Road Trip 2011 - First Stop - Home Sweet Home

Growing up in Montana is an important part of my identity. Benefiting from the state's confident sense of self and my own family's happy bond, it is both a place and a memory I am always eager to revisit.

I missed its big sky last summer so there was no way I was going to allow distance, nausea or a tight schedule to interfere with my sojourn home. Although I was only able to stay for a brief four days, those four days were an absolute delight.

There was a pang of regret as I passed through Utah on my travels north. For several pre-pregnancy months, I had planned on getting my Zumba instructor certification on June 17th in Sandy. As I threw up in my sister's toilet instead of donning fitness gear that morning, I felt very sorry for myself. I know there's still plenty of time for that dream/goal/ambition to come to pass, but it felt like an empty day to me.

My melancholy faded as I drove up to my parent's house, however. How lucky am I to be able to return to the home of my childhood? There isn't a step I can take or a turn of my head that doesn't transport me to another time and place when I took similar steps or saw a similar view. As happy as I was growing up in that house, I will admit my very first thought as I crossed its threshold was, "Did this room shrink?" Not once did I ever wish for more space or bigger rooms while growing up among with my five siblings and grandmother. I'm sure my mother did and when she visits my large home, she must think me incredibly spoiled, but she seems happy enough to dwell in a small, happy home.

I didn't get my camera out too often. Instead, I just enjoyed being there. My body relaxed perfectly in the environment it learned to sleep in. The meals my mother prepared, as well as my favorite flavor of pie, Rhubarb, were perfect. The boys and I managed to eat at Staggering Ox, a favorite sandwich place, twice for lunch, climb my favorite mountain, hit some balls at the batting cage and go to the local farm team baseball game. The only thing that wasn't perfect was the length of stay. I wished for more time. An entire summer, perhaps.

These are the pictures I did manage to take.

Rowdy boys at the Ox.  Seth is chowing on the sandwhich that made it famous: the clubfoot.  Sam is staying gluten free by eating a Nuke potato and Henry, who detests crust, is having some Ox fingers (the inside, gutted meat from the clubfoot, with some ham and cheese.  Just fueling up before our hike!

View a quarter of the way up of Sleeping Giant.  Can you see it?

I love that if you know where to look, you can see my parent's house.  Click to enlarge if you want to play I Spy.

I'm glad I had Henry to hike with because he set the perfect pace for me.  Nice and slow.

I couldn't keep up with this dude who could easily have run up the entire trail.

Sam always patiently waited for Henry and I to catch up.

At Devil's Kitchen cave halfway up.

Near the top, Henry stops and says, "Mom, my glasses fell off."  Expecting them to be at his feet or at least very close by, we searched and searched and searched for those glasses -- with NO help from this little man. I almost gave up and wondered how he'd do during the remainder of our two weeks away from home without glasses.  Then, nowhere close to where they should have been and after a silent prayer, I found them closer up the hill but further along the trail.  Exasperating.

At the summit!

Me.  Feeling queasy.

Seth went through a fascination with baseball for a couple of months (he's over it now).  He just lived and breathed baseball.  The poor boy has never actually played or been properly pitched to.  This is his first time in a batting cage and he could have stayed all day.  I was surprised by how quickly he improved and how good he was with no coaching.

Even Henry hit a few of the slow pitches.

It took Sam awhile to figure out his timing, but once he got it, he got it.  He kept moving to faster and faster pitching speeds.

I snapped this photo from my parent's front window as my dad took the boys on one of his famous long walks.  It's something I hope they always remember about their visits to Montana.  And that mountain in the background is the one we climbed!

I Guess I Don't Play Well With Others

One of the joys of country living is the quiet it affords....to me, on a daily basis.  I absolutely love it.  Today, I sat still for about ten minutes near an open window and just listened to the sounds that surrounded me.  Birds chirping.  Leaves rustling.   My boys playing somewhere.

Unfortunately, this sweet serenity also means that spontaneous play with friends is almost out of the question.  Planning...scheduling....discussion among parents seems to be necessary for any kind of social gathering.  In the last twenty-four hours, I have been told by three different parents that we "need to get our kids together to play!"

O.K.  Is the ball in my court now?  Because, here's a bit of important information, I am unlikely to organize these  pow-wows of play.  I swear I like children but I find I don't like playdates at my house.  My own boys usually play extremely well together.  Of course, they enjoy their school and church friends like any child would and should, but they don't need other children around to avoid fighting with each other or to create their own fun.

Some moms swear having other children around makes their days more productive.  I don't see how this could be.  When I have extra kids, I feel....burdened.  Fixing snacks.  Reminding which toys stay downstairs and which belong upstairs.  Encouraging everyone to be outside.  Promising the discontent that their moms will pick them up soon enough.

I realize this sounds horribly selfish and unfeeling and I admit it's not always this way.  Some children are absolute delights to host.  Still, there is not a single day when I wake up thinking the plan will be to call up friends and invite them over.  I'm horrible.

What I think I mean with all of my defensive rationale is that if you think our kids should play, then invite them over!  I have two messages on my answering machine from moms wanting me to call them back so we can get our kids together.  Neither of the children are favorite playmates of my boys.  Both of these moms are notorious for somehow getting me to offer my house for the playdate (I'm usually not going anywhere and they are) and the polite person inside of me knows I need to return these calls and play nice.   But, I don't want to.

I'm not sure what my point is other than I have guilt and either wish I was a more social person for all the political correct reasons or more comfortable in my hermit-ness to not worry about what other moms think of me.   Just getting more thoughts our of my head:)

A Post In Which I Wax Philisophical About Something I Know Nothing About

I wish I enjoyed politics.  For something that seems so staged, slick and frivolous, the things they do and do not have serious implications for the rest of us.  My friend, Michelle, has gotten quite involved at the local level on the side of things she feels passionate about and I've noticed a feeling akin to envy when she speaks so eloquently on issues she's clearly studied. 

I'm sure my innate laziness which hounds me in all aspects of my life is the same thing holding me back from really jumping into the fray, but there's another slightly more noble reason.  I cannot decide which side is more right.  Or, for that matter, which side is more wrong. 

I am a moderate.  An independent.   One day, while still on our cruise, my sister Sarah and I were watching CNN in our room/stall while a panel of pundits discussed the "fairness" of the debt ceiling limit negotiations that Speaker of the House John Boehner supposedly walked out on.  The democrats were screaming foul by declaring their side had made so many concessions and this deal that President Obama had suggested was completely fair.  Even so-called moderates, the ones that are supposed to be representing me, said it was a shame that the talks had broken down because it was the best deal that had ever been on the table. 

I looked over at Sarah and said, "You know if the democrats think it's fair and a republican stormed out, that it wasn't at all fair.  The most "fair" deal will be when both sides are unhappy about what is passed." 

I know that is a simpleton's view of things but as I've read and watched the news today, everyone is lamenting about how horrible this current deal is.  Obama can't lead.  Tea Partiers are holding the nation as hostages.  Romney would never accept this plan. Democrats lose.  Republicans lose.  The middle class loses. America loses. 

This universal discontent makes me think that maybe, finally, the balance between cuts and social spending is where it needs to be...for now.  I don't actually know and I hate to trivialize something that is a really big deal.  Debt is a nasty master.  It holds our nation hostage.  It controls our foreign policy, controls our states and cities and even our individual families.  As a Dave Ramsier, I wish all of our leaders, liberals and conservatives alike, could see the wisdom in austerity.  That you can do more, be more generous, have a stronger national defense, plan for the future when freed from the bondage of debt.  

I have no idea if the drama in Washington will help our nation or hurt it.  But, as someone who considers herself a reasonable person, it makes sense to me that both sides are going to have to let go of the pipe dream, at least for the moment, and grab hold of an actual compromise. 

Sweltering with Sackett and Stench

I love summer.  I do.  I love it at the lake.  I love it near a swimming pool.  I even like it inside an air-conditioned car during a road trip.  I'm finding it a bit more difficult to love in my non air-conditioned house during the hours of 4:00 and...say...8 pm.

Those hours have long been known to be bewitching to mother and children alike, but I have found those hours to be incredibly important to my day.  It's when I....

...frantically pick up so Jay doesn't think I've done nothing all day.
...start dinner (why haven't I become a religious crock pot user yet???)
...clean up dinner (just finished and my hair is wet with sweat.  I kid you not).
...think about blogging before I call it a day and go read/take a bath/sleep.

July and its usually pleasant upper 80 degree temps that feels like 105 to my bloated body isn't conducive to any of those things.  I think I've made an actual meal for my family, and not just set out things to eat, only three times this month.  Tonight was one of those rare nights.  I grilled a beautiful fillet of wild Alaskan salmon, steamed some string beans and cut up some cantaloupe, even though I don't enjoy that particular taste of melon.  I had nearly forgotten how enjoyable it is to set a table and call children to the table and then call a second time to the one that's missing and then a final warning that if he doesn't come, he doesn't eat for the rest of the night.  No, really, it WAS delightful and the highlight for me was to watch everyone simultaneously laugh following Henry's declaration during our baby naming discussion, "Let's just go with Sackett, Mom."   In all seriousness.  Darn that Jay and his love of Louis L'Amore.

By the way, our baby won't be named Sackett.

It also doesn't help that during our afternoon viewing of National Geographic's The Womb, Jay and I both caught the repugnant whiff of skunk and realized our more adventurous and obnoxious cat, Scout, got sprayed.  Her seeming method of dealing with the stress is to stand by my bedroom window and flop around. It's so strong that all windows have had to be closed and Jay's handy Ozone machine, which he purchased to rid his truck of the previous owner's cigarette presence, was used, shutting down the use of our bedroom for four hours.  Who knew a generator of free radicals to eliminate odors would come in so handy? Jay is just a new breed of cowboy with his Ozone totin' gun.  Eat your hearts out, Sackett boys.

That's a long winded way of saying I'm hot.  I'm hot!  But, since I managed to cook dinner and clean up the inevitable mess that comes with it, I thought I'd hit three out of the four and blog.  I miss thinking outside my own head.  Even when it is my sweaty-hair-on-the-back-of-my own head.

On Tuesday, I am officially 20 weeks pregnant.  Halfway through!   Woo-hoo!  That is also the day when I am scheduled to have my ultrasound.  I toyed with the idea of not finding out the gender of this baby, just for experience's sake, but with names like Sackett flying around the house, I need all the time I can get to think about, decide upon and then convince the others what the name of this child should be.  It helps to have narrow it down to either boys names or girls names.  Trust me on this, if it is a boy, I'll need all twenty of the remaining weeks to work out a name.  The ones I like bore Jay, the ones he likes have got to be jokes and the boys throw out names like Bobby Jr.

I feel like I must declare pre-ultrasound that I really will be happy with either a boy or a girl.  I've thought a lot about it.  Again, for experience's sake, I'd love to have a girl.  I'd love for the boys to have a sister....a future woman in the house to learn how to treat and respect.  I'd love for Jay to have a daughter because I hear that relationship is pretty special.  Myself, I'd love to discover how parenting a girl would feel.  Would it be harder because of my own preferences and experiences or easier for the same reason?

That declaration made, I adore boys.  There is a huge part of me that wants our family to remain a clan of boys with me as their queen.  Seriously, I think having another boy would be wonderful.  He'd have shining examples to look up to in any and all of his brothers and...well...we know boys.  We have boy things.  I'm pretty sure having a boy would be an easier transition for our whole family.

I have one more day to wonder.  I googled the statistics because I'd heard somewhere at sometime that the odds of having the same gender baby if you have three of the same was around 70% but it's more like 57%.  57% chance of having another boy and 43% chance of having a girl.  Jay scoffs at those numbers.  He says it's always 50/50 but I'll stick with the science of statistics and won't be shocked when the ultrasound tech announces little Sackett is coming to our home.

It's 7:30 and starting to cool off.  I'm also starting to get sleepy.  Still, July got TWO posts so I'm clearly on the upswing.

Man...it's hot.

********Prediction time!  What do you think #4 will be?  A baby boy or baby girl?**********

It Wasn't Me

For the past two months, I have been suffering what I self-diagnosed as partum depression.  Of course, when I mentioned my concern to my doctor, she asked me if I had any suicidal thoughts and when I replied, "No," she said, "Well, it's not really a great surprise that you feel down.  You're throwing up and tired and have all sorts of hormones running through you."  Lucky for her, my feelings of contempt towards others has been somewhat universal and there isn't enough spare spite to hold a very strong grudge towards her professional blow-off.

While it's true that I never wanted to "do myself in," I have felt like an alien was controlling my thoughts and feelings.  It wasn't me at all.  The world at large and people in particular overwhelmed and annoyed me.  The simplest stresses became major irritants.  I could fake normality for a few hours if I had to but those close to me usually paid the price later in the evening with some major moodiness and emotional withdrawal.

I tried perspective.  In truth, I have been an anti-Job.  Job, who intellectually must have known his right to complain and curse his fate, spiritually couldn't leave the God he loved.  Me?  Intellectually, I know every single reason to be grateful, happy, at peace with what is happening to my body but spiritually, I have had some rather murmurous moments and hope Heavenly Father will forgive my rather biting thoughts towards Him and how I'd have arranged to bring about the human race in an altogether less obnoxious way.

I use the past tense because for the past few days, I feel more and more confident that I am shedding this alien skin and replacing it with my own.  I feel more like....me.  And I like me!!!

I have been blessed and exhausted with both a trip and company for the last three weeks and I'm sure all of that forced socialization and out-of-my-cave excursions have helped my mental state.  I'll report on all of that soon, I promise (mom).  

There have been many, many times when I have wished to be the type of person who can be gracious in the midst of trials.  These past months have only been the latest in my own history that prove that I have a lot yet to learn about the "Be still and know that I am God," counsel.  Is it wrong of me to blame the hormones?  Is that part of me still me?  I can't help but wonder if my meltdown is just a preview of things to come.  Will I be maniacal in menopause.  Or, when I'm old and perhaps ill or stiff or lonely or forgetful, will not feeling like "me" turn me into a crotchety crank?   Am I really responsible for all of my bad behavior?

For what it's worth, I appreciate the notes, texts, emails and calls to check in on me.  I felt the baby move for the first time last night and had what I think is the first non-forced positive thought towards this pregnancy since it began.  I'm not sure why feeling what is akin to a bag of microwave popcorn going off in my stomach should bring peace and joy to my troubled mind, but it did.  And at sixteen weeks, I am more than ready for a change of heart.

What I Miss

You know what I miss most since being pregnant?   Having any kind of energy.

In a lot of ways, this pregnancy feels nearly identical to my others.  My gag reflex is exactly has it has been in the past:  highly sensitive so although nausea can definitely make me throw up, so can coughing, sneezing or burping.  I crave horrible food that makes me fat.  I feel depressed and cry at the drop of a hat.  I murmur.  A lot.

But, one sensation that seems extra heightened this time 'round is my extreme fatigue.  I don't know if it is my 35 years compared to my 24, 27 and 30 years in comparison, but I am tired all the time.  Bone tired.

Most days, I can get away with it.  My world has been very sympathetic to my expanding womb plight.  My young women didn't bat an eye when I came unprepared last Sunday to teach my lesson (a big chunk of the problem was because I had planned to show a movie I had ready on my laptop...which I forgot at home) and ended up holding up my cell phone at the front of the room so they could watch it start and stop intermittently as it buffered slowly on the Verizon network.   Embarrassing, for sure, but I even got a hug from one of my laurels afterward telling me it was a fine lesson.  My sister came down for a long weekend and patiently did my laundry, cooked my children's meals and repeatedly cleaned my kitchen while I sat moaning on the sofa.  My husband is a saint and always asks me how I'm feeling when he walks through the door instead of looking around at all of the piles of things I didn't get done.

My mother's brother died this week from pancreatic cancer and I'm leaving tomorrow morning for his funeral up in Utah.  As much as the past month has tried to convince me otherwise, some things, such as getting ready for a trip, can't be sloughed off.  The tire pressure sensor all aglow on my dashboard needed some attention (nail - slow leak - all fixed).  Milk, as well as a few other staples, needed to be purchased.  Child care needed to be arranged and the big Young Women's Camp Fundraiser, which is being held next Wednesday, needed to be organized enough to be delegated.  I also tried to sneak in a cut and color today because I have looked hideous for a month and am tired of braiding my hair.  When you add my unrelenting need to eat at least once an hour, it makes for a busy and very tiring day.

It doesn't sound like a lot, but my whole body is screaming for sleep right now.  Why don't I indulge and take a quick nap, you ask?  Because there is still stuff to do, it is almost dinner time and I want to go to bed early tonight so I can wake up as early as I need to and not fall asleep during my seven hour drive tomorrow.

I could really use some energy.  Just a small amount.  Nothing Herculean required.  Just the amount needed to get up out of this IKEA chair, walk down the hall and switch  my clothes from the washer to the dryer.  Perhaps if I just close my eyes for just a minute....

Last Day of School

Another school year comes to a close and I am really looking forward to having my boys home for the summer.  Seth and Sam are spending the day participating in the school's traditional "River Walk" which parents weren't invited to (and, really, who am I kidding?  There's no way I'd make an all day outing.  Lately, I barely make it out the door at all) and I'll head over in a couple of hours to watch The Big H graduate from preschool.  I signed up a month ago to bring a salad but find tossing greens with a dressing too overwhelming today.  Instead, I'll drive to a deli and pay way too much for something they made.

It's been a big week.  Seth's fifth grade graduation was on Monday.  He really is growing up.  It makes me feel proud and scared all at the same time.  The other night, he cleaned the entire kitchen and dining room by himself (there was a money incentive, but still!).  He put away left-over food.  He hand washed pots and pans in the sink, then rinsed, dried and put them away.  He wiped off counters.  He even vacuumed the floor.  It is comforting to know that not only is he able to help during the moments when if I move, I'll vomit, but willing.

There was a talent show on Tuesday.  Seth performed his Clementi Sonatina.  I'm glad to put that song to rest finally.  He has a love/hate relationship with it.  After so many months and months, he can't help but play it when he passes the piano but it'll be nice to hear something new.

Yesterday was the school's field day.  Jay was Super Dad and volunteered for the day.  I did the opposite of playing outside in the sun and water and played the organ at a funeral.  It was held at a local mortuary instead of a church and the piano/organ was in a small curtained room just off to the side of the casket.  I was only uncomfortable after the funeral ended and they opened up the casket for one more viewing before heading to the gravesite.  I played postlude and after about a half hour, the man's children each came up to the casket individually.  Their grief, through words and tears, felt very private and I was sorry to hear it.   It didn't feel right to be so close.

We've also had my niece and nephew stay with us this week as their parents are on a cruise.  I feel bad for them because they have the most boring aunt ever.  It's been a really difficult week for me.  I had some hope last week that the Zofran was going to help but it doesn't look like it has any real effect.  Somedays, I feel kind of o.k.  That's as good as it gets.  I never feel great.  I never feel normal.  But, there seem to be more and more days that are becoming just awful.  I feel grumpy and pathetic.   I tried to stay up and chit chat and be interested and attentive their first few nights here, but the past few nights, I have just had to go to bed.  The sooner the day can end, the better.  To make it extra fun, all five of us have Pinkeye and yesterday, we found another tick embedded into Henry's nape.  I'd be lying if I said that I wasn't freaked out about it.

My dad's birthday was yesterday.  He turned seventy-four.  I love him with my whole soul.  He is such a good man and I'm a fortunate girl to have had someone so noble to learn from all these years.

So You Think You Can Dance starts tonight!   That might be just what I need to get my mind through this pregnancy.  I've just about exhausted Netflix's British Period pieces miniseries.  I highly recommend North and South.  Downton Abbey was good and I'm looking forward to some resolution but I didn't like Wives and Daughters very much.   They needed a better climax for the romance between Roger and Molly.

I'm on some sort of a french braid kick.  I just finished doing my hair and think it's the fifth or sixth day in a row I've braided my hair.  I don't know what got me started and really have no idea what keeps me thinking it's a good look (it's not) but a braid it is again.  I feel bad for my niece.  She asked me the other morning if I'd braid her hair for school.  The little talent I have seems to be isolated to having my arms in an up and back position because her poor hair barely resembled braids when I was done (she wanted two).  I noticed when she came home from school, the braids were out.  It made me wonder if I should actually be hoping for a girl.

Oh my goodness, I am rambling.  But, I wrote.  That's something.

Fantasy Friends

Feeling completely justified in taking a break after managing to clean my entire kitchen and dining room, vacuum three rooms, clean the main floor bathroom, fold one of the eight loads of clean laundry needing to be folded (taking bids to fold the other seven!) AND shower, I decided if I'm going to sit, I might as well blog.  Perhaps my less than energetic current state will actually be good for the blog.  

While I might get a self-congratulatory pat on the back today (actually, the entire family has been impressed by my surprising motion), I admit last night was a completely different story.  Jay was exhausted from his preparation and presentation of cancer statistics to a local womens conference and his afternoon fifteen-mile trail run and the boys were glued to the Rockies game playing in the living room and so it was up to me to put on dinner.  I felt sick and very put upon and grouchily called everyone to the gourmet feast sitting upon the table: Hebrew National grilled hot dogs (hey...we're fancy and I don't do mixed meat wieners.  They must be all beef), an assortment of chips, strawberries with their stems still attached and a jar of pickles.  Once my showy feat of domesticity was over, I left the table and headed to my bedroom where I got lost in Tina Fey's new memoir, Bossypants.

I finished the entire thing and laughed out loud more than I have in awhile.  I decided when I closed it that Tina Fey and I could be good friends if we ever had the chance.  O.K.  Probably not since she seems to be more infatuated with the Alec Baldwin/Amy Poehler crowd but I think maybe pre-fame/pre-millions, we could have shared some great laughs.  I love funny people.  Not hyper funny people, mind you, who actually drive me a little nuts, but witty, sarcastic, self-depreciating, non-mean people.  And it's not like it would be all one sided. I could throw a  joke in there on occasion and supply some store-bought refreshments during our funny night pow-wows.

That thought led me to wonder who my other fantasy friends might be.   It gets tricky because lots of famous people, who are sort of the only ones in the running since I don't know about the other non-famous people, aren't very down to earth which is an absolute essential ingredient for friendship.  No high-flutin' girly girls for me!  That weeds out a lot but I think Adele for karaoke nights, Peggy Noonan for intellectual discussions over hot cocoa, CJane for all things regarding mormon momminess (although her infatuation with Provo might get on my nerves), and Katherine Heigl for the Hollywood scene.  She doesn't seem to try too hard and I loved her in Twenty-Seven dresses.  I should say Victoria Beckham since, you know, we're practically the same family (I swear I wasn't trying to copy her with this whole pregnant thing) but she scares me and doesn't eat enough.  Any friend of mine would need to enjoy food.

Interestingly, I constantly tease Jay about his fantasy friends.  He is not a very social creature but any tiny need he might have is filled by Dan Patrick and the Dannettes and Tony Kornheiser.  He passes on their funny stories to me just like he would had an actual friend from school/work/church or the neighborhood shared them.  He feels...close to them.  After reading Tina's book, I know how he feels and that's just after one book.  After years of listening to their daily podcasts, no wonder he feels as if he's friends with these men even though they have absolutely no idea who he is.

Who are your fantasy friends?

What Is It Worth?

I'm determined to blog through this pregnancy.  I have zero, zilch, no record of any of my other pregnancies.  I didn't write in a journal.  I didn't scrapbook.  I didn't even take pictures.  I think there are a total of five pregnancy pictures from all three and most are me sitting down looking at the camera with a visible wish that whoever was taking the picture would go away.  Other than my memories and actual children to show for them, it's like they never happened!

My only concern is that my record might sound like a sad sounding country ballad on repeat.  Um...I feel sick.  And tired.  I need to reach deep for new material.

I had a doctor's appointment yesterday.  She came in with a sympathetic smile tinged with a smirk.  You remember our last conversation was about getting an IUD.  She did redeem herself by running for saltines and water when I started to dry heave in front of her.   Fun, fun, fun!  I left with some serious swag and a prescription for Zofran, an anti-nausea drug I've taken in the past that really does work wonders.

One ironic thing about being married to an actual practicing physician now vs a medical student or resident is we have horrible insurance.  I say horrible, Jay says adequate, but I think that's because his partners chose it and he's being gracious.  Compared to what we paid for our three other children's births, this is going to be a lot more expensive.  Each doctor's visit requires a $65 copay.  I'm paying that much to be weighed and pee in a cup.  It doesn't feel like a bargain.  And would you believe that my ultrasound and future ultrasounds are not free?  The radiologists can waive their fees but the techs and hospital still need to be paid.  Reimbursement rates are at a horrible low in this economy and Jay refuses to add to the statistic or demand special treatment. Fine.

Except I just went to fill my Zofran prescription.  $144 dollars for 60 pills.  The script says to take up to four a day for nausea/vomiting.   At $2.40 per pill, that's almost $10 a day for nausea relief.  Is that expense justified?  I'd spend $10 for lunch but not every day.  I'd spend $10 for a book but, again, not every day.  I'm trying to justify the cost here.  Can I legitimately and in good faith spend $5 or $10 every day to feel better?  Or, should I just save the money and sit around some more?  Well, when I put it like that....

I think I'm going to decide it's worth it.  I have a feeling this is just the beginning of a pretty expensive baby.

Alive...Yes. Kicking...Not So Much

I'm not gonna lie, it's been a rough month.  I think there must be some kind of natural blogging instinct to not write when frustration or despair is raw.  Part of me wishes I had - to capture the real emotions as they happened, but, I think for history's sake, it's more kind to document with the perspective of hindsight.

However, the longer you go without writing, the harder it is to jump back in.  It's almost as if you need something really BIG to be worthy of breaking the silence.  I think I've got just the thing.

I'm pregnant.

It sounds incredibly stupid to say this came as a complete shock when I haven't done anything to prevent a pregnancy for the last three years, but after that much time, and because I needed help conceiving with all three of my others, I really didn't expect for it to happen.  In fact, I had a doctor's appointment last week and made a plan to get a Mirena IUD at the start of my next cycle.  Well...that cycle never came.

When a bout of nausea hit me last Tuesday, I had my first suspicion.  It's such a particular sensation associated with being pregnant for me.  I kept my worry to myself but at my Wednesday morning workout, my trainer asked me if everything was alright and after some tears, convinced me to go buy a pregnancy test.  I had such low energy.  While I drove home from Walmart, I glanced over at the passenger seat to see the IUD pamphlet jutting out from beneath the plastic bag holding a bright pink pregnancy test box.  I thought, "I bet most people don't pick up both of these things in the same week!"

I wish I had more faith or less pride to be able to say with complete confidence that this is the way things are supposed to be or that this is all part of a specific plan.  I'm not sure how that all works out after seeing many wonderful people and couples remain childless and some I consider undeserving proliferate with ease.  And unlike some I know, I've never felt that whispering or prompting that there were more spirits waiting to join our three boys.   I felt...good.  I felt content to move past the young-child-at-home-stage with Henry starting Kindergarten next year.  The idea of starting over - of getting all the things we'll need to have a baby again - still feels overwhelming.  And it's not just all of the paraphernalia we'll need.  It's really hard being sick again. It's really hard to think of all of the work I've put in to losing weight these past months being undone.  As willing as I want to be to stay in shape and keep exercising,  I have no energy.  I feel sick all day.  I'm throwing up in the morning and due to some troublesome spotting, have been instructed by my doctor to avoid anything strenuous.  That means my workouts as I know them have stopped.  Oh, I should still be going for some walks, I suppose, but it's easier to feel bad on my couch and watch movies.  It makes taking one of my three to five naps a day more convenient.

Even though this wasn't planned or expected, Jay has been really sweet and reassuring that we have a great home to welcome whomever is coming.  I like that thought.  We told the boys last night and I wish I would have thought to videotape their reaction.  Seth seemed a little upset.  Sam seemed excited once he actually believed us.  And Henry...oh, sweet Henry, well....he's in for the shock of his life.   I hope to feel like a normal person again soon, but if not, I know come Christmas time, when the baby is due, that this confinement, which turns out to be an appropriate description for now, will end.  Then, it'll be car seat/stroller/diaper bag/portacrib time.  Oh my goodness.

Please forgive my bemoaning.  I realize there will many blessings associated with this experience.  I have no doubt, whatsoever, that when all is said and done, this new life will bring more joy, more spirit and more love to our home.  And if there happens to be more estrogen as well...I certainly wouldn't be disappointed:)

Book Review - Captain Corelli's Mandolin

Wasn't Nicolage Cage in a movie adaptation of this book?  If so, I cannot think of a more poorly chosen actor to portray Captain Corelli, an Italian officer in command of invading and later keeping the peace on the Greek island of Cephalonia.  This captain was charming, quick witted, musical and, I'm assuming, handsome.  Afterall, famed beauty Pegalia couldn't even resist his charms.

This is an odd book but I liked it.  World War II seems to have an endless influence on authors and this is yet another story of another people in another place that gave me yet another perspective on the great war.  This doesn't feel historical, really, because of the quirkiness of the characters and narration, which almost took on a fantasy tone, but maybe that how the Greeks really are.

I really am a romantic because my favorite part of the story, by far, was the romance between Corelli and Pegalia.  The story offers much more - description of music (it is part of the title), wisdom from Pegalia's father, Dr. Iannis, folklore, Greek history and geography, Italian history, notes on friendship and, yes, the cruelties of war.

It also has one of my favorite quotes about love.  I've posted it before, back in December (can you believe how far behind in book reviews I am????) when I actually read this book, but I'm going to post it again.  I love it.

"Love is a temporary madness, it erupts like volcanoes and then subsides.  And when it subsides you have to make a decision.  You have to work out whether your roots have so entwined together that it is inconceivable that you should ever part.  Because this is what love is.  Love is not breathlessness, it is not excitement, it is not the promulgation of promises of eternal passion, it is not the desire to mate every second minute of the day or lying awake at night imagining that he is kissing every cranny of your body...No, don't blush, I am telling you some truths.  That is just being 'in love', which any fool can do.  Love itself is what is left over when being in love has burned away, and this is both an art and a fortunate accident.  Your mother and I had it, we had roots that grew towards each other underground, and when all the pretty blossom had fallen from our branches we found that we were one tree and not two."


I'm so glad I read this.  I'm even more glad that I didn't have Nicolas Cage in my head when I did so.

Book Review - The 19th Wife

It was interesting to read two novels dealing with polygamy so close together.  I read David Ebershoff's The 19th Wife first, and as much as I didn't like it, I had to admit that it was well written.  Weaving a modern day murder mystery in with the history of Eliza Ann Young, the nineteenth wife of Brigham Young,  was well done and interestingly paced.

However, after reading The Lonely Polygamist, I decided I could justify my dislike of this book because it handled the subject matter so much more honestly.

The news portrays real life polygamist leaders as the very scum of society.  Warren Jeffs, the real life religious leader, made headlines a few years ago by becoming a fugitive after trying to force a young teen to become his umpteenth wife.  The government swooped in and the whole thing quickly unraveled into a huge mess.  The answer of what to do with the children, the women, and others who had committed no crime, was never answered.  The government and news media were much more concerned with handing down the moral verdict that what these people do is bad, bad, bad.

Maybe it is.  It's not something I would ever want to do.  But Ebershoff didn't just tell a story, he tried to sell his side of things, and as a result, The 19th Wife felt caricatur-ish and biased.  His descriptions implied everyone who lived this lifestyle was selfish, violent, vain and a sexual misogynist.  I even felt like their teeth might be rotting in their very mouths.  Blech.

Likewise, when fictionalizing actual historical figures, he took quite a bit of liberty with their motives and desires.  Maybe all historical fiction authors do this, and maybe I should squirm more often than I do, but the way he portrayed Brigham Young and other early leaders of the LDS church felt vindictive.  To just make up letters and journal entries that seemingly support his version of history, and explain in the author's notes afterward that, while completely fabricated, they have the "flavor" of things he's read in his research doesn't sit well with me.  I realize that's the influence of my own bias, but how is that right?

For me, there are more important things than a well written book.  Sure, Ebershoff is a fine author and knows his way around adjectives, narration and settings, but in my opinion, he cared too much about being right and too little about being honest.

Book Review - The Lonely Polygamist

Brady Udall's novel, The Lonely Polygamist, has everything I love in a book:  humor, sympathetic and flawed characters, conflict, action and a realistic resolution that ties up the plot's loose ends without forcing everything and everyone to happily ride off into the sunset.

So, why can't I happily recommend this book to everyone I know?

One word: polygamy.  I don't know how different readers might react to a book devoted to this uncomfortable subject.  Such a highly charged topic creates an immediate bias because most readers will automatically feel either defensive (for LDS folks, we kind of wish this part of our history would just go away - even if our own beloved ancestors practiced the controversial doctrine -  along with all of the fundamentalist offshoots that consistently tarnish our modern day image ) or smug, because clearly all polygamy - past, present and future - is evil, gross, atrocious and barbaric and any story about it is bound to portray it in all of its villainous glory. After all, how else could a story about a man who marries more than one woman go?

Well, Udall surprised me by catering to neither group.  His hero, Golden Richards, is a bumbling, unattractive and abundantly hairy man who rather haphazardly falls into the polygamous lifestyle.   From his childhood to his adult life, he sort of just lets things happen to him and four wives and twenty-eight children, a struggling construction business, and three homes with not enough bathrooms later, he realizes he is not a happy man.  He's lonely in the midst of a very chaotic life.

The book has several narrators which each give an interesting perspective into how a life such as this might be.  One of Golden's wives, his youngest, gets several chapters and feels unhappy because she's not MORE involved in the gigantic family drama.  With only one daughter from a previous marriage, she feels left out among the sister wives, and all but forgotten by her husband.

Another view comes from Rusty, the son of wife number three, whose mother is on the verge of a nervous breakdown.  Alone, tormented by his many, many siblings, he gives the book its much needed comical edge.  I wouldn't want a son like Rusty, but his antics sure made me smile.

I'm not saying I approve of a family dynamic like this, or excuse it as being an acceptable variation of what I consider the very bedrock of our society.  But, a good novel is one which allows me to see, feel and be something that I mostly likely never would otherwise.  I suppose that's why, in spite of everything, I throughly enjoyed this glimpse into what should be an unfathomable, and yet is surprisingly familiar, human drama.

Book Review - Faithful Place

I've read both of French's previous novels, Into The Woods and The Likeness, and quite enjoy how she takes a character from the periphery in an earlier novel and pushes him or her to the center the crime/conflict/relationship in the next novel. In Faithful Place, detective Frank Mackey's past gets stirred up when the suitcase of his former girlfriend, Rosie, is discovered in the chimney of an abandoned house they used to meet in during a renovation.  Heartbroken, he left their hometown and most of the relationships with his very dysfunctional family behind.

Frank, whose whole life changed the night he assumed she bailed on their plans to run away together, has since been  married, become a father, and eventually divorced.  .Now, he's determined to face his past and discover if something else might have happened that night. Maybe she didn't runaway to the big city without him. Maybe something much darker happened. Maybe Rosie never left town at all.

French's skill, in my opinion, is to allow the mystery of the crime to take a backseat to the development of her main character. The clues are still unfolding and the whodunit pushes the plot along, but the breakdown of her protagonists - their fears, prejudices, motives and skewed perspective - make it a much more interesting mystery to read. In this particular case, I listened to the audio instead of reading and the addition of a Scottish accent in my head made it even more engaging.

You don't have to start with The Likeness to understand the storyline of Faithful Place, but I think having read it beforehand and the additional glimpse it gives into who Frank Mackey is, made Faithful Place a more interesting book.

I'd Blog But....

I can't. There are not enough words to describe the gauntlet of emotions that have been mine this past week. I am functioning but coherence in written format is out of the question.
There's a chance that statement is tinged with my flair for dramatics but I've tried to write something all day, and I just keep deleting everything I type. It's not coming out.

But, I'm still here. I'm fine. My eleven year old can't stand me most of the time, but its good. I'm the parent, right? Not the child beginning puberty who is most likely confused by new emotions and all the changes that are going on both seen and unseen in his body. Knowing that should make a difference. My feelings shouldn't be hurt. My heart shouldn't be heavy with disappointment while he defiantly sluffs off his responsibilities or when I discover a note not intended for his mother's eyes. And I definitely shouldn't feel angry that I have no clue what I'm doing and wondering what in tarnation Heavenly Father was thinking sending me children to raise.

It's not always bad but tonight it was. Yesterday too. Saturday had mostly good moments but I thought I'd just enjoy the surprising truce instead of blogging about it. Friday was ok but probably only because my expectations are lower at the start of the weekend. Thursday was bad. Wednesday was downright awful. I could only cope by putting headphones in while I read in an attempt to keep myself from shouting. Tuesday was bad. And Monday was so wonderful, it makes all the other days even worse. Because I know it's possible to have a really great day together (it was his birthday).

I feel like he is much too young to already be going through this hormonal change but I can't think of another explanation - at least one that doesn't totally freak me out. So, I'm going to try and be cool. I'm going to pray a lot harder, read and study a lot more diligently and hopefully, hopefully, emerge from this terrifying fog of change a better mother with a loving and intact relationship with my son.

Mind, Body and Spirit

Without my Biggest Loser classes dictating my workout schedule, I have been to try some new things this week. Well...I've always been free to explore, but after two hours of exercise, rare was the day that I felt like doing more, unless it was a Zumba class or skiing.  This week, however, has been a different story.   Everyday, I have tried new things, gone to new classes at different times to see what fits.  I hope I don't mess things up with my bohemian workout experiment.

One of the things I tried this week was a class called Nia.   I've tried the class once before when my friend, Meghan, taught it in Utah, but I didn't remember much about the class other than it felt a bit like modern dance.  The Zumba instructor at my gym, whom I enjoy so much, also teaches Nia and from my few conversations with her, I can tell Nia is her true passion.  She encouraged me to come try it but warned me that it was quite a bit different from Zumba.  I believe she described it as "more organic."

I got there right as the class started and the only space left was in the front row, immediately behind her and to the right.  No problem, I thought.  I'm fairly coordinated and pick things up quickly.  I'm sure it'll be fine.

Organic, by definition means, "derived from living organisms" and indeed it was - the living organisms being us. The burning candles along the floor in front of the mirror were the first indication that this was a different sort of class.  And when the music started, I immediately knew I wouldn't be hearing any Black Eyed Peas in the mix.

The instructor kept talking about "form and freedom."  Every move, she explained, had a form.  But, within the form, she wanted us to experience the "freedom" of the form.  Interpretation: we were supposed to do our own thing a lot of the time.

I don't know why, but that lack of inhibition, the freeness of it all, is really hard for me to enjoy.  When she was giving us steps to do, I did fantastic.  Just as I thought I would, I picked the moves up quickly and followed her spot on.  Then, she'd say, "Now, use your freedom!" and all hell would break loose.  In my head, I'm a 1-2-3-4-step ball chain, step ball chain kind of girl.  I like to move.  I love to dance.  I consider myself a spiritual person.  But, when she wanted us to do our own thing, I didn't feel free.  I felt silly.

We weren't left to our own devices for the majority of the class.   Mostly, those freedom moments were short and contained to a few beats of music.  For instance, during one song, eight counts were spent doing a move called "heart to earth."  Sounds kooky, but basically, we stomped two beats per legs with our chests bent over our feet with our arms slightly lifted from our bodies.  I was fine with that.  The next eight beats, she called out "Towards the sky" and all we had to do was aerobically skip backwards with a really straight back, and with as much vertical motion as we could muster.

The next eight counts were "to our community" and we basically salsa stepped diagonally forward with our arms open and reaching out and up.  That was my favorite move.  Maybe that means I really love my community and the earth and sky not as much.  If I had to rank them, though, earth comes before sky.  Community - earth- sky...can that order be good?

The final eight counts were when I really panicked because they were "ours."  We weren't supposed to follow her, and I don't think I could have had I tried (she can move really organically).  We were just supposed to BE and move our bodies the way our bodies wanted to move.  Oh my goodness, this is hard for me. I kept looking around at everyone else (which, I'm pretty sure is a no-no) to get ideas.  One woman looked like she was doing the robot but mostly, everyone just kind of jumped around.  I tended to stick to the salsa step in some related form or another.  I mean, there wasn't much time to come up with anything really fancy.

Until there was.  Towards the end of the class, there was an entire song dedicated to our freedom.  We could move however we wanted, in whatever direction we wanted - fast or slow or not at all.  The tempo was quite quick, so I started out doing this odd boxing shuffle.  I don't know why.  Perhaps my subconscious body wants to be a boxer, but shuffling just seemed safe at the time.  I knew I was supposed to do something with my arms, so I started swinging them in circles.  Soon, I remembered I am not an airplane so I switched it up and did various different things - usually needing to balance things out by doing an equal count on the other side.  I think I threw a jazz walk in there at one point.  Not an obvious one with splayed jazz hands or anything, but I knew what I was doing in my head and it was a jazz walk.

I can't tell you how hard it was for me to keep a straight face throughout that song.  As a group, I think we resembled some Native Americans at a Pow Wow, shuffling around in a basic clockwise direction doing odd little things with their arms and legs, but  there were some definite stand-out individuals.  One woman started crawling.  I had a hard time not staring at her.  Then another woman got on her back.  She stretched out for while but, next thing I knew, she was rolling around.  I prayed the song would end soon.

When it did, we started out cool down.  This will seem strange after what I'm sure appears to be a post full of mocking this class, but it was really moving.  The tranquil music playing and the sweat dripping off my arms and face (my jazz walk took more cardiovascular effort than you'd think) and the brushing motion we made back and forth on the floor with our fingertips while on our knees all combined into this...experience.  I think it was almost spiritual.  I was so grateful for my body.  I felt grateful for the beauty of the earth and the humanity found in all our different customs and cultures.  It was a short moment but it was a moment.  Then, my legs fell asleep (I'm not there yet) and I was very self-conscious again.

I thanked the instructor when the class was over and she asked me how I liked it.

"It was interesting.  Different.  I liked it but it's hard for me to get out of my head and enjoy the lack of inhibition," I replied.

"Really!  I couldn't tell.  You looked great and seemed to really get it."

"Um...I was faking it."

She laughed at that and said, "Well, you know what they say.  Fake it 'till you make it."

Would you enjoy a class like this?    Do you think experiences like this are really spiritual?  Am I too cerebral and judgmental?

There Was Sunshine In My Soul Today

And on my neck.

And on my chest.

And on my left arm.

And on my nose.

And on my forehead.

For an hour and a half (maybe two), I had a great time chatting with my friend, Michelle, outside.  We discussed loads of topics under a bright, Colorado spring sky, lapping the sunshine into our winter dreary spirits.

As the evening has progressed, my skin has gotten hotter and hotter, tighter and in a lot more pain.  Why do sunburns have to hurt so bad?  And am I going to have these bad tan lines for the rest of the year????

Biggest Loser - Reflections From Final Weigh-In

After 3 months of waking up at 5 am Monday through Friday, exercising with an intensity I never have before and keeping a daily nutritional log, I have reached the end of the Biggest Loser journey. In many ways, I am sad to no longer have the program to guide me on my quest for health and fitness. But, I know I have the tools in my head, heart and body to be successful on my own. I'm not done yet...not even close.

I lost 2 more pounds from last week making my total loss from January 3rd to April 4th 33 pounds. It's a number I'm feeling better about after learning that last year's winner, who lost over 40 pounds, had quite a bit of help with some cleanses. I'm not saying my colon is carrying an extra 7 to 10 pounds, and if it is then I'm seriously disturbed, but I'm glad that I know that all of my weight loss came off healthily and from making the lifestyle changes I need to keep it off.

I'm more excited about some other final numbers, however. In three months, I have lost 12 percent of my body fat. From each arm, I have lost 1.25 inches. From my chest, I have lost 2 inches (of all my areas, I was hoping for more from here.  Aren't women always complaining about losing their bosoms first?  Sadly, mine are persistent). From my upper abs, I have lost 4 inches. From my lower abs, I have lost 3.5 inches. From my hips, I have lost 5 inches! (I can't wait to fly.  Five inches just might keep me from touching the person next to me and that is one of my goals!)  From my legs, 2 inches off each. And, finally, my calves are .75 inches smaller. That is a total of 22.5 inches....gone! That's almost two feet off my body.

I believe there have been some definitive reasons for my success. First and foremost, I have the most supportive husband and children. They have never complained about my absence in the mornings. They have found ways to work together and become efficient at getting to work and school with new routines and habits. Last Thursday, when Jay and I needed to drive for a total of seven hours round trip to pick up his new truck, I chose to ignore my 5 am alarm. In my head, I justified my future missed workout with the defense that I didn't want to be in my car for any longer than I already needed to (it takes 20 minutes to get to where I work out. That's 40 minutes total). When Jay realized I wasn't moving, he literally started poking me in the back. Poke, poke, poke. After several minutes of him ignoring my protests and explanations that it just wasn't going to be a workout day, I realized he wasn't going to stop. So, I got out of bed, drove into town and had an awesomely hard boot camp workout. I hate it when he's right but I'm grateful when he's supportive.

Secondly, signing up and paying to participate in this program did what is called "putting some skin in the game." It was a significant chunk of change, an uncomfortable amount to waste, and there was a level of accountability, to trainers and teammates, that I've never experienced when I've tried to do it alone. Every day, I knew I had a class to attend. Every day, the workout was varied, difficult and pushed me past the point of being comfortable. And I had to go. For 2  hours, every day but Sunday, I had to go. Also, having someone literally look over everything I ate, every day for the first month (after that it was more random and eventually, just a verbal confession if I overate) was a huge motivation to eat well. Obviously, going to a gym on your own and eating healthy foods in appropriate portions all on your own will work, but I just never was consistent enough on my own to develop the necessary habits. I had to up the ante.

Third, I really think the size of my gym was ideal for me to shed my usual comfort of anonymity. I know ALL of the instructors. I'm starting to know a lot of the other people who come to work out. It's not a big gym where you can get lost and everyone keeps to themselves. There are no rows of treadmills or ellipticals, no large room of weights. Instead, there are three small studios and the only option is to take a class where they use toys you could buy on your own (kettlebells, bosu balls, resistance bands, medicine and fitness balls etc.) and be seen. Each time I ever joined Weight Watchers, I'd go to meetings for a few months but then stop because I couldn't see the point of paying to have someone weigh me and then sitting quietly for the class because I didn't know anyone. Sure, I could have been outgoing and gregarious and I could have made comments and been more involved. But, I didn't do it. Ever. I get oddly shy in situations like that. Same goes for large gyms. I don't even like to go to classes because it always seems like everyone knows each other. The small sized forced me out of my comfort zone and I think knowing and being known by like-minded individuals is a definite advantage.

Lastly, journaling about it has helped. I know I wrote about how embarrassed I was when my pictures were first taken and when my weight was displayed on that blasted white board, but, eventually, I lost that ego. Everyone knew how hard I was working so I cared less about the exposure. It almost became a source of motivations as more and more people started noticing the changes in my ability and size. The same thing happened here. Your comments, support and feedback kept me going. I've always wanted to quietly and, without fanfare, overcome my weight issue. Kind of like how I always wished I could keep my pregnancies quiet for longer so that the 40 weeks seemed shorter somehow. But, no, 5...maybe 6 weeks along and pretty much anyone who made eye contact with me would hear me confess my condition. I'm kind of a blabbermouth. It would have gone against my nature to go through the Biggest Loser silently. I'm so glad I was able to share it. Thank you for being so supportive.

Because I'm vain, I had to take a picture with some make-up on and clothes that weren't stretchy. Plus, I really didn't have any pictures of me over the last three months. No full body shots. It was interesting looking at the pictures I asked Seth to take this afternoon. I can see how far I've come but can still see so far to go. I'm going to take more pictures. I think it'll help me get where I want to go.

I'll still check in now and then. I'm not stopping and I've got some new goals to keep me in check, but it probably won't be a weekly post. But, it might be. If I need it to be.

February 6th.  Twelve pounds lost.  Only picture I have of me since early December in Memphis.  I didn't post this at the time because I was so disappointed with how I looked even after losing twelve pounds.  

Today, April 4th.   21 pounds lighter from picture above.

In normal clothes.  I bought these jeans at the end of last summer and couldn't wear them.  I couldn't even button them.  They are almost too big now.  

The Garden Party

I love my boys elementary school.  It is small, family oriented and constantly putting on events to draw the schools' families together.

Of course, being somewhat of a homebody, I don't actually want to go to these events, but I think it's quaint that they put them on.  Last night, my boys talked me into going to their annual Garden Party.

They served beef brisket, baked beans, potatoes, applesauce and a roll a la cafeteria style.  It was o.k.  They also hosted a dance with a middle-school aged band.  If that doesn't pull you off your couch, I don't know what will.  In all honesty, they were a really good band and the kids who danced had a blast.

Of course, my boys preferred playing soccer outside.  One of my favorite things about the size of this school is how inclusive the play is.  It has to be.  There couldn't form full teams if they left people out.  So...girls play with boys, grades intermix and it just feels more wholesome somehow.  I enjoyed watching them play outside with their friends.

But, I enjoyed watching them dance more.  Henry was hamming it up.  I don't know if he's an attention hog or just a very passionate dancer, but he was tearing the floor up all night.  Seth safely walked the borders of the dance floor until the very end, when his silly side got the best of him and he started some toe-tapping of his own.

Sam safely stuck to Bingo.  He played one game and won!  Sixteen dollars!  There were some jealous grandmas in the crowd.

Some pictures:

Choosing teams.  Brutal!  I don't know what Sam was so excited about.

Seth going for the goal.

High fives with his friend, Luke.

Elise dribbling (this is for you, Michelle.  She looked like she was having a lot of fun).

Henry doing some of his ninja moves he's been into since watching the Samurai Pie episode of Backyardigans (Jen, you can imagine the sound effects that go with these sweet moves, can't you?)

I love watching girls dance.  I really do.  It brings back so many fond memories.

Henry making a long circle around the gym doing some kind of robot march.

He danced even when no one else did.  And the band played on.

Some floor dancing.  Some of his best moves.

Seth playing ninja, an actual game, NOT learned from Samurai Pie, with his friends.

I had to take this picture.  Two fifth grade boys at a dance and two fifth grade girls at a dance.  They are so different!

Still dancing....

Meanwhile, over in the cafeteria, Sam takes on the Bingo crowd.

And won!

One final dance with dad.

Not the most exciting Friday night, but I love my boys and love that they love their school.  But I have NO idea why they called this a garden party.

Doing It Dave Ramsey Style

This is one of those posts where I debated, "Should I or shouldn't I blog about it?"  Because, frankly, blogging about possessions is obnoxious. Sorry, but it is. Especially in this economy and knowing so many great people who are struggling and feeling overwhelmed.

So, I must be clear that I am not blogging about a new possession for the sake of the possession, though it may seem like it. Instead, what thrills me and what I feel like shouting from the rooftops is the pleasure I feel about being married to a disciplined man and my joy that comes from witnessing the reward of his patience.

Jay finally got a truck. A really nice truck. A Dodge Ram truck. The exact truck that he wanted.  I can finally put another answer to question number six on the year-in review posts (See 2009 and 2010).

Five years ago, Jay was driving a beat up 1987 Toyota pickup.  That same year, we took a Dave Ramsey called Financial Peace University that changed how we would buy things forever.  One of the biggest tennets of his budgeting plan is to pay cash for everything.  He makes exceptions for homes and education, but barely.  Jay and I signed on and have been living like no one else (a catch phrase of his) these past five years.  That Toyota truck was purchased for $500 from friends of ours in Denver during medical school. Hoping it would simply last until graduation, we were thrilled when that little blue truck continued to faithfully transport Jay to the hospital through his residency until it got totaled after being got rear-ended in 2006. Would you believe the insurance adjuster gave us $1500 for that truck????

He took that $1500 and bought a rebuilt 1995 Dodge Ram 1500 from some shady Ukrainians. There were no records for the truck and the carfax report only said that it had been in a collision. Still, for $1500, it ran and it was a truck. Jay was happy.

One year later, we were in Salt Lake City and he had a wicked commute to the U of U hospital. After the third or fourth time it stalled WHILE driving on I-215, he sold the truck for $1000 and bought a 1999 Volkswagen Passat. Using the budget ideology learned from our Dave Ramsey class, Jay never budged from his belief in paying cash for a used car. I suppose I didn't fully admire his faithfulness to the budget because a $6,000 used car still seemed really fancy to me. It was a great little car. For a few months.

Then, as it often happens with used cars, things started breaking down. At first, he fixed every problem. Gotta make this car last, we both thought. Once we got to D-town, however, something screwy happened to the computer or electrical system or something, and his dashboard lit up like a Christmas tree. When the mechanic explained that nothing was actually wrong with his engine or his brakes or his oil level or the temperature or his tire pressure, Jay decided to save the $1,000 it would cost to fix the computer glitch and put up with all the blinking red lights.

He's driven it like that for the past three years. During that time, the transmission has become questionable, the power steering is going out, I hit a deer and ruined his passenger side, the door came off the glove box, the sun roof stopped working, the back windows need to be taped to stay up, and a loud, obnoxious beep dings three times about every twenty seconds.

I couldn't have put up with it. I love our budget and claim to be a total believer, but I could not have driven that car for three years in the condition its been in. I mean...I suppose I could have, but...no, I don't think so. At least not with a cheerful disposition, like Jay, who has only really complained about his car a handful of times and even then, only when the beeping became too much for his frayed nerves.

What really ups the ante of my admiration is that Jay has made good money for the past three years. Enough so that he could have walked into any car dealership and picked out whatever car he wanted and would have been able to make the payment with relative ease. I even encouraged him to do just that.

"Go buy a truck!" I would tempt, after seeing a commercial for zero percent financing or a chunk of change in rebates. He'd just give me a kind of sad, closed-mouth smile, the equivalent of a you-just-don't-get-it pat on the head to his weaker-willed wife.

Instead, we saved. And saved and saved and saved. And saved some more.

It seemed like we'd never have enough to get the truck that he wanted. Occasionally, my loss of focus would return and I'd encourage him to abandon our cash-only ship and use financing. He stayed true to the course, however, and today, he drove to work in a vehicle whose bells and whistles are actually supposed to be there.

He found it on Carmax. It took over a month to get it to the nearest-to-us Carmax dealership and we drove down yesterday to pick it up. It is used but barely so. Jay figures he saved $10,000 by having someone else put 5,000 miles on it first. Best of all, Jay got it on his terms - by paying cash.

For the first time in the fifteen plus years I've been with him, Jay has a car that he likes.  Also, for the first time since he bought that reliable Toyota pickup, he owns a vehicle made in the same decade we currently live in.

I really like Jay.

Seth enjoying the sun roof

What man doesn't feel more like a man with his own big truck?

Pretty sweet ride.