Counting the Laughs

I was afraid this was going to happen. Start blogging again, then after two weeks, can't think of anything else to say. I must admit, since my girls don't live here anymore, half of my material walked out the door with them. They were always making me laugh. Not that Trey and Tary don't make me laugh, cuz they do, but at the moment I am drawing a blank as to the last time they made me laugh.


In my pursuit for funny, I've decided to count the number of times I laugh every day instead of calories. Not that I ever counted calories, but I should. I've decided laughs are easier to count, are more fun and good for you too. Laugher reduces stress and it's a great exercise for the abdominals.   Did you know that an average 5 year old laughs over 400 times a day? By the time we reach adulthood, that number shrivels down to just 14 times a day.


That number seems a little high to me, unless you're a mother of 5 children, all under the age of 7. I think it was a requirement in the pre-existence to have a good sense of humor in order to qualify for large families. I figure any woman with more than 5 children would have to laugh a lot, or cry a lot, in order to keep her sanity. Unless she wasn't sane to begin with, which explains why she had 5 children under the age of 7 in the first place. My mom had 7 children, and she was always laughing, it was my dad who was always crying, but that's another subject for another post.


So I did have a good laugh the other day. It was quite unexpected as most good laughs are. The sad part of the story, is that I was in a room full of people, and I was the only one laughing. Embarrassing, I know. And it was while I was exercising, not the most appropriate place to start laughing, in a room full of middle-age, middle weight women doing dance moves to Beyonce'.


It happened during Jazzercise. I was in the home stretch of the workout and we were working our arms with the resistance bands. Now my arms have always been the weakest part of my body, just ask my gymnastics teacher. I never could master the back-handspring because my arms always gave out on me and I would end up on my head. Anyway, standing on the bands with both arms extended above my head, we were doing bicep presses, keeping the triceps at the side of the head, and lowering the forearm to the side of your ear, then pushing it back up past the head. I was really kicking it through the first set of reps, but by the second go-around, as I stretched the bands above my head, my arms rebelled. They started to move to the beat of the song, the problem was, we weren't dancing, we were weight lifting (no weights, just bands. But it still kicks your...muscles) Raised above my head, they started shaking like a leaf, those little muscles that I had been working so hard to get decided they didn't want to get bigger and shook off any resistance I was trying to give them.
My arms refused to cooperate. I was trying to stretch my spastic arms into the proper upright position, but my elbows had to get in on the action as well and insisted on bending to the beat.


Being so close to my head, I could feel them jiggle as I struggled in my attempt. It was like having a twitch in your eye, or a leg spasm, they just kept shaking as if they were doing the mambo.
I wasn't sure what to do...is it safe to push the limits even when you're arms are about to shake out of their sockets? I persisted, but between my funky chicken arms dancing and the thought of what the ladies behind me were witnessing, I couldn't help myself and started to laugh, and laugh, and laugh.
My instructor threw me a strange look and I'm sure I made her second guess her technique because she quickly changed to a new move. I lucked out, since laughing and lifting don't go hand in hand. The music was blaring, so my belly laughs were not heard and therefore not reciprocated by the others. I was the lone laugher.


But hey, at least my abs got a great workout!

To my children...Thank you!

I find it ironic as I was reading thru my past posts and came across my come-back post a year ago (I had good intentions) and saw how I described returning to the blog world much like doing a cartwheel after years of tumbling inactivity. It's ironic because just yesterday I was outside with Paisley, my 3 year old grand-daughter, and was trying to teach her how to do a cartwheel. "It's easy" I said, "just watch Grandma". Arms up, leg outstretched, toes pointed, and go...and go...go...c'mon, just do it! What are you afraid of? Honestly, I was afraid my weak arms would buckle, I would land on my head, or at the very least that my legs wouldn't be perfectly straight and upright. Eventually I worked up the nerve and did not one, but two cartwheels. I don't know how pretty they were, but I was thrilled to come out of it without grass stains on my face.


That's how I'm feeling about returning to the blogging world. As you may have noticed, I actually blogged last week, but I didn't tell anyone, for fear that it would set expectations that I wouldn't be able to live up to. What will I blog about every week? What if I run out of thoughts? What if I announce a comeback, then don't blog for another year, (oh wait, already did that one). What if I fall on my face?


Like my cartwheel, I'm just going to plunge in and hope I don't look too foolish in the end. So today, being Mothers day, I thought I would share some thoughts on motherhood.


Sometimes I think our culture has it all wrong. I've often thought that on birthdays, children should shower their mothers with gifts for giving birth to them; after all, we're the ones who spent hours in painful labor to bring them into the world. Why do the kids get the presents and the cake? Why does everyone send out well wishes and sing songs to them, yet not one word of acknowledgement goes to the mother. You never hear, "Happy Birthday! Way to go! I hear you spent 15 hours in labor with Johnnie and no epidural! A 9-pounder too, great job! Here, you deserve some cake."


On Mothers Day, I think it would be appropriate to give gifts to our children for making us mothers; after all, if it weren't for them, no one would call us Mom. As mothers, we should wake up early and make breakfast for our children, oh wait, we do that every day.


We should shower them with love and attention and tell them how wonderful they are! Oh wait, we do that every day too.


Well, we should dip our hands into paint, press them on construction paper, and write a poem:




"These tired hands have worked for you,
doing those things that all mothers do.
We cook, we clean, we sometimes sew
we fake through homework we ought to know.


These hands have wiped away the tears
and in the night have quieted fears.


They've held you close when very small,
and held your hand so you wouldn't fall.
And through the years those hands let go
so you can learn and you can grow.


And so my child, on this Mother's Day,
my hands have much they would like to say.


"Thank you for the sticky walls,
mud on the carpet, the crayon down the hall.
Thank you for dumping your clothes on the floor,
as you tried on ten outfits and emptied your drawer.


Without you child, these hands would be bored.
No wiping snot noses or spilt milk from the floor.
No costumes to make every Halloween
or productions to put on for the nativity scene.


Without you child, these hands would never know
the wringing from worry, the pain of letting go.
These hands have held you from the very start,
and whether near or far, you'll always be in my heart.


Thank you Chelsea, for making me a Mother. Thank you Kayla, for showing me that I can love the second as much as the first. Thank you Trey, for proving that not all little boys are terrors, and for letting me keep you little for as long as I can. Thank you all for exceeding my expectations of Motherhood. I have cherished and loved (almost) every minute. You make me proud to be your mother and I love you all dearly.
Happy Thanks-for-making-me-a-Mother Day.
(Sorry Mom, your tribute post will have to wait till your birthday!)

Laughter is the Best Medicine

Tary went to Vegas last weekend for a softball tournament, and all he brought me back was this lousy cold. Nice guy. I would have rather had the t-shirt. He did make dinner tonight so I could rest on the couch with my book, so when I called him a nice guy, I wasn't being sarcastic or anything; he really is a nice guy and feels just awful about giving me his cold.

I feel like I have been sick a lot this year. Every time I've been around someone who is sick, I end up with their same ailment. So as I've been pondering today about how I could make someone else feel better, I've thought a lot about laughter and how perhaps a smile a day could keep the doctor away. Is that why I've been so sick this year? I haven't had enough laughter in my life? Blogging used to force me to find the funny. Not that I haven't laughed in 2 years, but I've been busy. Doing what, I couldn't tell you, but whatever it was it has kept me busy. Too busy to laugh, and now I'm sick again.

Sounding like a man with a husky voice does have it's advantages though. Yesterday, when the RS president called and told me a sister in the ward whom I supposedly visit every month has cancer, my already choked up voice and strained vocal chords didn't give me away as the tears streamed silently down my face. Knowing I would have lost it when I saw her today in church, I was able to use my sickness as an excuse to stay home and not get anyone else sick, especially her.

I've been thinking about her all day, wondering what could I do to help her. If I were Patch Adams, I would heal her through laughter. You've probably seen or at least heard of Patch Adams, but he wasn't the first to discover laughter's healing powers.

Norman Cousins was the editor of Saturday Review for over 30 years, and was the author of a
number of books including ‘Anatomy of an illness.’ But what he is most remembered for is being the man who laughed himself to wellness.


He was diagnosed with Anklyosing Spondylitis, a collagen illness that attacks the connective tissues of the body.


While hospitalized, he began to research the effects of stress on the body and found that it could destroy one’s immune system. He read about the theory that negative emotions are harmful to the body, so he thought that if negative emotions were detrimental to health, then positive emotions should improve health.


He checked himself out of the hospital and into a hotel suite. He hired a nurse who read humorous stories and played Marx Brothers movies for him non-stop. The treatment proved to be so effective that in very little time Cousins was off all painkillers and sleeping pills. He found that 10 minutes of laughter could lead to one hour that was pain-free.


Laughter releases endorphins that are more powerful than morphine. These endorphins can lead to a sense of well-being and optimism. In 1989, it was finally acknowledged in the Journal of the American Medical Association that laughter therapy could help improve the quality of life for patients with chronic illness and that laughter has an immediate symptom relieving effect.


I don't think the Marx Brothers would do it for me, but I few funny youtube videos of giggling babies will give me an endorphin fix for a week.
Isn't it incredible that Heavenly Father created these bodies for us that can help us heal ourselves if we allow it to! He doesn't want us to be sad, or stressed, or miserable, even when life can be sad, stressful and miserable. He wants us to find joy in the journey and look for the positive in any situation.

So here it is...the funny fact of being sick:


The other night I had a coughing fit that semi-woke me up. As I was trying to doze back to sleep, a buzzing sound tickled my hear. I kept swatting at it in my semi-conscious mind, thinking it was a fly buzzing around my ear. It would go away, then return seconds later. I remember thinking it was strange to have flies in the house already and didn't recall seeing any, but I folded my pillow around my head to cover both ears then turned on my side and fell asleep.


Last night I was struggling again with my cough and was having a hard time falling asleep. Suddenly, my pesky little fly friend was back, buzzing in my ear. Only this time, I was fully awake enough to realize it wasn't a fly at all, it was my husband! My poor wheezing, squeaking husband! It sounded as though he had swallowed a squeak toy, and every time he took a breath, a slow little whiny squeak  would leak out of his airpipe.
Visions of Wheezy from Toy Story popped into my mind, and it made me laugh to think of my husband as the grown-up version of Wheezy, the toy afraid of being thrown away because his squeaker was broken and he squeaked every time he talked, with a lisp I might add. Not that my husband spoke with a lisp, but his squeaking took on a melodical harmonious eeeehhh-aaahhh sound that made me wonder if he had swallowed not one, but two squeak toys.


Poor Tary, here he was just trying to get enough air into lungs, and I was trying unsuccessfully to suppress my giggles. Of course, trying to hold them in just made me laugh more, which caused me to cough more, which resulted in both of us not being able to sleep. Sadly, he didn't find any humor in the situation and didn't agree that a new nickname was in order. Too bad.






Good night my loyal readers. Good night my dear friend. Good night my little Squeaker.