The Mormon Tabernacle Choir and Other Scary Stuff

I don't like Halloween.  I realize that makes me just about the least fun/cool mom out there but there it is.  I especially hate how the holiday has taken hostage of the entirety of October, a beautiful fall month that deserves so much more than tributes of skeletons, zombie brides and lawns decorated with headstones.  I think I could be a supporter if we contained it all to a day, or, at most, a week, but I'm much too sick of Halloween's grossness by the time Halloween actually arrives.  Still, while my house has no trace of a ghost, bat, witch or cauldron, I do my best to not ruin my children's fun with my cynical attitude by supporting Halloween activities at school, church and friends' homes.

I recently posted about how much I dislike being scared.  That fact may play into my anti-ghoul philosophy but I think all of the month's imagery and repeated playing of Thriller on the radio unknowingly got under my skin last night.   I didn't go to bed scared.  On the contrary, I spent the evening simultaneously watching Game 2 of the Giants vs. Texans World Series and playing Yahtzee on my phone (addicting!) until I took a relaxing bath with some lavender/chamomile bath oils and read a Family Circle magazine.

Once I finally got into bed, my thoughts were filled with how I was going to accomplish everything I hoped to the following day with a little bit of Yahtzee dice rolling in the background (come on, sixes!).  Then I heard what sounded like a song on the radio only it didn't follow the sound pattern of a car driving nearby.  It would come and go and then come again and I decided that someone must be outside my house listening to music.  A group of drunken teenagers, a drifter, an ax-murderer...could be anybody.

I have realized during the six months we have lived in this house that I can't hear when someone arrives.  That was made startlingly clear when my sister arrived a few weeks ago, came into my house while I was in the bathroom, walked around while calling my name, all without any notice by me.   That's freaky, right?  I should have heard her car.  Or the front door opening or closing.  Or her walking around.  Darn these thick walls.

So, to hear music...well...that was something.  Somebody was close.  Due to the rush of adrenaline that was now pulsing through my veins, my mind raced through possible scenarios.  Could I get my children safely out of the house?  Should I go and get my trusty chef's knife?  Should I wake Jay up?

When I heard the sound swell again, I got out of bed and went out to the dining room to see if I could see lights from a car or a bonfire somewhere nearby.  I didn't, but I did notice that the sound I heard was definitely coming from the direction of the pitch-black living room so I walked closer towards the source.

Turns out, itunes on the computer was playing but at a very, very low volume so only the high notes could be heard.  It must have also been playing while we watched the world series because neither Jay nor I got on the computer once we shut the TV off.  Feeling a bit exasperated for being so scared by my own playlist, I turned on the monitor to close itunes and noticed what was playing.

It was "The Lord Is My Shepherd" from the Mormon Tabernacle Choir's Heavensong album. 

While the song does refer to death, I may just be the first person in history ever frightened by this song.  Darn those sopranos and their resonance.  And damn and blast Halloween for putting me on edge in the first place!

Gross!!!!

Sam and The Clumf

This may only be interesting to Sam's mother and possibly grandparents, but Sam wrote this after he was done with his piano practice, homework and one on none game of football outside.  I want to remember his creative seven year-old self, which I think is pretty darn fantastic.  (Everything is as Sam wrote it with no corrections in grammar or spelling.  It'll help if you know beforehand to read it phonetically.  Sam has never cared much about spelling). 


Sam and The Clumf
Once opon a time there was a person named Sam.  Sam was poor.  He oned six miles of land and had a one story house.  He had one millon dollers.  Taxes were in a month.  But Sam was prepared.  He didn't yous any government stuff or LaPata county stuff.  He oned a ranch.  He had a nice bike that cost fivtey cents because he found it in the dump and payed fettey cents to clean it.  

One day he took his bow and erows and went out hunting.  He went sevendey six miles west and he had hit six dear, seven bunnys and three prarey dogs.  Sam had hered about this animal called a clumf.  Sam hered that it was six hundred thowson millon pounds.  Umagin that!  He also hered that thier are only one hundred of them left and that whoever brought in all of them dead or alive he will be payed a millon dollers evrey day for six years.   Sam looked and looked for hours.  But when he was about to give up a clumf jumped right in front of him.  He semed to be prety frendly.  After a minute nindey nine more clumf jumped in front of him.  After six more hours they became best freinds.  

Sam in the morning woke up and wisled.  One hundred clumfs jump loking in his window.  Sam at ten oclock he toke the one hundred klumfs to the govener.  The govener looked fritend by the klumfs.  He said wwhhaaatt iiiisss thaaaaaatt.  He said in a fritend look.  Klumfs said Sam.  Oh said the govener in a look like he was going to die.  In fact the other govener allready fantead and the other died.  Sam actully gave his one millon dollers to keep the klumfs.  Sam after all did get payed the one millon dollers evry day for six years.  Thats how Sam learned to never give up.  


I love him!  I don't know if I'm raising a future member of PETA or a member of the Tea Party but I love that he likes to write and that he's still willing to share it with me. 

Book Review - Nurtureshock

I think it'd be safe to say that I tend to believe things written in parenting books I read when they "ring true."  In other words, I like reading books that confirm what I already believe, whether or not I already know it.

Nurtureshock is not that kind of book.  In almost every chapter, there is a finding that doesn't make sense until the authors break down the data that shows that it does.  It's a troubling book because it makes a very good case against "instinctive" parenting.  Instead, what Po Bronson and Ashely Merryman state is that some of our best intentions produce the worst results in our kids due to our wishful thinking, bias, fads, our own personal history and old psychology.

For instance, showing your kids episodes of Arthur and Clifford can increase cruel behavior and aggression.  Praising your child for being smart may harmful to his academic performance (even if he is really smart).  Assuming children are "color-blind" and not talking about race may cause children to become racist.  DVDs like Baby Einstein and other videos that claim to speed up language development or produce multi-lingualism can actually delay normal speech skills.  Other chapters cover why less sleep is a significant contributor to childhood obesity and ADHD, why kids lie, why gifted and talented programs are flawed, why siblings really fight, why teen rebellion is a sign of respect (gah!) and why I wish there was a Tools preschool program in my area.

I enjoyed reading this because it was really eye-opening and also because whatever parenting myth was being challenged, the data supporting any new claim was thoroughly explained.  It helps that Bronson and Merryman didn't back away from using all of he scientific jargon that usually causes my eyes to glaze over.  Most of the time, the opposite happened and the empirical evidence presented was surprisingly accessible while the flow between narrative and research was smooth and convincing.

It isn't often that I claim that something or someone changed the way I think.  But Nurtureshock did just that.    The "shock" in the title is no lie.  This shocked me.  In a really good and, I hope, empowering way.

The Parable of the Skunk

A few weeks ago, after sharing the news of my new calling with my internet-savvy sister, Emily, she forwarded a few links to blogs that contained Young Women ideas.  It was a helpful gesture, of course, and those blogs do, indeed, contain many fun and wonderful looking activities.

They also completely paralyzed me with their freakishly perfect authors.   I've been blogging for four and a half years now, and I'm well aware of the concept of spin.  Blog material tends to rely heavily on the good stuff going on and for good reason too!  It's a nice counter balance to all the gloom and doom the media presents as the reality of life.   But when you don't know a person, and they have dizzying talents displayed on their blog,  it's easy to fall victim to the they-are-better-than-me comparison.

This very thing happened to me and I just haven't felt up to casting my not quite as spectacular pearls before blogland.  It seems to me that blogs have transitioned from their humble beginnings of social voyeurism to springboards of talent discovery.  The world is filled with unbelievably talented people and I've watched people with a eye for photography launch their photography careers through their blogs.  People who bake or cook discover there is an audience for their methods and recipes.  The list goes on and on.  Jewelry design.  Interior decorating.  Clip-Art.  Scrapbooking.  Quilting.  Knitting.  Furniture making.  Etc., Etc., Etc.   Many have multiple talents such as this Young Women's idea blog whose author not only shared her ideas for successful programs and activities but was also an amazing photographer (with her own watermark design to identify each photo as hers), dessert designer, visiting teaching hand-out maker, Halloween craft idea supplier, and cleaner extraordinaire.

It's not like I feel like I'm talent-less.  I have talents.  I can sing.  I'm pretty good with a book in my hands.  I'm an excellent floater.  But I can't present a tutorial filled with professional how-to sequential photos, or open an etsy shop with any of them (although if anyone can figure out how I can turn my extreme buoyancy into cash, I'm all ears) and that seems to be the point of writing a blog these days.

While driving around in my I'm-not-worthy-to-blog state last week, I frequently drove past a stinky road-killed skunk.  There are lots and lots of skunks in my area and they make the worst roadkill.  It's not just the usual gore and guts to gross me out but the mile before and after of stench that I have to endure for at least a week  At one point, I thought, "Even though it is stinky and less obvious with its purpose, a skunk must serve an essential role in the circle of life."  And feeling a certain kinship with an animal possessing what I hypothesized were less glamorous talents, but talents nonetheless, I set off to discover what those talents were.

Turns out, a skunk is pretty much just a stinky, rabies carrying, food scavenging rodent.  There isn't much that it does to endear it to the rest of mankind.  It does eat black widow spiders, scorpions and other even less desirable rodents, but that's about all it has lined up in its pros column.

The surprising twist to the parable is that my discovery about the skunk did lift me out of my blogging funk.  Because I am not a skunk.  I am a human being and considerably more talented.  I don't carry rabies.  I do not possess malodorous anal glands.  And while I many not reduce the black widow or scorpion population by eating them, I can certainly buy something or pay someone to kill them.

Plus....I can float.  Really, really well.

Sunday Thoughts - Called To Serve

I am the new Young Women's President.

Crazy, right?  I've never served in Young Women's.  I don't have daughters.  I don't have teenagers.  I have only been in the ward for four months and don't know the young women, or many other women in the ward, so even thinking about counselors was hard.  I didn't earn my Young Women's recognition award.  I struggle with the notion that homemaking is the highest, most noble profession to which a woman might aspire.  Teenagers scare me.

When the bishop extended this call to me two weeks ago, this resume of mine lodged in my brain and I had a hard time focusing.  All I felt was overwhelmed.  How am I supposed to know who to call as counselors?   Who am I, who slept in the guest room for three nights in a row because I don't know how to handle conflict with my spouse more effectively than giving him the silent treatment, to teach about the virtues of marriage (we have since patched things up and I'm feeling much more confident).   Where am I going to find the time and energy to do everything that needs to be done to magnify this calling when I already need down days if I have too much going on?

That was last week.

This week, I have felt a divinely given calm.  Names came.  Ideas came.  Priorities stood in a clear order.  As I've thought about the girls, I've realized that they are each unique and amazingly talented.  I'm looking forward to getting to know them better.  Mostly, I realized that while I may not be able to teach them how to make a cute skirt or handmade jewelry and I have absolutely zero vinyl lettering experience, those things, while lovely, are not essential.   What is essential is that these girls understand that they are daughters of God, important as individuals and as women, endowed with spiritual gifts that need to be developed and shared, beneficiaries of an infinite and eternal atonement that will allow them to return home to their Heavenly Father and entitled to receive continuing revelation, both personal and through restored priesthood keys.  And I can help them because I have a testimony of each of those things.

I have an excellent, excellent presidency that I'm excited to work with, a supportive husband and in-laws close by willing to help when Jay can't be around and even though I'm still nervous about all of my original doubts and worries, I trust that this is what I have been called to do at this time.   First up:  Priest/Laurel dinner on Wednesday night.  Wish me luck!

Book Review - We Need To Talk About Kevin

I have such mixed feelings about We Need To Talk About Kevin, a fictional story about a teenage boy who commits mass murder at his high school only days before the well known and real life tragedy at Columbine High School in 1999.    Written in the form letters the boy's mother writes to her husband after their son's crime,  the unwritten question posed throughout the novel isn't what happened but why it happened.  As the mother re-examines her own behavior towards her husband, her pregnancy and her son, we readers are allowed to weigh our own opinions about whether it was nature or nurture that turned Kevin into a sociopath.

On one hand, I felt like the author, Lionel Shriver, did an incredible job in allowing her protagonist, Eva Katchadourian, to be the kind of flawed but not evil mother who you want to blame but aren't quite sure if you should.  She is so obnoxious with her love of the world but not of her own country, the good old US of A.  Really, she's a snob but not one void of sympathy.  Her own mother suffers from agoraphobia and can't leave her apartment, which might explain Eva's need to travel.  When she discovers an aversion to pregnancy and how little natural affection she has for her son, her nurturing, or lack thereof, seems the obvious reason for Kevin's issues.

Except that Kevin is hard to like, let alone love.  Even as a baby, his personality was harsh and irritating.  Of course, we only know Kevin through Eva's eyes, but his behavior and lack of sensitivity certainly lend credence to the side that Kevin was simply wrong in the head.  Always was.

On the other hand, I felt like this entire story, idea, and presentation was incredibly manipulative not to mention insensitive.  Sure, we are all wondering how something like mass murder in a high school by a high school student can happen.  Who are these kids and how do they become so evil?  I'm not sure creating a fictional character and having him reference to actual events and actual people, like Eric Harris and Dylan Kelbold with disdain and mockery is tasteful.   I felt uncomfortable.  Besides that, some of the scenes are downright squirmworthy.

What made me most uncomfortable, however, was something Kevin told his mother on one of her monthly visits to his juvenile prison.  During one visit, he defended his behavior by stating that not only do we need people like him to do things like he did, but we want him to as well.  After all, the rest of us just sit around, doing nothing but watching and reading about what other people actually do.  In other words, he considered himself a do-er and the rest of us simply spectators.  As I was doing just that, lying in bed and reading about a horrific event instead of living it, I wondered if he was right.  By reading books like this, was I, in actuality, encouraging horrible behavior?

I've since decided that that isn't true.  My friend, Amy, helped put words to my thoughts when she defended a book about rape.  She wrote. We read about awful things because by reading about them we can understand them without having to experience them. Or we read about them because we experienced them and are searching for commonality, for someone else's experience to erase the loneliness of our own. We read about the ugly, dark things in the world so as to understand how people overcome them, so we can see courage in the face of trouble and hope set against despair. We read so our empathy may be doubled. Ignoring the awful things that happen doesn't make them go away. Ignorance make them more awful. Keeping the dark things in the dark gives them more power. Shining a light on them takes it away. Choosing to read brings that needed light."

Yeah.  What she said.  Although I don't think We Need To Talk About Kevin is even close to a "must-read" it is an interesting, non-scientific look at what creates a sociopath.

Oh, I Think They Must Be Growing

 Age: 4 years 9 months - Preschool

Height: 41 inches - 26th percentile

Weight:  38 lbs - 41st percentile

Age: 7 years 8 months - 2nd Grade

Height:  52.75  inches - 91st percentile

Weight:  62 lbs - 77 percentile

Age: 10 years 6 months - 5th Grade

Height:  60.5 inches  - 96th percentile

Weight:  77 lbs - 56th percentile

The Missing Place

Jay sharing a story with Sam about how he felt when he was transferred out of his first area of his mission after five months.


Tonight isn't a school night so our evening routine was pretty casual.  Jay is on call and didn't walk in the door until after eight o'clock and although the boys were still all up, they were each doing something quietly upstairs (which I should know by now is never a good thing in Henry's case.  Cut up paper, wet playing cards in the sink and toothpaste everywhere!  I'll deal with it tomorrow).   Out of the blue, Sam comes into the living room in tears.  He had been looking at his first grade memory book full of his work and pictures of him and his classmates taken throughout the year, and he missed his old school.  Missed his old friends.  Missed his old life.

I knew just how he felt.

So did Jay and we sat there and empathized with him and gave him some examples from our own lives about times we had to leave and move on even though we wished we could stay.  There was no consoling Sam, though.  He knows he has great new friends and a great new school and a great new house, but, tonight....tonight he felt sad.

Sometimes, I too have these random moments of memory and I swear there is a dormant organ that only functions when in the throes of missing something or someone because it hurts. What is it? It's not my heart, my stomach or my liver. But, it's somewhere around there because there is an actual physical ache inside my body and I know Sam felt it tonight. What a sweet, tender hearted boy.

What Is Truth?

My good intentions aren't exactly translating into blogging gold, but I did have an idea this afternoon about what I'd like to write about today.  However, it's now ten thirty at night and my head is tired and I'm not positive my deep thoughts, not to mention my passion about the topic, are best expressed in my current condition.   Please accept my pre-emptive apology for any rambling, veering off topic, or dangling prepositions.

I was on a news web site today and out of the corner of my eye, near the bottom was a link to an article about Glen Beck and a Mormon Prophecy.  Curious, I clicked on it and was taken to the Huffington Post web site and read the rather poorly written and poorly researched article by Dana Milbank.  When I finished the article, I surmised that the point he was trying to make was that Beck, who is Mormon, is doing the things he's doing and saying the things he's saying to essentially incite other Mormons, who would understand his coded messages, to follow him.

While that hypothesis should be dissected and discussed all by itself,  the authors presumption that Beck does this intentionally is not what actually got my dander up.  What did were contents of the one-thousand four-hundred and seventy-three comments that followed (there are now nearly four-thousand.  I can't bear to look).  I didn't read all of them.  I don't even think I skimmed half of them.  I didn't have to.  From the first hundred, it was clear that the vast, vast majority were anti-Beck, anti Fox news, anti-Mormon, anti-Romney, anti-Joseph Smith, and just plain....anti.  I realize the people who take the time to comment on online articles are, in general, more opinionated and less nice about giving their opinions, but so many comments, attacking...well....me wasn't a pleasant part of my day.

There was all sorts of false accusations and misinformation being spewed about with very little opposition (one poor commenter was clearly a member of the LDS church and was bravely trying to fend off some of the more malicious or erroneous comments).  It struck me then and I almost made a comment (in fact, I tried but was required to create a Huffington Post user name and password and that extra step made my gumption go away) that these very individuals who rail and moan and abuse Fox News, hate Glen Beck, ridicule those who listen to him are essentially mocking their own reflection.

Sure, they may vote differently and maybe they even drive a Prius instead of a truck but they are mirror images of each other, clinging to their version of truth just as fervently and sometimes as offensively as the other side.

Fox News has a conservative bias.  It does.  They say they are fair and balanced and they are....to conservatives.  Almost every other news outlet has a liberal bias.  They do.  They are just so surrounded by like-minded people that they sound equally fair and balanced to each other.   But none are doling out truth.

And neither is Glen Beck.  He is giving his opinion.  His opinion is more lucrative when it's loud and controversial.   I'm not saying his opinion is wrong.  Just that it's his.  It's not mine.  It's not the opinion of the LDS church.  They have their own format for giving theirs and it happened last weekend and the Lincoln Memorial was not in the background.  

As for the author of the article, well, that's not the truth either.  It makes me sad and angry that the many comments I read assumed it was.  Think people!  Know the difference between information and speculation.  Recognize bias - both in others and in yourself.  When taking a side, know why and what for and allow others to do the same without fear of harassment or ridicule.  

Galileo said, "All truths are easy to understand once they are discovered, the point is to discover them."  He was probably referring to His once controversial discovery about the earth revolving around the sun but do you think there is a "true" political side?  Ayn Rand made her case for capitalism.  Glen Beck makes his for his own brand of conservatism.  Many others claim social justice equals truth.  And then there are those fools who comment on the Huffington Post about what they think is truth.  Is there a truth for America?   If there is, as a Mormon, is it my responsibility to start listening to Glen Beck?  (That last question is not something I'm actually wondering.  And that's the truth).

My Attitude of Gratitude

I have been wearing some unflattering crankypants for the past few days.  I just can't seem to shake them off.  In an attempt to reverse my present mood into something more pleasant to be around, I thought I'd take President Monson's advice and see if I can't find an attitude of gratitude.

Things I am grateful for today:

• my swim buddy, Lori.  We usually swim on Wednesdays but she was willing to swim this morning because I needed the exercise and the requisite chat in the hot tub afterward.  

• My functioning kidneys.  I picked someone up from their dialysis session this morning and the waiting room was so sad to me.  It was filled with those waiting to be hooked up to a machine to do what mine do automatically and without pain or expense.  

• Albertson's great sales on meat.  Buy one get two free on packages of petite sirloin steaks!  I saved forty dollars on that alone today.   

• My sister, Sarah, who is fabulous and who is celebrating a birthday today.  

• the opportunity to watch conference yesterday.  I loved Henry B. Eyring's talk at the start of Sunday's morning session.  I felt the Spirit strongly and looked over at my boys and we had a moment with real power.  Then the choir sang a sublime arrangement of Dear To The Heart of The Shepherd and I felt whole.  

• a brain to think about things (still thinking...)

• opposition in all things because as cranky as I feel now, how sweet my better mood will feel when it blessedly arrives (hurry!)

Five For Friday

1.  I had my second ever pack meeting last night as Cubmaster.  It's the kind of calling that, in theory, seems like a piece of cake but when the week of the event comes, it's every bit as bad as ward activity chair or enrichment counselor.  It's a lot of prep work, a lot of set up and take down and a lot of song and dance,.  The first pack meeting, held in June, was horrible.  I don't think the boys knew it was horrible because when my game of water gun soccer didn't work, I just said, "You have 10 minutes to play with these water guns," and they were off.  But, it was bad.  No awards.  No idea what I was doing.  Bad.

Last night's was a lot better.  We had a talent show to go with the core values "Courage" and "Perseverance" and I was very impressed with the amount of talents these eight to ten year-olds have.  We had a magic trick, drum solo, geology presentations, light saber reenactments, a karate demo, a boy riding a unicycle and several piano solos.  Everything went perfectly.  Except.

They were reapplying fresh black top in the parking lot so it was roped off and everyone had to park along the street.

Fresh tar.  Eight to ten year-old boys.  Can you guess what happened?






Argh!!!!  I hope Facility Management can get it out.  What a nightmare.

2.  The other day, my friend was relating some parenting drama she was going through and casually mentioned something that happened during family scripture study.  Her reminder about what we are often counseled to do, that is, have family scripture study, gave me the urge to start that goal anew with my own family.  And, so, while the boys were eating ham and cheese sandwiches for dinner, I read aloud 1st Nephi from the Book of Mormon.  Now, I've read 1st Nephi more than any other book on earth (and a lot more than I've read the book of Moroni) but I have never noticed, or at least remembered if I did notice, that the vision Lehi saw which convinced him to leave Jerusalem with his family was shown to him in a book!  Not just a Look! vision but a "Here, read this," kind.  Thirteen angels came to visit him, gave him a book and told him to read!   Why wouldn't I remember this?  Why thirteen? Why a book?  Could they not talk?  It says they "bade" him to read but I suppose they could have used gestures.  Seems kind of like an inefficient way to use thirteen angels but, still, that is my kind of vision.   How awesome would it be to be given a book that showed you great and marvelous things and fill you with the spirit of God?  Oh....wait a minute.  Now, that's interesting.....

3.  I hate Miller Moths.  If you don't know what they are, it might be because no one else seems to call them that, but they are those ugly brown, fuzzy fluttery things, ugly butterflies, if you will, that go crazy around lights.  For some reason, a lot have been getting inside my house and it seems as if there is one going berserk every night when I read in bed.  It's not a good way to go to sleep.  The other night, one was moving in and out of the light above my bed so fast it was causing freaky shadows on my book, so I had to shut off the light, put a pillow on top of my head to make sure it couldn't land on me and then try and go to sleep.  That night, I had the craziest dreams.  The one I can remember is that a feisty black bat got into the house and was chasing me around.  I was running through the house and when I reached the foyer, I opened the door hoping it would fly out, but it was going so fast that it crashed into the door and it's long pointy beak got stuck in the wood.  Why would a bat have a long, pointy beak you ask?  I don't know, but at this point the bat turned into some kind of bird with a long, pointy beak that was still flapping its wings like crazy, trying to get unstuck from the door and I was lamenting that I had to deal with this all by myself.  In my dream, I actually put my hands on the bird to pull it out of the door (this is something I never would have done in real life, so, if I was in the movie Inception, I suppose a black bird going crazy because its beak was stuck in a door would be my totem) and when it was free, it flew into my hair.  This is when I woke up.

4.  I got pulled over for speeding today.  Jay read something once about the best way to get out of tickets and supposedly, if you are completely contrite, ready with your driver's licence, insurance and registration and basically stick to "Yes, Sir" and "No, Sir" without trying to give a sob story or argue about not knowing about the speed limit etc, cops are much more likely to let you off with a warning.

I've done it the last three times and gotten a warning....the last three times!!  The real lesson here is that I need to slow down.  But still!!

5.  I think I'm going to keep trying to blog daily.  It's a great part of my day.

Boys Will Be Boys

"Henry was in a Time-Out today," his preschool teacher announced this afternoon when I entered the classroom to pick him up.  "He was playing Super Heroes which is against our preschool rules.  Someone always ends up having to be a bad guy and it's not fair so we play Super Friends instead.  He knows the rule which I explained to parents in the weekly newsletter.  He just forgot the rule today," she added.

I had actually read the newsletter announcing the ban on Super Hero play, so I simply nodded and said, "O.K."  His teacher is definitely the I-Love-You-You-Love-Me sort.  She believes in holding hands and looking in each other's eyes to resolve conflicts. She also believes it is horrible to teach our kids to say, "It's O.K." after someone apologizes for hurting them or their feelings because, and I quote, "It is not o.k.!"  Instead they should explain how their actions made them feel.   Quite honestly, I admire her philosophy and more power to her for implementing it in her classroom.   But, with fifteen pre-schoolers, that's got to be an awful lot of mini-therapy sessions to hold.

Henry is a boy. He has brothers.  He's going to play war and football, Scooby-Doo and Star Wars and, yes, even Super Heroes.  I understand that it's a preschool rule and the best way to help him follow the rule is to reinforce it at home, but.....I think it's kind of a stupid rule.

Do you have boys?  I have learned that boys will be boys will be boys no matter what you do.  When Seth was a toddler, I didn't want him to play with toy guns.  They seemed really violent and unnecessary but eventually a stick became a gun.  Or a car.  Or a fork.  I don't know where it comes from but I do know that shoot 'em up, explosion sound making, love to wrestle anywhere did not come from me.

My instinct tells me it comes from them.  From their boy-ness.  Of course I think there are exceptions.  Some boys like to brush their teeth....somewhere...I'm sure.  I wasn't lucky enough to get any of those in my house but I know boys who have organized rooms and would rather read than wrestle.  I don't think that they lack anything essential in boy-ness, but I do think that the majority have this rough and tumble nature.

So, I kind of blew her off.  No big deal. Of course, I don't want him hurting other kids feelings but I also think kids can work that out themselves most of the time.

At least, I hope so after listening to Sam on the drive home after dropping Seth off at football practice.   We had arrived about twenty minutes early because we came directly from piano lessons, so Sam and Seth went to play catch while we waited for other players and his coaches to arrive.

As some of the other boys arrived, a game of keep away or five-hundred or tag or something started and Sam joined in with the fifth graders.  I watched from my van and it looked to me like everyone was having a good time.  Seth wasn't getting a lot of passes, but he usually doesn't and it doesn't seem to bother him.

But, once we were on our way home, Sam said, "The other boys kind of pick on Seth, Mom."  My heart dropped and I asked, "What do you mean?"

"They tease him that he can't catch."

And, suddenly, I wanted to turn the car around and march out onto the field and have the boys hold hands and look into each others' eyes and explain how saying things like that hurts feelings.   I want to defend Seth and say, "Yes, he's not very coordinated but he's improving.  And he loves football.  And he loves being part of this team. So play nice!!!"

But....

Boys will be boys.  And, kids can work it out themselves most of the time... right?

What Was That?

When I was in elementary school, I think it was fifth grade, but it could have been sixth, I attended a sleep-over birthday party.  I don't remember a lot about the party except we ate a lot of pizza, my friend had orange shag carpet in her dark basement and we watched a rated R Stephen King horror movie, Silver Bullet.

Now, if this gives you justification in not allowing sleep-overs for your kids, so be it, but that is not the point of this post.  What I learned that night and what I have adhered to since that day is that scary things and I should not mix.

Oh, Nelly, did I have nightmares!  A few nights after the party, I remember being so frightened on my top bunk that I was sure the moment I got out of bed to seek refuge in my parent's room upstairs, some murderer would appear and that would be that.  I did work up the nerve to get out of bed, and with my heart racing and feet touching the carpet like it was a bed of hot coals, I raced up the stairs and confessed all to my parents.

I have never, in the twenty plus years that have followed, watched a scary movie.  Spy thrillers, yes, but not the random violent/someone is hiding in your car wearing a mask kind.  I don't do haunted houses.  Ever.  I don't even read scary books.  Again...mysteries, yes, but not this-serial-killer-is-going-to-get-me plots.  Even the rides at theme parks where you ride in the dark and things jump out at you take quite a lot of convincing for me to ride (what's the point????)

I guess some people like being scared but I am not one of them.  It goes against all logic to spend so much time, money and energy to ensure our safety (alarms, locking doors, seatbelts, etc.) and to then go pay good money for someone to scare you on purpose.  No, Stephen King and his werewolf movie took all the fun out of being afraid for me and the result of watching his movie at an impressionable age is my ardent avoidance of all things scary.  Perhaps it was a good lesson for me to learn at ten or eleven years of age.  If that gives you justification in allowing sleep-overs, so be it.  But that is still not the point of this post.

Which leads me to my point: contrary to how I have painted myself, I am actually very rarely scared.   It happens occasionally.  Jay has snuck up on me a few times, made me scream, been hit from my rush of adrenaline, watched me cry when all those hormones need to get out and then sincerely apologized because he realized that scaring his wife on purpose is mean.  But, mostly, I am a confident, not afraid of the dark, not afraid to be alone kind of girl.

Something jangled my nerves this morning, however.  I was in Jay's office on the computer and I heard a door close followed by a few footsteps.  The sound lasted for only a second and then it stopped.  I called out, "Hello? Is someone there?" because...well...I suppose I thought someone was inside.  A delivery man (I do have a few things being shipped), a friend, a family member.  It has happened before where I have come home to discover that someone has been inside and dropped something off so that was my first train of thought.

When no one answered, my heart started uncomfortably racing.  I know I heard something so from the doorway of Jay's office, I cautiously stepped out into the hallway, fully expecting the possibility that someone could jump from behind a wall and "get me."

Still...nothing.  So, I tip toed into the kitchen.  By this time, I reasoned that whatever I heard was not an intruder but I was still scared.  It really had sounded like footsteps so I went to the kitchen drawer and pulled out a big chef's knife.  Seeing as I have no ninja skills, I'm not sure what good it would have done, but it felt better having some sort of defense in my hands.

Nothing happened.  Obviously.  Maybe a bird flew into my window (although I am pretty sure I have that sound down) or maybe the wind blew some debris so that it sounded like footsteps.

Whatever it was, it has reminded me that I hate being scared.  So I sit here, ears on high alert, with a knife on top of the desk.   I suppose, just in case.

Being Vague

I'm breaking one of my cardinal blogging rules tonight by being vague.   Wasn't that the entire point of the September Snippets anyways (refer to first paragraph)?  To steer clear of oversharing when oversharing isn't an option?   I promise I'd blog about something, anything else, if I could but my mind is whirring about this thing that consumes my emotional energy but which I can only vaguely refer to.

I thought about it this morning as I wogged on the river trail (but not when I ran significantly faster than my heart wanted me to as the train chugged along beside me near the library.  Lots of people watching, you know.  Had to put on a good show).

I thought about it when I paid $4.00 to send a fax.  I think if my mind hadn't be befuddled with this issue I'm vaguely mentioning, I might have shopped around a bit.  $4.00 to use what is essentially a phone line seems a bit pricey. 

I couldn't finish the Cub Scout Pack Meeting program I started to create and hoped to print out because every time I got on the computer, I would get distracted and eventually end up surfing various web sites that might help me handle this thing I am being annoyingly vague about.

When my precious boys came home after school, I quickly became frustrated with all of their needs (snacks, signatures, finding football equipment, broken glasses, counting out rhythms to understand the difference between a quarter note and an eighth note) not because their needs were unreasonable, but after a day spent pondering this important matter in my head, being jolted back into my real world seemed garish and noisy.

Jay is off wearing chaps (ooh la la) and herding cattle with his brothers and dad (yee-haw!)so bedtime was a solo routine tonight. By this time, the boys knew I was distracted so they lovingly kissed me, told me goodnight and went upstairs all on their own. Well...Seth and Sam did. Henry had some issues which ended with him sleeping in the guest room instead of his own but I'm sure his tantrum only erupted because his mother had ignored his four year old need for attention all afternoon and evening and was unwilling to continue to leave me be. Snuggling with him on the soft queen-sized bed was the perfect release from my heavy introspection.

Now it is quiet. And all I can do is think, think, think.

Wouldn't you like to know what about? ;-)

P.S. I will make a serious effort to never, ever write a vague blog post again and when the moment comes when oversharing is allowed, plan on once again knowing too much.  

Sarah's Cinquain

sarah and I showing off our turquoise pendants we found this weekend for about 80% off

She came
Not for long but
Any visit is great
Especially when I get a
Sister

All I Need

...is for this guy to come home and make me smile.

Three on Thursday

I am feeling extremely uninspired right now. But, I've got a good streak going on and want to post something. Rather than developing any one snippet very well, I'm going to write about three rather roughly.

1. I think I got scammed today. While I was applying my Bare Minerals make-up (ta-da!), the blue wall phone in my bathroom rang and I found myself speaking to a pleasant Paula Dean sounding woman, who explained that she was calling on behalf of the Blind and Handicapped Association and they weren't asking for a donation or seeking out charity, but instead, they were asking me to support the blind and handicapped who worked to take care of themselves. That sales pitch gelled with my need for balance between helping people who are at a disadvantage in life and encouraging self-reliance. She explained that they were selling seven-year lightbulbs, a flag kit and a mop. I actually needed a mop so I told her that I'd get that. For $60. O.K. That's one overpriced mop, but...it's supporting a good cause, right?

Now, normally I am a "No" and hang-up before they can even start their spiel, but the other day, I was reading the blog of a friend who suffers from Chronic Fatigue Syndrome. She has been unable to work and take care of herself for fourteen years because of her disability. With her despair still fresh in my head, I gallantly offered to buy the mop, but once I was off the phone, I couldn't shake the feeling that something didn't feel right. When I described what happened to my sister, Sarah, she said, "Google them."

In the Google search bar, I typed, "Blind and Handicapped selling lightbulbs," and this forum about a 251 area code (which is what my Caller ID showed) popped up at the top of the result list. I clicked on it and it was filled with all of these people who were complaining about a so-called group selling lightbulbs, Flag kits and mops (and air-fresheners, but they weren't offered to me)for the blind and handicapped association that were poor quality and cheaply made. One of the comments was written by someone who claimed to have worked there and she said that it's a for-profit telemarketing company that changes its phone number every few days so the BBB can't find them. The guy running it is supposedly an ex-con. Still, it didn't feel like an obvious scam. I didn't have to give my credit card information and the kind southern woman promised by buying a mop, I wasn't being put on some subscription list with pages of fine print. So...I don't know. I guess I'll wait and see what the mop looks like.

2. I had a stowaway cat in my car for the better part of the day. The two kittens we got are exclusively garage cats. It's a finished garage so it's perfectly comfortable in both summer and winter. They are excellent mousers, killing machines if you want to know the truth, and I've been pleased with our decision to get them. However, the Siamese-looking cat really wants to be a house cat and sneaks inside at every available opportunity and the black cat is in love with the inside of my minivan. One morning, I started backing out of the garage and started screaming when a pair of yellow eyes looked back at me from the dashboard.

Today, after leaving a Chinese cooking class relief society meeting, I headed into town to have lunch with my friend, Sue, and heard meowing. Sure enough, there was Jem standing on all fours right behind me. She had to have been in there since I took the boys to school at 7:30 am. That's the only explanation I can think of unless there is a hole somewhere in the floor of my car she can crawl up through. Since she had been in there for almost five hours, I knew she had to go to the bathroom but I was in town and cats aren't like dogs. They don't seem to go just anywhere, do they? I took a chance and left her in the car while I went to lunch, wondering what I was going to do because I had a choir practice at the college at 2:30. Luckily, Sue and I finished before then and I had just enough time to drive all the way back home, get rid of the cat and get back to the college. I may be paranoid, but I think I got a whiff of cat pee. There were some beach towels in the cargo area which I took out to wash and I'm fervently hoping that the smell (which may be imaginary after all. You know when you're expecting a smell and you can almost produce it?) was really the towels (which were from swimming, so that doesn't really make sense. Unless the cat peed on those). I'm more than a little disturbed by it.

3. It hit me today that Henry is almost five. He's sick today, so I was carrying him on my hip when we went into the library during soccer practice, and I realized that I hardly ever carry him like that anymore. He's almost....too big. All kids eventually reach that stage. After all, I don't ever carry Seth or Sam on my hip anymore. Can you imagine (just got a good chuckle picturing Seth dangling off my hip)? It's odd because I never felt especially sentimental when I got rid of our crib, bottles, exersaucer etc. I don't know if the baby years were more stressful for me so I was less sad to see them go, or if it just happened so fast that I didn't have time to be sentimental, but I am almost to the point where my hips will have become useless. No more child bearing. No more hip toting. Now what excuse will I have?

Seriously, when that thought came, I almost started weeping (the one about no longer having a young child. Not the one about being able to explain my wide hips). Henry's been so little for so long, I suppose I thought it would it would always be that way. Instead, he is disobeying me just like my other boys and growing up.

25+34+15 = I Hate United Airlines

There is so much background information I need to give in order to fully understand why I cried for 15 minutes straight tonight. I'll try to be brief.

Months and months ago, Jay decided to go to RSNA (the biggest radiology conference of the year) in Chicago the week after Thanksgiving. He invited me along but, as you know, that is simply a horrible time to travel. I declined.

He also happened to find a marathon he wanted to run in Memphis, Tennessee that following Saturday. So, he made plans to fly to Chicago and on Friday, fly to Memphis, run the marathon and fly home Saturday afternoon. Kind of indulgent, but good Saturday marathons can be hard to find, and he trains so hard that he totally deserves to run in whatever races he wants to. I think.

In a completely unrelated melodrama, I recently auditioned and joined a local choir. It's a much higher caliber choir than what I anticipated a town this size could put together, and have enjoyed the weekly rehearsals, preparing Durfler's Requiem and Hovland's Saul. The conductor seemed very friendly and competent and I often laughed at her witticism and her fervent belief that no choir member should ever, ever hum their note when it is given.

Disarmed by her friendliness, I sent her an email explaining my unfortunate situation about having a trip, also planned months and months ago, to Disneyland with my family the week before our first concert. The tickets are paid for and it was on the calendar long before I even thought about auditioning. Apologetically but also feeling totally justified, I let her know that I'd miss the final dress rehearsal but would be back in time for the concert. When I didn't hear back from her, I approached her during the break of our next practice to make sure she'd gotten my email.

She was mad. She told me she didn't even know how to respond to a message like that. I was totally flabbergasted and meekly nodded as she informed me that she has a huge, huge problem with my absence and didn't know if my singing in the concert would be possible. She then told me to keep coming to choir until she let me know otherwise.

Now, I am very much like my sensitive children in that I hate to be yelled at. Even while I stewed about her decision, she called me and invited me to sing with her and the college chamber choir for the new president's inauguration the first Friday of October. Wanting to reassure her that I'm a team player, and totally flattered that she'd even think of me, I quickly told her I'd do it and we've already practiced with the college students once. We're doing two lovely pieces's, Staheli's "How Can I Keep From Singing" and The King Singers "You Are The New Day."

With what I interpreted as her olive branch not to mention her continued silence about my Disneyland conflict, I've felt optimistic that although she's unhappy about my frolicking off to California, she still wants me to sing with the choir.

Now, let me merge the two stories.

Yesterday morning, United Airlines called and left a recorded message about a flight schedule change. After much, much running around with their obnoxious automated system, I finally spoke with someone with a heartbeat and learned that Jay's return flight from Memphis to home had been changed and was now scheduled to leave much earlier in the day. Because Jay will be running a marathon and physically cannot finish any faster, the only available option was to have him fly home a day later. United offered a $250 voucher as a means to apologize for his inconvenience.

In a rush of love and spontaneity, I said to Jay, "Well, if you're not coming home until Sunday, and we have the $250 voucher, I'll come to Memphis to watch you run!" I've never been to Memphis and love traveling to places I've never been before. He hopes to run a PR on this flat, fast course and who wouldn't want a witness for a PR? 25 minutes later, our excitement led to a confirmation code for a round-trip flight between here and Memphis. With the $250 voucher, we were only out $166 out of pocket and both of us were thrilled with the idea of spending a weekend together.

Later that night, while driving home from choir, my heart sunk as I remembered that the choir's Christmas concert was scheduled for that very weekend.

I told Jay about the situation and he told me to stay home. He's felt my stress as I've lived with the near unbearable knowledge that someone thinks I'm flaky and don't take my commitments seriously and said it wasn't worth risking further scorn. I told him I'd sleep on it.

Today has been busy and I've been away from my house since 7:30 this morning except for the hour I came home to shower after swimming. Then, by noon, I was off again, not to return until 5:30 this evening. Throughout the day, I've thought about what I should choose to do. In all honestly, although I love singing and love Christmas songs, I'd rather go to Memphis to watch Jay. Rumor has it that the Christmas concert is not the choir's highlight and it's pretty low-key. Lots of caroling and quick to learn music. As there are only three rehearsals between our big fall concert and the Christmas concert, I'd guess the rumors to be true. In other words, maybe it wouldn't be such a big deal to miss this concert?

Except. The Director already hates me. Oh, I know she doesn't hate me, but she thinks I'm one of those whiners that wants special treatment. And, I guess I am since I bought a freaking plane ticket the same weekend as one of our concerts. Oh...to have those 25 minutes back! I'd remember the Christmas concert and although I'd feel bad that my weekend in Memphis with Jay wasn't going to work out, I would not buy that ticket. I'd honor my commitment to sing with the choir, no matter the repertoire, because that's what I signed up to do.

By the time I returned home, I had made up my mind to cancel my ticket. I knew it was the responsible thing to do so after I walked in from the garage, I went to the computer so I could have my email confirmation on screen the same time I was on the phone with United.

The have a full-refund policy if you cancel within twenty-four hours. I didn't know this, but was hoping that someone there would be able to listen to reason and if unable to give me a full refund, would at least be able to issue me another voucher to use towards the purchase of a future ticket. When I explained the situation to the English-is-his-second-language agent, he very matter-of-factly told me that he couldn't do anything about refunding the voucher, because it had been used, but that he could refund me the $166. However, there would be a $150 cancellation/change fee.

I pleaded with him that it seemed unfair that I'd lose $400 due to a few minutes of spontaneity and forgetfulness less than twenty-four hours ago. When I mentioned that, he perked up, saying that he could refund me the full amount if I bought the ticket less than twenty-four hours ago. I said that I had and after a few clickity-clacks on his computer, he said, "No. It says here that you purchased this ticket twenty-four hours and 34 minutes ago."

And that was that. Was there anything else he could do for me?

I hung up the phone and started to cry. 34 minutes. 34 minutes and I wouldn't have been out $400. 34 minutes and I wouldn't begrudge that Christmas concert. 34 minutes and I wouldn't have bawled my eyes out for the next 15 minutes.

Because now the entire weekend is spoiled for me either way. If I go to Memphis (which Jay is now INSISTING I not do) I will be out of the choir. I can feel it. I'll either quit to save myself the embarrassment or be kicked out because I can't manage to stay in town for a concert (as if I have this jet setting lifestyle). If I don't go to Memphis, I'll resent every single note singing schmaltzy Christmas carols to 200 people that don't really care and are probably all relatives of choir members anyways.

What's ultimately the most frustrating to me is how badly trying to do something spontaneous backfired. I just wanted to get away. To be young and uncommitted and fun. To do something with my husband. We had this voucher....and it seemed so....romantic and....

I do hate United Airlines for their stupid rules and inability to be reasonable. But, I'm mostly disappointed in myself. What a bungled mess I've made.

I Will Share Anything With You....But I Won't Share That

I just realized it's the third time in a week that I've used the name of a song as the basis of my title.  I'd change it but how often does one get to reference a song by Meatloaf  and have it make sense?  I promise I'll use my inner Weird Al Yankovich more judiciously in the future.

Because of our cash budget, every two weeks, I write out a check for cash and go through the Drive-Thru Banking lanes to get it.  I was surprised today when the person who said "Hello" behind the glass was someone I knew.

I smiled and made a bit of idle chit-chat, but while I was waiting for her to send me back my cash in the denominations I requested, I realized how awkward I felt.

She knew exactly what was in our bank account.

If she cared to know, she could probably go and find out what we spend our money on too.  It's an unnerving feeling, knowing someone has access to your financial data.  Oh, I'm sure she's professional about it.  I doubt she goes home and says, "Lucy sure buys things from Amazon.com frequently," or "Guess what their mortgage is each month?"  But....she could.

It's like having someone see you naked.

Why is that such a fear of ours?  Our clothes may hide or flatter certain parts of our body, but they can't change the general shape of our bodies.  It would probably not be a very big surprise if you did, in fact, see someone naked.  But, it's been made clear that we are not supposed to see other people naked, so, other than nudists, we are uncomfortable having that kind of public knowledge...whether it's about others or ourselves.

Like the clothes that cover us, our lifestyles can only hint at what our socioeconomic level is underneath.  Lots of people use metaphoric belts and girdles to appear more well off than they are and others hide their financial figure in frugal but comfortable mu-mus.   Perhaps its this uncertainty about what's really underneath that makes sharing financial data so tacky.  Because it is, you know.

I have no idea how much money my parents made when I was growing up.  Actually, I still don't know.  In fact, I don't know a single other person's salary besides our own.  For an oversharer like myself, it's been one of those areas of my life where I have had to be trained to be more mysterious and general instead of giving away specifics.  It's taken awhile but now I can honestly announce that I'm every bit as uncomfortable sharing that part of my life as the next person.

Are you curious about other people's finances?  Do you wish we, as a society, were more transparent or do you like keeping it private?   Should I switch to a different bank?

Memories....Escape the Corners of My Mind

Who is this girl?

The one who sent a friend request on Facebook?

When the notification came that so and so wanted to be friends with me, I figured it was one of those errant mistakes.  Like, she mistook my Capital High for another.  I figure there's got to be at least fifty high schools with that name, right?

For some reason (I like to think because I'm tender hearted and outright rejecting her offer seemed cruel), I neither accepted nor declined.  Instead, I waited.

Sure enough, she is adding friends and they are people I know.  People from high school.  Today, I dug out the old Class of '93 Yearbook to see if I could find any mention of her.

None.

My guess is that she went to school with my class at some point but did not graduate with us.

In any case, I can't place her.  I have no memories of this girl.  Even more troubling, as I looked through the yearbook, was how many other students I shared hallway and classroom space for four years that look equally foreign.

I've noticed it before.  How names escape me.  In a conversation with someone awhile back, I could only remember two of my high school English teachers:  one teaching my Freshman year and the other my Senior year (who I only remember because she was really, really bad.  Horrible, really).

I can't remember the last names of most of my roommates at BYU.  My sophomore year?  I can't even remember their first names.

I can't remember the name of the building next to the testing center at BYU.  The one where the artists hung out.  It's been bugging me for weeks.  That and the name of the Engineering Building.

I can't remember the names of some of the boys I dated before Jay.  Even ones I kissed.

I can't remember the names of several of the women who I served with in Primary presidencies.     Women who I spent a lot of time with and remember being pretty close to at the time.  How's that for bonding?

It goes on, but it's embarrassing.  What is wrong with me?

Do I not care enough to remember or is my memory that bad?  Do I need to be doing more Sudoku or eating more fish?  Taking Ginko Baloba?  Is that its name?  See?  I can't even remember that.

I don't know how the people with 300-plus friends on Facebook do it.  Keep track of them all, I mean.  What is the point of having experiences or making friends if you can't remember them?

Blogging helps.  I look back at posts and remember.  But, as these September snippets have taught me, it's much more interesting to write about a part of your day instead of it whole.  So, twenty-three and a half hours of each day might just become lost to me.   At least now I'll be able to look back and remember the time that I realized I can't remember anything.

Poetic.  Almost.