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Mother of the Year Goes to.... Not Me

Every morning I go to the gym to exercise. I love it because I have a lot of friends there (it's my adult interaction for the day...hahah...but seriously...), endorphins are released, I feel powerful and strong....etc. Fast forward to about 10 minutes after I arrive home.

Kids are fighting over who grabbed the box of cereal first.

Tears are rolling down cheeks from, "Cameron looked at me in a mean way."

Fights are breaking out between who has to be the flippin' monkey in the middle...

You get the idea.

So pretty much all the good I do at 5:30 in the wee early morning hours gets completely undone. (Perhaps I should schedule my workouts to after the kids leave for school instead?)

Anyway, today was no different. The kids actually all got ready on their own really well without any fights. They had a good 20 minutes to kill before we had to leave for school. They decided to play a game (but not the blasted Monkey in the Middle game...No! No! I banned that game [and 'jinx&#…

Dark Kids

Being Hispanic kids, we sure got dark. Sometimes we resented it, though. All of the other kids at school were white, and would sometimes tease us for being tan. Sometimes I’d cry to my mom wishing I were like the other kids. And she would tell me that all those kids would be jealous of me some day—that boys like tan girls. This was a nice consolation. My sisters would wear white tights to school to try to blend in, but everyone knew they were dark. I’ve never regretted my skin color since. My dad would always say we should be thankful for getting such pretty skin from my mom. He used to say she traveled a long way on a banana boat from Ecuador for us. And for the longest time I always though my mom and her family immigrated to the States literally floating on a big, yellow banana.

Our family was pretty poor in the beginning, but both Mom and Dad worked very hard for us, and we were blessed. Dad was even able to afford a nice boat. We used to go to Utah Lake, Deer Creek, Bear Lake, and Lake Powell. One time we split a houseboat with another family in our wad (the Dean’s) at Lake Powell. It was there that I first tasted honey dew melon and a cantaloupe. I told my mom that I really liked that fruit, and asked her why we didn’t have any at our house. She replied that it was “white-people food.” Mom would come to use this phrase MANY times later in my life. I also learned that grapefruit and cranberry sauce were white-people foods. Come to find out anything she didn't like was considered a white-person food. haha. When I got older and was in high school, I asked my mom why she used to always say that. Her response was, “When you have kids bugging you and asking you questions all the time, you’ll say anything to make them stop.” (I guess that also explains why when we were younger, if Mom grabbed her purse, we would ask, “Where you goin’, Mom?” and she’d reply, “To the moon, you wanna come with?” She still owes me a trip…)

We had a lot of fun at Lake Powell in that houseboat. We danced to oldies at midnight, and jumped in the water or slid down the slide. We lost a mattress and saw it floating on the other side of the lake. Dad almost died by getting sucked under the houseboat. And Brother Dean came close to having a marital affair with some stranger who’s jeep got stuck on a nearby road. Yes, our trips were ALWAYS adventurous…

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