Lessons Learned, No More Police

If I had to explain to someone what I've been doing for the past 9 month, 2% of it would be dedicated to my schooling, 3% to my family, and at least 4% dedicated to cheesecake. The rest of the 91%, however, would be devoted to talking about Sports Camps. Every week of my summer has started with Monday morning registration and ended with a smallish nap taken with my head on my desk. In the middle there have been missing kids, fire alarms, lots of Cannon Center meals, and plenty of laughs. I have learned so much being the head counselor, but here is just the tip of the iceberg:

1. It will rain every Wednesday. Wednesdays we take the campers to the water park, 7 Peaks. Wednesday mornings always begin with me looking up at the sky and telling my good friend and other head counselor, Derek, "Today looks like a great day for 7 Peaks!" Then we head over to our office, and on the way I realize I was a fool for wearing pants instead of shorts, because it's definitely going to be a toasty day. The morning goes on, and the weather just gets hotter and hotter. By the time we go to lunch, I am convinced that I will die of heat stroke if there's not a parking spot close enough. As I get in the car to go to 7 Peaks, I begin to believe that BYU Campus is actually a gigantic sauna instead. Now, I'm not sure what happens in between my commute to the water park, but as soon as I step my feet out of the roasting hot car and onto the pavement, a skyfull  of clouds appear. And then it gets windy. Real windy. And I just walk over to the people setting things up at the pavilion as if I am NOT WALKING THROUGH A GIGANTIC TORNADO. Then people usually think it starts raining, but that's because I usually want to cry whenever I see a perfectly innocent pizza blown onto the cement. No, no, the rain does not start until all the campers have arrived and just as they are about to enjoy the park, lightening strikes. The rain pours, and all of a sudden Provo is having their own TORRENTIAL DOWNPOUR. Hundreds of kids try to huddle under the pavilion, and counselors start asking what we should do. I usually take a clipboard and start pacing back in forth around the grass so it looks like I'm "taking care of the problem",  but in reality I just really like walking in the rain. I'd love to say this only happened one week at Sports Camps, but I am beginning to lose count of the times it has happened.

These four are some of my most favorite people in the world, hands down. 

2. Pay attention when you're talking with the operator. One evening the gate I needed open was locked, so I called the operator to connect me with someone who could unlock the gates. They connected me with someone else, to whom I explained the problem and she informed that someone would be right over to help me. No more than 15 minutes later, A POLICEMAN SHOWED UP. LOOKING FOR ME. Apparently when I informed the operator that I needed to be connected with the master gate keeper at BYU, they instead heard, "I want to be connected with someone who can open up a gate with a gun the size of my head." All while I am trying to explain this to the policeman, the actual person that is in charge of the gates came to open them.

3. Ordering food for large groups of people rocks. It's not possible to have a bad day when you hear yourself saying, "Hi, I would like to order 1,000 ice cream bars and 20 dozen cookies."

4. Moms can help with anything. Often I am faced with problems I don't have the answer to. One particular late night, one of the campers had a really bad rash, and medicine wasn't helping. It was already past 11, and I didn't know what to do. The girl's counselor was my friend Philippa, and I told her, "Let me make some calls and I'll figure out what to do." (Usually when I say this, I use a tone of voice like I'm getting ready to call Barack Obama) I hung up and called the one person who I knew wouldn't judge me for calling so late: my mom. Barack may be able to sign legislation, but my mom is the best sounding board that this nation has.

Along with the other great stuff I get to do for my job, I got to be part of some videos for the campers to watch. Just when I thought the only person to watch these videos was my great aunt, I had a camper come up to me and recite all of Derek's and my lines from memory! Coming at you soon, Hollywood. #BYUSportsCamps

They Say Einstein was Smart, but I Think He Just Knew How to Use Google

Last weekend I went and faced my arch-nemesis, which is also named the PRAXIS. (This is not to be confused with my other people/ things I have proclaimed to be my arch-nemeses in the past, such as the person that installed a lock on the neighboring apartment complex's swimming pool without giving me a key, or the innocent ticket taker at the movies who informed my best friend Cami and me that no, we can not take a gigantic pizza into the movie theater.) The PRAXIS is a teacher licensing test, and passing it is necessary to graduate. I signed up to take it in April, bought a book, and started studying. I took a bunch of practice tests, and all these tests taught me some very important things. Arguably the most important thing I learned was this: TESTS ARE SUPER BORING. (Sidenote: my writing professor in college one time told me that you should basically never write sentences in capital letters, like what I just did. But honestly, do you really feel any emotion at all if you don't feel it in capital letters? For her sake, I hope she is never next to a house that is being engulfed in flames, because she would probably say in a very calm voice, "Please, someone call 911. Also, Rachel, please stop banging your head against the wall every time I make your rewrite that essay.")

Anyway, I put in some study time in early May, and then my work started getting really busy. One of my many talents is lying to myself and actually believing it, so when I told myself, "I'll study on the weekends" I actually thought this would happen. I'm not sure what happened next, but I firmly believe that I accidentally stepped into a time warp of sorts, because all of a sudden it was the night before the PRAXIS and I still wasn't even sure what PRAXIS stood for. My first solution to this problem was to watch some tv, and when that didn't solve the problem, I took a short nap. Now that the evening was almost over, I decided that maybe it would be a good idea to crack open my study book. As I reviewed the material, I realized there was a lot of stuff I was supposed to know. A smart person would crack down and start studying. An even smarter person, however, would use their resources. 

My roommate, Emmie, always laughs because of my obsession of Google. I need directions somewhere? I can't remember what time the library opens? My new roommate informed me that she used to live in Azerbaijan, and I wanted to pretend like I'd actually heard of that place? Google it! Many of my life's questions are answered through a click of a button. Except for my question about Azerbaijan....but that was because I spelled it Azerbaiqoiwej,mvnljgoijewlakdjfs and apparently not even Google is that smart.  

I figured that Google would save the day again, so I began typing in any topic that happened to be on the test. As the night grew later, my searches began to get more and more desperate:

It turns out my Google searches paid off, because the next morning I went and passed the test. Certainly the hardest part of the test was even before the test started, and I was required to write a paragraph in cursive. IN CURSIVE, FOLKS. I'm fairly certain the last time I used cursive was when I decided I was the Greek queen during social studies in sixth grade and I wrote down commands for my loyal subjects. 

Good thing if I ever have to teach cursive, I can just Google it. 

Fathers and Sons and Rachel

My awesome friend Alice made our welcome sign.

I currently hold the second best job in the United States, the first, of course, belonging to my pal Barack. (The only reason President Obama's job is slightly better than mine is because he gets his own bowling alley.) I work as a head counselor for BYU Sports Camps. My friend Derek is my co-head counselor, and he and I are in charge of the counselors for the summer. This meant hours of advertising, interviewing, and scheduling. I love it all (that's a lie. I didn't love the time when we had to take one trillion ads to every building on campus during what I believed to be a freezing apocalypse. The oblivious weather man claims it was just a blizzard, though.) and I've been so excited for the summer to start! Memorial Day weekend kicked off our very first camp, Fathers and Sons!

On the first day, the planner of the camp, David, asked me if I could take some flags over to the football field in the GEM, a little electric golf cart. I said I would and I hit the road. The GEM can only go 25 miles/hour at most, but that was fine because it was only a 3 minute drive to the stadium. Just as I was getting there, the GEM started beeping and felt sluggish, but I ignored it, grabbed the flags, and brought them into the stadium.

Because I love watching sports, my job is the perfect one for me because sometimes I get to stand on a field/court without actually being athletic. I took the flags next to the first row of seats and then marched right onto the field. This had nothing to do with my actual job, but I've always wanted to stand on the field where I've watched so many games. In the middle of taking a goofy looking selfie on the field and thus checking another item off the bucket list, David called and said he needed the GEM back.

I went back to the GEM, which continued to beep at me as I drove through the parking lot. It took me a little bit too long to realize that this chirping noise was not installed as an attempt for a poor radio system, but instead to warn me that the little electric car was RUNNING OUT OF ELECTRICITY. Would it really be that difficult to make sirens start blaring when such a life crisis arises instead of a tin beeping noise?! Obviously Heavenly Father loves me, because just then my wonderful friend and co-worker Natalie drove up to see what I was up to. We exchanged our concerns that I was going to die into the golf-cart-turned-death-trap and she promised she would follow me back to the Smith Fieldhouse. I puttered over to the stoplight and said about one hundred prayers as I crossed the busy intersection. This may seem like an exaggeration, but there was enough time to say one million prayers in the time it took the cart to cross the street and safely onto the sidewalk. Going down hill was a little bit faster, but eventually I hit level ground and I was back to going the speed of a three-toed sloth. (You better believe I just read an article about the top 10 slowest animals in the world.) Part of me tried to tell myself, "Hey, you're not actually going that slow." Then another child would pass me on their Barbie bike and I would come back to my senses.

It turns out that if you drive a golf cart 5 miles an hour on the sidewalk, people think it's a great idea to yell at you via their car window. Didn't they know I was ON A MISSION?!? How would the crew of Apollo 13 feel if spacecrafts kept speeding by honking their horns?!  Fortunately some of the voices yelling at me were familiar, as Derek and David yelled to me, "RACHEL! YOU CAN DRIVE THE GEM ON THE STREET!" Apparently they thought I was driving incredibly slow on the sidewalk because I was too scared to go fast. IF ONLY THAT WAS THE PROBLEM. Every intersection I reached I would look back at Natalie and she would cheer me on as if I was completing a marathon. (If completing a marathon was ever for some bizarre reason on my bucket list, this event could definitely count in lieu of an actual one) We would yell back and forth to each other about whether or not we thought I would actually make it, but usually we couldn't hear what the other one was saying because we were both laughing too hard at this ridiculous spectacle. At least Natalie was nice enough to pretend like she thought I was going to survive to eat another pork salad from Cafe Rio. Finally I crossed the last intersection and made it back. What took a few minutes getting there took about 15 minutes to get back. Natalie and I had a good long laugh, and I promised myself I would never put my life at risk again by getting in that death machine. (That promise was broken a few hours later when I decided that only fools walk around campus, but whatever.)

The rest of the weekend consisted of pretending I was part of the basketball team, running errands all around campus, proving I was not part of the basketball team by consuming large amounts of ice cream, and glaring at the GEM every time I passed it. On Sunday we got to take the campers to Music and the Spoken Word in Salt Lake City and then had sacrament meeting in the Assembly Hall on Temple Square. I was hesitant about being one of the only girls in Sacrament meeting since many of the talks talked about father-son relationships, but it reminded me of how much a hero my own dad is to me, and how much I love him. I was also able to think a lot about my relationship with my Heavenly Father and how grateful I am for him and his unconditional love.

This weekend was also a good reminder that no matter how hard you plan, things won't always turn out your way. During the fireside Sunday night, my awesome counselors scooped ice cream into bowls so they would be ready for the campers when they finished. The fireside went almost half an hour too long, and all the ice cream melted into soup. I only wish I had a video of the kid next to me who slurped up his dessert with no spoon. The moral from this story is never plan anything in advance.


Overall it was a great weekend, and I'm glad I got to be a part of it. To complete this blog post, here's a picture of the men's basketball coach, Coach Rose, riding a pink moped. Me and the GEM could beat him in a street race any day.

Tour de France: Scooter Style

You could say that I’m a pretty hard core person. (I am pretending, of course, that the post I wrote about the fiasco at Kiddieland does not exist) Sometimes I walk up the stairs next to the Richards Building without stopping. Other times I eat yogurt on which the best by date was five days prior. (That was an accident, but whatever.)  Most recently, I have had the chance to join a scooter gang. (I suggested the name Transportation Club in order to not be so exclusive and also so people would not confuse me with a mob boss or something, but this idea was quickly vetoed by the rest of the members) Naturally, the crew consists of two of my all-time favorite people, Cami and Emmie.

Emmie’s birthday was last week, so we did what every college student does on their birthday and hit the pavement with our scooters and headed to Guru’s for dinner. (At least, that’s what I assume hip college students do on their birthdays. I obviously hang out with my parents more than your average adult, because I am still learning what the cool cats do. #YOLO) Apparently when you see someone scooter to a restaurant it is totally acceptable to stare at them like they’ve showed up to the BYU testing center in leggings. That’s okay, judge away, gas guzzling folks. To be honest, I was surprised that they were giving us looks of judgement instead of looks of terror. We are a pretty rough looking scooter crew, after all.

After dinner we scootered through the city and headed to a rooftop concert. We continued to get lots of weird looks, and then someone finally broke the ice:

“Hey, are those your scooters?”

“Yeah, they are!”

“Oh, fun! I used to have a Razor scooter back when it was cool. Like when I was eight.”

AND THEN HE WALKED AWAY LIKE HE HADN’T JUST INSULTED MYSELF, MY ANCESTORS, ALL THAT I STAND FOR, AND THE SCARIEST CREW THAT HAS HIT THE STREETS OF PROVO.

There are a few things that you should never say to someone:

1. “Are you pregnant?” If you have to ask, you’re probably wrong.

2. “Man, you sure look tired today.” This is an easy way of insulting someone without actually using the words, “You look terrible.”

3. “Is there anything I can do to help you?” For those naive people out there, this is a big no-no to say because then people think you’re serious instead of just asking so you can appear to be nice, and then you’ll actually have to do something that you probably hate.

4. “You seem to be disgruntled.” Side story on this one: during high school, I created a twitter account for my school’s National Honor Society. Yes, I know, I am beyond helpful. Besides tweeting about the society’s meetings, I also included a few tweets that may have seemed a bit smart alecky, such as, ‘I wonder what it must feel like to be average’ or ‘Calculus homework is way too easy today. #Goodluckrestoftheclass #youwillneedit.’ This, of course, was all a joke, and I created the account with the permission of the NHS advisor. Apparently some people weren’t that pleased with it, and contacted my advisor, saying that it seemed to be a  ‘witty but disgruntled’ student that had created it and that I needed to be found. I thought this was hilarious, and my public relations career was over before I even graduated. A few weeks later I was reading in the newspaper, and I found the headline with the word disgruntled in it, so I figured I would read it, because us disgruntled people all have to stick together, right? I read the title: Disgruntled Shopper Attacks Customer at WalMart. WHAT?!? The same adjective for a maniac shopper can be used for a girl with a twitter account?! I don’t think so. The only time you should be calling someone disgruntled is right after they have been handcuffed and sent to prison for life.  

5. “Hey, I used to have a Razor Scooter, back when it was cool.” Quick Public Service Announcement, folks: RAZOR SCOOTERS NEVER STOPPED BEING COOL.

To live underappreciated in this world can be sad, specifically if they’re trying to insult your completely cool mode of transportation. (And especially if it’s a jet pack.) The best thing about life is that you can scooter away all your problems.

(Unless you scooter down Provo Canyon on a Saturday like Cami and I did, which apparently is where the Tour de France is held and the entire nation shows up to cruise past you down the trail.)  

Lagoon's Newest Terror: Kiddieland

Let me be the first to say that I have a lot of fears. I live right next to the mountains, but I see no reason why it would be anywhere near exciting to strap your feet to a board and fly practically vertically down a CLIFF. I’m not sure why anyone would bother climbing 40 feet in the air to the highest platform at the swimming pool if there is one 2 feet above the ground. In fact, I’m not even sure why there are people still living in Florida, because seriously, haven’t they seen the youtube video where the alligator comes right in someone’s doggie door?!

However, there is one thing that I am confident in (or at least was, until last week) and it is that I am not afraid of roller coasters. I don’t spend a lot of time at amusement parks, but I’ve made a handful of trips to Lagoon, and a trip to Disneyland. (That trip ended with me sobbing and wailing as loudly as I could, wondering why on earth my parents wouldn’t let me ride the Monorail. Lots of people stared, either wondering why my parents wouldn’t let me ride the monarail, or why I wanted to ride the monorail in the first place, which apparently is similar to riding an incredibly sluggish TRAX train. Either way, it was another Rachel Hardy tantrum for the books, so obviously it was a success. Sidenote: I was definitely 4 years old when this happened. Everyone knows that responsible adults only have temper tantrums about mature, adult things, like who has to take out the trash, or whose turn it is to mow the lawn.)

Anyway, this past week was my brother’s fifth grade Lagoon Day and I got to take him! He is one of the funnest people to hang out with, and I sure have missed spending so much time with him since I’ve moved to college. I ended up taking my sister, my brother, and a friend of his from school. I was the oldest one of the group, so naturally this makes me the bravest. I informed them on the drive up that I would go with them on any ride they wanted. My brother took full advantage of that, picking the biggest and scariest rides in the park. I figured that if an eleven year old could go on them, so could I. What I did not expect was the wails and screams that apparently emitted from my voicebox during the rides. As our group was flying further and further into the air, I panicked more and more, and my sibling laughed louder and louder. Because it was raining so hard, there were no lines at all. Once I stumbled off one ride, my brother was pulling me towards the next loop-de-loop. Sometimes we wouldn’t even get off the ride and the ride attendant would let us go multiple times.

Once I got on stable ground again, my brother wanted to go on a ride on the other side of the park, so we started walking in that direction, and on the way we crossed through Kiddieland. My brother spotted the Dinosaur Drop Ride and insisted that we go on it. For those familiar with Lagoon, this ride is a small child’s version of the Rocket. You strap yourself into a seat, and the seat moves vertically, all the way up to the top of the ride, and then drops quickly. I told my brother that this was a kid’s ride, and we were both way too tall to ride it. The ride attendant heard us, and said it was okay for us to ride, so I stood in line to wait for what looked to be the most boring ride of the century. Why waste your time on a mini version of a ride if you could go on the real thing? Kiddieland also prides itself in playing annoying, condescending music in order to infuriate responsible, mature adults like me who are way too good for these rides. What I didn’t know when I was putting the safety harness around me was that I was literally securing myself so I wouldn’t fall off this deadly ride. When the ride started, I was certain this ride would be the same thrill level as walking to school. Unfortunately, the ride for some reason did NOT stop at a normal, kiddieride level, and continued to rise until we were as tall as the tree tops. Let me just give you a mental picture: not only were we higher in the air than the Merry-go-round, but we were also above the Ladybug Bop! My shrieks were heard throughout the park as I was certain the ride was broken: no kiddieland ride should be that horrifying. Apparently the ride was in perfect order though, because in the middle of my screaming I could hear the laughter and joy of a couple of 11 year olds. As we continued to shoot up and down, I continued to yell, until the ride attendant below asked, “Hey, are you alright?!” It took all I had to inform her that NO, I was NOT alright, because who pays someone to send them flying 15 feet into the air?!  Then I realized that yes, I was only 15 feet in the air, on a ride made for 6 year olds. If my hands weren’t holding so tightly on the harness, I would have made a quick call to Barack Obama, letting him know the terrors that are available to children nowadays. What on earth were all these toddlers thinking?! As soon as the ride ended I quickly hurried to the exit, making sure that I did not make any eye contact with the teenagers running the ride.

I wish the story ended there, but my brother then wanted to go on Flying Aces, yet another child ride. Surely this one would be nice and calm one, since a bunch of kids got off it laughing with joy, as if they had just won a new tricycle or something. My brother and I shared a small airplane compartment, and the ride swings in a circle. Just as the ride is about to end, I started feeling a bit under the weather. I kept trying to tell myself I was feeling sick because I was so happy: spinning around in a tiny metal compartment brings WAY too much happiness to handle. But, like most things that day, things were not going my way, and the sandwich that I had eaten for lunch ended up on the pavement beneath the ride. After the ride ended I quickly exited the premises and wished the ride attendant an EXTREMELY lovely day, which we both knew was not going to happen since I just ruined her ride.

If there's one thing that I learned from this trip, it's that children these days are MANIACS. Get ready for a generation of ravenous thrill seekers, world. Who knows what these reckless kids will be doing next, probably scootering without helmets or something. I've finally met my match, and my match is Kiddieland.

Some Dreams Go Up in Flames: Literally

It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out what my true love is: Cafe Rio. Perhaps it’s the stamp  cards that can be found in almost all the pockets of any of my jackets (yes, I am one of those people who tend to forget my stamp card when I go, so I insist on getting a new one each time) or maybe it’s the outrageous amount of times that leftover pork salads can be found in my refrigerator with threatening notes on them. When I was in high school, a friend even asked me to the prom via a folded up note inside a burrito and left it on my porch.

Either way, it’s clear that my heart belongs to Cafe Rio. There is a Bible story which talks about Esau selling his birthright to his brother, Jacob, in exchange for a bowl of pottage. I have always thought that this was ridiculous, especially since I always pictured pottage being something like cold oatmeal. (But seriously. What kind of delicious food would be named ‘pottage’?!) It wasn’t until later that I realized that perhaps back in the day, pottage was similar to Cafe Rio. Yes, I would definitely consider trading my birthright for a good pork salad.

This past year I have been able to serve as part of the activities committee for my ward. This is fun because I truly have an amazing ward. When I got the calling back in July, I already made the decision that the most important part of my calling would be ensuring that Cafe Rio catered at least one activity. December rolled around, and as I helped to plan the Christmas SociaI I decided that this was the perfect time to implement my plan. (Naturally I try to make people think that Cafe Rio is their own idea by saying things like, “Hey everyone, so should we cater from Cafe Rio, or do you guys hate happiness and stuff?”) Hands down the hardest part of planning the activity was scheduling BYU’s students center, the Wilk, because the people there kept insisting that I needed to be on a certain “list.” I’m not sure what it takes to be on this list, but it seemed to be so elite that I am certain the only people on that list are Oprah, Kate Middleton, and Mark Zuckerberg. (I wanted to tell campus scheduling that I was Oprah, but apparently liars are not on this elite list either.) After literally a month of trying, a room was finally scheduled.  Once that was done and Cafe Rio was called, I was so excited I could hardly stand it.

The Ward Party finally arrived, and I piled my plate high with God’s greatest gift. I get particularly nervous about planning ward activities since I want everything to go well, but once I sat down with my food I was clearly in my element. In the middle of my meal, I looked over to the tables holding all the large, glorious trays of food and noticed a large group of people. This wasn’t totally weird because I am a firm believer in second helpings. I went back to eating for a moment until I realized exactly what I had seen: the group of people were surrounding a large, glorious tray of food that was on FIRE! Sometimes it’s not a big deal if your food is on fire. For example, if you go to a restaurant like Benihana’s, you can watch your food be engulfed in flames as it is cooked right before your eyes. Awesome, right?! Unfortunately, I am NOT an awesome cook at Benihanas, and instead am a poor college student that could be kicked out of the university for being an arsonist.

I’m not sure if you’ve ever had the horrifying moment of having to watch the thing you love most go up in flames, but I almost couldn’t even move. Then I laughed, which I believe was due to my insanity that is usually caused by horrendous experiences such as this. It turns out one of the burners had tipped over, causing a fire, and thus destroying a large part of my heart. The fire was put out quickly, and everyone moved on to other things. (Except for me, of course, since I was busy writing my will that distributed all of my half-filled Cafe Rio stamp cards to my closest family and friends.)

There are a few important things which I learned from this experience, most importantly to never take pork salads for granted again, because you never know when it will be devoured in flames. Campus Scheduling was nice enough to not send me a “This is why only elite people are allowed to schedule rooms on campus” note, and instead I just  had to fill out a quick fire report since apparently the university police isn’t too crazy about indoor bonfires.

In the end, I realized that my love for Cafe Rio will always burn brighter than any grease fire ever can.

Moms are Always Right: Except when she Tried to Ruin my Life

My mother is right about everything: when I need to bring a jacket somewhere, when I need to study harder in school, when I need to take a break and study less for school, when I need to eat my vegetables, when I should go to class, when I need to get my flu shot (this is debatable, but I’ll give her the benefit of the doubt), when I should fill my car up with gas, when I should stop talking so loudly so that the neighbors don’t have to hear my entire conversation,  when I need to stop falling asleep with my light on every night, etc. etc. etc.. This, of course, comes with the exception of the day she tried to ruin my life entirely by cutting off my hair. 

I was in second grade when she insisted I cut my hair because I refused to brush it.  She called up Fantastic Sam’s to schedule the appointment for me, politely saying, “Hi, my incredibly charming, intelligent, beautiful, and sometimes slightly stubborn daughter needs a haircut.”  What she didn’t expect was for her charming, intelligent, beautiful, and slightly stubborn 7 year old daughter to race to the other phone extension and scream right into the ear piece, “SHE DOES NOT NEED A HAIRCUT! SHE DOES NOT NEED A HAIR CUT!!!” I sometimes wonder who exactly it was that answered the phone on that fateful day, and how much money they have spent in attempt to regain hearing. I would call and apologize, but obviously she wouldn’t even be able to hear it anyway. Either way, I sure hope she had a good long laugh at hearing me yell at my mom through the phone. Anyway, my mom hung up the phone after telling the lady nevermind, apparently her daughter doesn’t need a haircut, and came to inform me that she, in fact, would be cutting my hair. This would be fine if it were physically possible for me to sit still for more than 5 seconds and my mom had more experience than cutting my brother’s hair, but naturally all things were going against me, and before I could run to the phone and start screaming at the next innocent person, my mother had chopped off my long locks short enough that you could see half my ears. (Granted, perhaps this was my fault, because as I was insisting that she put down those horrendous scissors down this instant, she probably couldn’t even hear me due to the fact her ears were still ringing from my earlier performance on the telephone.)  Now, I know the thought that “everyone is beautiful” but let me just say that everyone’s mother did NOT cut their hair in such a hideous fashion.  After the deed was done I informed my mother that I would definitely NOT be attending Park Lane Elementary School ever again, and that she had ruined the rest of my life. Probably she couldn’t hear me still, but I don’t even remember her being bothered by my comments.

During the next hour I tried to figure out how exactly I would still graduate from elementary school without anyone else having to lay their eyes on my Frankenstein-esque hair-do. (You know how those second grade critics can be…yikes.) Fortunately this experience happened when I was seven, so the longest I could focus on anything was half an hour at the most. By the end of the afternoon I had forgiven my mother and I was back on track for graduation. However, this did not stop me from glaring angrily at my teacher when I went to school the next day and she made me stand in the middle of the class so she could examine my “darling haircut.” (Quick Reminder: Forgiveness meant I wasn’t furious with my mother anymore, but unfortunately forgiveness doesn't also entail my haircut being darling. Forgiveness can help a lot of things, but it certainly can’t make an atrocious haircut into a cute one.)

Yes, my mom was wrong about one thing in her lifetime, but as people like to remind every person that has endured an ugly haircut, “Hair grows.” However, my mom has been pretty spot-on with everything else that she’s done for me. She knows that even when I tell her I don’t need any more food, that she should send the leftovers from dinner and half the year supply of food storage back to college with me. She knows that I still like her to come to the dentist with me just in case they decide to perform a random root canal during my 6 month checkup.  She knows how to be an incredible example of  being a disciple of Jesus Christ. She knows that I hide all the strawberry yogurts in the back of the refrigerator, and she doesn’t even try to stop me.

So basically my mom is right when it comes to just about everything. So when I stopped by my parent’s house last week and my mom told me for the 76^th time that I should start a blog, I figured that she was probably right. (This, of course, was after the fact that I informed her that apparently to create a blog when you’re my age you have to be newly married or have a baby, or at the very least do something more than Facebook stalk people all day, but my mom said that it shouldn’t matter. Which is another pretty cool thing about my mom, because she tells me I get to do what I want.) So, mom, here it is.

Here’s to never having a haircut that make people question my gender ever again.