Double Digits

Myranda turns ten today. Since she is the middle child, and is often lost between the demands of her older and younger siblings, I thought I would get a head start on announcing her birthday to the world!

As I write I am a little blurry eyed from the long weekend of birthday fun. Especially the lack of sleep that comes from hosting her first big sleep over party. I think I was only awakened a couple of times from my deep slumber by the four pre-teens laughing endlessly as they were working off an ice cream sundae buzz until 3:00am.

Myranda is an amazing child, actually person. I think I can honestly say she is like no other. I think she wins the prize for being the family member who was born furthest from her family roots in Oregon. She made herself into this world in Decatur, IL. Half the country away from where she now lives.

She loves animals. It was mostly for her sake that we now have two fur balls running around our house. She is really, really, smart (but she usually keeps this a well-hidden weapon in her secret arsenal). It is not usually her quick whit and unarming intellectual conversation that will capture your attention. It is more like the seemingly unrelated, off the wall comment that comes a full five minutes after the end of that particular conversation was over. I refer back to the secret arsenal. She just wanted to make sure her quick whit did not come at you so fast it knocked you on your rear.

She is amazingly kind, helpful, and full of life and laughter. Happy Ten Years Little Miss.


**Photo background compliments of what we on the "other side of the fence" call professional landscape artists (courtesy of home owner association fees). We LOVE them. They make the desert look real purdy. This photo was taken in front of one of the subdivision entrances down the road from our house.

Today I Was Lazy

Well sort off. I guess about as lazy as I get. I cancelled my whole afternoon and came home and took a nap. I have a little cold. It isn't a really bad one, just enough to be annoying really. I felt a little worse than I did yesterday, but not to the point of misery yet. Right now it is at the "as long as I don't move I feel fine" stage. If I move, well that is a whole other story.

Anyway . . . I was in my office this morning thinking to myself (something I do A LOT of), self I don't feel really good. Oh, look. I rushed to the office and my first two client's cancelled. I have a ton of billing to do, reports to write, evaluations to proof read, classes to prepare for, classes to teach, papers to grade, a child's birthday party to prepare for, and Thanksgiving next week. I am sure your head is spinning by now, just as mine was this morning. I can swear that my head was not spinning from the lousy side effects of cold medicine. Anyhow after I finished my long mental "to do list" I thought to myself; I am going home. I am tired, I have a lot to do, and no chances to get any extra rest in the next 48 hours and I need some sleep. So I did. I left right then. Well, actually I left after I called all my clients, after I caught up to yesterday on my billing, after I printed a report to proof, and after I met with my supervisor. Then I did it. I left work early, went home, and took a nap. I was awakened by the cheerful and puzzled sound of my son's voice saying "mom!?" That is the puzzled sound of a child who is not used to his mother being home before he is.



See, I told you I was lazy today.

This Is What I Do

In the process of teaching a class on personality theories over the last four weeks I have come to understand the secret behind by blog blocks. I do not have a creative mind, or an imaginative mind, or an expressive mind. It is a struggle for me to create something from nothing. My mind uses the past as a reference for making current and future decisions. Not that I am stuck or fixated in the past, but previous experience is my compass. Show me how it has been done before or how how someone else has done it. Once I have a picture of what has been before I can take it recreate it, improve it, and make it my own. I have an analytical mind. I THINK about stuff all the time. Creative thought drains my energy. It is exhausting, frustrating, and often leaves me feeling incompetent and well a little . . .bored. Do not despair for me those two or three of you who actually read this blog, and do have a brain that relishes being creative. While I may not be creative, I am INVENTIVE and I really get of a lot of satisfaction of taking things from the past and reinventing them. So here are a few things I have learned over the last four weeks.

I am an introvert. I love being around one or two people at a time, but groups, large crowds, and parties are exhausting. I do not require a lot of stimulation. Therefore, I understand that I CANNOT truly focus on more than one thing at a time. A space of my own is a MUST for studying and class preparation. I have to be away from all the distractions (laundry, dishes, talking children, chatty husband) or I will have to read the same paragraph ten times. But in preparing that place for myself I can take an old kitchen table and use it for a desk, without feeling like the office has invaded my bedroom. And, I saved lots of money by not buying a pre-fabed, put it together yourself, and don't you dare ever move it, desk from Wal-Mart.

I am a thinking person. I analyze the situation and operate from the facts, but I don't need to over analyze a situation. For me it is easy to see how one can take something from the past and change it and make it something with a new, useful purpose. Like taking a perfectly good $50 kitchen table that was too big to fulfill its desired purpose as a desk, and turn it into a very practical, yet beautiful coffee table. Not only did I use my superior analytical skills to solve the missing coffee table dilemma, but I also solved the, "how in the heck do you get a coffee table to not look like a bench next to a seven foot couch problem." Ta-Dah! Problem solved.

I am a sensible person which means I use a lot of common sense and practical solutions that have clear and concrete answers. Thus I know from past experience that when one's brain is foggy because they are trying to read or write class notes at 10:00pm there is a sure fire way to lift the brain fog and restore stimulation to the drained brain waves.

I am a person who relies on sound judgement. I plan details (I have to have all the details together before I can make a plan). I naturally rely on routine and goals to reduce stress and anxiety.

Which is why I am SO glad the keys on the computer keyboard never change. At least I can rely on them when nothing else works. With their steadfast presence I can tolerate testy computer software, human error, or graphics that will not download when I want them to, and interfere with my carefully thought out plan, making it feel more like I am always making it up as I go along. Which I am not because my personality profile says I most definitely DO NOT DO THAT~ And we all know that personality profiles place you in a well defined, unbendable, unchangeable box that defines exactly how and who you are and they are NEVER, NEVER wrong.

One Soft Spot

It has been a long time since we have had any four legged types running around our family. Not that our children have not begged, pleaded, promised endlessly to feed, water, and care for any and every need a critter might need in order to soften the hard heart of their parents. There are lots of really great reasons why we have avoided animals in our home. The main reason, as my husband so kindly puts it: THEY POO!

As our hearts are not made of stone (contrary to the opinion of the three young one we share our home with) we have seemed to find a true soft spot. . . . .

This is Lucky. His personality is as black and white as his spots. I call him ferocious. When he is not looking super cute totally conked out he is running around chasing anything that will move.

This is Sam. I call him recluse. He is Lucky's big brother. Rumor has it the boys' momma is quite popular in Garden City. All the boys just LOVE her. Sam is very laid back and loves to find a dark spot to hide away and take a long, long nap.

At least when he is awake he likes to be helpful. Myranda has been complaining about how heavy her book bag is to carry to school. That's Sam always ready to lend a helping paw.

Sometimes Life is Stormy

One of the sometimes great things about living where I live in Idaho is that I can see the storms roll in from the west. There are no mountains to obstruct the view of the billowing dark gray rain clouds as they impede on an otherwise sunny skyline. Not only can I observe the storm coming, but I can also see the storm leave as it passes over my house and continues its journey to torment those in the eastern part of the valley. These storms happen all year long. In the winter and fall they move slowly and appear to linger; in the spring and summer they build intensely and move quickly.

Because if how my house sits, I can't always see these storms make their way towards me unless I am outside. From the inside of my home, all is well, and the weather seems beautiful. The sun is shining in the windows, and there are no clouds overhead. I don't realize what is happening in the world around me until I get ready to leave my house. One day last fall I pulled my car out of the garage, with it's concealing blind spot, to come face to face with what was happening in the world outside. As I looked ahead through the window of my car, what was coming was in stark contrast to what I thought was. I remember thinking to myself that those dark clouds had forgotten to check in with Scott Dorval or Rick Lance the local news channel meteorologists, for they had assured us that the rain and cooler temperatures would not be here until the next day.

I had this brief fleeting thought before I started driving towards those black clouds; these types of storms happen every day in life. Sometimes you can see the storm coming and are prepared, and other times it comes out of nowhere. I remember wondering if those clouds represented any meaning for myself that day. I wondered if there were any storms brewing in my life? Was what I thought was happening going to turn out to be much, much different? Usually, most of us can weather whatever storms come our way; those we know about and those we don't. Sometimes we can push through some really big ones, only to find ourselves overwhelmed and flooded by what seems like a small one. Sometimes we have what appears to be endless sunny skies with no worries, and the storms make us angry or resentful, because we really like the sunny skies. There are days that I welcome the darkness, the wind, and the rain because I know something better is on the other side, and other times when I would just rather not. I feel too tired, too battered to withstand even one more rain drop.

Some people feel abandoned or singled out when rough weather hits their life. They feel like the God of heaven and earth has singled them out, that he derives some great sense of sadistic satisfaction from watching their anguish and suffering. They ask unanswerable questions such as "why?" or "how could God turn his back on me like this?" This makes sense to me; I can see why they would ask these questions. For me, I learned a long time ago that there is never a satisfactory question to why. Nor has God ever turned his back on my . .not that it hasn't happened the other way a time or two. I have learned that no matter what . . .my job is to remain faithful through the storm, because He is there no matter what. He sees me, He hears me, and He understands. Life is life. It comes with some beautiful days, it comes with some dangerous days, it comes with some very stormy days. What a beautiful mess.

Boy, Oh Boy!!

Close the door. "So how have things been this week? Blah, blah, blah. "Oh, okay." Well lets take a look at what we can do to work on that . . . .my phone rings . . . I ignore it because it is not the home phone number, Mike's number, or our friend's number who has the kids, or the school's number. Listen for the buzz that tells me there is a voice mail. Nothing. Okay, not an emergency. On with the session. Yadda, yadda, talk, talk, talk, . . . .knock on the door. Hmmm? Don't they know I am already in session? I open the door, Mary says, "Sorry to interrupt but Stacie is on the phone. Micah split his head open at school. Melanie thinks-O Crap!


Melanie: Hey Stacie . .what's up?

Staice: I have Micah at my house. The school called. He and another boy ran into each other on the playground. Micah has a nice wound on his eyebrow. I think he may need stitches again (again meaning he just had stitches on the opposite eyebrow six months ago.


Melanie: Oh great! Okay, I'm on my way. I should be there in twenty minutes or so. . .

Melanie grabs her stuff, cleans off her desk (I know, I know you're thinking why take the time to clean off your desk just get out of there). There is a really good explanation. Everything is confidential, other people use my office, and I have a reputation to uphold for crying out loud!!!


So Melanie gets in car and speeds off making the twenty minute drive from where I work to where I live. Internal dialogue: Why do I have to work so far away? Why isn't there’s something closer to where we live? What if it is really bad and this delay makes it worse? Is he in a lot of pain? Is he crying a lot? Then the mommy guilt starts to creep in . . .I hate working, I hate being unavailable to my kids every possible minute that they might just need me. I don't like the commute . . .Is this all worth it. Mike and I were just talking about this last night. We both have a twenty minute commute. What if something serious happens? We can't afford to pay our Aflac benefits anymore. It would be nice if you could quite your job and go back to school (speaking of Mike), but we can't afford to pay for insurance without your income. Darn golden handcuffs anyway!


Melanie arrives at Stacie's house and assesses the damage. Micah seems to be okay. He is hanging out with a bag of ice and a towel on his forhead. He shows me his wound. Yep! That laceration is going to require a surgical intervention. Let's go bud!

On the way, Micah tells me the whole story. He was chasing the bad guy and it was sunny out so he had his sun glasses on (Don Johnson style cop chase I guess). He hit the other kids head and feel to the ground. When he fell, his face hit the ground and his sunglasses cut his eye lid. So, I am officially putting all parents on alert! Running with sunglasses on is just as dangerous as running with scissors! I bet your mother never warned you about that. Where was the warning label!!!! You heard it here first!

Micah: "Do I have to go to the doctor?" "I don't want to go to the doctor."

Mom: "Yes, we have to have the doctor take a look at that cut." At which point Micah starts to cry.

Micah:" But I don't want to go to the doctor, it will hurt."

Mom: "I know bud, I am soooo sorry."

Micah (who has stopped crying at this point . ."Do you think I'll get another feel better bear?" Referencing the last trip to the ER.

Mom: "Probably. Hard to say. I am sure they will have something."

Internal Dialogue: We just got the bill from the ER for Mikayla's sprained finger. I really don't want to go the ER because they charge you $300 bucks just to walk through the fancy guarded front door. Wait! St. Luke's just opened an Urgent Care! It’s just down the road. Do they do stitches at an Urgent Care? Let's see 20% of $900 is . . . . too much! I don’t want to pay for another ER trip. Urgent Care it is.

Micah: "Mom we just past the Dr." (ER where last stitches were given). He RECOGNIZES the place!

Mom: "I know, we are going to a different doctor . . . ." drives past St. Al's and goes straight to St. Luke's.


We find the Urgent Care, check in and are seen. Yep. It is confirmed we will need stitches. The nurse puts some "magic medicine" on a piece of gauze and co-ban it around his forehead. Micah now looks like he is ready for his cameo on The Karate Kid. Mom gets out the little round mirror in my purse so he can see himself. He laughs. That is a good sign. The doctor comes in and I guess the magic medicine didn't work all of it's magic because she started cleaning that wound and Micah protested. Not too much, but I could tell it hurt. More magic medicine . . .and wait . .and wait . . .Good thing mom brought her computer. He played Maternational while he waited. Then more cleaning . .still hurts (I guess the magic decided not to show up after all). Micah had to have a shot to numb the area . . .seven stitches later we were good to go. I forgot to mention that last time Micah had stitches it was 11:30 at night and he slept through most of it. This time he was wide awake! I think this one will store away in the memory bank!

We walk out of the Urgent Care about an hour after we got there. No feel better bear, but he is armed with four "Cars" stickers. Initially he decorated his arms with the stickers, but now he proudly displays them on his booster seat.

Micah gets home and rests on the couch. His injury is lovingly covered by a professionally placed band-aid. He doesn't even have a black eye!

This is the injury revealed the next morning after fifteen minutes of trying to get the professionally placed bandaid off of his swollen, bruised eye. I know people who use wax to remove unwanted eye-brow hair. I am thinking a bandaid with strong adhesive will net the same results!

This is Micah's attempt at looking sad and pathetic! He does a pretty good job.


Micah has officially expereinced more trips to the ER and more medical procedures than our entire family combined. This is his third. I guess it is true . . . he's all boy.

No Words

I have longingly gazed into the eyes of my blog and decided it has been sorely neglected. So I thought I would attend to this forlorn space.


I find that I actually do a lot of writing. Not the exciting, nostalgic, ahh isn't that cute kind of writing. No, I write page after page after page of someone else's life story. I am a reluctant historian. I write about all kinds of things trying to fit a person's life story on two or three pages, or in a four inch square box, depends on the actual document. I write about where a person is in life, how they got there, and my brilliant plan for getting them as far away from where they are as they can possibly get. A lot of it is written in boring technical counseling terms . .Client shared blah, blah, blah, counselor assessed yadda, yadda, yadda, Counselor and client explored this and that an the other thing. The words themselves are generally boring, vague, and uninteresting. You see it is to the client's benefit that enough is written about their hard work to justify a third party paying for their time with me, but vague enough that if anyone ever decided they wanted a peek into that person's world via a court ordered subpoena there would be no information that could potentially be harmful. All day, every day I produce document after document filled with words that mean nothing, yet at the same time everything. I would say on an average day I write the equivalent of a three page paper. On those lucky days when I am writing endless reports outlining someones background, their goals for treatment, and/or the results of their tedious hours of psychological testing I probably increase my production to twenty or thirty pages a week. I am in a constant battle to find just the right words to accurately describe both what I have been told directly, and what I observe for myself. The task becomes so much more challenging because most of what I observe lies in what is NOT said, what is NOT reported, and is usually not physically VISIBLE. I have to make the unconscious, conscious. I have to find the invisible elephant in the room that NOBODY wants to talk about, sometimes not even me. I have to guess, hypothesize, discern, read between the lines. Then find the right words to describe it all.

I feel a great burden when I am forced (and I mean FORCED) to write all of this every day. How does a person put this all on paper? How does one accurately, respectively, honestly tell the story of another's life? How does one chronicle the struggle of one who realizes that they are mentally well enough to know they are mentally unwell yet the truth is they are powerless to make themselves truly be the person they so desperately want to be. How does one document that despair? How does one do justice to the pain of parental abandonment, the violation of intimate space, the tremendous guilt of past mistakes, the darkness of the soul, the grief of psychological torture inflicted by one who was supposed to love, not destroy. What does one say that gives any weight to this human experience?

Sometimes there is hope to write about. Progress made, goals achieved. The human spirit that has triumphed. One would think it would be easier to write about achievements and conquered demons. Yet the words escape me. To capture the strength, the light of the soul which now shines a little brighter, the triumph of overcoming. Those things just can't be fully expressed in phrases like . . .client is making steady progress towards goals this week. When all I really want to say it that against all odds the wonderful, beautiful, courageous person beat all the odds by finding it possible to put one foot in front of the other and free fall off the edge of the highest ledge of the Grand Canyon in the hopes of a promise that they would be better off taking such a desperate step.

So tonight, for this day, these words are for all those courageous, brave souls who entrust me every week to write their history. I regret that there are not words enough to reflect your deepest despairs, your quest for healing, and your willingness to face your worst enemy, yourself, in hopes of overcoming victoriously. I hope my meager words do you justice.