I am definitely suffering tonight. I got a terrific book on cassette at the library this week. It's TORTURE!!!! No skipping ahead, no skimming through the irrelevant stuff. No, I'm just PLODDING onward through eleven---ELEVEN!!--hours of great literature, word by inevitable word. I do not read this way. I CANNOT read this way. Arrgh. I thought maybe a book on tape would make the ironing and the dishes a little more palatable. My mom gave me the idea--she listens to Harry Potter as she works around the house. But you definitely don't want to be chained to the tape player listening to something you haven't read before. The suspense and the waiting are horrible.
Today's church was very enlightening. As most of you know, I got called to be the Primary Chorister a few weeks ago--my favorite job. I love it. I immediatley rushed to JoAnns for supplies and I've been cutting and creating visual aids ever since. I put on my special music apron, grab my garden wheelbarrow full of props, and have a great time with the kids. Primary's great. I do--I promise you--try very, very hard to teach the gospel and share my testimony, but it's still kind of a show. I've spent plenty of time sitting there with a class full of wiggly kids. I figure teachers AND kids deserve to have a great time.
Today our HC member read a quote by Elder Bednar about teaching by the spirit that advised that anytime we draw attention to ourselves in the presentation of a lesson, it is a form of priestcraft. An image of myself, dressed in an apron and waving a gold-painted antifreeze funnel around as I told the kids (all curled up on the floor as seeds) to AWAKE, AWAKE!! burst suddenly into my mind. I whispered to Tom, "Is my music apron a form of priestcraft?" Without hesitation he responded, "Oh, yeah. Definitely." That whole episode pretty much dulled the best compliment I've ever recieved in primary. A teacher told me that I make her think of Ms Frizzle from the Magic School Bus. That, unfortunately, seals it. Priestcraft.
Well, I can't stand it anymore. I'm going to put on earphones and try to listen to the remaining eight hours of the book while I sleep. We'll see if the Suzuki method works--I'll tell you if I'm satisfied in the morning. G'night.
Sunday, May 28, 2006
Sunday, May 21, 2006
Tom's Turn
Last week was the annual stake Father’s and son’s campout at Camp Black Mountain. Two years ago it rained and was so cold and miserable that everyone folded up their tents at about 3 in the morning and cleared out in the dark – everyone except those old scoutmaster types who came prepared with the special Coleman space heaters and minus 50 degree thinsulate-graphite-poly-titanium-fleece sleeping bags and slept in the back of their pickups with insulated shells and woke up in the morning to find that it was just them and 50 pounds of Bisquick and sausages.
Last year it just rained – but since it was only raining, and not cold and miserable we Bellinghamsters just shrugged and went about our business like we do most mornings most days of the year playing Frisbee, lighting fires and eating as the water dripped off our noses.
Well, this year I was prepared. I had the car loaded up without all our camping gear and regardless of the fact that I was in charge of the campfire music I had a backup plan if I even saw the shadow of a cloud. I was going to turn around and head with the boys to Yakima where we would likely get bitten by rattle snakes – but at least we would be dry.
As it turned out, mother’s day weekend was one of those rare and magical periods when the sky was crystal blue for several days in a row. We arrived early and set up our tent and went fishing. Now, I thought Brett got all the fishing genes from my family, but the fishing gene must be a latent, generation skipping gene, because from the moment we arrived Alex and Nigel just couldn’t wait to throw a line in the lake and then sit there until their hooks got snagged on the bottom and the line broke and dad had to re-tie all the hooks and weights only to repeat the process several more times.
Needless to say, we did not catch anything (except some weeds and twigs) but our Bishop (whose peace and tranquility we rudely interrupted) caught three beautiful trout which Nigel adopted while they were still flopping in the water on his string. As it got dark, the bishop, thinking he would take advantage of this great teaching moment, invited the boys to watch as he “cleaned” his fish, proceeded to slit their stomachs and rip their guts out right in front of poor Nigel who I then had to walk/carry back to camp as he sobbed all the way back asking me if the fish would come back alive and why did the bishop kill his fish?
Fortunately, the sight of seeing his new friends butchered before his very eyes sobered Nigel up for the campfire, and he just sat there quietly and listened (probably the first stage of PTSD) as I led the stake in ½ hour of campfire songs and hymns at the amphitheater on the shore of Silver Lake as the fire died down.
The next morning the boys went hiking and guess what Nigel wanted to do? Yep. Fish. So back we went where he reeled his Scooby Doo pole and passed out bait to all the fisherman while I untangled and tied fishing line for the next two hours while the guys right next to us pulled fish after fish from the water. After an hour or so they “limited out” and then as they were leaving showed us their best place to cast.
We stuck with it for another ½ hour, did not catch any fish and headed back to camp where I found the shock of my life:
Zach and Alex had rolled up all the sleeping bags, all the sleeping pads, put away the tent and loaded everything into the car. I couldn’t believe it. Even knowing that they really wanted me to let them go to our friend’s the Uibel’s house that day, I was impressed at how well they had packed up camp.
As we left Camp Black Mountain, I decided that since we were more than halfway to Mount Baker that we should go up and check it out now that ski season was over. As I mentioned earlier, there was not a cloud in the sky as we drove along the Nooksack river in our suburban with a cool breeze blowing through the open windows.
I had a flashback to eleven years ago when Zach was just one year old and we came to Bellingham for a Suzuki Piano teacher’s conference. One day, while Julia and Mom went to the conference, Zach and I decided to drive to Mount Baker. As we drove through the tunnel of trees with the occasional break and a glimpse of the majestic White Volcano in the distance I remembered thinking how great it would be to live in such a beautiful place someday – and then I realized – today was that day!
Here I was, with my four boys, singing with the windows down as we climbed higher and higher to the top of the world, where we found that we had the whole mountain to ourselves. The ski area was closed, not for lack of snow, but for lack of insurance coverage. Each year ski areas estimate their season based on historical snowfalls and then purchase insurance to cover their estimated season. This year, being a year in which the resort had to close for several days because they got TOO MUCH snow, there was still snow everywhere but no people. Well, OK, there were a few cross country skiers and snowshoers off in the distance but the rest of the mountain was ours. We ran in the snow, threw snowballs, jumped into the drifts and tried to sled on one of our sleeping mats. Then, magically, a couple in their late 40’s arrived with two sleds. The wife explained that they come sledding every mother’s day with their friends but that this year the friends could not make it so they came alone – for tradition’s sake.
They invited us to sled with them and after several great rides, the wife explained that she does not have children of her own and thanked me for giving her such a wonderful mother’s day present of “letting” her sled with my boys.
We hiked around on the snow, taking in the clear blue sky and the 360 degree view and the mountain towering in the background and we then loaded up and headed for home. As we wound our way back down the mountain I thought to myself that if I had to die tomorrow, after a day like this I would have felt that my life had been complete. I will never forget that magical day.
We came home, mowed the lawns, and slept soundly and the next day Julia came home to a dinner of roast beef, garlic red potatoes, shrimp with spicy orange sauce, and strawberries and cream for dessert.
It is a wonderful life!
Last year it just rained – but since it was only raining, and not cold and miserable we Bellinghamsters just shrugged and went about our business like we do most mornings most days of the year playing Frisbee, lighting fires and eating as the water dripped off our noses.Well, this year I was prepared. I had the car loaded up without all our camping gear and regardless of the fact that I was in charge of the campfire music I had a backup plan if I even saw the shadow of a cloud. I was going to turn around and head with the boys to Yakima where we would likely get bitten by rattle snakes – but at least we would be dry.
As it turned out, mother’s day weekend was one of those rare and magical periods when the sky was crystal blue for several days in a row. We arrived early and set up our tent and went fishing. Now, I thought Brett got all the fishing genes from my family, but the fishing gene must be a latent, generation skipping gene, because from the moment we arrived Alex and Nigel just couldn’t wait to throw a line in the lake and then sit there until their hooks got snagged on the bottom and the line broke and dad had to re-tie all the hooks and weights only to repeat the process several more times.
Needless to say, we did not catch anything (except some weeds and twigs) but our Bishop (whose peace and tranquility we rudely interrupted) caught three beautiful trout which Nigel adopted while they were still flopping in the water on his string. As it got dark, the bishop, thinking he would take advantage of this great teaching moment, invited the boys to watch as he “cleaned” his fish, proceeded to slit their stomachs and rip their guts out right in front of poor Nigel who I then had to walk/carry back to camp as he sobbed all the way back asking me if the fish would come back alive and why did the bishop kill his fish?
Fortunately, the sight of seeing his new friends butchered before his very eyes sobered Nigel up for the campfire, and he just sat there quietly and listened (probably the first stage of PTSD) as I led the stake in ½ hour of campfire songs and hymns at the amphitheater on the shore of Silver Lake as the fire died down.
The next morning the boys went hiking and guess what Nigel wanted to do? Yep. Fish. So back we went where he reeled his Scooby Doo pole and passed out bait to all the fisherman while I untangled and tied fishing line for the next two hours while the guys right next to us pulled fish after fish from the water. After an hour or so they “limited out” and then as they were leaving showed us their best place to cast.
We stuck with it for another ½ hour, did not catch any fish and headed back to camp where I found the shock of my life:
Zach and Alex had rolled up all the sleeping bags, all the sleeping pads, put away the tent and loaded everything into the car. I couldn’t believe it. Even knowing that they really wanted me to let them go to our friend’s the Uibel’s house that day, I was impressed at how well they had packed up camp.
As we left Camp Black Mountain, I decided that since we were more than halfway to Mount Baker that we should go up and check it out now that ski season was over. As I mentioned earlier, there was not a cloud in the sky as we drove along the Nooksack river in our suburban with a cool breeze blowing through the open windows.
I had a flashback to eleven years ago when Zach was just one year old and we came to Bellingham for a Suzuki Piano teacher’s conference. One day, while Julia and Mom went to the conference, Zach and I decided to drive to Mount Baker. As we drove through the tunnel of trees with the occasional break and a glimpse of the majestic White Volcano in the distance I remembered thinking how great it would be to live in such a beautiful place someday – and then I realized – today was that day!
Here I was, with my four boys, singing with the windows down as we climbed higher and higher to the top of the world, where we found that we had the whole mountain to ourselves. The ski area was closed, not for lack of snow, but for lack of insurance coverage. Each year ski areas estimate their season based on historical snowfalls and then purchase insurance to cover their estimated season. This year, being a year in which the resort had to close for several days because they got TOO MUCH snow, there was still snow everywhere but no people. Well, OK, there were a few cross country skiers and snowshoers off in the distance but the rest of the mountain was ours. We ran in the snow, threw snowballs, jumped into the drifts and tried to sled on one of our sleeping mats. Then, magically, a couple in their late 40’s arrived with two sleds. The wife explained that they come sledding every mother’s day with their friends but that this year the friends could not make it so they came alone – for tradition’s sake.
They invited us to sled with them and after several great rides, the wife explained that she does not have children of her own and thanked me for giving her such a wonderful mother’s day present of “letting” her sled with my boys.
We hiked around on the snow, taking in the clear blue sky and the 360 degree view and the mountain towering in the background and we then loaded up and headed for home. As we wound our way back down the mountain I thought to myself that if I had to die tomorrow, after a day like this I would have felt that my life had been complete. I will never forget that magical day.
We came home, mowed the lawns, and slept soundly and the next day Julia came home to a dinner of roast beef, garlic red potatoes, shrimp with spicy orange sauce, and strawberries and cream for dessert.
It is a wonderful life!
Monday, May 08, 2006
A One Hundred Percent Chance
Tim: Mom, did you know dying is one of those things where you have a one hundred percent chance?
I'm really, really tired right now, tired beyond the point of being able to think, hours past the time when I should have curled up in bed. I would love to be in bed, but I'm too tired to go. I need to go downstairs and get my purse, extract the four library cards I carry in a little zippered pocket inside the purse, and click on over to the Bellingham Public Library website, where I can find out the names of our overdue books. There are probably lots of them, because we went to the library during spring break and each of the kids got about forty. That was a long time ago. The library used to send me email alerts, but when I was in there with all the kids, Nigel stamping the due date all over every available inch of skin, Tim shoving DVDs and comic books in my face every 30 seconds and begging, "PLEASE, Mom, PLEEEEEEEEASE?" Alex grabbing the video out of his stack and running back to exchange it every time the librarian got ready to scan the barcode and Zach reverting into that Zen state where he tugs rhythmically on my sleeve while chanting, "Mom...Mom...Mom...Mom...Mom...Mom...Mom"--while all that was happening, the librarian and I decided it was a good time to change my email address on all the accounts. Not surprisingly, we must have gotten it wrong, because I've not received a warning and now I have 160 overdue books and 4 very overdue videos. So I have to go downstairs and get the purse so I can make a list and start the library book scavenger hunt, but I'm too tired. I'm procrastinating by writing this incoherent thing on my blog. We're so tired and overprogrammed right now. We're sucking innocent people like Nigel and Kim into the vortex of our scheduling insanity. We're stacking up complex scheduling schemes combined with tricky childcare plans that lead to wackiness like my friend (filling in for her 16 year old daughter) trying to take Nigel to her elderly relative's birthday party at a restaurant in Ballard (Her: "How often should I take him to the potty?" Me: "Well, definitely lots more if you let him have any juice or pop at the party." Her: "Oh, rats. I forgot about that part.") I got up at 5:30 this morning to prepare lunches for about everyone who lives here, sack breakfasts for half and sack dinners for the other half. Then I sent Zach off on his overnight field trip to the Conservation site, Tom to work--he would leave promptly at five pm to join Zach for the overnight--then he's planning to arise early, put on a suit and tie inside a two man tent, eat the sack breakfast, and zip back to Bellingham for a hearing tomorrow morning. I dropped Nigel and Porter off with my friend Courtney, ran back home for the Math Club plan I forgot, zipped back to the school, dropped in on Tim's teacher to beg her to keep Tim with her for the hour between the end of his school and the beginning of math club, ran to Alex's room, and got on the bus to go to the District's 1880 pioneer farm site for an all-day field trip. I was the butter churning mom. It doesn't seem like tramping around on a sunny but cold frontier farm could wear you out, but I took a nap on the bus ride home while Alex sang "Green Grow the Rushes-O" at the top of his lungs. When I got to the school, I discovered that Tim had accidentally boarded the bus. His teacher made a heroic effort to catch the bus (she's a serious marathoner--witnesses say she did her best) but he ended up having a little ride around the neighborhood (Now I know Scott's whole route! he said cheerfully). I got back to school in time to retrieve him from the bus and start Math Club. Then we ran to Courtneys for the baby and the dog, dropped by home for the baseball gear and the sack dinner, and headed to baseball practice. We got home from THAT in time to have a late snack of hashbrowns and to take my sweet neighbor's little girls when she went into labor. Now everyone is asleep. Tomorrow morning I start teaching at 6:45 am. I need to tidy up the house. I need to put breakfast out on the table. Lunches are half made, backpacks haven't been emptied. Alex has a baseball game, Zach has scouts. I need to prepare for 13 lessons tomorrow, and I had BETTER get those stupid library cards. But I'm too tired, so I'm just sitting here typing, waiting for Godot, asking myself all the existential questions and finding no answers.
I do not work as hard as those frontier women did. I do not grapple with the basic issues of survival every day. My hectic life is pretty shallow, meaningless even in its myriad, tortuous details.
I need Tom to walk in, banish the housekeeping till tomorrow, forcibly shut down the computer, and send me to bed.
I'm really, really tired right now, tired beyond the point of being able to think, hours past the time when I should have curled up in bed. I would love to be in bed, but I'm too tired to go. I need to go downstairs and get my purse, extract the four library cards I carry in a little zippered pocket inside the purse, and click on over to the Bellingham Public Library website, where I can find out the names of our overdue books. There are probably lots of them, because we went to the library during spring break and each of the kids got about forty. That was a long time ago. The library used to send me email alerts, but when I was in there with all the kids, Nigel stamping the due date all over every available inch of skin, Tim shoving DVDs and comic books in my face every 30 seconds and begging, "PLEASE, Mom, PLEEEEEEEEASE?" Alex grabbing the video out of his stack and running back to exchange it every time the librarian got ready to scan the barcode and Zach reverting into that Zen state where he tugs rhythmically on my sleeve while chanting, "Mom...Mom...Mom...Mom...Mom...Mom...Mom"--while all that was happening, the librarian and I decided it was a good time to change my email address on all the accounts. Not surprisingly, we must have gotten it wrong, because I've not received a warning and now I have 160 overdue books and 4 very overdue videos. So I have to go downstairs and get the purse so I can make a list and start the library book scavenger hunt, but I'm too tired. I'm procrastinating by writing this incoherent thing on my blog. We're so tired and overprogrammed right now. We're sucking innocent people like Nigel and Kim into the vortex of our scheduling insanity. We're stacking up complex scheduling schemes combined with tricky childcare plans that lead to wackiness like my friend (filling in for her 16 year old daughter) trying to take Nigel to her elderly relative's birthday party at a restaurant in Ballard (Her: "How often should I take him to the potty?" Me: "Well, definitely lots more if you let him have any juice or pop at the party." Her: "Oh, rats. I forgot about that part.") I got up at 5:30 this morning to prepare lunches for about everyone who lives here, sack breakfasts for half and sack dinners for the other half. Then I sent Zach off on his overnight field trip to the Conservation site, Tom to work--he would leave promptly at five pm to join Zach for the overnight--then he's planning to arise early, put on a suit and tie inside a two man tent, eat the sack breakfast, and zip back to Bellingham for a hearing tomorrow morning. I dropped Nigel and Porter off with my friend Courtney, ran back home for the Math Club plan I forgot, zipped back to the school, dropped in on Tim's teacher to beg her to keep Tim with her for the hour between the end of his school and the beginning of math club, ran to Alex's room, and got on the bus to go to the District's 1880 pioneer farm site for an all-day field trip. I was the butter churning mom. It doesn't seem like tramping around on a sunny but cold frontier farm could wear you out, but I took a nap on the bus ride home while Alex sang "Green Grow the Rushes-O" at the top of his lungs. When I got to the school, I discovered that Tim had accidentally boarded the bus. His teacher made a heroic effort to catch the bus (she's a serious marathoner--witnesses say she did her best) but he ended up having a little ride around the neighborhood (Now I know Scott's whole route! he said cheerfully). I got back to school in time to retrieve him from the bus and start Math Club. Then we ran to Courtneys for the baby and the dog, dropped by home for the baseball gear and the sack dinner, and headed to baseball practice. We got home from THAT in time to have a late snack of hashbrowns and to take my sweet neighbor's little girls when she went into labor. Now everyone is asleep. Tomorrow morning I start teaching at 6:45 am. I need to tidy up the house. I need to put breakfast out on the table. Lunches are half made, backpacks haven't been emptied. Alex has a baseball game, Zach has scouts. I need to prepare for 13 lessons tomorrow, and I had BETTER get those stupid library cards. But I'm too tired, so I'm just sitting here typing, waiting for Godot, asking myself all the existential questions and finding no answers.
I do not work as hard as those frontier women did. I do not grapple with the basic issues of survival every day. My hectic life is pretty shallow, meaningless even in its myriad, tortuous details.
I need Tom to walk in, banish the housekeeping till tomorrow, forcibly shut down the computer, and send me to bed.
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