Rich In Blessings

2010-10-07T14:16:00.003-07:00

Trying to get Scott to eat his dinner I used the guilt method by telling him it made me feel bad when he won't eat the food I make.

He said, "Mom, I like the food you make, I just don't like what you put in it."

Fashion Faux 'Pa'

2010-09-22T07:17:00.000-07:00

Madi walked out of our master closet this morning holding a brand new shirt we just bought for Jason a few days ago. When I asked her what she was doing she replied, "It's 'Nerd Day' at school today."

2010-06-18T13:46:00.000-07:00

While balking at some chores I gave Scott he said to me,
"Why do I have to do all the work? You don't work.
You don't even have a job!"
I let him live, but it was close.

Pillow Talk

2010-05-11T07:39:00.001-07:00

Every year I make a New Year's resolution to get to bed early, but I have never been able to do it consistently. I guess that explains why I'm not healthy, wealthy or wise. When my kids were little I became a night owl because after sharing the same four square feet of space with my children over a fourteen-hour day I wanted to bask in the quiet of the other 1896 square feet of my house for a few hours after they went to bed. Now that my kids are older, night time can be tricky because they are up later doing homework and/or the battle over electronic device detachment has stalemated. But, even on the nights that I manage to climb into bed at a reasonable hour, I get very talkative when my head hits the pillow. Jason and I are lucky in that we are both home during the day and all of our kids are in school so we do talk then, but we try to be responsible and work so we can keep our house and the life we love. At the end of the day it's like I need a vocal night cap to wrap the day up in philosophy, retrospect and news. Jason listens patiently. After a lengthy purging last night I blamed it on the pillows. I said that they emit some vapor that makes me chatty. Jason's response, "Where can I get the sex vapor pillows?"

"I'm an Author!"

2010-01-07T08:23:00.000-08:00

Jo March, the rowdy, unorthodox sister in the movie Little Women runs into the house with a letter informing her of her first published story in a magazine and declares, "I'm an author!" I don't know if publishing a freebie article in the "Mormon Voices" section of Mormon Times magazine makes me an author, but it is my first publication so it's a milestone for me. I hope it is an omen of things to come!

Here's a copy of the notification I received via email on January 4, 2010:

Kari,

Thank you very much for your submission to Mormon Times. It was published today on MormonTimes.com

The Age of Accountability -- and Triathlons
by Kari J. Rich
http://www.mormontimes.com/mormon_voices/reader_voices/?id=12569

Best wishes on your next race!

Best,

Christine Rappleye
Mormon Times
801-333-7452
rappleye@desnews.com

GENERATION GAP

2009-12-27T12:15:00.000-08:00

Madi: "You just don't understand how I feel, Mom!"
Kari: "Believe it or not, I have been 14 before. Age is progressive, so to become 38 I had to pass through 14. I remember how it feels."
Madi: "You can't even remember where you park your car when you come out of a store, so how I am I so supposed to believe you remember anything about being 14!"
Kari: "Touche'."

Girl Thing

2009-12-07T14:27:00.000-08:00

I was trying to think of gift ideas for my niece who is about Scott's age, so asked him what the girls his age like.
He said, "Mom, I don't go around asking girls what they like, duh."

The Age of Accountability

2009-10-09T07:19:00.001-07:00

From the time I was a sunbeam doing jazz hands and spouting “Popcorn Popping on the Apricot Tree” at top of my irreverent little lungs, I have been taught that the age of accountability is eight years old. By that time you have hopefully outgrown the worst of childhood mischief, like stuffing your underwear full of dinner mints while your father pays at the register of a restaurant. You can still do stuff like that, but at eight years old your ‘Get Out of Jail Free’ card is gone and you must account for such actions. I never questioned this doctrine until I had an experience this summer that made me wonder. I know that sounds bold since I’m not a prophet, seer or revelator. On my best behavior I barely tip the scale as a mediocre member. I didn’t receive this insight through vision, I had this spiritual epiphany during a much more sacred event: A Triathlon.
In case you haven’t been bitten by the bug yet, you should know that triathlons are The Rage of the Middle-aged. When people hit mid-life they used to do the normal things like bleach their hair, drink heavily or have an affair. Those good ol’ days are gone. Now, for some reason, you hit thirty or forty-something and have an uncontrollable urge to simultaneously master three sport venues and pay good money to over-exert yourself wearing sparse spandex.
Two years ago in a freakish fit of overconfidence I succumbed and did a couple of sprint-length tri’s. I was already an avid biker, my daughter coached me through some swim stroke basics, and though I loathe running I figured I could put one foot in front of the other to complete the 5K. I didn’t set any records and avoided drowning despite the violently thrashing swimmer in front of me, but with my age scrawled in permanent marker on my calf I crossed the finish line alive. I admit, I was pretty proud of myself. I was also pretty sure I never wanted to train for a tri again. My bike and I are intimate and I had no desire to step out on it again. I resumed my usual exercise regime and let the leg marking fade into the sunset.
For two years now I’ve been perfectly content with my low-end athleticism. Then, this spring a good friend of mine called and said he wouldn’t be my friend any more if I didn’t sign up for a tri with him. He knew I had ‘tried’ before and he knows I don’t have very many friends, so he used this information against me and coerced me into dusting off my tria-tard.
Who knew I was still so susceptible to peer pressure? As I registered online I could hardly believe the wallet-gauging amount I was paying to engage in organized torture just to keep a friend I now hated more and more with every air-sucking lap. So, why did I decide to tri again? First of all, as a tri virgin my friend had decided to go for the Olympic length and I wanted to see him get his padded shorts kicked. (We’re really close friends.) Secondly, most of my days are filled with dishes, laundry, school principal meetings, etc. and every so often I feel a need to set down my mop and check my moxy levels.
My training regime was fairly loose: bike two days a week, swim two, run two, working up to full lengths. My friend emailed me a high-tech training spread sheet. Did I mention he is seriously over-achieverish? I emailed back, “Dude, you are into this way more than I am.” My goal: finish alive.
At 4:30 a.m. on the day of the tri my alarm went off and I immediately decided I could make it through life without friends. We pulled into the parking lot next to a sporty SUV that had the license plate “TRI CHICK” on it. (I warned you these things are becoming cult-like!) Unfortunately, I left my switch blade at home so I couldn’t slash her tires, but I imagined a target on the back of her perky blond head as she bounded toward registration. This tri differed from the others I had done in that the swim was open water in a reservoir. Luckily I had the smarts to practice an open water swim one time before the actual tri. It’s a good thing I did because I discovered something important: I’m afraid of open water swimming. A week before the tri I found myself in the middle of a reservoir floating on my back trying mentally to find my happy place to stop the hyperventilating. I had no idea how disorienting it is to not be able to see the bottom. Without the pool lane lines to keep my brain occupied it started entertaining itself with images of giant catfish latching onto my face or a dead body floating up through the murky abyss.
I tried to block out the trial run fiasco as I pulled on my rubber suffocation suit and stared out at the official buoy that seemed eons away. I joined the rest of my heat (suckers) in the water and when the horn blew I dove in hoping the dead body in the water wouldn’t be mine. Halfway to the buoy I was praying for a giant catfish to come and swallow me whole. I somehow managed my way around the lake, breezed through the bike (it’s my favorite), but about a mile into the run I hit the wall. In moments of great pain I become the most philosophical. Why am I doing this? Why are any of us doing this? What is it we are trying to prove? Through blurry vision I looked at the ages marked on the calves of those ahead of me and those who passed me, which were many, and the revelation occurred: The age of accountability is not eight years old. The age of accountability is 37, or 40, or 52, or whatever age it is that makes you have enough regret about life that makes you think that doing a triathlon will make it all better somehow. As you swim mind-numbing laps you think about all the wasted brain space occupied with memorized sit-com dialogs. As your rickety knees pound the pavement you think of landfills full of the empty Hostess boxes you’ve contributed. When you squish into clothes tighter than someone your age should ever wear in public you think of the degree you never finished, the business venture that failed, thoughtless words you uttered, failed relationships, unvisited islands, wayward children, deprived childhoods, pesticide toxins, global warming . . . on and on, etc. etc! And so we swim and bike and run and hope that across that finish line is a sense of accomplishment and empowerment to make peace with what we can’t change in the past.
So, I crossed the finish line. On the other side of it was my family, some friends, a drink of water and a cookie.
No regrets.

The Law of the Harvest: Reap & So What?

2009-10-03T16:22:00.000-07:00

On this beautiful autumn day I gathered my children to go out to our garden and gather the last of our harvest bounty. As I picked plump tomatoes and conjured up new and exciting ways to disguise zucchini, one of my children asked, "Why do you make us work so hard to grow a bunch of food we don't even like?" Next year I'll see what line of seeds 'Hostess' has available.

'Julie & Julia' & Kari

2009-09-06T12:56:00.000-07:00

I saw the movie "Julie & Julia" the other night. For those of you who have not seen it, it's the true story of a woman who is about to turn 30, working a Dilbert job feeling like she's hit a dead end because she has nothing to show for her life. Then, like the rest of us please-pluck-me-out-of-obscurity-via-my-clever-blog zealots, she decided to write her way out of her slump. She takes on the project of cooking the 500+ recipes in Julia Child's famous cookbook over the course of one year. She cooks and blogs, dresses a duck, kills her first lobster and almost loses her husband. During this story we also simultaneously follow Julia Child's story of becoming a cooking icon. Both of these women were looking for something meaningful to do with their lives. Both of these women struggle through a personal journey of finding themselves and somehow fumble into fame and fortune. They both had trials and triumphs, and they both had a fabulous, pioneering idea that set them apart from the pack.
I was both inspired and deflated. Inspired because I, too am a wannabe writer who wants my voice to resonate beyond the obscenities I yell into my pillow and this story offers proof that it does happen. Deflated because I realized I'm a creative cul-de-sac. I'm not a brilliant chef or a blogging mentor of a brilliant chef. I don't dream about vampire-human relationships or scribble ideas about wizard academies on napkins. I write about the hap-hazards of inept mothering. I'm just one of a bazillion Erma Bombeck copies trying to laugh my way through the ruination of human offspring. My last blog was almost four months ago. Why? Because, unlike Julie or Julia I have dependents who need life sustenance. Julie blew off her husband to cook and blog and it almost ended her marriage, but he's an adult who was behaving like a baby just because he wasn't getting any. I have real babies who need their mother because if Child Protective Services shows up and takes my kids away then I'll have nothing to write about. A twice-baked potato is better than no potato.
The movie did touch on Julia Child's anguish over being childless, which made me ache for her. Her husband was wealthy, her household was staffed and she was looking for something to do with herself and, boy, did she ever find it! Her recipes were her babies and they grew up and turned out beautifully. But, I'm sure she would have traded it all for motherhood.
I'm not Julie or Julia, and I would hardly trade being a mom for anything, but, like them, I am searching for some fulfillment all my own. So, on occasion (hopefully more often than quarterly) I'll neglect my household and keep writing. Who knows? Somewhere out in the cyber-universe there might be someone interested in knowing why I cried this morning when I turned on the TV to see my sister-in-law (mother of six boys) nominated on KSL News 'High Five' for voluntarily organizing a neighborhood carpool that safely and efficiently shuttles 60 kids to school. I cried because, while Super Mom accepted a day spa certificate for saintlike service she offers above and beyond the demands of a large family, I was administering fiber capsules and a mouth-puckering remedy to my daughter to purge a parasite out of her colon. Apparently, I'm the creator of mediocre ideas and kids who go out to the barn and lick our horses. Hey, it's no sufle, but it's what's cookin' up at my house today. Bon appetit!

Forever Young

2009-07-04T09:11:00.001-07:00

At the breakfast table yesterday Scott got up off his chair and hopped up onto Jason's lap. Ivy said, "Scott, you're too big to sit on Dad's lap anymore." Scott smiled his sweet boyish smile and replied, "I'm trying to stay young for Mom and Dad." Thanks, baby!

Children's Songbook, Page 245

2009-06-21T22:36:00.000-07:00

Oh, what do you do in the summertime, when all the kids are home?
Does your house take a hit, while kids lazily sit,
And you think you might lose your mind?
Is that what you do?
So do I!

Not to Mention

2009-06-20T16:18:00.000-07:00

Yesterday we took the kids to the local art fair 'Summerfest.' We were browsing through an exhibit that contained artwork from a plein air painting contest sponsored as part of the fair. A painting with a ribbon next to it caught Scott's eye. He pointed at it and said, "How embarrassing. They gave this painting a 'Horrible Mention.'"

The Mother of All Holidays

2009-05-10T12:22:00.000-07:00

Whoever decided Mother's Day should be on Sunday was not LDS. This is the one day a week when every family member has to be cleaned and dressed up better than usual and arrive somewhere all at the same time, preferably on time and be prepared to fulfill whatever collective callings/responsibilities you have for church that day. While other mothers are perusing around a chocolate fondue fountain at the local bistro's Mother's Day brunch buffet and using their gift cards to break the sabbath at the mall, we are slapping Sunbeams around while a raw roast sits in the crock pot we forgot to turn on back home.
And let us not forget the crown jewel of the day, the glowing tributes to motherhood in sacrament meeting, such as the one given in my ward today. A young man paid homage to his mother's sacrifice of giving him life with a dazzling description of his emergency c-section birth where he "got ripped from his mother's belly like gutting a fish." He then acknowledged his mother's many responsibilities with this lovely gem, "My mother is always running around like a head with its chicken cut off." I'm sure this fine young man meant for the fish guts and missing chicken to be some sort of gift of appreciation for his mom. I'm sure she sat in the audience with tears in her eyes, so proud that she raised a son with such vivid storytelling and memorable quote-making abilities.
So, Happy Mother's Day to all you mothers out there. Here's hoping you don't come home to a cold roast, that your chicken remains securely adhered and that you don't feel like a gutted fish on Mother's Day.

Redneck Revival

2009-04-26T09:30:00.000-07:00

Last week Jason and I performed an old "Hee Haw" tune called, "Down on the Farm" at a ward talent show. We put on our best back-woods garb of overalls, rubber boots and mullets and belted out our irreverent ballad. After the show some ward members came up to share a laugh over our skit. Madi was standing nearby and someone asked her what she thought of her parents' performance. She said, "It would have been cool, if they weren't my parents."

Baby Bear

2009-04-26T09:20:00.000-07:00

At scout pack meeting this week Scott received his wolf badge and, since he just turned nine, he will move into the bear den. I have been his wolf den leader and was having growing pains about him moving out of my den. When I told him I was sad to have him go he responded, "It's OK, Mom. You still get to live with me." I am glad that even though my baby bear is growing up we're still in the same cave.

Wishful Thinking

2009-04-20T20:17:00.001-07:00

Last night Jason was reading a life balance/financial planning book called "My Three Wishes" written by an inspiring and brilliant friend of ours.
I inquired: "What are his three wishes?"
Jason: "I haven't gotten that far yet."
My thoughtless blurtation: "My three wishes would be to have clear skin, a faster metabolism and my calling and election made sure."
Jason: "Is that the exact order you would like them in?"
My response: "Yes."
Pondering my hasty response I realized that the shallowness of the first two wishes probably makes me ineligible for the third wish.

Easter Someday

2009-04-17T11:18:00.001-07:00

I like the Easter Bunny. I love the concept of celebrating the coming of spring with a possibly humongous rabbit who hides eggs, fills baskets with candy and strongly suggests you buy new Sunday clothes. It's fun. It's funny, and I like eggs, candy and new clothes. My pleasure in the Easter Bunny in no way diminishes the reverence and awe I feel for what Easter really celebrates. It's probably a sin to like the Easter Bunny and this combined with my catalog of much deadlier sins makes me truly thankful for my Savior Jesus Christ and the price he paid for me.
There are those who properly separate church and state and do all their heathen bunny stuff on Saturday and save Sunday for the religious focus. Some have banned the bunny altogether. They're probably right, even if I do hate them for it. (I already admitted to being a sinner.) I dare to think a little springtime frivolity and proper sacred observance can be combined tastefully. I don't know why I always think such stupid things.
On Easter morning I arose early enough, I thought, to enjoy a little bunny booty with the kids and still be ready for church on time. We found the elusive eggs and then ate them for breakfast with a side of Peeps. After what I felt was sufficient silliness, I ushered the kids off to wash and put on their non-new Sunday best; this year's April snow showers having dampened my spring shopping spirit (Jason probably prayed for it). Then the phone rang. It was the devil calling to inform me that he'd won my soul. Actually, it was our choir director calling to tell me that Madi and I were supposed to be at the church in fifteen minutes to practice for the Easter program. I semi-yelled downstairs to inform the kids of our new deadline. I told them to skip baths, do hygiene basics and meet me in the car asap. I hoped our transgression of semi-shabby appearance would be offset by our program participation offering.
I did a speed-dial Sunday look on myself and met Madi all-ready on the way out the to car thinking we were actually going to make it. We would observe this sacred day properly, dang it! Just then, Ivy and Scott walked in the back door in their pajamas covered in mud and hay. They had not gone to get ready when I had told them to. They weren't downstairs to hear my change-of-plans announcement. Instead, they had gone out to the barn on this Easter Sunday to play with their pet bunny. Yes, we have a real bunny. An animal that has gone completely ignored and neglected since our unfortunate and accidental acquisition of him eight months ago. An animal that I have secretly let out of its cage twice to run away and hopefully be found by a nearby wolf or big truck wheel, but instead ended up in our annoyed neighbor's yard. Yet, on this Easter Sabbath my children's interest in bunnies was piqued and they remembered that we have one, so they hippity-hopped on the bunny trail out to visit our Peter Cottontail. The devil laughed. There was a price to be paid for my Easter Bunny-loving ways.
What happened next is far from Easter-ish. There was some yelling, screaming, blaming and frantic spit-bathing. I sent Jason ahead with Madi since they were ready and could at least save their souls. I missed the practice, but managed to arrive on time for the meeting with the two rabbit renegades. We hurried in and sat down in a pew behind my beautiful, thin friend who has nine children, all dressed in sharp new suits and pastel dresses with not a speck of hay in their curled and combed hair.
I then celebrated Easter properly. I sat in my pew, bowed my head and cried. I cried and prayed for forgiveness for screaming at my kids, for eating Peeps for breakfast, for liking chocolate and bunnies (except for the one I own and tried to kill), for trying to kill my bunny and for not having nine children or even three clean ones. In that moment I was both extremely sad and grateful that the only perfect being to ever walk the earth died for such a pathetic collection of sins. But I know that he did, which is what Easter is all about.
From there the holiday did improve, despite a speaker who said the word "estrogen" from the pulpit during a misguided talk, and breaking the sabbath only slightly further by tidying up for the arrival of grandparents for dinner. The sun even made a showing after days of dismal weather. It wasn't the perfect Easter Sunday, but in the end it turned out well. I hope eventually my boorish ways will refine and I'll be able to celebrate Easter properly. In the mean time, I'll try to reconcile my relationship with the bunny.

Hind Sight

2009-03-07T09:40:00.000-08:00

I color my hair and a month later Jason asks, "Did you change your make-up?"
I rearrange the furniture in a room and nine days later Jason asks, "Did you paint in here?"
I patch a hole in the rear of my favorite jeans and put them on and 43 seconds later Jason says, "I'm glad you fixed those jeans, they're my favorite."

What a Girl Wants

2009-02-14T09:38:00.000-08:00

I finished this quilt just in time for Valentines Day. I fell in love with the pattern because it is called "What a Girl Wants" and it features hearts, roses and CHOCOLATE! When I showed it to Jason he asked. "So, where's my 'What a Guy Wants' quilt?" I told him it wouldn't be appropriate.

Any Requests?

2009-02-14T09:27:00.000-08:00

I was playing a cd in the car that included a song by Emmy Rossum called "Slow Me Down." A few minutes after that song had passed Scott called from the backseat, "Hey, mom will you play that song again where the girl sings and she's all stressed?"

Hairy Kari

2009-02-13T08:47:00.000-08:00

Madi: Mom, how often should I shave my legs?
Kari: (Glancing down at her beasty legs) I'm not sure I'm a good reference to go by. Why don't you ask your dad how often he wished I shaved.

Afternoon Happenings at Our House

2009-02-12T08:01:00.000-08:00

Scott's Friend #1: Mrs. Rich, I need a bobby pin.

Kari: What do you need a bobby pin for?

Scott's Friend #2: Madi and her friends have taken Scott prisoner and we need a bobby pin to unlock the door to help him escape.

Kari: OK. Here's a bobby pin. Tell him he needs to escape in time for dinner. Good luck.

Barf-a-Roni for Dinner

2009-02-11T20:44:00.000-08:00

Madi: What's for dinner?

Kari: I tried a new recipe tonight. It's called chicken taco pie.

Madi: It looks like puke.

Jason: It's good. You'll like it. Now go eat your puke.

You're all invited to dinner anytime.

Creative Curse

2009-02-11T15:20:00.000-08:00

Being in a family of artists is both a blessing and a curse. BLESSING: My walls are covered with beautiful paintings by Jason and amazing art projects and drawings done by my children. CURSE: At 8 p.m. the night before a school Valentine's party Ivy decides she wants to make a dragon-shaped valentine's box. CURSE: Her artist father thinks it's a great idea and encourages and even helps with the project, dialing it up a notch on the detail-o-meter. I was thinking more along the lines of slathering a gift bag with heart stickers.

I am an artist of sorts myself, but with more realistic and less perfectionist creative ways. Being the household CEO I have quickly become a student of the "Good Enough" method, which has served me very well over the years enabling me to create on occasion amid the chaos. Manipulating cardboard late into the night for a creation that will be in next week's recycle pick-up seems futile. But, I've been married to an artist for 16 years now and understand all too well the torment of the creative soul. So, I just tried to keep the project rolling by keeping tape and other supply sundries well stocked. In contrast, there is one in our household who seems to have sidestepped the genetic curse. When I asked Scott what he was going to make to collect valentines he said, "I think I'll just use a grocery bag." Good enough.

A Very Pig Day for Me

2009-02-11T14:57:00.000-08:00

I spent most of Monday wearing a pig's snout teaching kids about manners at our school's Valentine's Tea. It was lots of fun, but I felt a little type cast.

Sibling Revelry

2009-02-11T14:46:00.000-08:00

Just when you think your children coexist only by genetic force they do something that hints at affection and connection. One such moment came yesterday morning when Madison called on her friend's cell phone from the bus to tell me to have Ivy hurry and turn on the radio. She had called in her sister's name for the birthday club on a radio station. When I told Ivy that Madi had a surprise for her on the radio she bolted to the nearest radio and listened intently. Seeing Ivy's face when she heard her name was worth every sisterly cat fight I have endured with them!