Janelle Evans

In the movie Tangled, is a horse named Maximus.  The animal may have four legs, but his behavior matches my youngest child to a tee.  Just as Maximus allows others to ride him when he feels like it, my strong-willed son allows me to be mommy when it suits him.  As you can guess, it’s pretty easy to find myself at odds with him, often at the worst, and most public of times.       

This week’s meltdown happened in the grocery store.  While checking out, my son kept putting his face near the bagging turnstile, delaying the cashier in her efforts to move us through the line efficiently.  Repeatedly, I said, “Please, step back.  You’re going to get hit.”  About the fifth time, I didn’t bother with words.  I physically moved him out of the way.

 “Mommy’s a stupid head,” he said, wrenching his arm from my grasp.  And there you go, I’d reached my limit for the day.  This mommy didn’t want to play anymore. 

If you’re wondering where he would learn such words, just watch Lilo &Stich, a Disney cartoon.  Besides being stubborn, my son also makes a great parrot.

I compressed my lips together, dredging up my last ounce of patience.  “Your candy, is mine.” 

You see, I have a rule when I grocery shop with children, if they’re good and stay with me, they can pick out a piece of candy at checkout.  Up to that point, he had done pretty well, but that little mouth of his just blew the “good” part of the rule.

Most children would tear up here, he didn’t.  “I want my candy,” he demanded.  Since I don’t keep sweets in my house, this was a bribe he dearly liked.

In the middle of the store, my “no” set off a firestorm of screaming that I dare say rivaled most horror flicks.  With a strained, embarrassed smile for the masses looking on, I sighed and thought to myself, “Yep, this one’s mine.”

That night, before bed, after enduring the delightful forty-minute tantrum and stripping him of every blanket and toy he held dear, I knelt with him while he prayed.  Mind you, I don’t prompt what he says.  Mister independent has to do everything by himself.

“Heavenly Father, I sorry I naughty.  Mommy not a stupid—I mean—that word.  Please, I be good, so she love me again…”  Distracted by my welling tears and sniffles the rest of his prayer eluded me. 

Yes, my youngest son is a challenge I sometimes wonder if I’ll survive, but inside his obstinate exterior is a special boy.  Whose strength of character, with a little—okay, a lot of temperance, will make a great leader.  How can I possibly know that, you ask?  Because, “This one’s mine,” and he’s even more stubborn than I was at that age.

On Friday, my husband drove our family out of the Las Vegas Valley for the final time.   All our worldly possessions were already packed and gone, on their way to our new home in Wyoming, yet I kept craning my neck trying to memorize the skyline behind me. 

I had initially thought, like many others I have met, our move to Las Vegas would be a temporary one.  Nine years later, I had long given up on the notion of leaving.  Sure, the summers were miserably hot, but the friends my family and I made in the valley were worth every sweltering day.  Unfortunately, I couldn’t pack them up as well, but their example and the knowledge they shared are like a residue on my life that can’t be washed off.  And my aching heart is grateful because of it.

It’s uncanny how often people have come into my life in the exact moment I need them.  Sometimes those intersections were fleeting.  Like a year ago, a woman brought her children to the park, and through a friendly conversation, I uncovered important information that changed the plot of the second book in the trilogy I was writing.  Just a passing chitchat, but it saved me from a huge plot mistake that would have taken weeks to fix.  Even more amazing, I’ve never seen her since. 

This traveling into the unknown isn’t nearly as stressful as it was nine years ago, and it’s because of the Vegas Valley people.  I didn’t just leave there a better person, I left knowing everything I’ve gained should be shared with others.  So, look out Wyoming, ready or not here I come. 

Thank you to all my friends in Henderson and Las Vegas.  If I started listing names, we would be here all day.  God be with you ‘till we meet again.

I don’t know about you, but I find moving to be an exhausting, pain-in-the-butt experience.  The phone calls, the emails, the checking and rechecking dates just to get ourselves from point A to B takes an enormous amount of coordinating.     

In an effort to ease the stress when moving day arrives in two weeks, I decided to thin the stuff in our home.  You wouldn’t believe what I found—match box cars reproducing all by themselves!  I kid you not.  I’ve only ever bought four, and that was years ago for my oldest son, yet these little buggers have somehow multiplied into more than fifty—they’re like rabbits I tell you.  And they’re not happy about being thinned out—correction—my youngest is not happy about them being thinned out, but good grief!  Do we really need fifty? 

My seven-year-old daughter has more jewelry than I do, and once again, I didn’t buy it.  Sure, it’s the plastic, costume kind, but if it’s coming from a boy, he and my husband are going to have a talk.  Aw…fine, I guess since we’re moving 1000 miles away, maybe we’ll let it slide this time, but you better believe I’ll be keeping a closer watch on that bucket she keeps on top of her dresser.

Scraps of paper, books, magazines, little doodads of every kind, my kids had things tucked away everywhere.  And all along the way as I un-tucked and chucked, they cried, “No, no, I can’t live without.”

What I want to know is how did it happen?  How did an orderly, clean person like me have such pack rats for children?  Then I look on my disheveled desk, heaped with papers and creative thoughts I’m afraid to throw away, and realize I’m just as bad as them. (Sigh)

“You write, have a daycare, constantly volunteer in your community.  Yet, your house is clean and you seem so put together.  How do you do it?” People have asked me on more than one occasion.  “If they only knew,” I think to myself.  I’m like everyone else; surrounded with to-do-lists and endless demands.  Yet, I have found a way to muddle through the chaos that works for me. 

I’m a visual person, so imagine staring at hundreds of little compartments: cooking, cleaning (Wait, I break those down into jobs: mopping, dusting…), writing, children, husband, treasurer…okay so there are thousands.  Don’t panic!  The number of compartments doesn’t matter.  I only work with one compartment at a time, except for the children compartment.  They refuse to stay contained in their little box I designed for them.  They climb (literally) over and into everything else.  Thankfully, they have to pass out sometime, which is why I write in the middle of the night and nap time.

If you’re thinking right now, “Ugh! I have a headache,” trust me I’ve had those too, but understand I don’t open every compartment everyday. 

Each morning, I scan my compartments and make a list in my head.  The “must do(s)” go first, followed by the “should do(s)”, then sprinkle in “if I have time do(s)” at the end.  For example, checking my email and facebook is a once a day “must do”, but to return a second time is a “if I have time do.” 

Now, the tricky, and most important part, is allocating how much time I spend on each “do”.  Be honest with yourself.  For example, if you know it takes an hour to do your hair and makeup, fifteen minutes to do your children’s hair, and thirty minutes to feed them, don’t wake up every morning trying to get your kids to school and you to work in only an hour.  Oh, I can hear the groans now.  “I like my sleep.”  Fine, then go to bed earlier.  The reality is, to be organized takes discipline.  I guarantee you’ll feel a lot less stress, and have to do a lot less yelling, if you’ll give yourself the proper time for each “do” in your life.  I have used this system since high school and it never ceases to amaze me how much I can accomplish in one day by adhering to it.

Side note: After flying to meet the company, we were offered the job.  At the same time a local company has asked for an interview, so I still don’t know for sure whether we are moving or staying.  At least I know for sure, we will have a job when my husband’s current contract ends. Yeah!!!!