State of Obvious

This semester

2012-01-23T19:34:00.000-07:00

I'm taking 5 classes. That seems like a lot to my frazzled little brain. Plus, starting off the semester with some kinda sickness isn't really a good way to go. In case you've thought about doing that. Long story short, I feel scared. And sick. In this half delusional state of being I have decided to share my creative writing class efforts with you, much like in the past. I'll tell you what we were supposed to write, post what I did write, and then wait with baited breath for comments that never come. Sha la la.

First up, write a one page scene which entails walking across the room, retrieving an item and walking back. This is an exercise in time management (go on, give it a try if you'd like.)

---

Later, she satcautiously on the edge of her bed, her feet barely touching the floor, andlistened to the familiar sounds of nap time. Chattering, jumping, and slowing down until weary eyes slid shut. She heard them through the wall, two childrenpushing hard against slumber. It wascomforting.

The sun fell inslants across the spine of a white photo album, innocent and dusty on a shelfabove a very busy desk on the other side of the room. She hadn’t looked at the album in years,hadn’t really seen it sitting there. Itwas wallpaper.

Standingcarefully so that the bed wouldn’t creak too loudly, she crossed thefloor. The children’s babble paused tolisten, little radars that heard every moan of the wood floor beneath her toes. Gently, gently she made her way.

The pictures onthe desk stared at her, accusing. Hisface and hers, but younger. Happier. No gray at his temples. No rumpled pajamas like those she stillwore. A wedding dress, much too flouncywith puffy sleeves and dripping lace. The brilliant, splotchy color of a weddingbouquet. His arm was around hershoulder, the mellow brown of his arm against her creamy white skin. She realized painfully that he hadn’t smiledlike that in a long time.

Her unwillingeyes fell on the contents of another silver frame. His face again. Happy, again. But also, proud. He was holdinghis first child up for the camera. Aplump baby cheek against his whiskers. They both had blue eyes, pieces of sky.

She was standingover the desk now, breathing hard. Sheturned the frames on their faces, blocking out the memories, before sliding thewhite album off the shelf. A layer ofdust sprinkled the desk below. Clutchingthe album to her chest, she crossed carefully back to the bed.

The nap time soundshad faded, replaced by breathing so light she had to strain to hear it. A snore, a sigh, and turning over. She waited for the tears to come, now that itwas safe, but she had built the dam too high.

Creed

2012-01-19T20:15:00.000-07:00

The kind of person I want to be:

I want to be a person that sees the positive in everyone I meet.

I want to be a person that climbs the mountain and comes back down stronger.

I want to be the person that lives life unafraid.

I want to be the person that reaches for my dreams.

I want to be the person that values honesty over ease.

I want to be the person that learns from past mistakes.

I want to be the person that has a nest egg.

I want to be the person with the permanently clean house.

I want to be the person with unshakeable standards.

I want to be the person that lives what she believes.

I want to be the person of faith.

I want to be the good mom.

I want a lot, but really not so much.

I want to be happy.

Update!

2012-01-11T00:38:00.000-07:00

So.

I didn't get any writing done today.

But don't be mad. I used my time wisely to create this super awesome, totally free printable.

Because I am all about you, my readers. And my ads (clicky, clicky!). You can't have one without the other.

So anyhow, I really hope you like my super free awesome printable because I spent ALL DAY creating it. It's filled with all the love in my heart.

And tomorrow I'll get right on that book thing.

(Here's a sample of the printable! Isn't it ah MAY zing!?)

For your very own Yoda printable, go here!

You GUYS,

2012-01-09T20:38:00.000-07:00

I'm not sure if you've heard, but there are other blogs out there to read.

I know, shocker.

And here we've been operating under the assumption that I am the only blog on the planet worth reading and I have 8000 views to prove it. It's possible about 7500 of those are my own clicks but SERIOUSLY, 500 is a lot. I've been reading some of these blogs to size up the competition and I'm beginning to realize just how amazing I really am. Like, seriously, so amazing.

So anyways, because I am so awesome I am going to write a book in the next 30 days. A whole book. While I blog and take care of my kids. I am also going to teach my dog to roll over while I train for a marathon, build an addition and redo my daughter's room. Again. It's not princess-y enough and there are some great antiques at my local thrift shop, circa 1980. This is seriously stuff here, people. It's going to be so hard to do. THIRTY days. That is one more than 29, my eternal age.

Just to emphasize how hard this will be, let me tell you about my multiple injuries. I have a paper cut on my finger, for starters. It actually healed up already because it happened last week but I know where it was and I can remember the pain. Oh, the pain. Also, my feet hurt. It's possible I am wearing the wrong shoes. Namely flip flops. All the time. And last night I only got 8.2 hours of sleep. Adults are supposed to get at least 12 to function properly. I am pretty sure I read that somewhere. So, as you can see, I am going to write this book under seriously difficult conditions. I've already been forwarded a check to get me motivated too. Together with my ads (clicky clicky on the side bar!), I should have enough to buy a new iPhone at walmart. The plastic kind filled with bubble gum. If I borrow five bucks from my kids.

I am so stressed out about writing this book, you have no idea. I can't even bring myself to type. Except for this blog. And website names while I surf the interwebs. I mustered up the energy to do some pinterest and etsy surfing and I am seriously exhausted now so if you could help me out by leaving a comments that I can turn into book material. Be sure to be very prosy and witty. I don't want to have to think too hard because I'm so busy. SO BUSY. I mean, what was I thinking really? I'm glad my husband agreed to make dinner tonight because I need to go lay down now. And watch TV. It will help a lot, all the resting, because I'm SO sleep deprived. And I need all the sleep I can get because I am totally growing out my hair too. Can't wait to post updates! Every day! But when I forget I'll be sure to post some ~~crappy~~ artistically angled pictures of my life for your enjoyment.

I know, I'm a giver.

Retrospective

2011-12-31T12:59:00.000-07:00

This was one of those years that sort of just flew by. It was January - and then it was January again. That is not to say we didn't have experiences. Good and bad. They just seemed to come and go so quickly.

A glimpse at 2011 in words:

January - On a High Stool

February - Served

March - College is

April - What it means to me

May - In Profile

June - Jotting it down

July - In Memory: The Water of Life

August - Birth Days: Part Two

September - Dear Josh,

November - Tilt Oh Whirl

December - Dear Carly,

(My personal favorites were January, May, July and August.)

My hopes for 2012 are simple:

I hope to be more fiscally reasonable.

I hope to yell less.

I hope to do well in school.

I hope to be happy.

And, of course, I hope to win million dollars. (But if not me, maybe you!)

Happy New Year!

The Sturdy Kind that Doesn't Mind

2011-12-24T09:55:00.000-07:00

I woke up really early this morning. Not because Santa dropped down my chimney a little early. Oh no. Rather, my daughter was making merry all through the house. First, she visited my bed.

"I can't see where I'm going," she said.

And then she stumbled under the covers and started to complain about her knee. It hurt.

"Please rub it Mommy."

And so I did.

I rolled over and went back to sleep. For a moment.

And then she was awake again. The sun was streaming gray through the window, a sure sign of a very early day. But she was up now and she bounced out my door, slamming it behind her.

One cat was locked in, one locked out. And the locked out cat began to cry. So I had to get up and free his brother.

Door ajar, the voices drift in as the room turns buttery yellow.

"Why are you bugging me?" says Daddy. "What do you want to do, watch a movie?"

"Yes," she replies.

Voices and movies and video games and cats.

It's not long before the dog joins in too. She needs to go out.

I wanted to sleep in, but now my eyes are awake and won't close.

It's Christmas Eve morning.

Singing loud for all to hear

2011-12-21T09:06:00.000-07:00

We are so fortunate to be friends with an amazing (and now local!) photographer. She was inspired to create the S.I.P. (Service is Painless) Project. The SIP Project is basically a pay-it-forward, she takes beautiful pictures of you for free and you pay-it-forward with a service project of your choice. I can't say enough about this project - it's brilliant and wonderful and inspiring.

DeAnn, the SIP creator, took pictures of my kids way back in October. We finally got our end of the bargain completed and the final results can be found by following this link. You can help this project out in two (or three) very simple ways: First, follow her blog. And second, leave questions or comments for her. Third, if you're local, sign up for the SIP Project. You won't regret it!

Merry and Bright

2011-12-17T16:59:00.000-07:00

Some fun stuff from around the web for your holiday enjoyment:

Make your own snowflake, scissor and mess free. (Available all year too!)

Talk to Santa on the phone. Or ask him to talk to someone on the good list.

The cutest little winter bunny you'll ever meet.

Where in the world is Santa right now?

Funny e cards and videos using your silly face.

Videos portraying the events leading to Christ's birth.

All free! (except for some of the activities on Jib Jab)

Dear Carly,

2011-12-16T00:26:00.001-07:00

You are sleeping. You drifted off while you sat in the recliner with your Dad. Your face turned to the side, your eyes slipped shut and then you were dreaming. Just like that.

It's magical to watch you change. You're getting taller, and more person-like. You talk with your hands. You've got a personal sense of style (I'm not saying it's good, but you've got it.) You have opinions and you're not afraid, at all, to share them. You excel at making messes, not so much at cleaning them up (unless you're really motivated).

You're reading. And writing. The reading comes a little slower, spurts and starts, but it's coming. You like to make fancy looping letters and numbers. You can color inside the lines when you care to try. And you draw these incredible pictures of people with long, long, long hair and googly eyes. They are wonderfully strange. And quite sweet.

Some days I look at you and can't think of any word except wow.

Other days .... well we won't talk about those.

But even as you change, you stay the same. Daddy is still your favorite. I try to shake it off when you almost physically push me away to get to him. I'm glad, so glad, that you love him so fiercely. Everyone needs their own personal fan club. You still want to be close, right on top of me if possible. But only for a moment. Because flipping, bouncing, jumping and spinning is much more important than snuggling. You just want to know you can. You sing all the time. (The "nice" singing is particularly impressive.) You make up words and tunes that aren't tunes. You turn little moments into performances.

You're this flying little whirlwind.

And then, you collapse into a pile of sugar and sleep.

Sweet dreams.

Love,

Mom

Christmas Wish List - 2011

2011-12-10T23:05:00.001-07:00

Not everything around here is Debbie Downer. I mean, it is almost Christmas. Once you get past the anxiety over presents, dinners, and decorating, it's a pretty fun holiday. (Insert uplifting message here about the true meaning of Christmas.)

I'm sure the whole world is curious to know what is on my wish list this year. Let us not forget the unreachable glory of the last few years. So far Santa's elves have pretty much failed to produce. Ever hopeful, here is my officially official Christmas Wish List 2011including the Practical gifts and Super-Fantastic-Holy-Smokes-I-Need-That gifts, respectively.

Practical:

1. Kindle Fire. Oh, yes. It really is practical and I don't even have to pretend! Textbooks of the e variety! Apps! Other books! Lighter than laptop! (I'm not 100% sure it can handle bluetooth, but if so I can even add a keyboard and pretend it would be good for taking notes.) Entertainment on road trips! (For me!)

Santometer says: Eric has already hinted that something rhyming with Brindle Pyre will be arriving shortly after Christmas, so Santa's elves get a bye on this one. Weeeeeeeee!

2. KitchenAid Mixer. This has appeared on my wish list in the past and I did receive a stand up mixer. But it wasn't the real deal and wouldn't spin the bowl properly. Plus it didn't have the other attachment thingys. And while the original stand up mixer I received has been put to much good use, I'd really like one of these pretty ones.

Santometer says: I'll get back to you after I stop laughing.

3. Pellet Stove. We have one already. We rely on it for our primary heat source in the winter. Problem is, it's so loud. No really, it's LOUD. The blower dealy is just....what's another word for loud? It does a fair job of heating (although it doesn't really heat the south side of the house very well), but we don't turn it up very high due to the loudness (which could be a factor in the not heating the south side of the house very well thing). After a while you get used to the noise, but I'm pretty sure NASA can hear our TV from space because we have to turn it up so much to compete with the stove. A wood burning stove would be an acceptable substitute (probably preferred except that we'd have to redo our chimney to install one of those.)

Super-Fantastic-Holy-Smokes-I-Need-That

1. This little Z Glass house thingy. It's so perfect and tiny, I can't stand it. The possibilities for use almost had me listing it on the Practical list. A self contained little house for guests? Yes please. A perfect little sanctuary for Eric's brother if we ever convinced him to move down here. And only $26,000!

Santometer says: Nice try with the whole practical angle.

2. This little stretch of land out in Santa Rosa, New Mexico. Located near our favorite lake and only an hour-ish from home, it features its very own set of ruins and lots of space for doing stuff. Maybe camping? Possibly horse back riding? How about archaeological digs? Yes, yes and yes. We could even put a little house thingy on it!

Santometer says: You've heard we're in a recession, right?

3. By far the most reasonable thing on my Super-Fantastic-Holy-Smokes-I-Need-That list, the HP TouchSmart 610 Quad. First, it's just cool. Second, it's way more powerful than our current home PC. And third, it's really cool. So, if HP wants to send me one based on all this free advertising to the 10 people who read my blog, I'd be ok with that.

Santometer says: At least you brought it back down to Earth.

I've included links to all my wish list gifts just in case someone feels generous. Now, what's on your list?

2011-12-07T18:09:00.001-07:00

There's a certain something in the air. It sneaks past the frozen solid mucus in my nose and creeps into my bones. It settles in and refuses to leave. It masquerades as grumpy moods and teary eyes.

Oh, wintertime blues, hello again.

I want to laugh at myself most of the time. I mean, how good does your life have to be? How many blessings can you count just by looking around? Other than a solid gold BMW, what else do you want in life than what you already have?

It doesn't make any sense really.

But I'm just so sad. And angry. But not all the time. Just, you know, every few minutes. One of the kids looked at me funny or said something wrong. There's nothing to watch on TV. The dog is whining. I have to clean up the house again. The laundry is breeding. It's always something.

Did I mention I'm also a nag? Trust me, my family feels that way. Lately I feel like I can't say anything that doesn't receive an eye-roll, sigh, or exasperation in return.

I'm not trying to annoy them. In fact, I love them and I'm just trying to keep them safe and well and happy.

But I'm doing it all wrong. Down to the shoe I had the nerve to remind someone to tie. And the gloves I made another someone find. The jacket I made someone wear. And the dinner I didn't cook fast enough - or, weirdly, cooked at all.

I can't win, that's how it feels. I'm running and running and running and running and running and the race just never ever ends.

There's the finish line! It's mocking me now.

And now and then the crowd cheers and I feel good.

But then I notice I'm still running.

It's very nonsensical, I know.

I'm pretty sure I need a long, long vacation.

And a lot of chocolate.

Tilt Oh Whirl

2011-11-21T21:58:00.001-07:00

I figured out what it is, that thing that has me yo-yo-ing between ok-happy-sad-sadder-ok-sad-happy...people keep having babies!

They're everywhere! Little pregnant women with popped out bellies. Big pregnant women looking glow-y. Celebrity pregnant women. Mean pregnant women.

Ok, so not really any mean pregnant women. But I wish they would be mean just so I could justify these feelings.

Don't get me wrong. I love that people are having babies. (I am pretty sure I've typed that before. Probably more than once.) I mean, someone has to keep things running in the future when I am too busy mashing up my food before I eat it. Plus, babies are cute. Ridiculously so. Chubby cheeks and soft hair and little button noses. That's the reason people keep having babies, really. The cuteness. (If a three year old popped out, people would definitely have fewer kids. If any at all.) I'm happy for people having babies.

And I really thought I was over this. That I had set the fruitless hopes aside. That I had finally talked myself into acceptance and joy for what I have.

What I have is great. Truly.

And yet.

I still, from time to time, trick myself into thinking "Well, maybe."

The disappointment used to be so crushing when I was wrong.

And now it's just...expected. Where once I was so hopeful, every time, now I am hopeless. Every time.

It's really hard. And, while I realize, on the grand scale of things to be sad about this isn't really very near the top, hearts don't listen to logic. Hearts lack common sense. It hurts me, it changes me, it affects me, it crushes me. And the cycle of heartache-guilt (because I have so much)-joy-heartache-guilt (because I have so much) is a very tricky roller coaster ride indeed.

Hopeful, Hopeless

2011-11-16T02:21:00.001-07:00

I'm not sure which is worse.

On one hand, hopeful is so enticing. It's that bubbly feeling in the hollows of your chest, eager to get out. A spring in your step. A smile that won't fade. It's a glass half full and a sunrise in all its glory. It's strawberry shortcake with extra whipped cream, but it doesn't have any calories. It's wonderful.

Until you crash.

And oh, the crash. The waves. The internal beating of a saddened heart. The sunset and clouds and rain. The beautiful misery.

But hopeless - that's another story. It's never expecting, from the start. It's convincing and being convinced that dreams are only pictures. It's empty sounds and endless nights and sheets that feel too cold no matter how long you've been in them. It's the long, dark corridor of night.

With hopeless there is always the small, sad possibility that you might just be surprised. It tickles the back of your mind. But, mostly, it reminds. It foretells. It scolds.

In the empty, fading hours it's hard to distinguish the two.

Hopeful.

Hopeless.

Both, so hard.

We get through it

2011-11-05T22:40:00.000-06:00

In the fading hours of the day, the house grows still. Almost sleeping, except that the lights are still on and probably the TV. There's the hum and whistle of the hot water heater, and the cracking sound of settling foundations. There's a fan in the boy's room. And a heater whirring. There's the dog, chewing on the chewy. And the computer, keys tapping, fan spinning.

And me.

The silence of the late-night hours are a haven. A time to sit and think. Or sit and not think, as the case may be. Not a lot of "mommy can you" going on, blessed reprieve. Not much eye rolling or sigh making or feet stomping. I'd be lying if I tried to tell you these aren't part of a daily routine. They are. Life isn't perfect, it doesn't sound perfect or look perfect. Sometimes, for fleeting moments, it feels perfect. The stars align and the heavens smile and the world sings. But, I must emphasize the fleeting. Living intrudes, and reality. Only pictures stand still.

Just this morning, Carly crawled up on top of me, laying on my hip while I was on my side on the couch. It wasn't particularly comfortable, but I didn't push her away. I could hear her breathing, the steady signal that she's living. Her cold toes were pressed against my legs, sometimes wiggling and sometimes still. She smelled like soap and clean clothes, she just wanted to be close.

I fell asleep.

Not much later, she woke me as she moved. Getting up, moving on, bored with the subtle silent exchange. Or maybe just full. Full enough of love and comfort to go do something else.

And isn't that the point? The whole, wrapped up, solidified reason for all of this. For families and love and life together. For choosing to stick together when, sometimes, it would be a lot easier just to do things my way alone. For the work and the heartache and the fear. But on my own I'd miss the little moments of breath in my ear, I'd never be full.

In those fading midnight hours, it's so much easier to see.

Thursday's Forget Me Not Thought, Part Duex

2011-11-04T00:27:00.000-06:00

"Forget not the difference between a good sacrifice and a foolish sacrifice."

I'll admit that I don't sail through life thinking, “Am I committing my time and energies to the things that matter most?” It's more like "If the kids eat dinner right now, it's only two more hours 'til bed. And we haven't done homework yet. Oh, look at their rooms. Oh, look at the laundry. Oh, I forgot to ___________!" The whirling dervish of life is my most constant companion. It leaves me tired, frustrated, and lonely. It's so much easier to focus on the essential non-essentials. I don't think this is very different from most people I know. It's extremely easy to get caught up in life, all the while forgetting to really live. Forgetting to stop, to smile, to laugh, to dance. Forgetting to put down the camera and watch the moments. Forgetting to stop reading books, to read faces instead. Forgetting to stop connecting online, and start connecting in life. And then getting frustrated for not stopping.

"There are so many good things to do, but we can’t do all of them. Our Heavenly Father is most pleased when we sacrifice something good for something far greater with an eternal perspective. Sometimes, that may even mean nurturing small but beautiful forget-me-not flowers instead of a large garden of exotic blooms."

What blooms am I planting today? Today I:

Sacrificed a couple hours of school to take a nap. (It was nice, but I didn't finish my work so it will have to be completed tomorrow or Saturday or maybe Sunday.)

Sacrificed my time to pick up my niece and son from school. (Worth it, especially since I got to talk AT my nice about her future. She's very lovely, extremely smart, and almost 15. The world at her feet...ahhh, how fleeting.)

Sacrificed family time to play a game on the computer. (Hrm. But I did enjoy myself. Should I feel guilty? I haven't decided yet if I feel mom-woman-unnecessary-type-guilt, or actual-what-was-I-thinking-type-guilt.)

Sacrificed more game time to make dinner (spaghetti, yummy) and a soupy cobbler dessert (made with Bisquick and oh so delicious. I feel a recipe post coming soon ish) that eventually cooked through. {Patting my own back here.}

Horticulturists agree: A few nice blooms with just a couple of stinky stickers.

I can handle that.

Read the first Thursday's Forget Me Not Thought here.

Beginnings

2011-11-01T01:21:00.001-06:00

I was looking through my document files (mostly by accident, I was actually searching for pictures and not words) and I came across a story I remembered starting, but left to congeal, quite some time ago.

This isn't it.

I went looking in the file again, curious, just tonight. And I found this beginning. Funny thing is, I don't remember much about writing it. I remember that I did write it, but the words are almost like they came from someone else. That happens a lot actually. All these stories just swirling around up there until one gets big enough to flood out.

Anyhow, I think it sounds like an interesting start. I wish I knew where it was supposed to go.

Hope you like it (and tell me what you think. Good, bad, or indifferent, I do want to know!.

--

If Laurel was sure of one thing, it was thatshe had the nicest house in town. Therewas really only one other house to compare it with, only one other house withtwo stories and a big bay window next to the front door. Both houses had been built by her daddy, wayback when. Except Laurel’s house had along white-washed porch that stretched all the way across the front and wrappedaround the side just like a cable-knit lap blanket. The other house her daddy built only had 3 rickety steps leading up to a door painted lipstick red.

Who painted their door to look like awoman’s lips, anyhow?

Truth be told, Eustacia wasn’t much of atown to look at. Just one long road thatran straight through town and out the other side. At least, that was the only paved road. All the other roads – "lanes" was what her mama calledthem when she was trying to sound fancy – were gravel or dirt and mainly mudexcept for the two hot summer months when they were more like baby powder frombeing so dry.

There were exactly three shops on Main Street,two of them with boarded up windows and heavy locks on the door to keep kidsout. The only shop still open held arubbage heap conglomeration – mismatched spark plugs, polka-dot ribbon, men’sundergarments and a whole host of other things that are only useful once ayear. There was one restaurant, Colby’sCafé, with red and white checked table cloths and fake flowers on everytable. Colby hisself still ran theplace, shuffling around in a greasy white apron and barking orders at the girlsin the back who were too busy giggling to pay attention to the old man. One gas station marked the west end of town,her mama liked to call it "quaint", with old-fashioned pumps that don’t acceptcredit cards. On the east end, a shinynew gas station with electronic pumps lorded over the end of town. Though, if you were driving the opposite way,it’d be the beginning.

The other houses in town weren’t much tolook at, to be sure. Mostly one storyaffairs with tilted roofs and peeling paint. A few here and there were white plaster on the outside, swirled to looklike mashed potatoes, but most were crumbling brick or wide brown plank. No porches, just shambling steps or dangerouslooking ramps with rickety handles. Atnight the town looked the best on account of there being no street lights. All the houses could hide under thestarlight, remembering the glory days when the little town of Eustacia was newand the money came rolling in on train tracks.

Fact is, the train don’t even come throughEustacia anymore.

Laurel, feet tucked under her as she sat on the window seat,pressed her nose against the big bay window of the finest house in town and wonderedwhen the rain would stop. The rippled glass made Laurel’s nose look strangle, highlighting onebrown freckle and changing it to look huge. Little circles of fog formed where her breath huffed out, almost like acotton-candy mustache.

She heaved a sigh and sat back, wiping herface print away with the tattered end of a green sweater sleeve. Four days nowit’d been coming down in sheets of silver and gray. The sun didn’t even bother to show it’sgloomy face, too washed out behind those heavy clouds that hung so low youcould almost scoop them up like ice cream. Most of the roads in town looked like brownies before they were baked and the trees were leaning over like old men.

“I washed that winder yesterday” her mamasaid from the sofa.

“Wind-oh, mama” Laurel replied, forcing her lips deliberately around the proper way to say the word. Her daddy always did like proper-sounding talk. “And you can’t even tell I touched it.”

Laurel’s mama was making a baby quilt, hersilver needle loaded with baby blue thread and moving through the cloth like apike darting downstream. Mama pursedher lips, but the needle kept flying.

Laurel sighed again and let her head restagainst the cool pane, brown strands sticking to the dewy glass. What Laurel needed was some entertainment,like that big ol’ Guthry boy from two streets over. His mama never did teach him any manners sohe was always blurting out something shocking. Or Patty McCray, she could tell jokes and spin stories better than abook.

But nobody was going out on account of thisrain. Too muddy, too wet, and too cold.

Thursday's Forget Me Not Thought

2011-10-27T23:51:00.000-06:00

Not so long ago I was wrangled into attending the General Relief Society Meeting portion of General Conference, an event sponspored by our church and aimed at men. Just kidding, this meeting was aimed at women. They do this every six months. And I usually don't go. What can I say, I'm a rebel. Nevertheless, I set aside the rebellion and went to this meeting. The first two speakers were ok. One of them looked like she probably would be the type to carry chocolate chip cookies in her purse for emergencies. I liked her. But I digress.

The concluding speaker for the evening was Dieter F. Uchtdorf. And first, it helps that he is nice to look at. He's kind of what I picture Prince Charming looking like later in life. Second, he's got a great accent. What is it about accents that make people more interesting? I wish I had one. I mean other than the midwest-meets-New-Mexico thing. Third, he's great at being relate-able. He doesn't talk down or over or under or around you. He talks to you. He gave a wonderful talk called "Forget Me Not" that every woman should read (just click and follow the link. I promise missionaries won't pop up and try to baptize you or anything), even if you aren't LDS. Although if you are an atheist it won't be very interesting.

At any rate, I thought it might be stimulating for me to look at the five forget-me-nots he discusses and share my thoughts. It gives me something to read about and something to think about as I try not to let my head spin off during the course of the day. So, here's my first Thursday Forget Me Not Thought.

From Dieter (we're on a first name basis. Mainly because I've never met him.):

"First, forget not to be patient with yourself. I want to tell you something that I hope you will take in the right way: God is fully aware that you and I are not perfect.

Let me add: God is also fully aware that the people you think are perfect are not. And yet we spend so much time and energy comparing ourselves to others—usually comparing our weaknesses to their strengths. This drives us to create expectations for ourselves that are impossible to meet. As a result, we never celebrate our good efforts because they seem to be less than what someone else does. Everyone has strengths and weaknesses. It’s wonderful that you have strengths. And it is part of your mortal experience that you do have weaknesses."

It was around this point that my friend, Misty, leaned over and said "I think he's talking to you."

If you've read even 1/4 of my blog posts, and I'm guessing that if you are reading right now you have, you will know that I constantly struggle with low self image. There I've said it. I have low self esteem. If it's not obvious in my blog words, it's certainly manifest in my weight, in my body language, in the way I talk about myself (or don't), and in the way I avoid any type of spotlight. I struggle daily with my multitude of imperfections and I just know that everyone around me sees them, laughs at them, or thinks I'm disgusting. I've noticed, to my intense displeasure, that my children copy some of these behaviors. There is nothing worse than seeing your own faults mirrored in the faces of the children you love.

And then Dieter spoke words to my heart:

"Many of you are endlessly compassionate and patient with the weaknesses of others. Please remember also to be compassionate and patient with yourself.

In the meantime, be thankful for all the small successes in your home, your family relationships, your education and livelihood, your Church participation and personal improvement. Like the forget-me-nots, these successes may seem tiny to you and they may go unnoticed by others, but God notices them and they are not small to Him. If you consider success to be only the most perfect rose or dazzling orchid, you may miss some of life’s sweetest experiences."

I can give everyone else a break, but not myself. Why is that? And how many small successes am I missing while I look for the perfect rose? And how often do I value myself based on what others notice, instead of what I've accomplished that is internally important?

Let's just say it happens a lot. I am often completely dependent on the people around me for validation. This is a major stumbling stone for my writing, school, my children's activities, weight loss, church activity, and generally every other facet of my life.

So, first step, appreciate the small things. I'm not ready yet to look at myself and say nice things. It's not something that changes overnight or even over years. But I can look at my life and pick out some of the small successes. I can focus on those positives, and hopefully other positive feelings will follow.

Forget not to be patient with yourself. After all, "Our journey toward perfection is long, but we can find wonder and delight in even the tiniest steps in that journey."

You're a very wise man, Dieter.

image here.

Autumn Song

2011-10-24T21:20:00.000-06:00

Sleep, sleep, my little one,
The moon hangs heavy low
A silvery face on darkened night, a million
Peeping speckled stars, a cricket song
Flies out.

Sleep, sleep, beloved child,
The sounds are fading fast
A busy world slows down, fires crackle
Bright and brassy, a lullaby
Drifts in.

Sleep, sleep,
The dawn waits somewhere distant
Relentless feet marching on, a turning
World of strife, forgotten now
In sleep.

Dear Josh and Carly,

2011-10-17T23:14:00.000-06:00

A list, which is probably the product of my temporary state of single parenthood:

To do (for me and you):

Get the house cleaned. The tornado-ness is driving me mad.

Eat something totally unhealthy and delicious.

Also, indulge in Sonic shakes.

Play outside.

Keep the TV turned off. The silence is my best weapon against the aforementioned madness.

Read scriptures every night. Or most nights, possibly some nights - whichever comes first.

Get the homework done early so we can stop thinking about it.

Keep the sink free from dirty dishes. A clean kitchen is so much happier.

Feed the dogs. And water. Poor puppies.

Play together.

Read together. I love to hear the sound of falling night time stories.

Jump around.

Dance.

Laugh.

Call Daddy.

Write a love note.

Hug and kiss.

Live every moment.

Love hard.

Sleep soft.

Dream. Never stop.

See you there.

Love,

Mom

Wait, where was I going with this?

2011-10-13T13:25:00.000-06:00

I am the master of the half-finished. I have chores I've been intending to do, gardens I've been meaning to plant, stories I've been meaning to tell. Somewhere inside my brain, all my ideas are locked away having some kind of party. I've got at least 4 stories going on right now, half written (mostly in long hand with a pen, it's always interesting to try and go back and interpret them for typing). Funny thing is, as soon as I start to doubt my abilities, the stories stall out and the words dry up. All the fantastic ideas I have run for the room of half finished things in my brain. I'm looking for the key, but I've forgotten where I put it. Which shouldn't come as a surprise to anyone.

I am not sure what is stopping me from becoming a full-finished woman. Am I too distracted? Taking on too many projects? Or maybe I

Thoughts in 3 parts

2011-10-10T22:40:00.000-06:00

If I only had a brain.

Well, I'm working on that I suppose. Some fifteen years ago I left school behind to be a married lady, then a mommy lady. And I wouldn't trade those things, or change those things. Marriage and children have been the hardest and most rewarding classes I have ever taken. Many lessons are learned through pain (caused by my own pride, naivety, and selfishness usually), some were learned through love, some were just plain out learned. Like, cover up the boy parts while you change diapers. I learned that lesson quick. A cuddle goes farther than a spank. I learned that lesson slow. You don't get lost, lazy moments back - I haven't learned that lesson yet, I keep failing the test.

Now that I'm back in the book-learnin' type school, I am learning new things. How to budget time, how to meet expectations, how to speak up, how to work hard and fake my way through when I don't understand (I kind of already knew that, but I'm refining), how to ask for help, how to not settle for less than the grade I earned. Good lessons all mixed up with the hog wash lessons that contradict the knowledge my soul has stored up over the last 33 years. I love learning - though I don't exactly enjoy waking up early, not at all. I'm exhausted some days, and grumpy some days, and my house is a mess most days. But I've got this fantastic little cheering section all my own that smiles and hugs and forgives for my shortfalls. And I'm not sure how people get through college without one, too.

If I only had a heart.

I clicked on a link that took me to another blog about another amazing person with another amazing story. There are so many people out there that quietly go about their work, filling the world with peace and joy or amazing handicrafts. Not every blog story out there is knock-off-your socks, but many are humbling, passionate experiences that shake your mind a little bit. Today I was reading about a mother of 8 who also happens to foster.

There was a time, not long ago really, where we considered fostering too. Carly's second mother was a wonderful foster mother that brought our wee babe from the hospital, suffered midnight feedings, took her to the doctor, and handed her over to us when the time came. Carly was somewhere around the 20th child that had come through this woman (she told me once what number it was, but I can't remember). For a while I had a strong desire to return the favor, as it were. And possibly, in the meantime, add a little something to my feathered nest through fostering. I began filling out paperwork. I looked at parenting class schedules (gotta take those to foster, you see).

But I stopped. The time wasn't right. The fear in me took hold.

What if, what if a little someone came to me that I wanted to keep - but then I couldn't? What if the hopeless stories were too much for me to handle. What if, what if, what if.

If I only had the nerve.

To get up and grip the things I want with both hands. I could have given fostering a try.

But I didn't.

I could be spending more time writing and less time watching (TV).

But I don't. Even the thought of rejection is paralyzing.

I could be studying more, cleaning more, working more, singing more, laughing more, walking more, losing more (weight), sharing more, visiting more, keeping more (promises).

But I don't.

At the end of the day my hardest lesson to learn is patience. Patience with myself and the world around me, patience with the passing of time and the seasons of life. There are so many experiences out there I haven't had, so many mountains that I want to climb. Often I lose perspective on the right now.

Right now, I'm walking this yellow brick road. It's not the road I expected or planned for and I can't see where it goes.

Full speed ahead.

Growing on me

2011-10-07T21:54:00.000-06:00

This has been the fall of self-doubt. A constant theme in my life, I know.

I started out the semester riddled with all kinds of worries - am I choosing the right path, what will I do with an English degree when I'm done, why are books more expensive than groceries for a month, what if I fail, what if this class is too hard, and on and on. To add to this pile of worry, Eric moved to a new position at work and part of the new job is travel. He's going to be gone most of October, a little of November, and a little of December. Plus he'll be traveling at least once a quarter from here on out. Juggling school and children and their school and football and homework and their homework and church and cleaning house and cooking and life in general - well, I'm not used to being so alone in my own house. Oh, I've taken the kids on vacation alone. A couple summers ago we even left Eric behind for over a month as we drove cross country. But, that wasn't regular life.

Regular life is harder.

Anyhow, I've strayed from my intended path.

So, here's me. Overwhelmed, scared, lacking confidence. And here's my new English professor. A little bit crazy, about five feet tall, and a complete surprise. She's kind of old, though not ancient. But she bubbles. She is constantly laughing, usually alone, at something. She likes to start her lectures early and she follows a written, timed schedule. She made us act out scenes from a play.
I won't lie, I was off-put.

But, she hasn't given us any tests (yet, we have some coming). We've only had to write one paper so far (amazing for a higher level English class). And I've come to respect her constant joy. I've started to enjoy her refreshing simplicity.

So what if nobody laughs with you.

Today in class she showed, for reasons I have trouble comprehending, this video. And it's pretty dang funny.

She's growing on me.

Little voices

2011-10-03T21:36:00.003-06:00

My son is having a conversation with himself. It's fairly common these days. The mumbling, the sighing, the mouthing words without sound. It happens all the time.

It makes my blood boil in my veins. And also, my eyebrows shoot skyward like they have strings pulling them up. It's very annoying. (The eyebrows and the conversations.)

See, the thing is, I asked him to read a book. A good book, one I've read and enjoyed. (Pillage by Obert Skye, if you're interested.) He's reading this book for school. He has to read about 14 books by the end of the quarter. I'm really hoping that means December but I'm not sure.

My son, bless him, went right into convulsions.

The body language alone is fascinating. Arms and legs and head bobbing in separate directions. And then there are the sounds. Long exhalations of breath, lungs emptying at alarming rates, teeth pressed together so that the air comes out in a whistle, and limbs hitting against the floor or each other. It's like a symphony of exasperation.

I'm just that difficult.

After the glorious display, I sent him to his bed. Partly because he's clearly tired. The dazzling exhibition is enhanced when he's cranky. (He's not asleep yet after 30 minutes, but that's probably because his solo conversation was quite interesting, and partially due to his normal routine including a later bedtime.)

But also because I'm tired. And sending him to bed was some action on my part to alleviate the situation. Of course, I felt bad right away and almost let him have a second chance.

Alas, I would have missed the soft sounds of his annoyance. We wouldn't want that to happen.

Dear Josh,

2011-09-28T23:43:00.000-06:00

It's easy to say

"Have faith"

"It'll work out"

"You'll get through this"

"Things will get better".

It's much harder to put these into practice. To step back and examine the every day and find beauty. To put one foot in front of the other even when your legs don't feel like moving. It's hard to fall down and get back up. The bruises hurt even after you're back up. The fear and strain lingers like ice on a winter morning, hard and cold and cruel.

But you have power. Power to change your direction, power to take control, power to overcome. A well of potential brimming over, a brilliant bird in flight. You've got it all inside you, just waiting.

I remember when you were small, when you walked so slowly up the walk to preschool that I chided you. I was in a hurry and you weren't. You've never been in a hurry. Deliberate, unfettered, drifting. I've realized over the past few days that this lazy pace won't change. I've come to see that perhaps you think you ARE hurrying, even when you're not. Perhaps the crystalline universe behind your eyes is infinitely more beautiful than the normal world I see. Who am I to rush that away? Who indeed.

I want you to know I'm sorry. For rushing, for not understanding, for missing the moments that are building your life. I'm sorry for forgetting how fleeting this is, how soon you'll fly my nest, how insignificant these struggles are in scope of tomorrow. I hope I've convinced you that character is much more important than grades. That being kind is worth more than being on the honor roll. That respect is harder to earn than A's. Fortunately, you've mastered these concepts on your own. I just want to make sure you know that I know. I know how wonderful you are.

And I'm proud.

Love,

Mom

Dear 8th Grade teachers,

2011-09-21T00:07:00.001-06:00

Or: What I'd like to say but can't really say (although I can't figure out just why I am not supposed to)

I remember now why we chose to homeschool last year. It was a frustrating experience, one we doubted pretty much the whole way through, but at least we knew what was going on. We knew what our son was facing, where he was struggling, what he was missing. We could tailor the week to his needs (and ours). We could tightly control our expectations because - after all - we set the bar he was required to meet.

Eighth grade for my dear boy - well, it's been hard this last week or so. Progress reports came out. If you sit and think you'll realize that those two statements aren't random, they're very related. I've seen my boy cry these last two nights, glittering tears that cling to impossibly long lashes. He is crushed, you see. Crushed by the pressure of keeping up, crushed by falling behind. He is barely treading water in some classes, even though he should be safely on the shore.

I wish you would give him a break. I know there are a lot of kids to tend to, and you have to have rules. But, the kid is struggling and all he needs is a floaty donut. All he needs is a little time, a little care, a little push. I don't see how accepting late work - with a penalty - will hurt. I don't think a phone call or email when he's missing (many) assignments and failing tests is too much to ask. I can't imagine a little head's up warning would be a big deal. In fact, it could make all the difference.

Tonight, looking online at the snazzy grade tracker, my son said he felt stupid.

My boy is anything but stupid. He's funny (a bit goofy, really), he's imaginative, he's mild, he's kind, he's sweet, he's smart, he's a sponge full of historical information, he's weird (who isn't), he's silly, he's compassionate, he's sympathetic, he's amazing. I know I'm biased, but I also know my kid.

I wish I could impart to you the great love required to take an interest. I wish that, while you're busy, you might take just one more moment to look into his eyes. Do you see joy, or pride, or satisfaction? Or, like me, do you see pain and doubt and fear?

These last couple of days have not been my best. I'm not proud of the mother I become when my voice gets so loud, my eyes get so wide, my heart begins to pound. I yell too much, I say things I don't mean, I make things worse. I hurt him more, I hurt me too.

We need a break. Or maybe a break-through. Either way, half of this is up to you. Because this year, we're not homeschooling.

And it sure feels like we're swimming in an ocean full of sharks.

Truce?

Sincerely,

Me

Illusions

2011-09-17T01:24:00.000-06:00

Funny how it actually looks like they like each other in this picture.

One Decade

2011-09-02T12:08:00.000-06:00

I realized, just the other day, that in ten short years my son will be 23.

TWENTY THREE.

I find this alarming on many levels.

By the time I was twenty three, I was married with a two year old son.

That means, in ten short years, I could be a grandmother of a two year old.

OH MY.

Getting old isn't for wimps, my Dad would tell you.

The worst part is how fast it sneaks up on you, prowls up on sneakered feet that don't even squeek.

I don't feel old. I feel 20ish. Not 19, but not 29 either. Somewhere in the middle.

But I passed the middle of 24 ten years ago.

Oh MY.

The good thing about getting older, I suppose, is the settled feeling of it all.

Not just settled because of gravity, but more self assured, more focused, more able (in feeling anyhow).

Don't get me wrong. I still doubt anything and everything I do.

But I also realize that most of what I do means very little in the long run.

I'll just forget they happened.

Oh, my.

I suppose getting older means coming to terms with what actually matters.

Love, security, freedom, comfort. Intangibles, mostly, that shift as needed.

How lovely and strange this journey is.

Soon, my son will be 23.

Not too soon, thank goodness, but coming quick.

Oh my.

Of School and Ships and Sealing Wax

2011-08-30T20:47:00.000-06:00

I wonder if they offer a class about self doubt. I most certainly have become an expert in the field, I could probably teach it. Assorted topics of study:

How to Second Guess With Your Eyes Closed
Graduation: Changing Your Major to Keep it from Happening
All the A's in the World Don't Make Up for a Solid Lack of Confidence

And so on.

Why is it that two semesters in to my glorious return, I'm still terrified? Why is it that I drop and redrop and reschedule until my course list is almost unrecognizable? Why do I long to do nothing more than dig a hole and hide in it?

I mean, I wanted this. Right?

So much of life is dealing with your decisions and learning to accept that even the right ones sometimes feel scary.

On the up side of things, check out Miss Sass A Frass in an outfit of her own choosing on a hot summer afternoon.

Possibly a treat, but maybe a fork in the eye

2011-08-23T22:41:00.001-06:00

So, school started back up. For me and the kids. Josh started 8th grade, if you're curious (but probably you aren't, too bad, stop reading or something. No wait, I lied! Don't go! Fudge.) he is not being home schooled this year. Instead he is off to his first year of middle school. So far - well, the first few days went alright. Tonight was his first night of homework. Yeah, that was about as fun as you might imagine.

Carly started first grade. She says she loves it (I have my doubts, but she insists). She has homework too, that makes me want to poke people.

I started school on Monday also. So we're pretty much the most tired, cranky, unhappy lot on the block.

To make up for the Debbie Downerness of this post, I present the first bit of some scribbles I've been working on. I'd love some feedback, especially of the constructive honest yet kind type.

p.s. this is my original work and therefore protected accordingly by copyright and crap. So, please don't copy it without my permission, especially if you're pretending you wrote it.

***---***

It began on an ordinary evening.

Carly and Josh were walking with their mother in the fading twilight of a summer evening. The sun had set not long ago, a blazing burst of reds and orange and purple. Some of the color still painted the tips of the clouds, but mostly there were gray and white against a blackening sky. A few stars lay hidden behind the thick city air, but they couldn’t see them and didn’t notice the absence. It was just normal.

They were walking in front of a store that was still busy despite the falling night. Carly was bouncing ahead, as usual, her five year’s old legs had a permanent spring that never stopped jumping until she slept. Joshua, almost 13, lagged behind, walking next to his mother with a soft hand tucked into hers. Almost 13, yes, but still his mother’s boy. He chattered and watched as his bouncing sister mounted a painted red cement ball like a pommel horse, sliding down the other side. Her adventurousness made him nervous, his fingers involuntarily squeezing his mother’s in fear before relaxing as Carly’s feet met the steady ground again.

Mother squeezed back, reassuring.

The cool air felt nice on their skin, a soft puffing breeze tickled their bare arms, rustling the palm fronds above. It tasted like the ocean, the soft air, sort of briny and salty but not quite as potent as sea water. The cars whirled by, a dance of headlights and rubber tires, while the fluorescent lights of the store highlighted the painted symbol of a target on the concrete walk ahead, red against gray.

Mom took two quick steps with a silly smile and jumped into the center of the circles.

“Target!” she said, laughing and Josh grinned back. Carly bounced back to grab her mother’s loose hand. Ten more steps together and, as one, they leapt into the center of the next symbol.

“Target!” sounded three voices as one and they vanished.

Joshua couldn’t be sure but he thought he was having some sort of bad dream. First off, everything was black, pitch black, like spilled ink on paper. He opened his eyes very wide to be sure, but he couldn’t see anything at all – not even his own nose. There also didn’t seem to be any sounds, just thick silence, heavy almost.

No, wait.

He could hear breathing. His own, now that he thought about it, and someone else breathing more slowly. Perhaps someone else, still, breathing fast.

Something squeezed his hand.

No, someone. His mother, he realized, warmth washing over him and soothing the heart that raced in his chest. The slow breathing was hers, slow and steady. And that must be Carly breathing fast on mom’s other side.

So maybe he wasn’t dreaming.

His hand began to shake and his mother gave another reassuring squeeze. “It’s ok,” she whispered in the blackness, her words almost swallowed up in the cottony silence.

But Josh knew “It’s ok” was just what grown-ups liked to say, even when it wasn’t.

“Mommy?” Carly’s small, high-pitched voice was trembling.

There was a snuffling sound at Josh’s feet just then. And a cold nose on his toes, he had been wearing flip-flops when they –

What exactly did they do? Fall? Vanish?

Josh shook his head to try and clear away the dream.

The cold nose moved to his other foot, like a dog investigating. And then it was gone.

“Mom,” Josh said slowly, quietly. “I think I felt something.”

“What did you feel?” she asked.

“I’m not –“

His answer was cut off by muffled footsteps in the dark. And – yes, he could just make it out – a small, bobbing silvery light, growing slowly bigger.

Mom’s hand spasmed in his, her breath caught as she bent down to pick up Carly, Josh clinging to her hand. Carly was whimpering, her small arms and legs like a vice around mom’s middle.

Josh squared his shoulders, trying to be brave.

The light grew bigger, a round spot that bounced along like a ball caught in midflight, but didn’t break the blackness. Josh could hear the snuffling sound again and he jumped when that cold, wet nose was back on his toes.

“Turtle says we’ve got visitors, eh?” an old voice crackled, surprisingly close. The ball of light still seemed far away, bouncing, holding their eyes. “Tain’t had visitors in nigh a long time, no how.” The voice was coming closer still, coming quite fast compared to the light. “Strange doings. Dids you find them Turt?”

The voice drew up right in front of mom, the ball of light still lagging behind.

There came, then, a long low sniffing sound and then, “Come on, Blister, theys friends, they are. A boy, a girl, a – whats its they call them? Oh, you’re right Turt. A mother.” The last word was said with distaste, sort of low and drawn out, like chalk down a board. Josh bristled, but mom squeezed his hand. She felt steady.

“Who are you?” mom asked into the darkness. Her voice sounded strange, though – strained, afraid, alone.

Josh squeezed her hand, then.

“Hurrys up Blister so’s they can see,” said the old voice.

The light had bobbed close now, but it wasn’t a light at all. Josh felt his breath suck in, a strange gasping sound. Mother was very still. But Carly – Carly shouted with more than a little excitement –

“A fairy!”

The silvery blue light of the fairy, Blister, was now close enough to illuminate the source of the voice standing in front of them. She was a very short, very fat old woman with sallow skin that hung loosely from a very strong jaw. She was peering up at them through wiry spectacles, her eyes behind the lenses were unnaturally pale, like frosted glass. The skin around her eyes was crinkled, like she was permanently smiling, though her mouth was set in a firm, considering line. She wasn’t ugly, but rather interesting to look at in a fascinating sort of way. The little woman was examining them, too, in the fairy light. She looked puzzled.

Josh was a sort of typical looking 13 year old boy, except his eyes were very brown with an outline of thick, long black lashes. His skin was creamy pale, almost blue in the fairy light, and his cheeks rosy red. He had nicely formed lips and heavy brows. His hair was a golden nut brown, cut very short. Typical in an attractive sort of way that was nice to look at. His mother wasn’t very tall or very short, but she towered over the little old woman. Her hands were delicate where they met and held her children with red polished nails and only a wedding ring. Her hair fell in a thick brown curtain down her back, some of it was falling in her hazel eyes. She shared Josh’s face, except girlish, older and without the thick brows. Also Josh had a fine, aquiline nose while his mother’s was small and round.

The woman’s puzzled gaze was darting from Josh to Mother to Carly, where is settled for a moment and grew more puzzled before returning to Josh again. Carly was different in an obvious sort of way. Where Joshua’s skin was creamy pale, Carly’s was chocolate brown. She had tilted, almond shaped eyes that were almost black and fine arched brows. Her hair was thick with curls, very dark in the fairy light, and arranged in two puff ball pig tails. Carly was smiling, an impish grin on her pretty face, and she was squirming in her spot. Excited.

“She’s adopted,” Josh blurted, he wasn’t really sure why. The woman focused on his frightened face again, cocking her head before nodding once. The mass of gray-blue curls on her head bobbed.

“I sees that,” she said while a deep red blush crawled up Joshua’s neck into his cheeks.

The fairy, Blister, began to bob impatiently and chatter. Her diaphanous blue wings fluttered, throwing sparks and glitter as she moved. They couldn’t understand what she was saying, it sounded like someone speaking very, very fast. Her small, peaked pretty face was alarmed, though, and that was easy to understand.

“Blister thinks we shoulds be going now dearies. Goings quick.”

“You didn’t tell us your name,” Mother said, gripping their hands so they didn’t follow the woman as she turned and took a few shuffling steps away. “Or where we’re going.”

“Yous didn’t tell me yours neither, Mother,” replied the woman. “And we’s be going where it’s safe, unless you’d rathers stay here and wait for the itchers to find you.”

“Itchers?” asked Josh, his voice a ghost in the growing dark.

Carly was pulling her mother’s hand, trying to follow the receding light of the fairy.

Mother gripped their hands and began walking.

Surprise vacation photos courtesy of Carly

2011-08-16T09:21:00.000-06:00

Harmony's Harvest

2011-08-12T10:00:00.000-06:00

A friend of mine, also an adoptive mother, recently blogged about the sad state of her garden this year. She's got her hands full with her own baby girl while she mothers some foster children too. I'm full of admiration and empathy, having thought of the foster route myself. Anyhow, I was thinking of her tonight as I inspected the sad little harvest from my own garden and this popped into my head. This is specially for you, Harmony. I hope you like it.

Harmony's Harvest

My hands are full of a different harvest.

Once, my garden was full of blossoms in the rich soil
Bursting forth with leaves and buds
Vines that wound their twisted hands on wooden gates
Fruit and pod abounding.

Now the beds lie still
Solemn rows beneath the azure sky
And sleeping soil.
Here and there a restless bud, adventurous leaf, a ripened fruit
Not dead, only waiting for the new harvest
To complete.

New beds, now made indoors, are filled with other seeds
Row on row of smiling cheeks
Curly tumbled heads and shining eyes
Sounds sweeter than the summer wind.
My hands are full of gentle things
Wee ones growing fast
A sweet harvest of love.

Birth Days: Part Two

2011-08-11T17:25:00.001-06:00

I've told Carly's story many times, how she got here, why she got here, how long, how much, what, why and when. It's significant because it's not the usual way, not the normal thing. It's a wholly different experience from the first time I became a mom. Special in its own way.

But the first time around has a story, too.

Josh is the answer to a prayer we didn't know to say, that's the best way to describe it.

Eric and I got married after a year and a half of talking to each other online and on the phone. We only spent physical time together 4 times, about a week each time. And then we were married. We moved across the country for our honeymoon, leaving my family behind and jumping both feet into being together. All the time.

You might say there was a vicious learning curve.

At first, we were honeymooners. We fought like puppies in a box without enough room, but we loved each other too. I was the first one of us to bring up having kids. Right now. We'd only been married a couple of months and although we both wanted kids, someday, Eric was not on board with someday being today. But he gave in and I stopped taking birth control.

Four months married and we were expecting. It was easy and quick. It's not really unusual in LDS (Mormon) culture to pop out kids right away, but Eric's parents were not amused. In fact, his mom was pretty dang mad and had some choice words.

But, it's not like the situation was going to change and before long she was mostly on board. It would be her first grandchild after all.

I got really sick. That's how we found out we were expecting in the first place. I couldn't go in the car without throwing up. Food smells made me throw up. Trying to eat, throw up. Prenatal vitamins - iron still makes me feel sick. I spent six months getting to know the toilet really well. And fighting with my husband. Puppies in a box with claws and a baby puppy on the way. It wasn't fun. In fact, if not for that coming baby, I am fairly certain Eric and I would no longer be married.

And so Joshua was the answer to that first unspoken prayer. He saved our marriage before he even left the womb.

We found out we were having a boy. We floated names around. Thomas for my dad, but not as a first name. We considered Joseph Samuel, but it wasn't right. Eric brought up Joshua Courage. But I had to have Thomas in there and I wasn't sold on Joshua. Eric's mom started calling the unborn boy Josh, though, and before I hit the eight month mark the baby was Josh, like it or not. Eventually, Joshua Thomas Courage became his name. JT. Joshy boy. Chibby. Josh Bosh. Bug-a-boo. Those all came later.

I finally stopped throwing up. That was so nice. I never really appreciated smell and taste before that. The baby shower came and went. We moved into our first place. False labor abounded.

And then it was time.

Oh. My. Gosh.

It was horrible. Pain everywhere. Misery. And drugs that didn't work. The hours would never end, the boy would never move, it would never be over.

And then it was. He was here. Of course, there is more to the story, but that's not the point today.

He was born in the afternoon.

When Josh was almost one, Annie and Sam (Poppa) started taking care of Josh on a daily basis while I was at work. Josh and Annie were like peas from the same pod. She could talk to him, understand him, soothe him in ways that were pure magic. I often felt like I shared custody with her, she frequently requested he just stay the night during the week and often asked to keep him on Saturday and Sunday too. I didn't mind that much. It was kind of lovely, in its way. And gave Eric and I time to get to know each other better. Puppies in a box, making room for each other.

Annie started to get sick when Josh was about two. Alarmingly sick. Quickly sick. Frighteningly sick. But she still watched him every day. And then three days a week when I started working part time to lighten her load. He would sit on the floor and play while she laid on the couch. She was literally dying, but she wouldn't be parted from that boy. She took care of him, he took care of her. She was terribly sick, though she hid it. Finally, near Christmas, she received the gift of life from a liver donor. She shouldn't have made it through, actually. Her other organs were failing. But she lived for her boy, her Josh.

She got better. For a while, until her body grew to heavy for her angel spirit.

But, without doubt, Joshua gave us 4 more years with her. He saved her, he saved me, he saved us.

Every new baby is a miracle, no matter how them come. I've been blessed with two. My first became a teenager, officially, just this afternoon.

Blessed baby boy, suddenly 13. I swear he only arrived yesterday.

Birth Days

2011-08-10T21:50:00.000-06:00

Carly turned six. S I X. That's a lot. She weighed less than six pounds when she was born.

And yet, here she is. Six.

Six things about Carly:

1. Her favorite food is apple pie (today).

2. Her favorite toy is "I think dinosaurs...because sometimes I have dinosaurs to play with and dogs. I like dogs too. They're my favorite too because I just don't know why. Because I've seen dinosaurs before."

3. The best thing about being six? "I'm older than people...and I get to tell them what to do, and they don't." (Type A much?)

4. She has a variety of nicknames at six years old. Car Bar. Sass-a-frass. Car Car. Carburetor. Carly Barly. Mini might. Midgy Might. Carbrat. Carly Cat.

5. She wants to be a doctor when she grows up. And a hair doer (like Shell, her godmother).

6. She loves to wear her hair in a pony tail and nothing would make her more happy than hair that would grow long and luxurious and preferably resemble Rapunzel's.

I sure do love this girl. Sassy sauce and all.

In Memory: The Water of Life

2011-07-18T13:29:00.000-06:00

At times I am a stone in the river. I feel the cool water rushing over me, bringing change, bringing life, bringing death. I feel the river get rough, the water too high and too fast as it rushes by. It bumps up against me, forcing me from my settled bed and into the moving stream. The moss is rolled away, the slippery adhesions of choices and mistakes. It all comes away like cotton in the wind. Sometimes I am rolled to a spot that is too deep, the water gurgling over my head, a laughing sound. Eventually I notice it is peaceful and dark down here and some of the fear is washed away. I have time to think and just be still. Be still, a simple refrain. Be still.

I am a stone in the river. My rough edges are slowly polished away. It is not an easy process, oh no. It is pain and fear and mistakes. But also joy - joy smooths away those spiny bits just as skillfully as pain. I am made smooth, a product of the flow, perfected by rolling waters. Flipping upside-down is just part of the process, part of revealing those parts of me that were hidden and rough, part of rounding out.

I am a stone in the wild river. Morning, noon, twilight and midnight. The seasons come and go, blending together, sometimes slowing me, sometimes filling me, sometimes dry, sometimes abundant. The river reaches on, twists and turns in the distance. Sparkling blue waters that hold untold adventures and trials. At times the trees grow close to the edges and I can smell the dangling fruits. The long fingers of the mossy grass brush me as I rush by. Other times, the world around feels barren. Endless stretches of red, dry land and a hot sun. Sometimes I settle in a shallow pool for ages, waiting. Other times I roll without stopping, swept up in the churning rapids.

At times I am a stone in the river.

And he shewed me a pure river of water of life, clear as crystal, proceeding out of the throne of God and of the Lamb. - Revelation 22:1

The A Word

2011-07-13T16:12:00.001-06:00

I haven't written about adoption for a little while, so you might think I'm not thinking about it much these days or maybe it has slipped into such a state of normalcy that it is normal now. But you'd be wrong.

I still think about adoption all the time. I'm not going to go so far as to say every day, and I certainly don't think about it in terms of worry and wait and fear like I used to, pre-finalization. But I still have many thoughts, concerns, worries, fears, joys, thankfuls and other moments along those lines all the time.

For example, sometimes I will turn my head and catch a glimpse of the silky smooth brown skin so different from my own and be amazed. Amazed at how different it feels and looks, how pretty the shadows around her eyes are, how amazing and sometimes strange the change in pigmentation is. I watch with wonder as her skin darkens to cocoa in the summer sun, turns ashy when its gotten too dry, and retains this flawless quality so common to black women.

Other times I'll watch her wondering if that little skip in her step is genetic, what her birth-mother looks like, if they share the same cute stubby toes. I have no clue what her grown up face might look like someday, if her impossibly long lashes came from her birth-father, if she'll be tall or short. We know some small details about her genetic history, but we've never seen her birth-parents and so I often think on these things.

There are times when Carly dresses herself or refuses to have her hair combed or falls down and scraps something (usually her face, [sigh]) and I feel afraid. Afraid because I know people are looking at her closely all the time. First because she is magnetic and beautiful and cute, second because they are examining the puzzle pieces of our family with unusual scrutiny. I know the horror stories of adoption, I've heard them too. I want to put a button on that says I love her, that affirms she fell down on her own, that promises I do comb her hair on a regular basis, the broadcasts her closet is overstuffed with clothes. This is my own fears and paranoia hard at work. Because there is always, for me, always a sense of unsettled fear. What if someday Carly decides I am not what she wanted as her mother. What if someday her birth-mother comes looking and Carly eagerly answers. What if someone cruel decides to take her away.

I often feel sad that Carly has no relationship with her birth-family. Possible siblings, aunts, uncles, grandparents, mother and father. No, I don't want her to live with them or even visit them. But I wouldn't mind some contact, some reassurance for Carly that she was given up for love, that she was given a chance for something different outside a dangerous world. I'd like to show them that we do love her, that she sings, that she's happy, that she's got toys and shoes and clothes and nail polish and joy. That she's smart and funny. She's loud and crazy. She's cuddly and sweet.

The path my little girl walks is so very different from my own growing-up experience. I often feel incompetent as I try to guide her steps. Adoption and all its terrible wonder is part of my every breath, my every move, my every day life.

And I'm so grateful.

The Courage of the Moon

2011-07-11T02:44:00.000-06:00

We get funny ideas in our head about how good or bad our life is. About what kind of memories we lived and lived through and lived for. We hold things like golden strings between our fingers, sometimes so tightly that we don't even notice they have slipped away into the lost folds of time.

The other night Eric sat in the chair across the room and said "We have a pretty good life, don't we?"

It caught me off guard. Not because it wasn't true, but rather because it was and his blunt, unfiltered, unexpected, off topic statement jolted me back into that reality.

I get busy sometimes remembering. Reminding myself constantly how bad my choices are and were. How hard it was and is to weather the storm. How sad I felt and feel, how mixed up and turned around I still get. I dwell on the tornadoes in my memory, spinning around until the present falls away and only the past pain is real. Forgetting, in my memory, how happy the past was too. How much more happiness there was, moments that stream like sunlight if I open up the window to let it in.

Perhaps melancholy is the side-affect of a creative mind. Or maybe its the weight on the scale to balance out the hills and valleys of life. Perhaps the clouded over sky of a delayed monsoon is playing with my mind and I don't really feel this way at all, it's just the rain.

I choose to remember that life was and is really good. It's full of freedom and blessed things, full of children laughing more than crying, hands holding, gentle whispers and Eskimo kisses. I choose to remember that life's not easy, oh so not easy, but the rewards of going on are greater than those of giving up. I choose to focus on tomorrow, today is over and fading already into back-light. I choose to let those funny ideas go. Perhaps I'll even laugh.

And when I start to drift again, I'll think of Jaycee.

I like to

2011-07-07T20:27:00.000-06:00

water my garden. Something simple and clean and earthy about water falling on leaves and the spattering sound the droplets make as life hits root. Something wonderful about wet concrete butting up against dry, thirsty grass. Something good about the cool evening hour and the sound of settling silence when the wind stops blowing and the birds nestle in. Peaceful.

There are little bugs on some of the plants. I won't pretend they don't gross me out, but most I ignore. They're just going about, like I am, fussing and fixing and getting ready for another day to close. Some I don't ignore, particularly the kind that eat my stretching plants. Those get squished beneath an uncaring shoe (or in between some pliers, but only if Eric's doing the pruning). Cleansing.

I could draw a thousand lines between life and my garden, simple parables about growing and stretching, weeding and pruning, squashing the bad bugs and letting others go, making room. But I don't have to. You get them too. The basics of living and letting live, of sowing and reaping, of seasons and change. Intrinsic.

Outside the night is creeping in, a gray shadow falling in behind the sinking sun. Mountains to the west hide the falling rays, instead a brilliant spray of rosy clouds and faltering blue fade out before the darkness takes hold. I know the stars are shining there, even though I can't see them, and later they'll poke through like diamond eyes upon a resting world. Today will fold its weary wings and turn into tomorrow. Renewed.

Thankful

2011-07-03T23:01:00.000-06:00

Freedom doesn't come free, so the old saying goes. We've heard it a thousand times without a second thought.

Freedom isn't free, our country's freedom came at the high price of blood and sweat and tears, each shed so we could live in relative freedom. Free to earn, to try, to change, to strive. Free to live and let live.

But freedom in life isn't free, either. It comes with choices and hard consequences and darkness. Free to live, free to die by our own hands.

Freedom isn't free, it's paid in blood and sweat and tears.

Happy freedom, friends.

image here

Rainbows in the clouds

2011-06-28T14:09:00.000-06:00

At times I am reminded that I move too fast. Always errands to run, games to play, books to read, food to make, house to clean, gas tanks and groceries and a thousand other things.

But then, pausing to take a breath, I hear my kids.

Three times today Joshua said, "Mom look at that cloud, it's got a rainbow in it."

And I thought (and said), "Yes, Josh. It's a cloud."

Until I finally looked up.

That Sinister Beeping is Just Your Alarm Clock Telling You To Wake Up Already

2011-06-26T12:40:00.000-06:00

I woke up on the wrong side of the bed today. It was the side I always wake up on, actually, but today when my feet hit the floor my mood hit the basement. And we don't even have a basement.

Perhaps it was my toe. It's really sore. I'd regale you with the story of why it's really sore, but you probably don't care and toes fall into that realm of the interweb most of us should really keep private. For the good of others.

Maybe it was because I hate waking up early. And yes, for me early is anything before 10 am. I'm an adult and I am entitled to hating the morning. I will never be a morning person, no matter how I try. And yes, I have had jobs and school and other reasons to wake up before the sun rises. I prefer to wake up after the sun is already well on it's way to mid-sky-position. Early to bed, early to rise, yes I know. But I don't have to like it.

Maybe it was just the general way-too-hottedness of the last couple of days. But that is flimsy at best. I love summer, though I'd rather not roast. I'll take a 95 degree day over a 20 degree day ANY day. That's a lot of days for one sentence.

Perhaps it was the general apathy that follows way-too-much-to-do. I don't really have that much to do, just taking the kids to swim lessons and all the regular other duties of mominess and an online class, but for me it's a lot. I'm lazy, you see. Lazy and proud.

Long story short, I don't know what it was, but things are looking up. Pancakes for lunch which I didn't have to make. That's a good start.

Solstice

2011-06-21T03:20:00.000-06:00

Unsettled. Decidedly. That's how I feel. Decidedly unsettled. No, I can't pinpoint the reason. This, in large part, explains the feeling.

Unsettled.

The summer is sweeping by with nary a spot of rain to be seen. The world is on fire around us - north, south, west and probably east. Plumes of smoke we can see from our own backyard, plumes which rise over South Mountain (oddly situated to the north of us, but whatever) and scatter in a much-too-orderly-to-be-just-clouds fashion.

We really need some rain.

Perhaps that is the unsettled-ness. By now we should have something other than wind. But the wind keeps coming. Blowing the trees til the branches snap. Unseating shingles and slamming doors. We've been lucky, only weeds blowing through our yard for now.

Perhaps its not the rain, or lack thereof, but the wind, then. Tossing us about like toys. Pushing against everything with relentless hands til all I want to do is shut it off, shut off the noise of it and the almighty layers of dust that coat everything. And I do mean everything. I can't clean fast enough, so why even try.

But the summer keeps rolling on. Days into weeks into months and soon it will be over (again), fall biting at our heels already.

Unsettled. Decidedly.

Carly sees things

2011-06-16T21:16:00.000-06:00

Carly sees life on another level. No, literally. She's short.

In accordance with her unique point of view I came up with the brilliant idea to equip her with a camera. We jumped in the car and drove to some local ruins. And then Carly didn't want to take pictures. Awesome!

She did take a few, though, so here is our trip through her eyes.

In retrospect I should have realized she's too busy making moments to stop and catch them.

Through the lens

2011-06-13T20:20:00.000-06:00

I see myself in you.
In the down-turned eyes and fluttering hands.
In the spoken words that fall like hail.
In the uneasy laugh.

I see the subtle ways you break yourself.
I hear the words with weighted meanings,
too heavy to hold your tongue.
I feel the pinpricks of conscious catastrophes,
doing damage to your fragile soul.
I understand the uneven ground beneath your feet,
the steady upward climb that never ends.
I am that too.

I've never really considered how it looks,
outside, to someone else.
I've always thought I hide it well.
I'll have to reconsider.

Jotting it down

2011-06-10T00:59:00.000-06:00

I think I like to write because it lets me be someone else. I can be magical, beautiful, funny, witty, mean, loud, strange - anything I want and the worst that can happen is my character is flat or unlikeable. Much easier than real life.

In real life there is this pressure. PRESSURE. Will you like me? Will you think I'm vain, rude, pushy, screechy, annoying? Will you think I'm wonderful, funny, insightful, kind? I know which list I prefer.

Within the crafted word is an infinite number of possibilities. Just the other day I thought of a really funny parody I'd like to write based on a very famous book and movie. It doesn't have vampires in it, either. I talked it over with Eric, sketched out an outline, laughed at my own pithy ways, and left the little seedling to germinate in my file.

That same file also contains the seed of a story I've been working on and working over for almost six years now. Six years! To be sure I haven't spent a lot of those six years on those words. I get frustrated by the dead ends, afraid of the ordinary, and stuck on the moments in between. After almost six years of writing, I have no definite beginning, middle or end. Although the beginning is coming along. (Sounds a lot like life, dontcha think?)

That same file holds some children's stories that delight me, some random phrases and sentences I'd like to use, and a Viking girl of about 15. I'm not sure where any of those stories will go, but for now the like the dark and dusty places of my imaginary world.

I set a goal to finish a manuscript by July 31, 2011. I've been thinking about that goal, twisting and turning it in the corners of my mind, chewing on the possibilities. I want to give it a try, we'll see where the writing road takes me (it very well could be nowhere).

Only time (and words) will tell.

Things you might or might not want to know, it's really up to you

2011-06-07T00:37:00.000-06:00

I've started the summer semester. I was going to take two classes, but decided one was more than plenty. I'm really glad I changed my mind.

We bought a Dodge Durango. Used. Lots of room. Gas hog. Aren't you excited?

Joshua is away at Scout Camp this week. I want him to have these kinds of opportunities, but I'm scared every minute he's away. Sigh. Not really sure how I'm going to handle the whole growing-up-moving-out thing.

Carly graduated from Kindergarten. Pictures have been posted on facebook, making it very official, but here she is again for the non-facebook crowd (with her teacher).

Arizona is on fire. I don't live in Arizona, however we have had smoke rolling in every evening. Smoke you can see and smell. It's kind of scary, I'll admit, and I really hope you Arizonians are safe.

I recently found a list of goals for last year which included a completed manuscript by July 31, 2011 - yeah...

How's summer going for you?

Apop-pop-pop-colypse

2011-05-20T20:00:00.000-06:00

I don't have my food supply.
I don't have water.
I don't even have enough toilet paper stocked up.
But I'm not afraid.
Mostly because I think any day can be your last day on Earth.
I've got everything I could ever want.
A home.
A husband who loves me.
A son that makes me proud.
A daughter that makes me smile.
Two dogs.
A big fat cat.
A family near and far.
I am blessed.
I may not be prepared for the end of the world, but I'm okay with that.

The end of the meme

2011-05-20T19:32:00.000-06:00

Day 30 – Your Favorite book of all time

It's so hard to pick one favorite book. I love many books for many reasons. I suppose if I had to pick a single book to read for the rest of my life it would be Little Women. Sorry Harry.

Past the point of no return

2011-05-20T19:31:00.002-06:00

Day 29 – A book everyone hated but you liked

This one is just weird. I honestly can't think of something I liked that others hated. I suppose I'm just too generic. Since I can't think of anything, here's a picture of Carly being sassy instead! And a sad looking puppy. Lucky you! (Do you see Eric in the background of the first picture, he's seriously starting to look like half of himself. Also the puppy is really not sad, she's just watching our the kids play. And I'm pretty sure those are my feet.)

In Profile

2011-05-14T03:18:00.000-06:00

I see my sleeping child, half in silhouette, lying against a soft green and cream pillow. Her hair is in puffy pigtails, her fingers and toes peeking out from a cozy pink blanket. She snores sometimes, little gasping, snorting breaths - sometimes sighs, sometimes deep lung-fulls of life. From here I can admire the soft arch of her brow, the curve of delicate ears, the perfectness of that peeking foot. She is beautiful.

Lately I feel a little frustrated. A little hypocritical. I feel loud and shrill, impatient. I feel like people are looking at me and I am trying desperately not to be seen. There are many and varied reasons for these feelings - many too personal to share, most too inconsequential form words around. I feel like I want to be better, do better, reach farther.

It's just so hard.

Agency is hard. Consequences, actions, reactions, choices, decisions, complications, indecision. Freedom is a wonderful and bitter thing, and the flavor that lingers now on my tongue makes it hard to swallow.

Accountability is hard. The residue of results is gritty and coarse, full of friction.

I want to be better, I keep telling myself. I've said it so often the words are like chalk. Useless, worthless, trite.

I see my daughter lying there on the couch. Full of sass and vim and glitter, full of flawed perfection, full of hopes and dreams and fairy-tales. I try to remember that once, not really so long ago, I was just like her. I was sweet and soft and small, unmarred, unafraid, uninhibited. I've grown up, in good ways and bad. I've changed and molded and reforged, but I'm not done. I've got curves to round and long straightaways to linger on. I'm not finished.

I've only just begun.

"You owe it to yourself to make an extra effort to discover, in every detail possible, who you really are" - Robert C. Oaks

Twenty Eight

2011-05-10T16:50:00.000-06:00

Day 28 – Favorite title

The Adventures of Captain Underpants.

Can you really go wrong with a title like that? I suppose you can, fortunately the book is pretty entertaining (Josh and I have both read it.)

Spoiler ahoy

2011-05-09T16:01:00.000-06:00

Day 27 – The most surprising plot twist or ending

Now, if you haven't read Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows and you're waiting to see what happens in the final movie or you plan to read the final book and don't want the end ruined, stop reading now.

We good? Okay.

When HP dies, I'm not gonna lie, I was totally shocked. He just walked right up and got zapped. What a great, unexpected, brilliant twist. Of course, if he had stayed dead, I might not be so enthusiastic.

M is for Mother - Repost and revise

2011-05-08T13:43:00.000-06:00

Motherhood is more than carrying a child in your womb for 9 months.

Motherhood is more than daily wiping of noses, cleaning of faces, filling of bellies.

Motherhood is more than driving, shopping, cleaning, cooking.

Motherhood is part of being a Woman, but not all of it.

I was still a child myself, really, when I became a Mother. Joshua and I did a lot of growing up together. We both learned a lot about sacrifice. I learned how to say good-bye to him in the morning, he learned that separation from Mother wasn't such a bad thing after all. Especially since he got to go to Grandma's house (which, sorry Disney, was the happiest place on earth). I learned I could love someone until my heart might burst and be completely enraged at the same time. He learned that the wrinkling of my forehead was not a good sign for anyone. We learned a lot about time, more specifically about how little there is. Just yesterday he was a bundle of knobby knees and elbows with a baby face attached. Now suddenly he is ~~on the verge of young manhood~~ a young man. Frightening. We have spent over a decade together on earth, a span of time that flew by so fast I can scarcely remember most of it.

Motherhood is learning that you aren't, after all, the center of the universe - even your own.

Motherhood is wanting to do everything for your child and sometimes knowing that everything means nothing at all, means letting them stand alone, means sending them off into the world.

Joshua used to ride his scooter to school. Each morning, he would push himself down our driveway. Near the bottom, where the sidewalk and our driveway came together, he would turn his scooter smoothly to the right with one leg up and one leg on the scooter. As he disappeared from view, my stomach would clench with fear. He used to wobble on that scooter, barely aloft as he learned to balance. Now he can fly, smooth and steady and strong. It just took some time, some encouragement, some patience, some practice.

Motherhood means believing in something greater than yourself.

Motherhood means trusting in the power of your child.

Motherhood means living with constant fear.

The other day Carly came in to my room before school. We were both getting ready for the day, preparing to head off and fill our heads with all kinds of important things. She twirled and danced and chattered, in constant motion, and then she threw her little arms around me and said "You're the best mom ever."

Motherhood means holding close to the little, every day kind of moments because they vanish like the setting sun, slipping out of view while you're busy blinking.

Motherhood means setting aside doubt and insecurity to embrace the truth that in that one moment, you ARE the best mom ever.

I often think to myself that my children deserve more. That they should have a Mother who is more engaged, a Mother who is more patient, a Mother who is more kind, a Mother who loves herself more, a Mother with more time. I also think they deserve less. A Mother who yells less, a Mother who is less self-involved, a Mother who beats herself up less, a Mother who is less involved in the process and more involved in the outcome. Sometimes when I look at my children I ~~think~~ know that I am not good enough for them. Sometimes when I look at my children I see the spark of divine shining through so brightly I am almost blinded, and I think it was a mistake they came to me.

Motherhood means learning there is good in everyone, sometimes buried deep. Even in me.

I think about my own Mother sometimes. I think about how she suffered and sacrificed. About how she changed and grew. About how she always - and still - believes in the greatness of her children. I want to be that kind of Mother. I think about how she must have had her own worries and wonders too, about how she set them aside for me. I think about how she conquered her own demons, climbed her own mountains, learned her own lessons, dreamed her own dreams. I think about how lucky I am that my Mother loves me.

Sometimes I think we take the humanity out of Motherhood.

Sometimes I think we expect Sainthood instead of Motherhood.

Sometimes I think we forget that a Mother is just a Woman with children at her apron strings.

2011-05-07T17:34:00.000-06:00

Day 26 – A book that changed ~~your opinion about something~~ the way you look at the world

Shall I make a short list?

Stargirl
Farhenheit 451
The Giver
The Hunger Games
A Series of Unfortunate Events
The Host
Leven Thumps and the Gateway to Foo
Never Can Say Goodbye
Charlotte's Web

Maybe I'm just cliche, but each of these provided some fresh perspective, usually something to do blessed I truly am. They also helped me realize how precarious the balance between safety and control is, how delicate the balance of love and hate can be, how obsession can overtake the goodness in our characters, how love truly is the most powerful and worth living for influence in our lives.

It's all relative

2011-05-06T10:09:00.000-06:00

Day 25 – A character who you can relate to the most

This is an interesting question to think about. Which character do I want to relate to the most? Well, that would be a whole other answer. But the character that I can most relate to is probably Jo March. Imperfect with a whip temper, often buried in the world of words, longing to create that one magical story, longing to fit in but still on the fringes...I get all that.

Just another homework procrastination

2011-05-05T10:43:00.000-06:00

Day 24 – A book that you wish more people ~~would’ve~~ should read

Twilight. Seriously, nobody has even read that. Or maybe Harry Potter.

Ok, obviously I'm just kidding.

I'm going to go with Fahrenheit 451. Probably a lot of people have read this book, but I personally did not read it until a year and a half ago when I was given a free copy. It's a disturbing, enlightening, very current book - which says something given that it was first published in 1951.

It's a fantasy of mine

2011-05-04T08:49:00.000-06:00

Day 23 – A book you wanted to read for a long time but still haven’t

I guess I'm going to go with "The Gathering Storm" by Robert Jordan & Brandon Sanderson. TGS is the 12th book in the Wheel of Time series, I've read the others in the series - although I'll admit to some skimming. These aren't little books, they are big bricks of words and sometimes you just gotta skip some stuff. Anyhow, I've also read some other books by Brandon Sanderson - two to be specific, Elantris and Mistborn Book 1. I enjoyed both of these books and I think that Brandon Sanderson has a fresh voice and style which should mesh well with Robert Jordan.

Twenty two

2011-05-03T16:23:00.000-06:00

Day 22 – Favorite book you own

I hate to repeat myself here, but Peter Rabbit. My grandparent's weren't big gift givers (that I remember) and so each of the gifts I still have from them are highly treasured. Especially now that they're gone.

Two books walk into a bar

2011-05-02T14:56:00.000-06:00

Day 21 – Favorite book from your childhood

Hands down, no thought involved, without question The Tale of Peter Rabbit by Beatrix Potter. My grandparents gave me a hard-back version with other BP shorts included for my 8th birthday. I still have it and have read it to my children multiple times.

In second place would be Debbie Learns to Cook by Marcel Marlier. My mother picked up about 4-5 of the books in this series when we lived overseas and I always loved each one. The artwork is simply stunning. A Google image search of his name will give you results something like this (Debbie Learns to Cook is in the bottom row, second image from the left):

I was very fortunate that she protected some of these books from her destructive children and gave me the copies she had left last year. I simply love them.

Sunday Roundup

2011-05-02T00:33:00.000-06:00

A break for the book meme to talk about the other things in life

- It's the last week of school for me (other than finals). My first year back is almost over! I am relieved, happy, excited (to be done), proud, and did I say relieved? I forgot what a grind it can be, how much pressure it can be, and how much fun. I do like it, although I'm not a big fan of my commute or waking up early. I've changed my degree plan (yet again) and I think I'll be able to finish in two more years instead of three. I'm going to take one online summer class, because I'm crazy, and then it'll be back to the books this fall.

- Carly is finishing up kindergarten. A friend of mine posted a picture from way-back-when Carly was a little bean, and I didn't even recognize her at first! I'm amazed how much she has grown and changed. Such a lovely, crazy, energetic, sassy, sweet baby mine.

- Joshua is finishing up with seventh grade. SEVENTH GRADE! I'm in denial. He worked all year from home, sharing an office space with his dad - sometimes a good thing, sometimes not so much. Next year he'll be re-entering the ranks of public school. Not necessarily because that was our plan, more because we missed the deadline to register him for home-school again. I think it's a good thing. But I'm also terrified.

- We've got very few plans for the summer. This is bad. Other than some swim lessons in June, I've got to come up with inexpensive, out-of-the-house, non-commute heavy ways for my children to spend their time. Yikes.

- I feel relieved tonight, and yet afraid. Osama Bin Laden was finally captured and killed. I feel a little bit wrong rejoicing that someone died. But, I'm glad that evil man is gone. I am also afraid of what this means for our security. I'm watching the crowds of people celebrating on the streets, I know I'm watching history as it is made. I'm wondering what the days and weeks ahead will hold.

The End.

Twenty kisses

2011-04-30T17:17:00.000-06:00

Day 20 – Favorite romance book

I do like a good love story, especially one where the characters feel real and genuine. I think I might go with Pride and Prejudice for this one simply because Mr. Darcy really goes out of his way to make things better for the woman he loves, and he takes no credit (in fact, he doesn't want anyone to know he's done it).

Nine and a teen

2011-04-29T18:19:00.000-06:00

Day 19 – Favorite book turned into a movie

I'm not picking Harry Potter, are you surprised? Probably not. The movies on their own have been fine, definitely not perfect. Given the time and imagination constraints, I prefer to just consider the movie and books independently.

That being said, my favorite book turned into a movie is North & South. The British-non-civil-war version, there is some confusion there (my own included, when my sis-in-law first loaned us the movie and promised it was great I thought she might be crazy. I was happily surprised.) I watched the mini-series-movie a few times in the last year, high praise coming from me since I rarely watch a movie more than once in a short time span (Disney movies excepted). My second favorite would be Pride and Prejudice (Kiera Knightly edition, I adore the music absolutely), followed by Anne of Green Gables (which I actually enjoy in movie form more than in book form).

Legal in some states

2011-04-28T21:42:00.000-06:00

Day 18 – A book that disappointed you

Stone of Tears by Terry Goodkind. The second book in the Sword of Truth series, to be specific. I read the first, "Wizard's First Rule", and had a hard time with the graphic violence at the middle but skimmed through and finished the book. I liked it enough to buy the second book, but never made it out of the first couple of chapters. I wanted to like them, I really did, but it was just to intense I suppose.

When I was seventeen

2011-04-27T19:07:00.000-06:00

Day 17 – Favorite quote from your favorite book

I suppose I'm going to give my favorite quote from Half Blood Prince, although that might not be my favorite book of all time. I haven't decided.

"And now, Harry, let us step out into the night and pursue that flighty temptress, adventure." - Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince, JK Rowling.

Four times four

2011-04-26T15:27:00.000-06:00

Day 16 – Favorite female character

I'm gonna go with the first person that popped into my head: Jo March. Strong, sassy, a little bit quirky, and very reminiscent of my sister. I'm also a big fan of Anne Shirley for much the same reason, she just isn't your typical damsel in distress.

Three Five Times

2011-04-25T18:09:00.000-06:00

Day 15 – Favorite male character

Another interesting question with quite a few possibilities. I am quite partial to Severus Snape - the name alone is awesome. But, he's probably not my favorite ever. I highly enjoy Mr. Thornton from North and South. If you've seen the movie, the book goes on to tell of the many more good deeds and thoughts of Mr. Thornton. I'm also a fan of Laurie in Little Women, even if he did marry Amy. Simon and Jace in the Mortal Instruments series are also great. I very much appreciate the boys of Harry Potter, too, and in particular I think Neville Longbottom is fantastic.

If I'm going to pick an overall favorite, I think the top of my list is Peeta from the Hunger Games series. Throughout the series he never strays from his basic goodness, even when he's been brain-washed he tries to be and do good. Peeta, not Katniss, is the true hero of the series.

What it means to me

2011-04-24T12:53:00.000-06:00

I came to Christ a beggar,
A wounded empty house,
Broken walls and shattered glass.

And He said
Daughter, thy faith hath made thee whole;
Go in peace.

I came to Christ a sinner,
A cup of bitter dregs,
Half full and thirsting.

And He answered
Whosoever drinketh of the water that I shall give
Shall never thirst.

I came to Christ wondering,
Seeking shelter from the storms,
Tossed about and drifting.

And He blessed me
My peace I give unto you. Let not your heart be troubled,
Neither let it be afraid.

I went to find the Christ,
In the quiet early morning,
And found the hollow, empty tomb.

And the angels answered
Why seek ye the living, here, among the dead?
He is not here. He is risen, as He said.

13 Plus One

2011-04-23T13:27:00.000-06:00

Day 14 - Favorite book of your favorite writer

Since I named 3 favorite writers yesterday, I'll name my favorite books for each today (that way it won't just be Harry Potter again...)

Favorite writer off the page: Obert Skye. Favorite book by Obert: Pillage. (Obert Skye is a lesser known author, his books include the Leven Thumps series, Pillage, and Choke. I happen to know Mr. Skye personally and he's pretty fantastic. But that's another story.)

Favorite Young Adult writer: Suzanne Collins. Favorite book by Suzanne: The Hunger Games.

Favorite overall writer: JK Rowling. Favorite book by JK: (as previously mentioned) Half Blood Prince.

Lucky thirteen

2011-04-22T10:15:00.000-06:00

Day 13 - Your favorite writer

This is another question with a few possible answers. My favorite writer off the page? (Obert Skye). My favorite YA writer? (Suzanne Collins). My favorite blog writer? (Now that would just be rude to tell). I guess if I have to pick one favorite writer, I'm going to go with JK Rowling. When I grow up, I want to write like that.

One two three four five, six seven eight nine ten, eleven twelve!

2011-04-21T13:35:00.000-06:00

Day 12 - A book you used to love but don't anymore

I feel like some of these are repeating - or maybe it's just my answer. In an effort to throw the unexpected your way, I'm going to go with Years by LaVyrle Spencer. Ms. Spencer writes romance novels. Not the dirty, explicit kind with every single detail, but certainly more details than I'm comfortable with nowadays. I first read Years back when I was a teenager. I was babysitting during the summer for a local family and the lady of the house was reading it. So I read it during down time. I probably spent too much time reading it instead of actually babysitting, but that's another story. I've read a few other novels by Ms. Spencer, most notably Morning Glory which was turned into a movie starring Christopher Reeve. I liked that book also. In fact, I would probably read both of these books again if they were on my shelf. But I do wish they had clean versions so that my eyes aren't shocked out of my sockets.

Elevensies

2011-04-20T14:37:00.000-06:00

Day 11 - A Book You Hated

If you get the title, it wasn't that book. I liked that book even though it was extremely long and wandering.

Anyways, a book I hated - the first book that comes to mind is Jane Eyre.

I KNOW!

We read this for our local book club and when they asked if anyone didn't like the book, only 2 of us put up a hand. I. just. don't. get. it. I actually compared Jane to Bella from Twilight. Jane is a very sophisticated Bella. Wait, wait, put down the pitchfork. This comparison drew immediate objection and ire (oooo, fancy words) but just think about it for a minute. Jane spends a lot of the book whining about her life. Bella spends a lot of the book whining. Jane has to overlook Mr Rochester's flaws in order to be with him. Bella has to overlook that Ed's a vampire. Both of them are emotionally repressed and prone to fits of sudden passion. The difference, what makes me not despise Bella but barely able to stomach Jane, is Jane's complete dullness. D.U.L.L. I'm sure many people don't agree, but no matter how many times I've picked up this book, I always end up disliking it even more.

Argh Meme Matey!

2011-04-19T12:01:00.000-06:00

Day 10 - Favorite Classic Book

Little Women. Except for the parts with Daisy and Demi which are just boring. Also, Jo and Laurie should have gotten married.

Nine time

2011-04-18T13:01:00.001-06:00

Day 09 – A book you thought you wouldn’t like but ended up loving

I don't even have to think about this one: Twilight. My sister in law told me to read it. I had my doubts, I'm not really a vampire type person, that is more Eric's thing. I think it is quite amusing that people who like Twilight feel compelled to defend liking it - so I'm not going to. I liked it, the end.

Eight is great

2011-04-17T13:09:00.000-06:00

Most overrated book

I'm gonna be awfully generic here: Anything by Stephen King. The few I've read were creepy, yes. But also very similar. Something bad and scary happens, people swear, something bad and scary and dead happens, people swear. While I think that profanity in some books is just part of the setting, overall it usually feels forced. Most people do not swear all that often, although I acknowledge exceptions to this rule. I personally would much rather settle in to a good, scary book that is devoid of all that trash. And I highly value books that my children can pick up when I'm not around.

Seven little monkies jumping on the bed

2011-04-16T15:26:00.000-06:00

Day 7 - Most Underrated Book

Hmm

Hmmmmmm

This is hard. It's not like I'm some kind of expert, and I haven't read nearly so many books as some of my friends. Most underrated book....I don't really read reviews, either. I guess I will pick a current book I've read that didn't get a lot of press. I wouldn't call it the MOST underrated EVER, but given it's fresh approach and fun plot, City of Bones. It's book 1 in a series and has done fairly well sales wise, but you just don't hear about it like Twilight, Hunger Games, HP or any of the other hot-on-the-markets out there.

Let me just add that this was a token offering after a lot of "I have no clue" blankness. An author that I consider underrated is Zane Grey. He wrote a lot of western novels and many of them were made into movies. He is fairly well known but I think his popularity peaked back in the golden age of movie westerns. Zane wrote many beautiful western novels worth reading, has a town named after him, and just sounds cool.

Six, like five but with one more!

2011-04-15T13:12:00.000-06:00

Day 06 – A book that makes you sad

I'll be honest, I knew this one was coming and so I've been thinking about it for a few days. I'm not sure that thinking about sad books for days on end is the best thing in the world, but at least my brain hasn't been empty.

A book that makes me sad - again there are quite a few. But the tip top of my list is Gone With the Wind. I read this for the first time about 10 years ago after watching the movie. Now, the movie - I love the movie. I love the way it looks, I love the way they walk and talk. The movie is a classic for a reason. It also happens to be my mother-in-law's very favorite, which is why I came to watch it the first time and subsequently pick up the book.

The book is so not even close to the movie.

For starters, the Scarlett of the movie may be shallow and spoiled and selfish - but she is vulnerable. I want to like her, I want Rhett to turn around and rescue her at the end, I want Melanie's faith in Scarlett to be justified at some point.

The Scarlett of the book might be the most rotten character in literature. She's mean and horrible. Did you know she has a son from her first husband? The reason they left him out of the movie, in my opinion, is because he was completely ignored in the book by Scarlett. Her choices throughout the book are terrible, her actions which follow even more so. I've read this book multiple times, each time feeling worse and worse as I search for something good in Scarlett. The last time I read it, I got so frustrated and sad by the time the book wound down that - on principle - I got rid of my copy and vowed never to read it again.

Oh, Ashley.

Day 05 – A book that makes you happy

2011-04-14T11:56:00.000-06:00

~~A book~~ Books that makes you happy

Gosh, this is hard. A lot of books make me happy but every now and then I close a book with such a feeling of complete satisfaction. I get that feeling at the end of The Deathly Hallows, when JK gives us a glimpse into the future. I'm so glad she did that, she gave us Harry and Ron and Hermione as full-grown happy people. Don't think I'm totally lame, but I also get that happy ending feeling at the end of Breaking Dawn (the final in the Twilight series). Another book that makes me happy is Anne's House of Dreams, the first Anne of Green Gables book where she is finally married to Gilbert (I should have had that on my more than 3 times list, by the way). Another book that really makes me happy is Peter Rabbit. My grandparents gave me a copy when I was 8, which I still have, and still read fairly often. I suppose I shouldn't leave out Where the Wild Things Are. What's better than coming back from the wide world of imagining to a room where your dinner is still hot?

Four Meme

2011-04-13T14:40:00.000-06:00

Day 04 – Favorite book of your favorite series

Without a doubt, Half Blood Prince. I don't think story telling gets any better, I don't think characters are more perfectly put to a page, I don't think the twists and turns weave so well in any other book. I've probably read this book 10 times, every single time I love it even more.

Meme Irish Eyes

2011-04-12T11:40:00.000-06:00

(I'm running out of plays on the word 'meme' and it's only day 3, this is a bad sign. I blame the weird dream I had with the lead singer of the Cure in it.)

Day 3 - Favorite series

I gotta pick Harry Potter, there is no other series that can even compare (for me). Each time I go back to the series, I find something new. I am amazed that she had tiny, itty-bitty details in book 1 that turned into big, important things by book 6. Master story telling, amazing imagery, inspiring message - yep HP for me.

Mime Meme - Day 2

2011-04-11T10:35:00.001-06:00

A book that you've read more than three times

A book, now come on. Usually when I find a good book, I read it over and over until it becomes an old friend. Perhaps a list of books I have read more than 3 times? Okay!

Harry Potter - all of them but in particular Half Blood Prince (which is my favorite of the series, I so knew Snape wasn't all bad at the end of this book)

Little Women

The Host

Twilight series - yes I've read them all multiple times. They are great fluff

Hunger Games - all 3 multiple times but Mockingjay only twice

Chronicles of Avonlea (might not be the right name, but I've read this collection of short stories at least 20 times I'm sure)

Eragon

Gone With the Wind - I haven't read this in a while, I had to stop re-reading it because it made me sad on so many levels

City of Glass (by Cassandra Clare if you are interested, interesting new feeling fiction and there is a new book coming out soon I just found out by googling)

I'm sure there are more for this list but my brain refuses to access the information. The book that I have reread the most has to be Little Women, I usually read it at least once a year (well, I skip a few parts like Daisy and Demi).

Hows about you?

Eeny Memey Miney Mo - Day 1

2011-04-10T17:10:00.001-06:00

Cruising around the 'net, I stopped at Fantasy Casting and found this little meme. Sounds fun, gonna do it, here's day one.

The best book you read last year:

This is hard. What does 'best' mean? Best read? Best grammar? Best twist? Okay, okay. Best new book I read last year (that I can remember) must be The Hunger Games. It is highly likely that I reread a few of my all time favs last year, but I have also reread Hunger Games (and it's sequels) at least twice since last summer. It was that good.

Here's a full list of the meme if you want to participate too (or feel free to post in the comments and participate that way):

Day 01 – The best book you read last year
Day 02 – A book that you’ve read more than 3 times
Day 03 – Your favorite series
Day 04 – Favorite book of your favorite series
Day 05 – A book that makes you happy
Day 06 – A book that makes you sad
Day 07 – Most underrated book
Day 08 – Most overrated book
Day 09 – A book you thought you wouldn’t like but ended up loving
Day 10 – Favorite classic book
Day 11 – A book you hated
Day 12 – A book you used to love but don’t anymore
Day 13 – Your favorite writer
Day 14 – Favorite book of your favorite writer
Day 15 – Favorite male character
Day 16 – Favorite female character
Day 17 – Favorite quote from your Favorite book
Day 18 – A book that disappointed you
Day 19 – Favorite book turned into a movie
Day 20 – Favorite romance book
Day 21 – Favorite book from your childhood
Day 22 – Favorite book you own
Day 23 – A book you wanted to read for a long time but still haven’t
Day 24 – A book that you wish more people would’ve read
Day 25 – A character who you can relate to the most
Day 26 – A book that changed your opinion about something
Day 27 – The most surprising plot twist or ending
Day 28 – Favorite title
Day 29 – A book everyone hated but you liked
Day 30 – Your Favorite book of all time

Invisible hats

2011-04-07T23:27:00.000-06:00

I'm wearing my "Feminist cap" at the moment. Don't be afraid, it is for an English class wherein we examine works of literature using different types of theories. Special theories. We've used a Marxist theory and a Deconstructionist theory and now we're being Feminists.
Don't worry, I haven't burned my bra or anything.
Some of the parts of these theories are complete hogwash. That's right, hogwash. In particular, right now I object to the idea that a woman can't be defined by her womanness. (That's not a word according to the squiggly red line that lets me know I spelled it wrong.)
There are things that make me a woman. Physical things that they tell you about in Health class. Physical things I was born with. Physical things that often annoy me and get in the way of my life. Ohhh snap.
There are other things that make me a woman. My softer side. (Sometimes dormant, I admit). My talky side. My creative side. Do I think those things are exclusive to womanness? No, I don't. But they make me the woman I am. I am not separate from those qualities anymore than I am exclusive to them.
I know some women rail against the idea that they have a role to fulfill. But me, I embrace this idea. I DO have a role to fulfill, a part to play, a position. I am a wife because I chose to be a wife. I am a mother because I chose to be a mother. I am a daughter, friend, stranger, student, blogger, Mormon, niece, cousin, and much more. Not one of these labels can sum me up. I don't feel confined by these descriptions, I feel liberated. I'm a wife and that means I have a husband. I expect certain things from him, he expects certain things from me. None of those expectations are based on being "less than." We are equals. We are different.
My feminist theory cap is interesting, illuminating even. But I'll be glad to take it off.

Blessings

2011-04-04T23:44:00.000-06:00

How do you cope
with the crushing weight of burdens
of a thousand little things that rush in
like spotlights on the inadequate.

How do you cope
when words aren't enough
and fingers can't touch
voices can't sing
lips can't rise into smiles.

How do you cope
when wee ones lie helpless on your lap
no laughing, no crying, no sounds
just stillness
and darkness
and waiting.

How do you cope
with cruel intentions
and misplaced best wishes
and doubt -
doubt that rises like waves on the sea
washing away hope
violating faith.

Eyes to the light
face to the sky
heart to the wind
blown away by the breath
of peace as you slumber
Rising up like the sun
on the morning
You cope.

No Foolin'

2011-04-01T12:42:00.000-06:00

I found this skirt at my local Salvation Army (my favorite place to shop if you don't count Target).

I paid .25 cents for it.

It's J. Crew, pin striped, and so cute.

It's, sadly, not my size.

So I listed it on ebay (thanks to some inspiration from My Dear Trash).

And it sold.

For $26.99.

No foolin'!

Bad news and other sorts

2011-03-31T16:53:00.000-06:00

I find myself wishing it was all so much easier
I see people that seem to skip through life
on tip toe, and smiling
And I wonder how they do it
What's the secret
Why can't I learn it.

I've gotten good at making mistakes
Repeat, rinse, repeat, repeat, repeat
The rhythm of falling so familiar
that I don't feel right without it
Rinse, repeat, rinse, repeat, repeat
Stepping back from the brink of disaster
is a much harder tune to play.

Have you ever been fed up with yourself
with your choices
with your stumbling
with your failing
So fed up that the good things seem small
and the bad things feel tall
I feel that way today.

I love it when

2011-03-25T13:29:00.000-06:00

The first blossoms pop on the tree branches - pinks and whites and happiness.

Hard work pays off.

I'm not the only one that had a hard time on a test.

A basketball game goes down to the last second.

I have pizza for dinner.

The mailman brings more than just bills.

I plant the first seed of spring.

I think of my mother-in-law.

Eric makes a Poppa face.

My iPod only plays good songs.

Josh laughs.

Carly twirls.

I wear a sweatshirt that says "Thing One".

I sell a bunch of stuff on ebay.

I realize how great things really are.

Answering

2011-03-08T18:37:00.000-07:00

A while back b-happy, a very talented photographer and writer and mom, posed the question "Is it worth it?" and I've been thinking about that off-and-on for a while.

Is it worth it?

On days like today when I did more yelling than talking?
On days like today when I'm trying to write a paper and forgetting to pay attention to my kids?
On days like today when my husband is making dinner again, not to mention helping with homework, doing errands, getting children to school on time in the morning with lunch in hand, holding down a full time job, and just generally doing all the things I don't do?

Is it worth it?

Despite all the yelling, all the frustration, all the dirty floors and bathrooms, all the questions I can't answer, all the moments that have nothing to do with me and everything to do with them, it's totally worth it.

I ~~read~~ skimmed an article about a woman who decided she didn't want to be a mom. After she already popped out two kids. It's not really a change your mind kind of thing. It's not really something you can do when the round, innocent eyes of your offspring are staring up at you. Even in cases of adoption, a process with which I am familiar remember, you don't just stop being a mother. Carly knows she has a birth-mother and me. You can't separate her from that fundamental truth of her existence. And why, why would you? You can stop wanting, stop loving, stop hurting, stop thinking, stop holding but you can't stop DNA - spiritual or physical. These are my children, Josh and Carly, no matter what decisions they make. No matter what roads they take. No matter if they hate me and run away. No matter if they love me and cling. They are mine and I am theirs every single day from now until we cease to exist. And that is a long time.

Sometimes I forget, but today I remember: It's worth it.

College is

2011-03-04T13:13:00.000-07:00

aka Another Helpful List

keys tapping
wheels rolling
    isolation
      over-crowded
        intimidation
          concentration
            people watching
              introspection
               dead-air time to fill
                 papers due
              excuse making
            confidence building
          ego shredding
        contradiction
      exhilaration
    bad-feeling-about-this making
gratification
illuminating
down right confusing
    overwhelming
     back pack toting
       laptop dropping
       internet surfing
          looking forward to Spring Break
            faster than breathing
              amazing.

And the winner is

2011-02-28T18:26:00.001-07:00

The Oscar's were last night. I watched the first hour before my kids started showing symptoms of withdrawal from lack of cartoons. A big hub-bub-to-do was made this year about attracting a younger audience. They hired James Franco (who sucked) and Anne Hathaway (who didn't suck) to host. I have a few alternatives that are guanranteed to attract that younger-money-spending-culture-obsessed demographic.

1. Instead of evening gowns, women nominees under the age of 30 are required to wear sequined bikinis. In place of voting, nominees will endure 4 rounds of mud wrestling, winner takes all.

2. Only movies that bank more than 100 million dollars can receive nominations of any kind.

3. Text message voting.

4. Interactive Wii play, make your favorite celebs follow your commands.

5. Justin Bieber hands out the awards and a lock of his hair (for that key tween demographic).

6. John Madden as the commentator. Boom!

7. More Johnny Depp.

8. Instead of the producers accepting the Oscar for the best picture, the hunkiest male lead must accept the award shirtless.

9. A gong for lame and/or extra long speeches.

10. More pyrotechnics.

Review

2011-02-25T19:27:00.000-07:00

It was one of those Fridays, you know?

I was almost late for my first class (I made it with 1 minute to spare).

I almost fell asleep in my third class (I'm not sure how my professor expected me to stay awake while he talked about geometry in space. I know that other people might find that really exciting, I do not).

I ate a delicious calzone for lunch, but only after spilling a whole pop on the ground (that was fun).

But then it was time to come home.

And now I'm here, in my chair, on the interweb.

And even though it was one of those Fridays, I feel lucky.

How 'bout you?

Served

2011-02-16T01:35:00.000-07:00

This evening my children spent about 30 minutes conspiring. Conspiring is a mostly beautiful sound. A lot of

"Don't let Mom seeeee!"

"Get one of those!"

"That's what we need!"

instead of the usual "Josh _________ me!" or "CAAARRlllyyYYYY!"

I like it when they make up their own little games, I like it more when it involves a surprise for me. I wasn't sure what to expect. Crayon drawings? "Crafts" (quotation marks are the closest thing to sarcasm font on the market today)? Edible treats?

Wrong, wrong, wrong.

My children sued me. As in, an elaborate trial with a briefcase full of evidence, a possible witness in the form of our dog, and Dad as the judge.

I was accused of being unfair. I took away Josh's TV and video game privileges because he didn't finish his school work by 3pm. And while I did, and do, find this amusing on many fronts (imagine, if you will, hard core giggling while my 12 year old son waited anxiously for Dad to pronounce his ruling), it still stung. More than a little.

I'm a mean mom. Shout it from the rooftops! This little game they played, all innocence and angst and no-hard-feelings-intended, only affirmed what I already know. I'm a mean, horrible, hateful mother. I'm no mother at all.

My heart of hearts wants to believe this is not true. I explained to my son later that I wasn't trying to be mean, I'm really not (always) mean out of spite. I want what is good and best for him. I want him to be responsible, to keep his word, to finish his jobs, to learn all he can, to do quality work, to put in maximum effort.

"I'm not your friend," I said. "I don't want to be your friend, I want to be your mother. I want you to be the best possible person you can be."

But inside, a little voice screamed that I do want to be his friend. I do want him to like me. I want him to think I'm nice and wonderful and kind and sweet and perfect. That little voice is very loud. It keeps telling me that I must be doing it wrong. All wrong. Because surely I can be friend AND mother. I don't have to be so mean. I don't have to be so impatient all the time. So loud and critical. So harsh and self absorbed.

I wish I knew how to sort out the true from the false. I wish I knew how to love myself enough to recognize what's good and right, what's wrong and fixable.

But I don't know how. I don't know how.

I'm not looking for pity, or contradiction, or reassurance. I'm just trying to get what's in my head to slow down enough that I can sleep peace.

Cataloging the past

2011-02-13T17:28:00.000-07:00

Time moves like wind through the grass, ruffled by moments, sometimes sleeping, sometimes vibrant.

And suddenly, here I am. I'm 33 until my next birthday. I've got two kids and a husband. I'm settled and settling continuously.

I'm not really sure how that happened.

I've been staring at the faces of my past this afternoon, rifling through moments caught in the snap of a lens. Some of these people are as familiar as my own shadow. The moments and memories exist, still, in the corners of reality. I catch their laugh on my lips, I feel their breath in my hair, I see their dimples on my cheeks. They are part of me and separate from me all at once. I search the frozen moments close, taking in the fine details of uplifted smiles and distracted fingers. I am acutely aware there is someone behind the camera, probably making funny faces, probably exasperated that the children won't look all at the same moment, probably bursting with pride.

There is familiarity in that, too.

Someday soon, I won't be 33. The moments of this age will only be colors on film. I'm not sure how I feel about that yet.

Treasures

2011-02-07T16:41:00.000-07:00

My grandfather, Bud (mad props if you can tell me who else makes this funny face)

And the love of his life, my grandmother Dorothy.

Also, a photo of my grandfather from WW 2 with an inscription that will make you laugh.

(Bud, You are the guy on the extreme right, what an outfit your wearing, you look like a tramp. We were sitting on the bank of the Danube waiting for our 4048's to take us to Le Hoore (?). You look in deep thought, Bud, I bet you were thinking of Dottie or could it be you were regretting separation from the army. Love and Kisses - Tommy)

Her Father's Daughter

2011-02-02T11:00:00.000-07:00

This girl drives me crazy. She has energy to spare, imagination gone wild, an attention span measurable in nano-seconds, and a deep devotion to her father that goes beyond DNA and runs into the depths of her five year old soul.

Historical

2011-01-31T19:08:00.000-07:00

I've been thinking about breakfast. Specifically, eggs made with various ingredients from the fridge. And orange juice that clings to the side of the glass. And the sound of newspaper opening and closing. I am thinking of my Grandmother in her bathrobe, smiling, her hair a cotton-candy mess. I am thinking of choosing which kind of cereal and sitting at the table while the air conditioning whirls and tings in the background. I am thinking of place-mats and the smell of fresh coffee.

Lately I've been wondering why I never took time to ask my grandparents how they met. What did they think when they first saw each other? How did they know this was 'it'? Did they write to each other every day when my Grandpa was off fighting World War II? Did they struggle the way that I do, did they wonder if they were doing it all wrong, did they give up and start over? I wish I had asked so many questions, I wish I had more time to ask them.

I have this idealized version of my grandparents in my head. They are sweet, polite, reserved, and intelligent. My Grandpa is a gentleman of the first degree, he dotes upon his wife and humors his children. My Grandmother is old school class, all manners and lightness, but also an emancipated woman.

My Dad told a story once about her resolve. My Grandfather had lost his job, layoffs or something like that. My Grandmother, worried that he wouldn't find employ, packed her three small children in her car and drove them to a hospital where she had an interview for a job. She didn't tell my Grandfather, he only found out when he saw them drive past.

She got the job, by the way. She was just that sort.

I hope someday to be that sort too.

Sugar and Spice

2011-01-24T15:44:00.000-07:00

And everything Nice
That's what little Carly's are made of.

Most days.

On a high stool

2011-01-21T02:02:00.000-07:00

This evening while dinner was in the oven and I stood near the stove,
my daughter climbed up on a high stool
and sank into the circle of my arms.

There is something elemental about a child tucked under your chin
the soft cheek against your skin,
the hands tucked under your arms or wrapped around your neck,
the easy breathing pattern you join into.
Even the rowdiest rogue will settle into tranquility,
for but a moment,
when his head rests against your chest.

The primal desire to meld with mother seems to melt away over time.
My boy still holds me close,
but the moments are fewer and fleet of foot.
He still clasps my hand in his,
with fingers almost as long as mine wrapped around my palm,
but he lets go quickly.
The need for security is waning,
though in the dark night he still searches to orient his orbit to my location.
I remember a time when he fit into that magical space beneath my chin.
It wasn't so long ago,
and yet feels like ages have passed into shadow since then.

I wish I could snapshot these moments with my mind,
lock them away for the coming days when birds flutter from the nest.
Days that once seemed afar off are sneaking in close,
stealthy thieves that covet the spaces in my heart
and move my children ever closer to independence.
Push though I may,
they still come circling close to snatch my little ones.

But, there tucked under my chin,
the moment is ours alone - my girl's and mine,
at least til dinner is done.

All things considered

2011-01-12T23:13:00.005-07:00

My spouse is not my best friend.

He and I had this discussion just the other day. Maybe I'm feeling guilty about it, or like it's not normal, but it seems like other people are best friends with spouses.

And I'm just not.

Don't get me wrong.

It has nothing to do with love. I love him. Very much.

It has nothing to do with confidences. I tell him many things, more than I tell anyone else.

It has nothing to do with like. I like him. I think he is funny, generous, a good father, a loyal friend, a steady ship on a tossed-about sea. He is a good man.

But he is not my best friend. He is something different. He falls into another category, one more suitable to the person that shares my troubles, my fears, my triumphs, my children, my home.

There are days we function as one entity. And days we function as two orbiting planets.

We argue. We bicker. We complain. We get frustrated and fed up. Often.

But, we also applaud. We support. We compliment. We admire. Often.

Perhaps I have never really had a best friend, as it were. No one that finishes my sentences, reads my face, understands my ills, holds my confidences. I have many beloved friends, sisters from other mothers, darling dears, and shining stars I admire. I am blessed with an older sister I adore. I would be lucky to count any of these as my best friend. But they are not.

I suppose that Eric is the closest thing I've got, but friend is not quite the word.

I guess 'husband' will just have to do.

A Silly Tea Party

2011-01-11T19:29:00.000-07:00

While I often wonder, what, exactly is going through the minds of my children I have come to realize it is probably best if I just don't know. Here they are dressed in "tea party" regalia.

Carly's first 'modeling' gig

2011-01-08T15:05:00.001-07:00

A couple of weeks ago a friend at church called to ask if she could use Carly in a photo shoot for a new website. Carly participated in this conversation, thanks mainly to the speaker phone her father is fond of, and immediately began excited twirling and posing.

The result of her photo shoot is a few pictures that are part of a really great program called Seminary Street School. (If you're my facebook friend, you've already been introduced to this great site. But you really can't get too much of a good thing, right?) The premise for this new site is simple: scripture based pre-K. I was really impressed when I saw the actual product that Seminary Street is offering. The lesson plans offer math, science, writing, cutting practice, craft ideas, scheduling plans, and more. There are some really ingenious ideas that I haven't seen anywhere else, plus it's just plain fun. Right now Seminary Street has lesson plans based on Book of Mormon scriptures, but they plan to add Old and New Testament lesson plans in the future.

We're proud that Carly is part of this project, even in such a small way as a few photographs. I hope you'll check it out and spread the word!

Well Rounded

2011-01-07T02:37:00.000-07:00

Can't sleep.

It's one of those nights.

Those nights where the hours don't seem to move. The minutes tick by on tip toes. The darkness deepens.

Unless I close my eyes. And then it's a light-fest of thoughts, questions, and rapid fire synapses.

I could be catching up on housework. (Would you?)

I could be watching soap operas. (They don't sing, I wonder why it's called an opera?)

I could be writing the next best-selling novel. (It's possible, right? Write?)

I could be tossing in my bed, head on a pillow too hard and under blankets too warm next to a husband that sounds like a truck lives in his nostrils. But I digress. (To be fair, he's sick and the truck is louder than normal but it's not his fault.)

We've all got worries and woes, mine no bigger than yours, no more pressing, no more solve-able (or less). My kids don't listen, there is never enough money to go around, school is about to start back up and I'm facing the prospect of being rampantly unavailable again. Oh, and the puppy poops on the floor. Ordinary.

It's only been five minutes.

Can't sleep.