The Naked Cowboy

Adam’s never been to New York City.

I’ve never been to NYC for that matter.

But somewhere along the way, he connected with the Naked Cowboy.

For starters, boys love being naked. Most of my childhood memories of my brother involve him nude in the backyard (mind you it was fenced in and bordered a field). Because of my previous experiences, I wasn’t completely shocked with Adam’s consist refusal of clothing. But when he started adding props…that’s when things became a little uncomfortable.

Magic wands that blink. Pink feather boas. Starting to formulate a picture?

So, when he came riding into the living room naked on his stick horse, it was somewhat of a relief. Ah. Ok. This has been done before. Maybe he’ll have a career in the streets of NYC one day…as the naked cowboy…and not something else.

Here was another photo that caused concern…Adam, prancing around in my shoes. He likes to keep my on my toes.

Blizzard Warning in Effect...

Do your run to the store for milk and bread?

Refill the Karosene heater?

Fill the tank with gas?

If you’re in the Hodgen household, yes, you’ve done all items listed above. But, it’s not enough. To truly ward off the “chilled to the bone” feeling that accompanies the worst snow storm in 30 years…

you must throw on your bathing suit and jump into the hot tub.

A bubbly 102 degrees is just right. Does a body good. Defrosts the toes. Follow this up with some whole wheat pizza and a DVD and you’ve got the prefect cure for a winter storm.
School dismissed early today and cancelled tomorrow. My greatest fears realized…we’re entering the Shining…

But they didn't have a hot tub, so maybe we'll survive. Maybe...

Deadline

When there's a deadline hanging over my head, it overshadows all frivolous/free time (if such a thing still exists). Always been this way.

Can't play...gotta paper.

Can't relax with a paperback...giving a talk on Sunday.

This is why I didn't have kids until after undergrad AND why I have yet to attend grad school.

Sorry Adam. Can't feed you....gotta study.

It just wouldn't be a good thing now. But later. Definitely later.

But for today I have a deadline. One I brought upon myself a few weeks ago when I purchased a Groupon deal from Blurb.

You see my new Iowa friends all have these cute, organized hardback books of their blogs. Year by year. A "family history" per say.

Me, yes I have a sporadic blog but no published, tangible documentation composed of my thoughts and photos. Sounded like a good idea at the time.

Which brings be to today. The deal expires shortly and my book, it ain't done.

Not even close.

Well, not even close to my standard. Which, who is this book really about satisfying?

Me.

Sure I hope that one day, many years down the road when I'm pushin' up daisy, Shannon will pick up this book and remember how she drove her mother crazy with her model poses photo after photo after photo...and smile...and think of me...and shed a tear...and name her next daughter after me...

...so that's what's keepin' me going for now.

But for you I have these super stupendous, fabulous, gorgeous photo's that my insanely talented sister took over Christmas break. Enjoy for now.

Fatigue

Fatigue...such a fancy way of saying "tired." It implies a chronic disposition, which suites my state of mind perfectly.

Fatigue

Also has the word "fat" in it...a state I embrace as well. Butter, heavy cream, chocolate, pizza...the list is endless. I did enter a mild form of depression when I noted that a majority of my daily diet was on Lindsey's list of foods to help you gain weight provided by her dietitian at St. Jude.

Whatever.

The point is I'm fatigued.

My little boy fatigues me.

If something isn't crashing down and our home is in a rare state of peace and quiet... it's probably because he's squeezed a tube of toothpaste onto the bathroom counter and is proceeding to finger paint the mirror. The mirror, which crashed to the grounds as I typed this post.

Caught, red handed. Crest sparkling bubble flavored body paint. And right after a bath.

That's coming out of your Christmas present budget boy.

A budget which is now at minus $347.63 after a fit a few weeks ago resulted in staples to the back of the head.

To add to the ever growing state of fatigue...boys are gross. Having worked at St Jude in their sterile, immunosupressed environment, I was trained to change diapers with gloves on. Shannon's a clean child. Adam, another story.

why do these pics never get old?

A dirty story.

I would like to think I've mellowed a bit, but that's up for debate. But, in essence that is why we have child, right. To push us. To help us become people we never thought we could be. In my case, someone who can accept nastiness, messiness, and generalized chaos...as long as itcomes in a cute package.

Case in point. These jammies. Thankfully the Holy Ghost whispered to me in Gymboree 13 months ago..."buy every size"; resulting in Adam's 3 pairs of "scary bones" skeleton pj's that he lives in day in and day out. Shamelessly we picked Shannon up from art club with Adam in his pj's and a swiffer duster in hand aka his sword. It's a tug of war every morning to get him dressed and his precious pj's in the washer. His list of "essential items" to be able to go to bed is growing at warps speed and I can barely keep up with his OCD.

Aside from his hygiene, there's my house. Words cannot express the joy I feel when my house is clean.

It's nirvana.

The Lord also knows this, and this is why he sent me Adam. All I did was attempt to change clothes after church. Attempt to keep one outfit clean and clear from his grubby paws. My 3 minutes of alone time were punished...

Didn't change fast enough...the starving boy had to fend for himself. Mama's never been quick enough. Reminds me of when he started eating rice cereal as in infant. He required 2 spoons...one to shovel the paste into his mouth while the other scooped up more glop.

When told to clean it up, it went more like this... some for you...
some for me. This cereal is now labeled, "Adam's chow - eat at your own risk" No one has touched it to date.I won't mention the recent snot bubbly while shopping in Kohl's that he popped himself. I won't mention how he stuck his head in the toilet yesterday. Or how he eats the fake toast at the YMCA child watch. I won't mention them, because they make me gag, but must be noted for posterity's sake.

This post was created partially to post disgusting pics of my boy that reveal his true nature.

Partially to vent my mounting frustrations at raising a male.

But mostly the pics.

Lesson learned...the hard way

Shannon's a fancy girl.

She needs the glitz, the glamour, the pizazz to accompany all her sass. I call her Ms Sassafras, mostly to avoid calling her other names that, while fitting, would not be approved under my new Love and Logic experiment.

This need for all that jazz drove me to...shall we say OVER DO...her first birthday party.

Oh, I still cringe at the thought. Can't look at pictures. Vowed to never host another one of those bleepedy bleep shenanigans again. That's right. I said bleepedy bleep. Now you know I mean business.

In case you were fortunate enough to miss that train wreck, count your blessings and enjoy this photo montage....

Yes it was that bad.

No, it was worse.

A picture's worth a 1,000 words, but those don't scratch the surface.

Ah, the horror.

But I'm not dwelling on the past.

Parties are like childbirth, time heals all wounds and erases the searing pains into oblivion.

I could only venture forth if I made one promise to myself and kept it.

Simplify. Simplify. Simplify.

Invitations from Dollar Tree. Hot tub in basement. Barbie from Redbox if one needed a break from swimming. Popcorn. Cake. Ice cream. Balloons. Done.

It was slightly painful. But I held back. Exercised some rare self restraint. No coordinating plates, napkins, cups, silverware, etc. Ends up in the trash anyways. But, none the less, I wanted it. But there in lies the root of my previous transgression. I wanted it. Me. Not Ms Sassafras. Yeah she might notice it, but in reality, details are lost on children.

Now our little girl made her entrance into the world between that chaotic time right after Thanksgiving and just before Christmas. A wonderful time, but what does your calendar look during those weeks?

A mess.

But before you feel too sorry for her ill timed birth, take note that we have scheduled parties before the Thanksgiving break, thus stretching her festivities over the course of a week. However, still not enough for Ms Sassafras. She informed me the day before the party that she wanted a surprise. Something special. I didn't give it a second thought until Steve called that day with 4 VIP tickets to the Christmas breakfast and parade.

Continuing on...Parade time during party. Darn. But, the wheels started spinning and my couponing brain turned this breakfast at a fancy hotel downtown into "Ms Sassafras' " surprise. Oh my, how fancy she felt loading her plate with breakfast delights and ordering OJ and chocolate milk. Mama kinda liked it too. Really liked it. Warm breakfast. Full belly. No dishes. Heaven.

We had a moment to check out the behind the scenes parade action. Really bummed about missing the 8 John Deere tractors pulling Santa's sleigh. I love Iowa. We'll plan better next year.

Onto the party.

My theory.

Stand back and let em' do their thang.

Apparently their "thang" involved splashing and squealing which Adam has taken a liking to.Cake from a mix. Not my standard for a birthday cake but it was fanciful, tasty, and the chicks almost never finish it anyways.

And isn't it really about the presents? That's all they care about.

In conclusion here are my new found philosophies on throwing a child's birthday party.

Simplify! I did have a moment or two of panic thinking that I might be jumping to the other extreme to defy my previous indiscretion. But in the end, they're girls. Nothing ever changes. No matter how old they get, they enjoy being together. End of story. Isn't that a part of Relief Society? Fellowship.

Fortunately for Adam, I have successfully survived a positive birthday party experience and he has a greater chance to enjoy one for himself in the future. However, little boys scare me. So maybe not in the near future.

The look of defiance

Where have I been you ask?

Steam cleaning? Tons of it.

Why you ask?

Because of this little lumberjack. What you see before you is the look of defiance.

But he's so cute you say....

Cute, yes. But it's cute compensation. Compensation to make up for times when he's rotten, no good, or down right defiant. Times when he's being "Love and Logic'd"

That's the other place I've been.

Love and Logic classes. Loads of them.

Jim Fay, you're my hero.

What's Love and Logic you ask?

Here's the rundown. Kid does something wrong. You sing the "uh oh" song and kid goes to their room until they are sweet. Now here is where we butt heads. Where Adam struggles and I pray for the stamina to endure to the end. He's more of a "wide open spaces"/free spirit/don't tell me what to do woman kinda kid. He's too smart for his own good.

Despite the bare room he has acquired due to his inability to repress the desire to chuck every toy at the wall, he's managed to create his own form of open rebellion/protest using the only thing he has left...himself. Every "uh oh" song ended the same.... bare bum next to multiple dark puddles on the carpet.

Day after day.

But I remained calm. Sort of. And I remained consistent. Much to his dismay, the "uh oh" song continued, so little dude kicked it up a notch. Wiping his unmentionables with his irreplaceable snuggy bear. The only item that will put him to sleep. The item by which I schedule my loads of laundry around. Snuggy must be washed immediately after breakfast so as to be available for the afternoon nap. It's a delicate balance and little punk knows it. After dancing this routine a few times, I handed the paper towels over and said U DO IT! His response. "No Yucky!"

Ya think?

Tough kid, do it.

I'll spare you the details of further encounters, but it's safe to assume he kicked those encounters up a notch as well.

I thought I had him now.

But no. I was outwitted by a two year old who thinks snowmen are called cookies, frosted mini wheat's are pumpkins, and butter is honey.

Note to self...work on those before kindergarten so that he's not pegged as "that kid born in TN."

Back to reality...how does a toddler get out of cleaning up his excrement? Checkout. Mentally, physically, emotional. Pass out. Refuse to wake up when Mom taps you. Look like an angel. An angel next to a puddle of pee. Either way, it worked.

Update...after consistent reinforcement and a slight fear of the steam cleaner, Adam has chosen to keep his diaper on tight. When the words "uh oh" exit my mouth, he now runs to his room and closes the door.

Finally, sweet success. Now I can look at this face with greater love. Because honestly, those eyes are my eyes and I gotta look at myself in this mirror image everyday. I love myself.

Iowa through the eyes of a Southern Belle

*Me, en route from Chattanooga to Memphis, at the Loveless Cafe in search of what Bobby Flay termed the best biscuits and jam.

Deep South.

Maybe not quite a "southern belle" per say, but it's a different world up here sister. Let me preface my post by saying, I absolutely, positively love it here.

No doubt, hands down, divine intervention 100%, never want to move, happy as a lark...you get the point. It's wonderful.

I've learned a lot about these Yankees in my short time here and I feel my southerners need to know a thing or two before venturing into this here neck of the woods, or "corn fields" as they call them.

1. My previous notion that I would rest near a fire, drink hot chocolate, and get portly from my sedentary winters were FALSE...these folks here are serious about their exercise. Did I mention that my idea of exercise is strolling along the river path, chatting with my buds and feeding the kids goldfish crackers? Doesn't fly here. Sidewalks on every street, crowded with runners. Kinda forgot that this was farm country and they know a thing or two about physical labor round these here parts...

Speaking of farm country...

2. It's local or DIE! Eat local cheese. Drink local milk. Eat local musk melons. If it ain't local, don't touch it.

Speaking of eating...

3. Um, how do I say this...it's an adjustment. I was patting myself on the back for occasionally substituting honey for white sugar. But nnnnooooooo, it must be organic honey. No, no, local organic honey. No, no, local organic raw honey. With every addition to its' title = additional $$. I think I draw the line at local raw milk I hand pour into jars. I think. But, I have done some canning, dehydrating, and had a successful crop of whole wheat bread that my family willingly consumed. Who knew there were 3 types of wheat berries (hard red, hard white, and soft white in case you were dying to know).

Speaking of consuming...

4. In my efforts to embrace my new culture, the local farmers' market has become a Saturday morning venture for the Hodgens. Kinda food heaven under a tent. Crazy things...pastas like chocolate linguine

Calypso mango chipotle penne, etc

and raspberry fococcia. Who knew?

We each get a dollar to spend, usually on a cider donut.

Here's where my dollar went...get a load of my cheap, yet local, zucchini purchase which promptly became whole wheat orange pecan zucchini bread, double chocolate zucchini bread, zucchini pancakes, etc (cue line from Christmas Story...gone, all gone, No turkey! No turkey sandwiches! No turkey salad! No turkey gravy! Turkey Hash! Turkey a la King! Or gallons of turkey soup! Gone, ALL GONE! ...if you don't know what I'm talking about...hang your head in shame. Shame!)The green pancakes were viewed with skepticism, then devoured with ketchup (no high fructose corn syrup, we are in Iowa remember?)Yes, Adam is required to eat in the nude when ketchup is involved. My washer just can't handle the rejection. Nudity is not an Iowa requirement though.

Which brings me to...

5. Apparently helmets aren't a requirement either. People, seriously. You kinda stress me out with your attention to detail of what goes into my mouth, but you really stress me out when your race down the freeway with a bare head. If you're soooooo concerned about your outsides (exercise) and insides (food) then lets be well rounded and include your cranium in that mix. Remember, when your brains are shmeared on the pavement, it really doesn't matter how cute you looked in hot pink Nike spandex. I understand that it gets cold in the winters here. A negative 75 wind chill does require a hat. I love the fact that you embrace every season and want to feel that warm country air flowing through your locks and tresses. But still, a helmet please. For me and for my blood pressure.

Speaking of my blood pressure...

6. It was slightly elevated when I was nearly plowed down in Walmart by a female on a motorized shopping cart with a collage of the Wizard of Oz tattooed on her right leg. What's with all the tattoos? When the local paper printed it's "Best in the City", the tattoo parlor was front page news. There's a tattoo store in the mall...next to Build a Bear. I think my Mormon community is the only non-inked epidermis in the state. A quick overview of some of the skin art I've seen in recent days - Winnie the pooh, Minnie mouse, multiple "tribal" symbols, name, names, names, animals, animals, animals, college teams, etc. When did tattoos ever become a good idea? They hurt. They fade. They're tacky. Let me say this...Shannon was obsessed with Elmo 3 years ago, now it's Princesses, what will the next 3 years bring? Luckily, she didn't ink Elmo on her ankle. That's all I gotta say.

Before moving here I had an epiphany...I am a Southern Girl. I love the south. It's my roots. It's my home. It made me the person who I am today. I take it with me where ever I roam. However, this is a big country; nay, a big world, which as much to offer. I don't know how long I will lay my head in Iowa, but I do know that I want to soak up as much of it as I can for the time being and take a piece of with with me where ever the road may take me.

Lots of love from the sticks. I mean, the stalks.

*please note this southern girl continues to wear flip flops despite the locals bringin' out their winter boots.