Procrastination

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Move

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

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

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

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

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

They started excavation for our basement this week.

  

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

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

  

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

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

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

Dance, Dance, Dance

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

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

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

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

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

Nothin' funnier than Brain Surgery ...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Re-tying Apron Strings

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stress Management

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Birds and the Bees

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

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

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

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

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

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

Knowing

Patience is not one of my strongest virtues.  

This is illustrated by the fact that I do not handle uncertainty well.  For me, one of the worst things about late pregnancy was not knowing what day my child would be born.  Not that I couldn't wait for her (or him) to arrive, but that I couldn't plan when we were leaving for the hospital.  I never knew what I had or didn't have time for, and it drove me crazy.  I like to know.

We are in what has become, for me anyway, a similar situation.  Our family is moving to the Boise area.  This means also that many families are following us--employees of Larry's.  So this decision was not made lightly.  It was as much a business decision as a family decision, although those are admittedly difficult for us to separate.  

I look forward to the move.  Were it not for the great little community that we call home, I'd miss nothing but our family who reside in Southern California.  We think that the upcoming adolescent phase of life facing our kids will be benefitted by the move.  We'll have space for horses and orchards and even sheep, if we so desire.  And I really like Boise.  It's a nice little city with a university and parks and museums.

Originally, the timing was clear and set.  Summer 2009.  That's what it would take to build a house and a warehouse and have everything moved across several states.  #1 would be about to enter high school, so great timing there.

There is now a small chink in the fence.  Larry has found a business for sale.  It's a contract manufacturer of dietary supplements.  That will sound familiar to those of you who know what Larry's company does.  The company is located in Boise.  So, if Larry and his partner decide to buy, we may need to move in August.  This August.

Twelve months is just too much wiggle room for my comfort.  I was prepared to spend the upcoming year getting our family and household ready to relocate.  Now I may only have a few short months.  I was prepared to have a year to take life in, breathe the mountain air, hug my friends, and say goodbye.  If we need to move in August, I'll hardly be able to catch my breath.  It won't be easy.  But ultimately, I just want to know.

Not knowing gives me stomach aches and head aches.  It makes me tense and grouchy and uninterested in life beyond the mystery.

It looks like we'll know by the end of April.  Unfortunately, the end of April is not tomorrow morning.  Not much I can do to hurry it along.  I have great difficulty distracting myself when I'm stressed.  So I am trying to read a book, but I can't get in to it.  I'm trying to do my job, but I am waiting for some dates to be cleared by the school.  I'm trying to keep up on my housework, but it's too easy to think while you're doing dishes and folding laundry.  So I decided that posting on my blog might take my mind off of Idaho.  

Clearly not. 

Check in again in a month.  I'll tell you as soon as I know.

Monday is Laundry Day

I hesitate to even write about this for fear that I will start to receive all sorts of unsolicited advice on how to manage my housekeeping chores.

I like to say that my house is often in some state of disarray because of choices I make to serve and volunteer in the community. Namely, I spend vast amounts of time helping at the kids' school. I am where they are and I have a clear impact on their education.

This is partially true. But the fact mostly is, I am not great at getting things done around the house, and I hardly think that quitting all of my involvement would help that.

One ongoing bane of my existence is the laundry. Growing up we didn't often have a washer and never a drier in the house. Laundry was done once a week. My mom would wash it at a laundromat and bring it home wet to hang dry on a large white and orange metal rack. So I never did a whole lot of laundry as a kid. The once a week thing was all I knew.

I tried that when we were first married. I tended to end up with huge piles of clean, wrinkling laundry in baskets or on floors, waiting to be folded. It was a hassle, and I always thought that if I could only find the right day, that things would magically fall into place. I tried Mondays, Fridays, Saturdays, and I think even Wednesdays. No difference.

My dear husband offered several times that his mom had done a load or two of laundry each day, and that it seemed to work well for her. I tried that, and the only outcome was that after a week of going crazy, I was back to once per week.

Things improved slightly on moving into our current home. Our washer and drier are in a closet which is in our downstairs secondary family/office/guest room. I'd always get a good start (and here for some reason I've been better about folding laundry right away), but I'd run out of steam, and laundry would get stretched into a 3 or 4 day event which by the time I'd finish was almost time to start again.

In December, I decided to try something new. Each person would have their own laundry day. #1 is Monday, #2 is Tuesday, etc. until Larry and I get our laundry done on Friday. There are several things about this routine that make it successful. The first is that I have changed the way I sort the laundry. Instead of the light, dark, red thing, I go strictly by person. This way I can generally be done in any given day after only one or two loads. It's easy to fold as all the clothes have the same destination. I haven't noticed any trouble with bleeding colors. There was one time that I washed a new pair of dark blue jeans, and that load I did keep separate. I also still separate delicates, which is now also the only clothing group that does not go into the drier.

The second factor is that drier. I have residual drier issues after growing up without one with a mother who turned that fact into a moral stance. But I am over them, largely. We dry our clothes in a drier. And life still runs pretty well. Laundry goes more quickly. With a family of six, that multiplies out into a significant amount of time.

Lastly, it is much easier to get help from the kids with cleaning their clothes. They know their day, and they have some responsibilities regarding ensuring the task gets completed. If they don't, then they are the only ones suffering with a lack of socks.

It's been nearly three months, and it's gone very well. There have been a couple of times when I've gotten behind, but catching up seems much easier with this new system. And boy, that only took me 14 years of marriage to figure out. I hired out the bathroom cleaning a year ago. Two down, so much to go ...

Tipping

On Friday, #4 and I ate lunch at a local café. We sat at the counter, which gave us a unique view of half of the restaurant as well as of the servers as they worked. They were in the middle of a large rush, and it looked as though they were at least one waitress short-handed. The two that were there hardly had time to check customers out, let alone bus the emptying tables. It was easy to sense their stress amid the busyness. A family with two boys was done with their lunch and ordered some pie and a chocolate shake for dessert. I felt for the waitress who now had to make that hand scooped shake, though she did it with a smile. Then before it was even set down on the table, the mother sheepishly made a request. I couldn't hear it, but the waitress smiled, turned abruptly around and threw the shake, whipped topping and all, back into the blender to add malt powder. I hope they gave her a big tip. I know I did, and our order was straightforward.

It was as I was preparing to go off to college that my dad started giving me tipping lessons. I don't recall that any were restaurant-oriented. I guess he figured I knew about that. He started pointing out to me service people who should be tipped, and about how much I should tip them. This mostly concerned tipping skycap workers at the airport.

I was instructed on the proper amount of tip per piece of luggage, but more importantly, I was shown how to tip discreetly. "People around you shouldn't be able to tell that you've given a tip." This involved having the tip money ready beforehand, bills folded together into fourths. A close-up "thank you" with what could be interpreted as a handshake, and there you have it. Tip given.

After having watched my dad do this a time or two, the tip money was handed to me ahead of time so that I could show I'd understood the method. As I recall, I was very smooth at this even that first time. I was a little nervous, but it was fun--almost like a game. My dad was impressed. I could now go off on my own, tipping away, without bringing him embarrassment. Game won. A good life lesson learned.

A couple of years ago, I came across a gentleman who could have used that lesson. Larry and I were staying at a hotel in Seattle with valet parking. It could become pricey. Getting your car in or out was $3 a pop. We started to run out of ones. At any rate, the morning that we checked out, we were waiting for service behind a couple who was, let's say, a bit on the boisterous side. Or maybe it's just that things echo a lot in a below ground parking garage. Though if that were the only problem, I'd have thought they'd have taken notice. The valet pulled up with the car, walked to greet the couple, at which point this gentleman handed unfolded bills at an arm's length and said loudly, "Here you are, sir." I cringed. I could feel my father cringe from 3,000 miles away. I somehow sensed that even the valet was cringing inside.

I had wished we'd been first in line. I'd have set a good example. Or maybe he wouldn't have noticed, and would have thought I was rude for not tipping.