Selective Separation Anxiety

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My Own Speech Therapy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Book Review #52 - My Thirteenth Winter

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Book Review #51 - The Book of Mormon

My mother has told me for years that I should try reading the Book of Mormon like I do novels - straight through and quickly. I always thought, "Yes, yes...that would be great." but never really thought much more about it. After all, I'm not involved with a Young Men/Young Women super overnighter group read, or a convert from the 1800s reading by candlelight in a haybarn.

When Calamity Jane posted her goal and experience, I was reminded again of this idea - to consume the Book of Mormon like a book. I never, ever, ever take a year to read a book. Ever. I don't even take a month. I read it in a timely manner or I don't read it at all. Which is why I've never looked at scriptures as "books". I wish I could say I was a regular reader of them, but the truth is, I'm not. I go in spurts and have never really developed a daily habit of reading.

I began reading at around 11:00 am on Monday morning. I had just come back from the gym and was feeling very goal-oriented. I posted a blog post and, afterwards, sat in my blue, leather Lazy-Boy recliner in the living room, opened a replica copy of the first edition Book of Mormon (which makes for much, much easier speed reading as it is in the traditional block paragraph format) and read "I, Nephi". Familiarity hit me and my body physically resisted. Almost immediately, I was tired. I read maybe twenty pages and fell asleep. Asleep asleep, not just shutting my eyes.

First of all, I don't nap. I'm not a good napper (I wake up more grouchy than ever) and I need dark and quiet, two things I'm not prone to find in the middle of the day. Moreover, reading doesn't make me sleepy. Usually. Unless, of course, the paragraph begins with, "I, Nephi."

After my first pathetic attempt failed miserably, I decided to pull out the guns. I filled the bathtub with hot water and got a Diet Dr. Pepper from the fridge to keep me company. I really do some of my best reading in the bathtub. While this format is usually reserved for my evening solitude when no food demands or poopy diaper can disturb my soak, I recognized the need for an earlier intervention.

"What are your kids doing?" you might be asking. Coming in and out of my bedroom, but playing together handsomely and, overall, doing quite well. My parenting style of benign neglect came in quite handy for this current project.

The bathtub proved worse than the comfy reclining chair and I found myself dozing again! I was only forty pages into the book and my goal of a hundred pages per day seemed insurmountable. I felt like I'd already been reading, or trying to read, for the better part of the day and I hadn't made the kind of progress I anticipated making. I got out, got dressed and changed gears by talking to a few people on the phone. Later, I tried again and forcibly made myself read one-hundred pages. It wasn't enjoyable, or uplifting, and I found myself annoyed with Nephi and his goody-goodness. I get Laman and Lemuel's grievance. He sort of bugs.

I went about the rest of my day, picking Seth up from school, tidying up the more noticeable disasters in the house, and making dinner. After dinner, I noticed my sad little pedometer on my hip and it displayed a measly 2,500 steps for the day. A lofty reading goal doesn't jive well with being more active. With a sigh, I asked Jay if he minded if I went to the gym to walk on the treadmill for a while to get my steps in. He turned into Jillian- the-trainer and sent me off, telling me "No excuses." and I found myself in the very rare situation of being at a gym in the evening hours.

Thinking if I got ahead, maybe I would have a better experience the next day, I started walking at 3.8 mph and turned to page 101. I don't know what made the difference, but my entire experience changed from this point on. The book energized my walking or the walking energized my reading because sixty minutes and three and a half miles later, I was sixty more pages into the book and wishing I didn't have to stop. I went home, crawled into bed and read sixty more. I got my first glimpse of what would become obvious two days later, that like like any good book, this book was centered on conflict. I don't think I'd really known that before. Or at least I thought there was more of a balance between the good times and the bad. But there really isn't. It's mostly about the bad times.

The next two days were spent reading whenever possible. I made good use of my new gym membership and spent over an hour each day walking briskly while reading. I found my best reading to be done while walking. It was the only time I averaged a page a minute. If the day care would have allowed it, I might have spent all day there - walking and reading. I read in the car while I was waiting for Seth. I read while I ate. I read in bed before falling asleep. I just keep reading. I knew I could finish in three days and changed my goal to just that. I finished last night at 11:43 pm.

While certainly not comprehensive, here are some of my observations:

• Nephi is hard for the proud to like. If this sounds sacrilege, and you've never had this thought before, congratulations...you're probably not proud. But, pride is something I struggle with so his, "Why can't you all just be more like me?" attitude can be a stumbling block. But the thing to remember is, he was called of God, and although his personality might make me less wont to invite him to a party, his righteousness is absolute. And, ultimately, those who are called to be our leaders are meant to be followed. This means that the relief society president, who drives me batty (not my current one), still has the mantle of leadership, and it is my responsibility to adjust my pride so that I can learn the gospel. Laman and Lemuel, while probably slightly justified in finding their younger brother too much to take, allowed their pride to turn to sin, which resulted in the loss of the spirit. And thus, the second promise of the Lord is fulfilled, that "inasmuch as ye will not keep my commandments ye shall be cut off from my presence. They didn't and they were.
  
• the word "durst" is used quite frequently.
• The lineage of authorship foreshadows the later-day church established by Joseph Smith. Nephi gives the small plates to his brother, Jacob, not to any of his own children. Sort of similar to how Hyrum's children were later leaders for the LDS church but not Joseph's own. I found that interesting. I wonder if there was an ancient RLDS church out there.
• The allegory of the Lord in the Vineyard found in Jacob is profound and deeply relevant to our day.
• There were some slackers that were handed the plates.
  
• Race does not matter. The line between Nephite and Lamanite was so blurred throughout their history that it wasn't a matter of race. The distinction was between those who were lived the commandments of God and those who ignored them. The Nephites who turned "bad" were the worst of all. Those were some scary dudes.
  
• I've often wondered why there are so many details of the wars. I'm sure there are multiple and deeper reasons, but I'm leaning towards Mormon just being really interested in it. After all, he was in charge of the entire Nephite army when he was only 16. I can imagine him looking through all the old plates and scrolls and loving all the details Captain Moroni, Teancum, Helaman and Moronihah left. It's a manly book. If only their wives could have been bloggers.
• Sadly, the history is dictated by which war was in what year. I don't think their history differed from that of any other civilization. We mark time by our skirmishes and conquests. The peace and love that existed while Christ visited, and the effect his visit had for generations to come, stands in stark contrast.
• The sacrament is sacred. Jay and I had a discussion a couple of weeks ago where he pointed out that taking the sacrament is symbolic of partaking of the tree of life. After reading Christ's words to his disciples, I absolutely agree. I think we endanger our spirits when we partake unworthily or even absentmindedly.
  
• It truly matters who our leaders are. I found this discovery extremely apropos with the current change in leadership of this church, as well as the leadership of our country. It takes a wise, humble, and righteous person to effectively lead his people in peace and prosperity whereas a corrupt leader inevitably leads those who follow to destruction. Every time.
  
• Being rich isn't the point of being prosperous. I think a great stewardship comes with becoming rich. It's almost a test to see how you handle it. I've been feeling covetous lately for a large home. You see these monster homes being built everywhere around here and it's gotten into my head that I must have one. Nothing less than 5,000 square feet will do! It's pretty clear throughout the book that those the Lord blesses with prosperity doesn't entitle them to get caught up with their money and belongings. The outcome is never good when this happens. So, I'm going to nip this feeling in the bud and hopefully do it before the riches come. (by the way, I don't think having a 5,000 square foot house is bad. But coveting one before you need it or can afford it certainly is).
  
• Moroni was totally improvising at the end. He didn't know when he'd die so he just kept adding stuff at the end. And there is some really good stuff at the end!
• The moral of the story seems to be repentance. The theme throughout is "keep my commandments and you will prosper in the land." but as no one does that perfectly, except my good friend Nephi (who, really I'm just envious of because he never seems to stumble...and who doesn't stumble???) the only way to do it is to repent...continually.
  

The best part of this experience has been today. There is a certain famous verse, although when I read it, it wasn't a verse but merely part of the second to last page, where Moroni challenges the reader to pray with a sincere heart to discover the truth of the book. My greatest fear while reading was that I would feel exactly the same afterwards. I wanted to feel more, and an inner voice sounded off a worry about what I'd think if I didn't.

There were times I felt more. When Enos prayed, I felt power and love for that man.

I was again moved when Alma and the sons of Mosiah meet up again after more than a decade of missionary work and when Captain Moroni rides around with his Title of Liberty (although I really had to work hard to shake off a Mel Gibson with facepaint image I had in my head).

There was definitely a feeling of more when Christ blessed the little children. It is such a tender moment in time.

I didn't know if I'd get the burning bosom. I wanted it, but knew I couldn't force it so I decided to fast the entire day and made arrangements with my sister, Maureen, to have her watch Sam and Henry while I went to the temple. It was while I was driving to her high school to drop them off, and after I switched the CD playing from a So You Think You Can Dance mix to a Mormon Tabernacle Choir recording (I knew no burning would come from listening to Timbaland) that it came. Peace like a River started to play while I was going through the drive through at Carl's Jr. to get lunch for my boys and the melody and words "peace like a river", " faith like a river" "hope like a river", "love like a river" and I felt overwhelmed with such a spirit of joy and love for my Savior.

That's it! That's it. There are wars, and rumors of wars, and corruption and sin and secret combinations and even total destruction. But with Christ, there is peace. And hope. And charity. The Book of Mormon boldly teaches us the commandments of God, and of His plan so that the faith, hope and peace can be felt.

This book is true. It is not written by a genius of manipulation. By their fruits ye shall know them, and this is good fruit. It testifies of Christ and because it does, it uplifts the soul.

I found this quote on my friend, Alisa's, blog. How appropriate that it comes from President Hinckley. He says, "Love is the only force that can erase the differences between people..." The Book of Mormon proves this is true. Not through regime change. Not through indoctrination. I feel like shouting out to the world, and particularly to the candidates for president who keep promising unity. It's not about the economy, stupid,...it's about love!

I've been writing for a while now, and feeling a little bit like Moroni in that I don't know how to end this. I'm really hungry, but happy that I've made it until 5:50 without succumbing to my natural man, who most definitely likes to feel full.

I've been asked if certain books I review would be appropriate for church or enrichment style book groups. This would be a good one! I actually think it'd be fun to discuss in a book group setting. Of course, there's Sunday School, which is already set up for that, but I'm not usually a participant in that arena. Either way, I give it a thumbs up....five stars....highly recommended.

Thank you, President Hinckley, for inspiring this event in my life. It changed my week from mediocre to meaningful.

Coming Up For Breath

I've been a bit of a hermit lately. I'm either reading at home or at the gym on the treadmill (it's how I'm managing to get my weekly goal of 10,000 steps/day in). I did step out on the town last night to go see U23D. It's so good. Go, if you're at all a fan of U2 or even if you only used to be. It's uplifting and surprisingly added to the spirit I've been feeling this week.

I'm down to my last 100 pages in the Book of Mormon. The three days of darkness and torment have just ceased and Christ has appeared to the Nephites and Lamanites. I can't wait to "review" this book and my experience, but I needed a little time to reflect on what's happened so far before I forged ahead with, what I consider, the best part of these scriptures. As I've read it so quickly, I've been made aware of a few things I hadn't really taken a lot of notice before. The most obvious is how important the leader of the land is in regards to the peace, prosperity and security of the people. And along those lines, how quickly glossed over the good times are so that the details of the bad times is the focus. With that in mind, the story and doctrine still manages to uplift, which is surprising to me. I've read many, many books where the characters ignore what's best for them and the take away message is usually, "Life sucks and then you die."

Not so with the Good Book. The theme is most definitely, "Keep my commandments and you shall prosper." They do. We do. And yet we continue to forget.

I think I'll finish tonight. I'm hooked! This is such a great thing to do. Not necessarily the best way to keep your house clean or stay current in blog land, but "to everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven."

I Thank Thee, O God, For A Prophet

I've been so incredibly touched by how many blogs have mentioned the passing of a great man: prophet, seer and revelator Gordon B. Hinckley. I think it's important to write our thoughts and feelings about his life and death. He was a man who changed many, many lives...including my own.

Like Heber J. Grant and David O. McKay were for our grandparents and parents, President Hinckley was the prophet of our generation. When I heard the news last night, my initial reaction was how glad I was that his death wasn't drawn out over months or years. Last month when he spoke at the Mormon Taberacle Choir Christmas Dinner, he said, "I'm old and I have nothing left to say." He was ready to move on and rejoin his beloved wife, but he also continued to work, travel and speak whenever he could. I also thought, "How sad for all the new members of the church who have only known him as prophet." Every time I've watched videos and news reels of President Hinckley overseas, waving his white handkerchief to the beautiful saints in Africa, Asia, South America, Europe, the Islands of the Pacific and every nook and cranny in between, I've felt strongly that this man anchors so many with his goodness and love.

My earliest memories of him are as a child watching general conference. I thought he was incredibly boring. Yes, I remember thinking that. Dreading his talks. Of course, I didn't actually listen to any of them but due to the poor health of President Kimball and his other counselors, it seemed like he did a lot of talking.

I think the first time I heard him with new ears was as a freshman in college. The BYU combined choirs sang during October Conference and I had a great view of President Hinckley, who was then counselor to President Benson. I vividly remember President Hinckley turning around in his seat to watch the choir sing. His face had so much love and light in it and it touched me. I listened to him speak and felt truth and power in his testimony. It was a turning point in my life.

I believe his message. I admire his stamina. I have no doubt the Lord will gather him in his arms and say, "Thank You." Maybe he'll get to rest now. But I doubt it. After the hugs and rejoicing reunions, I bet he'll say, "What would Thou have me do now?"

I feel impressed to go forward with a goal I've been contemplating for weeks now. Calamity Jane read the Book of Mormon in a week earlier this month. Deep within myself, I knew as I read about her experience that it was something I wanted to do too. I've waited and wondered when the best time for this challenge might be and I think the time is Now. President Hinckley promised us a year ago that reading the book of Mormon would change our lives and our families. I'm going to accept his challenge one more time. Because I believe the promise and I believe him.

God bless this man.

Five Years Ago

I was hanging out on the ninth floor of a hospital, holding, feeding (painfully - afterbirth pains while nursing number two - yowzers!) and sleeping with my one day-old son.
I know some new mothers can't wait to get out of the hospital and home with their newborn, but I think my favorite experience of the entire birth is the calm after the storm, when there is nothing to do but receive visitors, recover, and enjoy the new beginning.

Of my three birthing experiences, Sammy's was the closest to "normal". It was Sunday, January 26th 2003 and Jay was on call and already away at the hospital. My mom was with me for this very scenario. Seth's labor was fast and unpredictable and I was paranoid that I would go into labor while Jay was working (which they seem to constantly be doing their intern year) and not have a ride to the hospital or a place for Seth to go.

We had 9:00 church and I believe there was primary business I had that day because I was running late preparing things and my mother walked to the church ahead of me with Seth. In a rush, I power walked the short distance a few minutes later, my bursting belly feeling tight and burning the entire time.

As I entered the chapel, my mother and several others were cleaning up vomit in the pew where Seth had thrown-up. My mother took Seth home and I, sweaty and annoyed, went and got some more paper towels.

While I was cleaning up, a woman in my ward noticed my grimaces and asked me if I needed her to drive me home. I laughed and said that I lived close enough to walk but thank you but she wouldn't take no for an answer. Not wanting to do battle in the chapel, I accepted her offer and was taxied the 0.1 mile distance home.

I came in and sat down in my blue, leather recliner and had a contraction, nothing too painful but very tight. I sat there for about an hour, nonchalantly timing these "tightenings". As they were coming about every five minutes and for about a minute's length each time, I called Jay and told him that I thought I was in labor.

He quickly drove home to pick me up and we headed back to the hospital together. From there, I labored for about another hour (while Jay went in and out trying to fulfill his call duties), feeling determined to have the baby without an epidural,as I had done with Seth, but a little panicked because I didn't remember labor hurting quite so bad. Jay reassured me that I'd still be a superstar even with the epidural and I consented.

Talk about birthing luxury! I felt very calm as I could feel the tightening contractions but no pain. When it was time to push, I boldly requested a mirror which was an offer that irritated me while I was in the throes of pain delivering Seth. Never having actually witnessed a birth (we missed the week in the birthing class when the video is shown), I watched Samuel Jay enter the world.

Kind of gross, but...beautiful too, in that bloody and freakishly bizarre way. Samuel's labor was my longest, clocking in at five and a half hours start to finish, but he was thoughtful enough to come in time for the Superbowl. If we were superstitious or prone to punish our children with inappropriate names, we'd have named him Keyshawn, who played for the triumphant Tampa Bay Buccaneers. Thankfully, we aren't those kind of parents.

I don't have easy access to old pictures here, and this was one of the earliest pictures with Sam with a digital camera. I think he's a little older than a year here. He was and is, such an easy laid-back boy.

For number five, we had an all day celebration including donuts (a rarity in our gluten-free home), a trip to the museum of ancient life where we watched a 3-D dinosaur movie on an IMAX screen (although I had to watch the last fifteen minutes in blurry 2-D because Henry threw my glasses down a few rows) and watched the boys pretend to excavate, and a party with family at Chuck E. Cheese. Sammy reveled in his new gifts which included several nerf guns, a whole lot of new lego sets and a new magnetix set.

Gluten-y deliciousness

Jay fights back by making his own special kind of muffins. They weren't too bad.

I love this picture despite its yellowness. I love this man. I love these boys' father.

Seth and Henry play paleontologist

Sammy does too

Cousin Adam hit the jackpot on one of the games. Almost 300 tickets oozed out of the machine with which he was able to trade in for a plastic mug. Like Ebay says, it's better when you win it. Kelly can't help herself:)

Best friend/cousin Matt and the birthday boy

Another gloriously decorated gluten-free cake by Lucy. I'm thinking of starting a business.

I love how excited he got by the free candy Aunt Sarah threw into the bag along with two nerf guns.

Big hugs for everyone as a thank-you

The competition heated up when Jay shot some hoops.

Kelly attempted to crown herself queen

But I think Clark triumphed

It was crazy busy and anytime the kids could actually play on something was a relief.

Just trying to stay out of the gaming frenzy

Sam and creed play the dinosaur racing game

And this guy stayed true to form requiring a personal escort the entire night. Even with an escort, I think he managed to slip away undetected at least four times. The crown looks natural on him, don't you think?

Happy Birthday Sam-I-Am. Sammy Sosa. Samuelson. Sambone. Samuel Jay.

Book Review #50 - A Thousand Splendid Suns

For the last two months I have been putting off reading this book. For starters, I bought the book at an airport in Taiwan, which meant it didn't have a due date which meant it took a backseat to many books that I didn't have the luxury of reading whenever.

Additionally, because I've heard so much about this book already, I almost didn't want to read it at all. I've heard that it's depressing, that it's not as good as The Kite Runner, and that it's basically a novel about the brutal treatment of women in Afghanistan.

You know when you read a book or see a film that has had great reviews and you finish feeling disappointed because it didn't live up to the hype? My experience reading this book was the complete opposite. I loved it. I didn't feel the message of the book was one of brutality or depression, but of hope and the toughness of the human spirit.

There are plenty of awful scenes to lend credence to its reputation. While the story's time frame spans thirty years, the main focus of the novel are two woman, a generation apart, whose lives cross as they become the wives of the same man, Rasheed. The elder, Mariam, was born to a servant woman out of wedlock and is raised in banishment, ignorance and eventual rejection during the years the Afghani government was controlled by the communists. She finds herself forced to marry a much older man after her mother commits suicide. Laila, fifteen years younger and raised by intellectual parents, enters the marriage under much different circumstances. Alone after a bomb destroys her home and kills her parents, and pregnant by her childhood love who has fled the country, she marries Rasheed in a desperate attempt to save her unborn child.

The writing engrossed me. Much like the Kite Runner, Hosseini magically puts the reader in the city, neighborhood and house of his characters. Much to his credit, I found myself torn between wanting to yell at Laila to hush up, so that she'd avoid another beating, and kicking Rasheed myself, because he is a despicable brute.

Mariam, one of the most tragic characters in literature, makes this book what it is; a story of love and strenghth. She, who didn't have an easy day in her life, allows herself to be touched by the love of Laila and her children. In return, she performs the ultimate act of love and saves a family.

I appreciate Hosseini's portrayal of a part of the world that is under so much scrutiny lately. Afghanistan, and the city of Kabul where the story takes place, have a long history of wars and occupations which result in a great chasm between different ethnic tribes, Islam, economic classes and gender. Hosseini uses this novel to tell the story of Afghani women and the hardships that face them with each regime change.

As a woman, I feel blessed to have been given confidence and opportunities. I truly cannot imagine what it would be like to live under the conditions the women in this book live under. I am grateful to be born to the family I was born to and in a country which allows me to live the kind of life I choose.

Miram and Laila didn't have the opportunities or support that I have. And yet they survived. They endured and they reached out to others, despite their circumstances. In this, Hosseini redeems all of Afghanistan by showing these two women's humanity. He shows that in a place whose beauty was written about in a 17th century poem, where "One could not count the moons that shimmer on her roofs and the thousand splendid suns that hide behind her walls" is a city that can become illuminated once again.

Book Review #49 - What Came Before He Shot Her

I could write A LOT about this book. Mainly, how much I disliked it. Elizabeth George is probably my favorite crime novelist. I love her Inspector Lynley/Havers books. The first tragic flaw of this book is that neither characters are in the book.

In a nutshell, George takes her last book, With No One As A Witness, and writes a very, very long book with all the background for the criminal in that book. Yes, it humanizes the criminal. Yes, it paints a stark and awful background to the horrors of poverty and neighborhoods that breed crime. But the book becomes part of the horror as it goes on and on in its detail about the ugly.

In the end, there is no beauty to save it. I was just glad to be done with it. It was a hard book for me to read and I feel a little betrayed by George. If you like her too and haven't read this book - don't. Spare yourself the torture.

Book Review #48 - Mrs. Mike

This wasn't on my list of scheduled reads but while I was in a bookstore last month to purchase a book for a Christmas exchange, I saw Mrs. Mike on the shelves and felt compelled to buy this much beloved book.

I'm often asked what my favorite book is. I always answer that I don't have one; there are many books I love but they are too different to say one is superior to another.

I have changed my mind. Mrs. Mike is my favorite book.

A coming of age story set in the Canadian North in the year 1907, Katherine Mary O'Fallon, a young woman of 16, goes to live with her uncle somewhere north of Calgary as treatment for her pleurisy. There she meets Sergeant Mike Flannigan, a Mountie who has "eyes so blue she could swim in them." They are eventually married after a brief (but fantastically romantic) courtship and she follows him by dog sled to the arctic wilderness to live among the fur traders and Indians.

I love this book for many reasons. Most importantly, as a book, it's my first love. Mrs. Mike was the book that made me realized how much a book could move and stick with me for years. I rarely re-read a book, but I believe I've read Mrs. Mike five times now. Each time, my stomach swoons when Kathy and Mike fall in love, I laugh when Kathy covers her daughter and Mike spanks Kathy instead, I cry when the unimaginable happens and I sigh as I close the book, thinking the line at the very end is one of the best ever written.

Another reason I love this book is that it's based on a real woman's life who the authors met before writing the book. I'm sure it's juiced from the reality, but even the skeleton of the story is moving.

I can't claim that it's the best written book. It is simple in structure, dialogue and description, but as I've read more and more over the years, and compare it to other literature, I believe the style matches the story perfectly.

It's the kind of book I can't help but promise that anyone who reads it will love it. But I also know that with our diverse personalities and preferences, it wouldn't be true. Like a biased mother who adores her baby, I don't think I'd enjoy anyone pointing out the flaws of this book. Perhaps its eyes are too close together and the head oddly-shaped, but it's my baby, and I think it's the most beautiful thing in the world.

Look What Now Got Me Into

I love comments. I really do. Not the number, really, although any feedback is nice, but the ideas and validation are what really keep me coming back for more.

A few of yesterday's comments created today's post.

Barb replied: "I have decided the no-extra-charge classes at my gym are the solution. Avoidance of public humiliation pushes me harder in those classes than when I'm on the elliptical."

Melanie concurred: "I agree though, I didn't push myself nearly as hard when I worked out on my own. But like Barb, I did push myself in all the kick boxing classes. I didn't want to look like a wimp in there, ha!"

Carlo mentioned it: " i had a few months to get up to speed and then i jumped into the group classes"

Amber dittoed: "I ditto the class suggestion. I work so much harder in a class and at least at the gym I used to belong to they were 'free' with your membership."

I've been setting weekly fitness goals as a result of my word for the year - Now. One of the goals was to attend a class at the gym. I think it's been over five years since I've attended one and once you're out of the system, it's quite intimidating to jump back in.

My intimidation has several sources. First and foremost, the exact point of the group class. I actually have to work out in front of others. This includes breathing (who wants to be the hardest breather in a group?), learning some sort of routine, finding a discreet location that minimizes the number of people who have to witness the adjusting of my underwear and the usual requirement to respond to a teacher's insistence on yelling something out loud during the work-out.

Most of these intimidations are new. When you're in shape, you're not worried about keeping up. You know you can out kick, out step, out lift your neighbor. And you certainly don't worry about being the only one to stay with the "level one" move while everyone else bumps it up a notch to "level two". Underwear fit better and, of course you yell. Isn't that the point? Boo-ya!

In spite of of these reasons, and many others, my word took me to a class Tuesday night. A class called BodyCombat. Yes, it was exactly that class.

There were two instructors. Both young and nubile, both wearing fingerless gloves that made them look legitimate and tough and both requiring me to yell things throughout the workout that made me giggle. I'm not sure how to type out the "woot woot"s and "hu!" with each kick and punch. But imagine the sounds coming from the gut and in some imitation of a martial arts movie.

It was a good workout but bouncy! All the shuffling and pretend jump roping and high kicks really got me moving - and not always in a good way. The routines invariably stumped me. Me - a girl who used to learn the fly girl routines on In Living Color - could not come up with a jab-jab-jab-jab-two count hook-two count uppercut-leg pump reach-legpump reach-jumpkick-land (pause)-shuffle-shuffle-shuffle. Not once. I was never on the right leg when it came time to jumpkick and then shuffled the wrong way. Every time.

Whenever I looked in the mirror, I felt aghast that this uncoordinated looking woman, who was all elbows and bounce, was me. When did I lose my ability to remember an eight step routine?

I know I should go back. Face my demons and the ladies in gloves once more. I might even get the jumpkick this time. Better yet, I might try "level" two.

Just wanted you to know. I'm out there "now"ing.

Life in the Village is Pricey

I love using other people's talents. Particularly when they possess a skill I do not have or have not developed. I think it fits in with the "it takes a village" doctrine. I cannot, nor will I ever be able to fix a car. Well, maybe if I take a class and spend umpteen hours underneath a hood but that's not the point. There are already people who know how to do that. I'll use them.

Besides, as a rule, I think most people enjoy sharing their talents. Something that requires extreme effort and thought on my part might easily be done, and happily so, by someone else. Really, it's a win/win situation. I get better/prettier/faster stuff/service/knowledge and they get paid.

That's right...paid. As in....giving them money for their work.

Here is when the problem arises.

By rite of religious belief, I've been taught to be self-reliant. I'm on board with that most of the time for most things. However, I believe exceptions can be made in the name of good taste and level of quality.

There are some services I would love to pay someone to do for me because, usually, the quality of my life would improve. I need and want their help not because I am lazy and needy (well...mostly not) but because my time on this earth is finite and sometimes I need help.

I failed to mention in a previous post about working out with a trainer that I was not paying for her services. The gym offers two free hours to any new member, no doubt hoping the customer will be so impressed with the free service that they'll eventually agree to pay for it.

I'm their gal. This fits right into my philosophy of life. You do something better than I do? And it's something I'm not currently performing at superstar level? I would happily pay you for your help. I include personal training in this philosophy because I think it works and when you're in the business of losing weight and becoming more healthy, why not pay an expert to help you with your goals?

Because they charge too much. And you thought that was a rhetorical question.

I told myself I'd take my two free sessions and run before being sucked into their hard sale spiel, but, instead, I loved the workouts and brought the subject up myself! My trainer pushed me WAY harder than I ever would myself and even when I wanted to quit, I couldn't. There was some he-woman standing right next to me that, for some disturbing psychological reason, I wanted to think highly of me. So I squatted and I lunged and I twisted and I pushed and I lifted and I balanced and I... loved it.

So much that at the conclusion of our second session, I asked her how much more training sessions would be (this is why I don't watch those TV infomercials or allow myself to open the door to people selling boxes of delicious fruit...I'm such a sucker!).

She replied, "Sixty dollars per session. Or, you can get a packet of 12 session for six-hundred dollars."

I have no intention of belittling the hard-working professionals of the fitness world. But, I don't think charging that much is justified. The day-care, a room away, charges me two dollars an hour to protect and entertain my children. Someone else, by virtue of having a nice body and going through a few months of training for a certificate, gets to charge me thirty times that because I'm fat and I need someone else to tell me how many reps I have left or what exercise I'm doing next?

I don't understand how this business model fits in with supply and demand. I didn't ask this trainer how busy she is, so maybe it does fit and trainers everywhere are all crazy busy and making millions, but it seems to me that if they simply charged less, they'd have more clients filling up more hours of the day and it could actually be a career instead of some fit person's way to make extra cash. But that's just a large lady's opinion. And I clearly don't quite get "it" anyway.

Alas, no trainer for me. Today, I went and attempted to remember the moves and weights and sequences and only made it forty minutes before I was at a loss of what to do. I was sweaty and got my heart rate up but freely admit that I was no where near the level I was with the trainer by my side.

I have no point, because I couldn't afford one even if I thought the price was fair.

Here are some other things I want but can't afford.

A chef. I'm not demanding. Once or twice a week would be plenty.

A personal shopper. Especially for the grocery store. But I wouldn't even mind someone running into Old Navy for me to see what the good deals are.

An interior decorator. I recognize a nice design, but certainly can't come up with it on my own.

A housekeeper. For every reason imaginable.

A nanny (but not full-time. Just someone who was always on call so that I'd never have to go through the dreadful experience of trying to actually find someone to babysit).

A make-up artist. My thirties are doing all sorts of things to my face that I'd rather have concealed or disguised.

A thank-you card maker. I've managed to hire this out a few times. I love purchasing cute cards others have made. I suppose it might help if I also hire a thank-you card writer, so that they actually get used. I'd hire a mailer as well, due to my post office issues, but I think it could fall under the job description for personal shopper. Bonus.

There's my village. Of course, I can't afford to live in it, so I'm in the double-wide ten miles down the road writing a blog post about it.

SPT - What's In A Name

I haven't done SPT in a while now, and feel a bit like a poser right this second, but I always have this urge to defend the name of my blog so when the opportunity presents itself....I must post.

My first blog post was about the title of my blog but the quick story is my french pen pal wrote it as a post script on one of his letters. It became a phrase I used with my friends when I was young and hyper (that's right....WAY back in the day). I, like many, many others, had no idea what blogging would become and mainly wanted something unique and un-googleable. It worked! I don't think anyone has put all these words together in a sentence to search for something yet!

So, while it's not really "who I am" or "what I do", my blog name is probably here for the long haul. And, if you don't look at it too closely, it sort of grows on you;)

A Sports Analogy

Seth went back to school today. I can't decide if this year-round schedule is something I like or not. And I really can't tell if it's something he likes or not. Last night, as I reminded him that it was actually a school night, his reaction was one of fear and surprise and he had to hold back tears. Although I have little doubt that when I pick him up from school today he'll be back to flashing his "rock on" hand signs that his buddy Ethan and him constantly give to whoever is watching, I can't help but think that perhaps this starting and stopping and starting again, all within the same school year is hard on their tender souls.

Regardless of how Seth feels, I feel fantastic! I don't want to be the mom that only wants her kids to be gone, but after a month of cold-weather-living-on-top-of-each-other togetherness, I think some space every day is a good thing. On top of that, I find that the daily taking and picking up from school routine gives a schedule to plan around.

This last month, I feel like I've been playing defense. Every day is free to be different, and because it was Seth's "vacation" I felt awful if there wasn't at least one fantastic element to it. Luckily, there was a lot of built in festivity. Christmas (obviously), all the snow (which led to a couple of sledding trips and one snowmobiling adventure, but, sadly, no skiing yet), a brother's birthday and a road trip.

But there were lots of days in between where I cringed as I mentally counted the hours of Wii play time. Although the way Seth plays, it truly is the equivalent of an all day trip to an aerobics class. The kid does not stop bouncing. Me...I've found the remote works perfectly well from the couch:) I know, I know....not the point.

I think all the defensive play took my mood hostage and for the past three of four days and every chance I've had to write something, I've felt a slight negative spin work its way into my journaling. I feel like there's been plenty of that on the ol' spasm blog of late, so I refrained. Besides....I promised.

BUT, some good things have been happening:

• dinner with Dana and her husband Aaron on Friday night at Flemings Steakhouse. Very delicious, especially the Flemings potatoes and very expensive. But they do validate your parking. So that's something.
• I had my second workout with a personal trainer at the gym. I didn't document my first experience but in summation, I threw up once we were finished. It's possible I over did it. As a result, there was some slight dread going into number two, but when I arrived at the gym, I saw my trainer just beginning a session with someone else. Disappointed but ready to use the gym nonetheless, I headed upstairs to the treadmills and pushed myself to some newly acquired itunes beats. After thirty-five minutes, I headed back downstairs to do a few reps on some random equipment and the trainer caught my eye and mouthed, "I'll be with you shortly" while holding up a finger. Uh-oh. Thankfully, after sixty brutal minutes, my body pulled itself together and kept its dignity. Of course, I had to "fall" onto the toilet for the next few days, but I feel fine now.
• Jay and I took the boys to the U of U/BYU men's basketball game at the Huntsman Center Saturday afternoon. It wasn't the most exciting game in memory, but even Henry was manageable at the game this time. As much as I love football, its hard to beat less than two hours in a climate controlled environment. Oh...and beating the Utes on their home terf!
  
• dinner with Dining Divas on Saturday night at Em's restaurant. It is such a cute restaurant. It reminded me of Luna's or Twigs in Spokane. Something smaller and quaint and great for the gabbing.
• Blogger Lindsay took some family pictures for us on Saturday morning. Very unfortunately, my three children decided that being outside without a coat on for more than five minutes was akin to dunking them in ice water. Once the tears started, there was no distracting any of them and the photo session was promptly over. If we were perfectly photogenic, those fifteen minutes would have been plenty of time, but I fear we need more options. Here are some of her pictures.
  

Everyone looks o.k. but me! I've got some weird squint open mouthed thing going on.

I can't believe she got any of the boys that didn't have snot and tears in them. I think she may have been talking to Seth about the Wii right now to get this somewhat normal face.

• Sammy never smiled. But he's cute no matter what.

This is actually my favorite picture of all. Isn't Lindsay talented?

• I left our best family picture out so that you'd have to go check out her photography blog if you're interested. I like the one of us squatting and will print it out for a frame in addition to this one of Henry, so it wasn't a complete bust.
  
• Henry got really sick on Sunday. Maybe it was due to his twenty minute exposure the previous day without a coat (although my microbiology background knows this can't be. Viruses don't get picked up from cold air) but by 1:00 when it was time to go to church, we knew he shouldn't be around anyone (because my microbiology background tells me that viruses can and do get spread by sick boys touching toys and books and coughing on poor nursery leaders). While I normally wouldn't put any illness into a list of good things, a blessing from his dad and his Uncle Clark turned an almost trip to the Emergency Room (his bad cough kept getting worse and he has a history of drama) into a clear runny nose on a happy boy the next day. Oh....and that was after a silent and deep sleep through the night. A miracle for everyone.
• Yesterday, I saw 27 dresses with my sisters (cute show. I like Kathryn Heigl) and then had Jay's brother Clark and his wife Stephanie over for dinner and games. Jay discovered he can make a really yummy Chile Verde and it's become our company-over-for-dinner meal. I think we have the beginning of a beautiful tradition in the works here.
  

With school resuming and switching back to offense, I've managed to get a bunch of stuff done today:

• I finally went to the post office to mail a package to my sister in Canada. I've had it since well before Christmas and lately I've been avoiding her like my visiting teaching supervisor when I haven't done my visits for the months. As much as I hate standing in that drab line and overpaying to ship something across the border (aren't they still our friendly neighbors to the north? Where's the love and trust?), having that package out of the back of my van gives me my confidence back. I am no longer completely lame.
  
• I got all my shopping done for Sammy's birthday this Saturday.
  
• I took my ring in to be fixed. The back of my platinum band got cut about a month ago and I took it off so that it wouldn't pinch my finger. I have no idea how, but the metal was cut clear through so they have to solder it back together. I'm excited to wear my diamond again.
• We're getting closer to getting a diagnosis for Henry. I've been reading a book and feel strongly that he does indeed have a speech disorder. I've been able to reflect back on other clues that might help shed some light on why he's not talking. He's never had a good suck reflex (it used to take him hours to drink a bottle) and he has a hard time swallowing food that doesn't almost dissolve by chewing (like meat). I think he might have some actual physical issues with talking. But, I think there are some cognitive and attention things as well and today, he scored low on his audiology test. He also has an ear infection, so the results aren't wholly valid (he has a retest in a few weeks), but it might be another piece of the puzzle. As scary as it is, it feels better to be doing something about it, then doing the "wait and see."
• It's a Matt day! Sammy has a buddy, Henry is taking a necessary nap and I have time to blog.
  

Offense and defense are both parts of the game I love called life, but it's nice to have the ball back in my hands. Play ball!

Last Whiny Post - I Promise

for at least two days. Consider it your weekend.

I don't have much time, so my rush is your new best friend ('cause I could go on and on and on and on......and on), but I wanted to write this in the moment, because in a couple hours time, I'll talk myself down from this high horse.

But, come on....I just got my third calling.

Third.

I live in Deseret.

Given, one calling is ward organist and I only do it every other month. Another is Activity Chair and I only have to perform my duty every couple of months (but when duty calls...it is the worst kind of duty). And now choir accompanist.

The thing is, I go to choir anyway. So, it's not like this huge extra time burden. But I go because I like to sing. La-la-la-la-la. And I can always miss if it's not good for me (which I've actually been doing a lot of lately.)

I shouldn't begrudge. I'm a firm believer in giving back my time and talents to the Giver or what's the point.

But, doesn't anyone else in my ward believe this too?

Sing It, Donny and Marie

Or for you uptown folks, you can enjoy the more subtle but moving rendition of The Road Not Taken from Frostiana.

Background music in place? O.K.

Last fall, while I was driving through Idaho on my way to visit my sister, I saw a couple out and about on their property on their four-wheelers. Not riding for pleasure, although they seemed happy enough, but more like they were getting a job done or seeing to things. The woman wore a simple white t-shirt with some silk screen design and jeans and the man wore something equally nondescript.

I imagined her going back home to start dinner. She'd wash her hands with dial soap, because who needs the fancy fruit smells and then she'd get out her old pots and pans to heat up some pork and beans with a side salad made of iceberg lettuce and ranch dressing. Later that evening, she would sit in a La-zy boy rocker while watching wheel of fortune and working on some sudoku puzzles.

"I could be that girl," I thought. Not, "I want to be that girl" or "I'm so glad I'm not that girl" but an acknowledgment of familiarity and comfort.

That image has come to my mind several times since then - how I could be that girl but I'm not. I've thought about how we are all made up of these different parts and we're all a little bit "something" and a little bit "something else."

I think I'm a little bit country. And a little bit hippie. And a little bit intellectual. And a little bit materialistic. And a little bit party animal. And a little bit recluse. And a little bit conformist. And a little bit non-conformist.

I could wear wool socks with hiking boots and a Patagonia vest and go au naturel. I could also easily zip up some snazzy black boots with a black wrap around dress, straighten my hair, apply some smoldering eye color onto my eyes and hob nob at a fund raiser.

I'll happily take my little bits and fit in everywhere and no where but the struggle emerges when it comes to choosing a place to live.

The last week, I've spent the better part of four days driving in and out of most of the possible neighborhoods in the community where we will be moving. I thought I'd find my fit. I thought whatever "little bit" meant most would step forward and become a "little bit more".

But that didn't happen. I entered one neighborhood with nice established houses and Subarus and SUVs all over the place and knew I could live there. I entered another with new houses with all the latest features and knew (well...more like wished) I could live there. I drove out to where the farmland was and saw the acres of open space and knew I could live there with a dog (outside) and a horse with a small barn that held our snowmobiles and boat. I drove past historic mansions that were built during the mining heyday of yesteryear and knew I could be the proud owner of one of the few. Other neighborhoods filled with windy streets and houses ready for a remodel would not be a stretch for me. Nor would the secluded house in the trees several miles up the canyon.

I thought I'd know more. Actually I do. But knowing more doesn't make it any clearer.

And just to thoroughly confuse your musical palate, will the real slim shady please stand up, please stand up, please stand up.


Please?

O.K...Now I Know

Parenthood. There is no instruction manual. Sometimes I'm more than fine with this and enjoy my independence and opinions.

Other times, all I can do is mutter "blast" and "damn".

What do you do when your two year old can't talk? At all?

I've been sitting on the fence for awhile about what to do. Consult a speech therapist? Wait until we're settled? Wait until he's older? Wait because doing something seems like I've failed?

Did you know that speech therapy is rarely covered by insurance? Unless it's "medically caused" which, apparently, does not include children who aren't learning how to talk without having been dropped on the head. I don't understand. How is verbal communication any less important than a child who can't hear, or see or move? So, that was another reason. Do we go ahead with therapy when we know we'd have to pay out of pocket?

Thankfully, a kind person at primary children's hospital referred me to the school district where payment is based on a sliding scale. A specialist came to our house today to evaluate Henry and see if he meets the criteria for this program. He scored less than 1 percent on the verbal reasoning and verbal expression parts.

He qualified.

I know he's only two, and that we caught it fairly early on. But, it wasn't until Jay was home for several days in a row over Christmas that his concern became my concern. I was the one who was willing to "wait and see". And I'm the momma! Mom is supposed to know.

Which I think I did. But I wormed my way out of it with all of the slick reasoning. It took Jay and this woman to make it clear to me that my sweet little troublemaker needs some help.

Blast and Damn!

My Three Sons

Aren't they cute? And don't they match the blog perfectly?:)