Have you ever seen this?

I was leaving the Albertson's parking lot yesterday after picking up instant tapioca, cooking wine, and ground turkey, when I was stopped by a strange sight.  It was a very pale yellowish, octagonal metal shape fixed to a post.  It reminded me of other similar shapes that frequently catch my attention, except that they are generally red and read "STOP" in white capitals.  

Okay, it was in fact a stop sign.  But I've never seen such a faded one.  I could hardly make out the ghost of the word.  This is a relatively new complex.  I mean, it's not like that sign has been in the sun for 50 years or even 15.  So what gives?  Cheap paint?  I know the government is frugal here.  And that's great.  I try to watch my expenditures too.  But when we go to paint the exterior of our house, I'm not going to use Deltacolor acrylics.

Already Idaho is switching to what Larry is calling "gift shop" license plates, where the numbers are not raised.  A few surrounding states are doing the same thing.  I feel like I'm driving a Barbie car.  I assume this is a money saver.  My brother-in-law has offered other possible motives for the switch such as ease in traffic photoraphy.  I guess.  But it also seems like they would be easier to falsely modify with some navy blue model enamel.  Twenty dollar bills have gone hi-tech while license plates and stop signs are going down the toilet.

What is the world coming to?

Speaking of which, did anyone else notice Bob Barker up there on the stage of the Price is ... er ... the RNC, kissing all of the Palin girls last night?  Or was that just me?  

Please spay and neuter your cats and dogs.  Good night, folks.

Phase 2

Well, my son is in first grade, and I feel I am now officially out of that baby/preschool phase and fully into the school-age kid stage of life.  And to that I say, "hurrah!"

I've loved my kids since the day each was born.   But I must say the older they've gotten, the more I enjoy them.  I prefer conversations and subtle humor and sarcastic remarks to Barney and sippy cups and toilet training.  I'd rather be busy carpooling than taking care of every physical need of another human being.  I have kids who can take their own showers, get their own snacks and do their own laundry.  And two of them even DO do their own laundry.  Life can slow down now.  We can hover here for a while and enjoy family life.

I generally hate he start of school.  I hate the routine and I like having my kids at home.  But with the crazy summer we've had, and the way my youngest two were bickering, I actually was relieved this year to get going.  

At the moment I feel like I now have all the time in the world I could possibly desire.  Two kids leave for the bus (buses in Idaho are free, unlike some mental states) at 7:05 am.  Two more kids leave to walk to school at 8:30.  The first two kids get home at 3:10.  The second set ideally arrives at 4:pm.  (Their first solo trip they were 30 minutes late, turning the corner on to our street just as I had started the engine of the Suburban to go look for them.) That's 6 hours and 40 minutes without any children.  And there is no dropping off or picking up.  I got the entire garage cleaned out yesterday.  But we do live in a new place, and responsibilities that are sure to come have yet to find us.  I am know that the nearly 7 hours will shrink quickly over the next few weeks.

In the meantime, I think I'll head out to prune the shrubs, then come in and shower, work on my talk for Sunday, and maybe head to Subway for lunch.  That sounds perfect.

Empty Nests

There are things in life that can take on opposite meanings depending on context.  An empty house is one of those things.

One of the traits that Larry really likes about me is one I share with his mother.  I am a "nester," he will say.  In other words, I like stuff around me.  Homey stuff.  Photos.  Candles.  Paintings.  Flowers.  Curtains and drapes.  Anything that softens the edges of a house and makes it feel like a home.  Not only do I like to have this in place, I get it there quickly upon moving somewhere new.  In my mind it is part of unpacking, which is also something that I do quickly.

There are times when an empty house is a blank canvas for my nesting artistry.  Those are exciting moments.  Hope is thick in the air, waiting to be cut into slabs of celebration and tradition and be served up to our family on the plates of our existences.

When we were packing a couple of weeks ago, I wondered if our dog noticed.  If she did, she took it in stride.  Lucy is a Golden, after all, and I should have expected nothing less.  She was even there as the movers were emptying our home, box by box and finally room by room.  And still, she was unfazed.  At 10:30 pm we were ready to leave.   I took Lucy out to her dog run to go potty before we headed down the hill to my in-laws' house.  On the way back in, she noticed that her dog house was missing.  She then began to panic, running in the house and then around in circles, barking and growling as if an intruding person or object had been brought in without an introduction.  We got her settled before walking out to our car on the dark street, which she gratefully jumped into and sat down for a trip.

My experience was not unlike Lucy's.  I was so stressed to get us packed on time that I hardly acknowledged that we were moving away.  Saying goodbye to friends was difficult, but even so, we'd return home and I'd continue my preparations.  On moving day movers kept telling me to sit back and relax, but that was clearly impossible.  Once they were gone, Larry and I finally took a last look in each room--each beautiful empty room which contained somehow some piece of me still.  Some mural or fixture selection.  Baseboards.  New carpet and a new kitchen I'd designed.  

Moving through this empty house was not easy.  The air was now thick with emotion and memory.  Four years of birthdays, two baptisms, two first days of kindergarten, holidays, soccer seasons, family home evenings, dinners, illness, swimming, bike-riding.  I sobbed taking it all in.  And then I sobbed more while Larry held me.  I'd have run around in circles barking, had it seemed helpful.  But rather, I made myself say goodbye and drive away.

Much like childbirth, I'll quickly forget the pain of the empty house and will be left with good memories of all that passed in our mountain home.  It was a special place for our family.  We will always look back fondly on our time there.  Yet as we prepared to drive off from my in-laws' to Idaho the next morning, Larry's mother looked at him and pointed to our kids in the Suburban.  She said, "Everything important in this life is right there in that car."  She was right.  It may be sad to leave a place, but when you get to all leave together, little else really matters.

Procrastination

I have been a procrastinator since I can remember.  Of course, as a little kid, you really only have things such as school work, and maybe room cleaning, to put off.  But I did it.  If it was required of me, I would wait until the last possible moment to start the task.  As I've grown up, I've expanded the practice to more and more applications.

I had a conversation about this recently with a teacher of my daughter's with whom I have a lot in common.  She claimed that the procrastination was a symptom of our perfectionism, that folks like us put off doing things for fear of getting it wrong.  Now I would suggest that perfectionism is about as maladaptive as procrastination, but that it is a trait that sounds somehow more praiseworthy.  I therefore liked Mrs. S's theory, and it even rings true in one or two categories of things that I routinely put off.  However, for the most part, I think my procrastinating has little to do with my perfectionism.  I believe, rather, that these behaviors have to do with my poorly developed self discipline.

I sometimes try to convince myself that procrastination is not a bad thing.  I tell myself I am simply choosing to do a task at a later time, and that in fact I perform better with the pressure of a fast-approaching deadline.  This makes me sound in better control than I am, and is comforting, but it isn't true.  Procrastinating stresses me out.  I don't really like it.  But I guess I'd generally rather read a book.  So it is indeed a choice, but not a carefully thought out, nor a sound, one.

One interesting consequence of having procrastinated for 30 plus years is that I now also become uneasy on the rare occasion when I am prepared well in advanced.  I don't quite trust myself to get things completed ahead of time.  I assume I've overlooked something or have done it poorly.  (Here is my perfectionism shining through.) Lack of stress can just make me nervous.  Yes, I need help.

I am in the middle of such a situation.  We are moving in about 10 days.  At the beginning of the summer, I was nervous.  I had a lot to do, and not much time to do it in.  Then I had a medical hiccup that took about two weeks out of my life.  Then I had one week feeling well, and was off to Girls' Camp for a week with my oldest girl.  I came back and was constantly on the verge of an anxiety attack.  Now there was way too much to do and not nearly enough time.  But I pressed on, and with the help of my mom tackled the rooms and closets that were going to be the most difficult for me to pack.  Larry has spent a bit of the week working on packing up his stuff that I'd have no idea how to sort through.  The end result is that since Friday afternoon, I have felt quite comfortable about the state of the packing.  

That's good, right?  Well, mostly.  Except for this background gnawing in my gut that I must be misjudging the amount of remaining work.  If only I'd procrastinated, I'd be CERTAIN that I had more work than time.  See how much more comforting that would be?  I hate uncertainty.  

I really do need to get some help.  Maybe someday I will.

The Move

I'd ask you all to indulge me for a moment while I make a very non-observational, non-humorous, entirely self-gratifying post.  But I don't need to.  It's my blog, and I'll do what everyone else seems to do every day for one post if I feel like it.  

We are leaving for Idaho in just under a month.  Time is pretty short.  I lost almost two weeks of it in bed suffering from a lumbar puncture gone bad.  I'm nearly recovered now, and I'm working on getting us packed with a little help from my friends.  Next week I'll be at Girls' Camp with our stake.  So Larry will need to take over the packing for a few days. When I return, I'll basically have two weeks.  Scary.

The last few weeks of school, people kept asking questions such as, "Have you sold your house?"  "Is it on the market?"  "Do you have a place to live in Boise?"  "Are you using a moving company?"  "Are you all packed up?"  The answer to all of these questions except the moving company one was "no."  For the moving company it was, "I think so, I'm not sure, we haven't looked into it yet."  Things are underway now, though, and I'm glad to have information to report.  Ask me what you will.

We put our house on the market.  One guy has come to see it.  And for our little mountain community, that's not too bad.  Selling a house here is more like finding a spouse than in the valleys.  You need to make that love connection.  We have a very rare house up here, and we need to find a buyer who wants just this.  We do hope it will sell sooner, rather than later, of course.

We also had two moving companies come out and give us quotes.  I think we picked one.  I'm not sure, that was during the time I was down.  We will pack, and they will load and move. About 1/3 of our stuff will be delivered to a rental home, and the rest will go into storage until we moving into the new house.  So as I pack, I am labeling boxes either long or short term.  Larry thinks this is confusing, since "ST," for short term, looks to him like it would stand for storage.  So we will be putting color-coded stickers on them, so as not to confuse movers.

They started excavation for our basement this week.

  

This means that we will have a permanent place to live, hopefully by Christmas.  I have to say that one positive thing about having to move twice, is that we'll get to watch the house be built, I'm guessing from stick stage.  That is fun.  We've done it before, with a McMansion we had in the valley.  But #3 was 2 and #4 was a newborn, and so they don't remember at all.  Plus, this is a custom home, designed just for us, and it somehow seems a little more exciting.

Larry has been in Boise this week, and secured us a rental home.  I cannot believe how cheap the rent is up there.  I would say it's almost half what it would be here.    

  

The inside is nice, and according to Larry, doesn't smell, which I guess he was worried about.  

So we are ready for a new adventure.  We've been in California for 14 years, which will sound like a long time to some, and like nothing to others.  For me, it's been about all of my adult life, so it feels like a long time.  I'm not too sad yet.  We'll see what happens on moving day.  The kids are excited to go now that school is out and  a lot of their good-byes are already said. 

There was a whole list of things we wanted to do this summer before moving.  Almost none of it will happen.  But that's okay.  I also feel like I don't have enough time to get my house packed up.  But that's okay too, because it will happen, pleasant or not.  One month from today it will be all over.  And then we will begin ...

Dance, Dance, Dance

Last night was 8th grade promotion at our school, following which was the promotion dance for all middle-schoolers.  Parents of the 7th grade students traditionally put this on, so that the parents of the kids promoting don't need to worry about that on top of everything else they must have on their plates.

Well, with all I've been juggling, signing up to chaperone the dance seemed like the least amount of effort for me.  I'd just need to show up. And therefore although #2 seemed too young at 11 years old to be attending, I told both of the girls that they could go, since I'd be there.  

They had a ball.  They were clearly (to me, anyway) new to the school dance scene, but they had a good time--always on the dance floor.  No wall flower kids for me!  #2 danced one slow dance with a boy who is in the flute section with her in orchestra.  #1 was disappointed that no one asked her to dance.  But other than that, they danced all dances, slow and fast, with each other and their friends.

One on-going situation with a few of the 7th and 8h grade girls made the dance a little less enjoyable for the chaperones.  Yet the only true regret I had in attending was how old I felt.  I am the mother of two dance-going, mascara-wearing, hair-spraying, Jonas Brothers-listening, middle school girls.  How on earth is that possible?  Wasn't it yesterday that I was putting on the teal eyeliner and heading to my own jr. high dances?  Wasn't it yesterday that I was 12 and thought I was a grown-up?  Of course there were some slight differences--we were requesting Madonna and Michael Jackson and the only "rap" was by Wham!  

I am fully aware that this lament only serves to make me sound older still.  But it's all the truth.  It's been 22 years since my first dance.  Yesterday was 22 years ago.  Even so, the comforting old adage applies-- the more things change, the more they stay the same.  Last night the kids rocked out to "Thriller."

Nothin' funnier than Brain Surgery ...

I have a neurological disorder somewhere in the Trigeminal Neuralgia family (see link on side bar).  I take an anti-convulsive medication which largely keeps my pain at bay.  And what pain there is is quite bearable. 

However, there are some treatments for this class of disorders that I would like to explore to see if they are even options for me.  One of them involves invasive brain surgery.  Neurosurgeons specializing in this are easier to find in Southern California than in Idaho.  Still, I'll be driving out to Irvine for a fine cut MRI.

Of course, I'm doing all of this at a time when I'm already pretty booked up both time-wise and emotionally with moving up north.  It's June 2nd.  Estimated departure date:  August 6th.  Hmm.  2 months.  And no, our house isn't even on the market yet.  We're shooting for June 16th.  And the market is slow.

So what I really feel like I'd like to add to sorting, tossing, donating, organizing, packing, and staging in the next 8 weeks is ... brain surgery.

Did you just laugh?  Even in your head?  You're not alone.  Any time I've tried to confide in people about these major stressors in my life, they've laughed at the mention of ... brain surgery.  I guess it's pretty funny.  And the folks laughing at me are not just random careless jerks.  One was my mom.  Another was my chiropractor who is also my ecclesiastical leader.  I think to myself, "does it sound like I'm doing material, here?"  Maybe I could take a show on the road.  Brain surgery can keep 'em laughing for a while.

And it's not just MY brain surgery that makes people chuckle.  Last Thursday night at Open House, I was discussing sentence diagramming with my daughter's teacher.  I noted that I hadn't learned to do it because my 8th grade teacher was having brain surgery during the time when that was taught in our curriculum and the substitute wasn't comfortable with it.  She laughed the minute I said ... brain surgery.

It's amazing.  I'd love to see some kind of study done.  It'd be perfect for undergrad psych majors.  Anyone?  If you do it, you can take all of the credit for the idea.  Just let me know the results.

Re-tying Apron Strings

We had a dinner for the women of our congregation last evening where we each wore an apron and shared an "apron story."  I wore an apron that belonged to my maternal grandmother.  It is green checked gingham with yellow edging and a pineapple appliqué.  My mother made it for her, and one for my dad's mom as well, the Mother's Day when she was just pregnant with me.  I don't remember seeing Grandma in it, but she apparently wore it a bit.

My memories of my grandmother do include her in an apron, however.  It was one that she made for herself.  Navy blue checked gingham with red piping, the front crossed over in a v-shape that resembled a vest or maybe a wrap-around blouse.  Pockets on the skirt and tie in the back.  Very tailored and sharp.  Just like my grandma.

Grandma would come from San Diego for anywhere from 3 weeks to 6 months one year to visit us back east.  She'd have that apron packed.  I don't remember many times that she was baking or cooking.  It seems to me now that she was always doing dishes.  Grandma hummed while she washed.  Sometimes real tunes, sometimes random made-up ones.  Always hummed with a do-do-do.  And she'd scoop those notes to beat Bing Crosby.  I can still hear the sound of Grandma humming in my head, but the moment I try to recreate it it disappears, and I can't come close.

If she knew I was around, the humming would often turn to singing, and I learned songs like "The Sheik of Arab-ee" and "The Lady on the Crocodile."  She loved the hymn "Abide With Me," and there were several years after she developed Alzheimer's that I couldn't sing that song without crying.  She also sang a non-LDS hymn that I can't really remember, but was something about walking with the Savior in a garden.  When I learned to play my flute, I'd play hymns for her and she would hum or sing along.

I'm not sure that my grandmother was really as musical as I describe her to have been.  I'm not sure why these are the memories that stick out in my mind.  Perhaps because the music meant so much to me.  I know she was always proud of how musical her grandchildren were.  If she could visit for a day, I'd love to have my daughters play the flute and guitar and sing for her.  I'd like to show her how our family continues on in that musical tradition.

We could listen while we did the dishes.  Me in my white linen apron and her in navy gingham.

Stress Management

Living at the end of a windy mile and a half long mountain road, I frequently encounter various fauna as the pavement interrupts their trail.  I have become convinced that were I so inclined I could generate a quiz entitled "Which Road-kill are You?"  Maybe I'd name it something less gruesome, but I think an edgy title would get more hits.

Responses to questions regarding stress management would place participants in categories of "Squirrel," "Deer," "Rabbit," "Dog," and "Quail."

A squirrel  is interesting.  We all have vast experience with them up here.  Most of us have hit at least one.  Sensing threat a squirrel darts back and forth, unable to decide which way to go to get out of the way.  Some people recommend honking at them.  I have found this to only agrivate the squirrel's stress and prolong the confusion.  I've also been given the advice to keep driving a straight and consistent course.  This has worked really well.  Since employing that strategy, I haven't hit one.  So amazingly, squirrels can avoid doom by acting like chickens with their heads cut off, assuming those actions aren't over analyzed.

Deer.  I usually encounter these in the early morning.  I've not seen one at night and have no idea whether one would really just stare into my headlights.  In daylight they just majestically stride along.  The driver will have to wait.  Deer are luckily large enough to damage a vehicle, thereby discouraging poor behavior from even the most self centered careless driver.

Rabbits dart out into the road BECAUSE a car is coming.  Maybe this isn't true, but it seems to be the case.  I had a cat that did that.  It was well after she was killed on the highway that my parents broke it to me that they believed her to be mentally retarded.  The good thing about rabbits, though, is that they stick to their path and get off of the street relatively quickly.

Dogs on my street seem to think there is no danger at all.  Ever.  I had one lay in the middle of the road, sunning himself and starring at me.  "What?  Why are you honking?  Can't you see I'm resting?"  

Quail crack me up.  The run as fast as they can, faster and faster until they decide they have no choice but to take off.  It is their last resort.  It must be exceedingly difficult for them, because they sure seem to exert a lot of energy avoiding flight.

How do you handle pressure or stress?  Do you act like it's not there?  Do you run  in emotional or intellectual circles, never quite knowing the path to take?  Are you just big enough to handle it?  Maybe you're like me and the quail and wait until the last minute to haul it outta there.  

Just so long as you don't eat my pansies ...

The Birds and the Bees

Yesterday on the way home from school #4 was complaining that he didn't like being the youngest kid and the only boy in our family.  The obvious solution was for us to have another brother.  I tried to let him down easy.  We aren't having more kids.  That bridge is burned, if you will.

A few minutes later he asked me, "Mom, how do you do flex?"

How do you do flex?  I had now idea what flex was.  Let alone how it's done.  So I repeated his question to him, clarifying that I had heard correctly.  "Yeah, flex.  How do you do flex.  You know, how we get babies."  Oh, THAT flex.

"Do you mean sex, son? How do you have sex?"  "Yeah, sex."  It would seem he thought the problem with getting that little brother may find it's solution in this answer.

"Well, ..."  I then tried to give my best calm, truthful, but simple and 6-year-old-appropriate answer to this.  I ended by saying that it was a private thing between a mom and dad.  His response was not what I was expecting.

"So if you do it in the bathroom, I guess you better lock the door."