Book Review #59 - A Lantern In Her Hand

I need to get this book out of my head. I think it's partly to blame for this heavy blanket of melancholy I've been feeling since Friday.

Originally published in 1928, Beth Streeter Aldrich uses this novel to create a fantastic female character, Abbie Deal. Abbie's story begins in 1854, when she is eight years old and at the start of a three week journey, traveling with her family by wagon from Illinois to Iowa. The fact that I grew up listening to pioneer stories from this era made her voyage very vivid in my mind. I could see the sacks of flour falling out of the wagon and floating in the river and the oxen slowly pulling all the families' possessions along a bumpy buffalo trail. The story ends in 1926 with Abbie's death at the age of 80. The face of America changed dramatically between those years, and Abbie's life changed alongside it.

Part pioneer story, part pride of Nebraska lesson, part farming tutorial, part commentary about marriage - Aldrich ultimately uses Abbie Deal to explain the choices and sacrifices that faced a 19th century woman, or more specifically, a mother.

Perhaps Abbie Deal's selfless mothering is the source of my distress. I've always felt I've lacked in this arena and while I've tried really hard not to compare myself to my friends' and siblings' styles of mothering, I found myself forlorn with the realization that I was no Abbie Deal. Abbie was a natural mother. She postponed her dreams of becoming a singer and learning how to paint the prairie's sunset to follow her husband, Will, to Nebraska at the end of the Civil War.

Originally, she postponed these dreams for the sake of her husband, who needed to carve his own way in life away from his father. Later she postponed them because there was no money or opportunity and every ounce of her energy went into building their home and farm and caring for her young children. Later yet, she postponed them because her children grew and had dreams of their own that required any extra time or money she had saved. Finally, she abandoned them altogether because her talents had left her. Her voice had faded from non-use and her fingers were gnarled and knobby from years of work. In the end, all she was left with was her good name and the pride she had in her children's accomplishments.

Thus started the deep, stabbing pain in my chest. This kind of story, really...the universal story of motherhood, always leaves me feeling a little "damned if you do, damned if you don't". Abbie gave up everything of her own...her talents, her time, her figure (I can really relate to this), her life...for her children. The feminist in me resists....even feels slightly miserable that we women are expected and praised for being noble and altruistic, but void of personal achievement. The mother in me, however, wipes away a tear as I watch life from back stage instead of front and center, but wholly gets that my family is THE point. I get to clap and cheer and know that my efforts made this grand production possible.

Throughout the book, Abbie does women a great service by allowing herself to wonder "what if". What if she had married that other boy who wanted her but who she didn't quite love, the one whose wife now wears all those fine clothes? What if she and Will hadn't moved to Nebraska and avoided suffering through drought and grasshoppers and blizzards? What if she had kept at her singing...developed the talent that everyone acknowledged she had? What if, what if, what if? What if I had? What then? Is the prize for the correct choice happiness?

The fun in discussing this book would be hearing the strong arguments that defend the choices made at either end of the spectrum, and all the shades in between. Today, we lucky women get to choose whatever shade we like. Do we like how we look? Does it match our souls?

Abbie Deal chose motherhood but the story did not romanticize her choice. Abbie's story included every distracted husband, every sick child, every annoying friend and every moody child. And yet, in the end, Abbie sat as an old woman and felt satisfied that her five children were a fine product of her life's work.

I recommend this book to every woman out there who enjoys tales of pioneer life or more importantly, empathizes with the difficult decisions made by women everywhere...always.

A Trial Separation

Dear Winter,

I've always defended you against your opponents. Always said you were something I couldn't live without. With you, a cup of hot chocolate tastes sweeter. With you, a movie date on the couch with a down throw is much more romantic. With you, the mountains become playgrounds and you give the cold credibility.

But lately, you've been hovering. You're always around...always, and I can't get anything done. I wake up and there's no reason to get going. There's no where to go - no where to be. Your constant presence has started to suck the life out of me and I'm not fun or motivated anymore.

At first, you were so good with my kids. They got to build a snowman and go sledding and you even helped build a cool fort. But my boys are still little and you aren't the easiest playmate. In fact, you don't help me at all. If I try to make them to play with you, it creates that much more work for me. So, they ignore you and stay inside and make more messes and more noise. You really only make my day harder.

Please don't panic. I don't think you're horrible and still recognize the many positive qualities you possess. But I'm tired of my car being dirty and and I'm tired of wet socks and I'm really, really tired of my frizzy hair, my pale skin and sweaters that need a special cycle on the wash.

Please leave. I'm begging you. I cried three times yesterday and I think it's your fault. We need a break.

I'm not saying I want you gone forever. I know I still love you...deep down. But I think some time apart will give me the perspective I need if we are going to make this relationship last the rest of our lives.

I think we should take about nine or ten months and see how we feel about each other then? I really think we need to do this. For our future. For my sanity.

Remember, I'm asking for this because I care about you. The last thing in the world I want to have happen is for me to end up hating you. I just need a little....change.

Still yours,

Lucy

P.S. I'm sorry you didn't make it into my love letters week. You might have had the week come earlier in the year, but your warm welcome expired about a month ago.

One Thing I Don't Love....

are those blasted little word verification things to decipher, type correctly and hope you don't get timed out as the computer decides if your interpretation is worthy enough.

I know why you have them. I understand.

But my loving stops there. Apparently, I do not have the bottomless pit I was aiming for.

Have a nice weekend.

Dear Jay,

I am fully aware of your feelings about the bearing of testimony about your spouse. Not the time or the place, you say, and I mostly agree. For that reason, I never mention you at the pulpit and my guilt spills over to include any public declaration. To toe the line, I won't write about how much I love you....my funny, funny valentine.

I won't say how you are my true love and when we have all our ducks in a row, all our pistons firing, and the wind behind our sails - life couldn't be sweeter.

I won't tell you that even when things are amiss, and we both silently wonder why, I adore you just the same. Because I know you would never knowingly hurt me or be anything less than what I want and need you to be. Your trial in life is me not telling you.

I won't proclaim my luck in scoring the best dad on the planet. They'd be beating at our door if they knew the power of your stories, the depth of your sports knowledge and prowess at making toy boxes.

I will keep silent about your humor, your "going down the stairs" move behind the kitchen counter, your impulses to do push-ups after watching anything about the armed forces or your sweet kisses in the morning.

I will keep these things strictly between us (wink, wink) because in the end, as long as you know I love you, it doesn't really matter who else does. I hope you know, because I do. Truly. Madly. Deeply. Wait...isn't that a song?

Your biggest fan,

Me

Dear Sisters and Brother,

No, I am not referring to the general human family, but you...sweet siblings....who are most genetically similar to me.

I remember in primary, singing Families Can Be Together Forever, and loving that I was going to be together FOREVER with you guys. I could picture it perfectly. Mom and Dad and the six of us, sitting around a heavenly living room playing the water game and eating apple slices that Dad had cut up. Heaven indeed.

When I got married and started having children of my own I finally realized the vastness of the links - that we are all linked together but it's not exclusive to our happy little circle. Now I'm linked to mine and you to yours and the living room I have in my head needs to be altered. Happy with these new links, I still mourn the loss of that perfect living room, without a crack in the ceiling to worry about. Because we were such a happy family, weren't we?

I know we aren't dead and a happy family still, but I don't think I'm being overly dramatic to point out the memory of what was that will never quite be again. We were great together! Sure, Mom and Dad get a lot of credit for being fantastic parents, but I think our own personalities had a lot to do with our awesomeness.

Emily with your hair skills and supreme style. At least to one idolizing younger sister who couldn't wait to wear your puffy white prom dress (which I never could...damn my larger bones!) but did get my fair share of home perms and rag curls.

Maureen with your musical genius, mastering the Hallelujah chorus accompaniment while singing (so hard to do....but my favorite Christmas tradition ever) and willingness to party...wherever. Perhaps our perch on the piano annoyed some of you (Sarah freely admits it), but I loved playing The Spirit of God duet at the piano (even though I had the ridiculously easy part), singing Torch songs and church ballads. This, I hope, continues in the eternities.

Jon with your humor. Can Jon be in the room and the rest of us not laugh? Whether you're dancing, leading, air drumming or just using your voice and your eyes in that way makes most of my childhood memories complete. Our home certainly would have been different without you for a brother. I think he may be all of our favorite.

Jen with your loyalty, effort and organization. It seems so boring as I type it but you're anything but. You're the glue, most times...putting your skills to use and visiting and inviting as often as needed to keep us close. Then, you surprise all who don't know you well (but I smugly enjoy my insider information) and rock out to X96, celebrate Bono's birthday with a lemon cake and travel around the country for extra concerts.

Sarah with your nurturing ways. If ever there was a mother to us all (besides, of course, our actual mother), you're her. How strange that this personality trait shines from baby sister, who has been this way since I've known you. You were always willing to let me share your bed and warm up with your heated skin, always there for each of my achievements, doing whatever necessary to help me out on the way. As an adult you're only more motherly. Sometimes I feel tinges of guilt when you shows up at my door with Nyquil after I told you I was fine, but really...it's just how you love. So I let myself bask in it.

I'm happy when you're happy. I hurt when you do. I think this is what family means. You have taught me the most important thing I've needed to know during this adult life of mine. That family, ours and mine, is my greatest treasure.

Forever yours (like it or not),

Lucy

Dear Henry,

No-no

Uh-oh

Go-go....crash.

Last week, your Aunt Sarah was eating dinner with us and you were being particularly cute. As I sat there, completely bewitched, I said out loud, "I don't know if it's his diagnosis with a speech disorder or what, but I so completely love him right now. It's like he can do no wrong!"

Sarah chuckled and said, "except for when we were talking on the phone on Tuesday and you yelled, "I could seriously sell this kid!""

Oh yeah...I must have forgotten about that particular moment.

The truth is, you could drive me to drink...if I were a drinking woman, but you are also about the cutest, most lively, most charming little person to ever cross my path.

I suppose that's how I rationalize coming in to sleep with you when you cry in the middle of the night. Or why I fill up yet another sippy cup of your exclusive very vanilla soy milk (somehow the rest of us manage to get by with the regular stuff) instead of forcing you to eat that sandwich. It's definitely the reason as to why I give in and say, "really....this is the last one" and hand you another miniature Reses Peanut Butter cup when you rub your belly and say "eese"

I joke (sort of) about what a challenging child you are but there is no doubt that you and I had a plan from the beginning about how our arrangement would work. You knew I'd be a trifle over confident in my parenting skills and agreed that a little humility should be sent my way. How else can I explain why my exasperated heart eases when you suddenly stand up in the bathtub, which you are in because you just sprayed Grease Away all over your hair and lean over the edge to kiss me? It's as if you are gently reminding me that we agreed to all of this and you are simply doing your part to teach me an essential truth about my job as your mom. It's not about me teaching you perfect obedience but about you (and your more obedient brothers) teaching me about perfect love.

I do, I do, I do....love you. My little Henry at age two:)

Mom

Dear Inlaws,

I wonder if this letter takes you by surprise. Maybe. Probably. But I hope not. My life is greatly blessed because you are a part of it.

Because I married Jay I have:

• a gentle brother-in-law who will be required to work miracles with my children's teeth.
• a sister-in-law who taught me, with great courage and understanding, about the purpose of prayer.
• a brother-in-law who makes me laugh, but still doesn't feel comfortable feeling my face with a blindfold on.
• a sister-in-law who lent me "the gospel"about sleep and babies, and changed the way I parent forever (although, now I admit to going astray which has left me sleep deprived and miserable).
• a brother-in-law who has strong convictions and a bold way of declaring them, that even though I lost the debate and left the room in tears (horrifying!), he still considers me a friend and never, ever rubs it in.
• a sister-in-law who introduced me to T-Tapp and was the first one to help me understand what it meant to be married to one of the boys.
• a brother-in-law who seems shy, until it comes to fantasy football where he makes his bold moves and leaves no prisoners.
• a sister-in-law who threw me my bridal shower, made each of my boys a quilt and has the neatest handwriting ever!
• a brother-in-law who keeps us on the straight and narrow when it comes to finding good BBQ and Rootbeer.
• a sister-in-law who totally intimidated me at our first meeting, but who I now consider one of my best friends. Anytime I can swap kids with someone, and it actually makes my life easier, I know I've found a soul sister.
• a brother-in-law who loves my children and lets them hang all over him the minute he comes through the door.
• a sister-in-law who is so down to earth and easy to like, I forget we really just met and haven't already been friends for our whole lives.
• a father-in-law who I've never seen lose the battle over paying the bill. He has some sneaky ninja ways to get it paid for before anyone else knows it even came.
• a mother-in-law who quietly loves her entire family, in more ways than I can mention.
  
  
  Jay's family
• and who they married
  
  
  

And because you married one of us, I have:

• a brother-in-law I used to be able to hold my own when it came to microbiology jargon, but now leaves me completely in the dust with his knowledge. He also falls into the category of super-dad.
• a sister-in-law who forgave me for being less than kind at our first meeting (I was just a tad possessive of my brother), but who loves sports as much as me (well...maybe more) , would be a fun amazing race partner, has no fear when it comes to karaoke (love that), shares with me her incredible card making skills and makes the best rolls I've ever tasted.
  
• a brother-in-law who was adopted into the family long before he actually dated my sister. He serves and serves and serves and whenever I visit, he offers to watch my kids so that I am free to play with my sister. I should also mention he's quite handy and saved me a bundle when I thought my disposal was broken.

My cup runneth over. I love all of you.

Lucy

Dear Sammy,

There are times I love you best because you perform so well in the middle. Both of your bookend brothers use and abuse you, but you've got the smarts to realize that they need you for most of their fun and play your central role aptly. While I'll find myself annoyed at Seth because I know he's manipulated you into giving him your turn too ("I'll show you how to do it, Sam"), you never seem to notice. Henry constantly wants whatever toy you're playing with and if I don't have the stamina to ignore his shrieks, you surrender your toy despite the blatant unfairness. Or at least forgive him for biting you.

At five, you fluctuate between seven and two. You brilliantly rattle off the answers to eight plus four or fifteen minus two but minutes later say, "Me want juice." in hopes that your baby voice will procure action on my part. It never does. I force the five year old out of you because we both know how capable five year-olds really are.

You haven't taken off your brand new CTR ring since they handed it to you in primary. Even now, a month and a half later with your finger tinged green beneath it, you wear it responsibly because you know what it stands for. Obedience doesn't come quite so naturally to you, and yet you always relent because you know it matters. Oh, Sam...I see so much of me in you.

Perhaps that is why I gloat when your adorableness presents itself. When you dominate fencing on the Wii with your patented jiggle, I see my moves. When you race and cheat by running diagonally in front of the other person, I understand the need to compensate for shorter legs and admire your strategy. When you quickly hop down to your own bed after I bust you and your brother for playing together on the top bunk well past our agreed upon bedtime, I secretly love that you two are such good friends that sleep takes a back seat to friendship and giggles. It should....most of the time. However, that doesn't mean I won't continue to bust you because little boys need sleep to grow and to prevent the grouchies.

You are full of life and make my life full.

I love you.

Mom

Dear Friends,

It is one of the blessings of old friends that you can afford to be stupid with them.

Ralph Waldo Emerson

Friendship is born at that moment when one person says to another: "What! You, too? Thought I was the only one."
C.S. Lewis

“A friend is someone who knows the song in your heart and can sing it back to you when you have forgotten the words."

“Don't walk in front of me; I may not follow. Don't walk behind me: I may not lead. Just walk beside me and be my friend."

Albert Camus

"Life is partly what we make it, and partly what it is made by the friends we choose."
Tennessee Williams

I could leave it at that and say, "Yeah, what the quotes say" but then it's just a card(although a digital card published for the world to see that didn't even cost me a stamp) with someone else's words (although those words are well placed and meaningful. You'll not be so lucky with mine).

Oh...you friends. You friends that like me despite knowing me. How I adore you. You like me even though I forget your birthdays. If, by chance, you're lucky enough to have your birthday remembered, you know your present is going out to lunch with me (a win/win, if you will). You like me even though all I ever bring to a potluck is a bag of chips or package of cookies (or else something that didn't turn out like I hoped). You like me even though I rarely call, because the phone just isn't my thing. Thank you for liking me in spite of me.

I love you because you have stuck with me through the days of choreographing a dance to "Eye of The Tiger" for the talent show, writing fake book reports, inviting me for sleepovers in your waterbed (glorious!) and showing up for school dressed like Pauly Shore (gross).


I love you because you didn't think spending the day on a floatie at the lake was a waste of time AND you usually brought some tunes....or at least some baby oil to share (I have you to thank for my moles), because you were always willing to dance with me at the lame stake dance (or wherever, really. Just give us a beat and watch us shimmy!), and because you didn't care if I made fun of your cheesy boyfriend (although...looking back, that was kind of rude of me. I think you must have been putting on a brave face. But, I really hope that you can now agree that him serenading you with a Janet Jackson song was hilarious. Because it was.)


I love you because you didn't freak out about your food when we shared a refrigerator (like some of our other roommates. My mozzarella cheese was your mozzarella cheese), because you were game to go to Ladies Night at The Edge every...single....Wednesday and because you knew I was a much better person than the one I acted like.


I love you because you let me hang out with you when my life sucked, because you actually considered me part of your gang and invited me along to sit in the front row of all those kung-fu movies and because you liked me still the same when my life stopped sucking.

I love you because you hung out with me even though I was a neurotic mother of ONE child and felt the world would end if he didn't get to bed by 7:00, because you taught me how to play pinochle and because you invited me to your cooking club (even though we both knew I didn't really belong there).


I love you because you loved Chipotle, The Outback and Fergie's Frozen Custard as much as I did, because you kept our joint laundry room sparkling and because you waited for me at the top of that killer hill... the one I never ran to the top of first.


I love you because you walked across the street from the park to introduce yourself, because you brought me a steak dinner after Sammy was born, and because you love my son so much you want him to marry your daughter (I take that as a huge compliment).

I love you because you went through my house and showed me what would be cuter, because you parted with a cute old door to support the cause(and hung it on my wall!) and because you always, always, always shared your creative talent with me.


I love you because you invited me to can peaches with you before realizing how out-of-my league that sort of activity was for me, because hanging out with you is the best and easiest time I've ever had and because you invited me along, more times than I can count, when Jay was working, out of town or busy...even though that couldn't have been your ideal way to spend your own date night. Or vacation. Or lake outing.


I love you for loving bookgroup and making it a necessary part of your month. Even if you didn't read the book, you came because it was that much fun. And it was only that much fun because we were are all convinced it would be.


I love you for being a stalker and wearing me down with witty and helpful emails until I realized that we were one soul in two bodies (that was a quote I didn't include...so I can't take credit for it). I love you for sending a gluten-free present when Jay finished his boards, even though you had never met either of us in person and because you love Pat Benetar's We Belong as much as I do (o.k...you love it more).

I love you for getting me into blogging, for keeping in touch without blogs for many, many years, and for hanging out with me after a day of skiing, even though it meant you had to fetch a blow dryer to get rid of your hat hair.


I love you for reading my blog....because you care about what I think, how I feel and what I have to say and you like me.

In spite of me.

“It is by chance that we met, by choice that we became friends."

Your friend forever,

Lucy

To My Parents:

I miss you! I know it's only five more weeks until you are home, but it feels like you have been gone a long, long time. Much longer than eighteen months. It pains me a little to think of you being home, perhaps even permanently, and me moving so far away. Much too far for a quick weekend trip, or a solo trip when Jay gets busy. Now, our visits will be a concerted effort, with a schedule and deadline and may even require a topper for the van!

Despite the distance and the possibility of poor gas mileage, I eagerly await reintroducing your grandchildren to the joys of my childhood home. They'll get reacquainted with a certain short order breakfast cook (thanks Grandpa!), and a few treasure's from Grandma (who always finds a good deal and buys in bulk).

Serving a mission is a sacrifice. You've sacrificed your time, your freedom, your life as you knew it to serve where you were needed. I feel so fortunate that I was able to see firsthand the good works that you have accomplished in Myanmar. You most definitely have done it unto the least of the Lord's children. What service you rendered for Him!

We've sacrificed too. We've given up easy access to our advice givers, our co-celebrators, our recipe holders and our apron. Although the strings are cut, as you knew they would be (independence surely comes after four years), I hope the apron comes out of storage to at least whip up a stove top chocolate cake:-)

See you soon!

Lucy

Dear Seth,

I keep waiting for you to be big. I see you on the cusp of it. When you lie on your top bunk reading Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince, I think, "Surely, he is getting big. Look at that honkin' book!" When you beat your dad at Madden Football because of your genius play calling ability and mastery of the numbchuck, I know it's close by. And especially when I look out at you sitting next to your brothers and dad in the chapel on Sunday, wearing your navy blue suit jacket, whose sleeves stop well above your wrist now, and quietly reading a book - no longer needing food, toys or coloring books to entertain you. I see your independence and maturity.

However, as soon as you verge towards big, I catch you watching a Teletubbies episode, completely mesmerized even though I turned it on for your baby brother. I see your shoe laces, loosely tied together and wonder if I should intervene and snug that knot in place. Best of all, I still manage to snuggle with you, without begging or bartering, on the sofa or chair, lacing my fingers with yours, and finding out the latest and greatest in your world.

Without any announcements or time, you teeter back. At Target, you choose the $9.99 pair of shoes because, "They're the best price. And they're perfectly fine.", even though I try and convince you to try on the much cuter brown pair for $21.99. I know you listen to your dad and me, Mr. Elephant Ears, and you are a boy who doesn't ever plan on being in debt. I love watching you play The Farming Game (although I loathe the actually playing of it) and your struggle with the rules of buying farm equipment, livestock and feed with money you haven't earned yet. I don't think Dave Ramsey ever counted on such a young disciple. Part of me smiles that you include yourself in our adult world, and part of me sighs, because you feel it necessary to offer to pay for dinner.

You are such a passionate little boy and so extremely easy to please. The unprovoked, "I love you, Mom" I earn for simply filling up your bowl with another helping of Fruity Pebbles, unrequested, is worth the expense of sugary cereal. Healthy or not, it must be doing something because you continue to grow like a weed. Pretty soon, I won't have to remind you to "sit on your pockets" and put your legs down at the dining room table....they just won't manage to fold themselves up onto your chair like they do now.

I hope I never stifle your spark in life. You have many gifts, but my favorite is your innate desire to be good. Choosing the right makes you happy, and when I manage to do my job, and fill your life with those opportunities, your joy is my own reward. I'm forever flummoxed as to why there are weeks we forget Family Home Evening. The nights we manage it, your entire body lights up because we are doing what we should. You are the class where the teacher starts everyone with an "A". You came as an "A." I am just trying keep it.

I know you're getting ready to make the leap. The days of you running down the hall with your brother doing the naked bath dance are numbered, and the nights when you cuddle together in the bottom bunk won't last forever. I absolutely dread the day you stop singing to Dad when he walks through the door after work. Or when you stop asking for that bedtime story about cowboys, or Zorro, or being the starting Quarterback in the Super Bowl.

Perhaps I need not fear. Perhaps your ten year-old self, your twelve year-old self, even your fifteen year-old self will continue to blow me away with delight. I hope so. Because I marvel at your seven, almost eight year-old you.

I love you.

Mom

In the Spirit of Valentines....

My goal this week is to buoy the blogging world with love by leaving more comments. Sometimes, I get in a hurry and only read stuff on my reader. That's why private blogs get so neglected by me. Days will go by when I won't think anything new is out there because I'm not using the links on my sidebar.

So, if it seems like I'm suddenly stalking you, or everywhere in commentland, it's just my way of expressing my friendship. My love language is Words of Affirmation, and I show love and feel love with words. How easy am I? Gifts...nice but not necessary. Time... only when it's good for me. Service...usually I can do it myself, but thanks! and Touch...well, I love touch too. But this is the cyber world we're talking about and I think I'd creep you out if I showed up at your door offering a backscratch or neckrub.

As far as my own blog goes, I'm going to spend the week writing love letters to those I love. They probably aren't very commentable, because it'll feel more private. But if you feel like it, know they won't be considered invasive or offensive.

It's all about the love...

Happy Valentine's Week!:)

Book Review #57 - The Life of Our Lord

A very quick read (I read it in less than an hour last night), this contains a personal narrative of the life of Jesus Christ given by Charles Dickens to his children. The language is informal and written so that his children could follow and understand.

While there is nothing contained within the pages that those familiar with the Bible haven't already heard, to read it so condensed, so casually and with such love is refreshing. This isn't a history lesson, nor is it a sermon. It is simply the testimony of an important author about the man he knew was his Lord.

You'll hear no complaints from me.

Book Review #56 - The Book Thief

Here it is, only February, and I don't know if I'll be lucky enough to read a better book this year.

I only recently heard about The Book Thief when Jill mentioned it on her blog. She and several others gave it such a strong review that I looked it up on Goodreads. I was a little dismayed when I learned it was set in Nazi Germany, because, well...I wasn't sure what else could be written about that time that hadn't already been said, and said well by many different authors.

I'm so glad I didn't let that thought stop me. This is a quirky book. The narrator is Death, and death isn't a very typical story teller. There are these abrupt bold statements centered throughout the pages when Death feels further information is necessary. They bothered me at first because I couldn't get into my normal rhythm. And, sometimes, his little side comments seemed slightly irreverent. Wait, books don't do this. Not books about the holocaust and Nazi Germany. But this book did, and once I got used to it, I loved Death's little insights.

My favorite thing about this book is it's fairness about one of the most unfair times in human history. The unbelievably complicated situation that the German people were in, their motives, their fear, even their ignorance is not necessarily defended, but explained. Their story is told through Liesel, a young girl who watches her brother die on a train as she is being taken to live with foster parents. After her brother is buried, she snatches a book left in the snow called, The Gravediggers Handbook. Unable to read, she hides the book in her bed until her gentle and loving foster father finds it and uses it to teach her how.

It isn't really about the Germans and the Jews....it's about our human instincts to survive and our race towards death. Death has a really interesting perspective, which lends itself to many quote worthy statements.. His viewpoint (and I'm just assigning gender to him, I'm not sure he actually does) is a troubling one, a compassionate one, an irreverent one and one that left me sobbing tears onto the pages at its end.

While I think this book is suitable for every reader, those easily offended might be troubled by some German profanity. However, in my opinion, not only is it necessary and relevant to the character's communication, it's in a foreign language...which doesn't really count.

I'm grateful this book crossed my path. It touched me.

Book #55 - The Witch of Blackbird Pond

I know this is a classic. A Newberry award winner for juvenile fiction, I can hardly criticize such a loved book. Sadly, I did not read this when it was meant to be read, as a youth struggling to know it's more important to do the right thing than to fit in with what everybody else is doing.

Important, worthy lesson, but after reading two young adult novels this week with very similar themes (does this happen to anyone else? I always seem to inadvertently read books in "themes"), I feel there is something lacking when an adult reads young adult literature. Innocence, perhaps. It's too simple. The protagonists don't fit inside the story. They are almost always ahead of their times and privy to understanding that their peers don't seem to have access to. Where did Kit come from? Barbados, yes...but possibly from the 20th century as well? As modern readers, we have the hindsight to see and learn from the foibles of our ancestors and their limited understanding, but the author gave this sort of vision to Kit immediately.

I don't know if this is ever argued (and why am I arguing, didn't I promise not to?) but part of me feels like there is an anti-obedience theme in this book. Kit is almost always disobedient, and her disobedience always turned out to be the right thing to do. Because it's young adult literature, everything turns out fine in the end, but there is a difference in doing the right thing and doing what you want to. This is a much deeper discussion to be typed out here, and I won't blaspheme this good book any more. I know it's a favorite.

Book Review #54 - The Raging Quiet

A novel for young adults, this story highlights the struggle of an ahead-of-her-times girl, Marmie, and her new deaf friend, Raven, who is believed by all of the rest of the ignorant townspeople to be a madman.

Marmie meets Raven when she is brought to the town as a young bride on her wedding day, married to Isake, a lord more than twice her age. She notices Raven being beaten by townspeople as she and her husband ride into town on their wagon. While waiting for her new husband to finish getting drunk in a tavern outside in the rain, Raven approaches her bleeding, hungry and scared. Not at all intimidated, she offers him food and their unusual friendship begins.

Fortunately for her, after two days of not quite so wedded bliss, her husband falls from the thatched roof he is repairing and is killed. This leaves her free to develop her friendship with Raven, discover that he cannot hear, and begins her quest to teach him how to communicate by using signs. I found this troubling. Surely he was not the first deaf person in all of Europe. I didn't know why they found him so scary.

Set in medieval Europe, when witchcraft was feared and those with birth defects were considered evil, Marnie saintly and stubbornly teaches the young man "hand talk". When the townspeople (apparently all uncharitable and bad) see her using hand signals to him, they are convinced she is a witch and has put him under her spell.

I understand why these books are written. Yes, I suppose I can apply the moral of the story to our own day and recognize the universal lesson that just because people are different doesn't mean they are bad. Unfortunately, I think I'm too cynical for some young adult fiction.

This book was too simple and the characters entirely too boxed in. Marmie, is always selfless, always determined, always fearless and always right. The other characters were ignorant, mean and sneaky. I just don't enjoy the lack of subtlety. Few characters should so easily fall into a good or bad category as every single one is (or should be) flawed.

I think there are better books out there that tell this story better. But maybe not for young people. I don't think I'm the best judge.

IEKSA

I love how we compartmentalize grief. Five stages, right? Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression and Acceptance. Or DABDA, if you will.

When I first learned about these magical stages, sometime during my 7th grade year, I thought they were a hard fast rule. If something bad happened, and I was angry about it, I'd think, "Can't I hurry up and feel depressed already?" Because that meant acceptance was next on the list and that was the only stage I wanted to be in.

Of course I say this facetiously, and am not meaning to belittle true grief. For those who experience it, I apologize that your suffering has been organized so well for you.

In a much more lighthearted arena, I thought I'd share with you my latest epiphany.

There are also five stages of Blog Award awareness.

In the year and a half that I've been blogging, I've experienced the unique phenomenon that is blog awards. Through hindsight, I can look back and point out some of the stages I've been in.

1. Ignorance. There you are, blogging along when you notice one. Perhaps it's on a sidebar of one of those "big" blogs you lurk on, or even good friend's blog but the bright chartreuse banner, the shiny trophy, the picturesque landscape catches your eye. They are all named differently but with titles that induce feelings of pride. Nice. Thinker. Inspirational. Mom. Rockin'. All things I aspire to be. Ignorance led to....
2. Envy. Why doesn't anyone think my blog is special? I'm nice. I think. Maybe I'm not very inspirational but I'm pretty sure I rock. How arbitrary is this judging system? My envy led to...
3. Knowledge. If you're curious enough, you can trace the origins to most awards. I wasn't. I didn't know where these accolade's came from, but I must have imagined them to be from some voting academy, because when I was finally given a blog award from a friend, and through the link discovered its origin, I was disappointed to discover that it was nothing more than a glorified chain letter. Pass this on to five people, who are each then supposed to pass it on to five people, etc. etc. etc. The award I was given, although from a distinguished blogger who I admire greatly, was started by a sixteen year old girl who had given herself an elvish name and wrote passionately about the evils of the secular world, the superiority in home schooling, and the paramount nature of all things Lord of the Rings. I couldn't take it seriously and ended up ignoring a very kind gesture. This unfortunate knowledge led to...
4. Scorn. Blog awards are unfair. They circulate among given groups and while there is no "academy" doling them out, they are very much peer based. You love me. I love you. And while I've spent the better part of the year judging them as things of naught, I've softened recently to acknowledge that there is no malice, no exclusion and no superiority attached to any of them. They are just nice things that nice people do for other nice people. It's a big valentine's party. I love valentines! Turning away from scorn led to...
5. "A proper and rational view of blog awards which includes gratitude, humility and appreciation. I mean, really, talk about much ado about nothing. Making a case against blog awards is like making a case against Junie B. Jones books (oh wait...I hate those books), or not putting your child in nursery because they don't have natural, wood toys or organic snacks (there is someone out there who needs to get over herself even more than me). It's just silly. It doesn't matter. Blog awards are nice things. To give...and to get.So without further ado (and it's possible for me to ado and ado and ado), I'd like to thank Kelly A for passing on this award to me:
   
   
   Kelly is a great writer. She's witty, articulate and a tongue-in-cheek genius. Her words pack a punch AND she's a self-described internet surfer extraordinaire, so I felt honored to be mentioned. Of course, these feelings are what normal people might have felt originally, but I, apparently, needed the process first. Now, I can join your ranks and genuinely say, "Thank you. It means a lot."
   
   For more information about this award, you can click on this link. Part of the newly crowned awardees' responsibilities include coming up with "three things they believe are necessary to make writing good and powerful". Here are my three:

1. It's got to be real. Good, bad, funny, sad, inspirational, crafty...it's just got to be you. The Real You. But your real self can always strive to be better.
2. Read your post to make sure it makes sense. I can be bad at this. I often read my blog after its been published and shake my head at some of my run-on sentences and poorly edited sentences. Most of the time I go back and fix my mistakes, which I think anyone who writes and expects another person to read such writing should do.
3. Write about what you know. I know about laundry. I know about books. And, unfortunately, I know too much about the crazy and annoying things that happen to me daily. Sometimes I wish I wore rose-colored glasses, or was an inspiration to the basket weaving world with my craft, but I'm not. I feel things and I write about them.
   
   Finally, like all good blog awards, I am now entrusted to pass this goodie onto five bloggers who I think roar with the best of them.
   

1. Amy. Her writing is poetry. And it still manages to be mostly about motherhood.
   
2. Kelly. Her stories makes me laugh. I really enjoy the "voice" of her writing.
3. Neighbor Jane Payne. She's got a really powerful roar and knows a lot about a lot of stuff. Her blog won't lead you astray.
4. Chloe. Her "dear you" letters always leave me gaping with their originality, humor and insight.
5. April. She's relatively new to the blogging community but with her word of the week and her eloquence in what she writes about, her growl has already garnered the attention such writing deserves. But I do admit to having to hate her, just a little, for already having such a fine looking blog. Um...where were the growing pains? The pictures that were too big for your banner and the ugly template? And yes, by comparison, I realize my blog is about thirteen years old with big teeth, acne and the wrong color eye shadow.


There you have it. I've come full circle. I just went through a big ol' pride cycle and I'm proud to be out of it. Oh wait....

Seven Loads

There are many habits I lack that I wish I had. One, in particular, is the organization and desire to a load of laundry a day. Stay on top of it, you know?

No more heaps of dirty clothes spilling onto the floor of my laundry room, cluttering the floor of my closet and hiding behind the doors of my children's bedrooms. Just a basket, on top of the washer, that gets emptied everyday. How hard can this be?

I feed off that motivation and do five, six, seven loads in a day to get caught up so I can start down this new path of righteous housekeeping. The morning after, I mean well...I swear I do...but two days and a funky smell later, I realize that "morning load" I put in has sat wet in the washer collecting mildew. So, I pull the yucky clothes out, run a rinse cycle with some vinegar and rewash that load and two, three or four more. I stay on this two or three loads a couple times/week circuit for several weeks when suddenly, there seems to be ketchup stained shirts everywhere and all I have left is the tracksuit.

I have to constantly fight the funk that is laundry. When you are in charge of the laundry needs for a family, it really needs to be done everyday.

I feel like I am a decent blogger. I get stuff out there most days, mix my thoughts and musings in with the everyday happenings of my and my family's life. While blogging is not something I dread, I do fight daily journaling. To simply list the itinerary of my day seems to miss the point and joy for me. As a result, days pass and I frequently miss posting about some really good things that deserve mentioning.

Here is my blogging laundry. It's a heap, but it's going to catch me up and make me feel competent, able and on top of things.

1. As a family, we went to President Hinckley's viewing last Friday. When we arrived, the line seemed long but it was nothing to what it would become. It took us a little over an hour and a half to get in, using the quicker "no purse/bag" line.

The mass on the southwest side.

Another mass of people. I was driving around looking for a parking lot and couldn't believe how much longer the lines had become since we were standing in them. They say the last people didn't leave until 1:00 am...they didn't turn anyone away.

Once inside, we were told it would be another two hours before we would be led to the viewing area and my heart sank and I knew there was no way Henry could do it. I left Jay with the older boys and returned to the van with Henry, tears streaming down my face because I had really wanted to have that experience. I felt like motherhood was just one long sacrifice after another. Once in the van and during Henry's subsequent and predictable melt down, I felt at peace with my decision.

This seems like a dangerous thing, to be driving while filming, but I wasn't looking at the camera at all. Obviously, as Henry only rarely appears in it. But, it was my ammunition to prove to Jay that Henry could not have handled sitting there for two more hours, who wasn't as convinced as I was. Poor, sad little man.

Seth and Sam were much more likely to have a positive and spiritual experience without a cranky toddler and an even crankier mother around them. I also knew it wasn't fair to expect Henry to be quiet and contained for that long without any distractions (we didn't have any food, or a sippy cup, or anything). Henry and I found something to eat and waited for two additional hours in the parking lot of crown burgers. Not my first choice in how to spend my time, but still the right decision. However, I still get a little sad and teary when I think about it.


2. My gym got bought out by 24-Hour Fitness. I'm not happy about it and I'm not exactly sure why. Perhaps its the painful flashbacks of not using their gym at all, even after I paid for a three year membership, where I used to live (cue black and white memory clip, with me looking guilty as I drive past the gym without stopping once again). I walked into the Day Care on Monday and was greeted by a drill sergeant with lots of papers to fill out. Because I had just recently signed up with XCel, I had done all this only a few weeks ago and was annoyed and hostile about this change. One of the perks of the XCel's Xtra Care was that they would change your child's diaper if necessary. 24-Hour Fitness does not offer this charitable service and wouldn't you know it, while it was available, Henry didn't mess his diaper one time? As of today, I have been called to the daycare in the middle of my workout the last three days in a row. Something about the new sergeant makes his bowels move approximately 40 minutes after I leave him. Why, oh why do chains have to take over the world? I'm not anti-chain. I like the bottomless chips and salsa from Chili's as well as the next girl, but I was really enjoying my non-chain gym. Besides, with all of XCel's posters and decorations pulled down, I feel like I'm working out in the ghetto. The holes in the walls and boxes, boxes everywhere make me feel cold. Plus, the classes have changed. No more BodyPump or BodyCombat. I'll never get that eight step routine down, after all. Good thing I didn't get my own pair of fingerless gloves.

3. For our Big Game Party (because you can't use the term "Super Bowl" as the NFL has exclusive rights to the name), I made homemade meatballs. We were in the mood for that kind of party appetizer food, and while nachos and a veggie platter were no problem, the days of an $11.99 bag of meatballs from Costco had me feeling quite nostalgic. First, I had to thaw the hamburger. Then, I had to broil/toast some rice bread. Next, use the Cuisinart to finely chop the bread. Afterwards, I needed to finely chop up an onion and mix all the ingredients together. Finally, I had to roll into a ball 70 little meatballs and cook them in the oven for 15 minutes. At least the sauce was easy. Two parts ketchup to one part grape jelly. They were a hit! The gluten-free brownies, however, were most definitely not.

4. I met with Henry's speech therapist on Monday morning. We have several at home activities, but one thing she has us doing is speaking to Henry in a new way. She asked us to take out all of the filler words and only use the words we are trying to get Henry to learn to use. Instead of, "Can you go get your shoes?" or, "Let's go change your stinky diaper." We simply say, "Shoes?" and "Change diaper." I feel quite robotic sometimes and I've felt, more than once, that we are living in the new Ford commercials that advertise their new Microsoft Sync system. (Music On. Play Michael Bolton.) Henry seems to be enjoying the change. His therapist compared it to trying to understand a foreign language. He may know some words, but when we speak in full sentences, it's harder for his brain to pick out the words he knows. So, he ends up ignoring us because he doesn't understand. We'll see. It's a little hard. I have found myself speaking like this to my older kids. "Sam, cup, sink." Next thing you know, I'll be joining Jay in doing the robot dance.

5. These primary results have me a little depressed. Why doesn't everyone in the country think like I do? I can't stomach the thought of a McCain vs. Clinton campaign this next year. Neither candidate inspires me. I think McCain would be a disaster. He is a political Island and not one of the kinds where people like to visit. He clearly holds grudges, and I don't think that is what America needs - a grudge list. Hillary may be smart, but she is beholden to the lobbyists she has pocketed from throughout her and her husband's ascent to power. I think thirty years ago, she really believed what she said. I don't believe that anymore. Mitt isn't going to be the nominee and no one likes him anyway, so I don't think he should be. He may be the most saavy when it comes to the economy, have the best looking hair and family and may even be a decent guy, but if the country won't get behind him, he shouldn't be our president. Which leaves Obama, who says all the right things and has me hoping he means them. I think he does. Of the three left who have a shot at the presidency, I'm hoping that Obama gets the job.

6. Yesterday, a package addressed to me arrived from Amazon. I quickly opened it up and felt entirely warm and fuzzy when I read the note from Amy.

I have never even heard of this book. See, you inspire me. I can't wait to begin!

I'm touched and tickled by the thought and gift. I have a whole post in my head about reading goals and reviews, but ne'er fret, I won't include it here. That would be like deciding to wash the mattress pads after already doing five loads! I'll save it for another day. Last month, I also received a funny and thoughtful card from Barb.

Such a kind friend to encourage me on my gym and word quest. I'm fairly certain I could never have those thighs, but I'll try extra hard with this as inspiration!

You girls! I'm just so fortunate to be part of your circle. Thank you.

7. I have a ton of actual laundry to get done, so I best get off the computer. If you think about it, blogging is a lot like laundry. It's never completely done, because as soon as you're caught up, something else happens. There will be more thoughts, and clothes, waiting for me tomorrow.

Selective Separation Anxiety

Like most good Mormons who get to church on time (because sitting in the overflow/gym with loud wood floors and folding chairs that scoot and screech is more than I can handle), we have a designated bench. It's important that we sit in the same place each week so that when Jay gives the priests his rice bread, they know exactly which tray to put it on and any contamination from the regular bread is minimized (although, there is no way that piece of bread is not covered in gluten by the time it rolls around to Jay. We're still trying to discover the best solution to this problem).

Originally, we assigned ourselves the third bench on the north side, behind the deacons. But, I hated my cat walk across the front of the chapel to join my family after the sacrament on the rare occasion there was an actual special musical number and not a rest hymn. Jay made arrangements for his bread to go on a different tray and we made the move to Bench #2, South Side, a straight shot from my perch on the organ bench.

Jay had to work yesterday and my sister, Sarah, surprised me by showing up for my ward. I had made arrangements for a friend to sit with them, but her singles ward was canceled due to snow. Feeling much less in acts-of-service debt, I happily left my three boys with their loving aunt so that I could squeeze in five minutes of prelude before the service began.

Immediately after I left, Henry started to cry. I don't think it helped that our meeting time just changed to 1:30 pm and that is not exactly my two year-old's time to shine. Sarah rummaged through the bag and found his sippy cup, some raisins, some cereal, a book, a car, some magnets, and whatever other crumbs and miscellaneous junk had filtered its way to the bottom of the bag. Opening song...still crying. Opening prayer....still crying. I think she would have taken him out but then he started to time his cries only about once every three to four minutes. And they weren't real cries either. More of that loud, tired exhale before sleep.

He was okay during the sacrament and afterwards, I was able to join Sarah on Bench #2, South Side for the bearing of testimonies. Henry did fine, although he continued to be loud. Now, instead of crying, he simply screamed with glee if he managed to throw little magnetic balls at my face before I could block them.

The spirit was strong during the meeting as most who stood at the pulpit, spoke of their love for President Hinckley and the miracles that his leadership produced in their own lives. As a result, when the bishop closed the meeting, he felt inspired to have the congregation stand and sing, "We Thank Thee O God For A Prophet" for the closing hymn.

As soon as I made my way up to the organ, Henry started crying again. I'm sure with the distraction that came with cleaning up all the magnets and food that had splayed across the bench during the last hour, and the freedom that came from standing, Henry escaped and made his sneaky move towards the organ. Midway through the first verse, I saw Sammy on the stairs leading up to the stand and then, suddenly, Henry was there, at my feet, and, quickly thereafter, standing on the pedals as everyone sang, "We feel it a pleasure to serve thee, and love to obey thy commands."

Not feeling any pleasure and wanting the dissonant bass rumblings that Henry's stance produced to cease, I tried shooing Henry off the pedals with my left leg when suddenly my oldest son, Seth, appeared at the organ as well. I think Sarah sent him up, or he came on his own because he thinks he's parent #3 in this family of five, but as Seth put his arms around Henry's little body to lift him off the organ pedals, Henry screeched, making me wish for the slightly less loud moans he was annoying me with an hour earlier.

The chorister, who doesn't like me anyway because I'm not there twenty minutes early and I play faster than she conducts (I CANNOT play every hymn at 40 beats per minute) watches this all going down with a huge scowl on her face. Hoping it will all be over sooner than I know it possibly can be (there are two verses left!), I vehemently whispered to Seth and Sam to "go back down to their seat!" all while trying not to lose my place in the music. Finally, Henry steps off the pedals and made his way to the piano, whose keyboard is woefully exposed. I hissed, "No!!" as his little fingers start tapping the ivories, causing more screams and tears, and then Sarah arrived on the scene to whisk Henry back to his seat.

It all happened in slow motion, and really, from start to finish, took no more time that it takes to sing one verse, but it horrified me. The organist is never supposed to be the show, and our family theatrics could not have happened at a less opportune time. I felt like I ruined the spirit of the entire meeting. All because Henry couldn't handle "seeing me" and not being with me.

But he doesn't really care. He only wants to be where he thinks the most fun is and sitting quietly on a bench isn't Fun Central. As soon as the meeting was over and Sarah said, "Time to go to nursery" the tears dried up and his little legs sprinted down the hallway and to the room full of plastic toys and goldfish.

If the bishop had any available options, I have little doubt that I'd be getting a call this week thanking me for my service and releasing me from any future organ playing obligation. Unfortunately for Henry and the rest of the ward, he doesn't, and I'm sure I'll be asked to stay on.

I'll choose strutting on the chapel cat walk over having three organ helpers any day. Jay has to work again in two weeks and I don't think I'll have a patient and loving aunt available to sit with Henry again (I'm not sure I could even pay her to come back). So, we're heading back to North Side, Bench #3. I pray that the priests responsible for our special bread and the people who currently sit there, who will no doubt be annoyed by our invasion, forgive our indecision. It is done with the greater good in mind. Here's hoping for out-of-sight, out-of-mind.

P.S. I apologize for these wordy and pictureless posts. It's all about the drama lately.

My Own Speech Therapy

When it comes to conflict, I am not a good communicator. Conversely, if I'm feeling particularly loving, or proud, or content with someone, I almost always express it with words. Much more so than with other forms of communication like touch or gifts or acts of service. My kids and my husband probably get sick of me telling them I love them. I do, and I tell them so frequently. Perhaps it makes some friends uncomfortable, but if I love them, I'll them them so. I'm gushy like that.

Not so when I'm unhappy, disappointed or frustrated. I am annoyingly silent. I cannot share how I feel. I feel actual pain and panic when asked to do so. I am broody and impatient until I am over it and maybe then (actually... really only then), can I use some past participles to explain what the problem was.

I find this inconsistency in my communication skills troublesome. I just finished reading a speech book where the author claims, "if your child isn't using words then he/she probably can't. Words are the best, most efficient way for them to get what they want or need and almost every child will choose words over gestures, grunts and tantrums when they are able."

Interesting. If this is true, when did I make the switch to being the type to give the silent treatment?

It's not like I mask my true feelings. I do all the grunting (hmmph), gestures (eye roll) and tantrums (just how loudly can I unload this dishwasher?). If I'm hurt or bugged, I can give a cold shoulder with the best of them.

To complicate matters, I am also a venter. Some poor third party usually gets a face full of steam when I need to find release. There are a few of you out there who have extremely open pores.

I'm not aiming to be confrontational. I do not admire people who willy-nilly say exactly how they feel whenever they feel it...etiquette, privacy and the feelings of the other person be damned. I see you at restaurants yelling at the waitress and I think you're mean. I listen to you bark at your husband like a child and I feel sorry for him. No, I do not want to be like you, even if you get everything off your chest immediately.

Instead, I'd like to be the kind of person who can calmly explain her grievances without being overly emotional. I've read about "I statements", and while they seem nerdy and bookish, there are those who swear they work. I can't imagine using them in the heat of the moment, though. So, when do I make the transition from silence to speech?

Normally, this is the time where I would explain my point by giving details. And, believe me, I have lots of details I could share. But, I need to do my homework for Speech 101 and practice using my words. The people I love deserve more than grunts and gestures.

Book Review #53 - The Parent's Guide to Speech and Language Problems

This is so not my style of book. That being said, it was important for me to read. I had eureka moments as I read about different diagnoses. Laugh out loud moments as I read about complementary therapies (fish oil and horseback riding) and inspiring moments as I got some really good advice for things I can be doing at home with Henry.

As I am just at the very start of this journey, and not entirely sure if it's going to be a 20 mile jaunt across town or an around-the-world odyssey, I didn't absorb this book with the desperation that perhaps a parent of an older, or more severely disable child might have. But, I believe it lays a good foundation for me as I meet with a therapist next week; knowing which questions to ask and understanding the jargon and code a little better.

And, for the record, I'm not anti complementary therapy. I just wasn't expecting the advice that, perhaps, Henry might improve upon riding a horse. That was, most definitely, new information.

Book Review #52 - My Thirteenth Winter

This book was a complete surprise for me. A few weeks ago, my mother sent me an email which included a beautiful quote from this book. It was about being a writer, and my mother was paying a compliment to me in regards to my dedication to blogging. Interested in reading the book where the quote came from, I found myself reading about a very bright girl whose world collapsed around her as she struggled through her elementary school years with an undiagnosed learning disability.

Samantha Abeel was a bright, precocious and highly confident young child. Her memories of Kindergarten and first grade are of being in the top of her class and proudly so. She knew she was known as one of the smart kids and did her best to live up to her reputation, even as she inwardly began to realize that sometimes, particularly during math time, she had to fake it.

As her school years progressed, and she couldn't keep up with her peers in math, and she couldn't admit that she had no idea how to tell time, she turned inward in humiliation and depression, while secretly praying that the difference was merely because she was special and wise, and not at all slow.

After many unfortunate delays and misdiagnoses, Abeel was finally diagnosed with a math and sequencing learning disability known as dyscalculia. Throughout her schooling, Abeel realized that although she couldn't understand the rules of grammar and had a hard time spelling, she had a gift for words and poetry and channeled her gift into a skill of writing. As a ninth grader, she, with help from several teachers and artists, published a book whose name was later changed to Reach For the Moon. While it gave her confidence and success, she still drifted into social isolation and depression throughout high school and later, college.

Reading about her change, her isolation and fear, made my heart pound as I thought about the possibility of any of my own children suffering in this way. Particularly Henry, as we continue to worry about whether or not his speech will come or if it will be a continual battle for him throughout his life.

The faults I have with this book lies in its slow, repetitive pace. As the story begins with her memories as a kindergartener and ends with her graduating from college, it's got more than enough "space" for her memoir, the sort of book usually reserved for a later time in life. Additionally, Abeel frequently transitions the style of writing from autobiography to memoir, which sometimes works but often times feels incredibly jarring. It's like she's a narrator to her own memories, but without first giving a warning to the reader to "fade to screen".

Aside from that, I think this would be a valuable and worthwhile book to discuss. From our current education model to the causes of depression and its treatment, I think many women, mothers and friends could relate to its material. I also think it would be a good book to recommend for older children with learning disabilities or their peers.

And, now, for the quote that started it all, which is actually quite relevant to her own story, but also a beautiful passage for anyone who enjoys writing.

For an admissions essay to Mount Holyoke College, she writes:

Sometimes on winter mornings, I try to see myself in gathered wrinkles, my dark hair forsaking me to silver. I try to see my hands traced by blue veins and my eyes in vintage brown. I try to see myself a little bent, a little withered. I close my eyes and see me all in white, all in gray, draped in the webs of age.

Oh, I will ache a little and have one of those chronic coughs. I will sit in my chair and pull at curtains that reveal a window etched with white doves of frost. Then, maybe just then, I will know what I was and who I am. I will know all that I took and all that I gave.

It is here that I want to be a messenger, a courier of everything I've gathered. I want to tell my grandchildren of the games my friends and I would play. I want to pass on the legends that creep around us. I want to tell them of the sand dunes and of the lakes. I want to tell them of the many ghosts that look fondly upon them. I want to say that I have made a difference. I want to give them the world through my eyes.

However, for now, my center, my sense of self, my purpose is yet unclear to me. I see it like one sees a fish in a river, only silvery flashes of fin and tail. Never seeing all of it at once. The journey to discover these things lies ahead. When I am in the November of my life maybe then I will understand my June. I do know that I want desperately to understand what I don't, and give the understanding of what I do to others.

Perhaps one day, after I have sunken into the shadows, my granddaughter will read one of my poems to her daughter, or show her a book that I collected, maybe even pass on one of the stories that I told. Then, there in that moment, is all that we can ever hope to be. That one little niche in time, when what we gave, or passed on, is given again.

I could never say it quite so well, but this is what I hope too.