Let's Pretend (Also Known as Day 1)

Let's pretend that it's early March and I just returned from my trip to Germany. This post is our pretended "yesterday post" and I'm happy, tired, jet-lagged and so delighted to be with my children while simultaneously missing the good German food and far away friends...

I'm back!! It was such a wonderful trip that I will have to post a zillion posts just to tell you every that happened on my trip to Germany.

Day 1: As I'm flying into Munich, I realize that, although Inga told me that some family member or friend would pick me up, I had no idea who that would be. After landing and getting my luggage, I picked the door "nothing to declare" even though I had no idea what people have to declare when they do have "something to declare."

I had an amusing interchange with some guards who spoke about 55% English. It went like this...

M: If I had to declare something what would it be?

G: You have something to declare?

M: No. I don't think so... I...

G: You have nothing to declare.

M: Well, I just don't know. I mean, if you have to declare something, what is it?

G: You have something to declare?

M: I guess not.

G: You have nothing to declare.

M: (walking away slowly) OK. Bye. Thanks. (muttering under my breath)...I think.

(Note: I have since learned that having "something to declare" means you're bringing large quantities of cash, items to sell, fire arms, chemicals and the like. Most "regular" people will never have anything to declare.)

After the above hilarity, I walked slowly with my luggage scanning the crowd for someone holding a sign with my name on it. Although I'd only ever seen him in pictures, I recognized him right away. Inga had sent Emil, her fiance, to pick me up.

(Note: Emil wasn't wearing a tux or holding a bouquet at the airport. All that came later...)

Emil recognized me, too, even though we'd never met, and he was just putting the sign down and coming to help me with my luggage when I spotted him.

You always hope, when you meet a friend's future spouse, that you're going to like that person. I instantly fell in love with Emil. (Not like that. In the I'm-happy-that-he's-going-to-be-my-friend's-husband kinda way.) He's charming, smart, funny, tall, cute. I kept thinking, Inga, you lucky girl! Every moment I was with Emil made me happy for Inga. Plus, he just seems like the kind of guy that you'd be friends with.

I know that you don't want to hear every minor detail so, I'll sum up.

*As Emil loaded my luggage into the car, I broke my sunglasses.

*Emil drove me straight to Inga's work so I could see her for a moment. She looked fabulous and happy and we made dinner plans for later.

*Emil drove me to the hotel where I was happy to see Inga's parents.

*Hannalore, Inga's mom, kept patting her face and saying, "You look so, so...." I filled in the blank for her, "Old." We laughed and laughed.

*We went to a Starbuck's Coffee place where I got to visit with Udo, Hannalore, Inga's grandma and her grand aunt. I drank water without carbonation. It was perfect.

*Udo and Hannalore, took me back to the hotel and let me sleep.

It was a sight for tired eyes. And aren't German beds just cool?

OK. So I didn't get through Day 1. But the dinner needs it's own (shorter) post.

PS My sister thinks Inga's mom's name is spelled Hannelore. She's probably right. But I don't know. Inga, if you read this will you tell me how to spell your mom's name?

Carpet Cleaner Coming Leads to a Quick Clean Up

It is a known fact that I stink as a homemaker. I'm a reasonably good mother, but no risk of getting Mother of The Year. I'm good with academics. That's really my strong suit. But I'm terrible at the clean-house-lovely-decorations-feng-shui kinda thing. Terrible. That's why this was such a big freakin' deal.

Once I had accomplished that not-so-small feat. I decided to call the carpet cleaner.

There was a time when I was as regular with having the carpet cleaner as I

was at the dentist. And I'm perfect with dentist appointments. Every six months, like clock work. But having the last two babies back to back, I just started thinking, why? Why should I have the carpet cleaner come when some baby is going to urp on the carpet tomorrow? So I waited until the urping was done. Plus a year. Then I cleaned up and called the carpet cleaners.

Now, in the week between when I called and when the cleaners could actually come, um, the basement wasn't quite so tidy. And, um, the upstairs which hadn't been thoroughly tidied in quite a while was, um, still in need of tidying.

So at 8:00AM, the morning of the carpet cleaning, Wendell and I flew into a frenzy trying to clean up. We were the first appointment of the day and the cleaners were coming at 9:00. At 8:50 Wendell and I were in a sweat. The basement family room was mostly devoid of furniture, but still littered with small toys and crumbs and garbage. And the upstairs living room had barely been touched.

At 9:10 we were going strong, grateful the cleaners were late. I may or may not have been praying that they would break down and be really, really late. And Wendell may or may not have been cursing me for setting the freakin' appointment at 9-freaking-AM.

At 9:15 the cleaners called and said they'd be late. I was having a forced pit stop to change a poopy diaper. If I'd been on the phone, I would have told them not to hurry and I was glad they were late. But Wendell got the phone and just said things like, "Yeah. OK." and stuff.

At 9:25 Wendell headed out the door to take Annika to pre-school. I was now alone to do all remaining cleaning. Suddenly Wendell popped back in. "They're here," he said. And took off with Annika. Real panic set in now. I started scooping up armfuls of papers, piano books, and cub scout manuals from the Bermuda Triangle portion of our living room, and sprinting to my bedroom to dump the things on my bed, which wasn't made.

At 9:30 the first carpet cleaner entered my home, saw my disheveled living room and me in my drenched sweats and said, all casual-like, "Hi. So....are you ready for us?" I paused, panting, and grinned. "Yeah. But I need you to start downstairs." As he brought in his cleaning materials, the sprinting to the bedroom continued.

Wendell returned from the pre-school drop and helped me finish cleaning up, just in time for carpet cleaner guy #2 to arrive. All of the necessary dumps had been made and I was frantically vacuuming with my Dyson as he stood with his trusty old fangled vacuum that vacuums 10 bazillion times better than my Dyson, and saying with a rural Utah drawl (if there is such a thing), "I can vacuum this. You can stop now."

So I turned the carpets over to him and went and did the dishes (both sinks were full) and wiped the counters which were still showing the remains of breakfast. And I cleaned for another hour, solid.

When they left, I collapsed. But not on my bed, because it was full of stuff. And I ignored my bed-full-of-stuff until bedtime, at which point, I could no longer ignore it. So at 11:00-ish PM Wendell and I walked into our room to see how long it would take to clear our bed, which looked like this.

And I started laughing. "What's so funny?" Wendell wondered. Between giggles, I pointed at the book.

Yep. It's All Too Much by Peter Walsh, the organizing book that instructs you to throw away all your junk. Ah. The irony of it all.

Twice a Year...

General Conference* is one of the highlights of the year for me. I love nesting down for two days in the basement and being with the family for 8 hours of church (over two days).

As a kid I so looked forward to Conference because it meant laying out sleeping bags in front of the TV, doing quiet activities, listening to the prophet, wearing PJ's to church, and eating special conference snacks.

I've worked to reenact this fun for my kids. My family, when I was growing up, was comprised of three little, (mostly) reverent girls. My current family is comprised of five children including three boys--enough said. The long and the short of it is my kids are often loud and occasionally rowdy and sometimes someone spends a few minutes of Conference in a time-out.

But all in all, I think it is good for them. And I think it's good for them to learn to stop and sit and listen to messages of guidance and instruction.

There were dozens of talks on different subjects over the eight hours of learning and lessons, but each year it seems that I get a succinct personal message. This year the message was: Don't follow the crowd. You are Christians, you are Mormons, you are different--so act that way. Stop watching the smutty TV shows, stop listening to music with suggestive lyrics, in fact, just stop. Stop and listen to your children, don't over-schedule them and be present with them.

I have plenty to work on. And I can't wait to get next month's Ensign!!

*Mormon 101: General Conference is a biannual meeting of the entire Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. (Nearly 14 million members world wide.) This meeting gives members the opportunity to hear teachings and get instructions from Prophets and Apostles on the earth today.

Featured Speaker: Stephanie Nielson

It's likely you were there. I was there, too. As were at least a couple thousand more. I was one of the lucky ones to get a seat as we patiently waited through almost 30 minutes of technical difficulties. I met three very nice young women. We found (not surprisingly) that we all loved Stephanie Nielson and her blog. One smart young lady told me I looked too young to be the mother of five. I thanked her and reassured her that I wasn't.

The most humorous part of the evening was some 19-year-old coed shouting (I kid you not) at us to give up our saved seats THIS MINUTE. Luckily, I wasn't saving any seats.

And then came Stephanie. She said that she wasn't a good speaker. Not true. And I love that she bawled all the way through her own speech, because I did, too. And so did the woman in front of me. And there was actually a rather lot of sniffing and eye wiping going on. And I loved that Stephanie's husband, Christian, kept popping up and grabbing Stephanie's soiled tissues and stuffing them in his pocket.

I brought my journal and took three pages of notes.

Some things I jotted down...

Stephanie told us that we need to turn away from physical preoccupation and the superwoman complex.

We need to be women of Christ.

Our beauty is a gift given by God and can never be taken away.

Stephanie said, "In a way, I feel honored to carry this burden."

In that plane crash, all of what the world would tell us is of value about Stephanie's body burned. Her flawless skin, her nose, her lips, her bust. All gone. And all that was left is who Stephanie really is. A beautiful daughter of God.

In her Mormon Messages she says, "I am Stephanie Nielson. And I am not my body."

It was one of the most well-spent hours of my life. And I learned, or was reminded, that I am beautiful. My beauty has nothing to do with my figure, gray hair or age spots. I am beautiful because I am a daughter of God. And so are you. You are beautiful, too.

Coveting

I have a problem with coveting. I covet cute purses, jewelry, watches, brooches and tidy houses. I apparently I also covet dinner parties. Stephanie Nielson wrote this post about a Welcome Autumn dinner party. Only adult friends invited.

And the menu. Garlic salmon? Cheese tortellini? Gorgonzola cheese with butter greens?

And gifts for the guests? And place settings? And the decorations? And the candles?

These are the kind of dinner parties I've DREAMED of hosting. But never had. Ever.

The first thing I think of is, when do you have the time?!? Then I think of ordering T-shirts for the PTA and starting an upper grade reading and fighting for funding and helping with the carnival and running the cake contest. Oh yeah. That's where my time goes.

If I want to host fancy dinner parties, I might need to dial everything back a bit. But not now. Everything at the school is going so well! Perhaps in a couple years...

The After Picture

Whenever I engage in A Major Clean-up Project I wish I had taken a "before" picture. Alas. I did not. So imagine a family room covered in toys that have sat for days (weeks) and garbage and crumbs (this is getting embarrassing) on the floor and bowls, cups, plates and perhaps silverware stashed in corners.

Now here's the after picture...

Ta-da!

Notice the lack of toys, crumbs, etc. Notice the nicely vacuumed carpet. In the interest of full discloser, I did not (haven't yet) cleaned under the big green chair. But I did under everything else!

I know. If I cleaned more often this post would be less exciting for me.

I Met a Celebrity!

I know it's hard to believe, but I met a real, bona fide celebrity: Stephanie Nielson! You know, from the Nie Nie Dialogs. I met her. No kidding.

Stephanie with her sweet hubby. I did not meet the sweet hubby.

I was shopping at Target for usual things like a piggy bank for Annika (hers broke over the weekend and, yes, I got exactly the same breakable kind again), socks for Annika and I found a shirt for Annika on clearance and an outfit for Beck that was cute.

So we are in the sock aisle and debating if the purple tights will go with Annika's new green/blue/black/purple skirt I got her for back-to-school and there, around the corner comes Stephanie Nielson.

Now, because we live just one city apart, I have always know this moment could be a possibility. That someday, I might really run into her. And I've pictured how that would go down. And what I would like to tell her about how thankful I am for her and her blog. In my picture of this moment, I would be really cool.

Here's how it really went.

Me: STEPHANIE!!! (Like we're friends.)

S: Hi. (Like I don't know you.)

M: (gushing) Oh. Gosh. I read your blog. I love you. I love your blog. Everything you write is so uplifting. Thank you so much!!!

S: (totally cool and calm) Thanks. Do you live in Provo?

M: Orem, I'm just around the corner here.

S: Are these your children?

M: YES! (noticing I have children) These are my numbers 4 and 5.

S: Good for you!

M: I'm coming on Thursday to the thing you are speaking at at BYU. (Just this morning I was debating if I should go; now I was committed.)

S: Oh good!

M: (blubbering) I really appreciate all that you've been through. Our trials are different, but I think our feelings are the same and I really appreciate everything you've written that has helped me face my trials.

S: Thank you. (hugging me)

After that she said that she'd see me on Thursday. And I told her that whether she saw me or not, I'd be there. Then I apologized for blubbering and holding her up and realized that everyone must do this. She smiled and said that she didn't mind.

I have to admit that I noticed her cute outfit. She had on a gray sweater with a frilly front, skinny jeans and gray sandals that are so cool that they are beyond description.

Little Update

I started a post about baby Beck before my trip to Germany. I noticed today that I had never finished or published it. So, here you go.

Beauty

I read an amazing post on what is now one of my new favorite blogs. (And I just found it today!) In it, the author challenges us, "What if we could feel beautiful without any accessories or creams or products?"

When I silence MY inner critic, usually the best I can say is, "Not bad." I can't quite seem to muster, "You look great!" or "You are beautiful!" just "not bad". And to even say that, I have to have all of my facial products, make up and hair done and dressed in a new-ish outfit.

Before I have all that done, I seem to say, "Ug." A lot.

I have no idea, of course, whether the author is married or single and how old she is. She asserts, "I would like to be known for the brightness of my mind, the kindness of my heart." True that. But I also want my husband to want me. Seriously.

I often look in the mirror and wonder how he can stand the sight of me. And I think, if only I lose 50 more pounds, get a tummy tuck, get an arm tuck (you know remove those flappy parts attached to your upper arm), um, whiten my teeth, get microdermabrasion and... Well, that might do it. He'll really, really want me if I can do that.

I've looked into getting a tummy tuck. It's $10,000. I don't have $10,000. So then I plan how I can get $10,000. (Hint: It always takes a lot of time.) By the time I figure out how old I'll be before I can burn $10,000 on a tummy tuck, I can see plainly the futility in this logic.

And I'll probably never have $10,000 to spend on something that vain and fleeting.

So I'll work at it. As the author says, "Someone should love me the way I am and that someone should be me."

Gratitude Game

Recently, I heard a woman talking about her young adult son who was despondent, not because there was anything fundamentally wrong in his life, but because he's a perfectionist. "You should see this kid," the woman said. "He's good-looking, musical, smart--he's the total package. But because he's a perfectionist he can often only see the ways in which he is falling short."

After listening to him complain one day about how terrible his life is, she pulled him into her room and asked him to play a gratitude game with her. With in a few minutes, his attitude had changed dramatically.

When I heard about her success, I decided to try this method on my own perfectionist, Nathan (8). Tonight when he was complaining how everything doesn't go his way, I asked if he wanted to play the Gratitude Game. He agreed and we began.

"So what's one thing that you're grateful for?" I asked. He sat. And thought. "There are no wrong answers," I prompted him. "You can say anything." At times I could see his lips pursed to say a word then swallow it.

At long last, Nathan said, "Trees."

"Great," I said. "Now my turn. I'm grateful for you."

He grinned, "And I'm grateful for you."

"That was quick! OK, I'm grateful for ice cream."

"I'm grateful for cheese balls."

And on we went spouting gratitude for the beautiful day, air conditioning, fans, cheese, pickles, Dad, etc. It worked. In just a few minutes his whole demeanor changed. He was smiling, happy and up-beat! And so was I.

Snipper Clippers

Annika (4) got to use a garden tool today. While I weeded, Annika used her tool to chop the dead heads off of some flowers. After thinking about it for a while she announced, "These aren't scissors. Do you know what they are?"

Since I had thought that they were scissors, I now had no idea and said so.

"These," she said chopping them a bit in the air, "are snipper clippers."

That's funny. I could have sworn they were kitchen shears that someone (who may or may not be my husband) started using outside. Then I thought I gave them up for yard work and bought a new pair of kitchen shears.

But, as we all know, four-year-olds know best. Snipper clippers they are.

Thursday?

Today is one of those Thursday's that feels like a Monday.

You know the kind. Like when you're weeding your tomatoes and your neighbor chides you because your husband hasn't fixed the fence. Still.

Then at your meeting somebody gets mad at you and says, "I am I doing it or are you doing it?" all aggressive-like. So I say, "You're doing it." And she says, "Well I think YOU should do it." Then I say, "I can't do my job AND your job."

Then she realizes that she misinterpreted one word and feels stupid that she got all aggressive. Meanwhile, I'm thinking of ways to try to do her job and my job just so that I don't have to listen to people yell at me.

Sigh.

Thanks for letting me vent. I feel better now.

Facebook Killed the Blogger

My blogging this year has been bad. Worse than bad. Pathetic. And it's all Facebook's fault. I vowed I'd never, ever in a million years get a Facebook account. Wendell got one. My little sis has had one forever. But not me. I would NEVER.

Until the class reunion. I'm one of those weird people who really like high school class reunions. I can't really explain why I like class reunions, but I do. I like the catching up. I like comparing wrinkles and fat. I like talking about our kids.

But this class reunion was tricky. The ONLY info about it was on a Facebook post. Could I hold out? Could I avoid getting a FB account and still get the info? I finally bit the bullet and joined.

And I liked it. I liked catching up. I liked hearing regularly from friends I had lost touch with, but never meant to lose touch with. And I stopped blogging. Or slowed. Dramatically.

It's not just me, either. Tons of the blogs I used to read, people who posted every single day and apologized when they missed, started missing a lot. And I was behind on my blog reading. And my life is too busy.

But I miss the connection. Now I've lost touch with a different set of friends--the blogging ones.

Darn that Facebook. All of my posts have devolved into one or two sentence remarks like, "Everyone looks better wearing sunglasses." or "I like Fat Boys and Skinny Cows." (Which I posted as a dare from Wendell when we were having an in-depth, intellectually stimulating discussion about ice cream sandwiches.) Seriously. What does this even mean?!?

Alas. Just as the blogging world began to reclaim our societal slide into stupidity, FB has to ruin it.

But don't worry. I'm never going to get a Twitter account. I refuse to follow anyone or look at any Tweets. I WILL hold out.... Please, just don't Tweet about the next high school reunion.

Clowning Around

A Conversation with Beck (2.5)

Yesterday I had a conversation with Beck that went like this. (He was riding on the end of the shopping cart as I exited Target.)

Beck: Go fast.

Me: OK

B: NOOO! Go slow. Go fast. Go slow. Go fast. Go slow. Go fast. GOOOOO SLOWWWW!

M: Time to get in the car.

B: (sobbing) I wanted to go fast.

M: We went fast, buddy.

B: I wanted to go slow!

M: We went slow, too.

B: (having an absolute fit as I buckle him in the car) NO! I wanted to go fast.

M: (I'm not talking any more because there is no point.)

B: I wanted to gooooo fast.

M: Look! There's a police car! (Anything to divert him.)

B: Where?

M: (Driving really slow) The police car is right there. (Pointing) Just look out your window. (Driving past now)

B: Where's the police car?

M: Back there in the shade.

B: Where's the police car?

M: Back there in the shade.

B: Where's the police car?

M: (Wishing I hadn't said anything about the freakin' police car) Way back there in the shade. It's really cool that we saw the police car!

B: Where's the police car?

M: Back there. We're almost home now and you can get that drink you wanted.

B: I want a DRINK! Can I have juice?

M: You can have cold water from the fridge.

B: I want a drink.

M: LOOK! We're home!

I hate to state the obvious, but conversations with Beck are exhausting.

Do Five Things

I've been fighting a bit of lack of productivity lately, so I've come up with a system to bribe myself. It's called, Do Five Things. So during my morning if I feel I need a break and I want to read, I stop myself and count how many things I've actually gotten done. If the number isn't 5 or higher, then I can't read. Ditto afternoon naps.

I'm also strict about what counts as a "thing". Working out does count. Showering does not. Loading or unloading the dishwasher counts. Making meals doesn't. Putting in a load of laundry counts. Diaper changes don't.

I've just boiled it down to if-I-decided-to-spend-the-entire-day-in-bed scenario, what would I still do? I would still shower, I would make meals and keep the baby's bum clean. So none of those things count.

The bad thing is, that even when I'm getting 8, 9, 10 things done in a day, I tend to be haunted by what I didn't get done. Instead of thinking, "Oh good, I went to the bank, picked up the dress, loaded the dishwasher, cleaned up Nate and Annika's room and bought wedding presents," I tend to think, "Drat! I didn't pay that bill, mop the floor, fold the laundry, sort that project or email that person."

Positive self-talk. That's my struggle right now. It's as if someone has pulled out one of those carnival mirrors that distort everything and that's how I see my whole life. As a series of failures. Everything I'm not doing. There is almost not an area of my life where I don't feel like I'm failing.

So I stay after it. And I'll do five things. Today I'm going to deliver a belated wedding present, sort my stamps (a child of mine removed a single stamp from some 6-7 stamp sets and now I have to figure out which stamp goes to which set, sigh), pay the credit card bill, change sheets and do dishes. After a reading brake, I'll probably try to mop the floor and fold laundry. Wish me luck.

Un-happiness project

So I'm reading the book, The Happiness Project, which is a New York Time's best seller, and well written and inherently interesting. Except I'm having that kind of summer, so I just feel guilty reading about all the ways that an already inherently happy woman worked to make her self happier.

So on the chapter about kids, I braced my self. She endorsed the book, How to Talk so Kids Listen and I felt and instant pang of guilt. I figured that I don't do this well. Then she went on to explain several tactics that work on kids, almost all of which I already use! I was so delighted. I even had a moment where I thought, how can you have a 7-year-old and not have figured out that kids often largely just need to be understood?

So when Beck is throwing a tantrum I say, I can see that your frustrated and you'd rather stay outside. And often as not, the tantrum ends.

Or the tactic of putting a positive spin. So instead of saying, no, you can't have a snack now, you say, it's dinner time in a few minutes so you'll get to eat something soon.

Then I didn't feel so bad. And maybe even felt a bit superior. I think this is what of comes of having 5 kids. You can't not figure this stuff out.

Disgusting Brownies and Other Misadventures

It all began one day when I suggested to Emma that she make breakfast on Saturday mornings. This, I figured, would allow me to sleep in and since her cooking repertoire focused on breakfast foods--toast, waffles, scrambled eggs and pancakes--I figured this would be a good assignment.

And it was. At first. Sure, there was the incident of making French toast by just dipping bread in egg then serving it with peanut butter and jelly (there was no syrup), but overall this was working out pretty well.

Then she decided to spice things up. One morning I got up and immediately began inspecting the pancake batter. It looked like someone had thrown bugs in and they'd all sunk to the bottom.

"What's that?" I asked as casually as I could in a really sweet voice.

"Oh, these are raisin pancakes! It was my idea. I just threw a bunch of raisins in. Everybody loves them."

I think I might have eaten oatmeal that day although at one point I did try one and they were as bad as you would think.

Then she tried her favorite recipe "Disgustingly Rich Brownies" with Anson's help while I napped. Something went seriously wrong. The brownies were pale, hard as a rock and tasted terrible. I think it was part mixing error and part measuring error, but I was cutting off strips of the stuff and slipping it into the garbage. They were, in fact, just disgusting brownies.

Then came the cookies. I saw those once they were refrigerating. I could still see the raw egg separate from the dough. But this small batch contained an entire bag--twelve ounces--of chocolate chips. That end up being it's saving grace. You really could mostly taste chocolate, but when you got a lick of what held it together (shudder) it was not good.

The final straw was hidden treasure muffins. Emma decided to make muffins one day as I headed out the door. She told me later that she substituted oatmeal for wheat germ, baking powder for baking soda and two chocolate chips per muffin for a tablespoon of fruit mixture. (Mostly, I think this was a ploy to have an excuse to open the chocolate chips, so she could snack on them through out the day.)

We tried to pretend that we liked them. But it was really, really hard.

So a couple of days ago I was napping again (if it sounds like I nap a lot--I do) and I heard from my sleep, kitchens sounds. Shocked awake, I rushed to the kitchen to intervene. Emma was working on another batch of disgustingly rich brownies. I immediately poured the sugar back out and remeasured, then closely supervised the rest of the cooking.

Emma was more than a little annoyed with my being there. "Why are you helping me?" she asked doubtfully.

"Well," I said as tactfully as possible, "your last couple of projects just haven't turned out quite right."

"Sure," she said, thinking. "And when you say my last couple of projects you mean..."

"The muffins."

Her shoulders sagged a little. "The muffins. Anson said they were terrible."

I had laughed with Wendell one night about them, but the next day when he came home from work he put his arm around her and said, "I heard the muffins were terrible."

I started wacking his arm and giving him the evil eye and making motions at my neck like CUT or I'M GOING TO KILL YOU. He finally caught the drift, but the damage was done. I figured I focus on the ones she already knew were bad.

As it turned out, disgustingly rich brownies are delicious when you mix the right ingredients together thoroughly. I have no idea what cooking adventures still await, but I'm keeping and ear to the kitchen just in case.

PS Emma still thinks that all these recipes were great, so don't you dare repeat this story to her. It is for adult eyes only.

Half Empty

There were good things that happened today. For sure. But I had kind of a rough day. First, as we were practicing music for ward conference, someone asked the group of sopranos to move down to the first row. I moved, but no one else did.

So there I was the lone soprano among altos and we're singing this song that we are supposed to sing fortissimo on an F. After the last run though the pianist pulled me aside and told me that I need to blend better otherwise I stick out. Keep in mind, I was on the front row with the altos AT HER REQUEST.

Then someone else chastised me for something I said. Perhaps I deserved it. I need to learn to keep my mouth shut.

Then at a meeting someone asked me how I was doing and I burst into tears. The someone said, "Huh." Then talked about other things as if everything were just fine. So mostly I felt stupid. Plus, this person talks in a very dramatic way mostly because they like to hear themselves talk, I think.

After that, I drove around in my car for a while. I may or may not have been crying. Then I came home and had a good cry and a nap.

I'm betting tomorrow will be better.

That Kind of Summer

Usually my summers are fun and busy. There's summer school in the morning and cleaning and playing with friends in the afternoon. And I'm in charge. I run the summer. If someone wants to play video games and he hasn't practiced his piano, sorry, that's not happening. Or if a friend shows up during summer school, they are summarily sent away and informed when they can return.

This summer was different. It ran me. And I found myself saying things like, sure your friend can come and play, when I knew my child still had chores to do. And there was no such thing as summer school and I've dropped nearly every ball that I usually juggle.

And moms have gotten mad at me because I lost their phone number and informed them via email that my child couldn't play and then maybe the mother called me 7 times and left 5 messages, then when I finally got her call and explained the problem and apologized profusely--she got snippy with me. And rightfully so. I dropped the ball. Again. Plus she was out three bucks for the activity my child didn't come to. And no one came to, because I dropped the ball.

My house is a wreck and I've cooked exactly 2 bon a fide-from-scratch-good-to-eat-meals this summer. (And one of those was tonight.) I have learned which two babysitters also clean my house (I'm sending love and kisses your way). And I've learned that my 11-year-old daughter is more reliable than most of my adult relatives at getting the kids in bed on time. I've also learned that she knows how to change diapers and that I can leave her in charge for up to 3 hours, as long as we're home by 9:30pm-ish.

The only upside to this kind of summer, is that my children will have absolutely no expectations for next summer.

Inspiration

I often think of inspiration in reference to BIG things. You feel inspired to check on a child and find that they are strangling on a blind cord. Or of decisions like who to marry, where to go to school, buying a house, etc. You get it, right? Big things.

But I'm noticing that for whatever reason our Father in Heaven cares about the little things, too.

Yesterday, I needed to take Emma to the orthodontist before swim team. I was coming back from the Rec Center and was running a smidge late. I had the van in the drive way, on when I remembered that I was going to take Wendell's CRV in case Emma and I ran late. This way whether Emma and I were on time or not, the younger kids could get to swimming lessons on time.

I paused, knowing I was running late. The van was already on. What are the chances that they wouldn't be able to see Emma in 45 minutes time? Slim. Still, I for no reason I could make any sense of, I pulled the van in and parked it in the garage and pulled the CRV out and drove Emma to her appointment.

We saw the fire truck pulling in as we turned the corner. I parked in a far corner and asked the ortho staff, who had all been evacuated, what was going on. Apparently the office next to them was very hot--approaching 200 degrees--which had set off fire alarms and called the fire department.

Eventually, two more fire trucks, 3 more ambulances and a police car all showed up and I was completed blocked. But because I had taken the CRV, not the van, a contingency plan was simple. Wendell would get the younger kids ready for swimming lessons and pick Emma and me up on the way there.

By the time Wendell got there, enough emergency personnel had left that I could maneuver a way out. We swapped cars and I took the crew to swimming lessons (after rescheduling Emma's appointment) and Wendell went to work.

I suppose that it could be a series of lucky coincidences, but I think it was a manifestation that Heavenly Father is aware of us.

PS, there was no fire. The office next door had an electrical malfunction where there heater turned on and stayed on all night long. It was hot enough, that in that time all of the live plants died and candles were completely melted.

March in a Nut Shell

I really AM going to catch up. I'm going to post about a zillion posts about Germany with pics and everything. In the meantime, I'm going to tell you what has happened in the last month...

Cherry Hill kept the ALL program :( (There was a good chance that it would have gone to my kids' school--Orem.)

I was elected Pres. Elect at Cherry Hill :)

Wendell's job assignment changed at work :(

But he comes home everyday at 5:30. :)

And this new job may actually mean more money. :)

"May" is the operative word, here. This job also has less security. :(

My neighborhood started a book club :)

There have been discussions of reviewing romance novels, LDS fiction, and only "happy" books. :(

We got several major school projects done. :)

My family room is 90% cleaned up. :)

I am teaching my two boys piano and that is going quite well. :)

Annika had a great 4th birthday. :)

Easter was fun. :)

We had spring break and I slept in until 7:30 everyday. :)

It is still spring break and both of my boys threw up today. :(

Awoke with a Kiss

Beck woke up early, so I brought him to sleep in bed with me. He laid quietly and I fell back asleep. And perhaps so did he. But when I awoke in the morning he had his two little hands on each of my cheeks and he was SMOOCHING me. Not just a quick kiss. He was really smooching me.

There really isn't anything better than a kiss from a two-year-old. And I LOVE how he really smooches.

I thought about my up coming trip to Germany and how hard it would be to be away from him (and the other 4 kids) for nine whole days! How could I make it nine whole days without being smooched like that?

My Dukes are Up!

Cherry Hill PTA is a rough crowd.

Lately, it seems like I come back from every PTA meeting exhausted and beaten.

Still.

I'm pushing them toward some new ideas.

But the pushing is tiring.

And every time I think I've made some headway--really and for sure, things come sliding back.

And I feel like I'm starting over. Again.

But I've got my dukes up. And I'll keep them up, because some things are worth fighting for.

Education is worth fighting for.

Families are worth fighting for.

Crappy Valentines Day!

Over the years I have had some good and plenty of bad Valentine's Days. Here are the pros and cons.

Con: When I was in the 5th grade I became aware that I received a disproportionate amount of hippo and elephant themed Valentines.

Pro: My senior year of high school, Wendell took me to the "Sweetheart's Ball" just two days before Valentines.

Con: When Wendell was in the MTC, I sent him elaborate Valentine's Day package. He sent me nothing and later told me he had given away my giant "kiss" candy since he was trying to lose weight before getting to Brazil.

Pro: The Valentine's Day that Wendell and I were engaged I made him a Valentine's dinner and we went to his cousin's wedding reception. It was the best Valentines Day ever, even though the reception was cheesey.

Con: Our first Valentine's Day that we were married we moved. On Valentine's. We celebrated a week later for lunch. It was lame.

Con: Two years ago, struggling to come up with a Valentine's Day gift I bought bright red towels. I had to wash them alone everyday for two weeks before they stopped bleeding.

Con: I had no gift and a mediocre card for Wendell this year. I never know what to get him.

Dreaming...

I've finally started dreaming about Germany. I'm so excited about my trip that is coming up. I was particularly worried about my train ride from Munich to Heidelberg. So in my dream everything was easy.

I just had to get on a little wooden kiddie train that moved very slowly and still we arrived in Heidelberg in just 20 minutes. Plus, my German was great.

A guy in front of me and I said at the same time, "Was ist das?" And I was so impressed with myself that my German was so good.

You Know You've Made It When...

I fancy myself a decent amateur musician. I started taking piano lessons when I was 4. At 8 I was taking from a part-time BYU professor. At 14 I switched to Dr. Shumway, who was the keyboard department chair at the Y.

I was sought after in my ward to accompany soloists and small groups. I even played, from time to time, for the ward choir.

The first solo-ensemble award that I ever won, I won as the group pianist. My crowning achievement was accompanying my high school choir on a really hard, heart-stopping piece. But I did it! With hundreds of fellow students and parents in the audience, I pulled it off.

I had achieved everything I had set out to achieve. I could play any hymn, any primary song, I could even play for the ward choir, if necessary. So I quit taking lessons. And quit practicing. And I got a little rusty.

Then there was the incident in my young married ward that shamed me into a hiatus that lasted 8 years. I began denying that I played and avoiding it at all costs.

Maybe 6 years into my hiatus, my parents bought us a piano. It was old, but sound. Perfect for little kids to take lessons on and for me to remember that I could play.

One day in Relief Society a list came around for substituting in Primary. Who could help and for what hour(s)? I wrote down that, if I was given enough warning, I could sub as the pianist. Soon I was asked to play for a Baptism Preview. It wouldn't be too scary--just a handful of parents and kids. And my hiatus was over. Within a month I was called as the Primary pianist. I have played every week in Primary for over three years and in three primary programs in front of the whole ward. And it's all come back to me.

I can play anything. Anything. If you give me enough time to practice, I can play whatever you want. I even convinced my sister to tackle "Sleigh Ride," a difficult duet we played when I was 15 and she was 17--back when we both practiced 1.5 hours a day.

But not everyone knows. On Wendell's side of the family we have 25 nieces and nephews, including 12 who have already been baptized. Yet I have never been asked to play a single hymn or primary song. In fact, I have never even been asked to lead a hymn or primary song. This all seemed reasonable in the beginning.

When Wendell and I got married, I was still taking private voice lessons from a professor at BYU in the Music, Dance, Theater department. And I had just finished a couple of years singing with the BYU Women's chorus. To get into any audition choirs at BYU was good. The year I got in, there were 40 open slots and 400 women who auditioned. Many a music major was informed that she wouldn't make it into any audition choirs. And I was in just for fun.

I figured that was intimidating. I mean, I wasn't just good--I was maybe not great, but way better than average. It seemed that family members wanted to use those who didn't have as much musical experience as I had and I didn't mind sitting back and letting others have a turn.

Then there were the kids--three in short succession. It's hard to play or lead with a baby on your hip, so I figured that's why I was never asked. After that it was Wendell's schedule. He started working Saturdays and making it to baptisms was tricky. So there I was, alone with 3, then 4, then 5 kids. It all made sense. I took no offense.

Then more than a year ago at my nephew's baptism, a favored uncle was late and he was supposed to be leading the music. I was already on my feet walking Beck around when the song was announced. After 2 years as the primary pianist I knew all the songs. I told my kids to behave, handed the baby off and headed up to the front.

I lead well and it was no big deal for me to step in. What floored me was later learning that one of my brothers-in-law complimented me to Wendell saying that he was surprised at how well I lead and he didn't realize that I knew how.

I almost fell over. Music isn't just something I do--it's something I do well and, I learned that somehow, even after more than a decade in the family, most of his family did not think of me as a person with ANY musical talent. None. They don't know I play. They don't know I lead. They don't realize that I have a rather vast and impressive musical background.

Now, as I said in the beginning, I fancy myself a decent amateur musician. I realize that I'm not professional or even amazing. But I am certainly every bit as good as any family member whose musical talents are regularly requested.

I know I sound a bit bragging, but stop for a second a list off the top five things that you do well. Got it? Now pick one thing and imagine that after 12 years of marriage NONE of your in-laws think you do one of those things well. None. Can you imagine?

And how, exactly, do you go about correcting this? I've debated just calling people, especially with up coming baptisms and saying, "Even though you've known me for 13 years, you don't know my secret talent--I play the piano. And should you, say, need a pianist, I could play for you. At a moments notice. I know all the primary songs. I can play!"

This would be awkward. But my moment has arrived. No, it's not a niece or nephew who has asked me to play the piano, but my neighbor. Could I play at her daughter's baptism with very little notice? Yes. Yes I could. And even though she thinks that she is inconveniencing me, she isn't. I am DELIGHTED to be asked. Who knows? Maybe the word will spread.

Sue-pwize!

As I reentered my bedroom this morning, a small boy held up his two-year-old hands and yelled, "Sue-pwize!" And it was a great surprise. With Wendell still feigning sleep, Annika (3) and Beck (2) were jumping all over the bed.

I climbed in with them and plotted with Annika about how to wake Wendell up. She suggesting that I shout, "WAKE UP!" in his ear while she pulled his arm and Beck pulled his leg. I'm far too nice to shout at people in the morning, but I nonetheless said "Wake up" while the little two, literally pulled his arms and legs.

Soon we had a full tickle fest with each of the little shouting, "Tickle me!" when they were left untickled for a moment.

These are the moments that I love and that I hope my children remember.

Jan U Ary

This is what January is all about: achieving those pesky goals. You will note that it is end of January-ish and I am already on page 57 in the Book of Mormon, which is 2nd Nephi for those of you who read by book and not page number.

And Wendell and I have been to the temple together. Although we've gotten a lot of recommendations to go separately, we will most like continue to go together. You see, going to the temple in Utah is a cheap date. And Wendell and I rarely date, so a cheap date is important. And even if we don't get to talk much/at all when we're at the temple--there is the drive there and the drive home and sometimes we get a shake so it feels like a real date.

And I just finished reading the kids The Fledgling, (WARNING: Spoiler) which is a great book except the goose dies in the end so you might want to read this one to an older crew. I only let my 7-, 9-, and 10-year-olds listen.

So how are you doing? Are you achieving your goals, too? (Sadly, I can't actually remember any other goals I made, because I'm not tracking them. Hmmm. Interesting, huh?)

My Name is...

Lately, in the mornings when Beck gets up, I lay him on the diaper change table and he says, "Name's Beck." Just like he's a cowboy or something. I usually respond with, "Name's Mama."

Strangely Regular

At lunch time I'm peeling a cucumber and discussing the benefits of eating carrots and drinking milk with my 2 and 3.5 year old children. And meanwhile in Haiti people are dying. Mothers are sobbing as they learn the news. The lucky ones are living outside and are, perhaps, only missing limbs.

To call the situation desperate is a fallacy. I can not fathom it. I want to help, but aside from pulling out my check book and sending in the few dollars I can spare, there really isn't anything I can do.

I recognize that in the world there is much suffering. That everyday while I clean my room and do the laundry, grocery shop and procrastinate, that someone somewhere...no people in many places are suffering unthinkable hardships. But those things are not on the news everyday.

Today my thoughts are with the people of Haiti. May God bless them. And may the able countries of the world continue to rush to Haiti's aid.

Bunch About Beck

I never really did up Beck's 2-year birthday with the appropriate amount of details. To make up for that, here are a bunch of things about Beck.

Beck tells a knock knock joke like this.

B: Knock, knock

M: Who's there?

B: Shoe.

M: Shoe who?

B: Say, 'Hooway', Mama.

M: HOORAY!! (Lots of clapping.)

Beck can say spoon, but prefers to call it "boonsey". I don't know why.

Beck LOVES to give kisses. Just a couple of days ago, Beck marched around the entire house giving each of us a kiss. Then he went back through the line thanking us for kissing him. As we invariably would reply to his thanks with a "No, thank YOU!" Beck would then say, "No pwoblem."

Beck can count to about 18. But when he plays "Hide and Seek" he usually only gives you till 10.

Beck's favorite lullaby is the ABC's.

When Beck throws things he says, "Hi- Yah!"

Beck loves to have stories read to him. Peek-a-boo Baby is a current favorite.

Beck is still sleeping in his crib and still jumping on his bed. In fact, "Jumpy-oof" is a favorite game. Jumpy-oof is played by climbing up on things and taking a flying leap off and landing, hopefully, on his feet or bum. Could that be what cause stitches last month? I'll never know.

He is quite the character, my little Beck-a-mus. I love that kid tons!

Judge Not...

My former babysitter was working the cash register at a local craft store. I spotted her and got in her line. We chatted about her up coming baby shower and she explained that the shower would be small because there were people that she wasn't inviting because their children were judging her.

My friend, let's call her Ellen, is coming up on 20 and in Utah, her being married and pregnant isn't really that big of a surprise. Except she's only been out of high school for 6 months, only been married for 4 months and she's 8 months pregnant.

I nodded empathetically as we talked. They have no business judging. People should mind their own business more.

Yet as I left, for the first time, really, my mind went to my high school days and the things I felt and said about girls in her situation.

***********

In junior high I over heard a classmate talking about spending an afternoon at her boyfriend's house. She said the most scandalous things and when my ears quit burning I prophesied that this girl, let's call her Sarah, would get pregnant before we graduated from high school.

At the start of my senior year I heard the news: Sarah was pregnant. And all the details: she didn't want to marry the father, she was going to give the baby up for adoption and, perhaps the most surprising of all, that she was going to continue going to our high school.

It was a hard road for her. She went to date dances with gay guys because no straight guy would date her. She was cast as Brigitta in the school play of The Sound of Music. By the end of the run it was pretty obvious that Captain Von Trapp's 8-year-old daughter was pregnant which seemed beyond silly to me. And as she grew into her third trimester, I watched her squirm in the choir seats leaning this way and that trying fruitlessly to get comfortable.

That may have been the only time I felt compassion for her.

One of my friends, a fellow cast member of Sarah's in the school play, was saying something about her like what a though situation to be in or something like that and I couldn't stand for it.

She had it coming. Years of risky behavior and foolish decisions led her to where she was.

There wasn't an ounce of compassion in me. My friend was shocked and we never spoke about it again.

Then there was seminary graduation, where Sarah, post-pregnancy, stood and bore her testimony about the things she'd been through in that year. When she had decided to attend the regular high school, while pregnant, her mom cautioned her that she would find out who her friends really were.

And I did, she said. But I know more than who my friends are. I know more about my Savior and His Atoning sacrifice and I know that I can still meet my prince charming and be sealed to him forever.

I remember feeling rebuked. And guilty. Why had I been so...unbending? So...critical?

************

At 22 I was serving in the Relief Society presidency of my BYU young married ward. As we waited for the president to begin a presidency meeting, we, the counselors, talked about who had been married the longest in the ward of newlyweds. When the president arrived, I announced that Pres and her hubby took the prize for the longest married.

Oh no, she said, Spencer and I have only been married five years.

I blinked. Her oldest child was going to be baptized soon. My brain literally could not do the math.

She explained matter-of-factly, that she had been a single mom for almost 2 years before she and her husband had been married in the temple. And although they had changed her oldest son's last name, her husband wasn't his father.

Later still, I learned more. She had been molested growing up. As had a couple of her sisters. Her reaction to the violation was actually pretty typical. She felt like she had nothing to lose. In her own words she admitted to being very promiscuous in her late teens and early 20's. She was 22 when she learned that her self-desctructive life-style had led to a pregnancy.

That's when she began to turn things around.

This woman, my former RS President is one of my heros. She is the kind of spiritual giant I always hoped I would be, but I can't quite attain. She is on a different level. Perhaps because she's been through hell already. But she, among others in that ward, taught me compassion. And to judge not.

*************

As I left the craft store I felt compassion. Compassion for Ellen, sure. But also compassion for other girls in the ward. The "judging" girls.

You see, anyone who judges like that is simply displaying a spiritual immaturity. They haven't lived long enough or had enough troubles of their own. One day, they will grow up and they will understand what the Savior said when he said, "my bowels are full of mercy for them."

And they too, will judge not.

Keepin' It Real

Studies (that I haven't read nor can I properly attribute) say that if you make your goals public you're more likely to achieve them. We all know this isn't true. I mean in two days you're not even going to remember that you read this blog post let alone what I said. And even if you do remember you're not going to follow up with me. I know this because I'm may be reading your goals and I'm not about to follow up with you.

Still, it can't hurt and it might help so here goes. My goals for 2010 include the following:

1. Finish reading the Book of Mormon (again).

2. Read 8 novels to the kids. (I stole this goal from my friend Suzanne. Last year 4 of the books I read were books I read to the kids during the summer. So, surely I can double what I did last year, right? Plus Suzanne is going to read her kids 6 books and as long as I'm going to steal the idea I'd better beat it too. Cuz I'm like that. Real competitive.)

3. Go to the temple 10 times.

4. Obviously, I have weight loss goals, but this one I'm not sharing.

5. Work on my presentations to have 2-one hour workshops ready.

6. Finish Beck's baby book.

7. Organize the living room and my bedroom.

8. Keep up the good work with the exercise!

Just because I enjoyed it so much last year, I'm going to track three of these goals on my side bar.

Goal Met

There were moments when I thought my 20 book goal as too easy. Yet as December rolled around and I'd only cleared 18 books, I was worried that I wouldn't make it. So I scoured my Goodreads list of books to-read and checked them out. And don't you know it? I read 5 this month bringing my total for the year to 23 books.

I'm proud as punch!

I did fall down on the job of providing any sort of a review of the books, so let me recap my favorites from this year.

1. The Story of Edgar Sawtelle--this makes my list of the best books I've ever read!

2. Autobiography of a Face--this story is a work of art crafted by a young author who had jaw cancer as a kid. Despite the obviously sad theme, I found this book surprisingly uplifting.

3. The Safe Keeper's Secret--I have long been a fan of Sharon Shinn.

4. Outliers: A Story of Success--I loved this book. Even though it's non-fiction, it read like a novel and I have found myself quoting it more than any other book I've read this year. I really think every teacher and principal ought to read it.

5. For One More Day--I'm a huge fan of all of Mitch Albom's non-sports books.

6. Finding Your Own North Star--this is written by Martha Beck, who is the late Hugh Nibley's apostate daughter. Knowing this going in can make this book a more enjoyable read for an LDS reader. Still, I loved it. She doesn't say anything disparaging about the LDS church and, in fact, uses many examples in her book from years that she was a member.

If you're looking for a good read and not necessarily a literary masterpiece, I'd also recommend The Year of Magical Thinking, Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie, Dewey: The Small-Town Library Cat Who Touched the World and The Wednesday Letters.

I thought Running Out of Time and Ella Enchanted were very well written children's books.

Just so you know, some of these books I hated.

1. The Secret--way, way too new-agey and weird.

2. Cinderella (as if you didn't already know the story)--this maybe the lamest book I've ever read. It's even too lame for children.

3. Trolley Car Family--my children forced me to keep reading this one aloud but it was terrible.

4. Life by Design--the beginning of this book isn't bad, so that fooled me into thinking that if I could just get through the slow middle that it would redeem itself in the end. No such luck. The ending was worse than the middle. The authors, I kid you not, spout entire paragraphs of cliches. Seriously. They might say: Let's talk about time, then spend 3 paragraphs quoting every single dopey saying about time ever said. AHHHHH! It was torture, but I finished it.

5. The Joy Diet--also a book of Martha Beck's but in this one, she lambasts the church more than once. But I also thought the whole premise of the Joy Diet was weak.

Also I wouldn't recommend Rich Dad, Poor Dad or Letter to My Daughter, although to say that I hated them would be a stretch.

Now to find another achievable goal for 2010...

Update: On Dec 31st I finished one more, Have a Little Faith by Mitch Albom. Fabulous book, hard to put down and my total book count for 2009 was 24!

Sunday Synopsis

It's difficult to sum up half a month and I keep swearing (and by swearing I mean promising because I don't swear in real life) that I am going to catch up on my blogging, so here is my attempt sans pictures.

Baby Beck turned 2 on Nov 29 and has, thereby, lost his babyhood. However, since he still sleeps in a crib and wears a diaper I will continue to call him Baby Beck.

Wendell turned 34 on Dec 3rd. It was a lame birthday, as usual, because he never gives me good gift ideas and as I sit here I can't even remember what I bought him. I do remember that he was bummed that he got no iTunes gift cards.

Baby Beck split his head open on a Tuesday. This stinks because I haven't taken his 2 year pictures yet. So now they will have a giant red scar right in the middle of his forehead. Only the scar is getting better rapidly, so I continue to put off his 2 year pictures. Perhaps when he's 2 and a half...

On a Wednesday, Wendell and I were called to school because Nathan was misbehaving. Badly. He had left the school building and refused to come back in. Now I am emailing Nate's teacher on a regular basis. She recapped one week for me on a Friday and her email was 21 paragraphs long. Or so it seemed. Apparently, there is long list of stuff Nathan does wrong. I have the distinct feeling that she's going to hammer him on his ALL application.

I finished my Christmas shopping Christmas Eve. At 9:00 pm I realized I was one present short for Anson. Wendell and I scrambled and found a video game that Wendell had bought last year that we saved for another occasion. On Christmas morning I realized that we were one present short for Nathan, but luckily we had one gift labeled "To the Wood Children" and Nate got to open it and all was well.

Here is my cheer of Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to all my friends and other people who read my blog.

The Sweetest Thing...

Emma had a Ballroom dance assembly on Tuesday, so we got her all gussied up including putting her hair in a bun. At breakfast, Nathan (7) looked Emma up and down and said, "Emma, you're SO beautiful."

And then I laughed so hard...

On Thursday, Wendell was outside in the freezing cold assessing his lights and debating how to hang them.

"There's a person in our backyard," Annika informed me.

"Who is it?"

"It's DADDY!!" she squealed.

"What's he doin' out there?" I asked her.

She didn't know and the curiosity was killing her. She put her coat on the slipped on some Sunday shoes, then marched outside. It was only a few minutes before they were back in the house.

"Don't worry, Mom," Annika said as she came in red-faced, "he's just freezin' his tail pipe."

Fear and Following the Spirit

In the 2009 Nov Ensign, Elder Scott declares that you can not feel the direction of the Holy Spirit while simultaneously feeling anger, hate, fear, or pride. He described it the same as trying to eat a grape and a jalapeno pepper together while attempting to discern both flavors.

The anger, hate and pride part make perfect sense to me. But fear? In the "scary" world in which we live today many of us, yours truly included, do a lot of things based on fear. For example, I drive Anson to scouts every Wednesday even though it's only 2 blocks from my house because going to scouts would require that he cross a relatively busy street at dusk.

As an avid consumer of news I can tell you that studies show that dusk and dawn are the two times of day in which pedestrian/auto accidents are most common. I can also tell you that one of the leading causes of death to 8-11-year-olds is accidents involving cars. So, once a week, I drive Anson to cub scouts out of fear.

But I think it is possible for many good Christian people to get fear and revelation mixed up. We think, I'm afraid to move, or I'm afraid to travel and we misinterpret that as inspiration. It comes out as--oh, God doesn't want me to (move, go on the trip, etc.) so he is making me feel fear.

But fear and faith can not exist in the same space. I remember reading an article where the author, illustrated this point with a story. A very nice and loving couple were parents of a daughter who was an alcoholic. She desperately needed intervention, but would be angry when those who loved her most defied her wishes to save her life. Because of the fear of that anger, this family froze and for a long time did nothing. Finally, with counseling, the parents realized that they must act out of love rather than wait out of fear.

My grandma illustrated this point perfectly in her monthly email to the family. She wrote that she was nervous about a trip my uncle had planned in the Alaskan wilderness. For a week he would be away from all contact to the outside world, flown in by "bush pilots" in a little plane.

He left on the trip and Grandma continued to panic and worry. She worried that the plane would crash and she worried it would snow and they would be stuck. She fussed and she worried. She spent some time on the phone with her sister, who had lived in Alaska for 15 years, and she worked to calm Grandma and reassure her that everything would be alright. At the appointed time, my uncle emerged from the wilderness safe and happy. He had had the trip of his life and all Grandma's worrying was for naught.

After the whole ordeal was over Grandma wrote us to say that she learned "to feel the peace the Savior can send you when you are worried." But perhaps the greatest revelation of all is in her next sentence. "Each day as I prayed I did feel comfort and peace, but you know how Satan can put thoughts into your mind to make you worry."

Grandma hit the nail on the head. It is Satan who makes us worry and the Spirit who makes us feel peace. If Satan can but sidetrack us with worry so that we can not function--read our scriptures, do our callings, be a happy and pleasant member of the family--then he's winning. And we can not feel the whispering of the Spirit when our heart is gripped with fear.

10 Things I've Learned from FB

1. If you don't know what FB is then you are probably over 50, or very, very out of it.

2. Some of my "friends" are very funny.

3. Some of my "friends" can't string together an intelligible update to save their lives. They write things like, "Whoa. Yoko Ono is had hot babe 10 years yesterday." That leave you saying, "What does that EVEN MEAN!!!"

4. There are some people who don't go on Facebook very much.

5. When those people go on FB, say every 6 months, they are only on there to say appalling things like, "My wife (husband) is smokin' hot." And their spouse responds in kind with things like, "Oooo, you are THE hotty pants." And it leaves us knowing that they just had a whale of a night and we would rather not have known that. (If you EVER see a post like this from my hubby, it's cuz he's messing with me. He's knows how strongly I feel about that.)

6. There are FB people who are, always, 100% of the time positive. Their updates are filled with uplifting quotes and constant statements of how rosy life is. I have an unexplained desire to hit these people.

7. There are people who profess constant and undying love for spouse and children on FB. I'm with Elder Bednar on this one, there is a better way to show your family you love them. Like buying a journal.

8. People talk a lot about food, sleep deprivation and lack of motivation. I suppose this is what binds us together, but honestly can we be even a little original? (Naturally, I'm guilty of all of these things, so here's to conceding that I lack originality, too.)

9. On FB you learn quickly who can spell and who can't. Sadly, I've been found with some frequency in the latter camp.

10. FB is an incredibly fun way to settle arguments with the Mr. What, you don't think women would enjoy their job as a homemaker better if they got paid for it? Well, I have 13 friends that say you're wrong. Ha. Take that.

Presents

Wendell's birthday is coming up. This is a high stress time for me since he buys himself whatever he wants. He goes on particular purchasing sprees in the 3 weeks before Father's Day, his birthday and constantly through the entire month of December.

This insures that whatever I buy him, he will buy for himself just days before I give him the gift, usually leaving me scrambling to return what I bought him and get him something else, which is inevitably crappier than what he just bought himself.

So I've learned to be more upfront with him. And he with me. So the other day he calls me while I'm at Wal-mart shopping for Beck's birthday. He asks me if I can buy something for him, while I'm there. I say sure, but since it's a special-ish item, I'm going to save it for his birthday, only six days away.

Fine he says. I purchase and hide the gift. Guess what I found today. I'm not even kidding. He couldn't wait six days. Sheesh.

If I had...

Sometimes I have a dream about the money truck coming and dumping money at my house and suddenly, I could have or do whatever I want with what the money can buy. I'm not saying that it's not a shallow dream, cuz it is, but it is still fun to dream.

So if I had a sudden influx in money I would...

Remodel the kitchen

Put recessed lighting in the living room

Hire a professional organizer

Hire a regular house keeper

Throw parties on a regular basis

Buy my parents a $675 painting that I'm sure they'd love

Go to Disneyland

Buy a new minivan with automatic sliding doors

So what would you do with a sudden influx of money...don't say "pay tithing" that's a given?

Christmas Cards

Dear Friends,

I will not be sending out a Christmas letter this year. This is not so unusual since I didn't send Christmas letters last year or the year before...or the year before that. It's not because I didn't write them, I did. I wrote you all letters. I got family pictures and I even gathered your addresses. I just never mailed the letters. For three years.

I've got the family pictures again and I'll gather up addresses. Some of you have given up on me and have stopped sending me Christmas cards and letters. I'm really sorry that I've been so flaky. However, I have decided that since I keep this blog and I'm now on Facebook, that I no longer need Christmas letters.

I mean, if you follow the blog, you've heard about Wendell's promotion, funny things the kids have said and my work to become a motivational speaker. Do you really want to hear about it again? I didn't think so.

And if you're my Facebook friend, then you hear everything from what I'm making for dinner to how creepy I find men in dress slacks and naked ankles. (Shudder.) So, really, you're up to date.

The only thing I don't do well is post pictures. So I'll send you pictures that say "Happy Holidays" on them and have a picture of our family. Maybe I'll even include my blog address, if you'd like to hear me rant. But probably not since that will take too much effort.

If you want a pic, feel free to email me your address (jennakwood@gmail.com).

Sincerely,

Your Lame Friend

The Earliest

The earliest memory I have is at church. I was in a small room with a few other children my age and a couple of young grown ups who were pretty/handsome and smelled good. I remember the woman talking to us in a high voice, like we were babies, telling us to color pictures. I picked up a paper and crayons and with no particular idea in mind, I scribbled on the paper.

The woman came over to me after a while and crouched down next to me and asked, in that bothersome baby voice, what I was drawing. I told her, hesitantly, that I was only scribbling. She told me it was beautiful and I remember thinking she was an idiot. (I know, kinda jaded for 3.)

Eventually, we children we gathered together and told there was exciting news. We would be going somewhere today and it would really fun. I became excited and nervous as this young couple marched us down a hallway and into a big room full of children.

We had to stand around a bit while they set up a row of chairs at the very front and I remember feeling self-conscious as all the big kids stared at us while we waited for seats. Once we were seated a beautiful lady with a beautiful voice began a music time. I was in heaven. The music was lovely, and I wanted desperately to sing along, but I'd never heard the songs before. So I sat and listened, in paradoxical joy and distress.

My mom joined the LDS church right around her 18th birthday. Since she didn't grow up in the church, she didn't know any of the Primary songs for children. We were raised on camp songs from Camp Hantasa. I could see Wohelo and the Donkey with the Mournful Eye with the best of them, but I'd never heard "Jesus wants me for a Sunbeam" or "I Am a Child of God."

So I sat, aching and determined to learn these beautiful songs so that soon, I too could sing along.

My Own Birth

At a funeral I attended a few weeks ago, the deceased was eulogized, in large part, from his own writings. One of his 9 children explained that one of their most treasured possessions was a 300+ page personal history, their dad had written. The story that amused me most was the story this man wrote about his own birth.

It is one thing, as a parent, to write about the birth of a child, but quite another to write about your own birth. Not that you weren't there, obviously, you were. And you're the hero of the story, which is always a bonus. But the fact of the matter is, you are oblivious enough of your surroundings, or your memory fuzzy, as yet unformed, that the story relies entirely on the hearsay of your parents. Basically, this gives you as a writer, license to say whatever the heck you want, which, of course, is the part I like the best.

Thus inspired, I will share with you the story of my birth.

My older sister was born in the middle of the night, so when I learned that I was born at 7:20AM on May 16th (1976 if you're nosy enough to want to know), I was pleased as punch.

"Ha!" I remember saying to my sister. "I was the nice daughter who let Mom sleep during the night. Then when she woke up, she had me at a reasonable time."

My mother looked at me a bit sadly, no, no that wasn't true. "I was in labor all night with you and you finally came in the morning."

So my story begins the evening of May 15th as my mom went into labor. My parents were watching a TV show. I don't know what show it was, except for the fact that I can tell you unequivocally, that it was not Dallas as Dallas had not aired yet, nor would it for years to come. And even when it aired, my parents would never watch it because they were not the type of people who watched shows like Dallas. (Apparently there was a character on Dallas named "Jenna" and for years people asked me if I was named for the show Dallas and my parents would like you all to know that I wasn't.)

Dad was pretty antsy about the whole having-a-baby thing and kept telling my mom that it was time to go to the hospital. Mom was determined to finish the show. Mom lost. She never saw the end of the show and was shuttled to the hospital before Dad died of a heart attack caused by impatience.

I'm sure there are a lot of gory details about the night, but let it be said that when I was born, I was humongous. The doctor thought he broke my collar bone during delivery and was delighted to see me unbroken upon further inspection. I weighed 10 lbs 7 oz (told you--humongous) and was in all ways healthy... and intelligent.

Not to brag, but when I was born, I was wrapped up and handed to my mom, who loved me up and was happy that I was out and she could finally breathe. Then she handed me to my dad and .. (drumroll please) I smiled. That's right. Me, right out of the womb with my almost broken collar bone, smiling. Not a gassy smile. No, a real smile. I looked right at my dad and smiled.

As a kid I never doubted this story and retold it as well as my mom. But grown-ups never bought this. No, they'd say shaking their heads, your parents were mistaken. So I'd continue. Dad wasn't the only person I smiled at during my hospital stay. The day after my birth, I smiled at the cleaning lady, who, appropriately freaked out, since it is a known fact that babies can't look at you and smile until they are at least 3 months old.

The cleaning lady hollered for her friend, Gladys or Martha or some such, and once Gladys-Martha appeared at my bedside I smiled at her too. In fact, I lifted my head and smiled at her.

In the wisdom of the day, babies were laid to sleep on their tummies. This was to prevent aspirating on spit-up and thereby reduce SIDS. So, I proved some kind of super-human strength to lift my head and smile. My mom always believed that my early smiling skill was a sign of superior intelligence. Not that I want to deny that, but it was really that I think I was just being congenial. I just love to meet new people!

Once I became a parent with my own little toad, I began to question the smiling story. I mean really. And I began to wonder along side the doubting grown-ups that I had ever really had such a remarkable skill. Then one of my friends had a baby and at a shower her baby smiled at me. He was only a couple of weeks old. It was remarkable. Yes, my friend Zoila confirmed, he'd been smiling since he was only a few days old. At that moment I knew it was true. I was a happy outlier in my own way.

The only other thing I know about the time that surrounded my birth was that when my parents brought me to the car my not quite two-year-old older sister was waiting for me. She'd heard a lot about the new baby and was eager to see me. When I was held down for her to behold all of my baby loveliness, she reportedly took one look at me and said, "What's that?"

Lost Art of the Compliment Part 2

"You look great!" may be the weakest compliment ever given. Sometimes it's not even designed for the receiver, but for the giver.

When I lost 70 lbs after having Nathan, I felt great all the time. It seemed like the weight was melting off without any effort at all. When I would run into people, I would search for ways to compliment them about their looks, so that, in return, they would compliment me. In addition to "you look great" I would compliment people's clothes, shoes, hair, makeup, glasses--anything that might result in a counter compliment. Like author, Tom Chiarella, I was cranking out shallow compliments at a mile a minute, always in hopes of a return on the favor.

When I regained the weight, partly from my own relapse in eating habits, and partly from having two more babies in short succession, I realized how selfish I had been.

Why was I, of all people, so focused on appearances?

*****************************

I have known Emma since the 9th grade. We are both 5 ft 8 inches tall. When Emma got married, she weighed 120 lbs. I probably weighed 120 in the 4th grade. She has beautiful flowing hair, great skin, and tiny hands and feet. She is the smartest woman I know, with a beautiful singing voice and to top it all off, she is an amazing pianist and cellist.

Over the years, she has watched my weight go up and down. When I'm losing weight, she supportive and complimentary. When I am gaining weight, she is never critical. When I see her after long absences, she says, "It's so good to see you!" Even when I'm losing weight, it's never the first comment that she makes.

"Thank you," I said after one visit, "for always being supportive of me and not commenting on my weight." I couldn't quote her accurately, I'm sure, but the look on her face was, "Of course I don't comment on your weight! You are my dear friend and I love you just the way you are. If you are losing weight, I'm happy for you, but we have so many more things to talk about than your weight. It would be ridiculous to spend any serious time on something so unimportant."