One of the Stupidest Things I've Ever Done

***Now before you read this--I'm not saying you shouldn't do fun things with your kids--I'm just saying, be careful with what fun things you choose to do with your kids.***

(These photos are from a couple of Sunday ago, where our afternoon activities were chosen a bit more wisely)

After a wonderful weekend that included a date with Phil and uplifting Stake Conference meetings, we found ourselves in our usual spot on Sunday afternoons: the couch.

We figured after our kids' twentieth plea to go play we thought we should make an effort to be decent parents and, I dunno, take them outside or something.

So we decided to go to the park. An easy fun-loving activity perfect for a late summer day. We even walked the block and a half to get there because we're just so spontaneous like that.

And apparently the spontaneity was catching because the park we were at has a lot of hills and Hazel and I found ourselves atop one of these said hills. Hazel began squeaking out some sounds of apphrehension about walking down the steep terrain so being the adventerous mother I am, instead of picking her up or taking her hand, I told her:

Lets roll down the hill! 
          
(stupid, stupid, stupid)

And then I proceeded to lay in the grass perpendicular to the slope to perform what in my head was going to be a very simple demonstration.

Now, it's important to note here, that even though it had probably been a decade (maybe even more) since I had done such a shenanigan--I don't know if it was that the hills I used to roll on just weren't that steep, I don't know--but I had this vision of me doing two or three rolls then, happily sitting up to show my baby girl how fun it was and then see if she wanted to try it. It was one of those rare moments in life, I threw caution to the wind and embraced that fun-loving, carefree mom who spends her days running in fields of wildflowers with her children.

So I went for it.

By the third roll, it was clear I wasn't going anywhere but down that hill. I tried to stop, to sit up (ya know so I could show Hazel how much fun I was having), but I'm pretty sure at this point I was measuring about 8 G's down what felt like to be a never-ending cliff. Everything inside me was churning. All of the parts outside me (that didn't used to be there a decade ago) were being whipped around me in an abusive manner.

And yet in the faint distance, I hear Hazel. Concerned. Schtop! Mommy! Schtop!

Oh, sweet girl...if only I could--if only. I. Could.

What was in reality only 5 seconds, felt like 5 minutes. Why am I not slowing down? I've got to be about two shakes away from hitting the church about a block down the road....

It was was about this time that I felt a noticable decrease in speed. Finally! And so I tried to sit up again.    My head was spinning so....hard, I felt like I was going to pass out. Wait. No, no--I wanted to pass out. If there was anyone out there who ever wanted to torture me, it would be to put me in a barrel and roll me around. I would tell you ANYTHING you wanted to know.

I did stop. And after laying there in spread-eagle position for who nows how long, I made it up onto all fours and hoarsly called out "Phil...? Phil...!" I hear a voice fighting the urge not to laugh reply, Are you okay?

No. No, I am not okay.

I later told him that was easily one of the top ten most stupidest things I've done (at least this year anyway). He told me that he was surprised I did it, but that I looked whimsical and in complete control while doing so.

So even though it almost killed me. At least I looked totes awesome while doing it. So, ya know, I've got that.

And then, a few minutes later we were rounding up the kiddos to walk back home, Phil sprained his ankle.

We totally just should've stayed on the couch.

Our Marilyn Monroe

It was no suprise to me that one day Hazel woke up from her nap with a strategically placed boogy beauty mark. It's something that just runs in the family...

I'm related to Marilyn Monroe. 

Don't believe me?

Niether did my A.P. U.S. History teacher in high school.

The lecture that day was on the iconic figures of the 1950's. It just so happened that I was sitting on the front row and as soon as I realized the informational article he was reading to us was about yours truly, I got so excited about my claim to fame, I blurted out, "I'm related to her!"

He laughed heartily and told me in front of the entire class that I was wrong. Now, despite what you may think, I really liked this teacher. I found his lectures interesting and his dry humor quite entertaining. And because in my efforts to convince him otherwise, he said, "Fine. If you can tell me what her real name is, I'll give you 400 extra credit points." Assuming, of course, I would never know such a random piece of trivial information like that.

Cool, calm and collected (well, that's how I remember it) I said, "Norma.  Jeane.  Mortensen."

My correct answer was confirmed. And I was able to enjoy a moment of sweet victory that would have been worthy of a narration from A Christmas Story's Jean Shepherd himself.  

Now, there are some who might say Marilyn's moral compass was off a few degrees, but there's not a woman on my mom's side of the family who would allow you to say a bad thing about our girl. We're loyal people by nature and that combined with the sympathy we have for knowing the difficulty it must have taken to become No. 1 in TV Guide's Films Sexiest Woman of All Time leaves us with nothing but a ridiculous amount of pride for this distant relation. 

I mean we're talking the sort of pride that prompted my sister, as a little girl, to attend a church primary activity dressed as Marilyn because they were supposed to go as their favorite ancestor.  (The primary president wasn't amused. My mom was. As are the rest of us to this very day.)

For despite her flaws (and Hollywood's overly tragic portrayl of her)--she was an icon. That's not something merely attained through talent, charm and beauty alone, but more so, I'd say, through her confidence and fearlessness. And I can't help but think there isn't a woman on Earth who wouldn't love thinking they have a little of that floating around in her gene pool. I'm pretty sure it was coursing through my veins that day in my history class, or the day my sister dressed up as her favorite ancestor. Or any other time my mom, aunt, cousins, sister or myself needed an extra boost of courage on or off a stage--it was there then too. 

Even though we are related to her through my mother's paternal side to her estranged father, Martin E. Mortensen, who Wikipedia told me that she denied him as ever having been so--I can't help but wonder what she would think of this distant branch on her family tree... 

I'd like to think she would be proud of us too.