Soup For Our Souls

My husband, Jay, is a private man. The tightrope I am forced to walk along in order to satisfy my need to share and respect the comforting walls he prefers sometimes seems a ridiculous way for me to get from point A to point B.

It is no secret that two years ago, Jay was diagnosed with Celiac Disease. I frequently mention the gluten-free-ness of our lives and gratefully admit that we are comfortably adapted to the many alternatives offered in place of wheat, barley, rye and oats.

Merely forgoing gluten wasn't enough of a gastric challenge for Jay's body, however. If the lower GI tract is what suffer as a result of Celiac disease, then his upper GI must have felt left out because it stopped working. Known in the medical world as Achalasia, the smooth muscles in Jay's esophagus that automatically contract (peristalsis) to push food down into his stomach after chewing no longer function. In order for his food to go down, he needs the help of gravity, liquid and a quite a bit of luck. Unfortunately, because his lower esophageal sphincter uncontrollably spasms anyway (I know...the title of my blog suddenly makes sense!) his food often...way, way, way too often....gets stuck.

The stuck food hurts and if it won't go down then it must come back up. I honestly can't remember the last time I've witnessed a meal when Jay hasn't gagged up his food at least once. Usually twice. Very often three or more times. He has to be extremely conscious of what he eats, taking small bites, chewing and chewing and chewing some more and then following it all with a carbonated beverage (water and milk don't seem to do the trick).

The effects of Achalasia go way beyond his trouble swallowing, however. He can't eat as quickly as the rest of us and by quick I mean in under an hour. To eat a normal plateful of food, it takes him about five times as long to eat as me and the boys. He can't talk while he's eating or he gags. Add the two together and we've realized it's best if Jay just eats by himself while I clean up and put the boys to bed. It's not even close to ideal and on nights when a little devil sits too long on my shoulder, I fall into the temptation of wallowing in the unfairness of it all.

Eating in front of other people is also a very difficult and uncomfortable experience for Jay. His desire to not draw any attention to his "condition" isn't very likely when he's forced to leave the table two or three times during a meal to gag. I've watched him sit there and try to act normal when I know he has a lump of food painfully wedged in his esophagus. It's heartbreaking. So mealtime has become quite isolating.

We live during a time when eating is a major social event. Having anyone over or going to a restaurant seems like a rosy picture of the past. The motivation to do either isn't there anymore. It's not like he can talk and eat anyways. If we do have people over, or, somehow, miraculous make it to a restaurant, Jay manages the event by hardly eating. When the waiter asks if we need boxes, I know most of Jay's meal will be coming home where he can spend the next hour or so peacefully trying to get it all down.

He often comes home with his lunch cooler untouched because he can't dictate and eat on the side like he used to do and if a radiologist takes a lunch break, the images needing to be read pile up and he only has to stay at work later. His body and mind are starving and exhausted from a lack of fuel but even in his hungry state, he doesn't look forward to eating. It's so much work for him.

Crazily enough, Jay rarely complains. I'm not sure I could do anything BUT complain if I were the one cursed with this disease (although I'd take his 30 pound weight loss as a result of all this. In fact, why didn't this happen to me???). His patience is mind boggling.

Thankfully, there is hope ahead. Jay will be undergoing surgery on January 15th at University Hospital in Salt Lake City. The surgery is called a Heller Myotomy and there is a surgeon there that Jay feels confident will do the best job. He'll miss about a week of work and then be restricted to a liquid diet for about a month afterward. We have a lot of hope that taking this radical step will get us back to the business of only worrying about gluten. Those days seem so long ago and fancy free.

In the meantime, I have decided to cook soup. Only soup. For about the next three months. It's the easiest thing for him to eat and the most nutritionally packed "soft" food I can think of. This week, I've made chili and cheeseburger soup and have ham and potato soup planned for tonight. But I need help. I need recipes of tried and true belly filling soups. I need these to be family friendly and I need enough of a variety so that I don't go crazy. Please, please help.

Leave a link in your comment or if you have the patience and typing skills, type it out. If they are gluten-free...all the better but I've become pretty savvy at adapting recipes that aren't.

I hope this post won't embarrass him. Actually, I already know it will. To counteract my over-exposure, if you do happen to leave a comment, make sure and mention how cool Jay is because he likes that. And because he is:)

Help me feed this man!

Seriously...do I actually click on "pubish post"? I'm so nervous. I'm doing it!

No Good Deed Goes Unpunished

Wednesdays are the days I volunteer in Sam's class. From 10:15 until 11:15, I help with reading groups in his Kindergarten class. It's something I now look forward to because I know who all the children in the class are, they know me and I think seeing me in his classroom helps Sam feel especially loved.

Sam's cute classroom and teacher. She is phenomenal.

Playing sightword bingo.

Everyone smile!

The problem now is that my ability to volunteer in Seth's class has not been so successful. Henry is in a little friend pre-school on Wednesdays from 9:00 until 11:30 and I had hoped to use the first hour in Seth's class and the second hour in Sam's. But Seth's class has recess right in the middle of the hour making my actual volunteer time in the classroom only a half hour. During that time, the students work silently in their math books while I walk around to see if anyone needs help. When I'm there, I feel...unnecessary and, truthfully, unwilling to spend precious Henry free time doing something so boring. So, I haven't gone to Seth's class the last three weeks.

Seth has noticed my absence and today while Sam was telling him about our bingo game, I could tell Seth was getting upset. And by upset, I mean he tells me it's "fine" while holding back tears. All the good feelings I had from interacting with Sam in his classroom have been replaced with guilt because one of my boys thinks I'm favoring the other.

What would you do? Find another time during the week when Seth's teacher could actually use a volunteer (which would mean finding a babysitter for Henry which would probably mean finding another mom to switch with which would mean another hour of my time spent watching someone else's child), continue to go during the ineffective and boring thirty minutes or do nothing and hope Seth eventually gets over it?

Mothering - no good deed goes unpunished.

Book Review #22 - James and the Giant Peach

I shouldn't be allowed to read classic children's literature. My brain simply doesn't appreciate its intended purpose - creativity, imagination, fantasy. Instead, I wonder, "What's the point here?" Sometimes, there is a point, but I think with Ronald Dahl, the focus is placed on the magic and if there happens to be a story in there somewhere in it..so be it.

I borrowed it from the library because it was on the most-commonly-banned-books-in-America shelf and I wondered how the author of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory could upset so many modest American readers?

I still don't know. Unless there is some upsetting symbolism that went way over my head and would be sure to go over the head of its intended audience, I don't understand how this book could offend anyone but mean, crusty old aunts who don't love and take care of their orphaned nephews.

That being said, I wish I loved this non-controversial story, but I didn't. I thought it was overly strange. Strange in a did-you-write-this-while-tripped-out-on-LCD? kind of way. Giant talking bugs. Living in a peach. Flying over the Atlantic Ocean with the help of string tied onto 501 seagulls via the giant silkworm and spider. Landing on the needle of the Empire State Building in New York. A ladybug marrying a police man (What the?). O.K then.

James was surrounded by mean, nasty aunts and now he's happy and living in a giant peach in New York City's Central Park. Wildly imaginative but famous through the ages?

To make sure it deserved its fame, I had my eight year old son read it (even though the word a** is in it twice. Why did Dahl do that?) and he liked it. He didn't love it. Not because it was strange but because like most things he reads, the characters are magical and the plot bizarre. For him, it seemed almost standard fare. When he finished, he handed it back to me and I asked, "Did you like it?" "Yeah." That's it. No buzz. No acting out parts of the story and certainly no regurgitating details from it like he does with some of his other books.

I guess we're just a bunch of fuddy-duddies around here because I found nothing extraordinary about James and the Giant Peach except it's eccentricity.

SPT - Around The Clock

Book Review #21 - The Art of Racing In the Rain

I'm shocked...shocked, by how much I loved this book.

The narrator is a dog.

There is much mentioning of racing - Formula One, NASCAR, Indy....

and the narrator is a dog. But I think I mentioned that already.

I liked this book so much that it made me want a dog. No, it made me want this dog. And I don't even like dogs.

Enzo, a terrier/lab mutt, believes in his next life he will be human. As he feels practically human already, just limited to grand gestures due to his loose-muscled tongue and lack of opposable thumbs, he spends his dog years closely watching his ownder, Denny Swift, to learn the art of being human so that when it's his turn, he'll have a head start.

Denny, a race car driver/mechanic/down on his luck dad is a kind owner who loves his dog and uses racing philosophies in his own life. There are many to choose from, but my favorite is, "No race has ever been won in the first corner; many have been lost there." Denny's own story is one of work, patience, courage, endurance, hope, and love. It's not an easy story to read. There are times I felt like throwing the book I was so mad at Denny's in-laws, but (kind of embarrassing to admit here), Enzo kept me sane. I just loved that dog. Just when I'd about had it, he'd make me laugh and I could manage another chapter.

Enzo dies in the end. It's not a secret. From the opening pages, you are reading the words of a dying dog. But that didn't take away my sadness in the end. I bawled when Denny held his beloved friend in his arms and says, "It's okay. You can go." Think Where The Red Fern Grows and Old Yeller only for adults. There is some mentioning of "mounting" (it's a dog's perspective, remember) and language.

Several times throughout the book, Denny or Enzo say, "Your car goes where your eyes go." Enzo knew that applied to life as well. Your life goes where your eyes go. I'm happy my eyes rested on this book.

Book Review #20 - So Brave, Young and Handsome

I love Leif Enger's writing. It's almost like he has some sort of program akin to Photoshop for writing - and manages to edit words so that they're softer...more pleasant than the picture he's describing. This whole book has a romantic, old-west feel that immediately snagged me. Even though I had already started another book, the opening chapters of So Brave, Young and Handsome swept me up and into its narrative.

It begins with a former postal worker, Monte Becket, painstakingly trying to write 1,000 words a day to produce the follow-up to his first surprisingly successful debut novel. His son and his wife patiently wait for him to finish but Monte knows, deep down, that he doesn't have what it takes to write a second book. With a need to distract himself from his failure, he befriends his mysterious neighbor, Glendon Hale, and accepts an invitation to travel to Mexico with Hale as his old neighbor rseeks forgiveness from the wife he left behind years before.

Hale turns out to be a wanted man using an alias, and much like Peace Like A River, the story - while beautiful and not in a hurry to get anywhere - turns into a bit of a hunt as Hale evades capture time and again from an old nemesis.

In the end, the book has a little bit of everything. Romance, adventure, crime, art, philosophy and a not too shabby tale of friendship. I can't say I enjoyed it as much as Peace Like a River, but it's a pleasant read.

Another Sunday Thought

Tonight, Jay took Seth to the broadcast of the Mexico City Temple re-dedication. As the primary language spoken would be Spanish, Jay and I were both a little hesitant to have Seth go. The boy, while usually reverent, has a hard enough time paying attention during Sacrament Meeting.

But Seth's grandpa, a counselor in a temple presidency, encouraged Seth to go and after interpreting Seth's sad face to mean that he actually wanted to go - we conceded.

Suits were changed into and one little boy ran down the hall for his own Sunday sweater and shoes. When Seth saw him bringing out his clothes, he said, "Henry, you can't come. You have to be eight and baptized."

While I'd love to claim such a spiritually sensitive son, he just doesn't like to be left behind....ever.

My fine looking boys. Seth really enjoyed the dedication and I could tell he felt the spirit there. He learned a few spanish words but was most impressed by how long the prayer was.

Dad trying to console the one who had to stay behind.

When you're eight, little guy.

Sunday Thoughts

During their eighteen month mission to Myanmar, my parents taught several English classes, one being held in the small building where the Yangon branch met on a weekly basis. My sisters and I accompanied my parents to their classes while we were visiting and during one class, my dad had each of us sit in smaller groups with about eight of their students and converse in English.

Most of the student's English was very rudimentary and the possible topics were limited to our names, our families, our ages and hobbies. However, I believe one topic that was brought up with each group was what I thought of Myanmar.

I made sure to reply with enthusiasm about their beautiful land (it's really stunning), their art and the kindness of the people. Likewise, the question usually turned and a few wanted to give their opinions about America.

There can't be many things as embarrassing as what America looks like on TV. Most of these people had never met any Americans outside of the humanitarian missionaries from the church, but they did know who Britney Spears was. My only defense was to emphatically tell them, "Most American people are not anything like Britney Spears!"

Today, in Sacrament Meeting, a soft-spoken and kind man serving in the bishopric made a few comments about the unfortunate hostility displayed towards the LDS church this week following the passing of Proposition 8 in California. With sadness in his voice, he wondered what the world was coming to when one police officer overheard another police officer make the comment "I hope they burn it down" referring to the Los Angeles temple as protesters started to climb the temple fence. He sorrowed that the temple grounds in Salt Lake City could become a place of fear instead of peace after an envelope containing white powder was mailed to an office building on Temple square. I agree. These stories make me sad and, I admit....mad.

Does this building offend you?

But as I sat there, I remembered explaining to an impressionable Myanmar teenager about the millions upon millions of good, decent, non-insane clothes wearing Americans that never make it on the TV shows or magazine covers. Our news, our movies, our television shows don't really represent who we are and how we act. I can't help but feel the same rules apply in their case.

Clearly, the gay and lesbian movement has some bad apples - some Britney Spears in their midst. Those bad apples are obviously more exciting than the quiet, peaceful protesters and as a result, they make the news with their hateful signs, deplorable behavior and intolerant remarks. But the whole group is not - cannot be hateful, deplorable, and intolerant. We, as human beings, just aren't.

I am in favor of protecting the definition of traditional marriage and I am not a bigot. Defining marriage as something between a man and a woman is not the definition of hate. Thinking so is no different than George Bush saying, "You're either with us, or against us." Yes. That's right. You agree with George Bush (Gasp!). I believe in the Golden Rule and I believe every man, woman and child is a literal child of God. I firmly believe that men are that they have joy. I've heard this argument to defend those who want same-sex marriages to be legal - that every person has the right to be happy and to be married to the person they love. I agree...in part.

The Declaration of Independence states:

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.

There's the hiccup. Are our rights given to us by our government, which is most definitely secular, or by our "Creator" - God, who is holy? If given by God, which is what is written, then, ideally, our legal rights should match perfectly with our eternal, spiritual rights. However, more often they do not and are thus held, in my opinion, to a lesser standard. So, if the gay and lesbian movement wants the secular, non-holy government to give them the green light to be legally joined together, then I think they have the right to pursue that possibility. But, they seem to want more than a green light.

I think what they really want, just like myself, is to feel the joy that God promises. They use the phrase "pursuing happiness" and, unfortunately, have been deceived that this kind of happiness - joy - is possible to attain while committing sin. Yes, I believe engaging in homosexuality is a sin. My source for believing that comes from the same source that tells me murder, adultery, stealing, lying and cheating are sins. Justification by using alternative interpretations in my mind equates to what Bill Clinton did when hedging about the definition of "is". There is right and there is wrong because there is opposition in all things. There is wickedness and righteousness - misery and joy. I want my brothers and sisters to be happy on earth, because that's the here and now that we know, but I want their eternal happiness more. I don't believe turning our backs on truth is doing anyone a favor. I certainly don't think accepting sin is an act of love.

THE act of love.

So, I sit here on a Sunday evening...in limbo land, wishing for calm and understanding. The brave, brave souls who worked tirelessly for passage of Prop 8 in California had every right to express their beliefs through the democratic process just as the groups protesting now have the same right to stand in front of courthouses and government buildings peacefully waving signs. It's the goons on either side that don't belong.

Even though the news doesn't fairly represent the debate and there are a few who spoil the efforts of many, the democratic process, protests and all, is one of the best faces of America and one I would be proud to show the people of Myanmar.

What George Costanza and I Have In Common

Following Halloween, I noticed several wise mothers mention different ways of getting rid of the plethora of candy in their homes. The Great Pumpkin might come along, the kids got to pick a certain number of their favorite kinds of candy, etc. etc. You get the point. The candy was gone.

I don't remember ever losing my hard-earned candy that way as a youth and, at first, felt reluctant to commandeer my own little ones' sweets. But after a week of me picking my way through their pumpkins to find a Snickers, a Reece's Peanut Butter Cup or the all-too-rare Tootsie Roll, I offered my boys a Wii game if they'd throw the rest of their candy out. My thighs can't take any more. My offer might fall on the extremely generous side, but I know Seth and I know he would never give up his prized candy unless it was for something he really wanted.

Leaving the house last weekend helped. The boys forgot about their spoils and the separation from the constant temptation especially helped me. I realized that my days were better when I wasn't in a sugar coma after consuming a dozen pieces of "fun"sized candy. Yesterday, I pulled each of their orange, plastic pumpkins off the top of the kitchen cupboards and proceeded to dump the contents into the kitchen trash can.

Every mother knows that the hours after school and before dinner are difficult. Every one's tired and hungry, Seth and Sam begrudge their homework and chores and patience wears thin. Yesterday's afternoon was particularly harsh as we had dog babysitting duties that kept us outside for an hour during which time Henry's little hands passed the point of being merely cold. He must have experienced that painful, stinging sensation because for about twenty minutes after coming inside, he cried and cried and shook his hand and grabbed at them until he eventually fell asleep on my lap in exhaustion and defeat.

By now, it was 5:45 pm and Jay had just called to announce he was one his way home. While the floors may have been clean, there was plenty of clutter lying around to prevent them looking like it and I still needed to start preparing dinner. Due to a scheduled relief society presidency meeting at the church at 6:30, I felt pressed to make something fast and easy and after arranging a sleeping Henry on the couch, I walked into the kitchen.

In a moment of vulnerability and thoughtlessness, I noticed a KitKat perfectly wrapped lying near the top of the trash pile. In true George Costanza style, I picked it up, opened it, and ate it.

My humiliating actions did not go unnoticed. As soon as I had the chocolaty goodness in my mouth, Seth, at the dining room table doing his homework slyly asked, "Did you get that from the garbage?"

What could I say? He was an eyewitness. All I could do was hang my head and say, "Yes. Gross, huh? I'm embarrassed. Don't tell Dad."

He laughed and he laughed. I don't think he'd ever seen his mother do anything more funny than eating something from the garbage. Amidst his giggles, I defended myself by pointing out the unopened protective wrapping kept it from truly being defined as refuse followed by another appeal for him to not tell his dad.

At 6:00, Jay walked in the door. I was busily chopping up green pepper and onions to put in Jay's and my omelets and spooning out pancake mix onto the griddle for the eight and younger crowd. Jay didn't have time to put his armful of papers down before Seth gleefully blurted out, "Mom ate something from the trash can!"

Jay looked at me. I looked at Seth. Seth, grinning from ear to ear, looked back and forth between Jay and me.

"Seth!" I scolded. "I told you not to tell!"

Through the years, Jay's expectations upon coming home from work have begun and remained low. I do not brush my hair before he comes home nor do I add a comely bow for effect. I do not have slippers ready, offer a foot rub or hand him a drink and a newspaper. While there has been a time or two when dinner is hot and ready on the table, more often than not it's either still being cooked or being put away if he's home later than the kids could wait. Still, he never complains and I'd consider him to be a very, very accepting husband.

While he lets my non-accessorized hair slide, I'm not sure he's quite so ready to accept a trash foraging wife. I believe I may need to start wearing that bow after all. Or at least distract him with an ice-cold can of Diet Dr. Pepper.

After dinner, I noticed Seth sitting on the floor eating a package of Smarties.

"Where did you get those?" I asked.

He just smiled.

What could I say?

SPT - Homework

Back To BYU

When we realized there was a BYU football game the same weekend our boys had a four day weekend, we bought tickets to the BYU vs. San Diego St. game and headed to Wasatch front for a weekend of football and family.

First up on the agenda, head to campus in order to spend a ridiculous amount of money on paraphernalia to the game. Everyone got a sweatshirt (mine was the only one on sale which I find hugely satisfying), the boys get to share a football that miraculous made its way back home with us and Jay and I picked up a few books to help us with our callings. Add to that one creamy piece of BYU fudge and our shopping trip was successful and complete.

Henry was being quite coy and wouldn't look at the camera.

I told Jay with his scruffy day old beard and super-caffeinated drink logo on his hat, he just might be thrown off campus.

I was trying to get a picture of a funny camera shoot in the background but Jay is blocking the girl holding the trombone. I suppose I'll just have to be content with this happy Henry and Jay holding all our stuff.

Seth had a cousin sleepover at Reece's house and before we left him in Utah Valley, we went to Los Hermanos with Peggy and her boys and my sister, Sarah. I love Los Hermanos but have decided that it's time for me and the Smothered Burrito to part ways. I'll spare you the embarrassing story, but for those who know, the burrito had its evil way with me again and I was down for the count the rest of the evening.

Saturday, we went to the game early enough to enjoy all the pre-game festivity. The boys got to bump fists with COSMO and Jay got to watch his beloved marching band march perform AND some sort of drum-line/drum-off among the percusion section. Me? I got to wrestle Henry for an extra hour! Thankfully, I had best aunts ever #1 and #2 to help me get by.

The game was good. Jay sat with Seth and Sam on the opposite side of the stadium and my sisters and I took turns keeping Henry from knocking anyone's popcorn over more than once, falling off the bleachers more than once and singing the Cougar fight song about a dozen time (he loves those rah-rah-rahs).

We support BYU athletics by buying their overpriced clothing.

Attempt #1 of getting a picture of all the cousins.

2nd and final attempt. This will have to do.
Reese, Seth, Sam, Henry, Creed and Adam.

Seth and his comic-book writing partner cousin, Reece.

Before the game, the marching band walks the street and does a quick performance outside the stadium. Jay was loving it. Later, he said his day was made when the cymbal player went crazy with his solo.

Cosmo came right to our blanket for a perfect photo-op with the kids. Of course, I didn't have my camera out then.

$6.00 pizza hut pizza on the lawn.

Proof that Sarah and I were there.

Sarah takes Henry up top to give our bench seats a break from being touched with sticky hands and listening to a tired boy cry.

Then Maureen had a turn (Henry takes his glasses off when he's mad and yes, that big purple mark on his head was a result of rolling off the bleacher).

Cute picture of the boys after the game.

Later that evening, Jay and I headed over to Aunt Kelly and Uncle Jerry's house for dinner and cousin play. It really is sweet seeing these little people love each other so intensely. I remember feeling the same way about my own cousins and wonder why I don't put forth more effort to keep in touch.

It doesn't take long for my boys to find Kelly's nerf guns.

Seth and Sam playing with matt's stuff upstairs.

Henry, Kate and Sara sharing Sara's activity table.

Jay rarely, rarely braves a restaurant that isn't gluten-free friendly, but had read several positive forum discussions about Cafe Rio's enchiladas so bravely tried them. He was up the entire night with severe abdominal pain cursing those same enchiladas and so we decided to break up camp and head home Sunday instead of Monday. I'm glad we did because today, we woke up to six inches of snow that would have been quite a headache to drive through.

Now we're home, trying to catch up and get ready for the rest of the week, the holidays....life and have a little fun while we're at it.

100 point bonus (although, like in Whose Line Is It Anyway, the points are meaningless) to anyone who can tell me what intersection I'm stopped at when I took this picture. Yes, BYU grads have an unfair (and possibly only) advantage.

Book Review #19 - Loving Frank

This book was brought to my attention several months ago but I didn't seriously consider reading it because I thought it was essentially a biography of Frank Lloyd Wright, the famous architect. I have a serious handicap when it comes to reading non-fiction and if I'm going to read a biography of someone, I wanted to read about someone whose life's details I had some...nay....any interest in knowing. An architect, even a really, really famous one, didn't meet that criteria.

When it was selected as a book group selection, I waved my white flag and read it anyway. Say what you will about book groups, one thing I appreciate about the forum is that they tend to throw books in my path that I wouldn't otherwise read. When I end up actually enjoying the mandated book, I appreciate the selection even more.

Loving Frank is part factual biography, part fictional novel featuring the life of Mamah Borthwick Cheney's as she fell in love with Frank Lloyd Wright. Mamah, a feminist, intellectual and suffragist, was married to safe, loyal but rather boring Edwin Cheney. The married couple were financially secure enough to keep a nanny, a housekeeper and eventually hire an up and coming architect to build one of his conceptually new "Prairie Houses". Financial and marital security did not bring contentment to Mamah, however, and when Wright intimately connects with her on an intellectual and emotional level during the building of her and her husband's home, a physical affair between the two quickly follows.

What makes this story compelling and great discussion fodder isn't Frank and Mamah's relationship or their affair, it's the constant negotiating and justification the author forces Mamah to debate with herself and with the world about the honesty and integrity of romantic and self love. For Mamah, a person's own happiness super ceded that of any one else's, including one's children, although she admitted several times how incongruous that belief felt at times. When she found literature written by radical thinker, Ellen Key, her belief that she should be with Frank at the expense of everything else, because she loved him, deepened. I am left wondering when, if ever, a selfish act is the BEST act. As much as the pair wished it to be so, they did not exist in a bubble and their relationship had real and lasting consequences to the families they abandoned.

If the moral debate is the actual gift of the book (and for me, it was), then the fancy wrapping and giant bow is the holy-cow-wow! drama and historically significant events that made up the life of Frank Lloyd Wright. This should be a very interesting discussion.

Book Review #18 - Ella Minnow Pea

It wasn't until I told someone, out loud, what I was reading that I realized the title, Ella Minnow Pea, really sounded like the "LMNOP" of the alphabet song. Now, of course, I have no idea how I missed it. Ella Minnow Pea. LMNOP. Obvious. So obvious I wonder what else I missed. Such a clever title. Such a clever book.

Ella Minnow Pea resides on the fictional island of Nallop, off the South Carolina shore, where all the residents are brought up in reverence of syntax and language. The founder and most celebrated resident, Nevin Nollop, was the author of the well known keyboard practice sentence, "The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog." When the letter tiles creating this celebrated sentence beneath his statue begin to fall off, the self-righteous and clearly brainless members of the governing council take it as a sign that Nollop, himself, wants the usage of these letters to terminate. As a result, they ban all future use of the fallen letters. First "z" gets the ax, followed by "q" and "k". The residents of the island face severe and, frankly, far fetched punishment if the banned letters are used in writing, speech or music.

As the book is written through letters between friends and family members within the community, the reader witnesses first hand the difficulties in communicating without all of our precious 26 letters. Yes, we need our "z" and our "k"s, uncommon as they may seem. Life without the letter "d" is no life at all. End scene.

In spite of all of the author's cleverness, which is bountiful, I found this novel lacking. The author, Mark Dunn, brilliantly uses the English language in its most advanced form. While I'm sure I'm exaggerating, (but since this entire book is a satire, I feel it's appropriate here) I think at least 10% of the words throughout the book were words I had never seen nor heard before. Dunn either has an intimate knowledge of English vocabulary or an extremely thick thesaurus at his disposal. For language lovers, I've no doubt this book would be a delight.

For story, character, plot and reality lovers, however, the story isn't quite as accomplished. The author's not very subtle dig at organized religion as a vehicle for the blindly obedient to carry out the wishes of non-existent tyrannical beings got on my nerves. Likewise, the characters were so poorly developed that I was never quite sure who the letters were being written by or to whom they were being sent. As their relationships with each other was never the point of the book, however, I let it slide.

Ultimately, this is a show-off book about language but not one that really entertains or matters, because the story isn't funny, romantic, endearing, sad or slightly plausible. Just very, very clever.

Post Election Thoughts

In forty years, will I remember who I voted for and and why in the 2008 presidential election? Will I remember how I felt upon hearing the results? Not if I don't write it down.

For this reason, and this reason only, I want to write about how I feel about electing Barack Hussein Obama into a chapter of American history. In other words, I have no stomach for debate.

The campaign was so long. I remember first hearing about Obama almost two years ago while living in Spokane. It irritated me that so many people liked him without knowing anything about him. He seemed all hype. I remember seeing a political cartoon that showed a young 20-something woman wearing a large belt buckle emblazoned with a glittery "OBAMA" and saying, "I don't know what it is, but I want it." The Obama girl song bombarded Youtube. Liking Obama meant you were cool and hip, part of the MTV crowd, and because I am none of those things, I didn't want anything to do with him.

That seems eons ago. Somehow, this one-term senator from Illinois moved from being an Internet sensation to being the overwhelming choice for President of the United States. Did people vote for him because a big-busted girl sang a song about liking him? No.

President-Elect Obama has charisma. He is an innate leader and gifted communicator. I listened to him and wanted to cheer, even though he didn't represent my politics or my views on many moral, economic and diplomatic issues. I guess you could say he has the "it" factor.

But as the campaign wore on, and the throng of adoring fans grew larger, I stepped back to check my own motivations for liking the man. Was I voting for a rock star or a president?

I decided I needed to start looking at this election with my head, and not my heart and in doing so, Obama lost a bit of his sparkle. His comments about "spreading the wealth around" and "economic justice" are so contrary to what I feel the purpose of taxation should be. More and more promises that require more and more money worried me. Was he advocating handing out fish or was he planning on teaching man to fish? The final straw was kicking reporters who worked for papers that didn't endorse his presidency off of his campaign trail to make room for more zealots.

As I went into vote yesterday morning, I knew who and what I was going to vote for. Each amendment, candidate - local, state and national - and referendum had been studied. When I began selecting boxes on the touch screen in front of me, my first selection was for McCain/Palin.

I finished voting, pushed "Next" several times until I came to the "Cast Ballot" button.

I paused.

What did I really want? Was the most important thing to vote for the guy who promises not to raise my taxes? No. Was the most important thing to vote for the guy who promises to scare away all the bad guys? No. Was the most important thing to vote for the guy who will put the least scary judges on the bench? I hope not. No.

At that deciding moment, I wanted the best man in office. I wanted an effective communicator...an effective leader - a person who will be a strong representative for America in this global age. I wanted someone with perspective, poise, energy and, I suppose, a little charm. I wanted to vote for Obama.

So I did.

His election does not cause elation, pride, or a strong desire to link arms at Starbucks and sing along with Bruce Springsteen with fellow liberals. I don't think that because I voted for Obama, I somehow "got it right"-- a sentiment I'm not sure belongs in politics. Instead, I'm hopeful. Hopeful that the man who gave an incredible and memorable speech last night believes the powerful words he spoke. Hopeful that America listened and put its hate for those who think differently to rest. Hopeful that he can and will change some of the ugliness in American politics. Mostly hopeful that it's not a mistake to vote for a man, instead of an elephant or a donkey.

Regardless, I refuse to be a cynic or an adoring fan. At this point, I don't believe it benefits our nation to cheer or heckle our president as if he were merely the quarterback of our favorite football team or our nemesis chess rival (do people heckle at chess tournaments?) For the next four years, I will put my trust in President Obama as long as he continues to earn it.

SPT - My Conscience

School Pictures 2008

I wanted them to match so I had them wear the same shirt...

but the fake smiles - they decided upon that all on their own.

I still think they're awfully handsome boys.

Book Review #17 - The Woman In White

Regarded as the first mystery novel, The Woman In White tells the story of Laura Fairlie, a young, beautiful heiress engaged to marry an older baron, Sir Percival Glyde. Before the marriage, a drawing master, William Hartwright, comes to Limmeridge House to give Laura and her half-sister, Marian Halcombe, art lessons. On his way to their country home, he crosses path during the night with a mysterious and troubled woman wearing all white.

Her appearance begins to unravel the secret of Sir Glyde, whom Laura Fairlie eventually marries. The marriage is doomed not only due to Glyde's obsession with keeping his secret in tact, but also because Mr. Hartwright and Laura Fairlie fell in love.

Throw in a truly terrific villian, Count Fosco, maids, cooks, doctors and lawyers all giving their own versions of the truth and what's left is an authentic mystery loaded with plot twists and turns developed through many interesting characters.

The author, Wilkie Collins, was a contemporary of Charles Dickens, although I have to admit that this was the only book of his I'd ever heard of. He's a talented author and uses several different voices quite convincingly to tell this story.

I appreciated the book more from a historical standpoint than its storytelling. While I found the first two-thirds of the book to be intriguing the climax of the story unfortunately happened with several hundred pages still left for the much less fun wrap up. Oh, several things still needed to be figured out for us readers to be completely satisfied, but, in spite of Collins putting Mr. Hartwright in danger a few times, the book became a little too comfortable and predictable. I knew the smooth ending was coming, but it took a long time to get there!

I'm glad I read it, though. It's very readable for being written in the mid 1800s, more so than Dickens, I would say, and an all-together entertaining story.

Sunday Thoughts

I have a new calling. I am no longer the Primary Chorister but instead am the 2nd counselor in the Relief Society Presidency. It's a surprise mainly due to the facts that I have only served as chorister for less than three months and had no idea who the new Relief Society President was.

Somehow, she thought of me, however, and for the next little while, I will do my best to help her, serve the sisters of my ward and try to learn whatever it is I'm supposed to learn from this new endeavor.

It's a funny thing to have a calling. When the bishop came to my home last week and asked me if I would be willing to serve as the enrichment counselor, I laughed. Pretty hard. I'm embarrassed about that now but, truthfully, this isn't something I feel particularly qualified to do. After the bishop left, Jay explained to Seth and Sam the nature of callings and their purposes. In his words, "Sometimes our callings are in something we're really good at and sometimes we are given callings because we need to learn something. Mommy is being given an opportunity to learn something new."

This will be new. I have never served in Relief Society. In fact, if I'm being honest, I feel a little uncomfortable there, always have, but that isn't going to stop me from stretching and figuring out, to the best of my ability, why the Lord wants me in there instead of primary right now. I do believe that, by the way. Sure, I've been a participant and a witness when a name submitted for a calling seems to be merely filling in an empty hole or using someone who's been waiting on the bench for awhile. I have learned that even when that happens, the Lord shows off that omnipotent knowledge of His and everything works out better than you could have planned anyway.

I'm sad, really sad, to be out of primary. I love it there. I love watching my boys and I love the leaders in there and I love the energy and the work and the joy. I hope I will soon have the same kind of feelings about Relief Society.

The rest of my Sunday was far more normal. We went to choir practice, had roast for dinner, a gluten-free chocolate cake for dessert shared with Erin, Dave and their four kids, watched The Amazing Race and then cleaned up after Henry threw up on me after getting his cough medicine (I think I'm in for a rough night).

More Candy and a Mullet

We just got home from a funny little trunk or treat at the church. This morning, while running some errands in town, Jay had an idea for a costume. If you know Jay at all, you understand that his idea soon turned into his whole day. He's thorough like that. Remember the hand cart?

His idea stemmed from his Tony Stewart t-shirt that our friend Libby sent him last year. Add some Dale Earnhart "lounge" pants, a Dale Jr. trucker hat, a mullet and Jay transformed into a NASCAR Dad.

Ready to go and scare half of D-Town.

The mullet was really a Hannah Montana wig he bought and I suggested he cut it a little to make it slightly more masculine. He agreed, but I'm no stylist and ended up accidently snipping his long fake locks into an adorable bob. He held his tongue but I knew he was disappointed so I ran into town and found yet another Hannah Montana wig. We left this one as is and both agreed it looked just fine.

The trunk or treat was a huge success candy wise. In less than 20 minutes, all the boys had more candy than they had after two hours of pounding the pavement yesterday. They are all very pleased with their loot and I spent the evening not being a hater, whiner or strongly opinionated person. I just smiled every time Henry eagerly said, "tunk tee"

He really makes a very cute cow.

Instead of handing out candy, this fun lady had a cupcake walk for the kiddos. A nice alternative to sprinting from car to car.

Even Henry understood stopping on a circle when the music stopped.

Jay manned the van. He conveniently brought his OWN Tony Stewart camping chair, a remote control Tony Stewart car to chase the kids with, a Jimmy Johnson poster and a DVD playing the history of NASCAR. If it's his idea, there is no such thing as halfway for this man.

And now, I officially declare Halloween to be.....

OVER!

See you next year, W.T.

Boo-Humbug!

Over the years, I have slowly descended into the role of a Halloween Hater. During my single and early married years, I don't recall Halloween being a big deal. I don't even remember dressing up, although I'm sure I did once or twice (and I mean in college. I do love to dress up and always enjoyed having a reason to when I was a kid). I always attributed my lack of desire to celebrate to the fact that Halloween is really a kids holiday. When Seth came along, I imagined my inner fun mom party self would emerge.

She hasn't. In fact, she is the unfortunate opposite. I couldn't even muster up the enthusiasm to carve pumpkins this year. I know I should do it for the sake of my kids, but I kept putting it off and off and off until...there was no point. I talked the boys into saving their pumpkins for Thanksgiving decorations instead:)

I can see the lure of the day. Free candy. Costumes. Um.....free candy. But the creepy decorations? Headstones and skulls and spider webs and masks with fake blood on them? No. Not at all. Completely unappealing to me.

Now that Halloween has been stretched into being the entire point of the month of October, I find myself resenting it even more. October has to be the most beautiful month of the year. The leaves change, it's still moderately warm, gardens are pumping out vegetables and fruit before the first freeze. All of those glorious, glorious things to enjoy and what do I have to look at? Rows and rows of dancing skeletons and ugly witches on a stick. Every time I go into a store. Every time I drive through a neighborhood. Yuck. It's gross.

Of course, I'm far too normal and rational to be that mom who bans the holiday on principle at the sacrifice of her kids. My children have costumes and happily enjoy their candy...all of it in fact (I don't even sneak off with it a few days later). I embrace the day...sort of. But I won't dedicate a month of effort for a meaningless holiday. Now Thanksgiving, on the other hand...there's a holiday that deserves a month. Heck, even Valentine's Day, 4th of July....Arbor Day for that matter, have more merit.

Last night, Jay took the boys trick-or-treating through the neighborhood while I made dinner. Listening to the incessant doorbell ringing was almost the last straw. I think it rang at least once every two minutes - too long for me to just sit on the stairs and wait for the next time but not long enough in between to actually get anything done. And I was a slave to it! Each time, I had to trot down the stairs, plop some candy into an anonymous child's bag and be glad to do it! How did this happen? Why am I such a scrooge? Am I the only anti-Halloween mom out there?

I did manage to take pictures of my kids. They do look cute in their get-ups.

The school had a parade and Sammy took Henry along his promenade.

My flash didn't go off when Seth was right in front of me so I had to get the model-profile pose.

Darth Vader, a cow, and Anakin Skywalker

Close-ups

This is as scary as it gets.

A pre-darth.

The best costume of the night - a hubba, hubba daddy with a great sense of humor.

While I've typed this, I bet Henry has gone through about ten pieces of candy. If his bucket-full lasts the day, I'll be surprised. But, there's more where that came from. Tonight, we have a very anti-climatic Trunk-or Treat at the church.

I better not get started on how ridiculous I think that is.