Of Rings and Men

I've never claimed to be a normal female. Just ask my husband. Case in point--jewelry. I just don't get it. Sure, it's pretty and fun, but seriously, how much value does one put in to pretty and fun over practical and useful? When we were discussing engagement rings, I tried to convince my husband to buy me a $12 silver band, or say $20 even. His response? I am NOT going to just spend $12 on an engagement ring! So I compromised with a few stipulations. First and most importantly, we were under no circumstances going to start off a marriage in debt because of a piece of jewelry. He makes fun of all my other stipulations because it made engagement ring shopping a nightmare--here are a few highlights of the short list: He must pick it out, but it was not to be a solitaire, preferably no stones at all, if there was a stone it must be very small and inset--nothing is to stick up off the ring, no "wedding sets", no yellow gold . . . Really, was I being unreasonable? Don't answer that.

So, he did a nice job. He picked out a classy, simple ring in white gold with (grimace) a small diamond inset. I'm sure he paid under $300, and did not go into debt. It was a compromise we could all live with. We got matching wedding bands and since the wedding I've worn my engagement ring on my right hand, until about two years ago when I broke it.

We talked about repair, or replacement, but, and here' s the thing--I am no longer the hopeless romantic I once was (quit sniggering). I still hold to all my previous conditions in a ring, but if I were to get another one, I'd kind of like to pick the style (I know, where has the romance gone?). That said, it was likely never to happen because every time we'd peruse rings, I'd think of all the other practical things that money would buy, and we'd walk away.

Then, this Christmas, my husband wanted to surprise me, yet aware of the absence of the once hopeless romantic, he figured I ought to be in on picking it out this time. Good idea--in theory. I sat down to do some perusing and began complaining about the cost. I'd list all the things we could buy instead. I talked him down to cubic zirconia, but he drew the line when I started talking about sterling silver (what's wrong with sterling? I found practically the same ring available in cz and silver for $25). Finally, he cropped a few picks and made me look at them without being able to see the prices and pick my favorite. We got in numerous arguments about how I don't value myself (my response being that I value myself plenty--like I value myself a few hundred dollars worth of a good quality, useful mixer, but I just couldn't see the value of spending a lot on shiny things that don't do anything but shine and that I'm bound to damage or lose anyway). Then it got personal; Why can't you just accept the gift graciously! It's a token of my love! followed by I'll wear it, I'll even like it, but I can't help wondering what else we could have used that money for! and threats to spend the birthday cash my parents sent me to pay for the ring, followed by dirty looks.

So, in the end, he bought me the ring. Pretty huh?

It came today and I got an early Christmas present. He compromised (story of our marriage) and got the cz set in white gold. It is lovely and I can't stop looking at it (look, something shiny!) and I'm trying not to think about the other things we could have bought. Instead I'm thinking about my sweet husband who thinks about me. Happy 10 years to us! (and all our neurosis!)

No Joke

It's my birthday. Yay! I love birthdays. We've celebrated all weekend long. My husband made the most chocolatey super double dark chocolate cake ever. Yum. We had friends over for games and food yesterday. The kids (6 boys, 1 girl) ate and played and told jokes. The joke of the day in our household?

What is black, white, black, white, black, white, green?

3 Skunks fighting over a pickle!

HAAAA!

If you're Ethan, you then need to overanalyze the joke and try and figure out where the skunks got a pickle.

For my birthday I received some delightful phone calls and much unexpected facebook love. It all made me smile. I was chastised however for not posting often enough on this here blog. My excuse? Surgery. Not mine, but my husband's hand surgery. It's been a bit rough and who really wants to read me blogging about surgery and playing physical therapy chauffeur (excuse me, occupational therapy)? Or about feeling sorry for myself because I get to play nursemaid and keep up with my job and my mothering/household duties and the like. Like self-pity is funny.

But then, sometimes, surgery and self-pity can be funny, no? So in honor of my birthday, the household joke and the one-armed man-of-the-house, I propose a toast of one-armed man jokes. Here goes:

#1: How do you get a one-armed man out of a tree?
Wave to him.

#2: A guy has one arm and decides he doesn't want to go on with life, not being able to do the things other guys can do with two arms. So, he goes up to the 20th story of a building and is trying to build up the nerve to jump. As he's standing there a guy comes walking on the sidewalk below.

The one-armed man notice's that this other guy has NO arms at all. He watches as the guy stops on the sidewalk and starts dancing and spinning in circles. The one-armed man thinks to himself how selfish he is... in that he has one arm and is ready to end it all! So, he decides to go down and talk to the No-armed man.

He goes down and walks up to the guy and says, "Hey man... I've been up on the 20th floor considering to end it all because I have only One arm... Here you are with No arms and are dancing around. What's your deal?

The guy with No arms says, "Arrrrr... dude I'm NOT happy! My nose itches!!!

#3: Why did the one-armed man cross the road?
To get to the second-hand shop!

#4: A one-armed man entered a restaurant at noon and seated himself next to a dapper little other-people's-business man. The latter at once noticed his neighbor's left sleeve hanging loose and kept eying it in a how-did-it-happen sort of a way. The one-armed man paid no attention to him but kept on eating with his one hand. Finally the inquisitive one could stand it no longer. He changed his position a little, cleared his throat, and said: "I beg pardon, sir, but I see you have lost an arm."

The one-armed man picked up his sleeve with his right hand and peered anxiously into it. "Bless my soul!" he exclaimed, looking up with great surprise. "I do believe you're right."

#5: Never buy a pit-bull from a one-armed man.

#6: What has four legs and one arm?
A doberman on a playground.

Thank you! I'll be here all week!

Elliotism

At family home evening this week:

"We believe that the first principles and ordinances of the gospel are first the Lord Jesus, second repentance, third, baptism by emergency . . . "

(For the real articles of faith of Mormonism, click here).

Keeping Up Appearances

Last night as I dashed into the "party store" just to use the ATM (I swear), I recalled the oft-used-in-mormondome phrase "Avoid the appearance of evil." The meaning is obvious--don't even look like you're doing something evil, but evil is relative. For Mormons, "evil" may include but is not limited to alcohol, tobacco, coffee, tea, tanktops, cursewords, pseudo-cursewords, democrats, left-leaning moderates and so forth.

Let me back up. (beep-beep-beep). Okay, in most places I've lived, the term "Party Store" typically refers to a place where you buy balloons, wrapping paper, coordinating paper plates and matching plasticwear and streamers. In Michigan, the term "Party Store" means "Liquor Store". Go figure.

So, as I left the Young Women's activity night at the Church yester-evening (you know, the place where I try and fail to be a positive influence and role model for conservative young mormon girls) I realized that I needed to get some cash on my way to a party (candles, not liquor) for which I was already very late. The only ATM on the way there was a short distance from the church inside the "party store". What's a girl to do? I ran in, hoping none of the young ladies or their mothers on their way home from the church would notice my mini-van double-parked in front of the "LIQOUR" sign. I guess we'll find out on Sunday. Though really, who doesn't need a good stiff drink after mutual night?

This reminds me of an earlier time in my life . . . . (beep, beep, beep). I was working for a theater in Seattle as the assistant stage manager. (This was one of the phases of my life where all the people I knew at work and in the theatre thought I was some sort of freaky ultra-conservative nut-job and all my LDS friends and family thought I was a great heathen liberal, when the truth was, and is, that I am really rather straight-down-the-middle conservative in my socio-political beliefs). I digress. One of my duties as the assistant stage manager was to manage props once the show was under way and the prop master was out of the picture. This show involved a lot of fake boozing and smoking (you know, the appearance of evil--what the actors did on stage prior to going out for the evening of real boozing and smoking), since actual boozing and smoking on stage is frowned upon--except by method actors. So, I had to create alcoholic looking non-alcoholic beverages and the like. I was laughed out of the light booth at one point when I asked "what color is MER-LOT?" (Like the time I helped host a fundraiser and had to ask if I should put the red wine in the fridge--silly Mormon!) So, every few days, on my way home from the show, I would stop in a local grocery store and pick up apple juice, tea, cigarettes and cigars. I was always afraid I'd run into my Bishop with an armful of tea and smokes. Tired, and unaccustomed to purchasing anything requiring identification, one evening I tried to dash in, grab the goods and go, when I was stopped by the 17-year-old checker who asked for my id. I stared at him blankly momentarily, then remembered the cigarettes. "Well, I'm not going to smoke them; they're a prop." I said. Apparently this is not a good enough excuse to get a by on the whole id thing. So, I had to leave my loot at the counter and go dig through my car for my drivers license.

S0, once again, I found myself, the role-model gone awry, in a potentially akward position. Though probably not as akward as this was. Nor my mother's stint as a paralegal-of-the-night (which is an entirely different post altogether, which I'll write if I get her permission).

So for all those of you out there who try and fail at being a role model, just remember, I probably failed before you did.

Happy October

In honor of Breast Cancer Awareness Month, I shall regurgitate a post: Here it is. Lets be honest, the repeat performance is mostly because I have been a lazy blogger of late and somewhat because I stumbled into this hilarious post that reminded me not only of how much more entertaining I wish my blog was, but also of my unfortunate experience a few years ago. Seriously, airplanes and elementary schools? What has the world come to? You'd think that with a serious disease such as breast cancer, we could all refrain from degrading childish euphemisms and tasteless jokes whilst supporting the cause. Or at least we could even the playing field by making similar jokes about testicular cancer. Think of the web-address possibilities. I'm just sayin'.

It's all about me . . . again

Trying out a new title. Idunno. My old title had a long history with me that I was sort of sentimental about, but never really liked for a blog title. This came to me in the wee hours of the morning. I know, my inspiration meter is off the charts. I'm still not crazy about it, but it's probably better than Just Imajen, but what do you think?

Boys Conference

This weekend was a lovely semi-annual experience we Mormons like to call General Conference. It is a fabulous two-day affair where we can stay at home if we like, and watch/listen to our church leaders give inspiring discourses on a variety of life-changing topics.

In my house, we cannot wait for conference!!!

I'm serious (and I'll tell you why momentarily). I know, as a kid, other than the staying home from church part, I thought conference was a huge burden. I grew up in Utah and they broadcast conference on the TV and the radio. My parents required us to sit nicely and listen to one session (there are four 2-hour sessions), and for like one or two others, we had to be listening, somewhere in the house. My brother and I usually locked ourselves in his bedroom, turned on the radio real low, and played legos.

Are you guys listening to conference!?!

Yeah mom!

For some hopeless reason, I have higher aspirations than that (my mother is smarter than I am). I lived abroad for a period of my life and we got a couple hours of conference translated into Italian via a snail-mailed video tape like two weeks later. It was a rare treat. I realized just what I'd missed out on and taken for granted all my childhood. Now with the internet, we can pop open the laptop and stream live video into our living room. We even got a cord to connect it to the TV!!

In hopes of helping my children come to the realization of what a blessing conference is earlier in their lives than I did, I've tried to make it a more exciting experience for them.

How? you ask.

Candy.

Yep, every conference, I buy a big bowl of candy and set it on the coffee table. We also set up an exciting thing we call "the conference tent" pointing toward the TV (like the people in the Book of Mormon did in the days of King Benjamin--sans TV of course). I print out bingo boards and every time they hear someone mention a word from their bingo board (like Jesus, or Love, or Heaven), they get to cover that square with a piece of candy. When they get a bingo, they get to eat the candy.

This keeps their interest for about, oh, ten minutes. Until they're just gorging themselves sick on candy and I'm saying whatever, just be quiet! And yelling things like STOP HITTING YOUR BROTHER! CAN'T YOU HEAR HIM TALKING ABOUT LOVING YOUR NEIGHBOR? YOUR BROTHER IS YOUR NEIGHBOR!!

I also sometimes print out what is known in the Mormon internet world as Conference Packets. I do this in a vain attempt to prove that my children are normal and well-behaved. Every time when I set out the packets and a box of crayons or markers, they look at me like I'm insane and ask for more candy. This year I flipped through the packet with Elliot. He did the hidden picture page in about 10 seconds flat and refused to look at the thing again.

Is it a boy thing? Or is it just my kids? I see kids in church sitting quietly coloring pictures of Jesus while I bodily separate my children, prying fingers off throats and bandaging up bloody wounds after physically dragging them from the chapel.

My nieces could sit and color for hours. I've seen a crayon in my child's hands fewer times than I can count on my fingers. Did I do something wrong?

As I sat and pondered this dilemma this weekend, I began considering a conference packet of ideas for boys. For day two, I scratched the packets and attempted to implement two activities which had come to mind. I'm pondering, searching, praying and soliciting ideas from anyone out there on activities to engage boys in conference. But here are the two I tried today with mixed results (nonetheless, still better than the coloring packets):

1) The Rameumptum: Get out a large (and I mean like 100) bag of plastic cups. Put them in a stack near the television. Instruct boys that they are not to touch the stack until I tell them they can. When they touch it anyway and it tips over, require that they pick them up, restack, don't hit your brother, and reiterate that we do not touch the cups until mom says to. And then, you can only touch one. No, you cannot touch your brother's, he can do his own. And stop hitting your brother. No one is allowed to touch anyone else, or the cups, until mom says. Then, make them sit in front of the television, eyeing the cups with their bingo boards on their laps. When they hear the speaker say a word from the board, they (with permission from mom as judge) can take a cup and place it on the floor or table. They repeat this, stacking them higher and higher into a tower of cups. When it falls, everyone cheers and we start over. If you run out of cups, the next person to get a word gets to knock the tower over. And don't knock it over until I say. And don't hit your brother for knocking it over--that's what spankings are for. And don't hit your brother for answering the question and getting to knock it over. You'll get a turn to knock it over too--if you pay attention.

2) Large in Stature: Mom holds the bingo boards. Every time the boys hear a word they think is on the bingo board, they ask mom, she checks and if found, says "Gimme 5 sit ups!" or jumping jacks, or push ups, or whatever. The boys comply and wait excitedly for the next word.

3) Candy Quiz: Candy is still an intregal part of conference, but doled out a little less liberally. The boy is required to answer a question about a preceding talk. If he can do it, he gets candy.

Another one we didn't try, but I'm thinking for next conference I should have my boffers made (they're these padded swords re-enacters use to play kings and knights and safely beat each other with) and it would be called:

4) Helaman's Army: If they answer a question correctly or something, they get to smack their brother with the boffer. Or something of the sort. I need to figure this one out, because it may lead to more chaos than it staunches.

The cups worked pretty well. After a while we gave up on the rules and they just quietly built the tower while answering my questions (for candy) about the speakers, then knocking the tower down (not so quietly) and starting over. Large in Stature was short-lived.

I've said it before and I've truly come to believe that Mormon included all the details of the wars and such primarily because it would get boys to read the book. Seriously, I know it's all supposed to remind us of our spiritual war, but women can grasp that with a little less graphic violence, thank you. But, like Mormon, I say use what you've got. And I have candy!

Bloggity Blog

Bad Blogger! Bad! (I have a dear friend who used to keep me on my toes, and whenever my behavior would start to push the edge of perfect mormonism, he'd scold me: "Bad Mormon!', so I'm scolding my blogger self and thinking of him. GRAZIE PRINCIPE! AHHHHH!! . . . but enough of the shout outs.)

Forgive me Blogger, I have sinned. It has been nearly two weeks since my last half-hearted blog entry and a good month or two before that. My sin? Oh yes, I am a big fat liar. I said I was allergic to lake-water, and I no longer believe that to be true. I think I'm allergic to some sort of airborne something or other and, yes, it was probably in the lakewater I inhaled, so there may be some truth to the preceding post, but nonetheless, please, please, please somebody make me stop sneezing!!!

Last night's conversation:

Ethan: Mom, why do you have kleenex stuffed up your nose?

Me: Because I've been attempting to do the dishes for the past three hours and can't make any progress because I either start sneezing uncontrollably, or snot runs down my face every 10 seconds to the point that I must stop the dishes and blow my nose, or go insane.

Ethan: Oh, that's weird.

I get allergies like every 7 years for some odd reason. So it's always unexpected when it happens. In an ironic twist of fate, the last time I thought I had allergies, I didn't. But I did spend a small fortune on every allergy medicine known to man in the process of determining I didn't have allergies. And fortunately, I saved them all. So today I'm doing much better thanks. It's either due to the heat that caused me to close my windows and turn on the AC, or the pricey nasal spray or one of the several fancy allergy medicines I've ingested recently. Regardless, I think I'll keep it up. Except I'm sort of out of energy and depressed, which could be because of the medicines, or just PMS. Hard to tell.

So back to the random blog post.

I signed Elliot up for preschool. I'm not sure how I feel about that yet. Ask me in a couple of weeks. He's excited. Tonight I started filling out a questionnaire for it. It instructed me to ask Elliot the questions and write down his answers. Well, they asked for it. My favorite one?

Who do you live with?

Dad, Jen, Jesus, Heavenly Father, Ethan, Daisy.

I wrote it down because I thought the response was cute. Then went back and thought it might just make the teacher think we're some sort of religious nut-case of a family. But then again, maybe we are.

They also asked for picture of Elliot. So we got out the camera and started taking some shots. People tell me Elliot looks like me. I'm not always convinced. But when I pulled up these pictures that to me, don't really look a lot like him, they reminded me of a serious of pictures I took last year of me that didn't really look too much like me, or so I thought. So, maybe in those moments that we don't look like I think we look, we look alike. Did that make sense? See for yourselves:

And yes, I suck at picture placement, but I have other, more interesting skills.

Sneezy and Sleepy (and Dopey too)

I think my head is in the process of exploding. I mean, literally exploding. This morning I started sneezing and haven't stopped yet. It's the middle of august, there's nothing to be allergic to except humidity. And that would suck. It's bad enough suffering through it without an allergy.

So the radio said the ozone was bad (whatever that means) and to not breathe when you're outside or something. So I figured I must be allergic to ozone. Or at least that my sneezing is somehow related to ozone.

Then I started thinking that the last time I was sneezing in a somewhat similar fashion was a little over a week ago. I began to wonder if I was getting sick, or allergies, or what. But then it stopped. Until today.

sssssnnnnnnnnnnnn . . . . .

oh, sorry. Benadryl kicking in. Where was I?

Yes, today, and the week before last. hmmmm. The week before last, the boys and I swam in the lake nearly every day. But not last week. Just last evening, I ran down to the lake to do a few laps. I was momentarily distracted at the moment I jumped in and forgot to plug my nose and received a sinus-full of lakewater in return. Yum.

A plus B equals I think I'm allergic to lakewater. At least if it is in my sinuses. The sneezing the week before last wasn't quite as bad, but I don't recall a full on lakewater sinus wash. Just some serious splashing of mom by my children. Which likely put some lakewater into the nasal cavity at one point or another.

There was a girl at church the other week, face swollen up, sniffing, can't-hardly-breathing for the stuffiness. We all backed away from the sneeze-zone. But she swore up and down it was because she swam in the lake the day before. That she's allergice to lakewater. Um, sure, whatever.

But now I'm not so sure she's a big fat liar anymore. And I've watched people all day back away from my sneeze zone.

Allergies suck. Karma sucks too.

Ah-ah-ah-CHOOO!!!

snnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn . . . . . .

Leeches Suck

Ahhhh summer. Lazy days of biking and playing and swimming in the lake . . . and pulling off little leeches.

Fortunately they are generally little around here. But they seem to really like my boys. Tonight I found Elliot bleeding from the ankles twice. The first time I didn't find a leech, but when I pulled the second leech off his other ankle, I clued into what caused the first bloody mess.

At home we cleaned and re-applied bandages. Ethan went potty while we were in the bandaging process in the bathroom. Elliot, who is not disposed to averting his eyes when someone else is doing their business, promptly pointed out the small black spot on Ethan's penis.

You guessed it. A tiny leech trying to go in the out door. Yuck.

And no, removing a leech from that area is not pleasant for anyone involved. Fortunately, Elliot remembered Ethan in our family prayer this evening.

Please bless Ethan's penis . . .

Afterwards my boys sat around listing the parts of God's creations they would be content to do without: mosquitoes, ticks, leeches . . .

Ethan, who feels the world is always unfairly skewed, and not in his favor, asked me once why God created mosquitoes, and why they all bite him. And this evening, why he was the one who the leech chose to get so friendly with and I was reminded of a lesson from the scriptures. How could their be the sweet without the bitter? How could we know joy with out sorrow? Maybe if the world is stacked against us, it's because God has great things in store.

I'm sure that's why I taste soooo good to mosquitoes. And why my boys are making friends with leeches.

Ahhh summer.

Lephrechauns

Ethan is at camp. He's growing up.

Elliot is jealous. He thinks he should be old enough to go to camp.

As a consolation prize, I took Elliot to the zoo today. When asked what he most wanted to see at the zoo he listed peacocks and giraffes and leprechauns.

I felt compelled to warn him.

You know, Leprechauns aren't real.

Yes they are. They're also called leopards.

Oh, so Leprechauns are leopards?

Yes. That's just another name.

So now my favorite thing is to listen to him list his favorite animals he saw at the zoo:

Zebras. Prarie Dogs. Snow Leprechauns.

Awesome.

P.S. I think I decided again today that I don't really like zoos. But that is a post for another day.

Blame

Unsolicited Advice to the Peri-menopausal: If you run out of your hormones unexpectedly (as in you forgot to send in the new prescription), it is ill-advised to fly solo for a couple of weeks, as you may not realize the extent to which, unbeknown to you, the menopause symptoms have taken over your life.

Seriously. The hot flashes, night sweats, the insomnia.

Then again, maybe it's just the warm summer nights.

Or my cold. I got my first cold sore. Are cold sores a sign of out of whack hormones?

But then again, why have my children suddenly gone off the tantrum deep end?

Or is that due to my limited patience? Or maybe my irritability colors my perception.

Can I blame their father?

Haleluja, my happy pills have arrived in the mail.


P.S. I have to say that thanks to a great parenting book I'm actively reading (active as in I've been known to lock myself in the bathroom mid-tantrum with the book to talk myself down and brush up on tantrum coping skills before exiting and calmly dealing with the situation), I did manage, despite the multi-hour physically and verbally abusive tantrum, not to loose my cool. We have arrived this evening at bedtime, with no blood or bruises and with a mutually agreed upon set of consequences, and a 7-year-old trying his best to make up for his poor behavior with a happy and cooperative demeanor. I'd say it's a successful, if trying day of parenting.

P.S.S. I purposely did not mention the 4-year-old sobbing himself to sleep in the guest room.

P.P.S.S. But that is his own doing. I didn't lose it with him either.

P.P.P.S.S. I promise. I just denied him a popsicle. It doesn't take much.

War of the Rodents, Part Next

Dear Bats,

I don't even know if you qualify as rodents, but it doesn't really matter. Perhaps I should have been more explicit in my previous communication. When I said "stay out of my stuff", I assumed you would understand that to mean ALL my stuff, as in not just my stuff in the attic, but inclusive of the main living part of the house. But we all know what assuming does . . .

Regardless, let this be fair warning. And the two of you who entered the interior my home and lived to tell about it (oh, and sorry about the little guy--I can only assume the cat was faster) , you can warn all your friends (just don't mention the part about me crying, and the protective hooded mumu. Oh, and the super long pole with the broom taped to it for added buffer, which, though possibly fearsome to a small creature, was mostly just ridiculous and a bit overkill--yeah, you don't have to mention that. Just tell them about the part where we threw your terrified little selves outside). You can warn them that their days inside my walls are numbered.

Yes, numbered.

I have been patient. More than patient I would say. The first breach was considered an accident. The second, I chalked up to an unfortnuate encounter between wandering infant bat and my house cat. But the third and final breach was the beginning of the end. I have listened to you scratching and squirming and squeaking in my office/bedroom wall for many months and I pretended you were some sort of loose ductwork, or occasional rodent. But no more. I am ignorant no more. Since you have chosen to show yourselves inside the confines of the interior of my home and squeak directly at me, I can no longer pretend the muffled sounds in my walls are anything else. I know you now. Shall we say, as the Spaniards do: There were a few, and then grandmother gave birth! I'm not entirely sure what that means, but I do know that I will be patient no longer. I'm all for live and let live, but certain boundaries must be established and maintained if we are to coexist in peace.

Your blatant disregard of social bat/human cohabitational norms has forced my hand. I may have mentioned previously that I don't know how to tackle you. But, I'm learning. And, more importantly, I have a new friend--Trapper Bob. Trapper Bob will be here in a couple of weeks to serve you your official eviction notice. You will then have approximately six weeks to move. This long notice is in respect of the important job you do (that of eating the mosquitos--although, could you step it up a little--we're itching here!) and the expectation that your little ones will continue the mosquito-eating tradition. Trapper Bob informs me that many of your wee ones in my walls cannot yet fly (though I suspect the little bugger I chased out the other night, given the location in which I found him, could likely fly, although I did not witness said flying as I flung him out the second story window into the darkness. I can only assume he swooped off to safety, but again, we all know about assuming). In that timeframe, Trapper Bob tells me that your children should be all grown up and able to fly their hairy little selves out of my walls.

As I said, I appreciate the vital role you play and invite you to continue living in my yard. Just not my house. You see, I never invited you into my living room, or kitchen, or bedroom, and yet you came anyway. I don't care whether this breach was for thrill, shock, fun, by accident or whatever. Regardless the intent, the line has been crossed and you are hereby uninvited from habitation within my walls, attic, roof, basement or any other portion of this human habitation.

However, as a token of goodwill, I plan to educate our family over the next few weeks about your habitat, your diet, and your lifecycle. Then we will either build or purchase a bat house and have it installed nearby. When Trapper Bob evicts you, we invite you to take up residence in said bat house, and leave my walls alone.

In the meantime--STAY OUT OF MY HOUSE!!!

Elliotism

Heavenly Father . . . please bless us not to say bad words.

--Tuesday Dinner Blessing with 10 Guests

Femininity

You know what I'm just a little tired of? Well yes, all that too, but, today's post is about the feminine and the tomboyish. I'm tired of the general assumption that all women are somehow oh so sensitive and nurturing. Growing up LDS, it used to drive me batty every time we had to sing As Sisters In Zion. Let me give you a little excerpt.

The errand of angels is given to women; And this is a gift that, as sisters, we claim: To do whatsoever is gentle and human, To cheer and to bless in humanity's name.

Now don't get me wrong, it's all feel-goody-uplifting and engenders feelings of sisterhood. But really, the errand of angels? To cheer and to bless in humanity's name? Doesn't that set up quite a lofty expectation of an entire gender? What if I'm not very gentle? Am I somehow less of a woman? Why? Because I'm not naturally gentle, nurturing or compassionate or overly caring. I have to work hard to eek out a little bit of those traits. Yes, over the years, especially as I've had children, perhaps I've learned a little more nurture and compassion, but honestly, mostly I've just learned patience (and that not very well).

And how about when society defines femininity like it's a dress code. I read about and talk to women that "just can't wear anything but heels" because it makes their legs look so feminine and who can't go out of the house without make up and just love to shop and can't imagine going swimming without waxing their entire body . . . yada yada. Someone once commented how her daughter is finally starting take care of herself again since she's wearing make-up and doing her hair and whatever. So what does that make the rest of us? The ones who think waxing is akin to water-boarding and who don't judge our femininity by the number of beauty products on the bathroom counter? Have we just let ourselves go? What if we never had a hold of ourselves in the first place?

I used to say I was a tomboy, but I don't really feel that describes it. I'm not boy-ish, I'm not butch. I'd say I'm rather feminine and curvy. I like feeling attractive and I think I can be pretty--when I want to be. I just don't give a rat's toosh about designer hand bags and I think pointy-toed shoes were invented by Satan. I don't cry at the drop of a hat (most days) and I find that my husband is much more nurturing and compassionate than I'll ever hope to be (in my defense, I handle power-tools much more effectively than he does).

This is not a post about equality or feminism. More-so, it's a post about individualism. I'm tired of any male/female stereotypes. I think it's grand if you like pumps and eyeliner and find your true calling in nurturing your child's every footstep. Let's just not assume that I'm somehow less of a woman if I prefer loafers and struggle daily to figure out how to keep my children alive, let alone nurture them. Some things just don't come naturally to some of us.

Let me try and figure out what my point is. I think it is this; feminine traits don't come automatically imprinted on the extra X chromosome. I think they are made up of part DNA and part of your own nurturing. You know, the old nature nurture argument. What comes so naturally to some, perhaps even most women, I've had to try and learn through hardscrabble trial and error--and I still don't quite get it--I can fake it, sometimes, which often is good enough.

I think I was prepared by both my nature and nurturing for the responsibilities and experiences the Lord has in store for me. Perhaps this is why I don't have daughters (I'm sure this is why I don't have more than two children, my nurture well is bone dry with just two. I cannot fathom trying to spread it around to 5 or so). Can you imagine what a terrible mother I'd be to a tiara-wearing princess of a little girl? I mean really, where do you stick the bow for starters?

So, I suppose this is a shout out to all those ladies out there that don't fit the mold, which really, is all of us--we all got a little sprinkling of this and that, mixed up with a generous helping of the other. Together it makes quite a stew and individually, we're fascinating. I love me some girly-girl friends (just don't be offended if I don't want to go shopping with you). It keeps life interesting. I just ask that you don't judge my worth on a few leg hairs (well, more than a few) and frumpy man-shoes. We'll get a long just fine.

P.S. I have a friend who still laughs at me because the first thing I did when I bought clothes to wear to the temple, was to cut the little bows of the slippers. Really, who needs a bow there? She's the only one who's ever notices though--or said something anyway.

P.P.S. And I once got really mad at my mother and told her never to buy me anything pastel EVER again.

P.P.S.S. When I was in high school, my brother and his friends formed a club called A.P.W.H.P.W.W.P. (say "App-whoop-whoop"). It stands for the Association of People Who Hate People Who Wear Pink. I wanted to join. He even made little business cards with a pink circle with a line through it. I thought it was awesome.

P.P.S.S.S Now I sometimes buy pink stuff for myself, though rarely anything with a bow.

Batty Batty Batty Bat

Do you remember the Count? It was because of him that my eldest child never really got into Sesame Street - he was afraid of the Count. (On a side note, have you ever seen the Count censored on YouTube? It would be offensive if it wasn't so darn funny- although I think I offended my brother when I showed it to him, but that is irrelevant to my story.)

How about the Batty Batty song with the dancing bats? That creeped him out too. I've never been particularly creeped out by bats myself. Until today. Until today you see, they've just fascinated me--they swoop out at night and gobble the mosquitos in our yard (I think I need more bats--I think Elliot needs his own personal bat escort). But I've never really gotten a look at one up close, in action. Until today.

That's not necessarily true. The other day I was helping open up some summer cabins and as I rolled up the outer vinyl window coverings, I unconvered, much to their surprise as well as mine, a couple of sleeping bats. They mostly just hung there, upside down, then quietly disappeared when everyone was no longer looking at them. Bats are subtle. Maybe that's what's always intrigued me--subtlety is not my forte.

But today, things changed.

I was in the kitchen and my husband came over with a bit of an anxious look on his face and said, can you come here please? I was concerned. His next sentence began with "don't freak out." And I realized what was wrong. When he works on a critter in the house, he gets a sort of anxious bemused look on his face when he approaches me about it because he knows that although I can deal with a lot of stuff, uninvited critters in my house freak me out. Dead or alive, but especially dead. But you see, his face had the anxious quality, but was lacking the bemusement. This told me that he was freaked out himself.

My eyes darted over to the sofa in the living room where he had been sitting. There, just under the edge of the curtain on the carpet, I saw something moving.

What is it.

A bat.

In broad daylight? In the house?! In the Living Room?!?!

The questions were swimming in my mind.

How did it get in? How long has it been there? How the heck did it get in here? And why hasn't the cat discovered it? And who's going to get rid of it.

Well, the poop around it proved it had been there a while, well long enough to poop anyway. It wasn't flying, it just appeared to be nervously pacing behind the curtain, like waiting in the wings for it's stage entrance.

Matt called maintenance. Conveniently, on a Saturday of a holiday weekend, no one responded.

What do we do on a Saturday morning in May with a bat in the living room?

What would you do?

We sent the boys outside for a large bucket.

I commandeered an empty cereal box as a lid and obtained a large stick.

With Ethan's help (I wasn't going near it), they cornered it and pushed it into the bucket, and covered it with the makeshift lid--but not before it bared it's teeth and stretched its wings (huge, pointy teeth . . . ).

Then, we took the thing out side (with Elliot's help) and set the bucket next to a large tree, and stepped back. After a moment, it crawled out and started climbing the tree with some sort of joyous abandon akin to sighing "ah yes, finally, tree bark, instead of that awful burber". When it reached about 10 feet up, it dove and swooped off towards a large stand of trees. In broad daylight.

I'm still intrigued and fascinated. And a little freaked out.

ONE! ONE BAT! HA HA HA HA!!!!

Poke, Prod, Squash, Squish, Ahhhh

I went in for my annual pelvic exam this week. (Yes, it's one of those posts, so read on--if you dare). This typically unpleasant, though uneventful event was a little more eventful and unpleasant this time around.

After the typical poking and prodding, the PA spent a little extra time feeling up my boob. Apparently, she found something that was slightly concerning. I suppose I should have taken Delta's advice and enlisted my husband in the endeavor a little earlier on. Though, I doubt it would have done much good, because I have been told before that my breasts are somewhat fibrocystic. This essentially means that they always feel rather lumpy and that this lumpiness changes with my hormones. So, self-breast exams are a little like bobbing for a granny smith in a tub full of red delicious while blindfolded. And as such, the PA was pretty sure what she'd encountered was just a harmless cyst. Nevertheless, I was instructed to go for an ultrasound.

So, I dutifully arranged for a friend to watch Elliot (because what 4-year-old should be exposed to somebody squishing his mom's boobs around, although he would have been thrilled to no end examining the medical equipment). I went in and they squished and squirted (the ultrasound jelly, not my boobs), poked and prodded for some time. Then I waited and listened to the old guy in the room next door complain about having to go through his procedure whilst making stupid cracks to the technician (do you think people say stupider things when they think nobody else can hear them? Discuss). Then somebody else came in a poked around for a bit. I'm sensing that cysts don't show up so well because they're less dense than say tumors (or at least this is what I'm hoping). Nonetheless, I've been having a bit of anxiety over it for the past couple of days.

Then, after a good 45 minutes with my girls hanging out of a lovely backwards hospital gown, I'm informed that they like to do a mammogram of anyone over 35 with a palpable lump. So, I get to wait another couple of hours until they can squeeze me into the schedule to squeeze my boob.

At this point, I'm a little apprehensive. Not being 40, I've never been mamm-ed. But I've heard tell it is akin to slamming your boob in the refrigerator door repeatedly, or closing the garage on it over and over again. Matt asked if this was true and I said, well, sort of--it's a little like closing the refrigerator door on your boob slowly and with great force then repeating the fun a few times in various akward positions. My favorite question was whether or not I was experiencing pain or discomfort from the area. I responded that up until the long ultrasound session, I had not, but towards the end, I was certainly feeling some discomfort. And the mamm itself was no picnic. (I can call it a mamm now, since I've joined the club).

Well, beyond a full morning at the hospital, I left with a sense of relief. I was informed that all the poking and prodding indicated that there is nothing of concern in my left boob. (Well, I guess that depends on whose concerned). But that the lump is likely just fibrocystic or fatty tissue (are they calling me fat?). I left the hospital happy and relieved that all was well. Yet, I can't help but then do the math of how much this whole little ordeal cost me in lost time--in time I'll never get back, time I could have spent doing something else.

But then, I suppose peace of mind is worth something.

Ends and Beginnings

It's been quite a spring. I thought there was so much important stuff going on in my life this spring, ending with my fantastic mother who was here for a whole wonderful week!

Unfortunately, all the "important" stuff in my life has been placed into perspective by a terrible ending. It seems not quite right to even blog about it, but I can't shake it from my mind and I don't feel like writing about anything else, as everything else seems trivial in comparison. My Bishop was killed on Wednesday, about the time we were enjoying a final lunch with Mom before heading to the airport. He was mowing his lawn when an SUV swerved off the road and struck him.

Life's short--sometimes even shorter.

It makes you pause and take stock of all there is to be grateful for. I'm grateful for my life, my children, my husband, my family. I'm grateful for the gospel of Jesus Christ and the knowledge that life continues beyond death and so can relationships.

We've been here only a year or so, and as such, have only known Bishop Banister for that time. During that year he has made a deep impression on my life. He was a truly truly good man and I will miss him. I can't imagine the emotions right now of his family and those who have known and loved him for decades. And yet, I am struck by their faith. We will miss the time we could have had with him here. But there is a peace in the knowledge that he has just begun his work in the next life and will await us all there where we will be reunited.

It makes you think doesn't it? About endings here, and beginnings there--the sadness and joys of both--and about how quickly, and unexpectedly some things end, and other things begin.

The Motherhood of the Flying Pants

Who says resolutions are for January? Pshaw!

1) I resolve to shower well before noon on weekday mornings.

In my defense, it's not like I'm layin' around eatin' bon bons all day. I just get wrapped up in work in the morning and find myself rushing to dress around mid-day before I leave the house.

2) I resolve to plan and carry-out some preschool type activities with my child every day--preferably in the morning, after I've showered. And, as a healthy byproduct, allow him less screen time.

We've been discussing preschool for the child for next year and I'm torn, as is he. I was resolved just to do it, but he soooo doesn't want to and I'm not sure I'm up for dropping off an unwilling, screaming child at preschool, and to pay for the pleasure. I think we'll try the home preschool thing for a while and see if that either softens him up to the idea, or is just sufficient.

3) I resolve to control my work hours, rather than let my job control my life. I will set some boundaries on my "work hours" and within reason, work during those hours and not feel bad about stepping away from the computer when my work hours are done.

The beauty of working from home is the flexibility--I can usually arrange my hours as I desire. The benefit to my employer is my near constant availability. The downside is the constant presence in my life. It's hard to turn it off and step away when it's always there and there's always a lot to do.

4) I resolve to not just get 6-8 hours of sleep every night, but to go to bed at a decent time--I'm shooting for 10 pm or earlier.

It all starts here. If I go to bed after midnight, not only am I tired and cranky and impatient with my children the next day, but I'm unable to get up early enough to accomplish my designated work hours before everyone wakes up, which of course bleeds work into every waking hour and pushes out time with my children and increases screen time . . . see where my life has been going?

5) I resolve to be more patient with my children--particularly the one who requires more patience. I resolve not to engage him in his battles. Or, if I find my patience has fled and I'm engaging him, I resolve to give myself a time out.

Case in point. The other morning. It was all going well. I got up early, worked for a while, woke up Ethan. Made his lunch and his breakfast. We read scriptures, prayed, read some Star wars. There was just enough time to dress and practice a bit for his recital tonight (unless of course, there ensued a clothing fit). There ensued a clothing fit. It was not pretty and I am not proud of it (except perhaps the part that I managed not to beat the child). He baited me and I engaged. It ended with me tossing, (with some aggravation) several pairs of pants at him (none of which were apparently good enough) through his yelling and demanding and accusing all the while the bus was drawing nearer. After the flying pants mom-tantrum, I removed myself from the downward spiraling situation. I told my husband he needed to get up and deal with it. Which he did, while I curled up in my bed and tried not to listen to my child crying downstairs. I calmed down more or less and managed to walk the child out to the bus stop under the dire warning of "do not say anything or I will go back inside." Then of course he has to tell me he loves me as he boards the bus and I feel like such a cad and a child myself. Why, oh why does he get my goat so? And what kind of idiot mother engages in verbal sparring with a 7-year-old? And here I thought he was being irrational.

That's it. That's all I got for now. I'll let you know how my resolutions go (well, if they go well I'll let you know.)

If They Could Speak

My first transatlantic trip resulted in some overweight embarrassment. I was 19, smitten with theatre and with books. I'd just spent two months in London, seeing fantastic theatre and shopping lovely used book stores. Those were the days before checked baggage weight limits. After attempting to lift my suitcase full of old books, the attendant slapped a bright orange tag on it marked "HEAVY". This was the beginning of the end of my fight between love of travel and love of books.

What I quickly discovered is that a large literary collection does not jive well with a transient lifestyle. As a young single person, I travelled and lived wherever my heart fancied. The truce I negotiated was a commitment to purchase only books I intended to read over and over again (which mostly included reference manuals, cook books, dictionaries, some poetry and volumes of Shakespeare). Everything else I required myself to obtain at the library--or, if unavailable at the library, to purchase a used copy and then try my hardest to give it away when I was done. I still struggle with religious books--there are things I want to read, but not reread. Yet, my local libraries don't carry much LDS literature. If only I could find an LDS mail order libary. Oh, and I pay enough late fees at the library to feel like I'm doing my part.

When I married my husband, it was with a bit of wanderer's trepidation. You see, circumstances dictated that he would remain in one location for at least three years. I counted back and determined that prior to then, the last time I'd stayed put for three years was about the third grade. So, I braced myself and settled in. What I discovered was that although I was suddenly stationary, my space was extremely limited, and my new husband was skeptical of my vast book collection. So, I kept to my pledge of minimal literary acquisitions, but nonetheless, I retained the collection I'd already developed.

We spent four years in our first home (still a record for me) and then moved my book collection to a home with plenty of room for my library! I was thrilled! My books spread out! I lightened up a little on my book restrictions. Then came the great reduction. The move from 2100 square feet to 800. It was a near painfull experience as I donated or sold (thanks Amazon) as much of my collection as I could part with. I still miss some of them. I digress.

The point of this rambling is to say, that although we once again have some elbow room, the years of restriction have had an effect. My collection is still very subdued. I still go to the library long before I go to Amazon--even for cook books. I check them out, try them out, then only buy if I've found them usefull (generally after exhausting all possibility to renew my check out, multiple times over). And so, as we got ready for our trip to Spain, I realized I needed two important things from the library: a good novel to read in Europe, and a good Spanish guidebook. As I carried these with me, I began to wonder about the history of the books that accompanied me to Spain. I considered nestling a travel log (akin to the gnome pictures) in the leaves of the book, but refrained. Don't you think though that it would be fantastic for every library book to have it's own personal history somewhere in the back pages? Be it banal or thrilling, it would nonetheless be interesting--if the library books could recount their own history.

P.S. Did I mention that I forgot to renew/return some things before I left? Yeah, when I got back, my library account had been blocked and I owed nearly $20 in fines. I guess that's still cheaper than a good novel and a guide book.

P.P.S. Should I apologize to the libary for the water spots on the Barcelona map? I mean, I think they dried out . . . it's sort of my little memento of the rain in Barcelona, right there on the library book. Shhhh, don't say anything.

P.P.S.S. I swear I'm the only one that ever reports damaged books to the library anyway--it seems that when I check them out they're falling apart already (really), so when I return them, I mention it so they can repair them, but then they must think that I'm the cuprit! I hope they don't freeze my account again--I sometimes wonder if there's a little flag on my account about how this lady is rough on books.

P.P.P.S.S. I'm really not rough on books.

P.P.P.S.S.S. Well, not terribly rough anyway.

P.P.P.P.S.S.S. That section of the novel had fallen out before I got to Spain--before I checked it out! Really!

P.P.P.P.S.S.S.S. What water spots?

Flatter Me, and Only Me

Dear ____________,

You are so smart and talented. You are beautiful and strong and a joy to be with. The world is in need of people like you, so go out and shine! You make the world better wherever you go.

With all my love,

_________________

Please forward/post this to every smart and talented person you know! Be sure and put their name in the header and sign yours, so they know it's a totally personal message. Please send it back to me as well, because I need someone to tell me I am smart and talented too. And because if you don't, you won't be so smart and talented any more.

Facebook is the new hallmark apparently. Which at least is more environmentally friendly. I've always just loved canned greeting cards--you know "happy birthday to my favorite person in the world, who is so talented and beautiful . . .". I mean really, I'm so talented and beautiful just like all the other talented and beautiful people who got this card. I know I'm supposed to feel flattered that when you read this canned compliment, it just made you think of me (and everyone else you know), but it just makes me feel sort of cheap.

If you really want to compliment me (or insult me for that matter) go ahead! Spend a moment and write it out, call me, yell at me, or even do it in a wall post, fine, tell me what you think about me. Otherwise, don't bother. I'm honestly not sitting around feeling sorry for myself that someone hasn't complimented me today. Don't get me wrong, I'm all for mass produced family/status updates--the same news can go out to all your acquaintances. And even general greetings--like "Merry Christmas Everybody!" Just please don't send me the same praise and accolades you send to everyone else. Or if you do, please let me believe it was sincere and individual and don't ruin it by telling me to forward or post it on everyone else's wall. Seriously--does that make anyone feel good? Does anyone actually do that? Oh wait, they must.

I got one the other day, and given the sender, I was oddly surprised, and mildy flattered if somewhat suspicious. Until I got to the end where I was instructed to pass it on. That's when I hit delete. Really, I'd rather just go about my life believing you think I'm fantastic and are just too busy being fantastic yourself to stop and tell me how fantastic I am. Don't ruin it by telling me that I'm fantastic in exactly the same way everyone else in your life is fantastic.

Is that so wrong? Am I a total cad? (Don't answer that.)

P.S. By the way, you are fantastic! So smart and talented!

The Rain In Spain Falls Mainly in Barcelona

I don't even know where to start . . . no pictures yet for reasons it would take too long to explain, but we'll get there. Besides, I didn't take pictures of the food (would've been a little awkward to photograph my plate) which is really the most important part . . . isn't it? Why don't I start with a Spain top ten (with a sub-top ten just for food). Matt keeps asking me what was my favorite part of the trip and I can't narrow it down, so these are in no particular order (except the order in which they pop into my brain).

* The People. I know it sounds cliche to talk about the fantastic people of a country as a whole, but I have to say that the people we acquainted with were some of the most gracious individuals I've ever met. It is akin to the generous people of southern Italy ("Your sweater is pretty." ---"You like?! Here! You have it!"--"No, really,"--"yes, take it!"). It was wonderful tagging along on a business trip of sorts because we weren't just tourists taking it in with a camera. We were fortunate to have hosts who showed us the country they love.

* Santa Maria Del Mar. The Gothic architecture in Barcelona is stunning. The Barcelona Cathedral is itself a masterpiece, but in Santa Maria Del Mar, it's Gothic lite. You get the Gothic lines with out all over-the-top embellishment.

* Park Guell is a wonder. I only wish it had been a nice day in Barcelona (the one day we had in Barcelona, it was pouring, windy and cold). You have to hike it up a big hill to the park, but the pay off is stunning. The architect Antoni Gaudi had a strange and striking style (understatment). The park he created originally as a housing development for the rich and flamboyant (it never caught on). Today it is a whimsical, alice-in-wonderland park with a certain gingerbread house flair. I know little to nothing about architecture or art, but it was (or would be when it's not raining and muddy) a delightful stroll through the wierd world of Gaudi.

* La Sagrada Familia. Was I saying something about over-the-top Gothic and the strangeness of Gaudi? Well, the two are getting married at La Sagrada Familia. This church, designed by our friend Gaudi has been under construction for well over a hundred years. This fall, they should have the nave finished enough that they can host the Pope there for services without fearing he'll be rained upon. In pictures the place just looked to be a jumble of way too much of everything. Given our single day in Barcelona and our not being Catholic, we considered not even visiting. But then, our gracious hosts from previous in the trip discovered our short jaunt to Barcelona and through connections, arranged us a private tour of the church and it's construction zone by none other than the director of the construction--Gaudi died during the construction, and this guy is the new Gaudi. He told us much about the history and symbolism of the project and the whole thing took on a new perspective. Yes, it's over the top, but as I began to take each element individually, rather than trying to digest the whole of it, it was magnificent. It was also just an experience to be in the midst of a long-term church building project. I know the cathedrals of yesteryear took decades upon decades to complete, but you don't see that so much today, and to be in the midst of a century old construction project is fascinating.

* Guadarrama is a mountain village retreat outside of Madrid. This is where the main events of my husband's business trip occurred, hence we spent all of a day and a half in Madrid and the same in Barcelona, we had three and a half lovely days in this charming locale. I was originally worried I would be bored and considered staying by myself in Madrid. But, I am sooooo glad I went. After the long day of travel to Spain, followed by 36 hours in Madrid packed with whirlwind walking tours, my feet and body were itching to take it easy. Enter Guadarrama. It was lovely. The village reminded me of the towns in my mission--not so touristy, just a lot of locale flair. We stayed at a strange but lovely catholic retreat center built in what we termed the neo-prison-bunker style (was the barbed wire keeping threats out, or guests in?). But daily (3-4 times to be exact) the other two wives and I wandered into town, tested out our lack of spanish, ate churros and chocolate and made purchases by pantomime at bakeries and gift shops. It was lovely. In between excursions, I napped and read (thank you Inkmom for the fabulous recommendation--I almost completed all 650 pages in 8 days) and wandered the grounds of the retreat center. On Saturday we hiked up to a nearby reservoir and watch old men fish. It was absolutely lovely and perfect.

* My children, and being without them. We called home once, then decided it was wise not to call again. Not because it made them miss us, but because they just seemed so disinterested in us--they were having a fabulous time without us (oh, except when we did call, we had to talk Ethan down from a tantrum over the fact that he doesn't want to eat cheese pizza, but wanted pesto instead--another reason not to call). We missed our children, but it was so nice to be without them. The may have missed us a bit too, but had so much fun, who really noticed? This was the longest I've been apart from my kids (the better part of 9 days). But we all survived it well, and maybe we'll do it again sometime.

* The Walking. Although we live in a beautiful area with fields and lake and forest, walking just isn't that practical (no sidewalks, muddy trails, etc.). So, despite the traffic and noise of a big city, it was nice just to have sidewalks and subways and shops and restaurants close enough to hoof it. And hoof it we did. My aching calves and shins bore witness.

* The Ladies. An unexpected delight of the trip was the fact that two other wives came along. It was just so pleasant to chat with other camp wives, who understand and delight in the camp life as much as I do. These ladies were smart, beautiful, talented, experience, dedicated and just delightful to get to know.

* The Towels. I would have expected that in Europe, where things are smaller than in the US, I would have found hotel towels at least as ridiculously small as the typical towels in the US. Not so my friends. Never before have I stayed in hotels (four in a row, mind you, so it wasn't just a fluke) that hat towels that circumference the entire bulk of my body! Ahhhh . . . that and the bidets, they think of everything don't they?

* Buen Retiro Park. A lovely, grand park in Eastern Madrid. Every big city should have a fabulous big park.

* The food (where to begin):
1) Hot Chocolate--it's not swiss miss people, this stuff is straight melted chocolate I think, thick, creamy and dark.
2) Churros--there is nothing like dipping churros into the heavenly hot chocolate of Spain.
3) Jamon--I thought prosciuto crudo in Italy was fabulous. Now I think the Italians version is the poor step-sister of what is an incomprable tradition and industry of cured ham in Spain.
4) Breakfast--I've struggled with breakfast all my life--can't do milk and sweets (pastries, and cereal and oatmeal), they make me nasueus. But though I love eggs and such, it's all almost too heavy. But in spain, breakfast, taken a bit later (because they eat dinner at 9 pm or later) is bread and tomatoes and olive oil and cheeses and cured meats. Once I've taken in a bit of this fare, then I can handle a "second course" of some chocolate and pastries. That would more than carry me through to the 2pm lunch (well maybe a little chocolate in the late morning to tie me over).
5) Salmorejo. I knew I'd love gaspacho (seriously, it's like drinking a salad) but I didn't know how much I'd love this version of it. If I had to pick my favorite thing I ate in Spain, this is it.
6) Chocolate. European dark chocolate. Need I say more?
7) Pan seared pork chops with garlic. This was made by the dining hall at the retreat center. It was so tender and thin and well seasoned, it was fabulous. I'm going to try my hand at it for sunday dinner.
8) Tapas. Olives, bread, potatoes and spicy sauce, shrimp topped avocado & onions, fish crusted in sesame, baked mussels, ham-wrapped bread sticks, I could go on. With dinner occurring at 9 or 10 pm, a little tapas at about 6, goes a long way.
9) Three chocolate mousse. White, milk and dark, with shavings of chocolate and a cocoa dusting. mmmmmmmmm . . .
10) Bread. Bread with anything and everything. I loved their first and second courses. Often first was a hearty soup with potatoes or beans, fabulous with crusty bread.
11) Tomatoes on bread. I could live on this. Fresh tomatoes, finely pureed. toasted crusty bread, olive oil and topped with the tomatoes and sprinkled with salt. Wow!
12) Fanta. I've missed the real thing. In a country where people drink wine with every meal, us teetolalers have to have some option. I don't particularly like orange soda in the US. Check the american fanta label--all corn syrup, no juice. Fanta naranja or limon have around 8% juice, and real sugar, no corn nuthin'. No wonder it's so good.
13) Saffron. I must admit, though the paella I had was good, It wasn't so good that I had to buy a paella pan to stuff into my luggage. But the saffron was fabulous in it. I found a little spice shop and bought $10 worth of saffron (like .5 ounce) to take home and make basmati rice and the occasional paella. Oh, and I bought some cold press extra virgin olive oil there too. and chocolate. and a mortar and pestle (that was quite the carry-on albatross). Um, I need to go cook something.

Oh, was that more than 10? I suppose I'll stop for now then.

I must go unpack. I've been sleeping for two days straight trying to get beyond the jet lag. Today is clean and unpack.

Spain and Villains

I know, I've been uncharacteristically absent (well, more so than usual). Let's just say there's been a lot going on. I leave this morning for Spain (yay!) and will return with pictures and details. But in the meantime, here is an Elliotism to get you through:

"Dear Heavenly Father, please bless us that we will be safe and good, and that this food will make us strong so we can fight villains."

--Elliot, blessing lunch

Tortilla Hands

Are you a foodie? I mean, do you read cookbooks like novels? Could you watch the Food Network 24/7 (this is truly why I don't have cable). Do you plan your next meal while eating?

Do you have food-friends? Friends with whom you gather to share meals, recipes, kitchen and grocery tips?

Have you ever found yourself sitting around a fabulous meal with these friends, so very full, yet somehow you're still talking about food? (like the asian evening full of bulgogi, gyoza, kimchi and so much more)

Do you find yourself inviting certain friends to dinner, or out to eat based on shared food preferences? (um, can you say Naan Bread and a Sweet Lassi, please?)

Do you often ponder which type of cuisine is your all time favorite, only to struggle to narrow it down to your top three? (I'd have to say 1. Indian or Thai--depending on my mood, followed by 2. Mexican 3. Then probably Italian, but I'm picky about my Italian food. How about you?)

It seems I find food friends most places we've lived. We find each other. Like magnets, we are drawn together.

Here in my new(ish) home, I've found them.

Last week we gathered at my home to make Lasagne--the real deal, authentic style Lasagne.

Before that it was Enchiladas, refried beans, tomatillo salsa--the real Enchilada sauce, made almost completely from dried chilies. (Did you know that Enchilada is short for Tortillas Enchiladas, meaning the tortilla is en-chilied, or soaked in a sauce made of chilies? Niether did I.)

A couple of weeks ago we had a Falafel lunch complete with Tza-Tziki and humus.

Earlier that same week, I went to my friend's home because her friend Consuela was visiting from Honduras.

Consuela has tortilla hands.

My friend rightly assumed that I would appreciate a lesson in tortilla making from Consuela-- with the tortilla hands. She assumed correctly.

Consuela tells me I have Tortilla Hands. We got along well.

I don't speak much Spanish.

In these recent kitchens with food friends from Honduras, Michigan, Taiwan and elsewhere, I came to the realization that food is not just an obsession, it is a language all it's own. I'm glad I speak it.

P.S. Sometimes I sit and ponder Garlic.

P.P.S. Is that weird?

P.P.S.S. Did I tell you we're going to Spain in a month?

P.P.S.S.S. I'm very excited about the food.

P.P.P.S.S.S. I've checked out a cookbook to study before my trip. So I'll know what to order.

War of the Rodents

Dear Mice,

I've been passive aggressive about this whole thing for far too long. You know, a poorly designed mouse trap here and there (from which you kept stealing the peanut butter as if we run some sort of cheap buffet around here), the well fed cat who merely toys with you when she feels like it, and the just general high tolerance of your filthiness. Well, no more. We've entered a new era. My level of tolerance has plummeted. And, for the record, you brought this on yourself.

A little mouse poop under the sink by the garbage? I don't get overly excited. Mouse-poop in my silverware drawer? Smell that? Yep, that's the smell of my wrath. Bring it on my small friends, Bring. It. On. What? What's that you say? You're already dead, what more do I want? That's right, 2.5 of you little invasive bastards bit the dust on the first evening of my rampage (didn't I just post about foul language? Well, this was justified). As for the half? Wherever you ended up when kitty was done playing with you, I'm sure we'll smell you out sooner or later.

And now that I've squealed for my husband to dispose of your little peanut butter encrusted bodies, and emptied, vacuumed and sanitized everything in every drawer and cupboard in my kitchen, literally crawling inside (or sending my children spelunking) each one to sanitize, lay new shelf paper and stuff every last crevice with wads of steel wool, you ask what more do I want?

I want your relatives.

And all the other critters that think my home is hospitable to uninvited guests.

To you, Mr. Squirrel and Mr. Chipmunk who have spent a cozy winter living in my walls. I watched your footprints in the snow. I found the secret entrance to you lair. And today, that little episode where you had a little crazy dancin' freak out inside my wall until I scared your little furry behind out of there with some serious wall pounding? Yeah, I watched you run your cowardly self up a tree. And while you hid in your tree, I stuffed your little entrance with an enormous wad of the mighty steel wool. And every other possible entrance too. And if there are more? I will follow you until I discover them as well. You may as well find a new home.

And you, large creature that has taken to crawling into your cozy den at the foundation of my home from under my porch? Yes, you. Whatever you are, be you mole, groundhog, raccoon or even furry bunny. Just try and find your den now. What you will discover is a wooden plank screwed over your front door. And stapled to that plank so that it extends another foot below ground? Oh yeah, chicken wire. In front of that chicken wire? Large rocks. On top of those large rocks? About a foot of dense clay soil. Packed down. Jumped upon by my small children and my 270 pound self. Next step? A large planter will be placed in front of the plank, on top of the buried wire and large stones and dense clay. Buh-bye.

As for the bats in my attic? Well, I'm tired. Just stay out of where I store my stuff--no guano on the luggage-o--and keep eating the mosquitoes and you may just live to see another day. Besides, I'm not really sure how to tackle you just yet . . .

With much disdain and wishing you a happy spring,

Jen

Dear Mr. Squirrel,

So maybe I was a tad bit smug in my last letter. Just a tad. And perhaps, given that, you were somewhat justified in doing a victory dance inside my wall again today. All smugness aside, I hope you encountered the large, inhospitable wads of duct tape intermingled with back-up wads of steel wool that I left you as a house-warming gift.

Frustratingly Yours,
Jen
1/17/10

Dear Mr. Squirrel,

Alright, since you want to play that way, consider this fair warning that all that steel wool and duct tape wads that you tauntingly scattered about my garden? Well, that was just the beginning, my pint size force of nature. Consider more steel wool, more duct tape, completely covering your entryway, and, for the kicker, a couple of stones forcefully lodged in your door. Deal with that you little fur ball!

Determinedly Yours,
Jen
1/17/10 Later

I'm having Chip 'n Dale flashbacks. Not the dancers, the rodents . . .

My Young Padawan

Today, after Elliot requested my presence to wipe his bottom, he casually explained to me that he uses The Force to flush the toilet.

I'm so proud.

Later, at dinner, I was informed by both my children that they are One With The Force.

You'd think they could use that to clean their room.

A Minor Rant

When did foul, offensive language become not just acceptable, but laudable? I'm not just talking about swearing, I'm referring also to just plain ugliness. I was in the grocery store last evening and as I was browsing the produce, a woman and a young man (maybe her son?) of about 16 or so were likewise shopping for veggies. I had the pleasure of listening to this kid "jokingly" berate his mother (?) saying things like "dumb-a**" and calling her fat (her whole body was as big as one of my thighs). And she is just laughing, half-heartedly telling him to cut it out. Then she pulls out her cell phone to call someone about their stock of potatoes at home and says something about how she shouldn't have brought Vincent because he's just abusing her, and laughs.

I agree, not only should he have been left home, but she should have asked him to go sit outside in 15 degrees until she was done, unless he chose to knock it off (if you act like a child, expect to be treated like one). Seriously, I avoid taking my kids to the store because of their occasional behavior issues, but they got nothing on this kid and would have been taken outside in a cool minute.

Then he started saying something about killing and maiming her in horrible ways while they both laughed. I nearly said something, maybe I should have, but the best I could muster was a dirty look and a move to another part of the store. I think he just laughed at me and made a joke as I walked away. I did consider reporting them to management, but frankly, I just wanted to get out as quickly as possible. Perhaps my ignoring it is as much to blame as his mother's tolerance. Later as I doubled back to grab something I forgot, from the next aisle over I heard the kid drop a couple of f-bombs. I again considered saying something to the store personnel as I headed for check out. But, the two kids running the register looked younger than this kid, and I then noticed Mr. potty-mouth heading out of the store on his phone saying something about he should have remembered to take his meds. Ya think?

I remember when I was engaged and noticed that it was common practice amongst my in-laws to "tease" each other in really cruel ways. To this day, I regret not saying something the day I heard someone "jokingly" call his daughter "thunder-thighs". Really, don't we have enough constant barrage of negativity to face without expecting it from those who claim to love us the most? But that is another post entirely.

I'm not a prude--I experimented a bit in my youth with offensive language, and I have to admit that there are some times I've heard a bit of foul language used in a very effective way. And, occasionally in moments of stress, I have been known to slip a colorful word in. But generally, it just makes people (me included) sound uneducated and makes those around us uncomfortable. Maybe that's the point.

As my children discover language, we've had this conversation quite a bit. "Mom, is XXXX a bad word?" "Well, not technically, but it certainly isn't a very polite word, so we should try not to use it."

I heard someone describe foul (and I'll include rude and crude) speech as useless, unnecessary words. Really, cut to the chase. Let's quit wasting our time on the pointless and rude and strive for the purposeful and eloquent.

Seriously, who am I to talk about unnecessary words after the birth epics I just posted . . . sheesh!

On Having a Baby

Part 1C of my self-indulgent trip down memory lane: Really Committed

(I just realized that anybody tuning in at this point may have the mistaken impression that I've recently given birth again . . . let's clear that right up. This is the conclusion to my long ramblings about my first baby's birth. I still have only two. Maybe in a few weeks, I'll post Part 2. Though Elliot's birth was somewhat less exciting, thankfully.)

My hospital stay began with a bit of an attitude. I felt fine. My pregnancy had been fine. Really, I'm sure my high reading was due to me vacuuming my car on an overly warm spring day. Can I please just go home now?

I think my nonchalance about the whole predicament contributed to the decision to keep me there.

Finally a nurse had to get blunt with me: Last week we had a woman come in fully eclamptic. She and her baby both died. I'm not telling you this to scare you, but you need to realize how serious your condition is.

I began to adjust my attitude. After the first night of watching infomercials (good thing Matt took my wallet home), I started to wrap my brain around the fact that I would be here until the baby was born. Hopefully, that would be at least two weeks. I realized I could either spend that time in utter frustration and boredom, or I could embrace my role as incubator, and enjoy a couple of weeks of being taken care of prior to my future role as caregiver. I opted for the latter. It took some deep thought, some prayer and wonderful friends who dropped by books and movies and a laptop. There were still tense moments like when for a couple of days Matt thought he was losing his job. But all in all, It wasn't so bad.

I don't know what y'all know about pre-eclampsia (I still don't quite understand), but the gist is, your blood pressure goes up, your organs begin to shut down, your body goes into protective mode and can reject the baby. Eclampsia is when you have a seizure and your organs do shut down. It can indeed, if not caught soon enough, be fatal to mother or baby, or both. If they catch it early enough, and if it doesn't onset too early in the pregnancy, it can usually be controlled with bedrest until the baby is healthy enough to be born. If it doesn't respond to bedrest, they will deliver prematurely in hopes of saving both mother and baby. The cure for pre-eclampsia is childbirth. Once the baby is born, symptoms generally disappear. (Though I can say I have had problems with my blood pressure ever since, though not before). The cause is unknown, though there are some factors that increase your risk. (Including being overweight . . . hmmm).

In my case, they caught it early, it wasn't too advanced, and I was well along in my pregnancy. They hoped to keep the baby in me for another two weeks, and planned, once I reached "full term" at 38 weeks, to induce me. Possibly earlier if tests indicated the baby could handle it. Begin week one of hospital stay.

What tests you ask? How about an amniocentesis? If you don't know, this procedure involves a very, very long needle (my distorted memory would say it was about 18 inches long). They stick the needle in your belly and suck out amniotic fluid. Then they analyze the fluid to tell if the baby's lungs are ready for the outside world. The dangers of an amnio are that it can induce labor (more of a danger early in pregnancy) and inadvertently poking the baby (more of a danger later in pregnancy when the baby is bigger). I noticed no one is too concerned about poking the mother. The interesting thing I didn't realize is that they do the amnio while they're doing an ultrasound--this is how they attempt to not poke the baby. They just look around with the ultrasound until they find a pocket large enough to stick the needle. Highly scientific. After that whole involved procedure, the results showed my baby's lungs were borderline, meaning that he might be ready, he might not. Thank you Captain Obvious.

I hunkered down to wait another week to do another amnio. Despite my best efforts at being an incubator, I was beginning to go a little stir crazy. I'd been moved to one of the larger rooms reserved for us long-term residents. I considered myself lucky when they told me the woman across the hall (with the do not disturb sign on the door) had been there about three months. It was about this time that I began to forget what the outdoors smelled like. I was allowed to get up only to go to the bathroom, and to shower occasionally. Once a day I also got an exciting wheelchair ride down to be hooked up to the monitor.

My sweet husband successfully petitioned the doctor to take me on one 10-minute wheelchair ride every afternoon--my daily treat (in addition to the hospital cuisine--thank heavens for friends and take out Taco Del Mar.)

One day shy of 38 weeks, I went in for another amnio. The baby had gotten so much bigger and the fluid level had decreased so much that they were unable to find a safe pocket to poke me. They gave me the option of waiting 24 hours and trying again or waiting 24 hours and just starting the induction--assuming that having hit the magic 38 week number, baby's lungs would be fine. I praised the Lord and chose induction.

I will not go into detail. Suffice it to say that it involved two doses (full 24 hours) of cervical ripener, (which just is not fun), lots of walking and stair climbing after being immobile for 2 full weeks, pitocin, the breaking of my water with a big knitting needle, an epidural which worked in every place but the important one, a second epidural to remedy that situation, a midnight encounter between my nether regions and a gentleman OB I had never before met, a near vacuum extraction, an episiotomy, a hefty dose of magnesium sulfate and a catheter.

But, there was also a lovely, healthy, large baby boy. At 8 pounds 11 ounces, I'm very glad we didn't wait another two weeks, because really, I don't need to birth a 10 pound baby to make me feel complete. We named him Ethan Asher, and he was beautiful.
My ugly baby fears were completely unfounded (lie to me if I'm deluded).

I was wheeled back to my room amidst applause from the nurse's station--we were all old friends by then--as I waved like Miss America--on dope. You see, by then I was fully into the truck-running-over-me effect of the magnesium sulfate. They give you mag after a pre-eclampsia induction to prevent seizure. You can apparently still seize shortly after birth. It prevents seizure by relaxing EVERY muscle in your body. You cannot stand up (hence the catheter), or really move much at all. You are also not allowed eat. So, given the 24 hours or so pre-delivery fast, the energy-sucking birth experience and the 24 hour post-delivery fast, all I did was drool over MickeeDees commercials in my darkened hospital room. I cannot remember what I ate at the end of those, the longest 48 hours of my life, but it was delicious. I was not allowed visitors (or lights) for those 24 hours, so I recall Matt wheeling the baby out to greet guests in the waiting room. It's all a sort of weird, hazy memory.

Here I am, under the influence


Ethan was a bit beat after the ordeal himself


We spent another 24 hours in the hospital and brought our precious baby home on Easter Sunday. I'll save you the breast-feeding fiasco that ensued and the long days filled with diapers, baby talk and the mamma baby code, but it was quite the ride. Friends wondered if I'd ever have another given the traumatic experience and all the courage I had to muster up in the first place. What they didn't realize is that the whole thing was far, far less traumatic than the scenarios I had imagined.

Through all this, I've realized a few things about myself. One is that God understands me far better than I can begin to understand myself--and He understands what will make me happiest, far better than I. I hope you don't read from these posts that somehow my children were unwanted. Quite the opposite. I had to choose to have these children. I had to overcome my fears and inadequacies, and put my faith in my Heavenly Father--to trust that He could make more of my life than I could ever on my own. And it's been quite the adventure. Parenting is not my forte, but I'm so glad I chose it. And I'm getting better at it. Slowly. By the time they're adults, I just might be very good at it.