12-Year Olds ... Augh!

I have now discovered why 12 year old boys are not called as missionaries…well, some of the reasons. I’m sure the whole, can’t drive, live independently or converse coherently beyond Lord of the Rings and legos may have a bit to do with it as well. But this is what I, of my very own experience, know. They can’t pack worth beans.

‘Tis true. I had two nephews come stay for 4 days while their folks were out of town. They were dropped off with brimming backpacks. One would think they were good to go. At 13 and 10 they should be responsible, right? Wrong!

The backpacks were filled with their priorities – video games, water pistols, they did manage swimming suits, laser swords, flashlights, guns (of the fake variety) etc. And to their credit, they had brought their toothbrushes…but changes of underwear?, clean shirts?, shorts?, PJ’s. Nope – there just wasn’t room!

Last week I took Mr. T and Bug to Yellowstone. My dear friends, the Folletts’, got us up to Rigby and from there it is just a hop skip and jump to the land of spurting glop and gaping tourists. I gave Mr. T a detailed list of everything he would need to pack. “Thomas, are you packing? Really, are you packing? What do you still need? Can I help? Would you like me to go over your duffle bag?” And, of course, the reply was, “MOTHER…I am twelve years old, for cryin’ out loud. I….CAN….PACK!!!”

And so it was that we arrived for a five day Idaho trip with…no toothbruth (I didn’t find out until the third day – major gross), no underwear, only the pair of shorts he was wearing and no PJ’s. The heavy duffle bag? Filled with Garfield cartoon books and a diagram book of an 1800’s Man of War boat. AUGH!!!

And so, in great wisdom, church leaders wait for a few years before the boys are asked to leave hearth and home (and mommies) to spend two years packing and moving around. But I would be willing to wager than even at 19, a few of them forget their toothbrushes.

Bucket Lists and Dead Bodies

I keep hearing about people and their BUCKET LIST. Isn’t that whole concept a bit on the morbid side – I mean, listing things you want to do before you die! It’s great to have goals and dreams…but who, except my friend Dixie, is actually going to climb Mt. Kilimanjaro when they are in their fifties? So Dixie totally rocks, but the rest of us need to scale back our bucket lists.

Here is a more realistic bucket list for what I would like to do before I die.

1. Read all the Harry Potter, Lord of the Rings and Chronicles of Narnia…again.
2. Go to Costco and spend less than $100.
3. Get all the kids raised and permanently out of the house.
4. Retain the ol’ marbles to the bitter end.
5. Spend the night in Panguitch (just because that has to be the coolest name of a town, ever).
6. Avoid Depends at all costs.
7. Live long enough to see my kids all happily wed.
8. Keep my eyesight.
9. Finally master my favorite Chopin etude.
10. After the cat dies, buy a front room couch that I actually like.

Yup, not too glamorous. But my bucket list is doable, except maybe the Costco part. And I have kids who could successfully argue that my marbles are already a bit depleted, but whatever.

Now if I wanted to spice the list up a bit I would add:



11. Try the chili rellenos in every Mexican restaurant along the Wasatch front just to find out whose are best.

12. Find a dead body.


I just about got the chance to fulfill #12 last Friday night. Now you have to know that I live in family-oriented-safe-central. People wave, even if they don’t know you, everyone is out walking on miles of trails, kids ride scooters and run around until way after dark and a suspicious vehicle would be sighted within seconds by 25 people.

So imagine my distress when I was walking, all by myself, along a trail and heard a bunch of guys beating the ‘you know what’ out of some poor fellow. I didn’t have my cell phone to call 911 but it was intense and awful to hear the poor guy getting killed. I wasn’t about to start screaming bloody murder and run right into the fray so I dropped to my hands and knees and began crawling around the corner, in the weeds mind you, so I could identify the thugs. But no one was there. I could still hear them and they even turned on a boom box with intense music (to cover the sound?). And then I carefully lifted my head out of the grasses and saw…an outdoor movie screen with about 200 people sitting on blankets, enjoying FlyBoys.

Yup, I just about ran, screaming for the nearest phone to call 911 --- for a movie. Thorns, thistles, dirt and assorted bugs clung to my pants and hands, but I stood and casually sauntered past the group as if I always crawled up the hill. Exercise is tough, after all.

So I have a new item for my bucket list.

13. Avoid dying of embarrassment. Pick a better way to go.

Aging - Not So Gracefully!

After I die I am going to sit down and have a long talk with God if, of course, we’re on friendly terms. Hard to have a discussion with someone who is saying, “YOU’RE SO BUSTED”. So if it’s all good I will ask Him just what’s up with the whole woman thing. I mean, is 40 years of being in the childbearing mode really necessary?

These are the categories which I think should exempt one from having womb in the inn on a monthly basis, if you get my drift.

1. Being 9. Seriously, one of my girls was 9. Excuse me!!!
2. For that matter, being 10, or 11, or even 15 or 16. When a girl is 17 it might be OK, just to get the ol’ motor running. But the motor shouldn’t be fully functional until at least 18.
3. For the first year after you have had a baby. And that should include the mothers who do not nurse. Or maybe two years...
4. Any time you are single. And no, this isn’t religiously based, just plain old common sense that says that it is waaaay easier to tag team when you have small people of very little brain running or crawling around.
5. As far as that goes, how about turning it off anytime you don’t want to get prego? Yeah, I like that. Although about 2/3’s of us and our offspring wouldn’t be here.
6. After age 40.
7. And after 50 --- good grief --- enough already!

What is up with 60 year old ladies turning it back on to get pregnant – on purpose? What are they thinking?

I have a good rule of thumb for when you should not longer be a procreator.

If you try to nurse and can’t focus on your babies face because your eyes are gone, you’re too old.

I truly had to have someone hold my poor Mr. T a few feet away so I could see what he looked like. “Back up there, more…more, ah, look at that. He is cute! OK, we’ll keep him.” Poor baby. He grew up at arms length just so I could make sure his nose was not boogery. Any closer and he looked like the blob and I could have just as easily wiped his ear as his nose. (OK, that was an exaggeration because I could tell where his face was located, just not what was on the face that wasn’t supposed to be.)

So I have issues (no pun intended, I’m sure) with the whole M thing and I am looking forward, not in the immediate future, to a nice little chat with the man in charge – period!

LOOK - It's a BUG!

I have a 15 year old daughter named Bug. No, no…I didn’t give her the lovely name of Bug at birth. She chose that moniker all on her own, last year, when she started at a new school. On all her registration forms, with teachers, even the principal, she asked to be called Bug even though, now this is the ironic part, she screams for about 11 minutes without taking a breath if she ever sees one. This screaming, however, does not include time spent looking at herself in the mirror, unless she has just been out with friends and discovers broccoli in the teeth.

Do you know how disconcerting it is to have an adult presence call up and ask for ‘Bug’ when you have given your child a perfectly normal and polite name? I wonder what she will do when it is time to change her name back. I mean…she can’t be Bug forever, can she? Can you imagine working in corporate America with ‘Bug’ on your Vice-Presidential nameplate? I thought not.

Names are funny. Some are just more suited for adults and some for kids. Naming your child Mansford Dillingsworth Smith will work well when he is a banking mogul, but lacks panache on the playground. On the other end of the spectrum, Bunny, Missy or Buffy may be adorable for a little moppet, but they don’t work so well for a R.S. or PTA President.

Perhaps the best thing is to let kids grow into their names. Maybe I should have started out by naming my daughter Larva and then, Bug would actually be the adult adaptation. Larva … um … it has a nice ring to it. But for now, at least Bug doesn’t have a rabbit…get it? Bug’s bunny!