Mary Christmas

In church on Sunday, the kids put together a brief live Nativity. This sparked quite the discussion with my 4-year-old son on the ride home. It went something like this:

“Mom?”

Yes?

“Can we do that game again?”

Sure, we’ll do it Christmas Eve.

“I want to be Mary.”

Okay.

“Mom?”

Yes?

“Next time you shouldn’t stand behind Mary.”

I was just handing her the baby when it was time to be born.

“Oh, so the box you had the baby in was her tummy?”

Yes.

“Mom?”

Yes?

“How did the baby get out of her tummy with no hospital?”

Well, back then they didn’t have hospitals and doctors like we do today. Her husband Joseph had to help get the baby out.

“How does the baby get out?”

(Matt steps in here)

Matt: “She had to push the baby out of a hole.”

“Her belly button?”

Matt: “No, it’s a special hole near her bottom that God made for babies.”

“How did Joseph get it closed?”

Well, the hole closes by itself.

“How big is it?”

It’s pretty small, but it stretches big enough for the baby to come out, then stretches back small again.

“Does it hurt?”

Yes.

Matt: “Mom had some special medicine when you were born so it didn’t hurt so much.”

“Oh.”

Do you still want to be Mary? (I didn’t really say that).

“Only Mommies have that hole since only they have babies in their tummies?”

Correct.

“Daddies don’t have that hole. They just have penises. Why don’t Daddies have babies in their tummies?”

Well, God knew they couldn’t handle the pain . . . (I didn’t really say that either).

Daddies have other jobs.

Matt: “God gave Moms the job of having babies and taking care of them and feeding them and changing their diapers.”

Me: Daddies do some of that stuff too.

This progressed into a long, drawn out discussion of exactly how the umbilical cord functions and another promise to get a book at the library.

Then, Christmas Eve, we got out a baby doll, wrapped Ethan/Mary up in a blue cloth and did the Nativity again. We’re short on participants in this family, so Matt and I played most of the other parts. Ethan’s stuffed tiger and dog played the sheep (the Giraffe played hisself since apparently there are Giraffes at this stable). We tried to get Elliot to play Joseph, but he primarily wandered around dismantling the stable, setting the sheep free and undressing the baby. At this point Mary began chasing Joseph down and beating him. It was unanimously decided that it was Joseph’s bedtime.

While Matt was putting Elliot to bed, Ethan wanted to do it one more time.

“But who will be Joseph?”

We can wait until Dad is back, or I can be Joseph.

“No, Joseph had to go to a meeting for eight days, so Mary will just take care of the baby herself.”

Eight days huh? Hopefully he'll show up for the circumcision.

Punishment

I once had a stage manager who went around saying “YOU’RE FIRED! And as your punishment, you have to stay.”

As I worried about losing my job and what we’d do about the money, my former boss (the one whom the new VP who fired me was replacing) discovered I was being let go and said he’d look into taking me back to work for him. I wasn’t convinced he could make it work, nor that I necessarily wanted to continue with this company and continued worrying (and re-doing our budget).

I finally came to the conclusion that it was going to be alright and was probably a blessing in disguise. But, that I would consider staying if my former boss came up with an acceptable arrangement. So, since I hadn’t heard from him, I decided to craft my own acceptable arrangement. I made my proposal and it appears I will now continue to be employed--for the time being anyway.

Then of course, I began worrying that I’d made the wrong decision and that perhaps I was just trying to thwart God who had been giving me a wonderful opportunity in disguise. A kind friend then made an outrageous comparison, which, though incomparable in magnitude, is nonetheless valid in principle. She reminded me of Abraham who was asked to sacrifice his only son Isaac. It was only when he had actually fastened Isaac to the altar that God intervened and stopped him. He had passed the test and his son was returned to him. In a much much smaller way, perhaps I needed to lay my employment on the altar, rework our family budget to accommodate it, and commit myself to being a more present and better mother before my job was returned to me. Hopefully now, under the slightly modified arrangement, I can focus on my truly highest priorities . . .

If I’d just stop spending so much time on the computer!

You’re Fired!

I have a degree in Theatre. I’ve worked for a hazardous waste company on and off for about 10 years. Why?

Well, I started as a temp to support my theatre habit. They liked me, they wanted to keep me so they were flexible with me. Over the years as I came and went from location to location and show to show, the one constant it seemed was that they always had work if I wanted it and were always willing to be flexible.

This continued after I married and had my first child (and took and extended leave of absence from the theatre life). I asked if I could work part-time. Sure! When we decided to move halfway across the country I asked if I could work part time from home, in another state. Absolutely! After my second child, and a move the rest of the way across the country, can I work from home in Fairly Land and reduce my hours more? Why not?!

I’ve generally enjoyed the work I do as well. It exercises the left side of my brain. It also utilizes skills outside of sniffing a bum to determine whether a diaper should be changed.

In pushing the limits of their willingness to be flexible, I’ve always known that this blessing of ideal stay-at-home-mom employment could end at any moment. That doesn’t make it much easier when it happens.

We were on vacation last week. We had stopped at a gas station, my kids were complaining, the wind was blowing and it was getting cold. My cell phone rang.

“This is not something we wanted to do over the phone.” But considering I was being fired from the Pacific Coast, it hardly seemed worth a plane ticket.

I was being re-organized out of a job. What? The new VP doesn’t want an assistant she’s never met who works when she wants from 6 states away? Come on!

I am grateful. I’m anxious about the income that will not be replaced. Yet I’m rather excited about the prospects of a) more time with my kids (I’m anxious about that too—I think work has been a bit of an escape), and b) looking into pursuing something that I’m more passionate about. So, as I contemplate just what I could do from home on a part-time basis, and just what fat I can cut from my sparse budget, keep watching. Who knows what I’ll be up to next . . .

Practice Makes Perfect

The other day, I looked up just in time to see Elliot run smack into an open door.

He stopped, readjusted his direction, closed his eyes and kept on walking. At which point he tripped over a large bag of crackers he’d left on the floor.

He opened his eyes, picked up the bag, dumped it out, closed his eyes and proceeded to walk through the pile of crackers.

Apparently he was practicing walking with his eyes closed.

Later I caught him practicing backing up. He sticks out his diapered rear end and carefully walks backwards until he runs into something.

Recently he’s started “beeping” as he does this.

He makes me smile, even as he tracks crackers all over the house.

Happy Stuffmas

I'm sure it's been said before by others (and probably by me as well--just ask my husband) but it seems that America's new religion is Shopping for Stuff. It appears that we have swapped celebrating the birth of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ with celebrating the Stuff-Shopping Festival which commences with frenzied rituals on Black Friday, proceeds with month long mecca-like treks to Shopping Centers and culminates in frantic last-minute worship of the Almighty Mall of Stuff on December 24th.

And now, one can worship peacefully in the solitude of one's home with Internet Shopping and the holy sacrament of "Free Shipping" for your Stuff.

What exactly are we buying? Why are we buying it? What void are we trying to fill with stuff? I'm not a fanatic opposed to "the man". I'm just a parent concerned about teaching my children (and myself) the value of things that cannot be purchased such as kindness, love, and caring, rather than ipods, video games and cell phones. Our children learn these values by example. They value what we value. They spend their time where we spend our time. They spend their money where we spend ours.

Ask yourself. What do I value? Answer. Where do I spend my time? How do I spend my money?

Where were you this Friday? Where will you be this month? What will our children "get" this Christmas? Toys? and Games? or a better understanding of their divine worth and the joy of feeling love of their Savior and the love of their parents?

Be different. Let us give less this year so that we can give more. Let's stop feeling guilty about the stuff we did or didn't buy, did or didn't "get" and start filling our stuff-void with the love of the Savior and hence a love of each other.

A wise man once said "You will never have enough of what you don't need." Once on the stuff treadmill, there is no end, except in the getting off.

Just a thought for the season. Happy Stuffmas.

Cataclysmic Converter

Today I took the boys "down the mountain" to get my catalytic converter replaced. What is a catalytic converter you might ask (if you were Ethan, you would also want to know what it does and how it does it). I recently found out that a catalytic converter is part of the exhaust system and affects the emissions of your vehicle. I also recently learned a great deal more.

On the way to the dealer, Ethan began questioning: "What needs to be fixed?"

The Catalytic Converter.

"Why?"

It's broken.

"What does a catlic coverder do?"

It takes the smoke that the engine makes when it burns gas and makes it less dangerous to breath before it comes out the exhaust.

"How does it do that?"

I don't know.

"I know you know, so just tell me how!"

I really don't know. Mom doesn't know everything sweetheart, maybe we can stop by the library on the way home and get a book about it.

"Let's go to the library right now!"

We've passed it and we're late for our appointment, so we'll go after.

"TURN AROUND AND GO TO THE LIBRARY NOW!!!!"

Do you want a swat on your bottom?

I digress.

So, we left the car and attempted to walk the boys across the street to play at the playground. We didn't get 10 feet before they began fighting in the stroller. This resulted in time-outs in the parking lot, an embarrassing 45 minute melt-down amidst the new RAV4s and FJ Cruisers, and spankings. It was ugly ladies and gentlemen.

When we finally left with our new catalytic converter, we did indeed stop by the library.

I spent 30 minutes trying to find a book to explain how a catalytic converter works. To no avail.

"Mom please!! You have to find a book about calykit verters!"

So we settled for a book on how cars work that just didn't have enough detail, a manual for building your own car from the adult non-fiction section and a promise to search it out online. So, for anyone who is wondering, here are the basics of the catalytic converter.

So now, if someone could just invent a "cataclysmic converter" that would take a toxic tantrum and reduce it's hazardous effects on the surroundings I'd be very grateful.

Meeting of the Prophets

I try and avoid fast food joints. An occasional exception these days is Chik-fil-a. It took some time to get over the emotional damage caused by the temp job over a decade ago wherein I accosted people at Chik-fil-a franchises and surveyed them.

I decided to allow this exception due to the family-friendliness of the establishment, the decency of the fare and the usual cleanliness of the play area. This deviance allows my children to run and play in the midst of my errand running.

Until Friday however, I had not frequented the Chik-fil-a nearest to Fairyland. I realize that Chik-fil-a attracts many Christians for the same reasons I listed above. What I realized on Friday however is that only in the heart of the Bible Belt can a devout Mormon suddenly feel not quite religious enough.

The restaurant was packed that day with many women in long skirts. My sons were enjoying scampering about on the play area with be a large number of other children--almost exclusively boys--many of whom were sporting T-shirts with Biblical references. Well, time came for the bulk of them to leave and as their various mothers stepped into the play area to call them away, I began to notice a pattern: "Joshua, Aaron, Enoch, time to go!!" and then "Eli, Ben, Abe" . . . At this point I began to write them down just to test my theory. Here is the list--for real, every last one of them was in the restaurant that day: Jacob, Isaac, Enoch, Daniel, Nathan, Aaron, Joshua, Jacob, Eli, Jonathan, Luke, Adam, Ben and Abe.

At this point I was feeling a bit sheepish as I called to my son Elliot. (I considered temporarily calling Elias). In my defense, part of the reason I chose Elliot is that the Hebrew is "My God is the Lord", and Ethan is also in the Bible, but they aint no Enoch (in fairness, I looked Elliot up and it is derived from Elijah, so there).

I certainly have no problem with the idea of naming your children biblical names and giving them something to live up to (though Enoch and Eli are pretty hefty role models), and having grown up in Utah, I know about wearing your religion on your sleeve (maybe that's why I no longer live in Utah). But I tell ya, sometimes in this place, I just feel I don't quite measure up.

I think I'll name my next son "Moses".

"Amidala" for a girl.

Hooters Air

I was surprised to learn some time ago that there is indeed a Hooters airline. My first question was what self-respecting individual would fly Hooters? My question now is who needs to fly Hooters when they can fly Delta in October?

Last week flew with my two small children across the country to visit Grandma. The flight out was unexpectedly smooth. The return flight was anything but. I’ll leave out the gory tales of tantrums, security lines, delayed flights, lost luggage, and many diapers and diarrhea and focus instead on the final leg of the journey.

I was near tears after missing a connection due to a significantly delayed and very long and trying flight when a gracious gate attendant got me and my boys onto a flight a mere two gates down that was already in the process of boarding. And, we had a whole row to ourselves to boot. I gratefully boarded and was bombarded by three very spirited flight attendants dressed in pink of all forms. I was soon to discover the reason why.

The PA system was functioning all too well that evening. I began to wonder if these ladies had had one too many before boarding. The evening’s entertainment began with the announcement that October is of course, Breast Cancer Awareness month and they giggled and mumbled something about the unfortunate lack of male flight attendants who were to miss out on something termed “the male mammogram”. I started to suspect there was good reason all the male attendants had requested another flight.

Next we were submitted to a loud and long plea to donate money to the cause. This plea somehow involved purchasing copious amounts of pink lemonade and vodka. Something tells me they had already sampled the vodka. This was followed by several announcements confirming the exact web address of the breast cancer awareness site (savethetatas.com – seriously, I looked it up).

I don’t consider myself a prude and am up for some humor on my flight, but I was traveling with small children, one of which is not too young to ask “mommy, what are “Ta Tas”? I didn’t really want to add that word to his vocabulary this evening, so I was a bit annoyed. Fortunately, he didn’t pick up on the term.

Of course, this was only the beginning and it was bound to be a long flight.

Oh yes, there was happy chatter all evening on that blasted PA, the final straw however, came as we were taxing to the gate and she got on to make one last plea for money (I think people were paying her to just stop talking at that point).

And she said (I am not making this up):

“It is a fact that most breast lumps are discovered in wives by their husbands. So, I won’t say anything more except go home and fondle your wives tonight.”

Mommy, what does fondle mean?

What happened to “Welcome to Atlanta, local time is 7:45 pm, we hope you enjoyed your flight”?

“GO HOME AND FONDLE YOUR WIVES”!?!? Ladies, please, there are children present. I’m not one to try and get anybody fired, but I’ll certainly check out all the options before flying Delta again, especially in October.

Dirty

I was making Ethan a sandwich and asked him "Ham or Turkey?" and he gave me that four-year-old inquisitive look and asked "Mom, what's Hammer Turkey?" I believe he was rather excited at the possibility of eating something involving a hammer.

On a similar thread, we've been watching a video of Discovery Channel's "Dirty Jobs with Mike Rowe" that I picked up at the library. Ethan, forever fascinated by how things work, is enthralled. So much so that tonight as the missionaries were leaving after dinner he says "Mom, can I watch that dirty movie again before I go to bed?"

Cross Country

I'd been complaining to my husband that what I really needed was about 3 days without my boys. Then I could return completely refreshed and appreciative of their enthusiasm for life. In my dreams right?

Then, my employer announced that this year's annual staff meeting would be held in Seattle. This is a semi-fun little jaunt I've attended a few times--Las Vegas, Houston, Rhode Island. This year would take me back to a place I called home for a good decade. So, I pondered taking the family--a free trip for me, why not bring the kids, say hello to friends. Then the logistics and cost became daunting and my husband reminded me that I'd been clamoring for 3 days off.

So, on September 11th I flew across the country (you can't get much farther in the US from Fairyland than Seattle). After a ground hold, flight delay, missed connector, mixed up rental car, an overbooked hotel and a black cat, I crawled into bed at midnight Seattle time, 3am Fairyland time.

I have to say that despite the hassles, I thoroughly enjoyed remembering what it was like to travel without children. I sat with my small bag, reading a book, snacking on a muffin from the refreshment stand. There was no stroller, diaper bag, infant seat, screaming or whining anywhere (except for the fellow passengers whining about the delay).

In addition to my full-time job as a mother, I'm fortunate enough to have a part-time job I can do from my home. There are many advantages to this arrangement. One drawback I realized is that I rarely get a break. I think this is one of the things that draws moms and dads to working away from home. There is something relaxing even about working, about going somewhere or accomplishing something without little people at your side.

I was glad I didn't bring them. Not just because I was reminded of the simple peaceful life that I could have without them, but perhaps, even more so, because I was reminded of the joy that life is with them.

HO WAITING

Since I married -- just completed 7 years! -- I've had to accustom myself to various aspects of married life. One of which is my married name. It begins with the letters Ho. This is most unfortunate at a pharmacy where they print the first two letters of your name on your prescription: "HO".

However, recently the problem has become much more serious. I brought in a prescription to be filled and indicated I would like to wait for it rather than return. When I got home, I noticed the heading now read "HO WAITING".

I'm not quite sure how I feel about that.

Crack

I may have mentioned that creepy crawlies seem to give me the creeps. I also may have mentioned that we've been occasionally finding unwanted little friends in our home here in FairyLand. We've been unsure just how they've been getting in, though I have seen one slither right on in the front door as I opened it.

No, please, after you . . .

We have noticed that our cat likes to hang out by the fireplace, staring at the little crack between the brick and the built in bookcase. I've noticed that during the day, light squeezes in through that crack. I figured she was hoping to escape and noted it on my to-do list.

"Request maintenance fill crack"

Apparently it was not high enough on the list.

My husband noted one evening that the cat had been staring at the crack for some time. Since it was dark out, I deduced she must not be staring at the light. I've been called "sharp as a tack."

He got a flashlight and shined it into the aforementioned crack.

Snakes in a Crack. I think a movie is in order.

Mild mayhem ensued as we considered our options. Maintenance had gone home for the evening. Neither I nor my husband was about to try to extract the snakes from the crack and I certainly wasn't going to go to bed with live snakes in my house.

I considered spraying hornet spray at them. I considered waking Ethan and asking him to take care of it.

We decided to call FairyLand's resident naturalist. Known as "Mama Kelly" to the locals, she is known for her near-nutty love of critters. She would sooner slice her own fingers off than harm an innocent creature. Mama Kelly arrived with two lovely assistants. We showed her to the crack. We could count at least two snakes, but likely more. We can suppose these are the parents of the smaller snakes we've discovered in the house.

It was a grueling 90 minute operation involving a fly-swatter, a broken yardstick and a cereal box. Daisy, attempting to pounce every time Mama got near to coaxing a snake out, had to be restrained.

I also learned something new. When scared or angry, these snakes, which have no venom, "musk" or release a nasty smelling substance to discourage predation. As Mama Kelly put it "would you want to eat something that smelled like un-wiped butt?"

In the end, success. Three snakes were removed alive, unharmed, and taken in a cereal box to an undisclosed location and released.

I've decided that Daisy has earned her keep. I can put up with the cat hair and litter box duty knowing that it was her that single paw-edly kept the snakes in their crack and alerted us to their presence.

I've also decided it is time to invite Mama Kelly and her lovely assistants to a nice (vegetarian) dinner.

Needless to say "request maintenance fill crack" moved to the top of the to-do list. I think the actual request I submitted read something like this: "Snakes living in and entering through crack. Please fill--IMMEDIATELY.

Squeamish

My recent discovery: FairyLand teeming with life of the non-fairy variety.

The squealing that began yesterday with my successful fishing venture has hardly ceased today. This morning my son pointed out the little dead snake lying pathetically on the carpet. With several squirms, squeals and dropping of said snake, I managed to toss it outside. Now mind you, this snake was all of 2 inches in length and perhaps 2 millimeters in breadth.

The squealing continued as Ethan and I put our noses to the test in order to pinpoint the source of the strange odor that has been crescendoing in our kitchen over the the past couple of days. As I cleaned and sniffed and sniffed and cleaned every part in and near the stove I suddenly got a whiff from the little crack between the countertop and stovetop. I yanked the stove away from the wall only to glimpse the back end of a dead mouse sticking unceremoniously out from under the rear of the range.

Much squealing ensued.

Followed by repeat phone calls to my husband's voice mail.

More squealing and the lighting of a strongly scented candle.

I was standing near a chair in the living room, once again calling my husband when I felt something flutter over my foot. I shuddered--silly me, I'm just a bit jumpy after the rodent incident. I looked down and saw another snake, this one very alive, sliding over my bare foot.

Much more squealing as I managed to corral the thing into the dustpan (it was all of about 4 inches long) and toss it outside.

I called my parents for comfort and was told that perhaps I should try and accustom myself to such things considering I live in FairyLand.

My husband made it home in time to remove the dead, stinky, maggot-ridden rodent from the kitchen, leaving me to squeal some more as I cleaned up the remains.

I'm glad I have cats.

Fishy

I did not realize it, but I am a girly-girl. I never thought I’d admit to such a thing. My tomboyhood is a source of pride. Growing up with four brothers makes me feel strong and provides me with a general disdain of anything overtly girly. Yet, when I took my son fishing today, my inner girl appeared. Ethan tried and tried to rip that squirming worm in half but his four-year-old fingers were just not up to the task. “Mom please?”. I squealed and dropped the thing repeatedly, looking the other way as I tore the poor little bugger clean in two. Then, as if that wasn’t enough, I splayed the critter on a hook—multiple times.

I’ve accompanied my child fishing on his only two previous excursions. Fortunately, he didn’t catch anything. More fortunately, both times there was a grown man on hand to handle the fish just in case. So I figured today would be no different.

After a few casts as I skewered another worm for him I thought what the heck, why don’t I give it a try and I cast it into the water. I began to reel it in when suddenly something yanked back. Oh no. As I was reeling in the harmless little fish I had a sudden thought: Who’s going to remove the poor thing from my hook? I considered my possibilities—Ethan? Elliot? I wondered if perhaps I just dropped it back into the water would it just somehow remove the hook and swim away? Then I saw that the thing was pierced deep into it’s open mouth and it’s eyes were panic stricken.

Oh heavens, it’s me and this fish.

So, I waited for it to stop flopping so violently. Grabbed a hold, closed my eyes and pulled out the hook. I squealed repeatedly and threw it back in the lake. I was ready to go home, but Ethan now really wanted to catch one. So, a few worms later I faced the same problem with an unsuspecting little fishy Ethan managed to reel in. There was perhaps a bit less girlish squealing involved the second time around, but not much. I’m beginning to think it’s time for my own fishing show.

Guns & Hogs

I was recently asked if there is a place to shoot guns here in Fairyland--the inquisitor indicating that the presence of a shooting range would make Fairyland the ultimate Utopia. Here I am in Utopia. I'm not sure how I feel about using that as a selling point about the place. What concerns me about our firing range is not the loudness--we're far enough away that I can pretend I'm hearing distant fireworks and I'm reasonably sure my children won't wander into range. What concerns me somewhat is perhaps the motivation of those utilizing the range. One instructor told a group that they didn't have to stick with the oh-so-boring standard targets, but could get creative and create targets on butcher paper. Later it was discovered the group took the advice to heart and had created detailed pictures of smiling people, which I have to assume were somehow related to real-life individuals, at which to shoot. This is disconcerting to me.

And still dear friends, this is not what ruins my Utopia for me. It is ruined by hogs. Yes, hogs. We live near the main road into FairyLand. At the end of this road sits a lovely chapel with an astonishing view. Many people venture to FairyLand solely to glimpse this view. Many others it seems venture to FairyLand to be heard on their way to glimpse this view. They drive very loud motorcycles. I'm told they're called hogs. I've seen hogs at the fair. They smell about as bad as the motorcycle version, but they are certainly less foul. The noise pollution of the mechanical type is certainly much more obscene than the rumbly grunting at the fair.
These hogs can awaken a sleeping child from a mile away.

I am much less disturbed by the occasional weirdo with a gun then the apparently very pervasive complete disregard for the disturbance of the peace. Why? Well, the weirdos with guns seem to be few and far between whereas the hog-riders are legion and I'm confronted with them daily. I can almost accept this on a crowded, already noisy highway, but to drag the stinky, loud, ugly thing up a serene mountain to a place of peace and beauty, cutting through the sound of birds and water as if everyone there had just been sitting around thinking "it's much too quiet up here." I find this intolerable and apparently waste much emotion on the subject when the offenders are and likely will remain oblivious.

I'm hoping at least to ingrain this feeling into my child by way of his general manners training: "Mommy, dat mocycle is 'bnoxious, dey aren't being polite or safe."

Since my father-in-law has decided that for his mid-life crisis he would purchase a hog and ride it around with my mother-in-law, I have had the additional task of explaining to my child (along with explaining to him that he will never, while he is a minor, nor has any sense in his head, be allowed to ride said hog)--that hog-riding is not a mark of grandparenthood. As we discuss the fact that one day he will be a daddy and I will be a grandma, and no, daddy will not be riding a motorcycle when he is a grandpa.

Mythology

I think home-ownership is overrated. When we moved to FairyLand we sold our home and entered a blissful mortgage-free existence called a Housing and food employment benefit. My father-in-law has expressed some serious concern for our future financial well-being. I was concerned briefly. Then I did the math.

We have owned two homes in our married life. The first we sold after 4 years and earned in interest almost exactly the amount we paid in interest and principal in those 4 years. And that was a very good market. Our second home lost us money if you consider the amount of money paid into it over the years against the amount we pulled out of it.

Now, I understand the argument for owning versus renting (though, there is something to be said about maintenance-free living) but I see no benefit in making a monthly mortgage payment and then, somewhere down the road, maybe getting some or all of that payment back over just plain not paying a dime to live. Not to mention living maintenance free. If I'm doing my math incorrectly (wouldn't be the first time), please correct me. For now, I'll live happily debt-free in FairyLand.

One Please.

Last evening I told my husband that I would like to attend a Tai Chi class being given at our church. I said I needed some quiet time, some me time. He agreed to put the kids to bed and I left.

The nice lady giving the class looked like the last person you'd expect as your Tai Chi instructor so I thought I just might have to chalk it up to a nice time where I don't learn much. Boy, I was wrong. She was certified in Tai Chi for arthritis. I don't have arthritis, but I've inherited my family's bad knees and this modified Tai Chi was just what they needed--all the benefit of Tai Chi without the squat-induced knee stress.

I left the class vowing to repeat daily and pursue more Tai Chi in my life. As I sat in the parking lot, I called my kind husband to see if Ethan was refusing to sleep until I got home, or if I could safely stop at the grocery store. He assured me all was well and I should go do whatever I wanted, stay out as late as I wanted to.

"Seriously?"

"Yeah."

"Really?"

"Just let me know when to expect you home."

I know this sounds like a conversation I should have had as a teenager with my father, and in fact, I felt like a teenager with an extended curfew.

I don't know about the rest of you, but small children are a much more powerful behavioral influence and curfew control than any parental lecture could ever be. Even in the rare evening I get a sitter, I'm always concerned about the sitter's time, my money and the behavior of my children. I'm worried about getting home later than I said I would and so on and so forth, so I rarely feel really relaxed, even if I get out.

The one exception to this is when my husband can clear his evening and is willing to be a single dad for a night. I doubt he realizes just how much this means to me. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy going out with my husband, but the coordination effort involved usually renders the evening less enjoyable than it could have been. So, I really really enjoy going out with myself.

So, I quickly decided to go see a movie!!

A co-worker of mine once describe solo movie-going as some horribly shameful event. I love going to movies by myself. As long as I can remember, this has been one of my favorite past-times. Movies, plays, restaurants, cemeteries, long walks, you name it. I thoroughly enjoy being alone. I enjoy thinking. I enjoy quiet. I realize that is surprising considering how much I talk.

I cannot sit and watch a movie at home. I am compelled to fold laundry, do dishes, blog, whatever. But, a movie in the theater is a rare treat.

Thank you 1-800-555-1212 and Fandango. FairyLand, though beautiful, is far from civilization. My Tai Chi class was already a 30 minute drive. As I discovered, a movie was another 30. I did the math, phoned my husband to say I'd be home around 1am and stopped by the grocery store. I threw in a cream soda and a package of fig newtons and headed to the theater.

I pulled up in my minivan at 9:30 pm on a Tuesday, stuffed my sometime diaper bag, sometime purse with my goodies, walked myself in my mismatched, FairlyLand dusty, South-sweaty, Tai Chi-ed in sweats up to the window.

One please.

The theater was empty. Is there a movie if no one is there to see it?

I sat down and immediately the lights dimmed. I think they were waiting for me.

I put my feet up, pulled out my contraband goodies and laughed out loud in the dark.

My hour drive back to FairyLand was itself refreshing. When I turn up the stereo, roll down the windows and push it 9 over the speed limit, I almost forget I'm driving a minivan.

Life in the slow lane

I'm not overly fond of fast. I don't like fast cars. I vehemently detest motorcycles. I dislike most fast food (I have a soft spot for Taco Bell, I will admit). We moved to FairyLand in part to slow down life just a bit. I'm certainly not "into" technology either. This whole blogging thing came about a bit reluctantly. I don't generally desire the latest phone, computer, camera, gadget, gizmo or whatever. I don't feel a need for most fancy conveniences in automobiles--I'll admit I am fond of the leather seats in my new (used) minivan. I would be happy without power windows. I am however, a fan of efficiency. As such, I am fond of high-speed internet. Dial-up served me well for years. And then I started working from home. Logging into my company's virtual desktop system with any kind of efficiency requires high-speed internet.

I have a wonderful aunt. She's a first grade teacher who knows just how to say the most hilarious things at the perfect moment. Years ago we were sitting with extended family talking about the switch to high-speed. Straight-faced she says "I got so tired of trying to watch porn with dial up: head, head, head, neck, neck, neck, shoulder . . . " I fell off my chair laughing.

Like most things, you don't really know what you're missing, but once you get it, going backwards is difficult. So, a few years ago we opted for high-speed (the slowest high-speed option of course). Then, before we moved to FairyLand, one of the stipulations in our job search was the availability of high-speed internet. My husband flew out for the job interview and while he returned with bad news on the DSL front, he assured me we could get satellite internet anywhere.

That's pretty much what the satellite companies assured me of as well . . . until I'd purchased the fancy equipment and the guy with the soupy thick southern drawl showed up with a fancy little instrument to measure the angle to the satellite. The nice man spent an hour walking around our new home, pointing his thingy at the sky and shaking his head.

"Too many trees."

Itn't that the appeal of FairyLand?

"What are my options?"

"Cut 'em all down."

Great.

"So, how much does it cost to have you drive 2 hours out here to spend an hour telling me it's not possible?"

"$200"

Great.

So, I cried. My furniture hadn't arrived yet. I had 3 boxes of useless satellite equipment in my living room and was sure I would not be employed much longer. We'd just sold most of our possessions, moved a couple thousand miles across the country and it was a little late for my husband to turn down the job offer. So, I cried some more.

Then my husband discovered "high-speed dial up."

What?

Yep.

But, it has made it possible for me to remain employed the past 6 months--painfully. And now, hold your breath everyone . . . .

High-speed is coming to FairyLand!!!

It sounds too good to be true, so I'm trying not to get too excited. Turns out I'm not the only one desiring a bit of speed in the slow lane. And so, through a series of receivers and re-routers and other technology that I don't understand, I have been informed that I can sign up for high-speed satellite internet!!!

I just don't know what I'll do with all that time I'm not spending waiting for a page to load. Maybe I'll view the pictures people post--not just the top third. Maybe I'll be able to open all those silly forwards my brothers send. Maybe I'll download conference! Maybe we'll set up the video camera thingy and talk to grandma. The possibilities are endless.

Water Falling

Shortly after we moved to FairyLand, I met a woman who was visiting and reminiscing fondly about her time here as a youngster. Then she suddenly stopped, looked me in the eye and told me that if anyone suggests I take a nice hike down to a famed local waterfall , don't go. They will tell you it's a short hike down to a lovely spot, but it's more like twelve miles of sheer hell. Now, I logged her comment into my head, along with the fact that they take large groups of kids to this waterfall on a regular basis. I also logged into my brain the day they had to pack out one of those kids for stitches. And then, my husband took the plunge. He came back red-faced, panting, and telling me that I might not want to hike it. I continued to log all these things into my head. You see, going was not really an option currently anyway. I have a toddler that I wouldn't dare pack down there anyway.

Then a friend offered to take my 4-year-old. This friend, mind you, is built like an ox--he packed out the girl with the split knee. He also works for my husband and swore he wouldn't let anything happen to our child. I figured if anyone could be trusted to get my child down and back safely, it was him. So they went. They apparently had a lovely time. Now I'm thinking that if my 4-year-old can manage, perhaps it isn't really twelve miles of hell.

Then, the Ox offers again to take my son and have a picnic. He also offers to pack down my toddler and bring me along too. This was not in the plan. I was safely excused by virtue of my toddler. Don't get me wrong, I'm not afraid of a challenge, just pain. I'm afraid of falling, of breaking and maiming my person. I'm also a good 75 pounds overweight. But, I like to tell myself, for a fat person, I'm in pretty good shape. So, the part of me that likes a challenge began to tempt me.

What the heck. The Ox could more than likely see me down and back safely. I wasn't prepared to have him pack in the toddler yet. So, I found a sitter and the three of us hiked ourselves on down to picnic at the falls.

The first leg wasn't bad at all. Then, suddenly, the trail disappeared. I mean literally, you're hiking along and then you come to a cliff. "Where's the trail?" I asked. Pointing downward the Ox said "Right there." Now, if this had been just me, I would have chalked this one up to self-preservation and turned right back around. But, my child was there, and our friend who'd made us lunch and they were already halfway down the rock-face. So, I followed. As we descended farther and farther down--scaling rock face and scrambling down tree roots clinging to the cliff-side, I tried not to think about the hike back up.

Then, it happened. Gravity got the best of me, and somehow, I ended up flat on my back on a sharp rock. I heard a crack. Fortunately, it was just my camera. I sat up, took note of a scrape on my elbow and a bit of a throbbing on my back and then stood up. Again, had it just been me, I very well may have called it good and went home. But, something called me forward. We'd been hiking on this 30 minute hike for a good 45 at this point and I thought I could smell the falls. So, I went on.

Ten minutes later, we emerged under the falls. It was breathtaking, really. Then, suddenly I realized we weren't stopping. "Where exactly are we going?" I asked. I was informed that we still had to climb up to a large rock at the bottom of the falls.

There are many waterfalls here in FairyLand. I've visited a few of the public ones and there are always large signs telling you just how many people died last year at waterfalls. These numbers began to run through my head. But, I scrambled up the rock after my child.

Ethan and the Ox took their shoes off and traipsed through the pools at the foot of the falls. I jockeyed the zoom of my camera back into place and took a couple of pictures before the battery died (aren't I glad I brought it). We scrambled back down to another large rock for our picnic and watched our friend climb down the stream-bed rocks barefooted to join us. All the time I was thinking of just what we should do if he managed to fall and break or maim something. Did I mention I have a heightened sense of self-preservation?

We had a lovely little picnic. Then, as I laid on the rock, Ethan and the Ox climbed back up and tossed rocks down the stream. I couldn't watch. Every toss made me wince as I imagined Ethan going over the edge and the number of mortally wounded on the posters rise. I was very glad I'd decided to leave Elliot home.

Then, we packed up and headed out. Ethan chattered the whole way. Fortunately he also had to stop every few feet to check out a hole in the rock, take a drink or have a break. So, with all the resting, I felt positively capable most of the way back up. Then, the climb and the heat and humidity began to set in. By the time we reached the top, I was red-faced and panting.

But, I did it. It really wasn't terribly difficult. It was absolutely lovely. And nobody died.

The Ox and the Sheep

The quiet spot has been a bit of a bust. In the heat of the rage, it's hard to convince a 4-year-old to head out to his place of peace. I even tried locking him out once. That didn't work. What has worked? Bribery. Pure, shameless bribery. Someone once described bribery of children as paying them for doing their job. Well, if that makes us feel better about it. I look at bribery as short-term. Right now, I pay Ethan one dollar for every 10 dried beans he can put in his bean jar. How does he earn beans for his bean jar? By not throwing fits, hitting me, screaming at me and all other such nonsense. I used to offer to pay him for extra chores. I've decided that extra chores will come later and now take a back seat to communication without screaming, insults or physical abuse. My theory is that with time, he will learn to control his anger and the bribery will fall by the wayside. We'll see.

So far, it's working rather well. I'd say that perhaps 50% of the time, if I catch him in that moment before he completely loses it, he'll opt for the bean over the fit. And the best part about it is that he has been using his money to buy back from me the toys I confiscated during his last giant rage. We'll see how long that lasts.

Tonight we ate at a Chinese restaurant. My husband pointed out after reading our place-mats that while he (Snake) and I (Ox) are zodiac-ally compatible (considering we're 7 years into this deal, I'd hate to have discovered otherwise), the last line of the Ox's description says "Will have difficulty with Sheep (Ethan)." I did a bit more research into the Chinese Zodiac and also discovered that the Sheep "needs plenty of time alone in which to feed its Muse". Hmmm . . . back to the quiet spot perhaps?

The Wizard

Dear Dr. Oz,

I love watching you get excited about gory entrails and such. I love your sincerity and directness. I believed what you told that woman about soaking her stinky feet in tea. I listened to her testimonial and that of her roommate. I believed it so much that I took my Mormon self to the store and bought some "bad tea", explaining to my son in the grocery store that while it is against our religion to drink it, it is okay to soak one's feet in it. For the good of our entire little household. I believed it so much I have steeped a vat of tea almost nightly, in which my husband dutifully soaks his feet. I'm not yet prepared to bear testimony. His feet still stink. Yet, I'm not ready to stop making him tea. It's only been a few nights.

Please Dr. Oz, do not let your shining star fall from Oprah's galaxy. Her last doctoral liaison has come to such great disappointment. I was so excited to watch Dr. Phil jump to his own show. I watched episode after episode with so much enthusiasm. I found myself talking to him and all the strange people who chose to air their dirty laundry on that neutral-hued stage. It was many months before I realized that he'd become Jerry Springer. The calming decor and the gentle twang fooled me. Once bitten, twice shy Dr. Oz. Please, do not disappoint me.

Oh, and please don't be wrong about the tea.

Like mother . . .

My son is four years old. He is a delightful, intelligent and exuberant child. He also tries my patience to the utmost on a rather regular basis. He spent the better part of this afternoon yelling at me from my bedroom where he had been exiled in an endless and unfair timeout by a "mean" mom.

My husband and I regularly discuss how best to handle this strong-willed child. At the end of days like today, I have to remind myself that my grandmother always said that strong-willed children make wonderful adults. I am also reminded that these are precisely the characteristics which, if channeled and honed correctly, will safely carry him through the perils of peer pressure into adulthood ("hey Ethan, wanna do drugs?" "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!! YOU'RE MEAN! YOU'RE STUPID!")

In today's conversation with my husband, he gently reminded me that Ethan is much like me in this area. I seem to remember my mother telling me of the days she would say to my father "I give up, her will is stronger than mine"--I think I've said that myself recently. Oh, and the time I was sent to my room by my ultra-patient mother, after which I posted a sign on my door that read "Mom is stupid!" Then, my brilliant father promptly revoked my door privileges by removing my door from it's hinges and storing it in the garage for at least a week (I need to have a good sit-down chat with grandpa about how to come up with such appropriate consequences).

Then, as my anger cooled, I began to think about the things which make me angry. The things which make me desire to be contrary, if only for the sake of being contrary. And the ways in which I have learned to cope with this generous helping of spit-fire in my life.

Then I left my husband with the boys, and made a late-night grocery run. I thought some more. I remember living in Florida and being angry at myself and at God. I rode my bike to the beach to walk in the moonlight and shout. I remember being calmed. I remember being angry at my brother and driving to a quiet spot where I could sit under a tree and think. I remember being angry at my husband when we were engaged, and running off to a deserted beach to walk and let the wind drive out my anger. I found a rock that was not perfectly shaped or colored, but it was beautiful. The very flaws and irregularities made it more so. I brought it home with me. I remember the last day I had like this--a couple of weeks ago here in FairyLand. I hiked down to the falls and sat and listened. I remember that I've always sought out solitude and nature at my most trying moments.

I've decided that I will help Ethan create his own quiet spot or secret garden where he can escape when all the expectations of good behavior seem just too much to bear. Here he can shout and scream, cry and sit. It will be his little piece of FairyLand.

Whiners Unite!

We moved to Fairyland for my husband’s job. He works with children. He in fact manages staff that work with children. Much of his staff is not much more than children themselves—and they act like it. At the risk of sounding old and out of touch (“ Back in my day . .“), I have to say that the rising generation of young adults are a big bunch of whiners. Perhaps this is just the vocal minority (we can only hope), but I am appalled at their careless, excuse-ridden behavior as employees, and as role models to children. Granted, I don’t get much detail. My husband is terribly professionally tight-lipped about these things, but since we live here, I pick up a bit of what’s going on. And I have to say that a portion of his young staff are worse than my 4-year-old when it comes to whining and temper tantrums. Somehow I don’t recall anywhere in my employment history (“Back in my day . . .”) where I felt I was in any position to whine to my employer about the basic rules to which I was asked to adhere. Sure, you might not like it, but suck it up or find another job! Now, I’m not talking about accepting unsafe or ethically improper practices in the workplace. In fact, I’m talking about rules that are designed precisely to protect employee and client safety, or to enforce ethics.

Let me provide a couple of examples. No flip-flops are allowed in the workplace for obvious safety reasons. “The flip-flop rule is stupid!” “Let’s have a flip-flop protest day.” Yeah. I’m thinking the Great Flip-Flop Protest will go down in the annals of history next to the great strides made by the union movement in protecting the rights of workers everywhere.

And how about this one folks—today’s big shake-up: drug testing. I’m no lawyer, but as far as I understand it, illegal drugs are still illegal—even the drugs that you think shouldn’t be illegal. They are still illegal. I also understand that your employer has the right to expect you to be a law-abiding citizen and that you can lose your job for breaking laws even on time-off. Particularly if you have signed a waiver agreeing to all this—I don’t know, maybe the up and coming generation really can’t read. Which, of course, is entirely not their fault. My second example follows.

Every person hired here in fairyland is required to sign a drug testing form which states (I’m paraphrasing) that they are not allowed to use illegal drugs during their term of employment and that random drug tests can and will occur throughout this term as well. They have the right to refuse to take the test, but such refusal will result in termination of employment. I may just be old-fashioned, but generally when I sign something, I read it and only sign it if I agree with the terms.

Back to my example “but, you should have given us warning.” “This isn’t fair.” And so forth. What part of “you are not allowed to use illegal drugs during your term of employment and we will test you or you will lose your job” is not fair warning? What a bunch of whiners. And, to top it off, some of the leadership staff is whining about the unfairness of all this and how these bozos are some of the best staff. Boy, if this is the cream of the crop, I’d hate to see the whey—maybe the rest of them do drugs in front of the kids they’re supervising, not just on their time off.

Oh, and what about "if they have it all out of their system and are able to function and do their jobs when they're on duty, what's the problem?" What's the problem?!!? As a mother, if I entrust you with the care of my child (as an employee of an organization that boasts in it's mission building healthy minds and bodies nonetheless), I expect you to expect my child to follow the rules. I therefore expect you to MODEL ADHERENCE TO RULES be they big or small or whether or not you agree with them. Regardless of whether my child ever discovers what specifically you do or do not do in your time off, they will get the message loud and clear, somehow, some way, that you do not believe that rules are worth following. Therefore I DO NOT WANT THE CARE OF MY CHILDREN ENTRUSTED TO THE LIKES OF YOU!

So, the result of all this is that, rather than submitting to the testing, most of them decided to up and quit on the spot, dropping their responsibilities and supposed commitment to the children like a hot potato (“good riddance to bad rubbish” as the saying goes). Doesn’t that just speak volumes about character and commitment? (and no, you can't win for losing . . . )

And oh, the victim and martyr performances were astounding (listen, is that Les Miserables in the background? . . . Do you hear the people sing? Singing the songs of angry men). As if it’s someone else’s fault that they do drugs and as such are being forced to quit a job that expects them not to do drugs (It is the music of a people who will not be slaves again). And then, in a true act of solidarity (Will you join in our crusade? Will you be strong and stand with me?) Several of their friends quit too (boy, that’ll show ‘em, way to take one for the team, nothin’ like chaining yourself to a sinking ship). As if somehow, like a big kum-ba-ya sit-in we’re gonna force those big, mean, drug-free, child-safe workplace enforcers in their close-toed shoes to shut up and listen for a change. (When the beating of your heart . . .). “We’re not going to take it! It’s a free country for heaven’s sake and we can use all the drugs we want and still be morally fit to care for children. (Echoes the beating of a drum . . .) We can nurture the rising generation! We can show them that they too have the right to make stupid decisions that may drastically affect their future for worse. WE ARE TODAY’S ROLE MODELS! WE ARE TOMORROW’S HEROES!!” (There is a life about to start, when tomorrow comes!) Quit your whining already will ya?

One leadership staff member was heard to say “you should have anticipated this.” Anticipated what? That in one fell swoop, many of the offenders up and took themselves out of their positions of responsibility? I would have to say that immediately removing themselves from the influence of children is perhaps the single most responsible act they have performed since employment. It seems to me that the drug testing was far more effective than anyone could have hoped for—and no one even had to pay for the test!

Then, as the quitters drove off site with tears in their eyes and big frowns on their faces, honking their horns (that’ll show us), didn’t it just make the big meanies all feel so bad; as if this is all somehow everyone else’s fault. There was a time (back in my day . . . ) when people were taught to take responsibility for their actions—even their misdeeds. And that consequences dolled out were received penitently, the offender, having learned something very important, likely commits themselves to changing their behavior and making a better future for themselves. That is when, as they part, one feels a sense of sympathy for them, and hope for a better future. This however, makes you just want to shake your head and mumble to no-one in particular (because they certainly aren’t listening) “quit your whining already.”

McMussels

My son loves mussels. My son is four years old. I find this to be very cute. I also find it unfortunate that mussels are not on the kiddie menu. They generally reside on the appetizer menu, which isn't as bad as the main course. I also find it cute, if a bit disconcerting with regards to their college funds, that my one-year-old seems to like to share his brother's mussels.

The last restaurant we went to, Ethan ordered the mussels and then we watched all the wait-staff pass by pointing and giggling as he practically stood on his chair with his little mussel fork, digging out the goods.

Many adults to whom I've told this story have told me that they won't eat mussels themselves--they look gross. So, why is it therefore so difficult to believe that a small child loves them? Case in point--I don't like McDonalds food. I think it looks gross. But my child and many others seem to love it. Or at least my child loves the interactiveness of the whole McDonalds experience (the little packages, the dipping, the playground). It would therefore stand to reason that mussels are a perfect kid-food. They are unique, highly interactive (little shells, sharp tool used for extracting the protein-nugget from it's packaging) and messy--especially if you're 4.

Oh Brother Brigham

As I sat down this evening to write the primary sacrament meeting program, I was reminded of an experience a few years ago, of being asked to write the ward Road Show. We met one evening to get the scoop and have the theme unveiled. There was a heady sense of excitement in the air as a roomful of rather reluctant, relatively creative types gathered together.

After the obligatory mormon meeting moments (prayers, introductions, much expression of gratitude and faith), it was time. And the them is . . . . "Church History . . . LIVE!"

What?--

No, you read correctly: Church History. Live!

I don't know about you mormons out there, but my experience with road shows has been that of taking a rather silly theme, putting it to silly music and silly language, wrapping it up in some feel good, generally gospel based ideal, and a good time is had by all.

I began wracking my brain for anything very silly about church history . . . the cricket plague? nah, Mountain Meadows Massacre? nope. Martin Handcart Company? nuh-uh. Polygamy? well, now we're getting warm.

Trouble was, we were asked to submit two ideas to the stake president for approval before we began script-writing. So, I boldly submitted "Seven Brides for One Brother" and "Church History--LIVE!" (a series of silly loosely historically based vignettes with musical guest in Saturday Night--LIVE! format). Both were destined to be hilarious--if somewhat controversial. Both were also destined never to be . . . they didn't make it past round 1. ("Have you seen Saturday Night--LIVE!"? I was asked. Surely that's where the theme was taken from . . . but alas.)

Back to the drawing board. In the end, this was a great exercise that forced my creative juices to their utmost limit and I came up with something even better than the original provocative ideas: The Game. Church History ala Jumangi. (Of course, I did NOT mention Jumangi in the proposal--have you seen Jumangi!? Oh, the violence!). Basic plot is this, Dad finds an old dusty boardgame in the garage and decides to play it for FHE. Kids are not so thrilled, and then suddenly the game gets real. Little brother who unfortunately selected the Brigham Young playing piece is chased off stage by a bear (really happened--Church History). Older brother with Joseph's playing piece has to avoid being killed by the mob that appeared at the door after the gold plates appeared in his lap, and so forth. And of course, the crowning glory, the moment when seagulls descend upon the audience demanding crickets from them (ala Finding Nemo--"Mine! Mine! Mine!). It was brilliant!

Someday I'd still like to write Seven Brides for One Brother.

Now back to the primary program . . .

Modernity

My grandmother had this funny dishwasher that she would roll over to the sink every night and plug in to the faucet. Weird. Finally, she remodeled her kitchen and had a real dishwasher built in.

Funny thing is that here I am, 20 years later, in search of a "portable dishwasher" to roll over and plug in to my sink. Did you know that the portable version is generally at least 2 times the cost of its immobile counterpart. Weird.

Portable: Easily carried or conveyed by hand: a portable typewriter.

In Italian the verb "portare" means "to carry". I heard many an American in Italy ask another American in Italy to "port me that chair (or book, or whatever)".

Funny, I never thought of a dishwasher, in any form being "easily carried". Yet, here I am, every night, gratefully porting my dishwasher over to the sink to plug it in to the faucet.

There are many modern conveniences I am happy to do without. When we moved to Fairyland, I'd thought perhaps a washer/dryer and dishwasher in the home were among them. I have since decided they are not. I have a lovely stacking washer/dryer unit sitting in my Everything Room. And a wonderful, if a bit silly, affordable (thanks craigslist),portable dishwasher sitting by the fridge--just waiting for me to port it on over to the sink.

Hanging Out at the Mall - again

For someone who dislikes the mall as much as I do, I unfortunately found myself there again. This time my mission: pictures of my boys. My firstborn son is not known for his cooperative nature. He has been known to enter a photo studio, begin crying at the threshold, and continue until we leave and everyone else is crying.

Since he's gotten a bit older, it has gotten a bit better. A bit. I had high hopes for the baby. He's very photogenic, and somewhat cooperative. He was. But you see, Ethan hit his bad streak at about 1 year old. And now Elliot is one.

Things were going well. Ethan had put on the clothing I'd picked for the photo. Under the heavy weight of multiple bribes he'd been very cooperative and both of them were playing happily in the studio waiting area. Then, it was our turn.

The moment we stepped through the door, the cooperation drained from Ethan's little body. You could just see it. Sensing this, and not willing to be outdone, Elliot began crying. We cajoled, we baited, I threatened. The photographer giggled, and tickled, and earned her pay. I think she snapped the camera all of about 10 times. I had very little hope of anything worthwhile coming from the session.

We returned an hour later to view our prints. I was amazed! She managed to capture the beauty inherent in Ethan's stubbornness. I know that sounds weird, but see for yourself:


He was refusing to cooperate, or even look at the camera, and she snapped this picture anyway.
I liked it so much I bought an 8x10. And how about this one of Elliot:



There were several more and I'll spare you the bombardment of pics of my kids. Suffice it to say that despite a difficult photo trip, I was duly impressed.

Heat

I've lived in various climates in my life. My favorites have been Seattle and England. I seem to thrive at about 65 degrees in the rain. I find myself once again however in a rather hot and humid environment. I've lived in greater heat and humidity, so I cannot complain, but I would like to comment on humidity. I once visited a friend in D.C. in July and we discussed humidity. He seemed to enjoy it. He even described it as a "warm, all over body hug." I closed my eyes and tried and embrace the humidity and welcome it as a warm hug. But all that came to mind was being groped by a strange man on an extremely crowded subway.

So now that I live in it once again, I am trying to resist the urge to stay in bed all day, or stand in front of my little window AC unit. Today I hiked down to the falls again (baby on the back, 4-year-old leading the way) and tried to embrace the sweat beading on my forehead and arms. I have to say, it's getting better (granted, it's not as bad up here in the mountains), and knowing I can swim in the lake later helps. And I've discovered the benefits of a cold late-afternoon shower.

Water

I've been taking the opportunity the past few days, of spending some of the hot afternoon in the lake. Being accustomed to a highly-chlorinated, heated pool, jumping into the cold murky water has taken some adjustment. But, oh, is it nice . . . The interesting thing about lake water is the temperature differentiation. You swim through pockets of rather warm water, and then pockets of very cold water. The lake is fed primarily from underground springs. Whether that affects the temperature variations, or it's just a product of water rising to the surface and falling, I don't know. What I do know is that there is something magical about floating in a spring-fed mountain lake in the summer as I am bombarded by the varying sensations and shrouded by trees. What was at first a bit shocking to the system, now heals my spirit.

The other night, my kind husband could see I needed some me-time, and since he was miraculously home before dark, I took him up on his offer of heading out on my own whilst he was home with the boys. I hiked down to showerbath falls. By myself. In the cool evening. You see, I've done this short hike before, but usually with a child on my back and one traipsing ahead and behind and all around. In the heat of the afternoon. So, I took my time. I stopped at the pools on the way down. I smelled the air. I listened to the water. I sat on the bank of the pool and felt the spray of the falls. I even climbed up behind the water. It cleared my head. And my soul. Did I mention I live in Fairyland?

Last night the thunder began about 9:00. Just in time to wake Ethan from his tenuous state of sleep. I laid by him to calm his thunder-fear. And I listened to the rain fall. Pounding. Cleaning. God bathing the earth.

Poop

There are some things one shouldn't count. Like poop. The other morning it occurred to me that in my present career as a mother, I dealt with poop in four formats before eight o'clock in the morning. I changed a diaper, wiped 4-year-old, scooped the litter box, and well, took care of my own business.

This was just a few weeks after I realized, in the middle of a diaper change, that I have changed many diapers pretty much every day for over four years. I know I've got nothing on my mother (every day I wonder how she managed with five children), but four years of diapers is still rather significant. If you're counting.

Fairlyland

I live in Fairyland. They didn’t mention that in the job description my husband applied for. But, I suppose you can’t blame people who live in Fairyland for not recognizing it. Perhaps they just don’t want the secret to get out.

A few weeks ago I took a walk down a rhododendron shrouded path, late at night. In my pajamas. And they were everywhere—hundreds of ‘em. I mentioned it to someone and they said--"oh, yeah . . . you've never seen that before?" I'm from the west. We have a different variety of fairies out there.

The other day I even encountered Oberon. It was early morning, out near the chapel. He ran right across the road in front of me, stopped, looked at me for a few seconds. I stopped and met his gaze. He may not have looked like himself that day, but I saw him, and he knows.

I even ran into Puck yesterday. Scared me. I squealed. He popped right out of the trash compactor--I wasn't expecting that--winked at me and scampered off.

I'm hoping to catch a glimpse of Queen Mab at some point. I hear she keeps pretty much to herself though.

Let's go hang out at the mall

I’d begun to believe that I’d always hated shopping, but I’m not sure that is the case. I’ve never been an aficionado, that’s for sure. I’ve always considered “shopping as entertainment” a bit weird--sad really. My shopping trip yesterday gave rise to two new possibilities for me:

1) Hating shopping may just be a relatively recent thing in my life.
2) As much as I despise shopping, it can still be rather entertaining—in a sad sort of way.

Let me recount yesterday’s trip. I need summer clothes. This is something I’ve been putting off and attempting to do online (I do not like to pay shipping in order to try something on and have to ship it back). So, my new van needed a license plate (DMV—another blog) and I figured as long as I was driving an hour into town, I would hit the mall.

I dislike malls perhaps more than I dislike shopping. I lived in Colorado an entire year before I ever felt the need to go to the mall—to get my children photographed (I returned a mere two weeks later to return the tie my son stole, but that is another blog entirely). But, 80% humidity will drive any mall-hater to the mall in search of shorts.

Before I got to the mall, I decided to stop at a discount clothing store, in hopes of avoiding the mall altogether. Now mind you, my children at this point have been harnessed into the car for over an hour, most of which is narrow switchbacks down the mountain from camp (another reason I avoid shopping). So, getting Elliot out of his carseat and strapped into a stroller is hopeless. So, I let him walk. Bad idea.

I grabbed a couple of things to try on. My attendants and I ventured into the fitting room. The one large enough to accommodate my stroller did not lock. I went in anyway. As soon as my pants were down, Elliot swings the door open wide and run out. I pull my pants up and grab him. I park the stroller in front of the door and try again. I have a pair of shorts half way on and Elliot has crawled under the stroller and door. I grab him again and strap him in the stroller. He begins to scream. I try on one more pair. He is still screaming as he begins to throw his body violently against the strap holding him in and nearly topples the stroller.

I grab the items, throw on my clothing and head out of the fitting room. After some more struggles while trying to check-out, we leave.

By now it is lunchtime and we stop at a restaurant. They tell me they can’t put the high chair up to a booth, but Ethan REALLY wants to sit in a booth, so I figure I’ll block the baby in and it’ll be fine. Then Ethan decides he REALLY wants to sit next to me, but there’s no room with the baby blocked in. Whilst I’m arguing with Ethan, I turn to see Elliot, crawling on top of the table, heading for the salt and pepper. I grab Elliot, ask for a table with a high chair. Ethan begins to pitch a fit because he REALLY wants a booth. I threaten to leave. Eventually everyone calms down and we have a relatively nice lunch . . . until Elliot begins screaming because he is finished.

On to the mall. I attempt to make a bee-line for the store I want, but in a new mall, I’m lucky to find the directory. In fact, on the way to the directory, we pass the play land (bad) and a nice young man who wants to moisturize and buff my nails and obviously has no idea what it’s like to shop with two small boys. I’m way too polite and end up spending several minutes trying to tell him no thank you while Ethan begs me to go back to the play land. I make it to the store. I grabbed a few pair of crops and head for a fitting room. Why they don’t make the doors and walls go to the floor is beyond me. Ethan promptly sticks his head under the sides to see if the other two rooms are occupied. I instruct him on etiquette and he decides to just lay on the floor and look out under the door, watching traffic. Elliot thinks that’s a great idea, but carries it further and crawls out under the door. I again pull my pants back on, run out, grab him and strap him into the stroller, screaming. I’m sure all the other customers were grateful to hear us finally leave. I end the day with two pair crops, and three tee-shirts. I hope I like them, because I don’t really recall what they looked like on me.

Later, as I sat in the play area letting them run, I called my mother and arrived at the conclusion that although shopping is still not what I’d call fun, it is definitely entertaining. And, many years from now, I may just enjoy it.

Karma

Karma: Hinduism, Buddhism. action, seen as bringing upon oneself inevitable results, good or bad, either in this life or in a reincarnation.

Can I be a good Mormon and believe deeply in the Hindu principle of Karma? I took a religion course at BYU which taught that religion is like a big broken mirror-shards of truth scattered all over the world. But, if I recall correctly, I have an ancestor who was excommunicated for a strong belief in astrology. See where genealogy will get you.

Back to Karma. I attended high school in Bountiful, Utah (>95% Mormon), and therefore was privileged to experience "release-time" seminary during the regular school day. Many years later, in a suburb of Seattle, I was asked to teach early-morning seminary. I willingly did my time, enjoyed it and learned lots, but it was still very early.
Karma.
When I was perhaps 21 years old and living with my parents, freshly graduated from BYU, a serious looking member of the bishopric came to my house and laid out a dilemma before me. The primary chorister was moving. And since my mother sang so well, and had spent many years as a primary chorister, they wondered if perhaps I would be willing to accept a calling as primary chorister (I know, I didn't get the connection either). Oh, and of course, I played the violin (because, you know, most primary choristers tape little visual aides to their violins while they play out the melodies for the kiddos to learn).

So I looked at them, at my mother, made sure they weren't there to ask her to be the chorister, and began to cry. I didn't exactly say no to the calling, I merely cried and begged that they find someone else. And that of course, if they couldn't (sniff, sniff) find anyone else (sob) I of course (whimper) would accept. He didn't come back.

Here I am, 12 years later and I was asked to serve in the Primary Presidency in my new little branch. (Did I mention I've always said, Relief Society, Gospel Doctrine, Seminary, bring it on, just don't put me in the Primary . . . Karma). But at least I wasn't the chorister. Then the chorister was called as the Young Women's President. Now, in a branch with 12 children, 3 young women, and a creative Sunday schedule, it is possible to do both callings. She was valiant, she held out for several weeks. But I could see the writing on the wall. Then one day, I got an email from the President--the chorister had quit. You can see it too can't you?
Karma.
So now, I spend my peaceful, spirit-filled 3 hours of church as follows:
Hour One: Struggling to keep Elliot from pounding on the loud and metal doorframe (we sit nearby for a quick exit during the very quiet sacrament meeting) and dragging Ethan out to "practice being reverent" in an empty class room (banging his head on said doorframe as I drag his limp body by one arm--Elliot in my other arm--out of the chapel).
Hour Two: Gathering all the wandering children into the Primary room, dropping 16-month old Elliot screaming into the nursery for which he is too young, and then attempting to put on my happy face and teach songs to the 3 to 10 children that bothered to show up that day. All the whilst Ethan is hanging on to me, demanding to "help", throwing tantrums, and refusing to actually help or sing.
Hour Three: Putting away all the chorister paraphernalia, gathering up a sobbing toddler, coaxing Ethan to his class (trying with all my might not to give him a good spanking in the middle of church) and meeting briefly with the presidency. Sometimes I go catch the last few minutes of Relief Society while Elliot tears up the room.
Karma.
When I call my mother (daily it seems) seeking a bit of pity, she comforts me, but I know in her mind she has visions of leading primary songs with a little blond, seriously strong-willed child attached to her leg.
Karma.

My Everything

You are my everything room. Last night, I sat right here and composed a post whilst folding laundry and doing dishes. You can do anything. I can lean over and grab a snack from the pantry in the water-heater closet. I can turn my head, catch a little television, pick up a few toys in the toy room while I wait for the dial-up. To think, just last year I didn't know how much I needed you. Our first home, it seemed so cute, so petite, so compact. But that was before I met you. I remember thinking how we were bursting at the seams in that cute little house. How we bought that beautiful, big home on Colorado's Front Range, just so we could have some more elbow room. Little did I realize the elbow grease required to clean the four bathrooms in that elbow room. And the pressure to pay for that elbow room every month. And how we still found ourselves regularly all together in the bathroom, surrounded by a large, empty house, surrounded by a sea of still larger houses. How easily I was swayed into thinking I needed so much more.

And now, here we are, you and I (and my two children, two cats and husband)--my everything. I didn't know how much I would appreciate having my office in my laundry room in my dining room in my kitchen in my living room in their toy room in grandma's spare room. With room to spare. I'm sure tomorrow, when everyone is awake, we'll all find ourselves in the bathroom together--you know, the one I can clean in 20 minutes flat. But don't worry my everything, I know you're just outside that bathroom door, waiting. And we'll be right there, to see you through everything.

Empowerment

I bought a car yesterday. Well no, not a car--a minivan. (The road I've traveled just to admit that I drive a minivan is fodder for another post.) All by myself. Me. Okay, Elliot did sing loudly in the nice man's carseat as I test-drove it. And Ethan did test the auto door buttons (and the sun roof, and the seat adjusters . . . ). But aside from an occasional panicked call for advice from my father, and the occasional call to my husband resulting in either a voicemail message like "I'm buying the car dear" or a response of "Do whatever you feel is best, I gotta go," I purchased a vehicle.

I've been involved in the purchase of exactly three (four now) vehicles in my lifetime and hope to be involved in no more than three more. Ever. You see, I select vehicles expressly hoping to maximize the amount of time before my next vehicle purchase. I expect this one should last until I'm roughly 45. The next until I'm 56. The final one at 67.

I hate to admit it, but unfortunately I am currently the owner of 2 minivans. One stinks, the other doesn't. I bought the stinky one a mere 18 months ago (with the intent to keep it until I was 44). It didn't stink then. As I am an individual that expects little more than point A to point B from my vehicles, I didn't think stink would ever drive me to sell a vehicle. If it did bother me, I figured I was up to the challenge of eradicating the stink. Three months and nearly $2000 later, I am ready to admit defeat. Did you hear that stinky minivan? I quit! YOU WIN!! YOU ARE STRONGER THAN I!! (in so many ways).

Did I mention I have a stinky minvan for sale? If you don't mind a little mildew, I have a deal for you . . .

Back to the purchase. Before I get too proud of myself, let's just say I have had much logistical help in the purchase such as rides to and from here and there and the wonderful people who agreed to drive my new minivan home from Georgia. But there is something very empowering about searching, researching, testing, and handing over a large sum of cash in exchange for a vehicle. There is a mystery about the process (just go to an auto dealer) and an innate fear (for me at least, and I believe for many women) about what seems to be a man's domain.

But the real credit here goes to craigslist. I'll save my ode to craigslist for another posting, but craig saved me much headache and protected me from those scary auto lots. Thanks craig.