Listing

I tend to take on too much. I mean, don't we all? To be honest, this "too much" that I take on is not only in the category of service to organizations outside of my home. There are many optional things that I decide are necessary (see Nov. 1, 06 post). We have too large a house, which can become impossible to keep entirely clean. I also am a procrastinator, which, though I am not convinced is a bad thing, certainly adds some urgency to my tasks at hand. If you are ever privileged to hear one of my kids pray, you will likely hear a request for help in "getting done the things we need." That, I know, comes from my example. I frequently find myself overwhelmed with life.

So in an attempt to alleviate some of the effects of this stress, I make lists. I often start the list with something I have done already that day, like "take a shower." That way when the list is completed, I can cross off an item straight away and feel that I'm on a roll. The more I have to do, the more routine tasks I add in minute detail. "Brush teeth, get dressed, make beds, finish laundry, pick up kids, feed dog, make dinner, check mail." This is a manifestation of my motto: "Nothing motivates me to loose weight like weight loss." In other words, nothing will motivate me to be productive quite like getting things done, even if those things are somewhat invented.

There becomes a point, however, when I am so overwhelmed that I neglect to make a list. I simply set out on my own, trying to get things accomplished. I then would appear to an onlooker to have ADD, bouncing from one thing, one room to another, frantically starting on one thing, remembering something else, and never quite finishing any of it. I am in over my head to absolute distraction. If this goes on for too long I become paralyzed.

I used to think that pulling Pride & Prejudice or Sense & Sensibility off of the shelf and spending a couple of days in Regency England rather than millennial Southern California was horrible of me. Late dinners, husband and kids repeatedly put off. Sometimes even headaches. No list worked on, let alone completed. It was an escape. My little security blanket to pull out when the going got too tough. And the tough are supposed to just get going, right?

Last month, however, my acupuncturist pointed out to me that reading for a day or two or even a week was a pretty benign way to escape. I must have looked puzzled because she started rattling off more destructive vices like drugs and alcohol. I hadn't thought of that. I felt a little better about myself, even a little tougher.

As for today, I am stressed. There is a lot not only to do right now, but to juggle in the upcoming weeks. Time to make myself a good list. Maybe even one of my weekly lists on a piece of lined paper. (Please don't suggest a planner. I've tried several times. They just don't work for me.)

TO DO
Monday:
x shower
x empty dishwasher
x post on blog . . .

Royal Regrets

When Larry and I got married, his career goal was to become a rock star. He'd spent the previous summer submitting a demo tape to different producers, some of whom wanted a follow up video. We still own several editions of "The Songwriters' Market." Larry promised me that someday he'd take me to the Grammies. That winter and spring, I went to every gig his band had, the "groupie" with the ever-growing pregnant belly.

I think it was the pregnant belly, not the new wife, that caused Larry to reconsider. The rock star, recording, touring life would not be easy on a family. Gratefully, my man is a man and he wanted to be a good father, husband, and provider more than he longed to perform. The pathway to our current good life has been an interestingly curvy one starting at graduate school with aims for history professor/researcher, ending at business man manufacturing vitamins and dietary supplements.

While Larry may at times have more, I have only one regret. The Grammies. I really wanted to go. I wanted to dress up like Audrey Hepburn does Cinderella. With perfectly coiffed hair, flawless make-up, dripping in sparkly diamonds, I wanted to be there to kiss my husband before he walked up on that stage. The camera would pan to me as he thanked me for my love and encouragement. On his arm for the rest of the night, I'd feel and look just like a princess.

I know this sounds very 7 years old. But I believe that anyone who knew me at 7 will realize how serious this princess dream is for me. Now and then I may sport a tiara at Disneyland, but for the most part, day to day, I function normally, pushing those aspirations deep down. I have become a jeans, tee-shirt, and hiking boots kind of gal. I am satisfied with my jane-of-all-trades, capable abilities, and not-bad-for-a-mother-of-four (if I do say so myself) decent looks. I get butterflies when my husband thanks me for my love and encouragement in a more intimate family setting.

But once a year comes the red carpet, and women, bigger than life, thanking the Academy. It's not just the Grammies, it's the Oscars. I watch those women, and I watch those in the audience supporting their husbands. Though their jewels may be borrowed and their breasts full of silicon; though any other time of the year I couldn't be paid enough to trade lives with a single one--just for that one night I do regret that the closest I get to being a princess is my Aurora snow globe collection.

Ah well. It's over now, and I can return to my happily peasant life for yet another year.

Doing the Deed

These days if you asked me what my least favorite household duty was, I'd answer Grocery Shopping. By that, of course, I do not mean picking up a few things at the market. I mean full-flegded, spend two to three hundred dollars, need help back to the Suburban, Grocery Shopping.

I guess the thing that makes it so awful is that it's not just shopping. It's so much more.

The very first step is figuring out a day and time when I will have time to complete this task, and gear myself up for it emotionally.

I then start off the actual process the night before with cookbooks, note pad, and pen in hand. And I write Menus. I don't do other meals besides dinner, and I don't even include side dishes. Only main courses. Only seven to ten days worth. But it takes seemingly forever. Sometimes if the kids are awake I make them each pick one. If I make Larry do one too, there are 5 down. Problem is that those five are generally some shape of pasta or bread with tomato sauce and cheese on top. So the lucky first kid asked gets his/her choice of spaghetti or whatever. The others get, "We've already got that, think of something else."

Having the Menus written I feel I've climbed Mount Olympus. Then comes the writing of the Grocery List. This is the easiest of the Grocery tasks. I go back through the recipes and make sure any ingredients which are not pantry items are included on the list. Sometimes I try to save time by writing the items as I write the Menu, but then one or both of two things may happen. I invariably forget to do it for one meal, and therefore leave out something odd like capers, or I run out of space, put the item in a weird spot, and miss it at the store.

I guess I may need to explain that. I know my store pretty well. I write my Shopping List in the order I will hit it in the store, more or less. At the very least the item will be within the category of it's correct aisle. If don't have a good feel for how much, let's say, "pasta-sauce-beans-soups-rices" I am getting, and I run out of space, I will put that item elsewhere. While Shopping, if I don't miss the item entirely, I will certainly have to head back several aisles at the store, which really busts my hump, especially if the cart is getting heavy and hard to turn.

Next a 25 minute drive to the store.

Then I dig in to the Shopping. I always hope I am there at a perfect time to mostly miss the early, elderly, slow shoppers, the hurried lunch-time shoppers, and the shelf re-stockers. I decide whether I'd rather make more room in the cooler for milk and oj or make an extra trip to the market once I'm up the hill. I buy five apple juices. I make selections at the fish counter. I run back to get the onion soup mix that I forgot. I try to remember which cereal #1 was complaining that we were out of. My cart is almost overflowing by the time I hit produce. But I heap it on, sometimes fighting back tears, and wanting so badly to be in the Check Out Line.

"You think we'll need another cart?" "Definitely." I hear this exchange every time. People shy away from the lane where I am unloading. Yep. We eat a lot of food, us 6. Once everything is on the belt, and I've told the cashier about the case of Arrowhead under my basket, I can breathe for about 90 seconds. Then we caravan out to the car. "No thanks, I'll load the car myself--I'm a little picky," I tell the bagger with half of my groceries. My pickiness is actually the job of sorting through the bags to find the meat, dairy, and frozen items that need to go into the cooler. I used to request that the bagger keep those separate. All that got me was building anger as I STILL had to look through for the deli turkey and sour cream that was stuck in with the granola bars and chicken broth.

25 minute drive home. Sometimes I have to stop here for gas. Often I am fighting car sickness the last ten minutes of the drive.

Unloading the car is a bear. Our main floor is actually on the second floor of our house. So, lots of stairs. Luckily, the kitchen is right off the entry. But still back and forth, back and forth, up and down the stairs. The LAST thing I now want to do is put Groceries away for 1/2 hour. Some days I don't even have time for that. I just unload the cooler and head to pick up the kids. Some days I can get help from #2, 3, or 4. And there have been day when I'm putting Groceries away after dinner or the next morning after breakfast. Luckily, I think those are rare.

And ten to fourteen days later, I'm looking at my calendar, and my emptying fridge and thinking, "Can I make it with just a little trip to the market? Maybe tomorrow night we can just order pizza."

LEARN ENGLISH, PEOPLE!!

Not to worry, this is not a gripe session about illegal immigrants. (I could very well do that, but at this point I feel that the language issue is one of lesser importance in that debate.) This is about good ol' American nationals who have been here for generations but have somewhere, I assume, skipped way too many English classes--for generations.

I realize that I live in the land of milk and honey and misused adverbs, but even I was stunned the other day by a customer service phone call I participated in. I'd come home to a message on my machine about furniture that was ready for pick-up. We'd purchased furniture from this store, but there was nothing remaining that had not been picked up or delivered long ago. So already, someone had screwed up. And I was bracing myself for having to tell the situation over several times, as businesses never seem to hire the brightest bulbs for their customer service.

Well, having called the number that was left for me, and being redirected (not through a transfer--I had to REDIAL and pick a different option) I was on the line with a young lady for whom I again explained that I expected no furniture. She then queried, "You got no service call scheduled or nothing?"

Silence.

She asked if I was still there. Yes, I was there. In a slight state of shock. I strained to answer her, fighting the urge to correct her. Didn't she stand in need of correction? But was it my place? If not mine, whose? Thankfully, the conversation ended relatively quickly after that. It was truly difficult for me to converse with an adult who would unabashedly use such grammar at all, let alone during the business day. As a professional. If I ran across a professional Rocky Balboa impersonator, that would be a different story. That would be fun.

#3 comes home with all sorts of 1st grade "language." And right or wrong, it takes me 10 or more repetitions of "butt" in her giggly little potty voice for me to register that I need to take action. "Ain't got no . . .," only one.

I'm no grammar snob. I'll let my participles dangle. I'll end a thought with a preposition. I use the American "you" in place of the more proper "one." I even find incomplete sentences can add interest and emphasis. My spoken "been" rhymes with "zen," not "seen."

But please, if you're working with the public, at least be able to PRETEND you made it past 1st grade. Or you may hear some potty language comin' from me.

On Age

There are several cassette tapes of me recorded when I was young. This was my graduate student family's answer to most people's home movies. One of them records me, on or near my 5th birthday, being interviewed by my father. I discuss in a very serious voice my concerns about my readiness to take on the new age. I think this was the first year I'd noticed the correlation between age and maturity. I felt unfit to advance--no older than I'd felt as a four-year-old last week. I evaluated my actions and feelings and came up short.

Nearly ever since, however, I have felt older than my age. Sometimes only a year or two, sometimes many years. People generally assume I'm older than I am. Most of my friends are older than me, some a decade older. Now rather than coming up short in my behavior, I come up short in age. I desire a validity of years that continually eludes me.

I thought being in my 20s would provide my needed fix. I was a grown-up, a wife and a mother. But then I was thrilled to turn 30. I no longer had to be embarrassed that I was just in my 20s--practically a kid still. Now I'm pinning for my late 30s or even my 40s to be taken seriously as an established adult with experience and maybe even some wisdom. I can't say I'm excited about straggling grey hairs or the beginnings of crepe-y skin around my eyes and neck, but there is certainly a way in which it is something to be proud of, something to perhaps mention in conversation if the topic arises.

I suppose that for me the grass is always greener a few years older than my current age, odd as that sounds. But maybe that's a better vice than being continually in search of prolonged or returned youth. After all, I will get older. I need no fountain or elixir, only patience and time.

Resolution Absolution

Happy New Year! It's so clichéd for people to remark that time flies more quickly the older you get. But, man, it's true. Last New Year's Day was on Sunday, and I recall a conversation I had that day like it was yesterday. Or at least only a month or two ago.

My friend Leslie and I were getting music ready for Sacrament Meeting. That is one of the several responsibilities we share in our little branch. As she played prelude music, we wished each other a happy coming year. Leslie confessed that she didn't really make New Year's resolutions in January. September, or the beginning of the new school year, was when she was more likely to feel a beginning and set goals for herself.

Although I am quite sure there was a time I did not, I do not recall ever NOT making New Year resolutions. And last year I sheepishly told my dear friend that I had only one goal. To loose weight. I had looked it up online and was going to the local Weight Watchers meeting on Tuesday.

As I explained to Leslie, each previous year my goals consisted of such things as: Be more organized; Read my scriptures daily; Keep a cleaner house; Have more patience; Exhibit greater faith; Be a more consistent Visiting Teacher; Don't yell so much; Exercise 5 days a week . . . I always had around 3 to 5 goals, written down, ready to better myself. I never went more than 3 weeks working on these changes. So in 2006, I figured, if I couldn't be a better, more organized person at least I could be cute.

That was a hard goal. It took a level of discipline and control that is not generally part of my character. But I met it. By mid-September I had lost 30 pounds. Pleased with my looks, certainly. But even more than that, pleased that for the first time in my LIFE I made a New Year's resolution and kept it. It still seems like a miracle. Like someone else must have stepped in and done it for me. For I may be a lot of things, but I am not resolute.

Well, thinking of resolutions today, I figure making that goal last year should get me off the hook for a while. I made that goal at 32. So can I forget about goals until I'm 48? Until I'm 64? Do I only get a year or two off? I'm not sure. But let me tell you--excepting the ongoing goal I now have of maintaining this weight--I'm not writing down a thing for 2007.

Tradition

When I think back on my growing-up years, my Christmas memories are filled with tradition. The night after we decorated our tree, my mom would let my brother and I get our sleeping bags and fall asleep under the lit tree, which looked very magical in a darkened room looking up through the branches. We made Swedish Tea Rings to bring to friends. We always had an advent calendar until the year we got one with chocolate in it. Having had the chocolate once, well. . .you can't go back to a dorky picture or saying, can you? From then on we burned an advent candle nightly and each had a small peppermint patty that were kept in a little red tin with a green lid.

When I was littler, my Christmas Eve was spent at my mom's and we would sit by candle and tree and lamp light. My mom had year round hurricane lamps hanging in several places in the living room and we always used lots of candles in our yule-tide decorations. We'd have Christmas music playing and my mom would read some of the Christmas story-books that we owned. Nothing felt more appropriate to me on that holiest of nights--the candles created such a soft glow it was in my mind as close as I'd ever get to a midnight mass.

As we got older, the holiday routine changed. We spent Christmas Eve with my Dad and came home Christmas Day. Those Christmas Eves were the best. Make-Your-Own-Sandwiches was the dinner menu, and then we'd decorate the tree to the sounds of Johnny Mathis crooning Winter Wonderland. I'd often have brought my flute, and would play, and we'd also sing carols accompanied by my dad on guitar. Christmas morning was merry and bright with stockings filled with oranges, chocolate and toothbrushes.

The first year we were married, I was frustrated with the lack of any traditions practiced. #1 was 2 months old and Larry seemed uninterested in doing anything special for someone who couldn't focus on anything more than a few feet away. He was probably right, and I am not sure whether I was anxious to start traditions for my daughter or prolong my own childhood another season or two.

13 years later we are steeped in what I hope the kids will fondly remember as a traditional season. We sing carols with Larry on the guitar. We have special Family Home Evening lessons on the Savior. We decorate the house, and bake, and read, and listen to music. We prepare gifts for teachers and friends and gather goodies from our baking for our neighbors. Even wrapping gifts feels special to me when we all do it together. I am not sure which of the things we do will stick out in the kids' memories, which things they will try to bring into their own families when they are grown. It's funny how the insignificant or small things are at times the ones with the most meaning. For me, I am always sure that my children's stockings each contain, if little else, a toothbrush.

Turkey Eating

I grew up with Thnksgivings at home with my mom, my brother, often two missionaries, and sometimes a person or two with no other place to go. It was small, but meaningful, and certainly very yummy. My mom made little traditions to make us stop and think about the meanng of the day. Two days after Thanksgiving, we'd feast again with my Dad and my stepmom. This generally included salmon loaf, apple pie, and Grandma's banana-pineapple Jell-o salad. At least one year, Amy made a delicious pumpkin ice cream pie, that I think was a recipe from her mom.

As great as that all may sound, I used to long to be part of a bigger crowd. My dad's family all met together every year in San Diego, and I thought that must be the way to have a holiday. Four, six, seven people--that was not quite in the category of "celebration" to me.

The first time that I experienced one of these San Diego affairs was when I was a sophomore in college. I came down from Utah with a cousin and her family and stayed with my uncle. That was a fun trip, but the fun had more to do with the time I spent with two female cousins and just being away from school. The actual dinner was interesting. These events more closly resemble a ward pot luck than a Thanksgiving dinner. It's in a chapel--boys are shooting hoops in the cultural hall, girls are watching them from the stage and little kids are running amok. Parents and grandparents are in the kitchen warming up and putting the finishing touches on what has been prepared at home. A buffet table set up in the hall leads to giant round tables in what I am guessing is the Relief Society room, decorated in theme. The food is much better than your regular pot luck, I will grant, but for me the dinner is just overwhelming and uncomfortable.

My first Thanksgiving after getting married, we already had one kid and had moved about two miles from my in-laws. That first one was rough. Men watched football, and women did food and clean-up. I had a six-week old baby, and was pretty miserable. Those family events got a little bettter, then a little worse. As more people joined the family by marriage or birth, my mother-in-law felt the need for more organization. There was a time when there were games and crafts for the kids and crafts for the women all scheduled and set up like some mass homemaking meeting/activity day. She's never organized anything for the men--they always have football. This has let up a bit, but there is usually some craft involved still--I hear this year we're doing little glass snowmen. But the only way to avoid going to Larry's family dinner is to decide to go to the San Diego one instead. We've done it a few years, but honestly, now that I have recipes for both Uncle Tim's mashed potatoes and Grandma's orange rolls, I have little need for that kind of Thanksgiving.

My dream is to do the big day up here. Just us, maybe some friends. I could make MY stuffing and MY yams and MY pumpkin pie--maybe even the ice cream pie. The mountain scenery would remind me that I am thankful for where I live, and sitting at a table with my kids would reinforce how grateful I am for my family. My house would smell good, my kitchen would be warm. My slippers would be just down the hall and my sofa would be waiting only for me to finish my turkey. It would indeed be small--six, eight, maybe twelve people. And that would now be my definitave celebration.

Flipping the Coin

Well, it happened again tonight. I think it stuck out to me because it's been a while. The kids and I were leaving Del Taco after a quick dinner on a busy night when a man leaving right behind us said, "Wow, lucky you finally got your boy!" And you know, he said it in such a friendly, laughing way as if he were really happy for me, that I mustered every ounce of restraint I own to not only not be snotty, but to be kind and laughing in my response.

Usually, up here, I am more likely to get the "are those all yours" types of comments. I hate those too. I'm not sure which I hate more, but I think it's the boy comment. I am baffled as to why people think that I must have been "trying" for a boy. Do people really do that in America? I mean honestly, who past the age of 11 really thinks they are going to get one boy and one girl and one dog and have the perfect little family? My dad could tell me exactly who. Among other studies, he has looked into people's perceptions of the probability of getting certain configurations of genders of kids. And people tend to forget that every go is another flip, another 50-50 shot, regardless of previous births. So maybe some people do keep trying for that one they're missing. Me, I try for a kid.

My cousin tries for a kid too. She's successfully gotten five. She may even want more. The five happen to be boys. Imagine the comments SHE gets. She told me once that she and her husband have discussed how if they do get a girl at this point, they must have at least one more child past that, just so people won't make the silly assumptions they do with me. I guess I could have had another, and avoided some headaches. The problem was that when I got my boy, I wasn't trying for a kid at all. I was faithfully trying for NO kid. But let's face it, unless one of you is sterilized, it could happen. It did. And now we are sterilized. No more flips. But do I owe this information to nosy strangers? Clearly not.

Don't get me wrong. I am so glad I have my boy. I feel that God gave me that gift in spite of my selfish attitude. Boys are so different and so fun, and that seems especially so after three very girly girls.

I just wish people would mind their own business. I try to mind mine. I try to an extreme. I even worry that I come off as unfriendly sometimes because of it. Tell me any information you want me to know but I'll be darned if I'm going to ask, because your coin flipping is of no concern to me.

The Price of Democracy

I volunteererd at the school Book Fair this morning. This meant that I had to get up eary, shower, make lunches, and get the girls and myself out of the house about 20 minutes ahead of schedule. Larry, who generally takes the girls, instead went to vote and take #4 to preschool.

My mom picked up #4 as she does most Tuesdays while I have accupuntcture. When I'm done I go to her store, get the boy, hang out, and then we pick up the girls. Today when I got to my mom's store, #4 was wearing a construction paper Indian headdress bearing his name hyphenated with "fast-runner" and a sticker on his shirt letting all of town know that he had voted.

As it happened, this was the time I had appointed to go vote myself, and upon hearing the change in plan, #4 whined, "But I don't want to go vote, it takes too wong!" Assuming they'd hit bad lines, I reassured him, "Oh, but Daddy doesn't know the fun line games that I know. We're going to play fun line games." Not entirely convinced, that promise at least took care of the whining. My next move was to rack my brain on what fun game we could possibly play waiting in line for the next available machine, all during the three minutes it takes to drive from my mom's store to the polls. Luckily it hit me. "Honey, Daddy voted at about 8:15. Lots of people vote then. It's 1:45 now--I bet there won't even be a line."

Feeling pretty confident that the mystery fun-line-game wouldn't be needed, I still felt great relief to see an open machine on my precinct's side of the room. Checked in, card inserted into the machine, the whining started up again. "This takes too wooong. I don't want to vote."

"Buddy, it's not going to take long at all."

"I want to go hooome."

As I touched each candidate I nervously checked my peripheral vision for signs of annoyed fellow voters and tried to quiet my bored son. Finally, everything voted for, I just now had to check the printout as it rolled under the viewing window to make sure everything had been recorded correctly. "See, buddy almost done. We'll go get the sisters in just a minute."

"Weawwy? Almost done? That was fast."

"See I told you there wouldn't be a line."

"We didn't have a wine, Daddy didn't know how to do the machine. But then he did."

I'll have to ask Larry what happened with his machine, because I'm pretty sure he knows how to touch a circle by his candidate's name on a screen. Good thing we don't live in a precinct with punch card ballot machines. As we all know from the 2000 elections, those are remarkably tricky and I'm just not sure #4 could have waited that long for his parents' voices to be heard. But hey, at least he now has TWO stickers on his shirt.