The definition of “stand-up comedy”.

Jack came home from school today with an Accident Report. These reports generally contain things like:

“Incident: Scraped his knee on the playground.

Action taken: Cleaned and applied a band-aid.”

Jack’s report however went something like this:

“Incident: Jack was using the potty in Room A when he went to stand up. Apparently he then put his foot down right on his underwear. Grabbing his shorts, but not his underpants, he proceeded to yank his shorts high - while leaving his underwear still underneath his foot. At this point he must have remembered he needed to flush. He probably tried to take a step around toward the toilet when his underwear wrapped around his leg, causing him to fall and hit his head on the toilet. He was found on the floor next to the potty with his underwear around his ankles, his shorts around his waist, and a knot on his head.

Action taken: Applied ice and did our best not to let him see us laugh.”

My Great Aunt Darlene turned 80 years old this year.

Has she taken up knitting and grabbing the shuttle to Casino Arizona with her buddies? No, she has not. Instead she hopped on an international flight looking for adventure.

This spring Darlene spent 12 weeks in Costa Rica with a volunteer organization, living in a dorm with people 1/4 her age, teaching and loving less fortunate children.

I could go on and on about how proud I am to be related to such a strong, accomplished and sweet lady. But I cannot tell her story for her.

For more information on her adventure in Costa Rica, please visit her article here; and for a narrated slideshow of pictures, click here.

More articles and information will be coming out soon, so check back here again and I will post updates as they come. It’s a great personal story of spirit over age, and will hopefully inspire others to overcome their fears and reach out a hand of help themselves.

Darlene with Az. Congressman J. D. Hayworth in Washington, D.C. 2006

My 5-year-old son Nick is becoming a man under my nose. His behaviors have become such a mystery to me lately that I made a trip to Barnes and Noble in search of help. I came home with a book called “Raising a Son” by Don & Jeanne Elium.It reads a little bit like stereo instructions, but it has so far helped me to at least understand why he does some of the things he does, even if I haven’t been able to modify them yet. I’ve only gotten a quarter into the book, but the most important point it has made to me so far is that his pushing me away is a necessary (and painful) part of growing into a man. I’m still supposed to be here nurturing, encouraging and molding him into a caring boy; but at the same time he is seeking out time to be with any older male in the vicinity. This is a crucial time in his life in which he will discover what it is to be a healthy, successful man in this world. I can understand this need, and try to create opportunities for this growth.

But it is difficult as his mother that there is nothing I can do to aid in this process. I can only stand strong against his growing maleness and it’s predisposition to inflict damage and mayhem to my daughter, my home and my pets. He hits when he is bored. He throws random objects around the house for fun. He inflicts pain to himself and others for his own amusement. Needless to say, he spends a lot of time in time-out.

Today was no different and when Mom and Emma were busy with a project, he deemed it time to bop his sister in the eyeball with his teddy bear. This being the last in a long string of similar actions today, I sent him to his room.

After a decent amount of time, I headed upstairs to retrieve him. Gearing up to give another long lecture on why we do not hit each other, he spoke up first.

“Mom, I’m sorry I hit Emma.”

“You are, hunny? I’m glad to hear that.”

“Yeah. God told me that He doesn’t want me to hit anymore. So I’m not going to hit anymore.”

“God told you that? Did He talk to you?”

“Yes. He talked to my heart. He told me that He doesn’t like us to hit and that we need to obey His commands. So I’m going to obey Him from now on.”

And with nothing more to say on the subject, he smiled peacefully and left the room.

Now I am left wondering what God has been trying to tell my own heart lately. It could be that I just need to be quiet and let it speak for itself sometimes.

With small children in the house my entire day has been broken down into tiny increments.

“Time Out, Emma. Three minutes.”

“One more minute Jack and it’s Nick’s turn with the motorcycle.”

“Nick, you can play in the fort for three more minutes and then it’s Emma’s turn.”

“Mommy! Can you help me put on my princess dress?!” “Sure honey, just a minute.”

There are also larger increments at play, but sometimes these activities drag out so long over the period of a day that you feel as if you could watch the minute hand make it’s way around the clock.Jack is at my house for 540 minutes a day. I’m in the kitchen for 120 minutes a day. My children are in time-out for 27 minutes per day. I pick up the floor for 90 minutes a day. A load of wash takes 19 minutes and the dryer takes 31. My dog can only handle 3 minutes outside before her fur spontaneously combusts. My cat will only allow approximately .5 minutes after your feet hit the floor in the morning before he begins to cry for food. Macaroni takes 7.5 minutes to cook. Spongebob runs in 11 minute increments with a small break in-between.

I don’t bother to wear a watch anymore because I’ve now got an innate sense of time. When I was a child I used to admire the fact that my father could look up at the sun and tell me what time is was within 10 minutes of accuracy. Now I think that he might have been having a little fun with his gullible child. He probably just knew that it was 10 after 1:00 because lunch had been over for half an hour, my brother and I had fought for the obligatory 10 minutes about who had to clean up, and we’d just spent 5 minutes in our rooms cooling off. Voila! 10 minutes past 1:00.

Perhaps if I could get this schedule down to a science I could begin to head off the trouble times before they began. Maybe if I separated the children at exactly 9:47 each morning, we would never have to have the “Nick pushed me down and Jack won’t play with me” whine and fuss fest that inevitably happens.

Well, would you look at the time? Only 292 minutes until dinner.

It’s become tradition for us to invite all of our friends over to watch the Mesquite High School fireworks from our backyard, and this year was no different. Except for the lack of fireworks, that is.

Can anyone tell me why Mesquite didn’t come through this year? And why I kept my children and everyone else hostage past 10pm with empty promises of “Oh, I’m sure they’ll start any minute. Any minute now. Annnnny minute now.”? That’s not embarrassing or anything, really.

Next year I guess we’re actually going to have to leave the house to see some free fireworks. How very un-american that will be.