Who's In Charge? Not Me.

Like most teenagers, how I spent my evening hours depended upon the mood of my parents.

"Is your room clean?"

"Have you practiced the piano?"

"Yes, you may go."

As a parent, how I spend my evening hours now depends on the mood of teenagers.

"Can you babysit?" No, I've got to work.

"Can you babysit?" No, I've got a birthday party.

"Can you babysit?" No, there's a dance.

Another girl won't return my call.

Does anyone else feel they are at the mercy of 12-16 year old girls? I hate finding babysitters.

Don't Feed Us... We'll Feed You

A few weeks ago, we got our very first intraward dinner invitation. After more than seven months of All's Quiet On the Wasatch Front, I admit that my response in the affirmative could fall within the range of obnoxiously chipper.

"Sure! Sounds fun! What time? Can we bring anything? Thanks for asking!"...all said a tad too loud with a big broad smile on my face. Really, all that was missing was me putting my arms up in the air, throwing in a few chest thrusts and shouting, "Cuchi! Cuchi!"

I mean, who doesn't like to be asked over for dinner? It's how adult couples court each other. And, I don't know about you, but I usually appreciate a good courting. An invitation to eat dinner with someone from your ward, whom you barely know, can only mean one of two things:

1. They're intrigued enough by your passing-in-the-hallway-charm to want to find out more. or....
2. They feel the need to extend a hand of fellowship. In other, less flattering words....they feel sorry for you.
   

Not knowing which reason motivated our courters, but always assuming the first, I happily told Jay about our invite when he came home from work.

The grimace on his face clued me in that all was not well. However, it could have appeared for a variety of reasons. Let's just say I've gotten into hot water before when I plan Jay's social calendar without first asking. For example, I made him a set of homemade coupons as an anniversary gift one year where one of the coupons read, "Get out of plans that Lucy made guilt free." Happily, most of the others were much more anniversary appropriate.

Following the grimace came the reason for the grimace that I should have already thought about.

"I can't eat at other people's houses. They most likely don't understand what food is o.k. and what's not, I don't know how it was prepared and because they aren't used to cooking that way, the food will probably be contaminated. I'll just bring my own food. I'm sorry, but going over to someone's house for dinner isn't easy for me."

Oh yeah. There's this little disease that you've had that I've been living with and planning meals around for over a year now. You think I would have thought about it too. But I was too busy being wooed.

Long story short (which is really hard for me to do), my Prom turned into Morp and we had them over for dinner instead. Which involved cleaning my house. And cooking for eleven. And cleaning up my house again.

They felt bad and brought dessert (fruit) and were really nice and friendly people, but the whole experience opened my eyes to our future.

We can't go over to people's houses for dinner anymore.

Well, we can, but with a whole heckuva lot more thought, effort and communication than before. It's got to be planned now. And, ultimately, it's just easier to have dinner at our place.

We realized it again when Jay's brother, Clark, called last weekend wondering if we wanted to go out with him and Stephanie. Yes! Sounds fun!. Oh...but you know what would be better? Why don't you guys come over to our house for dinner? No, we don't mind.

I really don't. Sure, it's more work for me, but it's much, much easier for Jay to eat at home than at a restaurant or someone else's house. He's happier all night, which makes my night a lot more enjoyable. I know there are other people out there with Celiac Disease, and some are much more willing to cheat or take risks, but Jay is not. He doesn't feel well when he eats gluten, and I don't enjoy paying for food that might make him sick.

Before I make myself sound like a saint, which is only sort of my point, I admit to crying a few bitter tears over the grocery-free, cook-free, cleanup-free nights of yesteryear, when we'd eat out most weekends (and throw in a few weeknights for good measure). The thought of always being the hostess makes me a little weary. Although, before you get to feeling all bad and sorry for me, know there are perks.

We eat together as a family all the time now. I joke with Jay that I'm sorry it took his pain to get me to cook more, but our family dynamics have really changed as our kids now expect and look forward to our family meals. Whereas I used to feel like superwife if I cooked four nights a week, I'd say I cook most nights now. There might be a night of Wendy's or Pei Wei thrown in occasionally, but for the most part, I plan dinner every night. We eat better and we spend a lot less eating out. By force, I'm finally doing something that I've always said I wanted/needed to do. Some days I'm not quite so jolly about it, and wish I could simply pick up a pizza, but I'd say for the most part, I like our new evening ritual. It's almost like a little mini party every day.

Alas, our days of being courted are over. I've always envied men, and the control they have over their lives (different topic, different day), and now I get to act like one. Our social calendar no longer depends on if we receive an invitation. I'm wearing the pants now. I get to make the call.

Book Review #60 - Austenland

I am a Pride and Prejudice snob. I only like the BBC version, with Colin Firth as Mr. Darcy and Jennifer Ehle as Elizabeth Bennett. While there are parts of the newer, shorter, harried, and nuance free Hollywood version I enjoy, like the supposed-to-be-prettiest-sister Jane, who is actually much prettier than the actress in the BBC version, every time I've watched it (which, I grant, is only twice), I feel angry afterwards. First, Kiera Knightly is NOT Elizabeth Bennett. Elizabeth Bennett does not smile a ridiculous smile showing her bottom teeth all the time. And she is not flat chested. I mean, come on....we're talking about the girl who woos Mr. Darcy. With those low-cut gowns in style, I'm guessing there was a little bit of oomph necessary to catch his eye. That and a pair of "fine eyes". Mostly, though, the entire movie is rushed. The actors spit out their lines in Gilmore Girls fashion, important scenes are entirely cut out, and then two minutes are devoted to watching Kiera Knightly spin on a swing. Frustrating.

Anyways, my point is (and I do have one), that there is only one good movie adaptation...and it's six hours long and only strays (and not really even strays, just leaves out a few minor details) slightly from the book. So, when the main character in Austenland, Jane, loved this movie as much as me, I knew I could appreciate her.

32 year-old Jane, single and relationship challenged, is obsessed with Mr. Darcy...the dreamy Colin Firth who walks across his magnificent grounds in a wet shirt after diving into a pond (you know the scene). The Colin Firth...I mean Mr. Darcy, who beams at Elizabeth while she's turning pages for his sister, Georgiana, at the piano (you know this scene too). After her rich great aunt comes to visit her, and subsequently finds her two-disc DVDs hidden behind a houseplant, Jane is surprised when she receives a call following her aunt's death from the probate attorney. Instead of money, her aunt leaves her an all expense paid for trip to an exclusive British resort, where Jane will spend three weeks living the Regency period lifestyle in an attempt to fulfill, and also hopefully expunge, her Darcy obsession.

I found the beginning of this book to be annoying. Jane is too nervous and melodramatic and not all that likable. For starters, I have no idea why anyone would be ashamed of owning Pride and Prejudice. Houseplants? Please. I'm thinking of fashioning my set up with a chain and wearing it around my neck. See? I'm a true fan.

However, the three weeks she spends at Pembrook Park, a Netherfield/Pemberly-esque manor with servants who can't speak to her, empire wasted gowns, gentleman that are actors (or are they?), turns about the room, walks on the grounds and a ball are simply fantastic. The situations are entertaining, the plot pleasantly twisty and the ending satisfying.

Shannon Hale writes a light-hearted fantasy romance that is sure to please even the snobbiest Jane Austen fans. As a warning, do not expect a Jane Austen book. While Hale does a fair job mimicking some of the dialogue, the novel is thoroughly modern and much less subtle. It is a romance...therefore extremely unlikely to be true. Regardless, when I turned the last page, I had a smile on my face and said, out loud, "That was fun!"

Like Father, Like Son

....and I'm so glad.

Beyond The Milky Way

I love those scenes in movies and TV shows that start with a shot in space and then the shot quickly zooms to earth, a hemisphere, a continent, a country, a city, a neighborhood, and then finally some Joe Schmoe, a rather insignificant speck in the universe when put in this perspective. I think Heroes might do this. Anyway, I know I just saw it somewhere recently. Hence its mention here.

Imagine a similar scene, zooming in from space to a quaint country restaurant where seven bloggers are gathering for lunch. I didn't know any of them except Amber, who writes Soggy Cheerios, and is a lovely blogger/old friend of my sister's, that I had the delightful opportunity to meet and spend a few hours with several months ago.

A couple of weeks ago, Amber issued an invitation on her blog for a Girls Night Out, which ended up turning into an afternoon lunch. Because I seem to be genetically hardwired to accept any offer to eat and visit, I left a comment on her blog saying "I'll come!".

The get together was on Saturday and while I was waiting for the other bloggers to arrive, I wondered why I was there. I like Amber and wanted to hang out with her, but only recently declared myself apathetic to meeting anyone else while here. I hadn't read any of the other blogs and felt unprepared for this particular date.

The other bloggers arrived and I knew right away that it was going to be a lively lunch. While I don't necessarily feel like I make a bad first impression, I tend to be more reserved when meeting most people for the first time. I'm friendly...but controlled. I tend to ask a lot of questions. I refrain from making any sudden dance moves...usually...and I rarely try to be funny. I believe someone's humor, like opera, is an acquired taste. My offering was much more akin to Celine Dion.

One thing this particular group of bloggers had going for them were the names of their blogs. I blushed as I had to repeat my own a second or third time (because it always gets a "huh?" after the first) but smiled at the others' catchy names. Thou Shalt Not Whine, Duck Duck Cow, The Quiltermaker's Gift, Tangled Me, and of course one of my favorite blog names ever, Soggy Cheerios. But most of the awe and admiration for coolest title was given to Twas Brillig.

Immediately, several made comments about how perfect and clever her title was, how they wished they'd thought of it first. How people who didn't get it (because it was clearly brilliant) shouldn't be allowed to read her blog anyway.

Uh-oh.

Celine Dion never causes a scene(except for that time she wore a reverse tuxedo), so I kept my ignorance to myself. And...just in case the conversation really got going, and we were suddenly asked to relate how the words "Twas Brillig" first changed our lives...I sat at the opposite end of the table.


The food was good, company entertaining and I left feeling encouraged to check out these new acquaintances' blogs. First and foremost...I needed to find out what the heck "Twas Brillig" meant.

Ah-ha. Twas Brillig is the first line of The Jabberwocky by Lewis Carroll. I have heard of The Jabberwocky, but in a very its-a-classic-but-I-have-no-idea-what-it's-about sort of way. If you recall, the only English class I took in college was called Technical Writing and in high school, I had the sort of teachers that just showed us the movie Of Mice and Men, rather than having us actually read it. But I digress.

I read The Jabberwocky and loved it. I read some of Twas Brillig's blog and she is an amazing blogger. Very funny. Very original. I also checked out Tangled Me and Duck Duck Cow and Thou Shalt Not Whine and The Quiltmaker's Gift and after meeting them in real life, and then reading their blogs and seeing their own sidebars - filled with other blogs I've never heard of, my mind did that zoom scene - only this time it went in reverse. From little ol' me to infinity...and beyond. There are so many bloggers out there. I've always known this and it's the main reason I allow myself to continue to put my life on the world wide web. My blog is insignificant. I'm fine with that.

Meeting up with this particular group, however, who are also LDS...who are also moms...who also live in relatively close proximity to me....made me realize how small my own blogging orbit is. Don't get me wrong...I see my own sidebar. It's plenty long for a SAHM who already wastes quite enough time at her computer each day. My point is, there are always more bloggers out there; bloggers you'd love to know and read and make contact with. It's quite mind boggling to think of all these other entire blogging solar systems out there, each with a plethora of bloggers circling about each other.

When I think of bloggers like this, like planets in an infinite universe that keeps expanding, I almost want to go back to thinking the world is flat. Then, there is no reason to leave home, as it is safe and far away from the edge. Or how about the later and more enlightened, but still incorrect belief of Aristotle and Ptolemy that the earth(me, in this particular analogy but feel free to insert your own name here) was the center of the universe and everything else revolved around it? Comforting....and flattering....but wrong. Darn that Copernicus.

In the end, what does it matter? Not much. Whether you prefer a provincial life or fancy yourself an astronaut, our world needs be only as big as we are capable of exploring.

I'm comfortable here in my predictable orbit, but I personally like to know what's out there. The blogging universe is filled with some really cool people. And I had lunch with a few of them.

Life After the Diaper Bag and TGIF

I don't remember when it happened, but some time ago, we stopped using a diaper bag. Henry doesn't ever play with books or cute little toys, or...I should say, if he does, his primary play involves throwing them. He only wants to drink what his brothers are drinking, but if I need a sippy cup, I bring one and stow it in my purse. And I always have several diapers in the car. Just in case.

While not having to heft a diaper bag around definitely has its perks, there are times when I long for the days of shouldering a tote with all sorts of nooks and crannies that contain the mysteries of the universe. Take...today, for instance.

Yesterday, to top off an already fabulous week, I noticed a grinding sound when my car made left turns at slow speeds. I mentioned it to my sister-in-law who told me that they had a problem like that a while back, and it was something rubbing against their tire (I think) and it cost them $80 to fix. She hoped....I hoped....but deep down I knew. That was not it.

I took my van in this morning to the service station right after I dropped Seth off at school. We were there nice and early but, like all car repair places, the place was already packed. They had a defunct Lego table, with no actual Legos to play with, and one of those push-the-beads-along-the-colored-wires toys. Because that is sure to entertain the kiddos.

Immediately after I check in, I see a coffee/hot chocolate service area. I make myself a hot chocolate, because a cup of cocoa almost always soothes, and make my way over to the "lounge". The lounge has about eight chairs set up around a big screen TV. Unfortunately for anyone with small kids (or taste, for that matter), the TV is tuned to FOX. Have you seen their morning show? Clearly, they are not fighting for the same demographic as the other networks. No, the folks at FOX decided riveting morning television should include the likes of Geraldo, Larry the Cable Guy and a group of teens that operate a teen s3x internet site...because it's good to have information and it gets people talking. Whatever. All super appropriate for my five year old, who is learning quickly that TV offers all sorts of information that Mom and Dad don't seem to share.

Sam sees my cocoa, and because he is already bored by the non-lego table and baby toy, wants some of his own. Which means Henry must have some too. I knew it couldn't turn out well...and it didn't. I figured cleaning up a mess would be easier than dealing with a tantrum but I was wrong. My pants have too much spandex (must check the percentage...and not buy again) and bending over created all kinds of new stress on my life.

While I was cleaning, I smelled Henry. Even though I had changed a messy diaper this morning, he had more to move. Normally, I carry a diaper with me in my purse when we are going to be away from the car, but I hadn't grabbed one and at this point, the van was already up on one of those pneumatic lifts. I knew I couldn't force everyone to smell his stink for who knows how long, so I dug deep for my inner Emily (who cloth diapered) and took his diaper off in the bathroom, shook it out into the toilet, wiped off as much as I could with paper towels and....yes....put it back on him. He actually didn't smell after this and was completely fine. However, I was slightly traumatized.

Fighting the clock and at least eight vending machines displaying all the candy and drinks that Henry and Sam must have, I spent the next two hours keeping Henry out of the new, shiny cars in the showroom and away from the TV, which was now showing Law and Order, Criminal Intent (which is a bizarre, freaky and perverted show). End result? New brakes, two gumballs (kept them busy for quite awhile) and a package of sour patch kids...$250.00.

Yesterday, I had no idea that my Friday morning would be tragically ruined like this. But here's the beautiful ending. When I returned home from my hellish morning, Amy M. and Amie had sent some emails offering to bring me lunch and girl talk. They came over, with kids, and I spent several hours burning off steam to these new, lovely friends, which....yesterday, I didn't really know I had. Not the kind that would drive a hefty distance to visit a girl who couldn't promise to be great company.

Not a bad ending to a pretty bad week. My kids had a much needed play date and apparently, so did I. Thanks girls.

Granny Speaks

I was talking to my good friend, Andrea, this morning and blogging came up and all the reasons we do and do not post. I've been unusually silent the past few days, considering I haven't been out of the country, painting a room or recovering from surgery. I just haven't felt like it. I've been really blue, off and on, since Friday (Valentine's hangover perhaps?) and for some reason, thought I didn't want to post my "true" feelings.

But, then I realized this morning that I'm totally full of it because I'm all about the real and the true. In fact, it's my mantra, "Real! True! Real! True!" Add my word of the year, "Now" to the argument, and it's clear I should be posting now, in all my saddened glory.

It's not that I don't want anyone to know that I'm sad or that, in general, I hate my life right now for no apparent reason. Believe me, if you've called or happened to be at my house on Saturday night after my 52 oz soda spilled in the car followed by Henry vomiting in his car seat followed by some chocolate milk spilling on my carpet...you're quite aware of my feelings (sorry for the breakdown, Sarah). I used to use my blog as a primary venting tool. Blogs evolve, however, and I haven't used it quite so personally lately. At least in the negative sense. Don't want to be a downer, you know?

Yet, as my wise and blogging supportive friend told me, one of the reasons we blog is as a journal. That has been one of my strongest arguments for blogging since I started - that this is a record of me. And, unlike almost every other thing I do on any given day, it can't be undone. It can't be scribbled over with red crayon or torn in half by fascinatingly strong two year old hands.

So, future grandchildren, know this: Granny gets sad sometimes. She's dreading moving again, even though that move means she can finally grow some roots. She's dreading leaving new friends behind, and moving even further away from old ones. She's sad that she's not a better person, mother, friend, wife, sister, ward activity chair... sometimes (because most of the time I'm really happy with who I am but I've got this ward activity to plan with no ideas, no anything....and it just. won't. go. away!). She wishes she could simply be alone for awhile at the same time feeling incredibly lonely and wishing for a reunion with family or friends. In a nutshell, Granny is a contradiction.

Yes, for the record, I am a big, sad contradiction.

Book Review #59 - A Lantern In Her Hand

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Trial Separation

Dear Winter,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Still yours,

Lucy

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

One Thing I Don't Love....

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

I know why you have them. I understand.

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

Have a nice weekend.

Dear Jay,

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your biggest fan,

Me

Dear Sisters and Brother,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Forever yours (like it or not),

Lucy

Dear Henry,

No-no

Uh-oh

Go-go....crash.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mom

Dear Inlaws,

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

Because I married Jay I have:

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

And because you married one of us, I have:

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

My cup runneth over. I love all of you.

Lucy

Dear Sammy,

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

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

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

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

You are full of life and make my life full.

I love you.

Mom

Dear Friends,

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

Ralph Waldo Emerson

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

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

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

Albert Camus

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

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

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

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


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


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


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

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


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


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

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


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


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


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

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


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

In spite of me.

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

Your friend forever,

Lucy

To My Parents:

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

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

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

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

See you soon!

Lucy

Dear Seth,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I love you.

Mom

In the Spirit of Valentines....

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

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

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

It's all about the love...

Happy Valentine's Week!:)

Book Review #57 - The Life of Our Lord

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

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

You'll hear no complaints from me.