Quick! Type something!

Are the kids gone? Is anybody lurking around the corner? No fifty page papers to write? No grades to look up? No obscure civilization to research?

Whew! Then I can FINALLY blog!

You know you're back in school when all of a sudden, everybody needs to use the computer all at once, and everything is due tomorrow, and there suddenly don't seem to be enough hours in the day. You'd think that, with three of the four girls in school most of the day, I could easily fit in a half hour here or there on this blessed computer, but ... well, if you do the math, I still have one child at home. And that child is completely co-dependent. Sophie really doesn't enjoy playing by herself. She's never had to, really. But now that big sisters are out the door before she even wakes up, four days out of seven (yes, you read that right -- but I'll talk about that in a minute), and most of her friends attend preschool or even kindergarten, Sophie is one bummed out chick.

And I am no fun anymore.

It's funny, I don't remember becoming un-fun. I know I'm getting older, and it's not as comfortable to get down on the floor and play on my hands and busted knees, but I think I'm a pretty entertaining sort of person. Sophie, aparently, does not agree. I'm just old.... and it's very pressing to think about.



Still, we got Soph her very own set of homework books and we made her these clocks to help her pass the time throughout the day. Most of the time, she ends up drifting towards the computer where she can turn it on, plug in one of her favorite Jump Start Preschool cd's, and go to town. And before I know it, hours have passed. The dishes are done, the laundry is folded, and the floor is mopped, but my poor child is sucked in to her cyber babysitter. Which I'm sure cannot be entirely healthy.

Luckily for us, we are very blessed to have a few friends that don't do preschool every day. Today is one of those days, and Sophie was thrilled beyond reason to actually get to have a playdate. Me, too. So here I am, catching up on the last ten days. The laundry can WAIT.

So, the whole four day school week is starting to settle down in our school district. In an effort to save money and prevent firing teachers, they cut out twenty whole days out of our school year. We have two more weeks of school, but without all these Mondays, they are hoping that a smaller utility bill and less bussing is going to even out the budget cuts. Education has become so political! I really don't understand all of it -- I mean, if it were as simple as cutting out brand new cars for our state representatives so our kids could actually get an education we could be proud of, then it would be a no-brainer fix. But, alas, there is no easy solution to this problem! They're still talking about cutting teachers! They cut half of the hot lunches! There's no more music program in the elementary schools! And most of our classrooms have close to 40 kids!

WHERE DID OUR STATE GO WRONG??!!

Home schooling has become a subject of much debate. It may solve the problem for my children, perhaps, but for every kid that drops out of school to go on their own, the state cuts a percentage of funding. So that's not a solution for the bigger problem, either. All I can promise is that we will take every opportunity to expand my children's education on our own, and hopefully, they can still manage to get into college someday. Someday in the not too distant future, I might add...

Meanwhile, I'm still breathing. I'm an active PTO parent, as much as I can, anyway, and my kids' teachers know me as an involved parent. That's as much as I can do for now.

De-pressing

Last night, I sat down to write up a blog post dedicated to my first born, Sara, who turned sweet sixteen yesterday, but before I got started I got a little distracted by my blogroll. You people have a funny way of doing that...anyway, as I started to peruse, I got caught in the blog vacuum and started scoping out your blogrolls, and before I knew it, I found myself

here.

It wasn't hard. Half a million people have this lovely lady on their blogroll. In fact, I once did myself, but when our computer crashed, I had to upload everything once again and several of my old favorite blog sites fell by the wayside. Hers was one of them. So imagine my surprise when I pull up her blog and find that not only is she back in full force, she appears to be hiking mountains and riding bikes and driving places and taking some amazing, heart-rending pictures and writing from her soul.

When have I ever truly done that?

Now, don't take this post title for granted. Most people connotate that word with ... well.... negative thoughts. I can't deny that some of Nie's words had some of that affect on me, but the more I read, the more I realized this one fundamental truth:

The Universally Accepted Definition for that word is WRONG.

Think about it: when something is "pressing", it usually means it is weighing you down. Or you are applying a downward force upon another object.

...THEREFORE...

....if something is "de-pressing", it should mean the opposite, right?

Whatever was weighing you down is no longer an issue!

BEING DEPRESSED IS A GOOD THING!

Okay. I know it's a stretch. Call me an Eternal Optimist, or whatever, but today, I'm taking a stand. There have been so many fatalities and traumas and politically life-threatening situations occur in so many peoples' lives of late.... here, for one.....and then, from there you go to this blog.... and no one should be a widow at such a young age, but my young friend is recovering nicely... I could go on and on.

But I won't. I'm so grateful for life, as fragile as it is, and I realize that every day is a gift. Instead, I am going to focus and concentrate on preparing for a Sweet Sixteen Bash that will rival many wedding receptions I've attended recently, and I will dedicate tomorrow's post to Sara instead.

"Joy is very infectious; therefore, be always full of joy."
MOTHER TERESA

Tuesday Tirade and a little Feng Shui

I think I have come to the conclusion that I am not delirious after all. Instead, I think I have Adult Attention Deficit Disorder. Actually, I have probably suffered from this all of my life, but it is only now that I realize I have just had multiple coping strategies and have learned to channel my wandering brain functions successfully from one task to the next. Sewing has been very good therapy, for instance. And quilting, and crafting, and blogging, etc.

And I am always changing the furniture around.

This is one of the symptoms. I can't stand everything to be the same all the time. I change the furniture around in my house at least once a month. I rearrange the pantry every other month. I rotate the fabric in my shop weekly, sometimes every other day even. I can't sit still and watch t.v. unless I have a project in my lap. And the other way around is true, too -- I can't sew if the t.v. isn't on!

I AM LOSING MY FOCUS!!

Should I call a doctor? A shrink? A licensed massage therapist?

Actually -- hey, that's not a bad idea....

In any case, the reason for this month's feng shui isn't my skittish home decorating bug. It's my dad's fault. He had to go and make an enormous, two-tiered desk for my daughters, which is custom fitted to their bedroom space and is one of the most functional, beautiful and unique pieces of furniture I've ever seen.


This desk was ergonomically designed -- or whatever -- by my genius father. It's such a simple design, but everything is placed in just the right spot for maximum support and functionality.

We had to use Sophie and Emma as a counterweight to screw in the pedastals. If they didn't like it so much up there, we could have used that shelf for a new "time-out" space. Darn.

One of my favorite features is the abundance of head room. The girls used to bonk their heads on their old desk every time they sat down at it. Which meant they didn't use the darn desk very much. Which meant doing their homework curled up on their bed or on my kitchen table when I was trying to set it for dinner, and usually while a younger sister was watching a movie. Which meant, ultimately, homework didn't get done in a timely fashion.

Now, homework is a joy! They can't wait to come home every day and s-p-r-e-a-d out their books all over the table top (as well as their school things all over the floor....we're still working on a solution to that problem...)

All of this meant, of course, that we had to rearrange not only their bedroom, but Emma and Sophie's room, my room, the kitchen and the living room as well. If for no other reason than to make room for the beast of a desk that they used to have. We couldn't just throw it out on the sidewalk with a sign that said "Please Take Me Home" like a stray kitten, now could we? Besides, unlike a kitten, it takes up a little more space and weighs about two hundred pounds.


The living room won the toss, but only because it meant that we could throw away the old, dilapidated microwave cart that used to serve as our "office". It was missing a drawer, and one of the hinges on the front door was broken, so we sacrificed it to the feng shui gods (and a few hammers -- why do my kids enjoy being destructive?) and replaced it with this. Now, I know where all my bills are, and all those extra, ridiculously tangled electrical gadgets we seem to collect have a home, as well as the stapler, hole puncher, and extra school supplies. Our printer no longer has to shake every time it prints something, and Sophie has a little nook of her own to do her homework while I blog. See? It's a win-win situation!

Oh, and if I haven't said it enough already, THANK YOU, GRANDPA!

Did you know...

....that if you spill milk and don't clean it up for a few days, it turns into a puddle of congealed sour cream?

I didn't know that. I found out this morning.

See, the beauty of being sick is nobody blames you for having a messy house. It's like having a lisence to ignore your housekeeping for the duration of your illness. How can that be bad?

The upshot, of course, is getting well. I feel about 95% better. Once we finally came to terms that it was not allergies, but a full-blown cold we were all suffering from, then we could deal with it. Not that the symptoms were any different, but mentally, we could tackle the situation differently. Sickness is all mental. If you can trick yourself into thinking, it's not allergies, it's just a cold and it will eventually go away, then it's a snap to get well. Allergies never go away. I don't care if you think they're seasonal, you have to deal with allergies all year long in Oregon.

Still, the whole concept of getting better is enough to make you want to get sick all over again. Because getting better means taking care of the hurricane that hit your house while you were indisposed. Laundry, of course, which became fruitful and multiplied. Dishes, which were technically done over time, but when a sick person washes dishes it's kind of an oxymoron because all they do is spread the germs. We ran out of paper plates, what else were we supposed to do? Vacuuming, mopping, bathrooms.... well, that's what I should be doing right now.

So here I go.

Vacuum, here I come.

Brand new kitchen rags are calling out to me

(they're less 50 cents apiece at Costco! How could I pass them up?).

Don't try and stop me.

I mean it.

I really have better things to do.

But you can sit and read all day if you want to. And if you haven't already stopped by my friend Steph's blog, Diapers and Divinity, you have to read yesterday's post. Because it is brilliant. And because it nearly brought me to tears. And because it was the boost I really needed to get off my duff and do something about my personal hurricane.

(Thanks, Steph. )

Y'all have a good day now.

I'm about to push the publish button, I swear.....

Okay, okay! I'm going already!!

Diagnosis: Delirium

EXHIBIT A:

Attractive, yes -- I know. This is the result of combining too many pharmaceuticals, not enough sleep, way too much laundry, allergies, birthday parties, and just plain, good old-fashioned germs.

And this was taken after I started feeling better!

Actually, this is just my own personal rendition of one of my favorite cartoons. I grew up reading "Bloom County" (which explains my secret obsession with penguins. I love Opus! I mean, just look at him -- isn't he adorable?), but the expression on Bill the cat's face just says it all.

EXHIBIT B:

Under the Weather...

Whoever coined this phrase obviously never had allergies. Isn't that statement a little too obvious? Aren't we always "under" the weather? Whether it's raining, snowing, hailing, or even when sun is shining, aren't we usually under it? I guess we could be over the weather when there's a tsunami or an earthquake, but I usually consider those acts of natural destruction, not something a weatherman can predict. I mean, is anybody ever "over" the weather? The only time I can imagine being over the weather is when you're up in space, which is more what my poor head is feeling like right now. Reeeeeeeally spacey....

Don't mind me and my whacked out thought processes. It's the Sudafed.

Today, I sympathize with Ka. I have seven more sinuses than he does, but oh, how they really know how to ruin your life. That, and my sacroilliac, whatever that is. In the meantime, I'm going to plug in the humidifier and let it work it's magic, humming me to sleep.

Refreshing, for a change....

We can't all be princesses all the time, can we?

Emma Kate, the Great!

One decade.



Ten years.



3,650 days.



87,360 hours.



5,241, 600 minutes.

It's hard to think of Emma as 5 million of anything, so let's stick to the one decade idea, especially since Roy has a hard time thinking of her as anything more than six years old. And yet, today, as she marks her tenth birthday, I can't help but go back a few years and think about her little life story and how special she is to our family.

About eleven years ago, we were living in a little duplex in Medford, struggling to find the ends, let alone get them to meet, and living somewhat haphazardly from month to month, hoping Roy's temp job would turn into something permanent. Sara was four, Anne had just turned two, which meant that most of the Relief Society contingent were starting to knit baby booties for a number three baby. Roy and I knew we weren't done having children, but we also knew that it was simply Not Time Yet. Nevertheless, I remember suffering dig after dig from many people at church wondering if there were any buns in the oven yet.

I hated this. Really, strongly, vehemently. It got to the point that I would see certain sisters coming down the hall towards me and I would run the other way. It hurt in so many ways -- I wanted to have another baby, sure, but it was none of their business! Why do people do that, anyway? I promised myself I would never needle any woman about having children, and I never have. (Knock on wood...)

Anyway, we prayed and fasted, and paid our tithing, and everything we were supposed to do. Girls Camp came along, and I wasn't sure if I could go, simply for the reason that Roy couldn't afford to take off a whole week, but several of my friends in the ward stepped forward and offered to watch my girls so I could go. Roy even felt strongly that I should go, have a fun week, and not worry about a thing.

(Which reminds me, there was another thing to worry about: my grandparents. One of the reasons we moved to Medford was to keep an eye on my dad's parents, who were in their 90's and still living at home at the time, but their health was rapidly deteriorating and I never knew when I was going to get a call from the ER.)

Anyway, I went to camp, had a wonderful, exhausting, and spiritually energizing week as usual, but on the last night, I had injured myself (I can't even remember what I did -- I think I was running along the path and tripped over a tree root or something and twisted my ankle. Typical Sue grace, as usual!). They took me to the nurse, and I was in a lot of pain, but while I was there I got a phone call. I answered; it was Roy.

He got the job.

I cried and cried, (hysterically, I might add -- I think it was the combined effect of my twisted ankle, complete spiritual draining, and ultimate RELIEF) and everyone came running, thinking it had something to do with my grandparents. Instead, I greeted them with a grin and I remember telling my friend Ann, "Guess what? We're going to have another baby!"

Well, it didn't happen quite that quickly. First things first, we bought our first house. The night before we signed papers, our stake boundaries were rearranged and our new house ended up being in a completely different ward -- Ann's ward, actually. We haven't been parted since, and both of us have moved since then! The very next Sunday, I got called to be the Young Woman's president in my new ward. And the Sunday after that, we found out we were expecting.

It was as if the Lord was standing over us, saying, "Here, have a blessing! Have another! AND ANOTHER!!"

Sure, I still had to deal with my share of morning sickness. And my grandparents took turns having medical emergencies. But in the midst of all that, we still found ourselves blessed.

The funny thing with this pregnancy was that we never found out if Emma was going to be a boy or a girl. That sounds funny, but it wasn't really funny at the time. After two girls, I was really hoping for a boy. So much so that I had friends try all their gender-guessing tricks --you know, the wedding ring on a string, the frozen grape thing, the Chinese birth calendar...which, weirdly enough, actually worked for my other two girls. Problem was, Emma's due date was right on the August/September line, so if she had been born 24 hours earlier she might have been a boy....

I digress. The main thing is, Roy and I could not agree on names. At all. We actually argued over it. The boy name we had picked out for years, but the girl name he had picked out was "Gwen." I wanted a "Kate". Fisticuffs, people. Don't ask me why. It was the hormones.

Well, we finally called a truce one weekend when my Grandmother (my spanish-speaking abuela, to refresh your memories) took a particularly nasty spill and ended up in a rehabilitative hospital. Roy and I took the girls to go visit her, promising ourselves that if the subject of baby names would come up, we would change the subject as quickly as possible.

We didn't even have the chance. We literally walked into the door of Grandma's room, and she nearly fell out of bed, she was so excited to see us. "I'm so glad you came today!" she cried out. "I had a dream last night that you were going to have a girl, and her name is going to be Emma!"

Roy and I were so taken aback by this announcement, that all we could do was stare at each other. It was as if a lightning bolt shot through both of us at the same time, and we both spoke. "Emma," we repeated. "We like it!"

Grandma also informed us that she had been doing some thinking. She had had four children, and those four children provided her with 23 grandchildren, and now our baby was going to be her 73rd great-grandchild. (Or something like that -- I need to do the math myself, I can't remember the exact numbers). I remember the look on her face when she proudly announced that this meant our baby was going to be her 100th descendant!

Well, that clinched it. We had to name this baby Emma...whether she was a girl or not!

I managed to waddle my way through the rest of the pregnancy, including:

1. a trip to Girls Camp eight month's pregnant...
   
2. then a weekend of youth conference during the building of our Medford Temple where I was in charge of fun and games for five hundred youth...
   
3. followed by a week long panic attack (seriously, some people get Post Partum. I got Pre Partum. All I could think about was, What if it really was a boy? What would I do with a boy?! I don't know how to dress boys, I don't know how to play with boys...and so forth and so on. Yeah. Hormones.) ....
   
4. and finally, through a season of Pear Picking. I didn't get to help out at the stake pear farm much, but Roy sure did. In fact, guess where he was on the afternoon of August 31st when I realized my water broke ?
   
   You guessed it. The Pear Farm.
   
   

   And did we have cell phones back then?
   

   Of course not.
   
   

   So how long did I have to wait to get a hold of my husband?
   
   

   Oh, Roy came home around 9:00 that night, sunburned and completely exhausted and totally not happy about going to the hospital one more time (we had already gone three times, just to be checked and sent home.)

I was anxious to have this baby before midnight, just in case it was a boy (darn that Chinese calendar anyway!), but of course, we didn't get there until 10 p.m. When they did finally get me in there and confirm that my water had actually broken (it wasn't a gush like it was supposed to be, it was a trickle, so how was I supposed to know it was for real?), and they diagnosed me with group B strep, and the anesthesiologist couldn't get the darn epidural to work, and the doctors and nurses were running around like crazy trying to take care of me, and Roy was hyperventilating....

I distinctly remember the exact moment I looked up at the ceiling and calmly and firmly decided that I was going to have this baby on my own, so I tuned everybody out and started breathing. By myself. And I did. Lamaze WORKS, baby!

Emma Kate Quackenbush finally made her appearance at 4:30 in the afternoon on a lovely, perfectly boiling Wednesday on the first of September, 1999. When my doctor announced that she was a girl, I cried like I've never cried for any of my kids. I was so relieved she wasn't a boy!

Emma has always been loving and sweet and good natured. She loves everybody, and always puts the needs of others first. I can't imagine our lives without this wonderful ray of sunshine waking me up every morning!

Happy Birthday, Emma! We sure love you!