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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&#…

Jazz Games

We used to LOVE the Jazz! They were a classic team when John Stockton, Karl Malone, and Jeff Hornacek (Aka "Horny")

Dad loved to take us to the ball games, too. We always sat in the nose-bleed section because those were the cheapest tickets. Mom never really liked to go, though, because she was afraid of heights, and our seats were literally the highest in the arena. I felt bad that Mom didn't come (I think it was partly because she didn't care too much for sports anyway), so I stayed behind with her (even though I really really really wanted to go to the game). We had a fun night just me and her. And because they thought I was so thoughtful, Mom and Dad decided to take me out. Just me. Nobody else. They said I had two choices: 1) Go to a Jazz game or 2) Go get ice cream. Although I really wanted to go to the Jazz game again, I chose number two, because I knew Mom would still be scared. But hey, ice cream is never a bad choice!

That Jazz team was our dream team. I remember the famous words of the announcer yelling, "John Stockton sends the Utah Jazz to the NBA Finals!" We were hootin' and hollerin' and jumping up and down for joy in our basement. We thought for sure they'd win it all. We were back east at the time they played the championship game against those blasted Chicago Bulls (with Michael Jordan, Scotty Pippen, and Dennis Rodman). Oh how I hated them. We lost. And I remember silently crying at night on the floor of the hotel room because I was so upset. Mom heard me and asked what was wrong. I'm pretty sure she just laughed at it, but she didn't in front of me. She knew I was crushed at their loss. I guess that was an early sign that I don't handle losing well?


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