the sara ochs blog

Why do I want to get a tattoo for my thirtieth birthday?

Am I the only person that does sock-shoe-sock-shoe? Does everyone else do sock-sock-shoe-shoe?

Why does making the beds soothe me so very much?

Why can’t Grassroots Coffee open a shop in my backyard?

Why do chickens smell so gross?

Why does our neighbor let her nine year old daughter drive a car?

Why does 35 minutes on an elliptical NOT translate to being able to run for 35 minutes? Or even longer than fifteen minutes?

Why do shows have to go on hiatus? Is it that hard to be an actor?

Why do I love the color yellow so much even when wearing it makes me look like a corpse?

Last night the babies and I read about Lot and Sodom (a version that was child appropriate) and Anderson had a few questions. We talked about evil and sin and hearts that reject God. We also discussed that people that have asked Jesus to live in their hearts can still make bad choices and have bad attitudes, the difference being that those people can ask for forgiveness. I gave a few examples of bad attitudes and then Caroline chimed in with an example of her own: “Like when you yelled at us at dinner, that is a bad sin, right Mama?” Right. Me and the people of Sodom had bad sins. Now please excuse me while I go pray and seek forgiveness.

So our old house had two bathrooms. One had a tub and shower combo and the master bathroom had an itty bitty shower stall and a linen closet. I guess having a closet in the bathroom was supposed to make you forget that the easiest way to get clean would be to soap the walls of the shower stall and lean against them. It was that small.

It was small but it worked for us. I started not to mind that I had to do ninja like yoga moves to shave my legs. It made me a better person. It also led me to believe that any other house we ever lived in would have a shower bigger than this one.

When we first saw our now house all we could notice was the ginormous jetted bathtub in the master bathroom. It really is huge. Like Marshall can fit inside it. We were overjoyed. I had visions of bathtub soaks with magazines and candles and bubbles like in a movie or something.

Soon after we moved in I realized how teensy tiny the shower stall was. Especially compared to the large-itude-ness of the tub. It is even smaller than our old shower. By at least a foot in width. I am not even kidding. Every time I take a shower I pretend that I am on a cruise ship so as not to feel claustrophobic.

I think the previous owners found this shower stall in an abandoned doll house and decided to use it in an actual home for real humans. I am sure it saved some money, but it is tortuously tiny.

Back to the tub. I have used it twice in the year we have lived here. Marshall has been in it just once and hated it. The babies are the only ones with a real appreciation for the tub and its oversized wonder. The tub is almost always occupied with tiny dollies, plastic cups and tea sets, Bionicles and matchbox cars. So much for my plans for a kid free bathroom.

I actually do not mind at all. I can only imagine how great it must be for the babies to bathe in a tub that seems as big as a swimming pool. A pool with bubbles and siblings and all the toys you can drag in from your room. It almost makes showering in a waterproof shoebox worth it.

You know that thing where the wife is waiting to start dinner until the husband is finished building a chicken coop? And the husband KNOWS that the chicken coop cannot be built in one day but decides to keep working until the wife calls him in for dinner? That happened.

And also the meal was one that was somewhat labor intensive and compounded by the fact that the wife had started an alternate meal and then the husband brought home the missing ingredients from the original meal and the alternate meal that was going to be dinner got moved to lunch for the next day. And also compounded by the fact that the wife had never been the sole chef in the dinner meal (salmon cakes), but had only been the dishwasher and counter wiper while the husband was the actual chef.

The moral of this parable analogy narrative monologue is that while it is not in ANY way advisable, it is possible to simultaneously prepare pizza dough (alternate meal that was postponed to lunch the next day), 44 small salmon cakes (cooked half and froze half for another meal on another day), a spinach salad, and chocolate chip cookies. Please be advised that if this scenario plays out in your kitchen you might start to feel overwhelmed and sorry for yourself and the number of dishes that will have to be washed later. But then those feelings will be pushed aside because you get to eat cookies and talk about chickens with your husband.

That thing is real. And it could happen to you. But only if you are slightly redneck and have OCD ADD.

I hate the exercise. I really do. You know those people that love working out and cannot get enough of being super fit and go on and on about how awesome exercise endorphins are? Yeah. That is not me. Never has been and never will be. Now don’t get me wrong. I do not want to be overweight or lazy, but honestly, I do just enough of the exercise to get by and I am fine with that. 

I have tried running. Not so much. I understand that muscles get fatigued and you have to push through and all that jazz, but I could not get over the whole not being able to breathe thing. I CAN run a mile. I could probably MAKE myself run further than that but I think I have a mental block about the distance. One trip around our fake neighborhood is a mile and I can totally handle that. It is just that once I circle back around and see our house I am mentally done. I have a friend (I will call her Blanche) that loves to run. Trained for a half marathon and everything. Bless her heart, but I could never force myself to run for literally hours at a time. Blanche is super fit and I am sometimes jealous of her calf muscles, but then I get over it. 

So now more about me. I have an elliptical machine that I keep in the sunroom. We got it a couple years ago and I have a love slash hate relationship with it. I love the convenience of it, but hate that it is so boring. I mean it is really, really boring. The only way that I can make myself use this machine four to five times a week is to pull it directly under the ceiling fan, have a glass of water within reach, and watch some kind of show from Hulu on the computer. I try to create an environment that is the least like a gym or other gross place filled with sweaty people. (think Wild Adventures or college campuses or the walmarts)

My secret about the shows I choose to watch during my elliptical time is that they are ALWAYS about food or overweight people. I think that means that I have some kind of sickness or distorted view of the exercise. Because seriously, nothing motivates me to finish those last five boring minutes like watching “The Biggest Loser” or “Iron Chef: America” or “Cupcake Wars.” There. My secret is out. I like to watch people bigger than me exercise so I feel skinnier and a little more motivated to keep up with the exercise. I feel like I need an intervention after that confession.

Also another secret is that I am usually to lazy to put on real exercise shoes and I usually wear my slippers when I am on the elliptical. So it is pretty obvious that I am not too serious about the whole situation. Nothing says “exercise slacker” like an iced drink and fuzzy slippers. Whatever. It works for me and I can still button my pants so all is well that ends well. Especially if it is streaming on Hulu.

Last night was horrible enough to make a grown woman cry. Like another random grown woman, because really it takes very little to make me cry so I cannot be a barometer for tears.

Want details? Great because I would love to share. It all started with vomit…all good stories do. Last night after dinner we let the babies have some outside playtime. Not usually our routine, but with such perfect weather and only a minute left in school we threw caution to the wind. We let them act like children. They played outside in their jammies without shoes. They screamed and laughed and threw apples at the dogs. Good wholesome fun.

Finally we called it a night and herded them inside to brush and floss teethe and get in bed. Sullivan was crying hysterically because he wanted to stay outside. He was also hot and sweaty and totally and completely distraught. I repeat myself here for emphasis. He was a hot mess. So we get babies in bed, then Anderson says he has to go potty again. While he is out of the room Sullivan starts crying harder because he wants his Bubba. Then he throws up on himself. Just laying down, head on his pillow, and the vomit is everywhere. I pull him out of bed, call for reinforcements, and catch vomit in my hands like a Jedi master. Here is what happens next. Lysol. Bissel carpet cleaner. Paper towels. Tears. Washing machine. Shower for Sullivan. Back in bed.

I was convinced the throw up happened because he got overheated and was such an emotional mess. The mister disagreed and thought it might be a virus. I refused to consider that idea. This was an isolated vomit incident.

The mister and I watch a show and eat a little medicinal ice creams. One hour later Anderson comes stumbling down the hallway totally and completely confused as to how vomit got on his shirt. It is important to note here that Anderson sleeps on the top bunk of a bunk bed, so his vomit dilemma was compounded by the whole waking up in a sea of vomit and climbing down a ladder while still throwing up on yourself and your brother and walking down the hall to find parents. Thank goodness Marshall and I had already finished our sweet treat because life as we knew it was over. 

And also, the mister was right about it being a virus. As far as I know throwing up because you are sad is not contagious. 

The next THREE hours were a constant dance of emptying bowls, washing sheets and jammies, more Bissel, spraying bleach on everything, and using hand sanitizer like it was our job. At one in the A.M. we decide that the best course of action was to put both boys in the living room and have me sleep on the floor between them. It is important to note HERE that that was considered the best choice and that is so sad. 

I am old and cannot comfortably sleep on the floor. Especially when the eau de vomit was so strong. It was a long and horrendous night with multiple trips to the bathroom and kitchen, Sugarland lyrics floating through my near delusional mind, and praying for morning. At some point Sullivan laid down next to me and tried to get back inside me by kicking through the vertebrae of my back. I will not mention other digestive issues that were suffered during the night because I am a lady. 

Our washing machine ran constantly for about four hours last night. My nose may never recover. I have smelt phantom vomit all day. I am a zombie but I am afraid to take a nap in case the problems start again. There is a mountain of laundry to be folded. At some point sheets will have to be put back on the bunk beds but I am a little scared to do that. We might have to start a 24 hours without vomit before you get your bed back policy around here. 

Okay. Complaining over. It was so so gross, but I think we are on the mend. Except for my nose. It might not ever be the same. I will keep you posted on when I allow the boys back in their beds. But I can promise that mama will NOT be sleeping on the floor tonight. I am too old for that nonsense. 

Just got the greatest compliment ever. As I was checking out at the walmarts the cashier said “you be looking like you get lots of groceries, but it don’t cost THAT much.” That would be because I am a smart shopper. (pats own back and takes a small bow)