Author Archives: Stacy Swiger

Animals Gone Wild Kingdom

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

Sheepdog quite possibly killed a rabbit.  Or maybe he did not.  He could just be hopping around totally unharmed.  We will never know.

This is what I do know…

For a decade Sheepdog has been working in Buckhead, which is the uptown district of Atlanta.  It is about 25 miles (approximately 3.17 hours in ATL real traffic time) from our house.  For at least a couple of years now Sheepdog has been taking public transportation to work.  This means that he wakes up during the 5 o’clock (Good Lord, I didn’t even know that was humanly possible) hour, drives his car to the MARTA bus stop at Windward, rides the bus to the northern-most Red Line MARTA train station at North Springs (exit 5C on GA-400N), then takes a train to Buckhead.  Finally, he walks the last block or so to his office.  It saves us a ton of money in gas and he is often able to work, make phone calls or read/ sleep during his commute.  According to Sheepdog this really sucks, especially when gas prices skyrocket and public transportation becomes SRO (standing room only).  But he is the ultimate team player, so he endures.

Then sometime around the end of October Sheepdog came home and announced that he wanted to start commuting to work on his bicycle.  And no, I’m not joking.  My immediate response was that he was certainly NOT riding a bike to work because he would surely make me a widow (with five freaking children!), especially given the fact that drivers despise cyclists around here and often try to nudge them off of the roads.  And it’s not just me that does this.  Soooooo… End of the Crazy Discussion.

Whenever Sheepdog talks about wanting (in fact NEEDING) to ride his bike, I always start singing the song "Bicycle Race" by Queen in my head. It is awesome (the song, not my singing)

As always is the case when I flex my muscles in the “And That’s Final!” way, the jokester that is my God immediately brought a new person into my life to expose me to a different perspective on things.  On Halloween night I walked around our neighborhood shadowing Kid C and her friends.  With me were a few of the friends’ parents, some of whom I did not know.  At some point during the night I talked to a dad who, as it turns out, does triathlons and is an especially enthusiastic cyclist and thought it was just the best thing ever that Sheepdog was considering a 2-wheeled commute to his office.  He proceeded to tell me all of the reasons why throughout the long evening.  Awesome.

I then went home and told Sheepdog that he could look into riding his bike to work.  As long as I was convinced that it wasn’t a suicide mission, I would consider endorsing his plan.

The word “tenacious” was brought up by my dad during a toast to Sheepdog and I at our wedding all those many years ago.  My dad explained that it takes tenacity to have a successful marriage, and I believe that Sheepdog took that sage advice to heart.  Moreover, he also applies that same tenacity to other aspects of his life.  When Sheepdog gets an idea in his head, he is more often than not tirelessly persistent until that idea comes to fruition.  I knew that once he started considering riding to his office, he would figure out a way to make it happen even if I wasn’t totally on board.  My dad also said during that same speech at our wedding, “Stacy’s personality is such that it takes a very special man to live with her,” but I forgave him for that because it is kind of true.

So Sheepdog promised that approximately 90% of this commute would take place on “very safe” bike path routes, and after he successfully dispelled my fears that he would be on said bike path routes when it was mostly dark outside (“…and do you know who is on bike path routes at these insane times?  Undesirables fleeing from the law, serial killers, sex offenders and vampires, that’s who!”), I agreed with the plan for him to ride his bike to work.  But I had some conditions.

1.  No intentional riding in the rain.

2.  Always be defensive and alert while riding, especially on the 10% of the ride that is not classified as “very safe.”

3.  He must text me every day when he gets to work to let me know that he has arrived safely so I can cross “call life insurance company” off my To-Do list (at least on that day).

I will have to say that the arrangement seems to be working out fine.  Sheepdog has gotten caught in some sudden and unexpected (Me: “Why didn’t you check the forecast, dummy?”) downpours, but he hasn’t melted yet.  He says he is very careful, yet he insists on listening to his iPod while riding, which I am less than thrilled about because it means he is not paying attention as fully as I would want him to.  But he wears a very bright, flashy light thing and he does text me that he is safe every morning, even though I forget I have a phone and often don’t check my messages until after 10 a.m. or sometimes not at all.

Then one day Sheepdog posted this on Facebook:

Rabbit run! Crazy commute this morning. Lots of rabbits on the bike path. Hit one but we are both okay (think he bounced off of the crank).
app.strava.com
commuted 21.9 miles by bike.

What the what?  A rabbit?  Here I am worried about angry drivers crashing into him, or murderers and the undead chasing him in the dark woods, and he gets attacked by Little Bunny Foo-Foo?  Then today I saw about eight deer running through our neighborhood around 7:00 a.m. when I was driving some kids to school.  And don’t get me started on the darting, schizophrenic squirrel population.  They could all easily hit my Sheepdog.  It is like Jumanji out there.  It just goes to show that you never know what dangers may be lurking, even in the “very safe” sections of the world.

Please be safe, Sheepdog.  And please take off the damn headphones. xo

Wish me luck for tomorrow…

You’re Sixteen and We Know It

Posted on by Stacy Swiger
When you walk on by, boys be looking like, “Damn, she fly!”
You sing to the beat, walking down the street in your new DCs (yeah)
This is how you roll, pink leg warmers outta control
It’s Hermione with a big ass ‘fro
And like Clarissa, you explain it all (yo)
 

It's actually Kid B who wears the DCs, but they fit in the song so I went with it

A teenager who knows everything... go figure!

 
Girl, look at that body
Girl, look at that body
Girl, look at that body.
She d-d-dances ballet
 
When you walk in the spot, (yeah) this is what I see (okay)
Everybody stops and they staring at thee
You got the keys to Daddy’s car and you ain’t afraid to drive it, drive it, drive it (slow)
You’re sixteen and we know it
 
Yo, when you’re at the mall, Forever 21 gets all your dough
When you’re at the beach, you’re doing sisones, try to get The Pose (watch!)

Kid A's Mexican sisone

This is how you roll, come on B it’s time to go
You headed on a dinner date, hope you get good service
Daddy’s cleaning his guns, but boy don’t be nervous (whaat?!)
 
Text, text, text, text, text yeah
Text, text, text, text, text yeah
Text, text, text, text, text yeah
 
Girl, look at that body
Girl, look at that body
Girl, look at that body.
She d-d-dances ballet
 
YOU’RE SIXTEEN AND WE KNOW IT!
 

*****************************************************

Kid A had a milestone birthday last week.  She was given the option some months ago of having either a Sweet Sixteen party or a car.  Being a very smart kid, she opted for the car.

But my mom was having none of that nonsense.  Sheepdog and I can give her a car, but she was giving her a party.  Armed with her party planning experience and a purple and silver theme, she set off like a force of nature.  I heard her exclaim on more than one occasion, “I have a vision!  Get out of my way!”

So we did, and Kid A got to celebrate turning sixteen with her friends, her family, a DJ and an awesome spread.

And apparently I have been influenced way more by Weird Al Yankovic than I care to admit.  Shout out to LMFAO and their hysterical song, “Sexy and I Know It” for the basis of my song parody.

LMFAO’s “Sexy and I Know It”

Wish me luck for tomorrow…

BRB

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

Oh, hello.  I’ll bet you thought that I forgot about you.  Well, I promise that I didn’t.  I have been appropriately guilt-ridden for not properly tending to this blog over the past few weeks (months), but frankly there are six other people who live in this house who have become increasingly demanding lately and they tend to yell and cry right in my face when I ignore them.  This blog just silently nags at me.  What with the squeaky wheel and all, appeasing the natives comes first.  Then I tend to collapse into my bed, exhausted.

I honestly can not believe the speed at which time is passing.  I feel like I’m living in some kind of crazy warp.  Every day I wake up and I blink and it is night.  I am trying to enjoy the little things and live in the moment and all of the stuff that they tell you to do in the country music songs, but it seems an impossible task when complete months are whizzing by me without fully registering.  For example, just last week I went to the bathroom and saw some blood and presumed I was dying rather than believe that four weeks had passed since my last period.  It in fact had, but it felt like there was just no way that was possible.

So I find myself re-adjusting my daily schedule.  I am playing virtually no video games and I hardly even recognize the Atlanta Housewives anymore (Kim’s son is probably in high school now, for all I know).  Santa brought me P90X2 for Christmas (by the way, he and the pleasantly plump Mrs. are on the Biggest Loser this season, which is totally freaking my younger kids out) and I have been working out almost every day as well.  The kids’ sports and activities are back in full swing, as is school (picture me Tebowing for the short Winter Break).  But I love, love, love writing this blog, so I just have to make a few more adjustments so I can fit it back into my daily life.  Or I have to invent some kind of machine that can create more hours in the day.  I should get Sheepdog working on that.

Did you see the game last night? This kid is something special.

I think it was Kid C that noticed me mumbling something one day as I was walking from the kitchen out to the garage.  She was waiting for me in the car because I had to drive her somewhere.  As I climbed in to my seat she asked me, “Did you just whisper ‘BRB,’ and who were you talking to because the door is closed?”

For those of you who don’t text, or live in this century, or maybe still use a Palm device, I’ll explain that “BRB” is short for “be right back.”  And apparently I have been saying it to nobody in particular every time I go out for a while now.  I didn’t consciously realize I was saying it at all.

So I thought about it while I was driving around.  Maybe I was saying “BRB” to the house.  Maybe I was saying it to the people who were inside (although sometimes there were none).  But I’d really like to think that I was saying “BRB” to my blog.  Because I really do miss it.  And in my weird time warped existence, maybe I am just now getting right back.  So here’s to many more blog posts in 2012, and me finding the time to write them!

Also, effective immediately you can find This Is How I Do It at http://www.tihidi.com (the “wordpress” part is now unnecessary).  And some of you mentioned that you stopped getting notifications whenever I publish new posts.  Wordpress still can not figure that one out, but you can re-subscribe by entering your email at the top right of any page.  As always, thank you for reading and I hope you are enjoying the peek behind my curtain.

Wish me luck for tomorrow…

Over the River and Through the Woods

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

The holidays can mean different things to different people.

To the young child it may mean that their parents will dress them up and drag them all around town, and if they have been a good little boy or girl this year they might have a Hot Wheels wall track or a pink LeapPad Explorer waiting for them under the tree on Christmas morning, Santa willing.

Hey Santa! This is number one on my wish list... an inflatable remote control flying shark. Awesome, right?

To the young couple it means spending lots of time with each other’s relatives, usually with excess stress and excess food and excess alcohol, all the while making whispered promises to each other that their lives will never, ever resemble those with whom they share those inextricable genetic links.

To the parents of teenagers it may mean being able to enjoy the Christmas Eve church service without (as much) fear that it might be their child who drops the taper candle during the congregation’s rendition of “Silent Night,” thus setting a pew or a hymnal or an old lady’s wig on fire.

To the grandparents it may mean a renewed spirit, and seemingly new eyes through which they get to watch the next generation experience the innocence and unguarded joy of believing in flying animals and toy workshops and true, untainted Christmas magic.

I have been running around for the past month like a crazed (yes, even more than usual) lunatic, slowly but surely crossing things off my To-Do lists, which were constantly being extended and amended and created anew.  I have been planning and shopping and wrapping and baking and decorating.  Sheepdog has been traveling for work all month, right up until he flew home from California on the 22nd.  The kids have all participated in their classroom parties and team celebrations and gift exchanges.  Then yesterday the seven of us piled into the car and drove well over five hundred miles to be with Grandma and Grandpa in West Virginia.  We are all still swirling around, caught up in the glorious enchantment that reaches its pinnacle tomorrow morning.

This afternoon we will finally slow down as we come together to spend time with even more family.  Tonight we will watch a reenactment of the birth of Jesus at a family friendly church service in town.  Finally, when the kids are just about to burst with anticipation, Sheepdog will read ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas and everyone will eventually fall into bed.

In theory, Christmas is supposed to be about simplicity.  It is about Jesus being born in a stable.  You don’t get much more unelaborate than that.

In reality, Christmas is complicated and stressful and expensive and anxiety-ridden, especially in the weeks and days leading up to it.  But, if you are really lucky, you will also get to experience those moments of calm and peace and love and true magic that make Christmas such a wonderful time of the year.

Here’s to you and yours.  May your weekend be filled with the people and things that make you happy, even amidst the crazy.  Make sure that you take the time to stop and smell the Christmas cookies.  Joy to the World!

Why I Don’t Bring My Kids to the Grocery Store

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

I usually try to go to the grocery store while the kids are all in school.  Then there are days when I run out of something specific (usually wine) but my morning schedule does not allow for a grocery run, so I just take Kid E in with me after I pick him up from school.  Nick the Meat Guy, Bill the Deli Guy and all of the checkout ladies were shocked recently to hear that I have five kids.  They all thought I just had the one.  I was flattered at first (“NO WAY that you have five kids!”) but then I wondered who in the world they thought ate all of the food that I buy.  No joke that if Kroger had a Frequent Flyer program, I’d be going free and First Class to Fiji right now.

Anyway, attempting to the grocery store with one kid is not so bad.  I can even occasionally tolerate shopping with two kids in tow.  But three or more kids tagging along is clumsy and crowded and not ideal.  They all want stuff (“Can we puh-leeeeese get Lucky Charms?”) and try to push the cart (usually into a very tall and breakable display) and get all needy and have to go to the bathroom or lose one shoe somewhere along the way, thus wrecking my dream to ever get recruited by the Supermarket Sweep people.

So when I realized today that I was again out of wine I tried to go to the store early to stock up.  Unfortunately, I was at the salon all morning undergoing Step Two of a multi-step process by which I am becoming a redhead (a post for a different day), and I was unable to make it work.  I had to wait for Kids C and D to get off the elementary bus and then we all headed out for just a few things.

I don’t know if it was the full moon or that it is Friday or it is so close to Christmas or my kids are just weird, but it was complete chaos in the store and it ended with a fit of giggles on the car ride home.  It was actually a really fun time.  This is how they looked right before we unloaded our haul:

Wish me luck for tomorrow…

The House Where Christmas Threw Up

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

Let me start by saying that I am a modified Christmas traditionalist.  I believe in starting my shopping closer to December than August, and I make most of my purchases online.  I believe in putting up my fake Christmas tree after Thanksgiving.  I believe in putting money into a Salvation Army bucket every time I see one.  I believe that the Elf on the Shelf was cute and funny for one or two seasons max; by year three I wanted to take it out back and rub its face in some yellow snow.  I believe in Angel Trees, but I’m not even getting Beats by Dr. Dre headphones for my own kids.  I believe in opening my door for carollers, as long as they show up before we are in bed for the night (porch light on vs. porch light off… it is common sense, people).  Of course, I believe in Santa.  I believe in making (and eating) Christmas cookies together as a family while listening to Frank, Tony and Barbra singing the Christmas classics.  And I wholeheartedly believe that your decorations should reflect the way that you feel about the holiday season.

So my guess is that these people in my neighborhood hate Christmas.

Why else would they have all of that stuff in their front yard?  Is is a joke?  Maybe.  It is pretty funny.  Are they doing it ironically?  I just don’t get that hipster nonsense.  But maybe their next-door neighbors get it, because this is what is decorating their front lawn…

Only 18 days left until Christmas!  Hang in there, friends and neighbors.

Wish me luck for tomorrow…

In the Jungle, the Mighty Jungle

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

Yesterday morning I went into the shop for my annual lady parts check-up.  I can’t imagine that anyone would ever think of this as a fun thing to do, but I will let you in on a little secret.  I figured out a way to make the yearly pull back of the drapes not so awful.  First, you need to laugh out loud about the ridiculousness of it all.  Then you need to get a totally hot doctor.  Trust me, it makes a world of difference.

I have been going to the vaginacologist since my late teens.  My first one was a woman doctor in Philadelphia, and the only things I remember about that experience are that I went by myself, I wore jean overalls to the appointment (it was 1989, cut me some fashion slack), and I got my very first flat tire on the Atlantic City Expressway on the drive home.  I vaguely recall believing for a second that a police helicopter had landed upon my Honda CRX just after I passed through the Egg Harbor toll plaza (a la Goodfellas) and I figured they were coming to get me because I lied to the doctor about not having sex and needing birth control (that, apparently, is one of the things that Catholic high school guilt will do to you).

Now, after years of modesty-obliterating experiences… a vaginal delivery, four cesarean sections, a D&C procedure, three mammograms, trans-vaginal ultrasounds for every pregnancy and what seems like doctors putting everything short of a partridge in my pear tree, a simple annual exam should not faze me in the least.  Plus, it seems like every doctor I see is one of those teaching types who always has an entire boy scout troop following them around (presumably earning their pap smear badges).  So, at this point I am totally used to being naked on a table in front of a crowd.

Yet every year I get all sweaty and nervous as I sit in the chair and fill out my paperwork.  Then I get even more uneasy as I put on the paper vest and blanket (apparently it has more fashion staying power than the jean overalls) and stare at a poster of all of the possible types of uterine tumors while I wait for the nurse to come in.  Is this really the best time to take a blood pressure reading?

So I do my relaxation exercises and take deep, cleansing breaths and count backwards from ten and think of my happy place.  Then the hot doctor comes in and I feel better immediately.  Could it be that he is getting cuter?  Seriously, the man is really attractive.  I shake off the distraction and we catch up on our families and go over the standard medical stuff and he asks if there is anything I am concerned about.

I tell him about my recent weight gain and crazy mood swings and waking up in the middle of the night and not being able to go back to sleep.  He then asks me how old my mother was when she started menopause, and I tell him that he is not really that cute when he says mean things.  He rolls his eyes at me.  Then he says we should check my thyroid just in case and then he has me lie down on the table to begin the examination.

Hot Doc is totally feeling me up for a breast exam.  I am trying to be mature and maintain a professional tone, but there is this ornery part of me that always feels the uncontrollable need to say something.

“So, the one good thing about this stupid weight gain is that my boobs are totally huge now.  My husband sure isn’t complaining about that!” I say to no one in particular.  The regular nurse suppresses her laughter but the nurse-in-training at the foot of the table lets at least one giggle out before she composes herself.  Hot Doc just shakes his head.  The boy scouts titter and confirm to one another that I just said, “boobs.”

I hang on because I know we are almost at the grand finale… the internal exam.  Hot Doc is now situated between my legs with a miner’s hat and a tool that resembles a small post-hole digger.  Awesome.  I hate this part, especially because the lawyers make the docs say, “I am going to touch you now” before they start, which makes it super creepy.  It gets even more weird if the doctor makes small talk as he is nosing around down there.  Then, after the pap smear (oooh, I’m totally getting a bagel afterwards), just as Hot Doc is elbow-deep in my hoo-hah and palpating my abdomen, somebody’s phone starts to ring.

In my next life I want to come back as a lion. Nap in the sun. Eat a big steak. Repeat.

We-de-de-de, de-de-de-de-de-de, we-um-um-a-way
We-de-de-de, de-de-de-de-de-de, we-um-um-a-way

A wimoweh, a-wimoweh a-wimoweh, a-wimoweh
A wimoweh, a-wimoweh a-wimoweh, a-wimoweh
A wimoweh, a-wimoweh a-wimoweh, a-wimoweh
A wimoweh, a-wimoweh a-wimoweh, a-wimoweh

Awkward silence.

Once again the ornery in me takes control and I blurt out, “Well, it’s a good thing that I shaved this morning.  Otherwise I would be totally offended by that ringtone.”

Hot Doc actually had to put down his tools and step out of the room for a minute.  He was still wiping away laughing tears when he returned and said to me, “I’m sorry, but that was by far the funniest thing I have ever heard while sitting in this position.”

Hot Doc definitely loves me back.

Wish me luck for tomorrow…

I Like Sir Mix-A-Lot

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

I was cleaning off the kitchen table after breakfast on Saturday morning.  It was just me and Kid A and both of the boys.  Sheepdog and Kid B were at another soccer tournament in Tucker, GA, and Kid C had a sleepover at Nanny’s house the night before and hadn’t gotten back yet.  I was planning my day out loud.  I needed to schedule a run (even though when you run as slowly as I do it is technically called a “walk”) and I was trying to get myself excited about it.

“Well,” I began, “Yesterday marked exactly three months until Daddy and I go to Mexico on our vacation.”

“That’s nice,” said six-year-old Kid D.  At least somebody in the room was listening to me and my stream-of-consciousness ramblings.  Although he was very engrossed in NCAA football, so he may have been talking to the television and not to me.  Or his father has already taught him to always acknowledge the sound of a woman’s voice, even if it was in that “Sure, I’m paying attention to you” way.

I continued, “… and I am not planning on taking this big butt on our trip, so I need to fit in a run-slash-walk and then I’m going to do some P90X.”

Kid D was all of a sudden clearly paying attention to me (presumably because I said the word “butt”).  He put down the remote and came over to me in the kitchen.  “Mom, you have to bring your butt with you.  How else are you going to sit down?” he inquired.

I clarified, “I am still bringing a butt on the trip, just not this great, big one.  It will be a smaller version of my current butt.”

None of my other kids in the room said a word.  And either Kid D totally understood me, or his father has also already taught him how to navigate the DANGER! DANGER! that can often result when women are discussing their weight.

“Well, I already think you’re beautiful, mom,” said my loving, angelic, currently ranked #1 son.  I was both proud of his compassion and flattered by his compliment.

Then the dumb boy added, “But I think it’s great that you’re finally getting skinny because big butts don’t really fit on airplane seats.”

Then he gave me a hug and went right back to watching College Game Day live from Houston.  Oh, how quickly they can fall out of favor.

Wish me luck for tomorrow…

Nothing But Socks and Underwear

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

I know that I have been a little obsessed with sleep lately, but that is mostly because I was not getting a whole lot of it.  I liken it to the forbidden fruit.  Great, now I’m craving apples and a nap.  Fortunately, things seem to be moving in the right direction for us in the sleep department.  Finally.

As you know, I had tried almost everything to get Kid E to stay in bed.  His most recent major complaint was that the night “is a very, very, very long time” and he was “getting bored with it.”  Whenever I took the positive reinforcement route and said that I just knew he was going to have a good night, he would assure me that he planned to “try (his) best,” which of course was code for “see you at 3 a.m.”  This kid plays dirty and is wicked smart, so I finally decided that I was going to have to fight fire with fire.

I played the Santa Claus card.

Inspiration hit me last week when the Target Holiday Toy Sale catalog arrived in the mail.  Kid E started going through it page by page and he told me he wanted everything.  Except for the pink pages because, apparently, he is a very manly four-year-old.  He pointed to each and every boy toy in the book and said, “…and I want this and this and this.  OH!  And I want this too.  This is so so so cool.”  Even when I pointed out that we had one of the toys, just in a different color (not pink), he insisted that he needed it.  He was already becoming brainwashed by commercials and catalogs.

I started to remind him that Christmas is supposed to be about giving and not just gimme! gimme! gimme! and then I had a brilliant idea.

I mean, really, what kid is going to take the chance?

“That’s a great wish list that you’ve got going there so far.  We’ll have to be sure to write it all down and send it in a letter to Santa at the North Pole,” I began.  I noticed his eyes lighting up so I sold it even harder,”… and we can ask him about his reindeer and the elves and if he is ready for his long trip on Christmas Eve.  And then we can tell him how big you are getting and how good you have been lately.  We can tell him that you have been sleeping through the night and…”

Kid E’s face fell.  I knew that I had him.  I just had to bring it on home.

“Oh no,” I said.  “That won’t work, will it?  Since you keep getting out of bed, either at bedtime or in the middle of the night, we can’t really tell Santa that you have been very good this year, can we?  And do you know what Santa brings for little kids who aren’t very good?  No toys.  No games.  No treats.”

Kid E had heard something from someone before.  “Coal.  Santa brings coal to bad kids, right?” he said with despair.

I had told the older kids the coal story for years.  I even have a bag of coal that I keep in with the Christmas decorations so they run across it every year when we break out the boxes.  The story goes that Sheepdog was really bad one year (he was eighteen and the dummy went out and got an earring and a tattoo), so Santa brought him nothing but coal that Christmas.  The moral of that story: don’t be an idiot teenager.  But I was now dealing with a toddler and I needed more firepower.

I held a steady face and continued, “Sometimes Santa does not even bring coal.  Sometimes for the bad little kids he brings just socks.  Socks and underwear.  And not even the fun underwear with Nemo or Buzz Lightyear or skulls and crossbones on them.  He just brings tighty whiteys and tube socks.  And they’re not even wrapped.”

When I looked into Kid E’s horrified, big eyes, I saw fear like I have never seen before.  I had a twinge of guilt for causing him such panic, but I quickly remembered that he had brought it upon himself and I was slowly turning into a zombie.  The madness had to end.  I needed to sleep through the night.

Now, every night after Sheepdog reads him a book and tucks him into his comfy bed, I tiptoe in to kiss him and say goodnight and before I leave the room I whisper softly, “Socks and underpants, little man.  Stay in bed.  I love you.”

Mmm-mmm-mmm, this is a very good apple.

Wish me luck for tomorrow…

More of an Indoor Girl

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

Our family is composed of both extremes when it comes to the inside vs. outside debate.  I would live in a penthouse in the city if I could make it work with five kids; Sheepdog would live outside in a treehouse were it not called “homeless.”  Kid A loves taking pictures of things in nature; Kid B enjoys watching moving pictures on television.  Kid C leaps into the pile of leaves before she looks; Kid D wants to learn all of the facts about the tree on the internet first.  But both of them are up for almost anything in the out-of-doors, while Kid E complains about every last aspect of it.  Yet every once in a while the planets align and we nay-sayers cry uncle and we head out as a family to some remote place where the county flower is poison ivy but the views are spectacular and the air is piney (and DEET-scented) and we are all humbled by the awesomeness of nature.

This weekend we traveled to Tallulah Falls State Park for a picnic and some hiking and to watch the kayakers navigate the gorge.  It was perfect fall weather (sunny in the high 50s) and the leaves in northeast Georgia are experiencing extreme chlorophyll-deficiency, so the residual colors left us breathless.  An added bonus was that Georgia Power floods the dam every weekend in November so the crazies can ride the rush in their little boats of death (insane to do but extremely cool to watch).  The drive took over an hour and most of the kids watched “The Princess Bride” while Sheepdog and I talked uninterrupted like civilized people.  Almost before we knew it, we had arrived at a little cliff-side viewing spot/ antique store/ BBQ restaurant.

After a quick stop in the restroom, I was immediately approached by a bearded man holding a deep pot on the end of a five-foot pole.

“Bald penis?” he asked of me and the girls.  Sheepdog was still in the bathroom.

I protectively put my arms around the kids and moved them all behind me.  Simultaneously, my brain was calculating possible situational outcomes and I quickly realized upon looking into the pot that he was not some local pervert trying to harass the tourists.  He was offering us a soggy, cooked, traditional Georgia snack.

I honestly believe I might never figure out the whole deep-southern accent thing.  It throws me for a loop every time.  P.S.  Boiled peanuts are kind of gross.

The view from 1,000 feet

We checked out the view and decided to get back into the car so we could find the place where we could hike down the trails closer to the raging water.  It was conveniently just down the road as bellies were starting to grumble all around us.  We paid a minimal five dollars to park and soon set up our picnic lunch in a field next to some rocks.  They were perfect for sitting against or upon and also for having Kid E jump off and climb, thus guaranteeing that I would have indigestion for the remainder of the day.  Fortunately, no one got hurt during the meal and soon we were off, with nothing but a trail map, five kids, two adults, a backpack/kid carrier, a full water bottle, three pairs of extra sunglasses, sunscreen, bug spray, some light jackets, a packet of wipes, a couple of iPhones and a 35mm SLR camera.  Ah, the simplicity of nature!

First, we walked up from the information center to a place called Inspiration Point.  I was hopeful that this was more of a spiritual moniker as opposed to a carnal one.  I mean, hadn’t the peanut guy contributed enough depravity for one day?  Fortunately there were just a bunch of other people with cameras and dogs and walking sticks up there.  While at the point we got to see the remains of one of the towers that Karl (“The Great/ Flying”) Wallenda used to tightrope walk across the quarter-mile-wide gorge in 1970.  Crazy.  But the views were phenomenal, especially with my family safely behind the protective viewing fence.

After that we hiked down the mountain back past the main parking area and then continued on our downward trek toward the suspension bridge that sits just 80 feet above the rocky bottom, providing spectacular views of the river and waterfalls below.  To get there you have to climb down a little more than 300 grated metal stairs.  And unless you want to live out the remainder of your days like a troll under the bridge, you also have to climb back up.  Easier said than done.

By this point in the day we had hiked quite a way and some of the kids were getting tired.  But we didn’t drive all the way out here to hike just the easy part!   Kid E had toughed it out with minimal complaining and walked most of the trails so far, but he was definitely ready to ride in the backpack carrier for the remainder of our excursion.   Being no dummy, I offered to wear/ carry him down the steps.  It was no big deal except that after the first few sections I had to ask him to please stop chanting, “We are going DOWN the steps.  WE are going down the steps.  We ARE going down the steps.  We are going down the STEPS.”  He did not.

I then felt zero guilt when I asked Sheepdog to take his turn carrying Kid E on the way back up.  Even without a person on my back those steps were hard.  I refused to stop on the little resting benches.  I was panting like a dog.  To add insult to injury, Kid D ran the whole way back up.  Show off.  At least I beat most of the old people.  I considered it a great day all around.

If you pick 'em up, O Lord, I'll put 'em down. - Author Unknown, "Prayer of the Tired Walker"

The whole family had a fantastic time.  I even look forward to the next time we get back to the woods.  Maybe Sheepdog can make a nature lover out of this indoor girl yet!

Wish me luck for tomorrow…