Celebration
I know there's a Royal Wedding going on in fair England right now - but that's not what I'm excited about, today. I sincerely wish the Prince and his Bride well, as a stranger would wish any happy couple who ties such a life-changing knot. Heaven knows it would not be easy to begin a life together with the eyes of an entire nation (world?) watching your every move.
But today, I am not a part of that wedding party. Today, I am a part of my own party. Because, today, Bill takes his final final - or, rather, turns in his final project - for this semester. And that is reason for full-on celebration.
This semester has been brutal. Brutal. On all of us - but especially on my poor Bill. And I went and complicated things by having a baby right in the middle of things. We as a family have been in serious survival mode - just hanging on by fraying threads until we made it to the end.
Until we made it to today.
Bill hasn't slept much at all these past few weeks, and last night he didn't come to bed at all. It was strange - kissing him goodnight where he sat at his computer. Getting up twice in the night to feed Henry next to him, still sitting at his computer. Bidding him good-morning - where he sat at his computer - while I gathered the kids for breakfast.
I remember all-nighters spent at the computer lab during my senior year at university. But, admittedly, I didn't care as much as Bill does, and so my anguish was not as great. By the time I was two semesters away from graduation, I was about getting the grade. Bill is admirably about creating work he feels proud to attach his name to.
Sometimes, it would be handy to be more than mortal.
And so on this Friday, while the world turns their attention to the love of a couple, I am turning my attention to my love for my husband. I am watching that door, willing it to deliver my weary husband to me. While an entire country celebrates on cobbled streets, I will be pulling the bedsheets over my husband's fatigue-drooped shoulders, releasing him to sleep off the rest of this day with a "you did it!" whispered in his ear.
And then, I will go upstairs with the children, and have a party in my soul!
It is over. One more hurtle cleared. One more step closer to freedom. One more battle won in our family's war.
Bill? You did it.
But today, I am not a part of that wedding party. Today, I am a part of my own party. Because, today, Bill takes his final final - or, rather, turns in his final project - for this semester. And that is reason for full-on celebration.
This semester has been brutal. Brutal. On all of us - but especially on my poor Bill. And I went and complicated things by having a baby right in the middle of things. We as a family have been in serious survival mode - just hanging on by fraying threads until we made it to the end.
Until we made it to today.
Bill hasn't slept much at all these past few weeks, and last night he didn't come to bed at all. It was strange - kissing him goodnight where he sat at his computer. Getting up twice in the night to feed Henry next to him, still sitting at his computer. Bidding him good-morning - where he sat at his computer - while I gathered the kids for breakfast.
I remember all-nighters spent at the computer lab during my senior year at university. But, admittedly, I didn't care as much as Bill does, and so my anguish was not as great. By the time I was two semesters away from graduation, I was about getting the grade. Bill is admirably about creating work he feels proud to attach his name to.
Sometimes, it would be handy to be more than mortal.
And so on this Friday, while the world turns their attention to the love of a couple, I am turning my attention to my love for my husband. I am watching that door, willing it to deliver my weary husband to me. While an entire country celebrates on cobbled streets, I will be pulling the bedsheets over my husband's fatigue-drooped shoulders, releasing him to sleep off the rest of this day with a "you did it!" whispered in his ear.
And then, I will go upstairs with the children, and have a party in my soul!
It is over. One more hurtle cleared. One more step closer to freedom. One more battle won in our family's war.
Bill? You did it.
A Good Soup, Aged 22 Years
It's my kid sister's birthday.
I'm feeling very sentimental about it, this year. I love that girl.
This is my beautiful sister, whom I call Soup.
She has these intense ice-blue eyes. Almost grey. Paired with dimples? Forgetaboutit.
She was the cutest little girl.
And even then, she was wise on chocolate.
And elephants.
She is a serious force to be reckoned with.
But she is not serious.
She is adventurous - and is always willing to try new things. I've never even been fishing, let alone caught the rare white stag of fishies that legend tells grants three wishes if you catch it, cook it over an open flame, and eat it.
She let it go, instead. She has the softest heart I know. Just ask all her pets.
She looks good under water.
And she looks good in Rumba.
She is one of my favorite people on this green earth, and one of my best friends. But before you get any ideas, you should probably know. She's taken. By this guy:
She loves him. He takes good care of her. This - above all his other commendable qualities - makes me love him, too.
Happy Birthday, Soup!
I'm feeling very sentimental about it, this year. I love that girl.
This is my beautiful sister, whom I call Soup.
She has these intense ice-blue eyes. Almost grey. Paired with dimples? Forgetaboutit.
She was the cutest little girl.
And elephants.
She is a serious force to be reckoned with.
But she is not serious.
She is adventurous - and is always willing to try new things. I've never even been fishing, let alone caught the rare white stag of fishies that legend tells grants three wishes if you catch it, cook it over an open flame, and eat it.
She let it go, instead. She has the softest heart I know. Just ask all her pets.
She looks good under water.
And she looks good in Rumba.
She is one of my favorite people on this green earth, and one of my best friends. But before you get any ideas, you should probably know. She's taken. By this guy:
She loves him. He takes good care of her. This - above all his other commendable qualities - makes me love him, too.
Happy Birthday, Soup!
Announcing...
Get excited.
Fictionist (a Provo band achieving national acclaim and in the running to be on the cover of the Rolling Stone) will be joined by local favorites, Paul Jacobsen and The Madison Arm to kick off this year's Rooftop Concert Series.
For those who may not know - the Rooftop Concert Series takes place on the roof of the Provo Town Square parking terrace. How cool is that??
The kick-off concert will begin at 8:00 p.m. on Friday, May 6, 2011. Admission to the concert is free.
The 2011 Rooftop Concert Series lineup is composed of some of Utah’s up-and-coming musicians as well as those who have already achieved international success including Provo’s own Neon Trees and Warner Brothers signed recording artists, Meaghan Smith. This year’s lineup includes:
May 6 - Fictionist with Paul Jacobsen and the Madison Arm
June 3 - Meaghan Smith with Mindy Gledhill
July 1 - The Abbey Road Show with Sarah Sample
August 5 – Joshua James with Ryan Innes
September 2 - The Neon Trees
October 7 - The Lower Lights
I'll be asking a certain fella to take me to a few of these. Supporting local talent? Proving the coolness of Provo? You bet!
And - did you catch the admission cost, people? Please.
The Barely Detectable Machine-Like Rhythm of a Large Family Making a Large Dinner
There is a rhythm to large family functions - like Easter Dinner - at my house. It is a smooth machine, and unless you're deliberately watching for it, it is undetectable. There simply comes a point a few hours before the function when everyone in all corners of the house begin to gravitate toward the kitchen, and the cogs begin to turn the wheel.
It is a beautiful thing.
The men begin hauling and setting up tables and chairs while the women chop, stir, and slice in the kitchen, shouting to each other across rooms and over conversations while the children run circles around our legs and get into mischief. It is an organized chaos, wonderful to behold.
The gears turn and wind tighter and tighter as the minutes tick closer and closer to Start Time. All of us moving in tight circles around the Master Cog (my Mother); knives, hot food and hips moving around each other in an impossible dance as she orders us into motion.
And, twenty minutes before Start Time, the thick messy chaos beings to take shape. Haphazard ingredients become completed dishes - a toss of berries finishes a fruit salad, a shake of paprika completes deviled eggs, the large pewter platter houses sugar-glazed ham - while the dishwasher is filled and the sink is emptied.
Sons-in-law and daughters move between each other with quick feet and dodging torsos. Children are football-passed to anyone with open arms. Guests begin to arrive. They, too, feel the pull and gravitate toward the kitchen where they slip in-between the cracks and quick gaps and join their cog to the machine. The kitchen clears, the water is poured, the buffet is set.
And then - just as subtly as we slipped into this rhythm, we slip out. The machine sighs, stops. The work is done. We find ourselves all gathered together in the kitchen, looking and smiling, smiling and looking.
Which is when Dad stands and says, "Well, let's have a prayer," and a whole new machine begins to whir.
It is a beautiful thing.
The men begin hauling and setting up tables and chairs while the women chop, stir, and slice in the kitchen, shouting to each other across rooms and over conversations while the children run circles around our legs and get into mischief. It is an organized chaos, wonderful to behold.
The gears turn and wind tighter and tighter as the minutes tick closer and closer to Start Time. All of us moving in tight circles around the Master Cog (my Mother); knives, hot food and hips moving around each other in an impossible dance as she orders us into motion.
And, twenty minutes before Start Time, the thick messy chaos beings to take shape. Haphazard ingredients become completed dishes - a toss of berries finishes a fruit salad, a shake of paprika completes deviled eggs, the large pewter platter houses sugar-glazed ham - while the dishwasher is filled and the sink is emptied.
Sons-in-law and daughters move between each other with quick feet and dodging torsos. Children are football-passed to anyone with open arms. Guests begin to arrive. They, too, feel the pull and gravitate toward the kitchen where they slip in-between the cracks and quick gaps and join their cog to the machine. The kitchen clears, the water is poured, the buffet is set.
And then - just as subtly as we slipped into this rhythm, we slip out. The machine sighs, stops. The work is done. We find ourselves all gathered together in the kitchen, looking and smiling, smiling and looking.
Which is when Dad stands and says, "Well, let's have a prayer," and a whole new machine begins to whir.
Why Dye? Egg-Bot to the RESCUE!
Does the task of beautifying hard-boiled eggs feel problematic?
Do the little dye-cups filled with vibrant and permanent liquid pigment in the hands of your three-year-old make you anxious?
Tired of the purple and green fingers that result no matter how careful you were in removing the slippery guys from their dye cups?
The solution is simple, my friends. Next time, why not employ a robot to do the job for you? The Egg-Bot is certainly up to the challenge!
Simply put the egg in this thingy:
And watch as this cute little robot turns your usual Easter egg splotchy mess into an impressive work of precision art that will impress your friends, your neighbors, and - most importantly - your kids!
Watch him in action:
Just look at what this little guy can do:
He's great at parties, and look! He's useful around Christmas as well!
(This is the part where I tell you this was not a paid promotion. Egg-bot doesn't know I exist. Though if they wanted to send me one, I would probably play with it obsessively throughout the year.)
Do the little dye-cups filled with vibrant and permanent liquid pigment in the hands of your three-year-old make you anxious?
Tired of the purple and green fingers that result no matter how careful you were in removing the slippery guys from their dye cups?
The solution is simple, my friends. Next time, why not employ a robot to do the job for you? The Egg-Bot is certainly up to the challenge!
Simply put the egg in this thingy:
And watch as this cute little robot turns your usual Easter egg splotchy mess into an impressive work of precision art that will impress your friends, your neighbors, and - most importantly - your kids!
Watch him in action:
Just look at what this little guy can do:
He's great at parties, and look! He's useful around Christmas as well!
(This is the part where I tell you this was not a paid promotion. Egg-bot doesn't know I exist. Though if they wanted to send me one, I would probably play with it obsessively throughout the year.)
How Many McCrery's Does It Take...
...to replace a lightbulb?
Or - rather - a basement apartment full of burned out bulbs?
It takes both Bill and I, because apparently we both really enjoy it. We took turns being the one to unscrew the dead bulb, and took turns being the one to hold the new bulb at the ready, and take the dead bulb to its place of infinite rest.
It felt a little like surgery. Only not as messy. Bet definitely as exciting!
"BULB!"
"Right away, doctor!"
And now we have soft, round 40 watt bulbs above the sink in the bathroom. A soft glow perfect for mid-night bottle making or sink-bathing a baby. And we have blazing 100 watters in the main room - perfect major lighting for the most commonly used room in a basement. And we have the cute swirly guys in the sconces on the walls.
And we now have several varieties in inventory. So that we can fix things more immediately. So we don't end up with a basement apartment full of burned out bulbs, again. So the kids' request for 'light under the door' can be granted. So we don't have to hold the flashlight up to the spider on the wall to see if it is the scary kind or not.
Is it weird how exciting I am finding this whole thing?
It is, isn't it?
Crap.
Or - rather - a basement apartment full of burned out bulbs?
It takes both Bill and I, because apparently we both really enjoy it. We took turns being the one to unscrew the dead bulb, and took turns being the one to hold the new bulb at the ready, and take the dead bulb to its place of infinite rest.
It felt a little like surgery. Only not as messy. Bet definitely as exciting!
"BULB!"
"Right away, doctor!"
And now we have soft, round 40 watt bulbs above the sink in the bathroom. A soft glow perfect for mid-night bottle making or sink-bathing a baby. And we have blazing 100 watters in the main room - perfect major lighting for the most commonly used room in a basement. And we have the cute swirly guys in the sconces on the walls.
And we now have several varieties in inventory. So that we can fix things more immediately. So we don't end up with a basement apartment full of burned out bulbs, again. So the kids' request for 'light under the door' can be granted. So we don't have to hold the flashlight up to the spider on the wall to see if it is the scary kind or not.
Is it weird how exciting I am finding this whole thing?
It is, isn't it?
Crap.
So this one Easter...
...my Mom put on a big hunt in the back yard for the entire family.
We're talking the ENTIRE FAMILY (now a yearly tradition). Extended variety, Mom's side. Each cousin had their own color of egg to find, and let me tell you. My parents know how to hide eggs.
I was watching my figure. As in - I had just lost 20lb of first-year-of-college-mistakes and was still working on the final five.
So guess what was in my speckled green (of course) eggs?
Beef jerky and money.
Best. Parents. Ever.
The End.
We're talking the ENTIRE FAMILY (now a yearly tradition). Extended variety, Mom's side. Each cousin had their own color of egg to find, and let me tell you. My parents know how to hide eggs.
I was watching my figure. As in - I had just lost 20lb of first-year-of-college-mistakes and was still working on the final five.
So guess what was in my speckled green (of course) eggs?
Beef jerky and money.
Best. Parents. Ever.
The End.
Plus, Free Tiny Shampoo Bottles!
Some day, I'll be the type of person that travels.
Maybe I'll be on a book tour, or maybe my super-talented and successful husband will take a year's hiatus from his career and we'll take the family out to see the world. Or maybe I'll just be in the position to take a weekend away once in a while - with my best friend Billy or with 'my girls' or by myself. Whatever.
Probably my favorite part of traveling is staying in a hotel. I love staying in a hotel. Isn't that strange? I am a fan of the Hampton Inn and Suites - have you experienced their pillows? The last time we stayed at a Hampton, I forced Bill to call the front desk to ask if I could keep my pillow. No, he said. I'd totally pay for it, I said. You have to buy it from their online store, he said. Sigh. So much for a heavenly 8 hour drive home.
I've stayed in a hotel by myself only once. My one and only taste of what it might be like to live alone. I was attending a writing bootcamp, so my evenings were filled with reading manuscripts and writing my own, sprawled across a huge bed with my borrowed laptop, imagining to my little hearts content that this was what my life was really like. A mysterious red-head coming and going from her hotel room, always carrying an intriguing well-designed satchel, and ordering room service at two o'clock in the morning.
My hotel would have room service at two o'clock in the morning.
The wait staff would discover my affinity for grapefruit.
And probably diet coke.
Now I dream of taking my family interesting places - and staying in interesting hotel rooms. Where we can stay up all night and play games. Or watch old TV show reruns. Or just giggle.
And then in the morning, we'll try to sneak our complimentary breakfast up to our room so we can eat our bacon while watching cartoons.
And later - much later - when all of our children have left our nest, and Bill and I find ourselves with a lot of time and each other to fill our days with, we will celebrate our accomplishments, and we will go to lots of movies and eat lots of sushi and we will TRAVEL. We will go on Senior Mission after Senior Mission - and maybe I'll finally be able to speak Spanish with him - until our bodies tell us we have to stop.
You know, like when we're 90.
And then we'll just hold hands all day long and drink grapefruit juice, and fall asleep on our pillows that we lifted from the Hampton Inn and Suites during our mischievous phase in our 60's.
Maybe I'll be on a book tour, or maybe my super-talented and successful husband will take a year's hiatus from his career and we'll take the family out to see the world. Or maybe I'll just be in the position to take a weekend away once in a while - with my best friend Billy or with 'my girls' or by myself. Whatever.
Probably my favorite part of traveling is staying in a hotel. I love staying in a hotel. Isn't that strange? I am a fan of the Hampton Inn and Suites - have you experienced their pillows? The last time we stayed at a Hampton, I forced Bill to call the front desk to ask if I could keep my pillow. No, he said. I'd totally pay for it, I said. You have to buy it from their online store, he said. Sigh. So much for a heavenly 8 hour drive home.
I've stayed in a hotel by myself only once. My one and only taste of what it might be like to live alone. I was attending a writing bootcamp, so my evenings were filled with reading manuscripts and writing my own, sprawled across a huge bed with my borrowed laptop, imagining to my little hearts content that this was what my life was really like. A mysterious red-head coming and going from her hotel room, always carrying an intriguing well-designed satchel, and ordering room service at two o'clock in the morning.
My hotel would have room service at two o'clock in the morning.
The wait staff would discover my affinity for grapefruit.
And probably diet coke.
Now I dream of taking my family interesting places - and staying in interesting hotel rooms. Where we can stay up all night and play games. Or watch old TV show reruns. Or just giggle.
And then in the morning, we'll try to sneak our complimentary breakfast up to our room so we can eat our bacon while watching cartoons.
And later - much later - when all of our children have left our nest, and Bill and I find ourselves with a lot of time and each other to fill our days with, we will celebrate our accomplishments, and we will go to lots of movies and eat lots of sushi and we will TRAVEL. We will go on Senior Mission after Senior Mission - and maybe I'll finally be able to speak Spanish with him - until our bodies tell us we have to stop.
You know, like when we're 90.
And then we'll just hold hands all day long and drink grapefruit juice, and fall asleep on our pillows that we lifted from the Hampton Inn and Suites during our mischievous phase in our 60's.
I like that I'm weird.
When I moved to Washington on my own, I had a motto. You might even call it a Mantra, were you so boldly inclined. It was, simply: Do Hard Things.
You may recognize that as a direct quote from this man:
And I used that Mantra until it began to curl at its worn out edges. Any time I had a decision to make - and there were many life-altering decisions I was making during this time - I would remember: Do Hard Things. And I would choose to be fearless.
It's amazing how many times a decision becomes easy when you take fear out of the equation, and I blame a lot of truly awesome experiences and adventures on this method of operation.
Then I became We and we moved back to Utah. And, well, I think I lost that saying somewhere in Idaho. Along with my favorite white T-shirt.
I'm taking it back as my personal Mantra. You can have it, too, if you like. There's plenty of it to go around.
And now, in the spirit of doing hard things, I give you:
THREE THINGS THAT STEPPER LOVES ABOUT HERSELF.
I've been feeling down on myself, lately, and so trying to think of three things that I would celebrate about myself proves difficult - and therapeutic. Because hey! I'm not so bad, after all!
ONE
I have always been a 'comes-with-own-drumbeat' kind of gal. I've had many people - friends and enemies alike - flat out tell me I'm odd. (I don't have any enemies. On purpose.) In my dating years, I would go from being mysterious to being intriguing to being frustrating because I just didn't fit the standard way of thinking these boys were used to in their dames. For being a shy goodie-goodie, I was extremely unpredictable. I love this about me. I like that I'm weird. I think it makes me more interesting.
TWO
I love being a red-head. I love playing with the shades - but I love that my natural color is this intense auburn that I get many a compliment on. I love that when I was an infant, someone asked my mom in the grocery store if she dyed my hair, because it was such a brilliant red (it has tamed to auburn). I love that charming old men used to fall in love with my hair and my freckles when I waited their tables during my serving years. They were such flirts! And I love that people automatically assume I'm fiery and hot-tempered just because of my locks. I personally think that my hair - especially the fact that it's red - is my very best feature.
THREE
I love being creative. I like creating stuff - and then I like showing the stuff that I create to people and having them like it. This probably makes me narcissistic - but I love the energy I get from the process. And even when I got stuck with lame teammates for group projects in school, and ended up doing ALL THE WORK because my lame teammates insisted that I was the creative one, I still liked what I came up with, and liked that my skills earned my lame teammates an A. Grade school, high school, university all. I've saved a few ward functions and friends parties with some creative last-minute hostessing, too. I like that I can count on my creativity to come through for me.
Phew! It was a lot harder to come up with three things than it should have been. I invite you to the challenge! What are three things that you love about yourself? No disclaimers. No apologies. Straight up love. Come on - do hard things!
You may recognize that as a direct quote from this man:
And I used that Mantra until it began to curl at its worn out edges. Any time I had a decision to make - and there were many life-altering decisions I was making during this time - I would remember: Do Hard Things. And I would choose to be fearless.
It's amazing how many times a decision becomes easy when you take fear out of the equation, and I blame a lot of truly awesome experiences and adventures on this method of operation.
Then I became We and we moved back to Utah. And, well, I think I lost that saying somewhere in Idaho. Along with my favorite white T-shirt.
I'm taking it back as my personal Mantra. You can have it, too, if you like. There's plenty of it to go around.
And now, in the spirit of doing hard things, I give you:
THREE THINGS THAT STEPPER LOVES ABOUT HERSELF.
I've been feeling down on myself, lately, and so trying to think of three things that I would celebrate about myself proves difficult - and therapeutic. Because hey! I'm not so bad, after all!
ONE
I have always been a 'comes-with-own-drumbeat' kind of gal. I've had many people - friends and enemies alike - flat out tell me I'm odd. (I don't have any enemies. On purpose.) In my dating years, I would go from being mysterious to being intriguing to being frustrating because I just didn't fit the standard way of thinking these boys were used to in their dames. For being a shy goodie-goodie, I was extremely unpredictable. I love this about me. I like that I'm weird. I think it makes me more interesting.
TWO
I love being a red-head. I love playing with the shades - but I love that my natural color is this intense auburn that I get many a compliment on. I love that when I was an infant, someone asked my mom in the grocery store if she dyed my hair, because it was such a brilliant red (it has tamed to auburn). I love that charming old men used to fall in love with my hair and my freckles when I waited their tables during my serving years. They were such flirts! And I love that people automatically assume I'm fiery and hot-tempered just because of my locks. I personally think that my hair - especially the fact that it's red - is my very best feature.
THREE
I love being creative. I like creating stuff - and then I like showing the stuff that I create to people and having them like it. This probably makes me narcissistic - but I love the energy I get from the process. And even when I got stuck with lame teammates for group projects in school, and ended up doing ALL THE WORK because my lame teammates insisted that I was the creative one, I still liked what I came up with, and liked that my skills earned my lame teammates an A. Grade school, high school, university all. I've saved a few ward functions and friends parties with some creative last-minute hostessing, too. I like that I can count on my creativity to come through for me.
Phew! It was a lot harder to come up with three things than it should have been. I invite you to the challenge! What are three things that you love about yourself? No disclaimers. No apologies. Straight up love. Come on - do hard things!
Conquering Sunday pt. II
Our class was excused to go to our classroom, and my kids hurried ahead while I gathered my gear and the scripture bags and drawings they forgot under their chairs. I watched them from where I was bringing up the rear. Children are taught not to run in the chapel halls - but some of my kids push it as close as they can get.
There was another class gathering at our door. I looked at the teacher - a substitute - and guessed by the look of confusion on his face that he wasn't sure which classroom was theirs. One of his students was insisting that it was the wrong one, but the rest of his class was already inside. He looked down the hall of doors - each one looking exactly like the one before - and sighed. "This is our classroom for today," he said, and ushered the last of his sheep in with a gentle hand on his shoulder.
Still coming down the hall, I saw my students look with confused expressions into their now full classroom. But in the next second, they were lining up with folded arms against the wall of the only remaining empty classroom, and I applauded their adaptability.
I opened the door. They began to take their seats, I began to unload my bags contents onto the teaching table - deciding which awesome thing to hit them with first - and then a small tell-tale voice that pretty much guaranteed things would not go as planned.
"Mom? I want to stay with you today, Mom."
I turned, and Wyatt stood by the door where he had sneaked in with the rest of my group, his huge blue eyes stared up at me in earnest. I sighed. I knew the chances that my little three-year-old would be as engaged in my lesson as the kids twice his age would be were slim. I also knew that with the way things were going today for him, the chances that he would behave in his own class of peers were slimmer. "Okay, buddy" I conceded, and already felt my control of the situation slipping. "But you have to sit in your chair and be good."
"I understand." He said. Which is what he always responds with, and usually means he wasn't really listening. Nevertheless, he hopped into a seat between two of the boys, I took a deep breath and jumped with both feet into the lesson.
The lesson was on how the Book of Mormon came to be - from Mormon transcribing it onto the gold plates to Joseph Smith pulling it from the stone box buried in the Hill Cumorah. It's an amazing story - and a really fun one to tell - and by the time we got to the part where the angel Moroni appeared to Joseph in his room for the THIRD TIME that night, the kids were convinced (as am I) that Moroni and Joseph had a neat friendship.
"So then, Joseph sat in bed, thinking - whoa! There was just an angel in my room again! Okay, so there are plates of gold...history of the people...buried in a hill - and then guess what happens?"
9 voices in chorus, "what?!"
"Here comes a light, starts to fill the room again! Grows brighter than the sun again! And then - guess who shows up?!"
9 voices in chorus: "MORONI!"
After all - if your dad had spent so much of his life transcribing the scrolls onto plates of gold, and then you put forth so much effort in protecting them, writing the last entry on them, and then burying them safely in a hill - wouldn't you feel a strong common bond with the guy who was going to dig them up, risk his life for them and finally share them with the world? And visa versa?
"Mom?"
"...and Joseph works on a farm, and that's hard work! And he didn't have any sleep that night."
"Mom?" (for the umpteenth time)
"...and so he's completely exhausted trying to do his chores, and his dad says, 'Joseph! You don't look so good. Go home and go back to bed'. And so he does, but then on the way home -"
"MOM!"
"Yes! Wyatt! What is it?"
"Mom, can I have a snack?"
"Wyatt, I told you before. We'll have a snack when we get home from church."
"But Mom I feel hungry."
"I know, buddy, but I don't have a snack for you here. But as soon as church is over we can--"
"But Mom, I want the Teddy Grahams in your BAG!"
9 voices in chorus: "You have TEDDY GRAHAMS?!"
...and that was pretty much it for keeping their attention with my storytelling skills alone. Outed by my own son.
Yes, I was going to give them Teddy Grahams, anyway. But I've learned that when you add sugar to the kid equation, they cease to be children and turn into something unholy. So I was going to wait until the END of class...
I held the promise of Teddy Grahams over their head as a bribey attempt to force my way through the end of the story - which worked for only a short time before I noticed they were no longer staring at me with wide eyes and were instead staring at my bag.
So we pulled out the confounded bears and played a game for the remainder of class. Which basically meant I had nine children (plus Wyatt) insisting that it was THEIR turn to go next, and that they NEEDED more bears or would perish! and so-and-so got six bears and I only got five!
At least they all left my classroom knowing Moroni's name.
(outed by my own SON!)
There was another class gathering at our door. I looked at the teacher - a substitute - and guessed by the look of confusion on his face that he wasn't sure which classroom was theirs. One of his students was insisting that it was the wrong one, but the rest of his class was already inside. He looked down the hall of doors - each one looking exactly like the one before - and sighed. "This is our classroom for today," he said, and ushered the last of his sheep in with a gentle hand on his shoulder.
Still coming down the hall, I saw my students look with confused expressions into their now full classroom. But in the next second, they were lining up with folded arms against the wall of the only remaining empty classroom, and I applauded their adaptability.
I opened the door. They began to take their seats, I began to unload my bags contents onto the teaching table - deciding which awesome thing to hit them with first - and then a small tell-tale voice that pretty much guaranteed things would not go as planned.
"Mom? I want to stay with you today, Mom."
I turned, and Wyatt stood by the door where he had sneaked in with the rest of my group, his huge blue eyes stared up at me in earnest. I sighed. I knew the chances that my little three-year-old would be as engaged in my lesson as the kids twice his age would be were slim. I also knew that with the way things were going today for him, the chances that he would behave in his own class of peers were slimmer. "Okay, buddy" I conceded, and already felt my control of the situation slipping. "But you have to sit in your chair and be good."
"I understand." He said. Which is what he always responds with, and usually means he wasn't really listening. Nevertheless, he hopped into a seat between two of the boys, I took a deep breath and jumped with both feet into the lesson.
The lesson was on how the Book of Mormon came to be - from Mormon transcribing it onto the gold plates to Joseph Smith pulling it from the stone box buried in the Hill Cumorah. It's an amazing story - and a really fun one to tell - and by the time we got to the part where the angel Moroni appeared to Joseph in his room for the THIRD TIME that night, the kids were convinced (as am I) that Moroni and Joseph had a neat friendship.
"So then, Joseph sat in bed, thinking - whoa! There was just an angel in my room again! Okay, so there are plates of gold...history of the people...buried in a hill - and then guess what happens?"
9 voices in chorus, "what?!"
"Here comes a light, starts to fill the room again! Grows brighter than the sun again! And then - guess who shows up?!"
9 voices in chorus: "MORONI!"
After all - if your dad had spent so much of his life transcribing the scrolls onto plates of gold, and then you put forth so much effort in protecting them, writing the last entry on them, and then burying them safely in a hill - wouldn't you feel a strong common bond with the guy who was going to dig them up, risk his life for them and finally share them with the world? And visa versa?
"Mom?"
"...and Joseph works on a farm, and that's hard work! And he didn't have any sleep that night."
"Mom?" (for the umpteenth time)
"...and so he's completely exhausted trying to do his chores, and his dad says, 'Joseph! You don't look so good. Go home and go back to bed'. And so he does, but then on the way home -"
"MOM!"
"Yes! Wyatt! What is it?"
"Mom, can I have a snack?"
"Wyatt, I told you before. We'll have a snack when we get home from church."
"But Mom I feel hungry."
"I know, buddy, but I don't have a snack for you here. But as soon as church is over we can--"
"But Mom, I want the Teddy Grahams in your BAG!"
9 voices in chorus: "You have TEDDY GRAHAMS?!"
...and that was pretty much it for keeping their attention with my storytelling skills alone. Outed by my own son.
Yes, I was going to give them Teddy Grahams, anyway. But I've learned that when you add sugar to the kid equation, they cease to be children and turn into something unholy. So I was going to wait until the END of class...
I held the promise of Teddy Grahams over their head as a bribey attempt to force my way through the end of the story - which worked for only a short time before I noticed they were no longer staring at me with wide eyes and were instead staring at my bag.
So we pulled out the confounded bears and played a game for the remainder of class. Which basically meant I had nine children (plus Wyatt) insisting that it was THEIR turn to go next, and that they NEEDED more bears or would perish! and so-and-so got six bears and I only got five!
At least they all left my classroom knowing Moroni's name.
(outed by my own SON!)
Conquering Sunday
We braved going to Sacrament Meeting all together for the first time, today. We were even on time, securing ourselves a bench row. This was key for me - wrangling children is much easier on a bench row when mom can sit at the open end, essentially trapping all children (and husband, mwaha!) inside. The rows of folding chairs in the back are not only uncomfortable, they are loud (try driving a toy car on the metal seat) and crowded and are easily escaped.
Wyatt leaned wearily on Bill and drew on his Magna-doodle (11:00 church is hard on the wee ones). Daphne sat triumphant on Grandma's lap and ate the entire stash of cheerios that Grandma keeps hidden in her church bag. Henry slept, and only began to protest at the last ten minutes of the meeting.
As the closing hymn played, I couldn't help but feel that we had conquered something amazing. Sacrament Meeting - check! My face grinned. But I also knew that for me, the real challenge came next. My throat gulped.
This was to be my first time back to Primary since Henry was born, and I would be teaching alone. No biggie - except that we had a class of ten five and six year olds. That's a lot of kids to wrangle and keep entertained for two hours no matter HOW well behaved they are. But there was also that one child - the one that was most often wild beyond my ability to soothe; and wasn't just loud but was physical about it. I remembered well trudging home from church after the third-hour circus, my pregnant frame weary and frazzled and bruised.
Now I wasn't pregnant. I definitely had that going for me. But I was incredibly out of practice - and for the whole second hour of singing time, I stared around at my class - all boys, the girls were absent, again - and tried desperately to remember their names.
I have always been terrible with names. And three of the boys I teach look EXACTLY alike to me - same height/size/haircut/face shape - except for a small (but significant) difference around the eyes. So I struggle, anyway. But now I had post-pregnancy brain-dissolve and seven weeks of absence complicating things for me.
Then I had a flash of genius. They had just finished tracing their hand with crayon on a piece of paper and drawing 'something they could do to follow Christ's example' inside. (I am still not exactly sure what the traced hand had to do with the personal application of following Christ's example - but that's because I sort of missed hearing the directions. I had a certain three-year-old Sunbeam begging me for the Teddy Grahams he happened to know I had hidden in my bag.) The boys all clamored to show me their masterful crayola skills and receive my well-deserved praise, and it hit me. I looked at them all importantly and said, "did you write your name on it?"
They weren't turning them in. They didn't need to put their names on them - but they all excitedly took crayons once again from my stash and began the painstaking scrawl of the recently-learned letters of their names. I watched, and noted. Okay, so this time Brody has the blue tie and the other Dalton has the striped shirt.
By the time second hour was over and we were released to go to our classroom where I would have the privilege of teaching my class on my own for an hour, I was calling them all by name. Back in the saddle? You bet! I was feeling confident. I had this. And I had two big things going for me.
First - the Wild Child had been extremely well-behaved the entire second hour. He got out of his chair only once, retrieved a hymn book, and sat and looked through the pages of song the entire time. Sure, he wasn't paying much attention to the song we were trying to learn, but he may have been the best behaved child, there. I could have hugged him!
Second - the Primary manual came through for me. I had a killer lesson to give (they aren't always); the whole thing was basically the telling of a story - which I happen to know the kids love - and was a subject I am passionate about. This equals passionate storytelling. The last time I presented them with some passionate storytelling, they were riveted. Never mind that my graphically honest account made one girl physically ill. This time, there was no leg surgery involved. And I had Teddy Grahams in my bag.
I had this.
To Be Continued...
(don't hate me! It's too close to midnight for me to finish this post tonight and still make my deadline. It's the deadline's fault!)
Wyatt leaned wearily on Bill and drew on his Magna-doodle (11:00 church is hard on the wee ones). Daphne sat triumphant on Grandma's lap and ate the entire stash of cheerios that Grandma keeps hidden in her church bag. Henry slept, and only began to protest at the last ten minutes of the meeting.
As the closing hymn played, I couldn't help but feel that we had conquered something amazing. Sacrament Meeting - check! My face grinned. But I also knew that for me, the real challenge came next. My throat gulped.
This was to be my first time back to Primary since Henry was born, and I would be teaching alone. No biggie - except that we had a class of ten five and six year olds. That's a lot of kids to wrangle and keep entertained for two hours no matter HOW well behaved they are. But there was also that one child - the one that was most often wild beyond my ability to soothe; and wasn't just loud but was physical about it. I remembered well trudging home from church after the third-hour circus, my pregnant frame weary and frazzled and bruised.
Now I wasn't pregnant. I definitely had that going for me. But I was incredibly out of practice - and for the whole second hour of singing time, I stared around at my class - all boys, the girls were absent, again - and tried desperately to remember their names.
I have always been terrible with names. And three of the boys I teach look EXACTLY alike to me - same height/size/haircut/face shape - except for a small (but significant) difference around the eyes. So I struggle, anyway. But now I had post-pregnancy brain-dissolve and seven weeks of absence complicating things for me.
Then I had a flash of genius. They had just finished tracing their hand with crayon on a piece of paper and drawing 'something they could do to follow Christ's example' inside. (I am still not exactly sure what the traced hand had to do with the personal application of following Christ's example - but that's because I sort of missed hearing the directions. I had a certain three-year-old Sunbeam begging me for the Teddy Grahams he happened to know I had hidden in my bag.) The boys all clamored to show me their masterful crayola skills and receive my well-deserved praise, and it hit me. I looked at them all importantly and said, "did you write your name on it?"
They weren't turning them in. They didn't need to put their names on them - but they all excitedly took crayons once again from my stash and began the painstaking scrawl of the recently-learned letters of their names. I watched, and noted. Okay, so this time Brody has the blue tie and the other Dalton has the striped shirt.
By the time second hour was over and we were released to go to our classroom where I would have the privilege of teaching my class on my own for an hour, I was calling them all by name. Back in the saddle? You bet! I was feeling confident. I had this. And I had two big things going for me.
First - the Wild Child had been extremely well-behaved the entire second hour. He got out of his chair only once, retrieved a hymn book, and sat and looked through the pages of song the entire time. Sure, he wasn't paying much attention to the song we were trying to learn, but he may have been the best behaved child, there. I could have hugged him!
Second - the Primary manual came through for me. I had a killer lesson to give (they aren't always); the whole thing was basically the telling of a story - which I happen to know the kids love - and was a subject I am passionate about. This equals passionate storytelling. The last time I presented them with some passionate storytelling, they were riveted. Never mind that my graphically honest account made one girl physically ill. This time, there was no leg surgery involved. And I had Teddy Grahams in my bag.
I had this.
To Be Continued...
(don't hate me! It's too close to midnight for me to finish this post tonight and still make my deadline. It's the deadline's fault!)
How You Know a Boy Lives Here...
I find them all over the house; and every time I do, I get a little happier.
These pictures were collected as-is, ten minutes ago from all over the house.
The green bus is the newest edition to the family - his reward for being such a good helper to Mommy this week (and for braving Target with her). He was very proud to put the dollar his Dad gave him in his pocket.
He talked all morning and the whole drive there about how he was going to get a sports car. I dunno what happened. But I do like that bus.
This post is taking part in Queen Scarlett's A Family Lives Here project. Click the button to join us over on her mountain top:
Catching the Vision at the Eye Doctor's Office
I sat down at the receiving desk at the optometrist to fill out my paperwork. The receptionist asked me questions as she plunked away at her keyboard, "current address, phone number" etc.
Then she asked, "so when are you due?"
I resisted the urge to hide my postpartum form behind my cute orange bag, and blinked. Was she referring to something else? The query did seem to come from nowhere - 'who's your emergency contact' to 'when are you due'? - perhaps I misunderstood the question.
"Sorry?" I asked.
She looked up from her monitor and beamed at me. "When are you due?"
I grinned back - no need to make this awkward. "Oh, I already had him. He's a month old." I wondered if they somehow knew I had been expecting - some note on their computer or something, even though I had never been to this doctor, before.
"Oh! How adorable! You know, losing the baby weight was the hardest thing for me, too."
Well - there goes the 'note in my file' theory. I leaned my arm on her desk in a sign of common friendship, and began to dish with her about pregnancy weight gain and stubborn postpartum pounds.
Of course, she was a string bean.
I made a mental note that this would be a good story to share with Bill when I got home. Then I began my all-too-frequent mental war with myself; convincing myself that I wasn't a disgusting frump - that my body had been altered by an amazing event and an amazing little man that I would be snuggling promptly upon my return home.
There was no hiding my, erm, abundant figure. Not this time. The slip of a girl sitting across from me was proof of this. This body - as it is - is mine to inhabit until I change it. This last pregnancy was a bully, constantly beating me up. My physical body bears the scars of the journey I just completed. There is a beauty in that. And there is an even grander beauty in the truth that I am not trapped here in this beaten form. I can change it. And change it I shall!
I've already begun. I can run up the stairs again. I have been known to tackle and tickle a kid or two. I am getting my strength back - and have even lost four pounds after the more significant initial postpartum weight loss.
But even though I will be tracking the pounds as a measure of progress, this time I don't want it to be about the weight. It's just a number on some machine, anyway. It has nothing to do with who I am or what I'm about.
But I do plan on being able to keep up with my kids. To run outside in a game of tag or backyard baseball. To bike to the park. To run and not be weary! To walk and not faint!
Health, people!
I want it. I want it back. And I shall have it, you mark me.
In the meantime, I won't be angry when you ask "when are you due?" Because right now, I do bear the scars. And right now, I'm a physical manifestation of what it means to have the God given gift of the ability to change. To change anything and everything about ourselves to become better, stronger, more complete.
This is one of my very favorite parts about being human.
Then she asked, "so when are you due?"
I resisted the urge to hide my postpartum form behind my cute orange bag, and blinked. Was she referring to something else? The query did seem to come from nowhere - 'who's your emergency contact' to 'when are you due'? - perhaps I misunderstood the question.
"Sorry?" I asked.
She looked up from her monitor and beamed at me. "When are you due?"
I grinned back - no need to make this awkward. "Oh, I already had him. He's a month old." I wondered if they somehow knew I had been expecting - some note on their computer or something, even though I had never been to this doctor, before.
"Oh! How adorable! You know, losing the baby weight was the hardest thing for me, too."
Well - there goes the 'note in my file' theory. I leaned my arm on her desk in a sign of common friendship, and began to dish with her about pregnancy weight gain and stubborn postpartum pounds.
Of course, she was a string bean.
I made a mental note that this would be a good story to share with Bill when I got home. Then I began my all-too-frequent mental war with myself; convincing myself that I wasn't a disgusting frump - that my body had been altered by an amazing event and an amazing little man that I would be snuggling promptly upon my return home.
There was no hiding my, erm, abundant figure. Not this time. The slip of a girl sitting across from me was proof of this. This body - as it is - is mine to inhabit until I change it. This last pregnancy was a bully, constantly beating me up. My physical body bears the scars of the journey I just completed. There is a beauty in that. And there is an even grander beauty in the truth that I am not trapped here in this beaten form. I can change it. And change it I shall!
I've already begun. I can run up the stairs again. I have been known to tackle and tickle a kid or two. I am getting my strength back - and have even lost four pounds after the more significant initial postpartum weight loss.
But even though I will be tracking the pounds as a measure of progress, this time I don't want it to be about the weight. It's just a number on some machine, anyway. It has nothing to do with who I am or what I'm about.
But I do plan on being able to keep up with my kids. To run outside in a game of tag or backyard baseball. To bike to the park. To run and not be weary! To walk and not faint!
Health, people!
I want it. I want it back. And I shall have it, you mark me.
In the meantime, I won't be angry when you ask "when are you due?" Because right now, I do bear the scars. And right now, I'm a physical manifestation of what it means to have the God given gift of the ability to change. To change anything and everything about ourselves to become better, stronger, more complete.
This is one of my very favorite parts about being human.
This is how it goes...
"Wyatt, time to sit up for breakfast."
"I'm not Wyatt, I'm Astro!"
"Wyatt, can you do me a favor?"
"No."
"Please?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because, I'm not Wyatt, I'm Thomas the Tank Engine!"
"Wyatt, time to sit up for lunch."
...
"Wyatt, right now please."
...
"Wyatt! Lunch! You can draw on your magnadoodle after you're done!"
"No, Mom, just a sec. I hafta finish this engine."
"Wow, it sure is a blustery day."
"No, it's NOT blustery! It's wind!"
"Mom, will you draw me a tractor?"
"Sure." (draws)
"No! That's not the right one. I want a DIGGER!"
"Wyatt, time to go potty and get your jammies on."
"Nonono, I'm a pirate! Aargh!"
"Okay, Pirate, go potty."
(walks in opposite direction)
"Wyatt, right now please."
"Arg!"
"Pirate, I mean it. Potty. Right now. I don't want you to have to be in trouble."
"Yes, I DO be in trouble. I'm a pirate, and that's NAUGHTY!"
"Wyatt, get back in bed."
"But...but...Mooooooom! I need a drink!"
"no more drinks, it's bed time."
"But no Mom, I needed to go potty."
"You already went potty. It's time for bed."
"But I had a bad dream."
"You haven't been asleep yet. Back in bed."
"But, but, I just have to ask you a question."
"Ask me tomorrow, it's time for bed."
etc. etc. etc.
He definitely forces us to be creative. I can't help but respect his willpower. It's on his turf and done his way (which is usually decided based on the opposite of what I suggest) or it's nothing.
And he's awfully cute running around with a pirate patch over one eye all day long.
"I'm not Wyatt, I'm Astro!"
"Wyatt, can you do me a favor?"
"No."
"Please?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because, I'm not Wyatt, I'm Thomas the Tank Engine!"
"Wyatt, time to sit up for lunch."
...
"Wyatt, right now please."
...
"Wyatt! Lunch! You can draw on your magnadoodle after you're done!"
"No, Mom, just a sec. I hafta finish this engine."
"Wow, it sure is a blustery day."
"No, it's NOT blustery! It's wind!"
"Mom, will you draw me a tractor?"
"Sure." (draws)
"No! That's not the right one. I want a DIGGER!"
"Wyatt, time to go potty and get your jammies on."
"Nonono, I'm a pirate! Aargh!"
"Okay, Pirate, go potty."
(walks in opposite direction)
"Wyatt, right now please."
"Arg!"
"Pirate, I mean it. Potty. Right now. I don't want you to have to be in trouble."
"Yes, I DO be in trouble. I'm a pirate, and that's NAUGHTY!"
"Wyatt, get back in bed."
"But...but...Mooooooom! I need a drink!"
"no more drinks, it's bed time."
"But no Mom, I needed to go potty."
"You already went potty. It's time for bed."
"But I had a bad dream."
"You haven't been asleep yet. Back in bed."
"But, but, I just have to ask you a question."
"Ask me tomorrow, it's time for bed."
etc. etc. etc.
He definitely forces us to be creative. I can't help but respect his willpower. It's on his turf and done his way (which is usually decided based on the opposite of what I suggest) or it's nothing.
And he's awfully cute running around with a pirate patch over one eye all day long.
No Boys/Kids Allowed.
Dad gave all five of his girls a gift card for a pedicure at an elegant spa in Salt Lake City last Valentines Day. It's become a bit of a tradition, and one I look forward to. This is not only the single time per year I am treated to such decadence, but is also a chance to spend an afternoon with just Mom and my three sisters. The trick has always been getting all five of our crazy schedules to free up at the same time.
Today, the stars aligned - and so did our schedules.
So we left our various children in the hands of Ali's husband, Steve, and my awesome Bill, we piled into mom's cute little SUV, and we spent the next few hours giggling like teenagers and indulging in the best that 'girl time' has to offer.
Lunch at Zupas; where everything on the menu seemed to feature sweet, ripe strawberries. We secured a table in the middle of the busy restaurant, but ultimately opted to squeeze into a booth. We were more interested in intimate conversation than being able to stretch out. My salmon chowder was delicious and satisfying - but not as much as the dialogue between me and my girls.
The spa was lovely. Just lovely. They remembered us from last year - even remembering that last year, Megan was about to tie the knot. Apparently it's fairly rare for five clients to book pedicures at once, that these clients are a mother and her four daughters, and that the whole thing was a gift from an adoring dad.
My feet were scrubbed, buffed, lotioned, waxed, wrapped and painted. I am convinced that what I experienced at that spa added years to my life. But - again - the conversation was the thing. This time, the chat included our pedicurists (is that a thing?). The gal beautifying Soup's feet told us of her long journey of losing 100 pounds, re-defining her beliefs about body image and health, and finding herself in the process. Poor Soup ended up with about 10 coats of color on her toes as her applier lost herself in the telling. We were inspired.
On the ride home, we decided to sneak a frozen-yogurt treat in before returning to reality. We sat around the yogurt parlor with bowls of peach and tart blueberry, giggling again.
I haven't laughed so hard - nor so often - in a long while. We mourned the too-soon ending of our adventure (even though we had been gone for four hours), wished we could do such things more often, expressed how much we needed each other - the women of my family - how we are different when it is just us women, just us mothers and daughters. How lovely was our respite!
I determined that some day - but some tangible day, some real day, just later - we should escape overnight. Perhaps for a weekend! To Park City or Salt Lake or Saint George. We would treat ourselves to a pedicure, we would have good food, we would go shopping. See a movie. Then retire to a comfortable hotel room where we would talk and laugh and talk and TALK.
Help, heal and uplift each other with the power of the shared womanhood of those who have lived together and grown together.
I helped care for Soup when she was a baby. She cares for my babies, now. Isn't that beautiful? I begged for stories of early motherhood from my mother. I gleaned tips for how to lose baby weight from my amazing (marathon running) Jamie. I dished about accidental controversies with Ali.
It is marvelous to me - this tender reminder we were given - that despite the different directions our lives constantly take us - we need each other. My mother, my sisters and me.
Thanks, Dad.
Today, the stars aligned - and so did our schedules.
So we left our various children in the hands of Ali's husband, Steve, and my awesome Bill, we piled into mom's cute little SUV, and we spent the next few hours giggling like teenagers and indulging in the best that 'girl time' has to offer.
Lunch at Zupas; where everything on the menu seemed to feature sweet, ripe strawberries. We secured a table in the middle of the busy restaurant, but ultimately opted to squeeze into a booth. We were more interested in intimate conversation than being able to stretch out. My salmon chowder was delicious and satisfying - but not as much as the dialogue between me and my girls.
The spa was lovely. Just lovely. They remembered us from last year - even remembering that last year, Megan was about to tie the knot. Apparently it's fairly rare for five clients to book pedicures at once, that these clients are a mother and her four daughters, and that the whole thing was a gift from an adoring dad.
My feet were scrubbed, buffed, lotioned, waxed, wrapped and painted. I am convinced that what I experienced at that spa added years to my life. But - again - the conversation was the thing. This time, the chat included our pedicurists (is that a thing?). The gal beautifying Soup's feet told us of her long journey of losing 100 pounds, re-defining her beliefs about body image and health, and finding herself in the process. Poor Soup ended up with about 10 coats of color on her toes as her applier lost herself in the telling. We were inspired.
On the ride home, we decided to sneak a frozen-yogurt treat in before returning to reality. We sat around the yogurt parlor with bowls of peach and tart blueberry, giggling again.
I haven't laughed so hard - nor so often - in a long while. We mourned the too-soon ending of our adventure (even though we had been gone for four hours), wished we could do such things more often, expressed how much we needed each other - the women of my family - how we are different when it is just us women, just us mothers and daughters. How lovely was our respite!
I determined that some day - but some tangible day, some real day, just later - we should escape overnight. Perhaps for a weekend! To Park City or Salt Lake or Saint George. We would treat ourselves to a pedicure, we would have good food, we would go shopping. See a movie. Then retire to a comfortable hotel room where we would talk and laugh and talk and TALK.
Help, heal and uplift each other with the power of the shared womanhood of those who have lived together and grown together.
I helped care for Soup when she was a baby. She cares for my babies, now. Isn't that beautiful? I begged for stories of early motherhood from my mother. I gleaned tips for how to lose baby weight from my amazing (marathon running) Jamie. I dished about accidental controversies with Ali.
It is marvelous to me - this tender reminder we were given - that despite the different directions our lives constantly take us - we need each other. My mother, my sisters and me.
Thanks, Dad.
I Haint Got No Skills
I wish I could play the guitar.
I own a guitar. I've taken classes. I just still can't play.
I also took piano lessons and can't play worth beans (not talking Jack's beans, 'cause those are worth a whole cow!). I guess I only had room in my talent-brain for one instrument, and violin was it.
But there is something so romantic to me about the portable nature of the guitar. To be able to break into accompanied song whenever I desire! Around the camp fire on a lonely mountain top! No more acapella hymns during FHE! Imagine the awesomeness of the good-night lullabye with a guitar hefted on my shoulder!
I still pull out my guitar and attempt to play every now and again. I keep thinking that something will click and I'll just suddenly be able to play. Go spend a year out behind the barn (musician reference. Can wannabe's make 'in crowd' references?). My fingers just won't form the shapes they need to to create those chords!
I think my fingers are too small. I don't have the span.
Do they have kid-sized guitars? They have kid-sized violins.
Or maybe I'll take up the mandolin. Worked really well for Chris Thile.
Has anyone ever found a mandolin in their Easter basket?
I own a guitar. I've taken classes. I just still can't play.
I also took piano lessons and can't play worth beans (not talking Jack's beans, 'cause those are worth a whole cow!). I guess I only had room in my talent-brain for one instrument, and violin was it.
But there is something so romantic to me about the portable nature of the guitar. To be able to break into accompanied song whenever I desire! Around the camp fire on a lonely mountain top! No more acapella hymns during FHE! Imagine the awesomeness of the good-night lullabye with a guitar hefted on my shoulder!
I still pull out my guitar and attempt to play every now and again. I keep thinking that something will click and I'll just suddenly be able to play. Go spend a year out behind the barn (musician reference. Can wannabe's make 'in crowd' references?). My fingers just won't form the shapes they need to to create those chords!
I think my fingers are too small. I don't have the span.
Do they have kid-sized guitars? They have kid-sized violins.
Or maybe I'll take up the mandolin. Worked really well for Chris Thile.
Has anyone ever found a mandolin in their Easter basket?
...yes, but...I don't bake pies.
I read this book once.
The heroine, Becky, has a habit of baking two pies on Sunday. One for her family, and one to give away. She never knows who the second pie will go to until it's made. Then she says a little prayer to guide her to a family in need, and delivers the pie to the family that comes to mind.
I don't remember much of the story (it was cute; LDS chick-lit - not my usual book fare - but I am a fan of the author's work in other genres) but this thing with the pies stayed with me.
I just loved that idea. Being so pro-active about a way to serve. I decided I wanted to do that, too.
Except I've never made a pie in my life. I mean a real pie. I've made ice-cream pies and pudding pies - but never anything beyond a store-bought crust and a simple filling. I tried to make an apple pie, once, but somehow the recipe for one small apple pie turned into two huge apple tarts. That my apple-pie lovin' husband wouldn't eat.
I'm more of a cake girl (cough).
So I wanted to do this idea - but not literally. Some day, I plan to be disgustingly wealthy and I'll be able to do it with money. Like in Connie Willis' 'The Bellwether'. Like my new hero Jill. But right now, while I'm stinkin' poor, I'll have to scale it small.
I would bake cakes, but considering the disasters the last few cakes I've made have turned out to be - I think that wouldn't technically be considered 'service'.
So in my pondering of the subject - I decided that the attitude most closely linked with that of service was gratitude.
So here's my plan.
Thank-you notes.
Because who doesn't like (and need) to feel appreciated? I have found over years of observation that most people have NO CLUE what they mean to others. How appreciated they are. How valued.
There are a few thank-you notes I've received that I have kept over the years and have a permanent place at my bedside table. Notes I re-read when I need a pick-me up, or a reminder that I matter.
So each week, I'm going to find someone (a-la two-pies method) who has done or is something that I truly appreciate, and I'm going to let them know. In tangible, re-readable note form.
The rules:
The heroine, Becky, has a habit of baking two pies on Sunday. One for her family, and one to give away. She never knows who the second pie will go to until it's made. Then she says a little prayer to guide her to a family in need, and delivers the pie to the family that comes to mind.
I don't remember much of the story (it was cute; LDS chick-lit - not my usual book fare - but I am a fan of the author's work in other genres) but this thing with the pies stayed with me.
I just loved that idea. Being so pro-active about a way to serve. I decided I wanted to do that, too.
Except I've never made a pie in my life. I mean a real pie. I've made ice-cream pies and pudding pies - but never anything beyond a store-bought crust and a simple filling. I tried to make an apple pie, once, but somehow the recipe for one small apple pie turned into two huge apple tarts. That my apple-pie lovin' husband wouldn't eat.
I'm more of a cake girl (cough).
So I wanted to do this idea - but not literally. Some day, I plan to be disgustingly wealthy and I'll be able to do it with money. Like in Connie Willis' 'The Bellwether'. Like my new hero Jill. But right now, while I'm stinkin' poor, I'll have to scale it small.
I would bake cakes, but considering the disasters the last few cakes I've made have turned out to be - I think that wouldn't technically be considered 'service'.
So in my pondering of the subject - I decided that the attitude most closely linked with that of service was gratitude.
So here's my plan.
Thank-you notes.
Because who doesn't like (and need) to feel appreciated? I have found over years of observation that most people have NO CLUE what they mean to others. How appreciated they are. How valued.
There are a few thank-you notes I've received that I have kept over the years and have a permanent place at my bedside table. Notes I re-read when I need a pick-me up, or a reminder that I matter.
So each week, I'm going to find someone (a-la two-pies method) who has done or is something that I truly appreciate, and I'm going to let them know. In tangible, re-readable note form.
The rules:
- The note can't be for a gift that I would have written a thank-you note for, anyway (i.e. birthday gift). Those notes are important - but don't count for this project.
- The note has to be hand-written.
- The note has to be sent within a week from being written (or I'll end up with a letter pile of gratitude only ever felt by me).
Vote Bill! (I will build you a cake?)
I know this super talented Graphic Designer. He's not only super talented, he's also darn good looking and a snappy dresser.
Oh, and a really good kisser.
So anyway, this graphic designer I know collaborated with a few fellow graphic designers to create a short film about the silly parking situation at UVU - sports announcer style. They even got a professional sports announcer to do the voice work of one of the announcers! (Recognize the voice? recognize the voice of the other announcer?)
They've entered the vid into the AIGA 100 show. This is what is known as a Big Deal. On many levels. The video wasn't chosen to represent in one of the categories the judges choose (boo!), but it IS featured in the 'people's choice' category. And so far, it has a real chance of winning!
We want the video to win, people.
(And not just because Stepper is hoping they will give a certain Graphic Designer a comp ticket for his plus-one so she can go see the show.)
So! Wanna vote for it?
Go HERE. The link should take you right there, but in case it doesn't, the video is on page 8, first row, fourth over. UVU Parking Classic.
To vote, click on the yellow stars underneath (Netflix style). I think you'll agree it's worth a five star voting. I mean, the flying saucer alone...!
Oh, and a really good kisser.
So anyway, this graphic designer I know collaborated with a few fellow graphic designers to create a short film about the silly parking situation at UVU - sports announcer style. They even got a professional sports announcer to do the voice work of one of the announcers! (Recognize the voice? recognize the voice of the other announcer?)
(or watch it here.)
They've entered the vid into the AIGA 100 show. This is what is known as a Big Deal. On many levels. The video wasn't chosen to represent in one of the categories the judges choose (boo!), but it IS featured in the 'people's choice' category. And so far, it has a real chance of winning!
We want the video to win, people.
(And not just because Stepper is hoping they will give a certain Graphic Designer a comp ticket for his plus-one so she can go see the show.)
So! Wanna vote for it?
Go HERE. The link should take you right there, but in case it doesn't, the video is on page 8, first row, fourth over. UVU Parking Classic.
To vote, click on the yellow stars underneath (Netflix style). I think you'll agree it's worth a five star voting. I mean, the flying saucer alone...!
Everything Smells Like Poop
I'm loving the 'diaper days', but it seems to me, lately, that everything smells like poop.
I wander from room to room, sniffing suspiciously and seeking out a rogue diaper that must have somehow missed the garbage - but there is no culprit to be found.
Stinky house = worst fear.
The thing that really drives me crazy is that I can never tell if I'm ACTUALLY smelling something, or if I just THINK I smell something, because this is a tricky smell. It doesn't waft through the air and get stronger the closer you get to the source like most helpful type smells do. It hits randomly, and at odd intervals. And once I've smelled it, I'm never sure if I'm still smelling it - and did I really smell it in the first place?
Also - we went through an entire Costco pack of wet wipes (I'm talking the entire box!) in under two weeks.
People who do cloth diapers? I'm impressed and also horrified by you.
I wander from room to room, sniffing suspiciously and seeking out a rogue diaper that must have somehow missed the garbage - but there is no culprit to be found.
Stinky house = worst fear.
The thing that really drives me crazy is that I can never tell if I'm ACTUALLY smelling something, or if I just THINK I smell something, because this is a tricky smell. It doesn't waft through the air and get stronger the closer you get to the source like most helpful type smells do. It hits randomly, and at odd intervals. And once I've smelled it, I'm never sure if I'm still smelling it - and did I really smell it in the first place?
Also - we went through an entire Costco pack of wet wipes (I'm talking the entire box!) in under two weeks.
People who do cloth diapers? I'm impressed and also horrified by you.
Quirks
I stole this idea from Ari. Thanks, man.
I am a huge fan of quirks. I love it when I discover one - especially in someone I enjoy - and find them endearing and delightful. Except for the obvious distressing ones. I do not think you are cute if you pick your nose. In fact, if you pick your nose, you are dead to me. But if you - say - read your magazines back to front? I love that about you. Perhaps that is one of my quirks?
And one of the best things about raising children is discovering - right along with them - their amazingly complex personalities - their favorites, their obsessions, and their quirks!
So here's a list of some of my favorites of me and mine:
What are some of yours? I'd really love to know! Remember? It's one of my quirks!
I am a huge fan of quirks. I love it when I discover one - especially in someone I enjoy - and find them endearing and delightful. Except for the obvious distressing ones. I do not think you are cute if you pick your nose. In fact, if you pick your nose, you are dead to me. But if you - say - read your magazines back to front? I love that about you. Perhaps that is one of my quirks?
And one of the best things about raising children is discovering - right along with them - their amazingly complex personalities - their favorites, their obsessions, and their quirks!
So here's a list of some of my favorites of me and mine:
- I wash my face with soap. Then scrub with a washcloth. The soap and the washcloth never touch.
- When nature calls, Wyatt excuses himself to the bathroom, turns the light AND the fan on, then begins to dictate stories to himself in the mirror with the loudest voice possible. AWESOME.
- If Daphne enjoys a meal particularly well, she will put it in her hair. This is how she shows you her enthusiastic appreciation.
- Wyatt shakes his hands up and down when he is trying to explain something to you,
- I always go through checkstand 8 if I can help it.
- I always park next to the cart return (since having kids).
- I am a compulsive reader. If it has words - I'm reading them. Passing billboards on the freeway can be frustrating! I've always got a book on my nightstand that I'm in the middle of reading.
- I have a thing about making sure my kids have clean ears. I check them compulsively, and we go through quite a few q-tips.
- Bill loves ice-water. You can usually tell what room he's been in because there will be a water glass with left-over ice in the bottom. Every morning, I go through the house and collect baby bottles and water glasses for the morning load of dishes.
- When Henry is burped, you have to wait for one burp, then lay him down flat again or he'll spit up. If he burps more than once while on your shoulder, you'll get more than you bargained for!
- Bill hates commercials. He avoids watching them because they make him mad. Not because they are an annoying interruption from the show at hand, but because most of them are badly designed or a bold-faced lie contrived to get you to think wrong.
- I enjoy making "Sunday Pot Roast" complete with potatoes, carrots, and mushrooms - but I never eat the roast part when serving it. However, I always serve myself a double helping of the carrots; my favorite part!
- I have a saliva complex. I hate spit. I have the hardest time sharing beverages - sometimes I even cringe to share with my own kids. Often if they share my water, I'll conveniently decide I'm done with it and let them have the rest. If I see someone randomly spit on the ground, I'll decide they are disgusting and will go out of my way to avoid them (and their spit pile - GROSS!).
- Whenever we kneel for family prayer, I have the urge to pop my neck. I dunno.
- I eat toast by nibbling off the crust around the three sides I'm not holding, eating out the delicious buttery middle, and eating the last crust side last.
- I eat my bowl of frozen yogurt with a baby spoon so it lasts longer. I don't eat ice-cream anymore - only frozen yogurt. Ice cream tastes too thick to me, now.
- When I clean the bathroom or put on a new roll of toilet paper, I have to fold the ends into a V - like you see in hotels. That way you know it's 'fresh'. I love it when I am the next person to use the room, and the V is still there.
What are some of yours? I'd really love to know! Remember? It's one of my quirks!
Chaos Theory
Juggling three kids ages three and under is tricky. Sometimes it's delightfully funny. Sometimes it's miraculous and moving. Sometimes it's downright scary just how close I get to losing all control of the situation. But it is definitely tricky.
Like the time I was stuck on the couch feeding Henry (he prefers to stay very still while eating, or it's all likely to come right back up). Daphne - who recently discovered that this whole walking thing can be done with speed and abandon - was cruising round and round the couch with various blocks, books, or toy cars in her fists or mouth at each passing. Wyatt, who was recklessly swinging his flashlight in one hand (acting as the headlights to his car, you understand), spun in mad circles with a fearsome war-cry on his lips.
I was trying to get Wyatt to calm down - or at least try a less piercing war-cry - with little success from where I was perched on the couch. Which was when Daphne decided to deviate the course and head into the kitchen - where I had not yet had the chance to sweep up after lunch. She turned the corner into the dining room and completely out of my sight - heading toward the stairs that she has no problem going up - but thinks that if she just turns and dives off the stair in the other direction, blind luck will somehow see her safely down (she hasn't figured out yet that Mom and Dad have had a lot to do with that blind luck so far). I called to her and heard her little answers grow nearer and farther away as she toddled around the dining room. Henry is ALMOST done! I will him to suck faster so I can toss him (gently) onto my shoulder to burp at his convenience while I chase after Daphne.
Which is when Wyatt, who was racing around the back of the couch, crashes head-first into the toddler folding table leaning against the wall. He and the tiny folding chair hit the ground in a grand cacophony of crashing sounds. He begins to cry - and not the 'that freaked me out and I'm feeling vulnerable' cry. We're talking the 'I could be seriously hurt, get OVER here!' cry.
So I abandon Henry's lunch and toss him over my shoulder and rush over to where Wyatt is sitting on the floor tangled in the folding chair, not willing to move (still very much aware that Daphne may have found the stairs and could, this moment, be ascending to her doom).
Which is when Henry decides to throw up.
Down my shirt. Soaking both shirt layers, my bra, my underwear, my skin and - yes - my hair. He managed to expel the entirety of what he had just eaten with the bonus of the more chunky remains of what he had eaten before that. We looked at each other in surprise - then he began to wail and I began to laugh.
I held poor soggy Henry in one arm, pulled Wyatt from his wreckage with the other, called Daphne to "come and see what Mommy has!" in my most tantalizing voice, and when her curly haired, grinning-eyed, toddling form appeared again in the kitchen (through the lunch mess, recall), I decided that this would be the perfect tome to re-set.
I sat with my kids, took a few deep breaths, and turned into Robot-Action Mom. You know - the one who steps aside from how overwhelmed she's feeling to do what needs to be done with mechanical efficiency?
A few minutes later, I had Wyatt satisfactorily kissed, hugged, and relaxing on the couch to 'recover' with a book and his magna-doodle; Daphne set up in style with an animal cookie in each hand (after all, when Mommy invites you to come and see what she has, Mommy must deliver!); and Henry and I hosing off at the sink.
Half an hour after that, I had the older two kids down for a nap, Henry freshly bathed, Myself freshly changed (with hair sponged and pulled back) and sat down to a full twenty minutes of 'me time' - during which I fed myself lunch, read a few blogs, and cleaned up that darn lunch mess!
So when the chaos began to stir again with demands for stories, lost toy cars, drinks of milk, diaper changes, bottles and burping - I was ready.
...or at least I had on a clean shirt.
Like the time I was stuck on the couch feeding Henry (he prefers to stay very still while eating, or it's all likely to come right back up). Daphne - who recently discovered that this whole walking thing can be done with speed and abandon - was cruising round and round the couch with various blocks, books, or toy cars in her fists or mouth at each passing. Wyatt, who was recklessly swinging his flashlight in one hand (acting as the headlights to his car, you understand), spun in mad circles with a fearsome war-cry on his lips.
I was trying to get Wyatt to calm down - or at least try a less piercing war-cry - with little success from where I was perched on the couch. Which was when Daphne decided to deviate the course and head into the kitchen - where I had not yet had the chance to sweep up after lunch. She turned the corner into the dining room and completely out of my sight - heading toward the stairs that she has no problem going up - but thinks that if she just turns and dives off the stair in the other direction, blind luck will somehow see her safely down (she hasn't figured out yet that Mom and Dad have had a lot to do with that blind luck so far). I called to her and heard her little answers grow nearer and farther away as she toddled around the dining room. Henry is ALMOST done! I will him to suck faster so I can toss him (gently) onto my shoulder to burp at his convenience while I chase after Daphne.
Which is when Wyatt, who was racing around the back of the couch, crashes head-first into the toddler folding table leaning against the wall. He and the tiny folding chair hit the ground in a grand cacophony of crashing sounds. He begins to cry - and not the 'that freaked me out and I'm feeling vulnerable' cry. We're talking the 'I could be seriously hurt, get OVER here!' cry.
So I abandon Henry's lunch and toss him over my shoulder and rush over to where Wyatt is sitting on the floor tangled in the folding chair, not willing to move (still very much aware that Daphne may have found the stairs and could, this moment, be ascending to her doom).
Which is when Henry decides to throw up.
Down my shirt. Soaking both shirt layers, my bra, my underwear, my skin and - yes - my hair. He managed to expel the entirety of what he had just eaten with the bonus of the more chunky remains of what he had eaten before that. We looked at each other in surprise - then he began to wail and I began to laugh.
I held poor soggy Henry in one arm, pulled Wyatt from his wreckage with the other, called Daphne to "come and see what Mommy has!" in my most tantalizing voice, and when her curly haired, grinning-eyed, toddling form appeared again in the kitchen (through the lunch mess, recall), I decided that this would be the perfect tome to re-set.
I sat with my kids, took a few deep breaths, and turned into Robot-Action Mom. You know - the one who steps aside from how overwhelmed she's feeling to do what needs to be done with mechanical efficiency?
A few minutes later, I had Wyatt satisfactorily kissed, hugged, and relaxing on the couch to 'recover' with a book and his magna-doodle; Daphne set up in style with an animal cookie in each hand (after all, when Mommy invites you to come and see what she has, Mommy must deliver!); and Henry and I hosing off at the sink.
Half an hour after that, I had the older two kids down for a nap, Henry freshly bathed, Myself freshly changed (with hair sponged and pulled back) and sat down to a full twenty minutes of 'me time' - during which I fed myself lunch, read a few blogs, and cleaned up that darn lunch mess!
So when the chaos began to stir again with demands for stories, lost toy cars, drinks of milk, diaper changes, bottles and burping - I was ready.
...or at least I had on a clean shirt.
Pants On Fire
I remember what it felt like the first time I was lied to. I mean really lied to.
I was in first grade. Jamie (second grade) and I were waiting at a different bus stop than usual that week. My mom would drop us off at the house of a family friend for a short wait before we would walk with their kids to the bus stop at the bottom of the dip. I don't know why, because I wasn't the type of kid who asked those kinds of questions. I was the 'observe now, make sense of it later' type. In many ways, I still am.
By 'the dip' I mean the bottom most point of the deep bowl in the earth that was cross-haired by the road and the winding creek that was large and rugged enough for me to think it was a river. The bottom of this bowl was heavily treed, and we would wait for the bus in the south-east quadrant the road and the river created. There was a turn off from the road that ended in a loop where the bus would pick us up. In the middle of that loop was a little grove of trees.
I fancied that tiny first-grader sized forest to be enchanted, and so I would break from the pack and wander through its trove, kicking over rocks and running my fingers along the tall grasses, leaves, and the rough bark of the trees.
One fateful day, I found a treasure. It wasn't just something my imagination conjured for me, either. A real life bona fide treasure! It was a large, green stone. Translucent. The size of my fist - and it felt good in my hand when I wrapped my fingers around it. Looking back, I think it must have been a rock-shaped piece of green glass. But to my mind, then, I had found a magnificent emerald. Something that fell from a pirate's pocket as he fled, or perhaps lost from a royal treasury, or placed there by the fairy king himself - and I was now either blessed or cursed forever for finding it and putting it in my pocket!
That stone stayed in my pocket the entire day. My hand kept sliding into my pocket, unable to resist the feeling of those smooth, angled surfaces or the satisfying weight of it in my hand. I showed only my very best friend in the entire world, because loyalty dictates that such a find and all the consequences - be they dire or delicious! - must be shared in equal parts with one's very best friend in the entire world. She marveled at it appreciatively, and I let her hold it and carry it in her pocket for a while. To get the whole effect.
Recess came, and there was a lightness in my step. A daringness in my play. I flipped around those monkey bars as though nothing in the world could harm me - and for that short time, I believed nothing could.
But then, in music class, sitting across the circle from me was Marlayna. Marlayna was the sour-expressioned pretty girl that was a tad on the snooty side, yet always inexplicably popular. And Marlayna was holding my stone.
My hand darted to my pocket - my empty pocket! - and I stared in horror as Marlayna showed my stone to the two girls fawning over her on either side. She stroked its surface, and I bristled.
Now - it needs to be understood that I was a very shy girl in my youth. The thought of speaking to Marlayna at all was a frightening prospect. But seeing my stone in her hand spurred me forward with a courage that wasn't my own. Intimidation welled within me, threatening to swerve the course - but I held fast. My eye on the stone. It was as if it were drawing me to it, to claim it again as it's rightful owner.
I looked down at where Marlayna was sitting cross legged. "That's mine." I said - and marveled at my own voice.
Marlayna looked up at me with cool disinterest. "What?"
"That stone. It's mine."
"No it isn't."
"Yes," I explained. "It was in my pocket and must have fallen out during recess when I was upside down on the monkey bars."
"No, I found it." Marlayna insisted.
"Yes - by the monkey bars?"
The girl next to her snapped her attention from me to Marlayna and said, "Isn't that where you said you found it?"
But Marlayna wasn't explaining how she came by the stone to me. She was telling me. In no uncertain terms. "No," she repeated. "I found it. This morning. Before school. It's mine."
The girl fell silent, and my world tilted. My stomach hollowed. Nothing made sense - and I could think of nothing to do but walk away. I chocked back the tears of a sudden intense feeling of unfairness. I had found this glorious treasure - it had been my companion this whole day (it might as well have been a lifetime!). I knew Marlayna hadn't found it this morning before school, because *I* had found it this morning before school. Her friend knew it. And I knew Marlayna knew it.
It was a lie - and I had not yet experienced anything so __. I felt flustered, anxious. And in that moment, my little world became many times more complicated.
Marlayna moved - and I never saw her again. But years later - in high school - I made a friend who had known Marlayna from when they were neighbors and friends. I told my friend to ask Marlayna about the green stone the next time she saw her. "Tell her I'd like it back," I said.
I didn't expect the message would get relayed. Not really. But some time later, my friend came to me and said, "You know that stone you wanted me to ask Marlayna about?"
"Yes," I said with the thrill of one about to unravel a mystery.
"I remember that stone. Once when I was sleeping over. She kept it on her dresser."
"You're kidding! That was mine, once."
"Yes - Marlayna remembered you. She didn't tell me about the stone except to say, 'tell her I'm sorry, I lost it.'"
Apparently this lie had an impact on the both of us.
I've been lied to since, and have told a few myself. I don't think of Marlayna as my enemy - at least not in a three dimensional way. But the feeling of that first time has always stayed with me, and probably always will.
I was in first grade. Jamie (second grade) and I were waiting at a different bus stop than usual that week. My mom would drop us off at the house of a family friend for a short wait before we would walk with their kids to the bus stop at the bottom of the dip. I don't know why, because I wasn't the type of kid who asked those kinds of questions. I was the 'observe now, make sense of it later' type. In many ways, I still am.
By 'the dip' I mean the bottom most point of the deep bowl in the earth that was cross-haired by the road and the winding creek that was large and rugged enough for me to think it was a river. The bottom of this bowl was heavily treed, and we would wait for the bus in the south-east quadrant the road and the river created. There was a turn off from the road that ended in a loop where the bus would pick us up. In the middle of that loop was a little grove of trees.
I fancied that tiny first-grader sized forest to be enchanted, and so I would break from the pack and wander through its trove, kicking over rocks and running my fingers along the tall grasses, leaves, and the rough bark of the trees.
One fateful day, I found a treasure. It wasn't just something my imagination conjured for me, either. A real life bona fide treasure! It was a large, green stone. Translucent. The size of my fist - and it felt good in my hand when I wrapped my fingers around it. Looking back, I think it must have been a rock-shaped piece of green glass. But to my mind, then, I had found a magnificent emerald. Something that fell from a pirate's pocket as he fled, or perhaps lost from a royal treasury, or placed there by the fairy king himself - and I was now either blessed or cursed forever for finding it and putting it in my pocket!
That stone stayed in my pocket the entire day. My hand kept sliding into my pocket, unable to resist the feeling of those smooth, angled surfaces or the satisfying weight of it in my hand. I showed only my very best friend in the entire world, because loyalty dictates that such a find and all the consequences - be they dire or delicious! - must be shared in equal parts with one's very best friend in the entire world. She marveled at it appreciatively, and I let her hold it and carry it in her pocket for a while. To get the whole effect.
Recess came, and there was a lightness in my step. A daringness in my play. I flipped around those monkey bars as though nothing in the world could harm me - and for that short time, I believed nothing could.
But then, in music class, sitting across the circle from me was Marlayna. Marlayna was the sour-expressioned pretty girl that was a tad on the snooty side, yet always inexplicably popular. And Marlayna was holding my stone.
My hand darted to my pocket - my empty pocket! - and I stared in horror as Marlayna showed my stone to the two girls fawning over her on either side. She stroked its surface, and I bristled.
Now - it needs to be understood that I was a very shy girl in my youth. The thought of speaking to Marlayna at all was a frightening prospect. But seeing my stone in her hand spurred me forward with a courage that wasn't my own. Intimidation welled within me, threatening to swerve the course - but I held fast. My eye on the stone. It was as if it were drawing me to it, to claim it again as it's rightful owner.
I looked down at where Marlayna was sitting cross legged. "That's mine." I said - and marveled at my own voice.
Marlayna looked up at me with cool disinterest. "What?"
"That stone. It's mine."
"No it isn't."
"Yes," I explained. "It was in my pocket and must have fallen out during recess when I was upside down on the monkey bars."
"No, I found it." Marlayna insisted.
"Yes - by the monkey bars?"
The girl next to her snapped her attention from me to Marlayna and said, "Isn't that where you said you found it?"
But Marlayna wasn't explaining how she came by the stone to me. She was telling me. In no uncertain terms. "No," she repeated. "I found it. This morning. Before school. It's mine."
The girl fell silent, and my world tilted. My stomach hollowed. Nothing made sense - and I could think of nothing to do but walk away. I chocked back the tears of a sudden intense feeling of unfairness. I had found this glorious treasure - it had been my companion this whole day (it might as well have been a lifetime!). I knew Marlayna hadn't found it this morning before school, because *I* had found it this morning before school. Her friend knew it. And I knew Marlayna knew it.
It was a lie - and I had not yet experienced anything so __. I felt flustered, anxious. And in that moment, my little world became many times more complicated.
Marlayna moved - and I never saw her again. But years later - in high school - I made a friend who had known Marlayna from when they were neighbors and friends. I told my friend to ask Marlayna about the green stone the next time she saw her. "Tell her I'd like it back," I said.
I didn't expect the message would get relayed. Not really. But some time later, my friend came to me and said, "You know that stone you wanted me to ask Marlayna about?"
"Yes," I said with the thrill of one about to unravel a mystery.
"I remember that stone. Once when I was sleeping over. She kept it on her dresser."
"You're kidding! That was mine, once."
"Yes - Marlayna remembered you. She didn't tell me about the stone except to say, 'tell her I'm sorry, I lost it.'"
Apparently this lie had an impact on the both of us.
I've been lied to since, and have told a few myself. I don't think of Marlayna as my enemy - at least not in a three dimensional way. But the feeling of that first time has always stayed with me, and probably always will.
I had this whole Post thing planned...
...but then I saw this, and I found myself delighted and inspired - two of my favorite things to be - and I had to share.
I don't know their reason for doing this thing, but I like to presume if I asked "why?" they would simply answer: "because I can."
Now, don't you just want to go out and do some large scale creative conquering of your own?
I don't know their reason for doing this thing, but I like to presume if I asked "why?" they would simply answer: "because I can."
Now, don't you just want to go out and do some large scale creative conquering of your own?
Conference Sunday
"Conference weekend is like a vacation," Soup said, explaining to Cleve why one had to have treats on Conference Sunday. She and Cleve were headed off on a late-night run to the store for me to pick up some sausage for the traditional Conference Sunday Breakfast Casserole. Cleve was thinking that with the breakfast casserole, the fruit salad, the breakfast gooey rolls and muffins we were probably set on the food. But Soup and I know. The food is for before, between and after conference. The treats are for during and for the inevitable game playing that would happen Sunday night.
"Exactly!" I said.
Soup and Cleve stayed the night last night (fun!) and will be partaking of the Conference Sunday Goodness all day today (fun, fun!). Mom and Dad are in Moab doing their bike thang (go, 'rents!) and will be back this afternoon, so it was up to us to keep the traditional Conference Sunday Breakfast going.
Plus - I just really wanted breakfast casserole and gooey rolls.
It's my first time making gooey rolls. Don't tell Cleve.
I love General Conference. LOVE. General Conference always means renewed hope, answered prayer, re-commitment and rejuvenation. Fresh courage to take! More somethings to do! And our beloved Prophet of the World - with his delightful sense of humor.
Join me?
You can stream the sessions (and find archived sessions) here.
Don't forget the treats.
"Exactly!" I said.
Soup and Cleve stayed the night last night (fun!) and will be partaking of the Conference Sunday Goodness all day today (fun, fun!). Mom and Dad are in Moab doing their bike thang (go, 'rents!) and will be back this afternoon, so it was up to us to keep the traditional Conference Sunday Breakfast going.
Plus - I just really wanted breakfast casserole and gooey rolls.
It's my first time making gooey rolls. Don't tell Cleve.
I love General Conference. LOVE. General Conference always means renewed hope, answered prayer, re-commitment and rejuvenation. Fresh courage to take! More somethings to do! And our beloved Prophet of the World - with his delightful sense of humor.
Join me?
You can stream the sessions (and find archived sessions) here.
Don't forget the treats.
Things that Have Saved my Life as a Mother:
- The swing. With the optional white-noise sounds.
- The bounceroo. Like the swing, but for slightly older (needs more entertaining) babies. I swear, if it weren't for these two things, I'd never get breakfast/lunch/dinner on the table.
- Swaddling. I swear by it. Apparently, now, 'they' are saying swaddling is unsafe and shouldn't be done. I still stubbornly swear by it. I'm pretty sure Bill's patented 'daddy swaddle' is the reason Wyatt and Daphne (and soon Henry??? please???) were sleeping through the night at 2 months.
- High Chair on wheels.
- Wet wipes. I use them for everything.
- disposable diapers. I know it's not Green - but dang. Especially lately, I am very glad for this invention.
- Fish tanks at doctors offices.
- Boppy Pillow. Love it for nursing. Henry loves it for napping.
- Washing machines - because if I had to washboard all the laundry Henry is going through per diem, lately, I'd probably have no fingers left.
- Pacifiers.
- Stores that give fun stuff to kids just 'cause. Like balloons at Roberts and smarties at Maceys. I love that errands can be fun for them, too.
- Veggie Tales.
- Goldfish crackers.
- My mom.
Conquering Costco
An hour just to leave
Diapers, shoes, three fed-up kids
I reconsider
Three Kids in my Cart
broke into the loot half way
Conquering Costco
In the check-out line
Quadruplet toddlers in front
I got it easy!
Diapers, shoes, three fed-up kids
I reconsider
Three Kids in my Cart
broke into the loot half way
Conquering Costco
In the check-out line
Quadruplet toddlers in front
I got it easy!
