Trotting Like Turkeys

Whenever I start to feel guilty that my children prefer cookies over carrots, I remind myself that at least they also like to run.  And bike and hike and play sports and wrestle.  But not swim.  I have totally failed at that.

But they DO like to run!  Remember, no guilt.

Thanks to their father, a runner extraordinaire, they think donning a pair of shorts, t-shirt and a hat on a cold holiday morning and running one or five miles is fun!  They pay for the privilege!

Like many places, D-town puts on a local Turkey Trot on Thanksgiving Day.  They have a one mile fun run for kids and wimpy adults (kidding.  Sort of.) and a brutal five mile hilly course for those with no other option (ever heard of a 5K D-town?  They’re kind of popular).  Jay, of course, loves the 5 mile distance.  For him, it is a short run.  This year, Seth chose to leave the kids behind and lengthen his own stride but agreed the five miles was a bit too long.  He was tired at the end.

I was proud of all of my boys.  I have done it in years past (well...one) and I’m sure I’ll do it again.  I’ll at least do the wimpy 1 mile with Henry, who would probably prefer something shorter.

Working hard for their turkey dinner.

Goofy boys.

Jay in the pack.  Nice and steady.

Seth a minute later.  Probably started a bit too fast.  His 6:30 minute mile at the school might have given him some false confidence in a distance race.

Sam cheers on his dad and brother with me.

Here comes the leader!

It’s Jay!

Straining.

I love watching him run.

Breathe, baby, breathe.

Form check.

Checking to see who’s behind him.

Finishing strong.

Holy moly.  He just ran five miles in under 30 minutes.

Two cute boys in a tree.

Here comes Seth.

That’s dad in the background who went back to run in with him for a strong finish.  Because five miles wasn’t long enough.

A camera is just the right kind of motivation to finish with a sprint.

Not too shabby!  He said he walked a lot after the first mile so to average 10 min/mile, he must have run fast when he was running.

Sam rocked the 1 mile.

Love this leaping gait!

And.......here comes Henry.  Marching to the beat of his very own drum.

Nope. No one is behind you, buddy.

Who says you can’t race barefoot in Tevas?

Always cute.

Isn’t there a wise proverb about it’s not about the swift?

Happy Thanksgiving!

The Holiday I Hate The Most

A more positive way of naming this blog post might be the holiday I like the least but I really strongly dislike Halloween.  I know it’s fun for kids and if it were just a fun day for kids to dress up and get candy then I’d be hunky dory.  Fun fun!  But, it’s an entire month of looking at skulls and other macabre displays in stores not to mention the ever increasing adult influence with raunchy and embarrassing costume displays.  No thank you.

I skip it as much as I can.  No decorations.  Candy at the last minute.  Simple costumes.  And guess what?  My kids enjoy it just as much.  They get a pumpkin full of candy and a day to be silly and dress up.  And I don’t have to decorate my home with cobwebs.

I know some people love the month.  To each her own.  I’m comfortable with my boo-humbug.

Sam rocks his disco dancing costume.

I’m always curious how kids decide what they want to be.  I know Henry has never seen superman or read any of the books but, obviously, has heard about him.  Superman was a huge costume this year.  I bet there were at least six of them at the school parade.

This was not Seth’s costume.  For the school carnival and trunk or treat, he went as a distance running vampire (very clever, I thought).  He wore Jay’s candy strip running shorts over running tights, a singlet over a long sleeve shirt, a cape, headband and wristband.  He opted against putting on white face paint and blood at the mouth, which is probably the reason he didn’t like his costume when he got home (i.e. no one got it).  Jay ran up the driveway with this getup on and scared the pants off of us and Seth borrowed it for trick or treating.  With the large plastic hands and full face mask, Seth struggled to trick-or-treat.  He was so annoyed that I think I have a Halloween hater in the making.   But the plethora of fun-sized sugar is a pretty powerful enticer to the dark side.  

Nine Short Posts

1.  I have started swimming as exercise again and it feels wonderful.  I wish I had the mental and emotional strength to overcome my fierce tendency to feel depressed and lethargic during the first months of pregnancy.  I know many women who, in spite of the nausea and fatigue, manage to eat well and exercise because they know it's good for them.  Not so with me.  I have to feel somewhat good to make myself feel good by doing the things that are good for me.  Make sense?  I look forward to my swim days with glee and anticipation and if it wasn't for the wet hair and two-hour time commitment when I include drive time, I'd do it every day.  But, I'm still awfully pleased with three times a week.

2.  I feel as if I have had to become a crusader of my Sabbath Day religious right.  In years past, I have delicately side stepped birthday parties and other minor activities that occasionally get scheduled on Sundays, but this year, I have had to get into the whys and hows with both Seth and Sam's soccer teams.   Even though the response I have received has been mainly of tolerance and respect, I still feel a bit preachy and holier-than-though when explaining why soccer games, soccer practices, soccer parties are not something my boys or we parents will attend.  Now, Seth's middle school is putting on their first ever Family Fun Run to raise money for smart boards in the classroom.  When the newsletter came home, Jay and I responded by telling Seth, "We totally would have supported this had it been on any other day, but we're not giving money to something that's being held on a Sunday."  He understood and didn't make a fuss about it at all.  Now, the person who has organized the entire thing, who happens to be the mother of one of Seth's very good friends who HE PLAYS SOCCER WITH, has sent me an email saying she knows we won't run in the race but hopes we'll consider pledging money anyway because it's for a very good cause.  I get that.  Jay gets that.  What they don't seem to get is that it's on Sunday.  We don't want things to be on Sunday.  We think that day should be off limits - for soccer, for parties and especially for school events.  While part of me feels Scrooge-ish for withholding our generosity for something that would benefit the school and our kids, I also feel (and Jay even more strongly than I) that supporting an event that we won't attend, because it's on Sunday, with our money sends no message at all.  We'd like them to do this on another day.  I'd also like to not have to explain this, again, to this very nice, very, very helpful woman (she's the mother who drove Seth home after my vomit episode yesterday.  She's a great person).  But, her email kind of put the kibosh on my passive-aggressiveness.  Darn it.

3.  For some reason, I have a hard time gushing on this blog.  I know bloggers, in general, get accused all the time of prettying up their life and only showing the good stuff but I almost have the opposite problem.  I am much, much more comfortable whining and complaining on this public forum than saying, "This part of my life is really great!" Bizarre?  I just read through my pregnancy posts and, holy cow, my future child may have some issues should he ever read my accounting of how he came to be.  With that in mind, I want the entire world to know that while I still detest and loathe being pregnant, I have fallen deeply in love with my baby already.  I'm not sure how Heavenly Father manages to squeeze out my divine nurturing skills when I resist them so, but I feel that bond between us already.  His kicks, his hiccups, even his stillness all seem so....personal.  I thought I should reassure any that may be concerned about my ability to be a good mother to him that he'll be cherished and perfectly spoiled with my sincere devotion.  He just kicked.  I told you we have this connection.  It's like he's saying, "Me too."  Love him.

4.  All three of my boys had parent teacher conferences this afternoon.  I've been going to these things for seven years now and I have to say, I've gotten pretty used to hearing the accolades and praises of my genuinely bright and well-behaved boys.  While I have learned that this desire to please and innate obedience has very little to do with any parenting techniques Jay and I use, it still makes us look good.  And I like to look good.  This year, we've thrown Henry into the fray.  Henry, who can manage to charm a complete stranger into buying his little bag of oreos at the store yesterday because, "He's a cute little guy."  has not managed to enamor his Kindergarten teacher.  None of her complaints surprised us today, because we live with him after all, but I'm just so unused to hearing about anything but his adorable glasses/face/voice/dance moves etc. etc.   I suppose I should be glad that she is so determined to break him of his slightly less cute stubbornness,  inattentiveness, disregard for quality work and bossiness,  but I learned it's never that much fun to hear another adult describe the faults of your child.  Thankfully, he's bright like his brothers so, academically, she thinks he's doing great, but if we could get him to care about coloring in the lines, cutting out things with more care, and not talking back when he doesn't want to do something, she'd appreciate it.   Could that guy who wrote, "Everything I need to know I learned in Kindergarten," actually have been right?

5.  Jay ran 29 miles today.  29.  I am married to a machine.

6.  Because Jay had the day off today (thus the time to run 29 miles because that is apparently what a machine does on a day off), he had the boys for the after-school slew of activities:  piano lessons and soccer. I had a little over an hour to kill before Young Womens started and, rather than going home, I went to the library and to get some dinner in town.  I really, really didn't want fast food so I opted for Applebees.  Is it weird that I find chain food comforting at times?  My cute, small mountain towns abhors chain restaurants and, other than Applebees and fast food, there are none so I kind of consider it a treat when I get to go.  The thought did cross my mind that it wasn't a typical table-for-one kind of restaurant, but I had a hankering for the Oriental Chicken Salad so didn't let that small fear dissuade me from entering.  When I told the hostess it was, "just me," she responded with WAY more sympathy than was required.  "What?  Just one?  No one else coming?  Well...O.K."    Really?  Is solitary restaurant eating really that unheard of?  I have to say I loved it.  No spills.  No complaining.  No cutting of food.  Just me and my salad.

7.  Of course, having only a salad in front of me left me open to all kinds of people watching.  Seated just on the opposite side of the half-wall that separated us was a combined group of a man, two women and about seven kids.  I never could figure out who belonged to who or what the celebration was (several of the children were wearing mardi-gras type beads) but I watched the middle-aged man (probably slightly older than me.  Looked forty-ish) possessively touch the woman he was seated next to, who I assume was his wife as they were both wearing rings, on the thigh through the entire meal.  He was even eating a sandwich...some kind of melt, and that takes skills.  Usually two hands.  I thought about his need to touch her while eating and I surmised that the older children in the group couldn't be theirs.  His or hers but probably not genetically theirs because, and this is sad thinking, people who have been married long enough to have children that old do not feel the need to touch throughout a meal, especially when eating a tricky layered sandwich.  The hand-on-thigh wasn't the only clue.  She seemed much younger.  They kissed at least three times.  Mind you, this is at Applebees.  Not some candlelit romantic restaurant.  I hope I'm not being overly cynical.  Jay and I went to the movies last Friday night and we totally held hands.  Fifteen years of marriage and we're still willing and able to touch in public.  The spark isn't gone.  But....I'm about a thousand percent certain that had that date been at Applebees, with our children and a few extras, there would have been no thigh caressing.  I'm just saying it's unlikely.

8.  I went to an art gallery for Young Women's tonight.  I know nothing about art.  The pieces on display were really spectacular, especially with the inside information given by our tour guide.  There is always something about being around art, or seeing what other people can create that leaves me a bit depressed.  I think of all the people of the world I envy and the talents I covet, that ability to create beautiful things with your own hands ranks near the top.  I appreciate the ability to sing and read with a critical eye but if I could wish for a talent, I'm pretty sure I'd wish for artistic skills.  It could be anything.  I saw amazing woodturning and jewelry sculpting tonight.  The paintings were spectacular.  There was an artist that painted glass and turned them into intricate lamps.  That'd be o.k. with me too.  Sigh.

9.  I had the best cup of warm apple cider afterward (or is it afterwards, Mom?  I don't get the squiggly green line with either so I don't know which is right!)  It is happiness in a paper cup.  Yummy.

Party Game Fodder

It seems to come up in almost every "Get To Know You" game.  The question:  What is your most embarrassing moment?

I've never, ever, never witnessed anyone who either loved getting this question or even knew how to respond right away.  It seems to me as if our truly embarrassing moments are either heavily suppressed, too indecent to share, or still so embarrassing that no one actually wants to be reminded of it.

I know I draw a blank when I get this question.  For a long time, my go-to response was an embarrassing-to-me-but-quite-lame-story about being in a Broadway theater at the age of 15 to see Les Miserables and having a woman come up to me and ask, "I love your outfit.  Where did you get it?"  The question is actually funny considering I was wearing purple stretch pants, a mauve, cream and purple patterned button up shirt and a cream colored cardigan on top of the entire ensemble, but I suppose it was a pretty rocking' outfit in 1990.  Instead of simply responding that I'm from Montana and I bought it in a mall store there, I looked at her like a deer caught in the headlights and only managed to say, "Not here."

She waited for a few seconds until she realized that was all she was going to get from me and then walked away.  I recall my sister ridiculing me for my lame response and my hot cheeks and beating heart about not having more smooth and savvy conversational skills interfered with my enjoyment of Jean Valjean, Eponine, Marius and Cosette and their music.

But....not really that embarrassing, right?  I mean, I can't exactly use that story as a 36 year-old woman, now can I?  A few years ago, I switched to the really more horrifying than embarrassing story about when the SWAT team stormed into our small Denver apartment during a night when we decided to let our one year-old, Seth, cry it out.  It's definitely the kind of story that gets the shocked responses that kind of question inevitably seeks out, but, even now, I'm not really that embarrassed by it.  Truthfully, I was more embarrassed that they saw us in our garments (it was a hot summer night, after all, and we had cinderblock walls and no air-conditioning and fans going in every room...thus the ability to sleep through Seth's wails, the phone ringing, the pounding on the door and the bursting into the apartment) than that this black-clad team of police officers thought we were some drugged out couple abusing our child.

Even my blog post, How Embarrassing, doesn't translate well into party game story telling.  The climax just isn't....embarrassing enough, I guess.  "I ran out of cash while grocery shopping at Walmart and had to run out to my car to get more!"  See?  No good.

Well, folks, I've got a new one.  Yesterday was not a great day.  I am unable to figure out the exact configuration of clouds, stars, food, temperature, side of the bed or whatever makes a bad day a bad day but yesterday was one of them.  A big vote goes towards having to do my 3 hour glucose tolerance test at the hospital in the morning.  Mornings are, by far, the most likely time for me to feel sick and throwing an empty stomach, blood draws and an overly sweet sugar substance coursing through my veins for hours did nothing to help.  I was tired the rest of the day and napped off and on until it was time for the after school madness that is our existence most days.

After dropping Sam off at cub scouts and driving back across town to pick Seth up from middle school, I stopped at Sonic for some happy hour goodness before Seth was due at soccer practice.  I can't figure out which is faster: the drive-thru or car-hop service, but my guess is neither.  I opted for the drive-thru and it was definitely a mistake.  After ordering, the line moved slowly towards the pay and pick-up window.  When we reached the "next in line" status, I coughed.  On an empty stomach.  On a bad day.  It was a disaster waiting to happen.

I started to heave and gag - the precursors to vomiting.  Sometimes, if I can really channel my inner Zen, I can sort of kind of in a lamaze like way breathe my way out of it.  As my stomach lurched and involuntarily squeezed its contents up my esophagus, I closed my eyes and tried with all my might to contain it.

Then, I pulled up to the window.

She took my money and re-closed the window and I put my hand over my mouth in a desperate attempt to at least postpone what now seemed like the unavoidable ending to my calamitous cough.   Just as she re-opened the window to hand over the bag of tater-tots for Henry and Seth and my Route 44, easy on the ice, Diet Coke, I lost control.

I tried opening my door to aim my retching to the concrete beneath me, but I was too close to the building and could only  manage to opening it an inch.  With no other option in front of me, I threw up into my hand, all over my door and all over my shirt and skirt.

She waited until I was finished, all the while holding my styrofoam-filled beverage, and then offered me my drink, which I took with my slimy hand.  Of course, she was horrified but did manage to ask me if I'd like some napkins.  I nodded with desperate need and she handed me a smile pile of about five napkins.   What is it with some fast food restaurants that make them so stingy with napkins????  As I drove away, she called out, "Feel better!" and as soon as I could, I pulled over to clean myself and my car as best I could.

The smell alone made me retch again but this time, I was at least out of my car and hurling into a weeded area off a nearby parking lot.  Thanks to incredible kids who can do without me if necessary, an understanding husband who gets when I need to call it a day and ignore dinner and any kind of evening reconnecting and a helpful friend who was willing to drive Seth home after soccer practice, I was able to come home, start a load of laundry, wipe out my car and open up a new air-freshener, take a bath and go to bed.

So, the next time someone asks me to share an embarrassing moment, I think I'll say, "The time I threw up all over myself in front of the Sonic drive-thru window girl!"    It counts, right?

Hot Air Ballooning

I’ve decided to try and fill in the many, many, many blank spaces missing from my blog last year. I am sad I didn’t try to capture more day-to-day moments on camera, but in light of playing catch up, it’s probably best that I really only have pictures of some of the bigger events.  I plan to post in no chronological order, just as the mood strikes and I find the pictures I need.

For Christmas LAST year,  a few sisters and I bought my mom a ride in a hot air balloon during the Albuquerque Fiesta Balloon Festival.  It is the largest hot air balloon festival in North America and my mom had put riding in one of the balloons on her bucket list.  I got myself a ticket too.

She, in turn, bought our dad a ticket to ride for his birthday in May.  It wasn’t until they sent a reminder email in early September that I read the fine print and in large, bold letters, it stated that under no circumstance would pregnant or could-be pregnant woman ride.  Had I not been gigantically pregnant, I may have challenged their fetus-carrying discrimination but figured maybe it was in my and the baby’s best interest not to ride.  My sister, Sarah, got my ticket for her birthday.  Gotta love the ability to regift.

Once October 4th came, there were health problems and weather problems and it was almost a no-go but they ultimately got cleared for take off.  It was beautiful to watch and I think all three enjoyed their hour up in the air.  My dad had two hernias that had been bothering him for awhile and standing for that long really aggravated his pain but he still says he’s glad he did it.

They all said it was surprisingly peaceful.  Very quiet.  I hope to go sometime.

We had to arrive very early in the morning.  At 5:45, I think.  We had no idea where we were going so it was good we got there as early as we did because it took us a good half hour to find the right booth.

Then, with the weather being what it was, we had to wait and wait and wait.

Will they go up or won’t they?

My dad in his happy place: talking to complete strangers.

The balloon gets some air.  They aren’t actually doing anything helpful.  It’s just a photo op.

Cute ballooners in the morning sun.

I love my mom and her adventurous spirit.

I love this natural happy look too.

Sarah is ready to go.

Waving goodbye to the pregnant lady stuck on the ground.

Lifting off

Going over my head.

What their balloon looked like.

A cute balloon.

 They lift off in waves.  It’s quite a site.

Pink elephants on parade.

Next time!!!

1000th Post

I think I started this post about two weeks ago.  I had painstakingly found old posts to highlight, old and more recent photos to compare and contrast of our family and had actually started compiling blogging statistics:  number of bloggers I've met, number of bloggers I've kept in touch with after I've met them (shockingly few.  Classic case of "It's not you, it's me."  Not sure why), places we've lived, number of callings, number of documented Henry disasters.  It was all very time consuming but, for a thousandth post, I justified the effort.  It was to be my fait de accompli, if you will.  I figured if I never, ever blogged after this post, I'd at least have a nice summary of Life Is A Spasm Who Flow over the past five plus years.

Well...one errant keystroke, I'm not even sure what it was, deleted the whole thing.  I was mad at technology for awhile but then more disinterested than anything.  Still, I had this "1,000" in the queue and it kept me from blogging about other things.  Nothing was really up to snuff in my head about what a thousandth post should be.

Enough.  A post is a post is a post and this is my thousandth.  Whoop de whoop.  I've decided that a snapshot of what I'm like today - what I think, feel and look like, is good enough.  It's my life and my spasm, after all.  Let it flow:)

The idea came to me this morning as I pulled into a gas station immediately after dropping Seth off at the middle school.  Only yesterday, I vowed that I was going to give up soda again, cold turkey, because I learned early this year that I don't actually like it.  I mean, once you give it up and really lose the cravings, when you do drink it, you realize that it's just a nasty concoction of chemicals, carbonation and artificial tooth staining coloring.  But, the first trimester of this pregnancy had me in serious survival mode and it comforted me.  It doesn't anymore but I'm probably back to being somewhat addicted to the stuff.  Anywho, I was sipping from my stryofoam refill container and waiting at a stoplight and I wanted to write down, today, about how much I love my sons.  Like....I started crying in my car kind of love.

They are so patient with me.  Every morning, they forgive my, "I'm just so,so tired," that always translates into chaos as they help me find stuff for lunches, get breakfast, find clothes, shoes, backpacks, and race to the bus and school.  And I AM tired.  Constantly.  I am best from the hours eight to eleven in the morning and then I start to drag.  So much has been left undone and instead of complaining, they feel bad for me.  I don't like to play favorites, but Sam has been especially helpful.  Several mornings this week, I have heard him in the kitchen before I am even out of bed, gathering lunch stuff on the counter, feeding himself cereal - always fully dressed with his shoes and socks already on.  It makes up for the whirlwind that must form around Henry who hates mornings and declares every morning that he hates school, shoes, lunch, teeth, buses - you get the idea.  Anything he has to do.  I'm sure I could alleviate all of this with some planning and prep in the evening but you should see me in the evenings.  Not pretty.  After chauffeuring boys around non-stop from the hours of 3 until 8, I. am. done.  My back hurts.  For the past three weeks, my throat, head, nose and chest have hurt from the worst cold I have ever had.  It is strictly bath and bed time.  Bubbles required.

So, yes, I really am this whiny nearly all the time.  That is a sad, sad snapshot but real. I fervently hope that pregnancy hormones are to blame, but I have a feeling they simply heighten what emotions are already there. But, so is this deep love for my children.  They are incredibly good and I worry that my little blasts of scary-tired-mother ruin all of the other moments where we are best friends.  For example, yesterday, Seth needed his white shirt ironed for his choir concert.  If you could have seen this shirt....oh my goodness.  Other than taking it straight out of the washer, crumpling it up into a ball and vacuum sealing it, I'm not sure how it could have become so wrinkled.  Time was running short and Henry needed his Kindergarten homework stapled (had to make a book that involved cutting AND gluing.  Mercy.)  and I had just discovered that, at some point, he had ruined our stapler.  I don't know how but it was completely jammed and useless.  Consider the fuse lit.

Then, I go into the laundry room to iron Seth's shirt and discover that my new, expensive Rowenta iron has a crack in the handle.  A crack!  I don't know how it got there.  It was probably something I did but in that moment of needing to iron, being late, jammed stapler - all of a sudden - everything that was wrong came bubbling to the surface.  The broken dishwasher for the past month.  The central vacuum that stopped having suction,  the well pump that had to be fixed so that water would come out of the faucets when I turn them on, the crashed computer, the van whose damn engine light is back on, the flooded basement that still needs to be put back together (carpet isn't tacked down and baseboards are off and lying on the ground with their exposed nails jutting out.  I had a handyman give me an estimate for putting the baseboards back on and he told me $650!  I really need to become more handy), the toothpaste in the carpet of the bathroom....ALL of it exploded in a fiery shout, "WHY CAN'T ANYTHING JUST....NOT SUCK!" sending my kids hightailing it out to the van.   It makes me sad that I have these moments where I really do scare my boys with my loud anger.  I've never hit them but I know every syllable of audible anger, even if it isn't directed at them, is a verbal slap to their sensitive souls.  I want to be better.

We drove to the concert in Jay's truck because I couldn't find my keys and I hate my van with its jerking, misfiring second cylinder (what the check engine code repeatedly states is wrong.  So, why can't they fix it!?!)  and, although the car ride significantly cooled me off, I still managed to yell out my window at a woman who  parked right on the yellow line of the parking spot, making it impossible for Jay's mammoth truck to fit in the should-have-been-available spot next to her.  Bad parkers are a serious pet peeve of mine.  It's just so.....selfish.  And people whose actions expose their belief that they are more important than everyone else (dictators, pimps, loud talkers in restaurants, vandals, and people who take two prime parking spots on purpose to protect their precious cars (leave them home or park further away)) are some of my least favorite people on the planet.

In spite of my mood, or maybe because of it, I thoroughly enjoyed watching Seth sing.  He is having a great year and is really blossoming into a young man.  Sure, he still leaves his socks everywhere they shouldn't be, and can't clean his room without getting distracted by a book, but he is a quality kid.  He takes his duties seriously - even singing - and I even caught glimpses of some of the others boys in the choir looking back at him (big no-no, but still cute) to make sure they were singing the right part.  They should have been looking at the conductor but she was at the piano.  Kind of another pet peeve of mine but I get that sometimes it is easier to play yourself than find an accompanist.  It just didn't leave the kids, most of whom were immature and embarrassed about singing in the choir in their purple vests (they ARE in middle school, after all), anywhere safe to look.  I was proud of him and loved watching him sing.  I also loved sitting next to Henry while he tried to sing along to every song, whether he knew it or not.  My favorite moment was when the eighth grade choir from the other middle school (did I mention how the concert included three choirs from our middle school, a choir from the cross town middle school and two choirs from the high school?  Fun fun!)  started singing "And I'm proud to be an American," and he said, "Hey, I know this song!"  Like we have Lee Greenwood playing on our itunes all the time.  He's heard it at a few Bolder Boulders but the boy has a sharp memory and, there he was, singing along to the parts he knew.  Very patriotic.

The entire concert made me appreciate my sister, Maureen, and how good her choirs are and the effort that goes into them.  It's not an easy thing to teach fine arts, music, culture, etiquette and all of that fun stuff to youth.  Most don't seem to care, as I witnessed last night with all the whooping and hollering, coming and going during the middle of songs, and waving to parents from the risers.  But, she is good and they sound good and I'm so proud of her for all the work she does.

Which, of course, sent me over into a tizzy of appreciation and love for the rest of my siblings. I love each of them and am so grateful that they are my eternal friends. In fact, I just got off the phone with TWO of my sisters, Emily and Sarah, and now I feel silly for documenting my earlier rant.  They are that calming to my soul.  If only they had called an hour earlier.  I'd delete it all, but I already lost one thousandth post.  I'm not starting over on another, however less embarrassing and flaw exposing it may be!

My parents and Sarah will be here tomorrow.  If that fact doesn't calm me down, also knowing that I have a weekend to listen to general conference, where leaders of my church will address the world with messages of faith and support does.  I love this weekend.  I love knowing that there is purpose in the madness and struggle.  I love knowing that happiness and joy are equally available and that, when I open my eyes and heart, everywhere around me.  It is a necessary reminder.  Especially now.

I thought I'd keep this blog open all day to make it a more accurate snapshot than one mood during one part of the day but, looking ahead, it's too busy to think about blogging anymore.  I've got a YW in Excellence script to write, invitations to make, laundry to fold (oh my goodness do I ever), a house to pick up, a baby to feed (still in utero but it makes me feel less piggish)  and an afternoon and evening full of soccer practices to get boys to and from.  I also haven't seen my husband all week due to his cowboying-up (round-up time with his dad and brothers) and I plan on staring at his handsome face as much as possible tonight.

My soda is gone, so I'm going to be done with this post.  I'm not sure this is very coherent and I'm not going to do any editing, unless I find some glaring errors like a "your" in place of a "you're,"  but, at the very least, my thousandth post will showcase how I, Lucy, felt today, September 29th, 2011, during my 29th week of pregnancy from about 9 until 11 in the morning (with a long phone break in between).  It might not be everyday but it's today.  And isn't that what blogging is all about?

taken today on imac

Book Review: Matched

I'm tempted to give this book five stars because I enjoyed reading it so much. However, logic tells me as much as I enjoyed reading it, Matched, by Ally Condie, was missing vital ingredients required for a five-star masterpiece, like flushed out flawed characters, good descriptive writing (I had a hard time visualizing the setting), and, because it is obviously part of a series, a good ending. Still, for a Young Adult novel, I found myself thinking, thinking, thinking and I'm giving kudos for the thoughts.

Like many futuristic dystopian novels, some government entity, here called The Society, has taken away freedoms in order to eradicate or minimize pain. Unlike many futuristic dystopian novels, this society isn't marked by the gloom, doom, fear and isolation of the individual. Family life is encouraged, nay, scientifically planned. Education, friendships, health and wholesome recreational activities are encouraged. Of course, to ensure all this good fortune is maintained, it is also heavily monitored and regulated. Prescribed happiness.

Though not asked, I believe the central question posed in Matched is, "What makes us happy?" Is it good health? Financial stability? Loving and supportive relationships? As the protagonist, Cassia, frequently reasons, The Society's rules and established order provide for a good life. She has nothing to fear in her future. She has been perfectly matched to marry her best friend, Xander, who happens to be handsome, kind and intelligent. She has been assured of a good job as a sorter, something she enjoys doing and does well. Cassia knows all this and yet, either as an experiment or by accident, something happens that casts a shadow of doubt over everything she has ever known. For the first time, she questions her future. For the first time, she questions period. What she must decide is if her questions bring her closer or further away from the life she ultimately wants.

I can't wait to discuss this with others. I ordered a whole slew of copies for the group of teenage girls I work with at church and hope, through discussion, we can discuss Cassia's choices, planned life and agency. I hope they can identify with her concerns and hopes and fears. I hope they like it as much as I did.

Marky Mark and the Mini Mid-Life Meltdown

I threw up twice this morning. The first time was violent. I barely made it to the bathroom and had to hold my hand over my mouth to prevent an even bigger mess. Vomit all over my long sleeves, my hand, in my nose. It was absolutely nasty.

Then, I drove my minivan into the mechanic for the THIRD time in a month because the check engine light is on and it chugs and heaves when idling. I'm realizing that this eight-year-old car with almost a hundred and forty thousand miles is not going to last forever and, perhaps, if I ever want to sell it, the check engine light and tire pressure sensor light should probably be off. Just a hunch.

While I was walking to the nearby hospital where Jay was working this morning to borrow his truck in order to get myself back home, I had the worst pain underneath my belly on the left side. Not a contraction but a painful, ligament/muscle/skin pull. It really hurt. I had to stop and stretch for awhile to relieve the stitch. I noticed I was breathing much too hard for such a simple walk, got a glimpse of my ever increasing-in-size shadow and smelled the vomit still drying in my nose. Maybe one-hundred feet later, I coughed (school starts and our happy virus free existence is over!). Coughing almost always invites a gag and, once I gag, I can't keep anything down. Even bile. So, even though I had nothing in my stomach, I started throwing up yellow stomach bile on the side of the road.

If that wasn't humiliating enough (I prefer privacy if things are projecting from my mouth), a large semi-truck started down-shifting and I realized, bent over to avoid anything landing on my toes, that this truck needed to turn right were I was stopped. Still heaving, I start walking to get out of the way, leaving little puddles of my insides every few feet.

When Jay saw me, he asked if I was o.k. I wanted to cry and milk every bit of sympathy I'm sure I was due, but he is really sick today. The horrible cold has taken over his body and he can't even stay home from work. I said I didn't feel well, took his key and drove home.

The house is a mess. I've been working so hard, every day, to stay on top of it but the last two days have been non-stop go go go, and without a working dishwasher, the dining/kitchen area is downright unpleasant. Instead of cleaning it up, I ate a piece of left over chocolate cake. It, of course, has stayed down. And I wonder why I have gained so much weight already.

To further avoid cleaning the kitchen that will only need cleaning again tonight, I took advantage of having Jay's truck and drove to the butcher shop that had recently called to say the pig Jay bought at the 4-H fair was ready to be picked up. Of course, I mean the meat, not the pig. As I was driving, I turned Jay's XM radio from the POTUS station he had on to 90s on 9. Good Vibrations by Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch, one of my absolute favorite songs from high school, was playing. I fully get that this is not musical gold, but my lifelong guilty pleasure has got to be questionable-lyrics filled dance tunes (Don't be fancy/Just get dancey anyone?) There was no way to avoid smiling. I knew all the words and imagines flooded my brain of crazy, energetic dancing with my best young friends. Much too quickly, the smile weakened to a mere neutral face and then, without warning, my eyes filled with tears. I'm not that girl anymore.

While thirty-six is far from old, it is also no longer young. Dancing as I loved to do, with abandon and freedom and as much hip action as I liked, is not appropriate for someone in my situation. I'm not Madonna or Beyonce. I am an overweight, pregnant with her fourth, country-living mormon mom. Unless I'm surrounded by my fun-loving and always ready for a laugh siblings, I'm never going to really let loose to Marky Mark ever again.

That doesn't make me sad all that often. Most of the time, I enjoy being a grown-up. But, it's been a stressful week. There has been lots of responsibility, lots and lots of chauffeuring little ones, and much too much decision making and money spending. For those few minutes, on my way to pick up pounds and pounds of pork product, I wanted to be seventeen again, dressed in a funky blue and orange t-shirt and jean cut-off shorts. I wanted my hair to be long and tangled with sweat. To have the kind of life that didn't include pregnancy or laundry, crumbs or dishes. That didn't require me to research dishwasher models online or discipline children who continue to sneak food upstairs or nag young women to finish their personal progress projects for our YW in Excellence next month. Even better, to once more have a body that isn't covered in stretch marks, moles and spider veins.

The moment passed. The tears dried. I loaded the sixty pounds of pig into our laundry room freezer and felt grateful for the security and stability in my life. All those years of schooling and training - done. A best friend who gets me so completely that he even tries to make me laugh on a day when he feels like crap and I look like crap and I know-know-know that this is better. In a matter of minutes, Sam and Henry, quickly followed by Seth and whatever moods and homework they bring home will arrive and, just like yesterday and the day before, I'll take them to soccer and feed them dinner and battle the heartburn that my almost baby boy gives me each night. These vibrations of my life ARE good. Even better than Marky Mark's.

Where's Joseph When I Need Him?

I've read more than once that the state of pregnancy can induce vivid dreams. So true. Most nights, I have very detailed, borderline bizarre dreams that make me laugh, shudder or seek reassurance from various loved ones the day after. Here's what last night brought:

Sidenote: As I lay in bed this morning, each dream segment was so startlingly detailed that I decided to blog about them. Now, as I type, a fuzziness creeps along the edges, rubbing out certain parts.

#1. While in some kind of auditorium, cultural hall (it kept shifting back and forth between something with a low-ish ceiling and a gym), I was frantically searching my quilted church bag for the music the YW were supposed to sing. The room as packed with expectant parents and friends. So packed. Like Broadway show packed. I could not find the right music. I had all of this other music and as I'd pull it out, I'd know immediately it wasn't the right song and I couldn't even substitute because the sheetmusic would be incomplete with many of the middle pages missing. It was our turn to sing and everyone was waiting and I'm throwing things out of my bag, knowing people were turning around in their seats to watch me, and I'm purposely keeping my eyes down to avoid seeing the annoyance and expectations in others faces.

Suddenly, my friend and former counselor, Michelle, was at the piano announcing a different number. I felt panicked because Michelle doesn't play the piano (she does play the cello and ukulele, however. So cool!) and all at once, the girls were doing a choreographed showtune (not at all churchy, which stressed me out) that involved clapping and dancing on a set of risers. There were all sorts of girls I didn't recognize on the risers with them and I felt this huge mixture of relief that they were singing something and shame that I had failed them.

Possible interpretation: I am stressed that i can no longer rely on Michelle's awesome adaptability and knack for handling the YW on short notice. Also, I need to clean out my church bag.

#2. Also a church dream but much more disturbing. I was playing the organ as prelude and the meeting isn't starting on time. People are getting more and more loud in their conversation and, all of a sudden, this girl who is dressed somewhere between being a goth and a throw-back 80's punk rock gal (like she had on this humongous pearl cross necklace in blood red) came on the stand and was shouting and laughing and hugging all of her friends. My reverent playing didn't seem to matter and so I left the organ and sat on a metal folding chair in front of it and said to a girl with a frizzy perm, "Everyone is being too loud. We should be embarrassed I(I think it may have been a Stake Conference setting). The girl stood up, pushed me and told me to mind my own business. We started to brawl. Brawl! There was a hallway behind the seats on the stand and we were pushing each other down it and I told her to stay out. I won the brawl but not decidedly and I came back to play the organ and give the loud blond girl wearing the bright red cross the stink eye. Suddenly, I came to a hymn in the hymnbook I had never seen or heard but it was the perfect message. When I started to play it, the sound dropped to an immediate hush and there were several people crying it was so beautiful. I think I cried too.

Possible interpretation: The YW in the stake have been asked to sing a song at stake conference. I have no idea why this could or would be stressful to me, since it isn't at all, but maybe my subconscious realizes something I don't and is stressed about how the song will go (see dream #1). As far as the brawling goes, I would never, ever even tell someone to be quiet, much less physically fight them about it. I believe the perms and crosses have to do with some prejudices of mine.

#3. I am in eighth grade. I know this because I am in Mr. Barker's classroom only the room is facing a different direction than it actually did. I am waiting in my desk for the bell to ring but at the same time, am sticking my head out the door to see if Henry is coming. He is. He's running down the hall, trying not to be late (Mr. Barker was mean) and I'm hurrying him along in my head. He's bigger but still wearing the outfit he wore to last night's actual football game, a Thomas the Tank Engine t-shirt and blue zip-up hoodie. Only....bigger. He makes it in time, sits down one row over and one seat up and just as I'm about to relax, he starts brushing his teeth with a loud Sonicare toothbrush. My heart races at the noise and mess and Jay starts to rub my neck from behind me, telling me to calm down. I feel calmer. I love his touch and reassurance and can feel myself loving him deeply, even though we are only eighth graders. Then, many of those in the class start to brush their teeth and I realize it's all o.k. We just got back from lunch.

Possible interpretation: I worry about my kids hygiene habits and their new teachers since school just started. Another thought, Henry's personality stresses me out even though his mischief and marching to the beat of his own drum will turn out fine. Also, I desperately need Jay.

That's the best I can do without bidding Joseph to come and interpret these dreams for me. I'm looking for more prophetic meaning, like famine or plenty, but mostly think I should double check my church bag for the right music before Sunday. And, should you be thinking about it, don't go out and get a perm. I might beat you up.

Book Review: Angle of Repose

I loved this book even more the second time around. In my opinion, this is the perfect novel. I don't have the expertise to identify the exact narration technique, but to have the narrator, Lyman Ward, not only share his beloved grandparent's 100 year-old history from his 20th century perch, providing both redemptive hindsight and worrisome foreshadowing when needed, but also his own story as an amputee with a debilitating bone disease bitterly protecting his lonely independence, furnishing the relevance and motive, is brilliant. I know many other authors must also do this. It's probably considered common by those in the know within the world of literature. However, I read a lot of novels and I can't think of a single book I've ever read that has done it better than Wallace Stegner in Angle of Repose.

Angle of Repose dramatizes the life of Susan Burling Ward, a talented illustrator raised in an Eastern Quaker home, and her marriage to Oliver Ward, a kind, intelligent but tragically unlucky engineer trying to make a name for himself in the West. Through Susan and Oliver's first fourteen years together, the reader travels to mining camps in California, Colorado and Mexico, and eventually to pre-Statehood Idaho, painting an absolute masterpiece of American West history. Although Lyman Ward is a fictional character in a fictional novel, his passionate defense of the importance of history, could and should be well quoted by actual scholars in the field. Even his short but wonderfully persuadable argument against communal economics and relationships should be studied. They are that profound.

But, as the narrator states, this is really a story about marriage. What allows certain couples, who universally tumble down life's uncertain slope together, to reach a point where the tumbling stops? For rocks and debris in the engineering realm, it's called the angle of repose. There is an eventual stillness, for good or for bad, when the motion or hurt or progress or momentum stops. Perhaps it is balance and harmony. Or, perhaps it is staleness, stubbornness and unrelenting grudges. I'm sure the meaning of "angle of repose" could be presented either way. I lean towards the calm, comfortable stability definition but maybe the stationary rocks aren't content with their quiet.

I hope to return to this novel again and again. It's not a happy one. In many ways, there is a melancholy post-reading that I still can't shake. But, there is also a beauty in words, thoughts and vivid description that makes me clap for joy. I love this book.