When "Retarded" is Someone You Love

For my degree I am taking a Multicultural Counseling course.  I have some confessions to make.  I didn't think I needed this class.  I am a caring, accepting, empathetic, non-bigoted person.  Why do I need to take a class teaching me that I assume is just going to teach me that I am not those things by virtue of my race?  It's silly. People are people and I am being trained to counsel people.  Right?

Well, maybe not right. Counseling people from different backgrounds or heritages or cultures requires some understanding of the issues they face based on those backgrounds.  I was okay with that.  I thought, sure, I need some better understanding of what clients may be dealing with so that I can find out to what degree those things are issues to them and help them with that.  Just the awareness that I may not really understand will be helpful. Knowing that I need to educate myself on different cultures and traditions will make a difference. This will be good.  I am all set.

But then we studied microaggressions. Something clicked. Microaggressions I understand. I experience. I realized that I may very well be guilty of committing them myself.  Because the whole idea behind a microaggression is that the perpetrator is unaware that he or she is doing or saying anything offensive. That fact makes these more painful to deal with than outright racism or sexism or heterosexualism or ableism.  When faced with outright bigotry, anger is clearly justified, and I personally believe that it's ultimately easier to dismiss and rise above.  When faced with a kind stranger, acquaintance, colleague, friend, or family member who unconsciously hurts you it's somehow even more hurtful, because you don't expect it from them.  It's emotionally taxing to have the internal dialogue: "Did that just really happen?  Don't they get it? Should I say something? Will that just make it worse?" When you find yourself having that dialogue with yourself over and over, it's easy to become jaded and defensive.

I'm going to explain what I mean with my experiences.  I think it is easy to see how this applies to other people.

I've written about my oldest daughter before.  She's now 19, living in the basement apartment of our home, and attending a continuing ed program offered through the local school district.  She is mentally retarded.  Her IQ is low.  Her functional IQ, though still in that disabled range, is higher.  She has no syndrome, no birth defect, no disease.  She is just retarded. This fact is not a secret.  Strangers don't know unless I tell them because in their eyes she looks "normal" (whatever that means).

Here is another confession:  as a teen, I was guilty of using the word "retarded" to describe someone, or more often something, as inadequate on some level. I frequently laughed at the antics of a good friend who had an entire routine about the "special bus." It's embarrassing. All I can say is that I was young, insecure, and just didn't stop to think.

Now I think, because now that word has a different meaning to me personally. It describes someone I love. So when a stranger (who doesn't know my daughter) or especially when someone I care for (who does know her) says in my presence "that's retarded" instead of maybe "that's ridiculous," I am hurt.  Because whether they think they are saying this or not what I hear is, "Sadie is ridiculous." Yes, I know they "don't mean it that way" and are more than likely just not thinking.  But that doesn't stop it from hurting. This isn't about being PC.  It's about simple kindness and decency and respect. It's about being caring and thoughtful. Is that too much to ask of my fellow humans? If so, I'm saddened by what that says about us.

"You are being oversensitive." Another microaggression in itself, this statement is demeaning.  It implies that my experiences and my feelings are trivial. That someone's insensitivity or ignorance is my problem, rather than theirs. I don't buy it.

Ash Beckam has become a favorite subject for my youtube stalking.  She has amazing perspective on being understanding of others' paths and still speaking out for what is right. Her talk about combating the pejorative use of the word "gay" has, along with this Multicultural Counseling class of mine, inspired me to stop being silent about the pejorative use of the word "retarded."

So here is my plea: EXPAND YOUR VOCABULARY!  Learn words that tell what you want to say EVEN BETTER than words that are potentially hurtful to other people.  You will not miss those words, and in the end I am pretty sure you will be thankful to be done with them. Be aware of other things you may say to people that might be taken as insulting or demeaning.  Even expressing "colorblindness" gives the impression that race is something bad to be ignored. (That's a lesson I needed to learn!) Being aware is the best place to start. Those around you with struggles different from yours will be thankful to call you their true friend.

Watch "Ash Beckam Talks About the Word 'Gay'" here.  It's a good one. There's also a Tedx Talk she does about closets.  Check it out while you're there.

Sexy

This trend has been a long time coming.  I will admit to being fully taken by it at first.  I still have to fight the impulse to give in to it. I don't always win.

Sexy. That's the goal now. Have you noticed? Almost anything else about a woman can be accepted as long as it's wrapped up in sexiness. "Be a sexy mom." "Be a sexy grandmother." "Be a sexy CEO.""Be a sexy teacher."  There's probably not any longer a stigma to being a lunch lady as long as you look sexy doing it. (No offense to the fabulous lunch ladies I know ... but you remember the stereotypes I am sure.) Then there are the grass-roots esteem building campaigns that blow my mind. "Don't worry about what society or the media tell you about your weight or clothing style.  Be and wear whatever makes you feel sexy." Equally mind-blowing are the religious campaigns. "Modest is hottest." Because clearly, the only way to sell the virtue of modesty to young girls (and even women) is by declaring it to be sexier than being more scantily clad. Irony defined.

Now, don't get me wrong here. I'm not saying that sexiness is bad. I am ABSOLUTELY not saying that sexuality is bad. It's good, and it's an essential part of who we are as humans. I am not posting to give commentary on sex or relationships or even modesty. This is a separate issue. We've deluded ourselves into thinking that by embracing sexiness we are empowering ourselves. The reality is that what we are actually doing is teaching our daughters, our sons, ourselves, that the most important thing we can be in this life is sexy.

I feel like I need to state that again.

We are teaching our daughters, our sons, our friends, our spouses, our colleagues, and ourselves that THE MOST IMPORTANT THING WE CAN BE IS SEXY.

I can't be the only person who finds this degrading.

I'm vain, and I always want to look good and frequently mentally beat myself up for falling short of my ridiculous personal expectations of myself. It's a problem. And the problem is compounded ten fold when I start believing this lie that my goal in life should be to look, act, dress, feel ... sexy. Because then I forget the other, much more important characteristics that I want to develop. Intelligence. Accomplishment. Confidence. Femininity. Strength. Honesty. Diligence. Tolerance. Compassion. Kindness. Generosity.

40 is the new 20. Strong is the new skinny. Sexy is the new what? What are we yearning for? What are we afraid of? Is it just that it's relatively simple to accomplish sexiness? Smokey eyes, bedhead hair and a push-up bra and we're set? I don't need to worry about all the other areas of my life that I fall short in because at least I look hot? I'm not mocking that thinking ... I totally get it. But if I think about it too long or hard, it saddens me. Having teenaged daughters has opened my eyes to the value of women, and all the many ways that I personally sell myself short or am too hard on myself.  Watching them worry about their worth and beauty, when I can see SO plainly how valuable and beautiful they are, has become a painful mirror for my own insecurities.

Embracing sexiness will not empower us the way that embracing our bodies and souls and hearts and minds will. I don't have a grand plan for helping society to collectively do this. I don't even have a great plan for helping myself and my daughters to really do this. All I can do is be aware, and make those around me aware, remind us of worth that is not hinged on something as superficial and fleeting as sexiness, and challenge us to reach for more.

220, 221, whatever it takes.

My dear, sweet husband made a fabulous effort this morning to be supportive, encouraging, and caring.  And I'm going to thank him by mocking him.  Yes, I'm pretty sure I'm going to hell.  But this was funny.  At least to me.  Seamstress nerds, read on.  All others are free to hop to another post or blog.  Larry, if you ever read this, which I highly doubt: Sorry, Babe.  You knew who I was when you married me.  And if you didn't, well, we've had nearly 2 decades to get acquainted.  

Background:

I am sewing a formal for #1.  (#1's name is Sadie.  She's 18 now, on Facebook.  Much has changed both on line and in my home since I started blogging and using numbers for my kids.)  Any way ... Sadie picked out a beautiful gown with a fully lined, pleated, overlapping bodice on top of a lined shirred midriff, paneled full-length skirt, and a fully lined bolero jacket.  We decided to overlay the bodice and midriff with a sparkly organza which matches the deep purple satin of the dress and jacket.  This was mostly done so that I could add a sheer, gathery layer a couple of inches above the "neckline" (which more closely resembles a bra-line) for modesty purposes.  No one step is insanely difficult, but overall, it's a big project.

Here's how the conversation went:

Mina:  "What time is it Babe?" (I really need a new battery in my sewing room clock.)
Larry:  "10:30"
M:  "Oh man.  Time zooms when I'm sewing.  I've been in here 2 hours.  It just seems like I should have more than this done."
L:  "Well, pretty soon it will all come together really fast, right?"
              pause while I'm pondering that statement
M:  "Umm ... I'm not sure what that means."
 L:  "Well, once you get everything cut out and the all the little parts sewn, it will come together quickly."
             slight pause while I'm trying to picture 
                 sewing the way he's describing 
                  ... and being unsuccessful
M:  (giving up and trying not to laugh) "It sure seems like that would be the case, doesn't it?"

He was trying to be nice, and I didn't want scold him with a lecture on the process of dress making.  And in a very small way, he's a little bit right.  1) I hate cutting and marking.  Of course, one does that all at once, before actual sewing begins.  2) The bodice is sewn first and will generally take longer since it requires fussier techniques.  3) Sure, once the skirt is put together, it's just one seam attaching it to the bodice, et voilà, it looks like a dress.  Of course, then there is hand-stitching the bodice lining to the skirt, zipper installation (blech!) and final fitting, measuring the hem, and hemming (by hand in the case of a gown).  And, for me anyway, the thought of zippering and hand-hemming does not feel like a quick wrap up.  Not to mention that in this case, I get rewarded for finishing the dress by getting to start on the jacket.  WooHoo!

But now I am curious.  I am assuming that there is some sort of man-project out there that seems all tedious and awful ... until all the parts are cut and put together, at which point assembly seems like a fun, easy breeze.  I could get in to something like that.  Just call me Mrs. Dad.  With my luck, though, I'd likely be caught "doing it wrong."

So Many Books ...

... so little time," says the bookmark I got for Christmas from my parents this year.  So true and so fitting.

I've been a member of Goodreads.com for several years now.  The past two years, I have taken part in the reading challenge they offer.  My goal each year was 52 books.  One per week.  In 2011, I read 58.  In 2012 I read almost 62.  Not bad.

Or is it?

I have an ambivalence toward this reading habit of mine.  On one hand, reading is good.  It expands my horizons, it engages my imagination, it keeps my vocabulary in decent shape.  On the other hand, I spend a lot of time reading when I should be being more productive.  I use reading as an escape.  It's a pretty benign escape behavior, to be sure, but I tend to drown myself in it all the same.  I feel like it's not always entirely healthy, my reading, and that makes me nervous.

I have had this discussion more than once with people, my concern for the amount of books I read when things get stressful.  And the side coming at me is generally the same:  "Hey, it could be so much worse.  It could be alcohol, it could be drugs or affairs.  Books are nothing to worry about."  While I see their point, I don't entirely agree.  Yes, it could be worse.  It could be something destructive.  Yes, yes, yes.  But.  That doesn't mean that it can't become obsessive or slightly unhealthy.  That I could be avoiding dealing with things I should be facing.  That some moderation might be called for.

This year, I am setting a different goal.  I really wish I could specify genres in my reading challenge goals.  I can't, so I'll have to leave it to myself to be honest.  My goal is 24 books.  That's it.  Two a month.  And the first one I read HAS to be non-fiction.  (I don't stomach non-fiction too well.  I lose interest about half way through nearly every time.)  I will in general be choosing books written by general authorities of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, or the like.  I might even do a couple of political books.  But only after I have completed a non-fiction book can I read a novel. 

We'll see if it helps.  It may actually not matter much, because if I happen to get in to grad school this fall, well, any reading goal I set will be thrown out the window and replaced with text books.   And that will begin a whole other set of difficulties ...

Anniversaries

This is a little bit of a silly story, but I'm having one of those moments where I feel very, well, in God's awareness. 

My mother passed away one year ago today.  It's crazy to me how a calendar date can wreak such emotional havoc.  She's not any more gone than she was yesterday, but today I'm having a very rough time. 

Anyway, one year ago today, only hours after my mom's death, some very dear friends were wondering how on earth they could be useful, and so I asked them to bring a stack of things I'd been collecting to the DI (Mormon Good Will) just to get them out of my house while I was decorating for Christmas and getting ready for a funeral.  They were here in minutes and I was grateful.  As I was decorating, though, I noticed that two Santas and a small lit, potted tree were missing.  These were some of my favorite porch decorations.  After searching everywhere I came to the conclusion that the box must have been in the entry by my stack of DI items and taken away by mistake.  Grateful for the help and love shown, I tried to feel good about those decorations I loved blessing another family.  Still, only a few days ago I thought of those things, a little sad again that they are gone.

Today I have been wanting to finally decorate for Christmas.  It generally gets done the day after Thanksgiving, but we had a bit of company, and that wasn't really going to be much fun for them.  The rest of this week has been crazy, but tomorrow is December!  My mom loved the holidays, and particularly Christmas, so it seemed like a fitting activity.

Well, I woke up, got the kids off to school, and then curled up with a blanket on the sofa and slept until 10:45.  That tends to be sign number one that I'm not doing great.  I finally woke up, planning to meet Larry for lunch, got in the shower, and sobbed.  And sobbed.  Out of the shower, still sobbing (in fact rivers of tears running down my neck), I texted Larry and told him I didn't think I could make it.  He told me to come anyway, and we'd get Sonic, where we could just sit in the car.  So I did.  And I felt a little bit better sitting and talking with him.  I came home, put on my Johnny Mathis Christmas music (which actually reminds me of my step-mom, not my mother, but it's a very nostalgic one for me all the same) and went up to the attic to start bringing down Christmas boxes.  The first one I noticed was one on the very bottom of all of the Halloween decorations.  I brought it down, and guess which box it was.  Yes, that missing one from last year.  The one with my woodsy Santas and pretty tree.

I know it had been there all along.  It's not exactly a miracle.  I just missed it last year.  Chances are VERY good that I had not put all of the Halloween boxes on their shelves, and this was hidden behind them.  But still, of all of the days to find it, this is the perfect one.  It is as if my mother, or my Heavenly Father, is letting me know that things will be okay, that happiness will continue to fill my life, even in the midst of the sadness.  I hope it is a good sign for a merry holiday season.  For fewer tears and more laughter.  For joy and togetherness, for warmth and love.

Orange you glad ...

While oranges are a winter fruit, and I never even bother to look for good ones in the summer, I think of creamsicles as the ultimate summer flavor.  Orange popsicle and vanilla ice cream all in one yummy bite.  In fact, my freezer currently contains 2 treats for the kids, fudgesicles and creamsicles.  My mom called them 50/50 bars, thanks to the Good Humor trucks of her youth.  For a while when I was a kid, they sold a checkered orange sherbet, vanilla ice cream combo in 1/2 gallon containers.  Awesome.

Last night #2 said, "I'd like to make some cookies."  Sure, I said, sounds great.  "Except I'd not like to make them myself, but have someone else make them for me.  I'd just like to eat them."  (She was playing 15 going on 5.)  So I made cookies.  I rarely need arm-twisting. 

I've seen a great-looking creamsicle cookie recipe, and fired up Pinterest to hunt it down.  But the only flavoring in the one I'd pinned was orange zest, which, being summer, I am fresh out of.  Many of the other recipes I found on-line looked like they'd turn out a cake-y product, and while those are okay, I was looking for soft and chewy.  I finally settled on pimping out a chocolate chip cookie recipe which used dry vanilla pudding mix as an ingredient.  I added more pudding, lots of orange flavor, and white chips.

The final product was perfect.  Just what I'd been looking for.  And they were a big hit with the kids and with Larry.  I used orange juice out of a container, but if you have fresh oranges, that's what I'd go with, for sure.  I didn't pay close attention to the yield, but it was at least 6 dozen. I imagine these would also be very good with chopped walnuts, if you're into that sort of thing.

 

Orange Chip Cookies

1 c butter, softened

3/4 c packed brown sugar

1/4 c white sugar

1 (5.1 oz) vanilla pudding mix

2 eggs

1 tsp orange extract

Zest of 1 orange, and 2 Tbsp freshly squeezed juice (or 2 Tbsp orange juice)

2 1/4 c flour

1 tsp baking soda

2 c white chocolate chips

Cream butter and sugars.  Mix in pudding, eggs, extract, juice and zest.  Stir in flour, soda, and chips.  Drop spoonfuls onto ungreased sheet.  Bake at 350 for 10 minutes, until just barely starting to brown in spots.  Let set 2-3 minutes and remove to cooling rack or counter-top.  Store in an air-tight container.

The LionHeart

... Well, that's what my 5K training app calls me anyway.  LionHearted.  For starting to run.  The first day.  And that's how I felt.  Today, on day three, the app awards the Determination Badge.  But I don't feel determined.  Just old.

#3 is a talented, kind, intelligent, awesome kid.  Unfortunately, along with her great musical ear she also inherited her athleticism from her mother.  I had none of the latter to give.  When she was 5 and 6 she played on the local AYSO team, and liked the idea of being part of a team.  Actually playing and practicing?  Not so much.  After a couple of years of listening her complain from about week 2 of the season on, we decided to go with her interests and strengths and focus on music.  She has thrived and excelled with that.

#3 does not want to give music up, but she is really wanting to get involved in a sport now that she is in the throws of middle school.  I understand.  I had that desire, too.  I didn't do a whole lot with mine, however.  She is determined to join cross-country in the fall.  And I am ecstatic for her.

To that end, we decided to start a training program.  I installed the app mentioned above.  I knew I'd be a better partner for her than #2.  #2 conditions with a 5 mile run "warm up" followed by sprints, crunches, planks, etc.  #3 is nowhere near so fit.  Neither am I.  We are also nearly the same height. (I won't mention who is taller.) Good partners, right?

Well, in theory, that would be true.  The first day we were definitely on the same pace.  Day two we both felt like we were getting our trash kicked.  Day three ... well day three we were both still really feeling it, but during the last half of the workout, times we were supposed to be running #3 could go quite a bit faster than I could.  I'd watch her sprint ahead, and I'd long to catch up, but there was no way I could make myself go faster.  No way I could make my legs stretch further.  I'd call out to her when it was time to walk, and she'd walk back to me while I walked forward and we'd continue on from there.

Now, I'm not stupid.  I have 26 years on her and 20 extra pounds on my frame.  I figured that there may come a time when she would out-pace me, when we may need to put the app on her iPod and we'd train together, but not side by side.  I guess I was imagining that day coming after a few weeks.  Not after day three. 

Which brings me to what is really bothering me.  I wanted to do this to help my kid.  To train with her so that she can be (to quote her) "super fast and super awesome" this fall ... or at least so that she can keep up.  This is not the first time I've started a 5K program.  I've never gotten past the first 2 weeks.  I frequently decide to start up with walking 4 miles per day or with a Zumba class or with something.  I just don't stick with it long enough to make any sort of habit.  Today is Saturday.  We had planned to go running at 9 am.  I did not want to get out of bed.  The only reason I did is because I knew #3 was waiting for me.  That she needed me.  We got going (only 15 minutes late) and as it turned out, she didn't need me.  I need her.  And I'm holding her back.  Already.

Next week: Week 2 training.  THAT is when I will need courage.  THAT is when I will need determination.  And that, frankly, is when I will need humility to continue on, realizing that even at different paces, maybe some good will still come to #3 because I am there behind her, cheering her on and training my hardest to "help her" get in shape for the fall.

Baby Steps

Our family loves the movie What About Bob? One of the best things about the story is that Bob becomes "cured" by Dr. Marvin's new book, Baby Steps, without ever even cracking the cover.  The title alone was sufficient for Bob.  So much for all of the research, writing, editing, etc, that went into the actual text.  It's hilarious.  And a little bit understandable.

Baby steps.  Sometimes small things, small pieces of progress, are the best we can do.  And I feel like I'm getting a crash course in coming to terms with the best I can do.  It's about patience, acceptance, and ultimately grace.  The things I am learning could be the topic of a whole other post.  Maybe several.  Maybe I'll get to it, and maybe I won't. 

For now, I am trying to ease myself back into the flow of life, out from this little eddy I've been drifting in for the past several months.  It has been shocking how physical this grieving has been for me.  The emotional I expected.  But to not be able to make myself do even the things I wanted desperately to be doing, that was a surprise.  I'm trying to overcome this.  And today, I had a little break-through.  I sewed.

It may sound silly.  But I love to sew.  I love to create.  I had little time while care-giving my mother to sew and create as much as I'd wanted to.  It was literally the month before my mom came to live with us that Larry had cleared out an art space for me, which meant that I had separate rooms for art and for sewing.  It was such a kind, thoughtful gift, and I never really made much use of it.  Well, I'm back to one room now, and that is just fine.

One of the first things I wanted to get back to doing after my mom passed was creating art and sewing.  I have a long list of projects to finish, to begin.  At night, it always sounds like a great thing to do in the morning.  Come morning, however, I can't bring myself to get in there and get started.  Last night I took advantage of an energy spurt and folded some sheets and towels that have been sitting since the funeral, and this morning I woke up, made lunches, and sewed. 

I now am the proud owner of a sunny new dish mat.  A dish mat I had intended to make last summer.  I can't begin to express how good it feels.  Tomorrow morning I may be back in bed, but at least today I created.  It's a baby step for which I am very grateful.

Hopeful, Happy, Helpful

I keep waiting for the perfect time to write this post. When I have enough time, enough energy to be able to convey what is in my heart. But the time has come when I can't afford conditions to be perfect.

I have a new love in my life. Her name is Yogalaxmi. She is a beautiful, talented, sweet girl. She also happens to be eastern Indian. She also happens to be orphaned. She also happens to suffer from the virus which took her parents from her. An AIDS orphan in a very impoverished region of India doesn't always get the help she needs. Luckily for Yogalaxmi, an amazing person named Sister Daisy has taken it upon herself to care for a group of these orphans, providing them with a home, with nourshement, and with love.

Luckily for ME, another amazing person, my cousin Melanie, came in contact with Sister Daisy and this group of kids. Many of us in Melanie's situation would feel heartbroken about it, would go home wishing there were something we could do, and maybe be a little more aware of our blessed lives. Melanie did all of those things. But she did something more. She decided to act. She, her family, and some friends in India created a non-profit charity called Gingham Project. And that is how I came to learn of Yogalaxmi, and was given the opportunity to support her personally.

The goals of Gingham Project, if I may be so bold, are these:

#1. to provide support for the orphans in Sister Daisy's care

and

#2. to help those and other children in the area of Tamil Nadu have the opportunity to get an education.

That second goal seems vast. I had not been previously aware that in many countries such as India, the government provides education to all kids, BUT in order to attend school a uniform is necessary. This policy effectively keeps the very poor from sending their children. So what do kids need? Uniforms. It's pretty simple, in reality. Uniforms and necessary school supplies are relatively cheap for our American budgets, about $20. For poor families in India, however, that may be months worth of their household income. In the aftermath of Cyclone Thane, which hit in early January, it's harder than ever for these families to provide uniforms.

Gingham Project is currently running a fund drive for uniforms. Their goal is to send 100 children to school this June ... the beginning of their school year. That's $2,000.00. They are about half-way there. Funds need to be raised by April 15. Is there some amount you can give? Is there some way to get your kids involved?

One personal plug for this organization ... Sometimes it can be scary to donate when you aren't sure what your money is really paying for. Melanie and her family and their associates in India don't recieve anything for their efforts. Heck, Mel's travel expenses come out of her pocket! And why travel expenses? Because everything that goes to these kids is hand delivered. No middle men. Melanie is planning a trip in May to deliver the uniforms and school supplies to the kids. In fact, it is a dear dream of mine to go with her. To see the area for myself, to meet the people we're serving. To wrap my arms around that darling Indian girl of mine.

Hopeful, happy, helpful. They are the words that Melanie uses to describe these kids. Poor beyond my comprehension, and yet radiant, inspirational. They have certainly inspired me from the other side of the world. Will they inspire you, too?

Be Mine, Valentine

My mom was the queen of construction paper cut-outs. In fact, it's a craft I inherited from her at a young age.

I remember these posters she made for the kitchen at our church when I was little. Basically a reminder to wash and put away all dishes, and another reminder not to leave food in the refrigerator. She'd made little rhymes for each, and cut-out "graphics" of plates and glasses on one and ketchup, mustard bottles and a pickle jar on the other. They hung in there for years, getting all faded the way that only construction paper fades. (In spite of those posters, there was a bottle of Tabasco sauce in that fridge for at least a year. Our Sunday School teacher would start every lesson off by passing that around our class and having us "take a whiff." He was a college kid.)

One of my mother's construction paper masterpieces was a box covered in red and decorated with intricately cut out white and pink hearts. It had "Be Mine, Valentine" written in beautiful script with a red maker. We had the same one every year. (Mom was nothing if not thrifty!) But it was kept well and gorgeous. Inside were a couple of Hershey bars, broken into their little lettered squares, each placed in brown candy papers. It was probably an inexpensive way to give my brother and I our Valentines, but I always thought of it as quite elegant, even as the critical teen-aged girl that I was.

The chocolates were not all. Every year Mom created new bright and colorful cards. They usually contained some poem she'd written on the theme, of course, of how perfect and wonderful we were. That's how she generally saw us. She loved my brother and I more than anything else in this world, and she made sure we knew that.

Cards creations continued for her grandchildren. They were usually included in a mailed box full of heart-shaped cookies. I found one set of those hand-made Valentines, from the year that #4 was a newborn. A poem for each child, in construction paper and marker. I put them into the kids' grandma memory boxes.

I wish I'd kept more of those cards over the years. Hopefully more will turn up over time.

Ready or Not ...

There is no way possible to prepare a toddler for the birth of their younger sibling. We all try. We buy books and videos (I suppose they are DVDs now) all about new babies and big brothers and sisters. We talk about the baby. We train the older child to point out where the baby is in mommy's tummy, to even kiss the tummy, and to talk about how excited they are for the new baby to come.

But let's face it. Toddlers have absolutely NO idea, really, what is coming. No matter how well they answer all the questions. No matter how often they kiss that belly. A baby comes, and it takes mommy's time, and toddler's old car seat and crib. It cries, and needs attention 24 hours a day. The big sister or brother's routine is turned on it's head ... just like the entire household. My #1 reacted by loving #2 to death, but acting out towards Larry and I. #2 tried very hard to pretend that #3 simply was not there. #3? Poor #3's life fell apart. She cried and was sad constantly. I thought we'd ruined her previously insanely cheerful disposition. (I've long since figured out that #3 will react strongly no matter which way her feelings lean. She'd just never before had reason to be so distraught.) #4, being the caboose, just chugged along, asserting his preferred position as the big black engine.

I find myself similarly blind-sided. I thought I'd had a handle on grief, that I understood what it would be like. With my husband's poor health for nearly our entire marriage, I've imagined more often than I care to admit what it would be like to lose him. I thank God that I haven't, and that he seems to be getting a handle on his immune system. Losing a parent can't be more traumatic than losing a spouse, right? And in the past two years, I of course had contemplated losing my mother. In some ways, I'd lost parts of having a mother when I became the caregiver. So when she passed, I had it all mapped out: get through the funeral, get through my grandmother's funeral, get through Christmas and the school holiday, and then I could mourn properly. I think I imagined needing a good week or two to earnestly fall apart, and then I could slowly rebuild back into normal life.

I didn't anticipate that holding in pain for several weeks would make me scared to finally let go. And I'm scared of mourning too much. It feels like it might drown me. I didn't anticipate that I'd feel such let down from all of my care giving duties. Or that, being a home-body sort of girl, I'd hate to be home. Or that when I'd then try to fill up my time with being out of the house, I'd become exhausted. That church would be one of the most difficult places to be. That trying to get back into a diet that I gave up on during the hospice phase would induce major emotional stress. I didn't think that I would just not be able to bring myself to start working on all of the projects I've not had time for over the past years.

When I do start to let go, to cry, to feel sad, there emerges the presence of this obstacle that I can't even name. It's something that I need to get over, get through ... I'm not sure. I can't decide what it is. It must be loss. But it feels like something more sinister than that. Something nebulous and concrete all at the same time. I have no idea how to defeat it. I had truly thought that when my mom died, the hard part was over. I'm starting to wonder if I was wrong about that.

In an effort to gain some control, I imagine that it would be helpful to go on a trip somewhere entirely unremarkable. All by myself. For several days, maybe even a week. I would cry and read and watch harmless movies and just lay there. I almost feel that if I could do that, then maybe I could be done and move on. But not only do I not have the opportunity for such an indulgence, I fear it would probably work out as well as my original grief schedule did. It's frustrating to be a rather self-aware person who finds herself unsure of how to proceed, of how to help myself through this. Nothing seems right. No course seems like the one I want to take.

To be honest, much of the time, I'm doing alright. In those moments, when I start to worry about all of this grief work, I wonder if I'm making a bigger deal out of it than I need or ought. I have always had a tendency to over-think things. But then a bad day will hit, and I'm pretty sure that I'm not just being dramatic.

I tried to enlist the aid of Elmo and Mr. Snuffleupagus in my kids' transitions from baby to big sister. They were entertaining, but ultimately ineffective. There's surely a plethora of resources out there to help in this transition of mine as well. I imagine they'll be more helpful than Sesame Street was with my two-year-olds. Eventually I may have to put on some big-girl pants and seek them out.

My New Best Friend

Did you ever read a book, and were just certain that if only the hero could meet YOU instead of the heroine, that filmmakers would have a much more interesting main character to work with than Bella Swan? Or watch TV, knowing that the only reason Jack Bauer wasn't knocking down YOUR door is because he was simply too darn busy saving America from terrorist-driven nuclear disaster to notice how hot you are?

Yeah, me neither. So the following is a totally new and different experience for me ...

I just finished reading "Is Everyone Hanging Out Without Me?" by Mindy Kaling of The Office fame, and I am pretty sure that if she ever met me, or even just happened once to be one of the 9 folks who stumble across my blog on a daily basis, that we would be best friends. Instantly. In fact, I'm so sure of it, that if I were technologically savvy enough, I'd find a pic of her and one of her college roommates and totally photoshop my face onto the face of her roommate, just to prove my point. (I'd enlist the aid of my virtual friend Kristina, but she's too busy preparing her Sunbeam handouts for Sunday. And asking my 15 year old for help seems too um, what's the word?, loser-y.)

I know, I know, you think we come from totally separate worlds. You're correct. Mindy's in Hollywood, I'm in Boise. She's 5 years younger than me. I'm a stay-at-home Mormon mom of four, she's a single working woman, who doesn't sound like she's ever been religious. She loves to shop, I hate to shop. She's a comedy writer, and I'm more of an introspective, commentary-on-daily-life-experiences writer. Plus, she gets paid to write, and I'd probably have to shell out good money to get broader readership. (Which currently consists almost entirely of my dad. And Kristina.) And, as I probably should have mentioned first, Mindy grew up in Eastern Mass, I grew up in Western Mass. That's right. Night and Day.

So what am I thinking? Well, it's really pretty straightforward. Mindy is really funny. I am a comedy connoisseur. I love intellectual, subtle humor. So she'd tell jokes, and I'd laugh hysterically. That right there is a basis of a great relationship. She'd never feel threatened by my success, which I think is another big plus in my favor.

Reading Mindy's memoir felt like staying up all night at a sleep-over or at Girls' Camp and hearing all about her life. We really connected. I get all of her ironies and sarcastic asides. I identify with her thinly veiled insecurities. She has a brother, I have a brother. She had 2 girlfriends in college, I had 2 in high school ... one of whom is named Kelly (just like Mindy's character on The Office). She thinks married people should be pals ... my husband and I are totally pals. She loves romantic comedies, I love romantic comedies. And we both note the disturbing trend of female romantic leads with BMIs of 4 who eat like linebackers. Crazy, huh?! We're practically twins.

Of course, the problem is social circles. We don't run in the same ones. So meeting is going to be hard. My idea is this: Mindy seems to be the sort of girl who'd make a habit out of googling herself now and then. If she does it soon, this post might pop up. After reading it, then browsing around my blog, reading all of my deep and thoughtful posts, intermixed with touches of humor, she will leave me a comment with her cell number, we start texting, and the rest, as they say, is history. I'm so excited, I can hardly breathe.

I better get back on that diet. I want to look great when I'm her guest at the next Emmys.

Product Review, Eastwood-style

Ritter Sport
Dark Chocolate with Whole Hazelnuts

THE GOOD: Super tasty dark chocolate & hazelnuts ... plenty of antioxidants, flavonoids, omega-3 fatty acids, protein, fiber, plant sterols and a lower glycemic index. Perfectly acceptable treat for someone watching her health.

THE BAD: The 3.5 oz bar qualifies as "about" 3 servings. (I'm not sure I even want to know what that implies.)

THE UGLY: Unless I happen to have two other people who enjoy dark chocolate and nuts with me at the moment, I am going to eat 3 servings. And it won't even take me super long to do. That's about 1/3 of my allotted calories for the day in a 20 minute sitting with an incredibly low food volume. Not my smartest move of the day.

Lost

For the past 21 months, my life has been consumed, and I haven't felt at liberty to discuss any of it on this blog, until now.

In February 2010, my mother was diagnosed with stage 3C endometrial cancer. We almost lost her then. I brought her home to live with me in Idaho, where she began aggressive treatment. By the summer, her cancer had metastasized. Stage 4. Still, the treatment was effective in containing and killing her cancer, and hormone treatments kept the tumors in her liver from growing. Unfortunately, that treatment was so aggressive that it finally killed her as well as her disease. She passed away November 30th.

My mom was a good, kind, hard working, faithful woman. Yet she and I had a complicated relationship ... at least from my perspective. We weren't very alike, we two, and those differences in our personalities and even, ironically, our upbringings made it difficult for us to really communicate or connect about anything deeply significant. Add to this having to take on the role of caregiver, and I spent two years in emotional conflict. I frequently had less than kind feelings toward my mother, and that always then made me also feel guilty. What kind of daughter, after all, would be angry at a mother who was suffering the way that she was? To cope, I became emotionally detached at a time when my mother needed emotional support more than ever.

The last two months of her life I was able to let go. It wasn't very noble of me. My mom had become so weakened, so sick, so dependent, so frankly pitiful, that it was now impossible to continue to harbor resentments. She'd had surgery and was in the hospital for a total of 7 1/2 weeks. She then came home with hospice care and was only home for 3 weeks before she was gone. The last week, she wasn't able to speak to me. Saturday and Sunday she'd been more alert, and though unable to answer back, she was looking at me with an intensity that I was certain she understood what I was saying. I told her how much I loved her, what a great mom she'd been. I told her about the things I admired about how she'd lived her life. The great teacher she was, the kind neighbor, the caring daughter. Without actually saying the words, I was able to say goodbye. That Sunday night she fell asleep and never woke up. On Wednesday morning she passed away.

It's been two weeks. Two weeks and one day as of this publishing. It's funny, I find myself counting the time as I did the ages of my newborns. I don't plan to, it's just how I am thinking about this. In some ways don't miss her yet, as if she's not really dead but only away. I'm used to being without my mother. For years we lived 3,000 miles apart and only saw each other for 10 days every year. But for the past nearly two, she's been right in my home, needing attention and care. So in other ways I feel a little lost, like I'm not quite sure what I'm supposed to be doing.

I assume that after the holidays, when the kids are back in school, my time will fill back up with whatever it is my time gets filled with. In the meantime, it's hard to go to bed when I should, and it's hard to want to stay awake during the day. It's hard to try to wrap my brain around this new motherless reality of mine, especially since, to be honest, I'm trying to avoid thinking of it as much as I can. There is a holiday to put on for my kids, and I can't seem to manage preparing for that and thinking about my mom at the same time. Processing may need to wait.

I keep thinking of the original lyrics to "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas:"

Someday soon we all will be together, if the fates allow.
Until then we'll have to muddle through somehow,
And have ourselves a merry little Christmas now.

Clearly, the fates didn't allow for one last Christmas with my mother. But I assume that as time passes that fact will seem less tragic. Perhaps even next year I won't feel like I'm muddling through. It may take longer.

Merry Christmas, dear friends.

In the Quiet Heart

I had a three distinct, consecutive experiences the other day that got me thinking about tolerance, understanding, and compassion.

#2 has had her learner's permit for two weeks. She is doing very, very well. However, she is still learning. It's why they don't just hand out licenses to kids on their birthdays. One of the things that is hard to do is to determine how much time you have to merge or turn into traffic. Because #2 is also still figuring out how much and when to accelerate, we are leaving very large buffers in car lengths when merging onto a busy road. That day we were sitting at a yield sign waiting for enough space when the guy behind us apparently decided that she'd missed some opportunities to go and honked. That sort of impatience is hard enough for me to blow off when I'm the driver, but when it's my kid, mama-bear began to emerge. I really wanted to let this guy have a piece of my mind. "Give my kid a break! She's been driving for two weeks! Come and see me in 7 years when your kid there starts to drive!" Of course, I couldn't do it. But man, did I ever want to.

We got to our destination, which was a frozen yogurt place, and ordered our last-day-of-summer treats. When #3 finished hers, she dumped her trash into a very small waste bin that was clearly intended for sample cups. Not the end of the world, but to avoid having my family fill the bin unnecessarily I mentioned to #1 that when she was finished she ought to use the bigger bin by the door. In response #1 threw a fit. She started yelling that she never used small trash cans and why was I telling her to use the big one--it was #3 who used the wrong can. She went on, and I tried to calm her down a little, but it's sometimes best just to drop it and let her tirade run it's course. As frequently happens in these cases, we got stared at by a woman who was also there with her teenage kids. It's not obvious by looking at #1 that she is mentally handicapped. And the sight of an almost 17 year old throwing a toddler-style fit is not pretty. I get that. But I always feel torn between wishing I could explain and feeling resentful that I should have to explain in order to have some grace extended to my child. So I (not very maturely) stared right back at the woman until she turned back around.

After dropping the kids home I needed to run to the store for school lunch supplies for the next morning. (I firmly believe in getting things done waaay in advance.) On the way, my gas started acting weirdly. I was loosing momentum and was getting ready to pull over to the shoulder just past a 4-way stop when my (11 month old) car died entirely. This left me without steering, so all I could do was coast to the stop-sign. I immediately turned on my hazards and literally within about 20 seconds two guys had each hopped out of their vehicles to help me push the car to the side of the road. I called Larry for help, and while I waited for him to arrive about every 5th car to pass during this rush-hour time asked if I needed help or a phone or gas or if help was on it's way. It was exceptional. Most of these folks were probably on their way home from being gone all day and yet were willing to take time to potentially give more time to help a stranger.

Standing there on the side of the road, I started to think about the difference between these situations and how others responded to my family and I. It wasn't hard to pinpoint. It all came down to the hazard lights. People instantly knew that I was in distress. They responded as I believe most of us would. There's no 14-year-old-new-driver light for my car. There's no severe-mental-retardation light for my daughter. And it didn't take long for me to think of the fact that perhaps there was a light that the impatient driver behind me was wishing he could flash, so that I could understand his mood or sense of urgency. Sure, he could have extended some compassion, but then so could have I toward him in return.

We never know who's husband is chronically ill, or who is care-giving a mother with cancer. Who battles anxiety, or who has kids with special needs. It might be me. But it might be the woman eating yogurt at the table next to me, or the guy driving a car behind me. And if it's not any of those concerns, it could very well be something else.

I love the LDS hymn "Lord, I Would Follow Thee." One of the verses sings,

Who am I to judge another when I walk imperfectly?
In the quiet heart is hidden sorrow that the eye can't see.

And in the next,

I would be my brother's keeper; I would learn the healer's art.
To the wounded and the weary, I would show a gentle heart.

It's that gentle heart that all of us yearn for as we muddle through life. And it's the gentle heart that many of us, myself most definitely included, need to practice giving more freely.

Happy New Year

The following post was originally posted by myself on my friend Chris's blog in September 2009. I thought it was worth reposting here.

---

My father was a university student when I was born. I was in the third grade when he received his PhD. I went straight to college myself after graduating high school, and got married during my junior year. My husband started a master's program as I was finishing my bachelor's degree. And my two oldest children were in school when he finally decided not to pay to write a dissertation for a doctorate in history that he no longer planned to use. My oldest child is about to start ninth grade and my baby, second.

My entire life has revolved around the traditional school calendar.

I guess it makes sense then that I always feel a greater sense of renewal and starting afresh on September 1st than I do in January. In September we start new routines, we advance grades, we buy new clothes, new backpacks, and new supplies. In September we make new friends and reacquaint ourselves with old ones. We start new sport seasons in new, larger cleats. We are assigned new teachers and occasionally adjust to a whole new school. In January we merely pick up where we left off before the Christmas Holidays. And occasionally make resolutions that have generally been forgotten by February.

Last year was a stressful one for my family. We moved 900 miles away, built a house and a warehouse, faced a family tragedy and business and personal financial struggles. Many good things happened, too, and overall I feel blessed. But I approach this new school year ready to move on. I look forward to a year where we are settled into our surrounding environs and routines. Where the stressors we encounter are every-day, garden variety stresses. Where we have only one house payment and our business is all located in one state under one enormous roof. I look forward to getting more involved again at my kids' schools. As the four of them will be spread among three campuses, this should keep me plenty busy.

Just for good measure, I'll throw in here that I look forward to weighing about 15 pounds less than I currently do. But I'm sure that effort will be abandoned by October.

I Simply Remember My Favorite Things ...

I really want to get back to posting more. Unfortunately, much of what goes through my head these days is a little bit of a downer. (See my last post ...) So, in an effort to show that I do in fact appreciate that my life is not absolutely horrible, I am posting a list of some of my biggest blessings at the moment. It's not the sort of thing I usually do. I run the risk of sounding cheesy, or worse, braggy. Today it's a risk I'll take. With a smile on my face.

I am so excited for #3. She is starting middle school next week, and with it, orchestra. Being a former band-geek myself, I love when my kids are involved with music, especially at school. She's been taking guitar for about 5 years now, and is adding violin. Her guitar teacher also teaches violin, and so their focus is shifting for a while until she starts to get the new instrument down. She's had 3 violin lessons now, and is doing really well. YAY, #3!

We've jokingly called this summer "the summer of #2." It's not entirely true, but a great deal of time has been spent by me on the road taking #2 to drivers' ed and soccer. The great news is that she's passed drivers' ed and is now in possession of a learner's permit. That's also the scary news. But honestly, it's not too bad. She does pretty well. And come late February, we will have another driver at our disposal, which will be cause for much rejoicing. The greatest news is that #2 made her high school JV soccer team. After being cut last year, she worked her little tail off, improved vastly, and is so excited to be part of the team. They are a great team, too. It's so much fun to watch her play in a stadium.

Along similar lines, #4 is taking a break from soccer. This is really a huge relief. It's a break for our schedule, and it will be good for him, as well. #4 likes sports on a recreational kind of level, but his true interests lie elsewhere. It will be good to pursue things like music and drama.

I am taking a vacation in a couple of weeks. It won't be long, but I'll be with a couple of my favorite people in a beautiful city, and I cannot wait.

It's almost fall. My favorite season. I'm really having to hold back pulling out the autumn decor. Sweater weather for me is as comforting as cocoa. Apples and pumpkins, rusty foliage and chrysanthemums. I hope the weather this year doesn't skip from summer to winter. I'll be crossing my fingers.

Then there is Yogalaxmi. She deserves her very own post. Be watching for more on her ...

Finally, no list of my blessings is ever complete without a little bit on my life partner. I would love to say that I got such a great husband because I knew what I was doing when I picked Larry. But let's face it--I was only 19. All I knew was that I couldn't stand the thought of continuing on with life without him. I lucked out. I got a talented, intelligent, hard-working, funny, responsible guy. There is no one on this planet who I'd rather spend time with. He is incredibly supportive of me, and he needs my support as well. He has also taken on responsibility for my mother. He does it willingly and patiently and selflessly. Today I am thankful that he was born 41 years ago. Here's to another 41, at least!

Paralysis

Since I can remember (or at least since I've been old enough to have deadlines) there has existed for me a threshold of busy-ness beyond which I am unable to continue to function. Past that level I become virtually paralyzed by an overwhelming fear that nothing on my list can possibly be accomplished on time. And I do nothing. I am aware that this response is entirely self-defeating and ultimately self-fulfilling. Nothing will get done if I am not moving forward. The only reasonable course of action in these situations is to get to work. But it is crushingly difficult for me to do that when the list is too long. Some readers will not understand this at all. Others will totally get it. Brains are wired differently, and I believe this issue may be a symptom more on the anxiety-depression/functional acceptance spectrum rather than the hard-working/laziness spectrum.

Recently, I have become aware that this tendency of mine spills into other areas of my life beyond the "to do" lists. In fact, this post, which has been brewing and evolving in my brain for weeks now, was originally going to be about this sort of paralysis in relation to my body-image issues. Exciting, I know. To my credit, however, I did have a clever title and lots of little self-deprecating one-liners all ready to go. It may have been entertaining after all ...

I digress. As I pre-composed this post in my mind, I realized that at the moment my lack of inner peace involves SO much more than the number on the scale. I see areas everywhere where I am lacking, and where I'm really not headed in any sort of direction to improve, and I find it depressing. I am a Wife, a Mother, a Caregiver-Daughter, a Young Women President, a Dog Owner, a Gardener, an Amateur Artist/Musician/Seamstress, a Visiting Teacher, a Friend, a Blogger, a Reader, a Homemaker, a Chicken-Keeper, a Daughter of God, a Person with a Body. Without getting in the boring minutia of my pitiful life, I will simply say that the only role that I am not performing at a sub-par level is Reader. I am 6 books, or 11%, ahead of schedule to complete my goal of reading 52 books this year. Yay for me. Everywhere else my performance leaves much to be desired.

The list is too big. I am overwhelmed. And paralyzed.

In regards to my weight, I've been toying with the idea of how to *gasp* learn to be happy with the weight I am. I seriously don't know where to begin with that, but I feel like something has to give, and this is the only thing I see that can. Really though, it's a similar problem with the "everything else" part of my list. Is there a way for me to be at peace with who I am without giving up? I believe that we constantly need to be growing ... striving to be better. But for me, this comes with a super-sized side order of guilt and stress.

I am more than vaguely aware that the answer to this question has it's roots in prayer, in spiritual study, in service. Yet that awareness is easier for me to come by than to follow through on at this stage. The list is too big. I am overwhelmed. And paralyzed.

Ironically, it's the to-do-list type of activities which often overwhelm me that are keeping me from crawling under a rock at the moment. None of them takes emotional energy to perform. Drive to driver's ed? Check. Do the laundry? Check. Organize another YW activity? Check. And of course: Read? Check, check, check.

As I imagine comments to this post, I am tempted to turn them off. But instead of doing that (which frequently seems a little dramatic to me) I will just say that I'm not really looking for pity, or for solutions (unless they involve books and/or chocolate). If there's anything I need at the moment, it's camaraderie. Just so I know I'm not crazy. Or if I am crazy, to know that I'll have a lot of friends with me in the asylum.

Not Your Minister's Easter Post

Happy Holy Week. It's a time for renewal, reflection, re-dedication, and mass quantities of chocolate. (Ugh. When will I EVER get my eating habits back on track?)

One of my favorite Easter stories comes from my aunt, who had a woman in her congregation take a stand about the commercialization of the holiest of holidays. No Easter goodies for her kids that year, only celebration of the atonement and resurrection. Her young son's plea? (You have to hear this in your mind coming from a little Southern Cali boy with an inexplicable New Jersey accent.) "Mommy, can't we at least have a chocolate Jesus on a cross?"

Well, we do try in our home to focus on the Savior as much as possible at this time. But there is no denying that what my kids look most forward to are new Sunday outfits, filled baskets, chocolate, orange rolls, dying boiled eggs, chocolate, the cousin egg-hunt on Saturday, and of course, chocolate. They won't be disappointed. We'll have it all. And then some. (Do I make the lime cheesecake for Sunday dessert or the carrot cake? And if I do the cake, do I make it into cute bunny cakes or cupcakes?)

But one thing I've never done with my kids is perpetuate the Easter Bunny myth. I just can't. You may ask why not. That would be an especially understandable query if you know me well enough to know that I love the Santa stuff and Tooth Fairy fun. We are nearly over loosing teeth chez nous, but I still won't admit to my kids aloud that there is no Santa. And they can't admit it to me either, because, as they are warned, Santa doesn't bring presents to kids who don't believe in him.

The thing is, I find the Easter Bunny idea to be kinda, well, creepy. I have nothing against bunnies in general. Nothin's cuter than a little lop running around your house. Bunny Peeps? My favorite shape. Let 'em get a little stale and those crunchy ears are the best, Jerry, the BEST. Bunny cakes were already addressed above. Chocolate bunnies? Do I even need to respond to this one?

But an over-grown rabbit, who may or may not sport formal-wear, hiding baskets and boiled eggs that weren't even his own but that *I* remember dying (yeah, this issue goes waaay back)? Well, that's over the top. I think I may prefer an encounter with an R.O.U.S. because I know for certain that I should attack on sight.

As a kid there were several years that I tried to stay up to catch the Easter Bunny in the act. I was skeptical, frankly, as well as creeped out. I often wanted to see Santa as well, yet I don't remember ever feeling the need to prove something--I just wanted to hug him. (I guess for me a magical little old man with reindeer and a sleigh was a much easier story to swallow.) Those Easter-eves I always fell asleep before the Bunny's arrival, and I wasn't ever sure if I was disappointed or relieved to have missed him.

One spring, when I was about 16, I actually got a gig as the Easter Bunny for a week or so at our local mall. Strangers all over Western Mass have photos of me with their kids and babies in boxes up in their attics. Of course, no one can tell it's me. I wouldn't even be able to tell you if it was me, thanks to that top-heavy, hot, Lysol-coated, condensation-filled helmet of a torture chamber they called a "mask." That thing was brutal. And it was hard to see out of. You couldn't look down. Most of the kids sitting on your lap are below eye-level, and it was hard to see where they were or what they were doing. I about freaked when I had to hold a several week old infant for photos. I was just glad she was too young to roll over. Also, the Easter Bunny doesn't talk. So I just got to give hugs and pat heads and wave like a beauty queen on a float. That was harder than one might think. Not only could I not see these kids ... I couldn't answer them. And the ones who weren't screaming were asking lots of questions.

When I became a mom, and #1 was getting old enough to start the Bunny thing, I just couldn't do it. And really, I didn't even need to. We always had the big egg hunt on Saturday with our cousins, and everyone knew it was the uncles out there hiding the eggs. (Which, I suppose, could be it's own brand of creepy.) So on Sundays, I just hid the baskets. And that was that. No freakish rabbit. Same great treats. Win-win.

I'll be interested to see what my kids do when they become parents. Maybe they'll go over-board with the Bunny since they had deprived childhoods. Or maybe I'll have passed on that particular neurosis to them, and we'll have a second generation of Bunny-free* Easter celebrations.

*chocolate and marshmallows not excluded

All is Safely Gathered In (or: No Use Crying Over Dry Milk)

There is an LDS cannery in Garden City, ID, just west of Boise. In the summer they can produce. In the winter, it's meat. Since we've moved here I've had the opportunity to serve there 4 or 5 times.

This is not something I love to do. In fact, I rather hate it. But our ward is assigned shifts to fill, and even though we are a huge unit, we seem to have trouble filling our slots. I have the time, my kids are all in school, and I am capable. Largely out of guilt, therefore, I sign up. There is indeed some satisfaction in helping to produce food that will be used for folks in need, some of whom I am sure I know and love. And if someday those folks happen to be my family and I ... well I am sure my service will take on additional meaning.

Yesterday I was scheduled to work from 12:30 to 4:30 canning beef chunks. It's as lovely an experience as it sounds. It's smelly and wet and greasy and cold. Or it's hot, if you're working by the steam. It's also deafening. Even with earplugs. Time drags on like it does no where else. I was downright whine-y to my husband about having to go. But I couldn't not--it just isn't in me to flake if I know I'm flaking. So I bundled up in a flannel shirt, wool socks, and rain boots, and set off.

I've always thought that the blessings of service would be severely diminished if that service was given grudgingly, which fact crossed my mind as I complained to Larry. Yet, in spite of a poor attitude, I was handed some pretty nice blessings. First, I was asked to run quality control. This consisted of taking three samples of cans packed with beef before water is added, weighing each can and taking an average, and then doing the same with three sealed cans, water added. I recorded this information along with the time and the lot number every 15 minutes. Not cold, not wet, not quite as stinky. No sore back, knees or feet. Of course, that meant that I only was productive for about 3.5 minutes in every 15, but even so, time was segmented in a way that made it move faster for me. I was extremely grateful.

The next blessing, I'd never have anticipated. Every time you serve in the cannery, you receive a blue card. This card entitles you to purchase canned items from the cannery. Generally, you are only allowed to purchase only bulk items which you can yourself. I needed some bulk dry milk, so I went in after my shift and bought that and a case of canned beef chunks. One of the workers there helped me load my order into my car, and on his way back into the warehouse said to me (here comes that next blessing), "Good luck with your food storage."

That shouldn't have made me cry. Should it have? No. I'm pretty sure not. But it did, because he'd said it with meaning, like he was really concerned for the welfare of my family. And so am I. We used up most of our food storage before moving to Idaho, and once we got here weren't in a great financial position to rebuild those stores. We have a lot of expired #10 cans, too, that need replacing. It's a big job ahead, and it's a goal of ours to get that in order this year. I have been making some baby steps, but it's time to work in earnest. For some reason, this little comment, made by a stranger, has pushed my determination to do so to the next level. Those six simple words were an enormous blessing.

I'm glad I went.