Tracy Chapman nearly seven years ago, I have come to learn that Clint really is "where all my journeys end." Through our trials, it has ultimately been him who has pulled me through. Difficult decisions have been made primarily with his help. My best moments have been in his presence. And at each sunset, my daily journey ends as we fall into each others' arms.

I am deeply grateful to travel and finish my journeys with my best friend.

If you wait for me
then I'll come for you
Although I've traveled far
I always hold a place for you in my heart

If you think of me
If you miss me once in awhile
Then I'll return to you
I'll return and fill that space in your heart

If you dream of me
Like I dream of you
In a place that's warm and dark
In a place where I can feel the beating of your heart

Remembering
Your touch
Your kiss
Your warm embrace
I'll find my way back to you
If you'll be waiting

Oh, I've longed for you
And I have desired
To see your face, your smile
To be with you wherever you are

Remembering
Your touch
Your kiss
Your warm embrace
I'll find my way back to you
Please say you'll be waiting

Together again
It would feel so good to be
In your arms
Where all my journeys end

If you can make a promise
If it's one that you can keep
I vow to come for you
If you wait for me

And say you'll hold
A place for me
In your heart.

The Husband Test

I run all of my clothes through The Husband Test before removing the tags. Here's the routine:

Step 1: Don't tell him what I bought (or that I even bought anything at all).
Step 2: Get dressed the next day in one or more new items (don't give any hints).
Step 3: Wait for my husband to walk by.

Grading is as follows:

• If he crosses my path and turns his head for a double-take, I've passed.
• If he adds, "Is that new?" I get bonus points.
• If he comments on how nice it looks, I know he'll be thinking about me all day.

So it is that if my purchases don't cause a whiplash effect, then they are whisked back from whence they came. And this is why there are no sweatsuits in my wardrobe.

Kissin' Cousins

On our way home from Grandpa's birthday party last night, Nicole got very serious and said, "Mom, there's something I have to tell you, but I was afraid you would get mad."

Getting nervous at what may have been lost, broken or otherwise mangled, I calmly asked her to go on.

"Well," she started, "me and Travis kissed ... for real."

For real? I thought in my head. What could that possibly mean? My four-year-old ...
* has a crush on her cousin (he is cute, though!)
* watches too many chick flicks
* will play kissing tag in kindergarten next year (and enjoy it!)
* knows how to kiss ... for real

It was one of those moments where I was caught by such complete surprise that no words flashed across my mental teleprompter. After a moment of silence, I finally surfaced with, "Thanks for telling me the truth."

I suppose there's still hope for this wild pre-teen since she has not mentioned the romantic moment since. Instead we've heard talk of shooting stars, new toys on TV and playing outside. But I'm still in shock ... for real!

Science Class

The neighborhood kids, well more like Nicole with the boys, discovered an ant colony.They all took turns holding and petting the ants before returning them to their home. Now Nicole wants a bug collecting kit -- the kind that keep them alive for exhibition. I can't complain; I used to catch bugs, too. But now that I'm in the mom position, there's no way I'm going to allow ants in our house! (Not even in this super cool space-age ant farm that we saw at the children's museum.) Our house is zoned BUG-FREE.

Busy Day

In addition to regularly unscheduled activities for the day, Nicole starred in her own play (Hansel and Gretl) and went hog wild at the rodeo.

Here you see Nicole playing the role of modern day Gretl, as she deposited and collected her bread crumb trail. (She was supposed to have eaten her bread.)

When I asked Nicole why she placed the specs in front of all of our neighbors' apartments, she replied, "Mom, I just wanted to have fun!" Can't argue that!

* * * * *

Several hours later, Nicole showed off her dancing moves for Papa and Daddy for half-time entertainment at the rodeo (apparently the redneck banana eating contest wasn't exciting enough -- see post script).

PS: For the contest, they asked for four volunteers, three of whom were in on the joke. When the four men sat down, they were blindfolded and given instructions to eat as many bananas as possible. At the sound of the whistle, three men silently walked away from the table, while the fourth began to gobble up his bananas. The crowd cheered him onto victory. Reports say he felt like an idiot when they finally removed his blindfold and found himself competing alone. His prize? Bragging rights. Now that's redneck for you!

My Perfectly Round-Headed Baby

At a recent gathering, a man asked me if Grant was born premature.

Psychic, I thought. I was intrigued, "Why, yes. How ever could you tell?"

He hesitated and then answered with what he considered a carefully worded response, "Sometimes babies who are born early have to spend a lot of time in the NICU and it sort of ... How do I put this?" Pause. "... shapes their heads."

"Excuse me?" I couldn't hardly believe my ears and retorted most defensively, "You think my baby has a flat head?"

He tried to retract his words and ended up fumbling miserably. I was flabbergasted that of all the babies in the room (many of whom actually had flat heads and whose moms likely hadn't noticed), he picked my baby.

I think he had poor vision -- in both eyes. That's the only possible explanation.

White Reverie

If you thought I was kidding about constructing an all-white dream house, I wasn't. I present you now herewith a prototype of a guest bedroom in said house. I don't know about you, but I would love to be a guest in this room. Heck, I'd love this room for my master suite.

I'll tell you what I love about this monochromatic color scheme: the people in the house stand out as the decor. Your gaze will gravitate toward peoples' skin, hair, eyes and clothes. The people, not the lavish furnishings, in the room will become the focus. In essence, the house will serve as a blank canvas where the art of our lives can unfold.

Grant's Second Word

I'm too honest to hide the fact that the first word Grant came to understand was no. I also am aware that the reason is because he has probably heard that word more than any other.

However, I was pleased to see that Grant's second term (comprehension, not production) is kiss. At the slightest whisper of the word, Grant turns his head toward the petitioner, puckers his lips and waits for his reward.

Double Jobs

A double job, definition credit to my sister, is when you ask someone (e.g., your husband or offspring) to do something for you, but the quality thereof is so insufficient as to require you to redo the task. I despise double jobs.

Tonight, my husband treated me to half-job. He was so hungry when he arrived home from the hospital that he walked straight to the fridge and selected last night's leftovers as quickest method of satisfying his growling stomach.

In the end, not only did I escape making dinner, but I also avoided the treacherous clean-up.

Thanks for the night off, Honey!

It Ain't What It Used to Be

My great grandma used to raise chickens -- not as pets, but as a source of nourishment.

My mom told me stories of her chopping their heads off with a large butcher knife and then chasing them around the yard, screaming at the top of her lungs. The chickens ran wild until they dropped, hence the expression, running like a chicken with its head cut off.

Once the chicken was captured, I presume its feathers were plucked one by one. I'm not sure if other body parts were removed after that, but it was eventually cooked and served for dinner.

There was a time in my life when I found preparing raw chicken breasts for dinner too disgusting to bear. I nearly went vegan.

I feel I have matured slightly as I can now cook a whole fryer chicken without an impulse to vomit or fast for ten days.

Today, however, if I am able to serve up my plate and gobble it down, it will be miraculous, as I have been reduced to a new low: plucking the feathers from my own chicken.

When I first spotted the two (yes, TWO) quills, I leaned in closer over the sink, opened my eyes wider, and upon realization that I would have to use my fingers and pull them out myself (or throw the whole thing out), I thought, "Eew, gross." I took a deep breath, closed my eyes and secured the chicken with my left hand and pulled with my right. Twice. Double gross.

Will the lapse of three hours suffice to adequately erase this bruising memory from my gray matter? Time will tell. And the food saga at our house continues ...

MIRACLE!

If you know Nicole at all, then you'll also know that the word miracle is not an exaggeration regarding the case in point.

Tonight Nicole ate the same dinner that I prepared for the family, which happened to be tacos. FYI, Nicole has not eaten a taco in years (that's no exaggeration either).

It wasn't a taco, per se, rather more like a plate of cheese and a separate plate of taco meat. But that's beside the point: She ate our dinner!

Here's how I did it.

1. I withheld all treats for the entire day. (At one point, in reference to a plate of brownies on the counter, Nicole reprimanded me saying, "Mom, if you don't want me to eat brownies anymore, then you shouldn't make them. You should just throw that whole plate away.")
2. I also didn't permit her to snack the two hours prior to dinner (even if it was a healthy snack). I endured many "I'm so hungry" whines.
3. I set out all of the ingredients for dinner and let Nicole pick which ones she wanted, instead of fixing her plate for her. (I know this sounds ridiculous to my mom's generation, but let me insist that kids these days are smarter than we were!)
4. I allowed her to eat her favorite foods (e.g., cheese, yogurt) in moderation, not on demand all throughout the day. This forced her to eat a wide variety of foods.

We ended our day blissfully after dinner and celebrated with one brownie each. As for the remaining brownies on the counter? Tossed out, as requested.

Candyland

"I wish that good food was junk ...

... and that junk was good food. And then I would just ask you to buy good food all the time."

(Bet you can't guess whose quote that is!)

Tea Party -- Economy Class

Examine closely.

Nicole is treating Grant to an exotic drink via a doorstop.

Creative. Yes, that's the word for it.

Self-Medicating

Nicole loves medicine ... if it's pink. Pink ranges in flavor from cherry to strawberry to bubblegum.

Purple medicine is sufferable.

Orange medicine is completely intolerable.

About a week back, Nicole was prescribed a giant bottle of orange medicine with instructions to take it morning and night.

Grandma tried first and succeeded with a tricky half-dose.

Dad was assigned the second dose, but forgot and put the lucky kid to bed without it. When I found out what happened, I asked Clint to carry her to the kitchen where I would properly administer the missed dose. Mind you, she had already been asleep for one-half hour. I thought it would be a piece of cake.

Apparently, even though her eyes were closed, she remembered that the medicine was orange and put up a BIG fight -- kicking, screaming (with her mouth closed) and pushing. I finally maneuvered the dropper into the corner of her mouth and squeezed until the last drop was deposited. This didn't mean she had to swallow, though, and swallow she did not. Figuring I had won the battle and that she would eventually have to drink it down, I tucked her back in bed.

I walked out of her room, thinking, "Stubborn, girl. Now what is she going to do?"

I checked on her a while later before heading for bed myself. I found her sound asleep with a closed mouth and no trace of orange medicine on her pillow case.

The next day, as we argued over dose three, a miracle occurred: she and the liquid orange medication reconciled and she happily consented to the full amount.

The day after that, she requested a dose first thing in the morning.

On day four, I entered the kitchen in time to witness Nicole give herself a dose.

"Amazing," I thought.

Then she said to me, "Mom, there's something I have to tell you. Last night (which can mean any night in the past), when you gave me my medicine and you put me in bed, I didn't swallow it."

Intrigued, I pursued, "Oh, really?"

"Nope. I sneaked into the bathroom and spit it down the drain. You didn't know, huh?!"

Nope. Guess I didn't win that war after all.

Babies are Expensive

UnderWoman

Of a sober mind (we think) and of her own volition, Nicole designed a costume for a new super hero.

PS: Neither Clint nor I claim genetic responsibility for this child.

Crinkled Bags

The end of an era has arrived: Grant was silent for 10 minutes before I discovered his whereabouts and the source of his entertainment.

No more tattle-tale baby!

I Feel Old

Nicole saw a phonograph on a cartoon today and was puzzled as to its purpose. "Mom, what is that thing?"

"It's a phonograph," I answered.

"What's that, Mom?"

"It's like a record player, honey."

She looked even more confused than when we started. "Do you know what a record player is Nicole?"

She shook her head. So did I.

Genetics

What I inherited from ...

My grandma

• eating strawberries with no sugar
• brittle fingernails
• good taste in fashion
• a sense of realism

My grandpa

• eating assorted nuts
• green eyes
• enjoying fishing on a lake that has no fish
• faith in God

Simple Pleasures

Like going down the slide

Kissy Kissy

Touching the cool water wasn't enough;

Grant had to taste it, too!

Buzzzz

Grant's been busy today.

You should have heard this bee talk when he did this:

And this:

This, too:

He was really talking when he did this:

No talking took place in this corner of the house:

WANTED: Missing Household Items

Grant has a knack for hiding important gadgets (phones, keys, shoes, alarm clocks, remote controls, computer mouse, etc. ) in the hamper. I never think to look there when an item goes AWOL, and as yet I still find myself surprised each time I pull a shirt out of the pile and the [insert something important here] falls onto the floor.

At least the hideaway isn't the garbage can!

Bedtime Story

Before Nicole was born, a friend of a friend decorated her baby's room with pictures of mama animals with their babies. I thought the idea was so adorable that I started hunting down pictures, stuffed animals and books along the same theme.

To contribute to the nursery, Nicole's Aunt Sarah lovingly gave her Whose Baby Am I? This book was placed on the shelf above the crib and we started a tradition of reading it every night before placing the sweet baby Nicole to bed.

Somewhat like a child becomes attached to a ratty old quilt, Nicole insisted this book accompany us on every overnight stay. Sometimes she even took it with her on short trips to Grandma's house.

A few months before Nicole turned two, we drove to my grandparents' where we spent a week engaged in relaxing coastal activities. Since their house was situated in a cul-de-sac on a quaint Lake, we went boating, fed ducks and enjoyed the calming view in the presence of great company. We also played at the beach, visited the local interactive aquariums and ate fish (delicious for some, not so much for others).

One of the evenings, after her bath but before bed, Nicole requested a reading from her favorite book (which was old, but not ratty) and her great-grandpa was the orator. After all, story-telling is what grandpas do best.

Drought

While it may be true that a second baby doesn't have to pose for the camera as much as the first, every baby is entitled to a bathtub shot. (Face it, we parents need all of the blackmail ammunition we can gather before those teen years!)

Nicole's bath time ritual, little did I know at the time, was indicative of her organizational patterns that had not yet fully revealed themselves. Each night, she carefully sorted and lined up her squishy animal friends.

Grant's routine is quite different (and I hope it's not a predictor of habits to come). The first thing he does is remove all toys from the tub with considerable acceleration and force. Then he heads for the drain, which he has learned will relieve the basin of all liquid. Then he shrieks -- either at delight in his accomplishment or at disappointment that the fun is over.

Either way, he knows this behavior is naughty. Just look at that face. If you think it's hiding a guilty conscience, you should hear him talk. "Ma, ma, ma, ma. Da, da, da, da." Babble, babble, babble. "What's that, Grant? All of the water escaped completely by accident?"

Of course it did.

Stomping Grounds

Before Macy's was Meier and Frank, it was ZCMI. And ZCMI was a classy place. At one point, the nearest ZCMI co-anchored the Ogden City Mall, along with Nordstrom.

Now before I go on, there's one thing you need to know; and that is that my mother took great care to train my sister and me properly. In other words, we received intricate instructions in all measures of fine clothing and sale racks.

Apparently, by age 10, my tastes had matured enough that my mom permitted me to shop at ZCMI unaccompanied by an adult. I still remember the day. My best friend Stacey and I took the UTA bus (we may have even had a bus transfer half-way there) to the mall. First stop: ZCMI, of course. You see, in addition to all of the clothes, ZCMI also housed the best candy counter and mini restaurant called The Tiffin Room. As I left home with my mother's credit card, my instructions were to buy lunch for my friend and me and to buy one shirt. And that's what I did. If I remember correctly, the shirt was white. (Looking back, I can't believe the clerks accepted a credit card from a ten-year-old.)

Not too many years after this experience, my mom took my sister and me shopping at this same mall. By this time, the part of town where the mall resided had become most undesirable. The parking garage had an eerie feeling and many people avoided shopping there. Soon, Nordstrom left and the mall didn't survive.

And I wasn't sad to see it go.

But for years, the mall structure remained desolate, inhabiting valuable downtown space and harboring many who had no place to go. Finally, the entire building was demolished. For a great many years after that, the lot was nothing but a vast two-block dirt pile.

I drove past the old Ogden Mall location today and smiled when I saw four large buildings under construction on top of all that dirt. The billboards portrayed the future edifices to be magnificent and state-of-the-art. It feels like a rebirth for the long-gone mall.

And I feel happy.

Fire Museum

Natural History Museum. Children's Museum. So why can't we visit a Fire Museum?

The local fireman doted over the children by turning on the siren lights, deputizing them with official fireman stickers and printing coloring books to remind them of the fire safety rules.

But guess who had the most fun?

SECOND RUNNER UP ...Although he did end up thinking the humongous red engine was super cool after he found a front seat reserved for him!

FIRST RUNNER UP ...Believe me, it was a tough decision!


AND FINALLY, THE WINNER IS ...
Identity concealed to protect those who appear fat in 100-lb. costumes. (Can you believe someone gave this wacko an ax?!)