Thursday, November 29, 2007
Sunday, November 25, 2007
The Puzzled Creator (Tom)
Why do we have the universal urge to make things? I have never been
very good at mechanical things like building with wood (I don't like
to measure), or fixing cars or doing home repairs. One time after we
were married I decided to make myself a pair of shorts. I cut out two
pieces of cloth that LOOKED like shorts – in fact they were the exact
size I wanted them to be. However, when I sewed them together and
turned them right-side out the leg holes were so small I couldn't even
fit my arm through them. Curiously, the waist part was large enough
for me and at least one more companion. I never did figure that one
out.
When I was about 11, I invented the flying skier. I did this by duct
taping roller skates to a ski. My maiden and farewell voyage left my
face spread out in chunks all down the right side of Crestview drive
in Pullman. Ask Brett about my other infamous inventions: the goop
shooter (the project was abandoned after several malfunctions
resulting in backfire of flour water goop all over the kitchen) the
wheel of fortune, and my old motorcycle I bought for $15 from Brett
Myers.
So it is with some bemusement that I am sitting here reflecting that
it is very strange that out backyard now has: a tree house (sort of
anyway – it is really more of a tree platform) a skate park (well, a
few ¼ pipe ramps anyway) and now… a waterfall – all of which were
built by ... me.
Well, not exactly. We had this sunken area outside our deck that I
never liked. It was always wet, and ugly and difficult to mow.
Sometime this summer, this idea came into my head that it would be the
perfect place for a water feature. I pictured a little cascading
trickle falling into a quaint pool set between two stones.
Well that idea would not go away. It kept torturing me all summer and
one day I saw an ad on Craigslist for some free rock. I drove out to
the country and met this farmer who said he had some nice rocks that
he needed to get out of his field and that he was willing to give them
away of I took all of them. Well, it just so happened that I have a
client who is an excavator who was going to dig a French drain for me
so I asked him if he would mind picking up the rocks for me when he
came to dig the ditch.
A few days later I returned from work to find approximately SIX TONS
of bounders in a big pile off the deck in the back yard.
"The Farmer wanted me to take one that weighed over 1,000 pounds" my
client, Hank told me, "but I figured you already had enough."
Enough? What to do with all this rock? Well, I went back to Craigslist and found a couple of plastic ponds and started figuring how to put everything together. My problem is that I cannot visualize how something will turn out. I just have to start moving things around and seeking how they look. Unfortunately, you can't do that very easily with 500 lb. boulers.
That is how I found myself one day last August, taking the day off
work to watch my client with his excavator machine being directed by
another client of mine who is an architect as they moved boulders
around, flipped them over, replaced them with others and basically
acted just like a woman directing her husband to re- arrange the
furniture.
The long and short is that I have spent all my spare time during the past two months working on the waterfall. I did have to hire an expert in pond and waterfall construction to give me some basic tips about how to lay out the rocks and prepare the flat falls, but most of what you see was my design. And so far, unlike my other great ideas, it seems to be working. Except that I have to put more water in it every day. Now when I come home from work the first thing I do is go
and visit the waterfall and make sure it is still working. THEN, I give JB a kiss and say hi to the kids. I am hoping that the water loss is due to splash and evaporation -- and not to a leak. But
knowing how my other inventions have turned out, it will only be a matter of time until we have a massive flood in our basement. In the mean time, however, I will keep the screen door open, even in winter, to hear the soothing sound of our waterfall.
very good at mechanical things like building with wood (I don't like
to measure), or fixing cars or doing home repairs. One time after we
were married I decided to make myself a pair of shorts. I cut out two
pieces of cloth that LOOKED like shorts – in fact they were the exact
size I wanted them to be. However, when I sewed them together and
turned them right-side out the leg holes were so small I couldn't even
fit my arm through them. Curiously, the waist part was large enough
for me and at least one more companion. I never did figure that one
out.
When I was about 11, I invented the flying skier. I did this by duct
taping roller skates to a ski. My maiden and farewell voyage left my
face spread out in chunks all down the right side of Crestview drive
in Pullman. Ask Brett about my other infamous inventions: the goop
shooter (the project was abandoned after several malfunctions
resulting in backfire of flour water goop all over the kitchen) the
wheel of fortune, and my old motorcycle I bought for $15 from Brett
Myers.
So it is with some bemusement that I am sitting here reflecting that
it is very strange that out backyard now has: a tree house (sort of
anyway – it is really more of a tree platform) a skate park (well, a
few ¼ pipe ramps anyway) and now… a waterfall – all of which were
built by ... me.
Well, not exactly. We had this sunken area outside our deck that I
never liked. It was always wet, and ugly and difficult to mow.
Sometime this summer, this idea came into my head that it would be the
perfect place for a water feature. I pictured a little cascading
trickle falling into a quaint pool set between two stones.
Well that idea would not go away. It kept torturing me all summer and
one day I saw an ad on Craigslist for some free rock. I drove out to
the country and met this farmer who said he had some nice rocks that
he needed to get out of his field and that he was willing to give them
away of I took all of them. Well, it just so happened that I have a
client who is an excavator who was going to dig a French drain for me
so I asked him if he would mind picking up the rocks for me when he
came to dig the ditch.
A few days later I returned from work to find approximately SIX TONS
of bounders in a big pile off the deck in the back yard.
"The Farmer wanted me to take one that weighed over 1,000 pounds" my
client, Hank told me, "but I figured you already had enough."
Enough? What to do with all this rock? Well, I went back to Craigslist and found a couple of plastic ponds and started figuring how to put everything together. My problem is that I cannot visualize how something will turn out. I just have to start moving things around and seeking how they look. Unfortunately, you can't do that very easily with 500 lb. boulers.
That is how I found myself one day last August, taking the day off
work to watch my client with his excavator machine being directed by
another client of mine who is an architect as they moved boulders
around, flipped them over, replaced them with others and basically
acted just like a woman directing her husband to re- arrange the
furniture.
The long and short is that I have spent all my spare time during the past two months working on the waterfall. I did have to hire an expert in pond and waterfall construction to give me some basic tips about how to lay out the rocks and prepare the flat falls, but most of what you see was my design. And so far, unlike my other great ideas, it seems to be working. Except that I have to put more water in it every day. Now when I come home from work the first thing I do is goand visit the waterfall and make sure it is still working. THEN, I give JB a kiss and say hi to the kids. I am hoping that the water loss is due to splash and evaporation -- and not to a leak. But
knowing how my other inventions have turned out, it will only be a matter of time until we have a massive flood in our basement. In the mean time, however, I will keep the screen door open, even in winter, to hear the soothing sound of our waterfall.
Sunday, November 11, 2007
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
Triple A
There are at least five things I ought to be doing right now other than blogging, but a promise is a promise, and it ought to be kept, especially when that means you can procrastinate doing laundry.
Today has been a bizarre day. Tim had oral surgery this morning and he got put under for it. I was a little nervous about that. When I went in to see him after it was over, it was strange to see him there but not there, his eyes stuttering as he tried to track the Doctor's face. He didn't talk for a while--talking is not his favorite mode of communication anyway--but he was ready to jump right up, in spite of the fact that he was bobbing and weaving as he tried to move.
We walked into the house and he promptly threw up and, to his bleary bewilderment, lost bladder control. Glad I didn't send him back to school (just kidding! I probably would NEVER have done that.) I don't mind the work of caring for invalids, but I don't like the people I love to be something other than themselves. He's feeling a little more Tim now, reading a book and banging on the wall with a lacrosse stick when he needs my help.
I went into school the other day to help Tim with writing and got the tail end of a pep talk his teacher was giving the class. He was just finishing telling a story about how his day had started (it seemed to involve mechanical failure of a car, a downpour, and a fair bit of walking), but told the kids that he'd seen a bumper sticker that said "No Bad Days" as he was trying to get himself to school. He asked them what they thought that meant.
My favorite answer was (can you guess?) Tim's. He said , "It means, 'You decide.'" After we had finished up Tim's writing and the kids had gone to PE, I was cleaning out Tim's desk (this is a job he sometimes needs help with) when the teacher came back. I asked what had happened, and he told me that his car had died--run out of gas, he thought--several MILES from school, that he had a class to attend (teach?) after school until 9 pm and that his other car was in the shop. But no bad days!
It took me ten minutes or so, but I finally extracted the key from his reluctant hand, grabbed a gas can from the garage, implored Teri to go with me (okay, it didn't take much persuasion--she's incredibly busy painting her house, but she fairly sizzles with jump in and do good spirit) and set off to find the car.
Now, I was not as optimistic as Tim's teacher that the car would turn out to be merely out of gas. He had confided a) that the 'car' was actually a Volkswagen Westphalia, b) that he was unfamiliar with the gas gauge because the car was a recent purchase, c) that he had bought it from a graduating college student, and d) would we please overlook without prejudice the marijuana-promoting bumpersticker affixed to the back since it belonged to the previous owner?
I thought (and Teri agreed) that if you buy a Westphalia from a college kid on weed, you get what you pay for. Which is a long walk to school. But this teacher is a great guy, dedicated, intelligent, hard working, and very much loved by both our kids, and a mercy mission makes more sense than plates full of cookies, so we both prayed that somehow gas really was the problem and went to work.
Teri, wearing paint clothes and a take-charge expression, grabbed the gas can while I got the gas key out of the ash tray. (Aside: keeping your gas key in the ash tray is the same as not bothering with a gas key, except that it increases the chances of dropping the thing down into the innards of the dash. Anyway.) The gas can spout was a tricky, and neither of us had used it before. It had sort of a retracting cover which we couldn't figure out how to pull back and the gas seemed to be supposed to come out the sides.
Finally Teri pulled the cover back with one hand and holding the gas can in the other, stuck the nozzle in and poured. Gas gushed out all over her hands and feet and splashed into her eye. She set down the gas can and calmly but forcefully asked for water. I ran around ineffectually, first looking for a water source (a mud puddle?) and finally settling on the box of wipes I keep in the car.
Once Teri's sight was restored we were back to trying to force gas into the Westphalia. After Teri had been doused a couple more times, I called Tom (fortunately without generating static electric sparks.)
"Hi," I said. "Teri and I are here with Mr. Smith's car and without asking for any explanations could you please tell us how the gas can works?"
Long pause. "Who's Mr. Smith?" he asked.
Finally he divulged that the gas can works on faith. You cannot see how the gas will get from the can to the tank, but if you shove it in there and pour, somehow the transfer becomes true. We tried this method. It worked as advertised. Until Teri pulled the can out.
As it turned out, there was a stopper in the end of the gas can spout. Had we seen it in the first place, we could have pulled it out and simply poured. Too bad we didn't, because as Teri removed the can, the edge of the stopper caught on the inside of the spring loaded fuel inlet cover and stayed caught half inside, half outside the gas tank.
The moment stretched painfully as the possibilities became clear.
"Ah, Mr. Smith....? Though we only wanted to help, unfortunately...."
I asked Teri if she thought it was appropriate for me to pray. She asked me why I hadn't been praying all along.
Clearly, in order to get the thing OUT, we had to open the spring loaded cover without dropping the stopper, but the space was pretty cramped. Teri clutched the stopper while I ran around looking for sticks...screw drivers...pliers...
"Do you have a chopstick in your car?" Teri called. I came up with a live-strong bracelet, a pair of sunglasses, and a capless pen.
After several abortive attempts, at last I pulled and twisted while Teri poked (with the sunglasses ear piece) and whew! Our prayers were answered and we hyperunventilated.
Teri's VW experience being more recent than mine (though I recall revving the rabbit frantically at every stoplight with the best of them), she got behind the wheel. The Westphalia belched several clouds of exhaust and miraculously started up.
We walked into the school together, smelling like a well-prepped arson site, and presented Mr. Smith with the key.
He walked up enthusiastically but was forced to take a step backwards as the fumes overcame him. He gave us a sincere if watery-eyed smile and gasped out, "I'm so sorry! You smell like gasoline!"
Which is all the thanks a couple of bored middle-aged stay at home moms hungry for adventure really need. I think Teri muttered that next time she's bringing HER gas can.
Today has been a bizarre day. Tim had oral surgery this morning and he got put under for it. I was a little nervous about that. When I went in to see him after it was over, it was strange to see him there but not there, his eyes stuttering as he tried to track the Doctor's face. He didn't talk for a while--talking is not his favorite mode of communication anyway--but he was ready to jump right up, in spite of the fact that he was bobbing and weaving as he tried to move.
We walked into the house and he promptly threw up and, to his bleary bewilderment, lost bladder control. Glad I didn't send him back to school (just kidding! I probably would NEVER have done that.) I don't mind the work of caring for invalids, but I don't like the people I love to be something other than themselves. He's feeling a little more Tim now, reading a book and banging on the wall with a lacrosse stick when he needs my help.
I went into school the other day to help Tim with writing and got the tail end of a pep talk his teacher was giving the class. He was just finishing telling a story about how his day had started (it seemed to involve mechanical failure of a car, a downpour, and a fair bit of walking), but told the kids that he'd seen a bumper sticker that said "No Bad Days" as he was trying to get himself to school. He asked them what they thought that meant.
My favorite answer was (can you guess?) Tim's. He said , "It means, 'You decide.'" After we had finished up Tim's writing and the kids had gone to PE, I was cleaning out Tim's desk (this is a job he sometimes needs help with) when the teacher came back. I asked what had happened, and he told me that his car had died--run out of gas, he thought--several MILES from school, that he had a class to attend (teach?) after school until 9 pm and that his other car was in the shop. But no bad days!
It took me ten minutes or so, but I finally extracted the key from his reluctant hand, grabbed a gas can from the garage, implored Teri to go with me (okay, it didn't take much persuasion--she's incredibly busy painting her house, but she fairly sizzles with jump in and do good spirit) and set off to find the car.
Now, I was not as optimistic as Tim's teacher that the car would turn out to be merely out of gas. He had confided a) that the 'car' was actually a Volkswagen Westphalia, b) that he was unfamiliar with the gas gauge because the car was a recent purchase, c) that he had bought it from a graduating college student, and d) would we please overlook without prejudice the marijuana-promoting bumpersticker affixed to the back since it belonged to the previous owner?
I thought (and Teri agreed) that if you buy a Westphalia from a college kid on weed, you get what you pay for. Which is a long walk to school. But this teacher is a great guy, dedicated, intelligent, hard working, and very much loved by both our kids, and a mercy mission makes more sense than plates full of cookies, so we both prayed that somehow gas really was the problem and went to work.
Teri, wearing paint clothes and a take-charge expression, grabbed the gas can while I got the gas key out of the ash tray. (Aside: keeping your gas key in the ash tray is the same as not bothering with a gas key, except that it increases the chances of dropping the thing down into the innards of the dash. Anyway.) The gas can spout was a tricky, and neither of us had used it before. It had sort of a retracting cover which we couldn't figure out how to pull back and the gas seemed to be supposed to come out the sides.
Finally Teri pulled the cover back with one hand and holding the gas can in the other, stuck the nozzle in and poured. Gas gushed out all over her hands and feet and splashed into her eye. She set down the gas can and calmly but forcefully asked for water. I ran around ineffectually, first looking for a water source (a mud puddle?) and finally settling on the box of wipes I keep in the car.
Once Teri's sight was restored we were back to trying to force gas into the Westphalia. After Teri had been doused a couple more times, I called Tom (fortunately without generating static electric sparks.)
"Hi," I said. "Teri and I are here with Mr. Smith's car and without asking for any explanations could you please tell us how the gas can works?"
Long pause. "Who's Mr. Smith?" he asked.
Finally he divulged that the gas can works on faith. You cannot see how the gas will get from the can to the tank, but if you shove it in there and pour, somehow the transfer becomes true. We tried this method. It worked as advertised. Until Teri pulled the can out.
As it turned out, there was a stopper in the end of the gas can spout. Had we seen it in the first place, we could have pulled it out and simply poured. Too bad we didn't, because as Teri removed the can, the edge of the stopper caught on the inside of the spring loaded fuel inlet cover and stayed caught half inside, half outside the gas tank.
The moment stretched painfully as the possibilities became clear.
"Ah, Mr. Smith....? Though we only wanted to help, unfortunately...."
I asked Teri if she thought it was appropriate for me to pray. She asked me why I hadn't been praying all along.
Clearly, in order to get the thing OUT, we had to open the spring loaded cover without dropping the stopper, but the space was pretty cramped. Teri clutched the stopper while I ran around looking for sticks...screw drivers...pliers...
"Do you have a chopstick in your car?" Teri called. I came up with a live-strong bracelet, a pair of sunglasses, and a capless pen.
After several abortive attempts, at last I pulled and twisted while Teri poked (with the sunglasses ear piece) and whew! Our prayers were answered and we hyperunventilated.
Teri's VW experience being more recent than mine (though I recall revving the rabbit frantically at every stoplight with the best of them), she got behind the wheel. The Westphalia belched several clouds of exhaust and miraculously started up.
We walked into the school together, smelling like a well-prepped arson site, and presented Mr. Smith with the key.
He walked up enthusiastically but was forced to take a step backwards as the fumes overcame him. He gave us a sincere if watery-eyed smile and gasped out, "I'm so sorry! You smell like gasoline!"
Which is all the thanks a couple of bored middle-aged stay at home moms hungry for adventure really need. I think Teri muttered that next time she's bringing HER gas can.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Five Things that Moms Say that Make No Sense (No Particular Order)
1. Why can moms not get that only girls wear coats? You'd think they were girls or something.
2. What is this bizarre obsession with mud? Sheesh! You'd think it was radioactive the way they carry on about it.
3. Eat! Don't eat! Eat! Don't eat! Moms cannot make up their minds. Look, Mom, there are two categories of food: good food (Lucky Charms, cheetos, root beer) and bad food (weird soup, spaghetti sauce, whatever's for dinner). If you'd just work on always getting us good food, we'd eat and you wouldn't have to say a word.
4. The room clean thing is one I'll never get. It's just a whole lot of effort for no reason. I've cleaned that thing a million times and no progress has been made. In fact, I think it's dirtier than when I first started. Could we just stop?
5. WHY do you want to comb my hair? And WHAT is the purpose of a "part?"
Okay, yes, I do admit you were right about the deodorant, and where did I put that, anyway?
2. What is this bizarre obsession with mud? Sheesh! You'd think it was radioactive the way they carry on about it.
3. Eat! Don't eat! Eat! Don't eat! Moms cannot make up their minds. Look, Mom, there are two categories of food: good food (Lucky Charms, cheetos, root beer) and bad food (weird soup, spaghetti sauce, whatever's for dinner). If you'd just work on always getting us good food, we'd eat and you wouldn't have to say a word.
4. The room clean thing is one I'll never get. It's just a whole lot of effort for no reason. I've cleaned that thing a million times and no progress has been made. In fact, I think it's dirtier than when I first started. Could we just stop?
5. WHY do you want to comb my hair? And WHAT is the purpose of a "part?"
Okay, yes, I do admit you were right about the deodorant, and where did I put that, anyway?
Sunday, October 14, 2007
Play it, Mom
I bought a bottle of fish oil pills at Costco. My thinking: yes, they could be quackery, and they do make you burp fish, but what ACTUAL damage can they do, other than to the pocketbook? So I told Tim that some studies show that Omega-3 and Omega-6 make you smarter. He wanted to try this out. I gave him a pill to swallow. About five minutes later I looked over and he was still trying to swallow it. He would put it in his mouth, fill a glass full of water, get an incredibly determined look on his face, and then throw his head back, splashing water all over his shirt, his face, and the floor. He would look hopeful for a second or two, then spit the capsule out, fill the glass again, and start over. After about fifteen minutes of this, he jubilantly yelled, "I did it! I did it! I swallowed the capsule! I'm going to be smarter--if that's possible."
Church today was one of those humbling, exhausting experiences. I got up at 5 am to finish up Program Practice Prep. This involved lots of printing, collating, copying, and one large Eddie Spaghetti poster. At 8 am, I ran to my Ward Council meeting. Bishop: "Primary?" Me: "Nothing from us."
All heads swivel. Bishop: (incredulous) "Primary has nothing?"
I know, I know, me and my big mouth are the most popular members of Ward Council. I got home to find Mom and all boys in action, having made SIX pans of rice crispy treats. Thanks Mom. And we were even all in the car and off to church right on time. A beautiful, textbook morning. And then...
It started with the Organ. About half way through the prelude, a sizzling fried-wires sound was heard from the vicinity of the soffits and POOF! no more organ. Then, just as the sacrament was just coming to a close, into the reverent silence came a distinctive, loud, IRREVERENT, musically electronic sound from our bench. As the noise went on...and on...and on...and on... and nobody did anything about it, I began to realize that it was NOT one of the boys. The sound was way too pretty. It could only be one person on our bench.
Mom.
That's right. Let one unsearched person onto the bench, and that's what you get. I couldn't stop laughing (silently). Then it got worse. I had planned a complex schedule for Primary time and as a result I brought a whole bag full of watches to distribute to watchless teachers. I never thought about the possibility that some of them might be have alarms...that were switched on...and left at the default setting of...what ever time but 12 noon? So right about the time our very excellent WML speaker was approaching his conclusion (and I was once again sitting at the piano), all beeping broke loose from the Mumford vicinity.
We heard last night at (yet another) ward fireside that a Puritan woman and her employer's family were forced to leave their community because she smiled in church. My friends all tell me the best part of the Mumford reverence fiasco is watching me try to hold it together while playing the hymns.
Tonight at bedtime, Tim for some reason had his heart set on sleeping on the downstairs couch. He gave me every argument he could think of. Finally, I said, "Look, Tim. We sometimes DO allow kids to sleep on the couch, but NEVER on a school night." He demanded to see a copy of the family rules where that one was written down. "Tim," I said, "studies have shown that sleep deprivation actually reduces your academic performance." "Oh, don't worry Mom," he said. "We'll make up for that with the fish oil pills."
I have so much more to say, but I'm exhausted and I have to get up at 4:45 am to take Tom to the airport. We're so lucky to have Mom staying here this week--but LOOK! In spite of that, I still blogged. What commitment!
Church today was one of those humbling, exhausting experiences. I got up at 5 am to finish up Program Practice Prep. This involved lots of printing, collating, copying, and one large Eddie Spaghetti poster. At 8 am, I ran to my Ward Council meeting. Bishop: "Primary?" Me: "Nothing from us."
All heads swivel. Bishop: (incredulous) "Primary has nothing?"
I know, I know, me and my big mouth are the most popular members of Ward Council. I got home to find Mom and all boys in action, having made SIX pans of rice crispy treats. Thanks Mom. And we were even all in the car and off to church right on time. A beautiful, textbook morning. And then...
It started with the Organ. About half way through the prelude, a sizzling fried-wires sound was heard from the vicinity of the soffits and POOF! no more organ. Then, just as the sacrament was just coming to a close, into the reverent silence came a distinctive, loud, IRREVERENT, musically electronic sound from our bench. As the noise went on...and on...and on...and on... and nobody did anything about it, I began to realize that it was NOT one of the boys. The sound was way too pretty. It could only be one person on our bench.
Mom.
That's right. Let one unsearched person onto the bench, and that's what you get. I couldn't stop laughing (silently). Then it got worse. I had planned a complex schedule for Primary time and as a result I brought a whole bag full of watches to distribute to watchless teachers. I never thought about the possibility that some of them might be have alarms...that were switched on...and left at the default setting of...what ever time but 12 noon? So right about the time our very excellent WML speaker was approaching his conclusion (and I was once again sitting at the piano), all beeping broke loose from the Mumford vicinity.
We heard last night at (yet another) ward fireside that a Puritan woman and her employer's family were forced to leave their community because she smiled in church. My friends all tell me the best part of the Mumford reverence fiasco is watching me try to hold it together while playing the hymns.
Tonight at bedtime, Tim for some reason had his heart set on sleeping on the downstairs couch. He gave me every argument he could think of. Finally, I said, "Look, Tim. We sometimes DO allow kids to sleep on the couch, but NEVER on a school night." He demanded to see a copy of the family rules where that one was written down. "Tim," I said, "studies have shown that sleep deprivation actually reduces your academic performance." "Oh, don't worry Mom," he said. "We'll make up for that with the fish oil pills."
I have so much more to say, but I'm exhausted and I have to get up at 4:45 am to take Tom to the airport. We're so lucky to have Mom staying here this week--but LOOK! In spite of that, I still blogged. What commitment!
Sunday, October 07, 2007
Muddy
Hey, thanks for all the comments. I'm loving the blog renaissance!
It has been the ugliest fall here in Bham. It has rained and rained and rained. Out in the back yard where Tom was once building the canal, we now have a muddy rock pile rising from a puddle. I would imagine that this frustrates him, but we haven't talked much about it.
Last Monday was an early release day from school. I hate early release days. Not because I dislike having the kids home. On the contrary! But having them home every odd once in a while just for the afternoon means that they want to plan something out of the ordinary, and that inevitably involves extra kids and quite a lot of bother of one sort and another. This particular Monday, it also involved our old dead lawnmower, now bereft of blade, and the muddy rock pile/puddle. Also jumper cables (fortunately no one was blinded) and quite a lot of whooping. And truckloads of mud.
I know, I know, you're wondering, "Julia! Where were YOU???" Well, I was here. Mostly. It just didn't seem like the stunningly bad idea it turned out to be until the moment that I realized that (unlike me) the boys saw the old lawnmower less as a great learning experience in the shop and more as a poor man's four wheeler. When I heard the mower roar to life, I ran out to the garage to congratulate them. For a moment, I basked in the joy of knowing what a great, broad minded mother I am.
Then I turned into a shrill, narrow minded, screaming mother. "STOP! NO!!! GET HIM OFF OF THERE!! NO WHEELIES!!! ONLY ONE PERSON!!! I REALLY DON'T THINK..... ZAAAAAACH!!!!! HEY!!! WHATEVER YOUR NAME IS!!! COULD YOU JUST! YIKES!!!! TIME OUT FOR THE MOWER.....HEY! BOYS!!! NOT THE SKATEBOARD!!"
"What, John? A tow rope? Like for a... No honey, no tow ropes."
"I don't mean we don't HAVE a tow rope. I mean YOU can't have a tow rope."
"I mean, no tow ropes on the mower. Look boys, think about this picture. A rope tied to the lawn mower. People running around. Ropes twisting around limbs and necks. Ropes dragging people. Ropes cutting things off. Important things like heads, arms, and legs. "
"Look, boys, I totally get that you are VERY responsible and..."
"I never questioned your judgment, but..."
"BOYS!!! NO TOW ROPES!!! NO, NOT FOR THE BIKE!!! OR FOR ANY VEHICLE OR REASON!!!"
"AAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!!!!! GET THAT THING OUT OF SIXTH GEAR!!! DO YOU HAVE A SPEEDOMETER?"
My friend Teri's advice to her boys is, "If it looks stupid, sounds stupid, or smells stupid, it IS stupid." I don't know how she successfully raised two boys with this piece of advice, because frankly, NO idea which has just occurred to a boy strikes him as stupid. Ever.
And later, after it has been proven stupid, the idiot antics still have to be shared. My boys can't resist telling me all the horrifyingly stupid things they do. They just can't. It's great to pull it off without getting caught, but within 60 minutes, they find themselves sidling up to me and asking, "Mom, if I tell you something, promise you won't get mad?"
I love my boys, I DO, I DO!! But don't tell me I have my hands full. Everybody does. Do they think I don't understand this? I am in a boat with six adorable males. The boat is filling with water. I'm frantically bailing, yelling for help. The boys are looking at me. They're all wearing the same perplexed look and they're asking, "Why is water (mud, a party for sixty, hooky-bobbing, etc., etc.) a problem?"
It has been the ugliest fall here in Bham. It has rained and rained and rained. Out in the back yard where Tom was once building the canal, we now have a muddy rock pile rising from a puddle. I would imagine that this frustrates him, but we haven't talked much about it.
Last Monday was an early release day from school. I hate early release days. Not because I dislike having the kids home. On the contrary! But having them home every odd once in a while just for the afternoon means that they want to plan something out of the ordinary, and that inevitably involves extra kids and quite a lot of bother of one sort and another. This particular Monday, it also involved our old dead lawnmower, now bereft of blade, and the muddy rock pile/puddle. Also jumper cables (fortunately no one was blinded) and quite a lot of whooping. And truckloads of mud.
I know, I know, you're wondering, "Julia! Where were YOU???" Well, I was here. Mostly. It just didn't seem like the stunningly bad idea it turned out to be until the moment that I realized that (unlike me) the boys saw the old lawnmower less as a great learning experience in the shop and more as a poor man's four wheeler. When I heard the mower roar to life, I ran out to the garage to congratulate them. For a moment, I basked in the joy of knowing what a great, broad minded mother I am.
Then I turned into a shrill, narrow minded, screaming mother. "STOP! NO!!! GET HIM OFF OF THERE!! NO WHEELIES!!! ONLY ONE PERSON!!! I REALLY DON'T THINK..... ZAAAAAACH!!!!! HEY!!! WHATEVER YOUR NAME IS!!! COULD YOU JUST! YIKES!!!! TIME OUT FOR THE MOWER.....HEY! BOYS!!! NOT THE SKATEBOARD!!"
"What, John? A tow rope? Like for a... No honey, no tow ropes."
"I don't mean we don't HAVE a tow rope. I mean YOU can't have a tow rope."
"I mean, no tow ropes on the mower. Look boys, think about this picture. A rope tied to the lawn mower. People running around. Ropes twisting around limbs and necks. Ropes dragging people. Ropes cutting things off. Important things like heads, arms, and legs. "
"Look, boys, I totally get that you are VERY responsible and..."
"I never questioned your judgment, but..."
"BOYS!!! NO TOW ROPES!!! NO, NOT FOR THE BIKE!!! OR FOR ANY VEHICLE OR REASON!!!"
"AAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!!!!! GET THAT THING OUT OF SIXTH GEAR!!! DO YOU HAVE A SPEEDOMETER?"
My friend Teri's advice to her boys is, "If it looks stupid, sounds stupid, or smells stupid, it IS stupid." I don't know how she successfully raised two boys with this piece of advice, because frankly, NO idea which has just occurred to a boy strikes him as stupid. Ever.
And later, after it has been proven stupid, the idiot antics still have to be shared. My boys can't resist telling me all the horrifyingly stupid things they do. They just can't. It's great to pull it off without getting caught, but within 60 minutes, they find themselves sidling up to me and asking, "Mom, if I tell you something, promise you won't get mad?"
I love my boys, I DO, I DO!! But don't tell me I have my hands full. Everybody does. Do they think I don't understand this? I am in a boat with six adorable males. The boat is filling with water. I'm frantically bailing, yelling for help. The boys are looking at me. They're all wearing the same perplexed look and they're asking, "Why is water (mud, a party for sixty, hooky-bobbing, etc., etc.) a problem?"
Monday, October 01, 2007
Ten Blogs in Ten Weeks
Scott has thrown down the gauntlet. I pick it up. A challenge for all my beloved blogging sibs. I miss the blogs! I am as much to blame as anyone! So I'm going to take an oath: I will write 10 blogs in 10 weeks--a blog a week for the next two and a half months. May some of the rest of you take the challenge and help me avoid housework on Monday morning.
Oh, and if anyone can help me get rid of the little green bar in my pretty picture, DO IT!! PLEASE!! HELP!!!
The kids have started school and its been even more painful than usual. The lunches. The backpacks. The signatures on everything, though why they think it prevents things like progress reports and picture day from escaping my notice, I'll never know. Violins, Cellos, Double basses. Concerts. SOCCER SOCCER SOCCER SOCCER SOCCER SOCCER. Birthdays for everyone. And SO on.
Alex is taking singing lessons, but don't tell anyone. He sings like an angel. He loves the lessons. He loves to practice. It's fragile bliss, though, because if even ONE person makes a derogatory comment, I suspect that I won't be able to drag him back to the lessons with a tow rope. His teacher is a lovely man who has an entire mantelpiece full of cut glass and crystal, sparklingly lit and backed by a gigantic mirror. It's probably half a ton of fragile leaded glass whatever. Honestly.
I've noticed that standing there gazing at the crystal makes the kids incredibly, perfectly good. They don't balk. They don't refuse. They don't look mulish and they NEVER EVEN THINK of banging the keys or stomping their feet. The possible consequences are just too terrifying. I wish I'd thought of that technique years ago.
Now, I have several more possible topics and I'd like to go on, but frankly if I'm going to make it through ten blogs in ten weeks, I have to save some topics. So remind me that I promised to tell you about a man, a plan, a canal...panama! next week.
I'll just finish up with a Tim. This is a report from Tom. The other day they were riding in the car together and this conversation happened:
Oh, and if anyone can help me get rid of the little green bar in my pretty picture, DO IT!! PLEASE!! HELP!!!
The kids have started school and its been even more painful than usual. The lunches. The backpacks. The signatures on everything, though why they think it prevents things like progress reports and picture day from escaping my notice, I'll never know. Violins, Cellos, Double basses. Concerts. SOCCER SOCCER SOCCER SOCCER SOCCER SOCCER. Birthdays for everyone. And SO on.
Alex is taking singing lessons, but don't tell anyone. He sings like an angel. He loves the lessons. He loves to practice. It's fragile bliss, though, because if even ONE person makes a derogatory comment, I suspect that I won't be able to drag him back to the lessons with a tow rope. His teacher is a lovely man who has an entire mantelpiece full of cut glass and crystal, sparklingly lit and backed by a gigantic mirror. It's probably half a ton of fragile leaded glass whatever. Honestly.
I've noticed that standing there gazing at the crystal makes the kids incredibly, perfectly good. They don't balk. They don't refuse. They don't look mulish and they NEVER EVEN THINK of banging the keys or stomping their feet. The possible consequences are just too terrifying. I wish I'd thought of that technique years ago.
Now, I have several more possible topics and I'd like to go on, but frankly if I'm going to make it through ten blogs in ten weeks, I have to save some topics. So remind me that I promised to tell you about a man, a plan, a canal...panama! next week.
I'll just finish up with a Tim. This is a report from Tom. The other day they were riding in the car together and this conversation happened:
Tim: Dad, as soon as the last of our friends move away, can we move to Idaho?
Dad: What are you talking about?Tim: You know, most of our friends have moved away, so I figure after the Rosses move we might as well go, too.
Dad: But the Rosses aren't moving.
Tim: Well, it's only a matter of time. Besides, if we move to Idaho, Zach can save you some time by driving me to Scouts when he is 14.
Dad: True, but I have a law practice here. I have a reputation--people know I'm a good lawyer, so they come to me. If we moved to Idaho I'd have to start all over.
Tim: Sure, but if you're such a hot-shot lawyer, you can build up a new reputation in no time. And I don't mind eating smaller portions for a while.
Silence…
Tim: Besides, don't we have all those cans of wheat and stuff out in the garage? We can just eat that.
Thursday, August 23, 2007
A Lone Man in the Garden of Eden
No CD players, no Ipods, no cell phones, no computers, no radio, no tv and NO MOVIES. Just books, games, and puzzles. EXCEPT that they decided they would also take the boat. Well, the reports I am hearing are that they are out on the water all day every day taking turns knee boarding, wakeboarding, waterskiing etc. But when they go home, NO ELECTRONICS. Hence, the 1940’s knee boarding vacation.
Garden of Eden: That would be
Why do you need to know this? I’m not sure, but I suspect that Adam didn’t really need Eve to cook his meals for him, with all that fresh produce literally hanging around.
Sunday, July 08, 2007
Whistling for Fish
After thoroughly exploring the area on bikes, the two kids who HAVE the fishing gene, Alex and Nigel, wanted to give it a try. I sat down on a bench and after about 20 minutes I was able to successfully tie on two hooks and bait the poles. About that time, Julia wandered down to the lake to see what this fishing thing was all about.
Well you’ll never believe it but about 30 seconds after the cast hit the water, we had pulled in 
nice fat rainbow trout, Julia’s first fish – ever!
That was when I first suspected that perhaps there were a few latent alleles of the fishing gene in me after all. I got so excited, I hooked up the remaining poles and all the kids began casting wildly. Tim’s first few casts were in the tree, but hey, he had to learn somehow, right? Similarly Nigel had several snags which required me to retie his whole setup, but he is only 4 so I tried be patient. Zach crossed Alex’s line several times requiring me to cut the line, and as I tied more hooks and replaced more bait I became increasingly frustrated. Every cast seemed to result in a snag requiring me, the only one who knew the fishing knot, to re tie. This went on for several hours until I had completely exhausted the large supply of hooks and bait in the yard sale tackle box. By that time, my enthusiasm for fishing had wilted considerably. Still we ended up with 3 nice rainbows. Julia baked one in the coals stuffed with bacon and onions. The next two we ate for breakfast.
That night, it rained. Now, for many campers, the fact that your tent has puddles in the corners and water is soaking in to your clothes would be a deterrent to further camping in the great northwest. We just call it sleeping in a waterbed.
the prospect of getting rained on again was daunting. But, in true pioneer spirit we refused to turn back and considering our options and being resourceful, we quickly upgraded to a cozy heated cabin.
That night, as we sat in our cabin playing games after warm showers, Nigel prayed that the next day “the rain would go away and the blue sky would come” and so it did. Our prayers were answered with a glorious day biking in Whistler. The highlight came at the end, when two bears 
walked right by us on the bike path. We went to Whistler village to watch the extreme biking championship and topped it off with dinner at the old spaghetti 
factory. Everyone slept on the 3 ½ hour drive home and they all missed some of the most incredible scenery I have seen as I watched the sun set on the Howe Sound.
All in all it was a great family vacation and I now feel that summer has finally come.
Tuesday, June 05, 2007
Parenteen
I'm trying desperately to escape the smothering, gooey, coax-and-coddle parenting so popular with my generation but I just can't...overcome...gravity... And so tonight I found myself doing something my parents would NEVER have done. Try to imagine it--my mother, 10 pm on a school night, hunched over the computer anxiously helping type up reams of "Campbell for Secretary" stickers. Dad helpfully coming home early from work to brainstorm campaign strategy. Yeah.
Anyway. Tom is helping Zach write a speech. I am helping him design a poster. Tom and Zach have invented a slogan. I put the slogan on a poster-sized sticker (yes, they really have these. Fred Meyer. Quick stop on the way home from Cub Scouts/Activity Days/Primary Presidency Meeting.) Now the slogan has been supersized and put in a slogan-appropriate font, Zach is trying hard to hide his consternation. I see it dawning. Mom and Dad have seemed a little less smart lately, but suddenly he KNOWS it. He really, really KNOWS it. If they ever had to survive a day in the halls of middle school, they would be teased. Humiliated. They would eat their lunch in the library. They have NO IDEA HOW TO SURVIVE. And if he takes their slogans and spiffy ideas anywhere near Shuksan Middle School, he will be ANNIHILATED.
He's backpedaling, pretty graciously for a seventh grade boy. He's offering his suggestions while trying to defer without giving in to the parental ideas. *Sigh.* Who knew this campaign was going to be so hard. But he's definitely showing his political savvy. Go Zach.
I realize two things, as I tenderly tuck my seventh grade boy into bed and quietly toss the darling "Zach's Got Your Back/Mumford for Secretary" half sheet stickers with black and white line-drawn head shot (seemed like a good idea at the time...really) into the garbage.
Number one is that by the time you get a teenager to parent, you're forty or pretty close. You've lost it, if you ever had it. You're tone deaf to the language of thirteen year olds. You are not cool--or you probably are because *cool* is not cool. You need to let your teenager handle his own campaign.
Number two is that if I had to walk in the doors of Lincoln Middle School again tomorrow, I'd be just as miserable as I was the first time around. I have learned very little in life that would make me better at middle school. Thank goodness.
May I be graceful enough to keep my mouth shut, remember where the trash can is, and have faith that Zach will do better all by his little lonesome self than he ever will with two meddlesome forty year olds running along behind plying him with pathetic slogans that probably would not have elected anyone even in the 80s.
Anyway. Tom is helping Zach write a speech. I am helping him design a poster. Tom and Zach have invented a slogan. I put the slogan on a poster-sized sticker (yes, they really have these. Fred Meyer. Quick stop on the way home from Cub Scouts/Activity Days/Primary Presidency Meeting.) Now the slogan has been supersized and put in a slogan-appropriate font, Zach is trying hard to hide his consternation. I see it dawning. Mom and Dad have seemed a little less smart lately, but suddenly he KNOWS it. He really, really KNOWS it. If they ever had to survive a day in the halls of middle school, they would be teased. Humiliated. They would eat their lunch in the library. They have NO IDEA HOW TO SURVIVE. And if he takes their slogans and spiffy ideas anywhere near Shuksan Middle School, he will be ANNIHILATED.
He's backpedaling, pretty graciously for a seventh grade boy. He's offering his suggestions while trying to defer without giving in to the parental ideas. *Sigh.* Who knew this campaign was going to be so hard. But he's definitely showing his political savvy. Go Zach.
I realize two things, as I tenderly tuck my seventh grade boy into bed and quietly toss the darling "Zach's Got Your Back/Mumford for Secretary" half sheet stickers with black and white line-drawn head shot (seemed like a good idea at the time...really) into the garbage.
Number one is that by the time you get a teenager to parent, you're forty or pretty close. You've lost it, if you ever had it. You're tone deaf to the language of thirteen year olds. You are not cool--or you probably are because *cool* is not cool. You need to let your teenager handle his own campaign.
Number two is that if I had to walk in the doors of Lincoln Middle School again tomorrow, I'd be just as miserable as I was the first time around. I have learned very little in life that would make me better at middle school. Thank goodness.
May I be graceful enough to keep my mouth shut, remember where the trash can is, and have faith that Zach will do better all by his little lonesome self than he ever will with two meddlesome forty year olds running along behind plying him with pathetic slogans that probably would not have elected anyone even in the 80s.
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
Snot & Boogers
What Tim doesn't get, honestly, is why people think it's disgusting. "I mean," he says, "they just go down your throat the backwards way anyway, so when they come out your nose, why shouldn't you recycle them? That's not gross, it's just natural."
Squeamishness is such a satisfying state of mind, but squeamlessness is more lucrative. Think dentistry. Sure, marketing managers get to wear Brooks Brothers and comprehend The Office, but do they make as much as Urologists? We may as well focus on the positives of squeamlessness, because Tim is what he is. Now and forever. And fortunately, we have, this very week, seen one of the brighter sides of this personality trait. Tim narrowly missed suspension (for a third incident of fighting on the playground) thanks to quick thinking plus the contents of his nostrils.
The problem was simple. A girl--a girl--challenged him to a fight. Never mind what for. Nobody seems to know. But we DO know that equality of the sexes means you pretty much have to fight all challengers, even the ones in eighties style ruffled micro-minis, and somehow refusing to fight a girl makes you even more than just the ordinary kind of chicken. As Tim earnestly explained, "I know I'm not supposed to fight girls, but I had no choice. It was an impeachment to my honor."
So, standing there on the playground nervously facing a girl, caught between the principal and at least a month without dessert on the one hand, and a lifetime of his classmates' scorn on the other, Tim needed a little miracle. Fortunately, this all happened on his birthday, and as he puts it, "I had a bit of birthday luck."
Just as the efficient machine of womanhood (this is second grade, remember, when the boys still lag behind the girls in both size and coordination) charged him, a brilliant thought occurred. Standing his ground, no doubt with that unholy and gleeful smile I love on his face, Tim quickly emptied the contents of his nose into his palms and held them straight out in front of his body. According to him, "It stopped her in her tracks!"
So much for Lorian, terror of the second grade. And if any of you wise guys have visions of explaining to Tim that "suspension" means a day off school ("This kid was so bad, we're going to give him a FREE VACATION!"), think again. Do it and I'll assign you to "office support duty" during the next playground incident crisis.
I noticed this summer when Tim visited Brett and Alison that suddenly Brett had all the great stories and I had none. I really am tremendously indebted to this creative, insightful, lovely child of mine. The ten minutes I spend tucking him in to bed are always richly repaid. I just hope that somehow, someway, I will be given the wisdom to help him connect with something that will lead him into the amazing adulthood he deserves. The fear that I may not be able to do it keeps me awake nights. I'm glad he has more than just me pulling for him.
Squeamishness is such a satisfying state of mind, but squeamlessness is more lucrative. Think dentistry. Sure, marketing managers get to wear Brooks Brothers and comprehend The Office, but do they make as much as Urologists? We may as well focus on the positives of squeamlessness, because Tim is what he is. Now and forever. And fortunately, we have, this very week, seen one of the brighter sides of this personality trait. Tim narrowly missed suspension (for a third incident of fighting on the playground) thanks to quick thinking plus the contents of his nostrils.
The problem was simple. A girl--a girl--challenged him to a fight. Never mind what for. Nobody seems to know. But we DO know that equality of the sexes means you pretty much have to fight all challengers, even the ones in eighties style ruffled micro-minis, and somehow refusing to fight a girl makes you even more than just the ordinary kind of chicken. As Tim earnestly explained, "I know I'm not supposed to fight girls, but I had no choice. It was an impeachment to my honor."
So, standing there on the playground nervously facing a girl, caught between the principal and at least a month without dessert on the one hand, and a lifetime of his classmates' scorn on the other, Tim needed a little miracle. Fortunately, this all happened on his birthday, and as he puts it, "I had a bit of birthday luck."
Just as the efficient machine of womanhood (this is second grade, remember, when the boys still lag behind the girls in both size and coordination) charged him, a brilliant thought occurred. Standing his ground, no doubt with that unholy and gleeful smile I love on his face, Tim quickly emptied the contents of his nose into his palms and held them straight out in front of his body. According to him, "It stopped her in her tracks!"
So much for Lorian, terror of the second grade. And if any of you wise guys have visions of explaining to Tim that "suspension" means a day off school ("This kid was so bad, we're going to give him a FREE VACATION!"), think again. Do it and I'll assign you to "office support duty" during the next playground incident crisis.
I noticed this summer when Tim visited Brett and Alison that suddenly Brett had all the great stories and I had none. I really am tremendously indebted to this creative, insightful, lovely child of mine. The ten minutes I spend tucking him in to bed are always richly repaid. I just hope that somehow, someway, I will be given the wisdom to help him connect with something that will lead him into the amazing adulthood he deserves. The fear that I may not be able to do it keeps me awake nights. I'm glad he has more than just me pulling for him.
Sunday, May 13, 2007
Rivers of Mucus
Let that title be a WARNING to you. If you have a weak stomach, don't read on.
I've been overwhelmed by slimy green goop, which has in the last 24 hours pretty much solidified to the consistency of double bass rosin. Okay, so you've never seen a tub of double bass rosin. It's so viscous that it appears solid, but if you tip the little canister it comes in, you'll discover that over a period of hours it responds to the forces of gravity and moves into a new shape. Last night I lay down on my left cheek and over the eight hours that I slept (remember Mother's Day. They let me sleep in.), the approximately one gallon of semi-solid mucus in my head shifted left, leaving me with a terrific headache and a lopsidedly swollen face. Ugh. This is just the second sinus infection of my life, but I'm starting to understand why people go to such weird extremes (snorting the contents of a neti pot, installing eucalyptus steam jets in the shower, submitting to that surgery where they chisel out your sinus cavities) to try to avoid sinus problems.
Anyway. Done moaning, but trust me, I needed to.
New topic. I loved Women's Conference! The conversation started at the Seattle Airport, wove in and out of the next two days of classes, and didn't truly stop until we were back at the Airport. It was hard to say goodbye. The classes were good--inspiring, motivating, full of insights--but the company was the best. Hurrah for eternal and amusing families! This time I felt that power of sisterhood and it was more than a cliche. How amazing to be there with thousands and thousands of women dedicated to service and righteousness. I've never been able to see that beyond the outward stuff that bugs me, but this time I really got it (as Kim can testify--I was moved to tears in the the crocheted mittens line).
I also thought (during Women's Conference) that I had made a marvelous new health breakthrough--sudafed plus as many ibuprofen as necessary (a cocktail recommended to me by Brett a long time ago) doesn't just make you feel better--it RESTORES YOU TO HEALTH!! You can ignore that pesky little cold that was keeping you down. Travel, stay up all night, eat mint brownies, be merry, for tomorrow there will still be sudafed and vitamin I! Ah, the body takes its ultimate revenge. My sudafed no longer comforts me, and my ibuprofen no longer makes me well. I have come to the valley of the shadow of secondary infection and I have learned my lesson. I know, Dad, I know. I was driving the combine with the air conditioning on and the stereo up full blast. I won't do it again anytime soon. I am forty and I know it.
I've been overwhelmed by slimy green goop, which has in the last 24 hours pretty much solidified to the consistency of double bass rosin. Okay, so you've never seen a tub of double bass rosin. It's so viscous that it appears solid, but if you tip the little canister it comes in, you'll discover that over a period of hours it responds to the forces of gravity and moves into a new shape. Last night I lay down on my left cheek and over the eight hours that I slept (remember Mother's Day. They let me sleep in.), the approximately one gallon of semi-solid mucus in my head shifted left, leaving me with a terrific headache and a lopsidedly swollen face. Ugh. This is just the second sinus infection of my life, but I'm starting to understand why people go to such weird extremes (snorting the contents of a neti pot, installing eucalyptus steam jets in the shower, submitting to that surgery where they chisel out your sinus cavities) to try to avoid sinus problems.
Anyway. Done moaning, but trust me, I needed to.
New topic. I loved Women's Conference! The conversation started at the Seattle Airport, wove in and out of the next two days of classes, and didn't truly stop until we were back at the Airport. It was hard to say goodbye. The classes were good--inspiring, motivating, full of insights--but the company was the best. Hurrah for eternal and amusing families! This time I felt that power of sisterhood and it was more than a cliche. How amazing to be there with thousands and thousands of women dedicated to service and righteousness. I've never been able to see that beyond the outward stuff that bugs me, but this time I really got it (as Kim can testify--I was moved to tears in the the crocheted mittens line).
I also thought (during Women's Conference) that I had made a marvelous new health breakthrough--sudafed plus as many ibuprofen as necessary (a cocktail recommended to me by Brett a long time ago) doesn't just make you feel better--it RESTORES YOU TO HEALTH!! You can ignore that pesky little cold that was keeping you down. Travel, stay up all night, eat mint brownies, be merry, for tomorrow there will still be sudafed and vitamin I! Ah, the body takes its ultimate revenge. My sudafed no longer comforts me, and my ibuprofen no longer makes me well. I have come to the valley of the shadow of secondary infection and I have learned my lesson. I know, Dad, I know. I was driving the combine with the air conditioning on and the stereo up full blast. I won't do it again anytime soon. I am forty and I know it.
Sunday, April 22, 2007
Hubris
While sitting at the organ today, I looked lovingly at my husband and three youngest children and thought, "Just look at that! Only three short years ago, we were the subjects of an entire fireside addressing irreverence in our ward. But NOW! Look at us! WE ARE SO REVERENT!"
At that very moment nemesis was lurking under Timothy's shirt in the form of a white plastic electronic disk out of Nigel's Tweety Bird birthday balloon.
It carried on lurking right through the first two speakers and a lengthy musical number, but about five minutes into the High Council talk, Tom discovered it and yanked it out. It was motion sensitive, of course, so Tweety immediately announced in a loud voice:
"A witto biwd told me it was yow BIWTHDAY! (singing, obnoxious Tweety Bird voice)
Happy Biwthday to you,
Happy Biwthday to you,
Happy Biwthday witto tweety,
Happy Biwthday to YOU!
A BIG Happy Biwthday fwom a witto chick!"
The entire Mumford bench collapsed into a heaving, soggy pile of hilarity. Both adults were seized by the fatal combination of deep mortification and uncontrollable giggles. Without fully thinking things through, Tom attempted to muffle the singing (it was pretty loud) and as a result set the whole song off for a second time.
Tim and Nigel were both laughing--loudly--and Alex was trying to crawl under the bench. Tom and I were both hiding our magenta faces from each other and the rest of the congregation. Taking it out while it was in full voice was impossible, but the song lasted an unbearably long time. The High Councilor valiantly pressed on with his talk, although it was nearly inaudible.
At last, the song ended, and Tom and I started arguing, sotto voice, about who should have to carry the salad-plate-sized object out. It wasn't something you could tuck under your arm or in a bag--its extreme sensitivity to motion meant that it needed to be carried like a stick of live dynamite, S L O W L Y, S L O W L Y and
G I N G E R L Y down the aisle. The ultimate humiliation.
Alex at last took it. It didn't go off until he had (barely) cleared the chapel door. So much for the Mumfords and reverence.
When we got home, Tom asked Timmy sternly whether or not he had learned his lesson. "You'll never do something like that again, will you?" he asked, iron in his voice. "You've learned that it isn't worth it, haven't you?"
There was a long pause while Tim quite obviously considered whether it was more dangerous to tell a bald-faced lie, or whether he ought to risk the wrath of Dad by admitting that it was about the most worthwhile caper he had ever attempted.
"I think," he said at last, "that I won't try that idea again."
There's a ward fireside tonight--no kids, just parents. Wonder what they're going to talk about.
In other Tim moments:
Tim wasn't just pathologically irreverent in Sacrament meeting, he was miserably bad in Primary, too, so Tom and I had (yet another) big talk about reverence when we got home. Tim said, "Look. I've learned all there is to know at my level. I'm ready to move up."
"You have not!" Alex, who was illegally lurking, said. "Who wrote down the Book of Mormon when Joseph Smith was translating?"
"Well," Tim replied, "at first it was his wife, Emma, and then it was Oliver Cowdery."
Also, Wednesday night, he told me that he had written a "lyric poem" about his future. I asked him what the poem said.
"It's just about how I'll feel when at last I'm in my room with all my materials, inventing," he said.
"But Tim," I said, "What materials do you need? I'll get you stuff so you can start inventing now."
He sighed. "Sorry, Mom. That won't work. Eight is too young to weld."
At that very moment nemesis was lurking under Timothy's shirt in the form of a white plastic electronic disk out of Nigel's Tweety Bird birthday balloon.
It carried on lurking right through the first two speakers and a lengthy musical number, but about five minutes into the High Council talk, Tom discovered it and yanked it out. It was motion sensitive, of course, so Tweety immediately announced in a loud voice:
"A witto biwd told me it was yow BIWTHDAY! (singing, obnoxious Tweety Bird voice)
Happy Biwthday to you,
Happy Biwthday to you,
Happy Biwthday witto tweety,
Happy Biwthday to YOU!
A BIG Happy Biwthday fwom a witto chick!"
The entire Mumford bench collapsed into a heaving, soggy pile of hilarity. Both adults were seized by the fatal combination of deep mortification and uncontrollable giggles. Without fully thinking things through, Tom attempted to muffle the singing (it was pretty loud) and as a result set the whole song off for a second time.
Tim and Nigel were both laughing--loudly--and Alex was trying to crawl under the bench. Tom and I were both hiding our magenta faces from each other and the rest of the congregation. Taking it out while it was in full voice was impossible, but the song lasted an unbearably long time. The High Councilor valiantly pressed on with his talk, although it was nearly inaudible.
At last, the song ended, and Tom and I started arguing, sotto voice, about who should have to carry the salad-plate-sized object out. It wasn't something you could tuck under your arm or in a bag--its extreme sensitivity to motion meant that it needed to be carried like a stick of live dynamite, S L O W L Y, S L O W L Y and
G I N G E R L Y down the aisle. The ultimate humiliation.
Alex at last took it. It didn't go off until he had (barely) cleared the chapel door. So much for the Mumfords and reverence.
When we got home, Tom asked Timmy sternly whether or not he had learned his lesson. "You'll never do something like that again, will you?" he asked, iron in his voice. "You've learned that it isn't worth it, haven't you?"
There was a long pause while Tim quite obviously considered whether it was more dangerous to tell a bald-faced lie, or whether he ought to risk the wrath of Dad by admitting that it was about the most worthwhile caper he had ever attempted.
"I think," he said at last, "that I won't try that idea again."
There's a ward fireside tonight--no kids, just parents. Wonder what they're going to talk about.
In other Tim moments:
Tim wasn't just pathologically irreverent in Sacrament meeting, he was miserably bad in Primary, too, so Tom and I had (yet another) big talk about reverence when we got home. Tim said, "Look. I've learned all there is to know at my level. I'm ready to move up."
"You have not!" Alex, who was illegally lurking, said. "Who wrote down the Book of Mormon when Joseph Smith was translating?"
"Well," Tim replied, "at first it was his wife, Emma, and then it was Oliver Cowdery."
Also, Wednesday night, he told me that he had written a "lyric poem" about his future. I asked him what the poem said.
"It's just about how I'll feel when at last I'm in my room with all my materials, inventing," he said.
"But Tim," I said, "What materials do you need? I'll get you stuff so you can start inventing now."
He sighed. "Sorry, Mom. That won't work. Eight is too young to weld."
Sunday, April 08, 2007
Just Thoughts
One of the counselors in our bishopric bought a house in another ward (okay, it was my fault, but let's not go into that) and gave his farewell speech today. He made the BEST comment ever. He said: "Most of you are pretty weird. Maybe no one's ever told you that before, but it's true." Then he went on to talk about our terrific ward community. Well, what he said is absolutely true. Our ward is full of weird people. I'll frankly admit to being among them, but if there is such a thing as a weirdness level that goes from, say, believing that if you say your prayers out loud the devil can capture them (this would be a high level) or denying the truthfulness of plastic refrigerator dishes (still high for me) down to a propensity to sing certain hymns with a bluegrass twang (I would call this lower on the scale, if perhaps slightly more annoying in sacrament meeting)...um...this sentence is developing BOM proportions...IF, I say, there is such a sliding scale, I think the Mumford family is slightly below our ward median of weirdness. That is, we have a lot of people who believe, say, wear, and eat VERY weird things. But after our bpric member made this comment, I reflected that I would much rather have a weird ward than an ordinary ward.
We've LOVED our weird wards. In the ordinary ones, I think there is too much conformity of thought, which leads to both boredom and a stultifyingly orthodox culture. Narrow minds! Sleepy gospel doctrine classes! Uneducated youth! Etc. So give me the weird. A big group of people preaching their competing far-out gospel ideas makes for great table discussions at home.
It was a beautiful Easter for us. Long live the sunrise service, although Nigel fell asleep IN church, and Tom and I fell asleep after it.
I'm finally starting to prepare for Cub Scout Day Camp this summer. The theme is the Middle Ages. I have a problem with these themes. They sound fine in theory: last year, Pirates. Arrrgh! But after you've pounded together some treasure chests, what are you going to do with this theme? Next, we'll learn to rape and pillage on the north lawn! Well, the middle ages are just more of the same. I've never been too excited about the middle ages, to tell you the truth. All those SOCA dudes in their period dress with period names, heavy swords, and reenactments, they make me nervous. I've never liked dungeons and dragons either, or tae kwon do, and I'm going to freely admit (although I think I probably shouldn't) that all this stuff goes together in my mind. Anyway, I've been avoiding it for most of my life. I have a big historical hole from about the fall of the Roman Empire straight through to the Renaissance. I've always felt fine about this. Isn't that the definition of the dark ages--a historical hole?
Anyway, I just checked out a boatload of books from the library and pulled a bunch of relevant looking things off my own shelves to start doing my homework (Tom's comment: "You're reading Idylls of the King??? Who reads Tennyson to prepare for Cub Camp? I'm scared for those boys!") And guess what? This is going all the way back to the middle of the last paragraph where I observe that the middle ages is more of the same. WAR WAR WAR. Play war. Real war. Weaponry. Building castles for protection. Building trebuchets and swords and long bows and armor for attacking. Practicing the art of war by hunting. Feasting your friends and then (if you're a Campbell) killing them in the night because you decided they were actually your enemies. Oh, we can wring a few puppet shows and maybe a juggling class out of the lighter side of the middle ages, but let's face it. The whole period is death and destruction.
When I first heard about the theme, I thought we'd get creative and do Gallileo, Leonardo da Vinci, Copernicus, but of course all the good stuff is the RENAISSANCE...the END of the middle ages. Why do we choose these stupid themes for our boys? Because nobody is THINKING about the content of the program. They're just thinking that the boys like to play sword fighting. Duh. If I hear one more thing about jousting with fun noodles, I'm going to scream. Our Day Camp program is supposed to be designed around 12 character connections like citizenship, compassion, and cooperation. I'm not saying compassion was not present in the middle ages. I'm just saying that a lot of these character points were not hallmarks of the age. Maybe we could find better themes? Just a thought.
We've LOVED our weird wards. In the ordinary ones, I think there is too much conformity of thought, which leads to both boredom and a stultifyingly orthodox culture. Narrow minds! Sleepy gospel doctrine classes! Uneducated youth! Etc. So give me the weird. A big group of people preaching their competing far-out gospel ideas makes for great table discussions at home.
It was a beautiful Easter for us. Long live the sunrise service, although Nigel fell asleep IN church, and Tom and I fell asleep after it.
I'm finally starting to prepare for Cub Scout Day Camp this summer. The theme is the Middle Ages. I have a problem with these themes. They sound fine in theory: last year, Pirates. Arrrgh! But after you've pounded together some treasure chests, what are you going to do with this theme? Next, we'll learn to rape and pillage on the north lawn! Well, the middle ages are just more of the same. I've never been too excited about the middle ages, to tell you the truth. All those SOCA dudes in their period dress with period names, heavy swords, and reenactments, they make me nervous. I've never liked dungeons and dragons either, or tae kwon do, and I'm going to freely admit (although I think I probably shouldn't) that all this stuff goes together in my mind. Anyway, I've been avoiding it for most of my life. I have a big historical hole from about the fall of the Roman Empire straight through to the Renaissance. I've always felt fine about this. Isn't that the definition of the dark ages--a historical hole?
Anyway, I just checked out a boatload of books from the library and pulled a bunch of relevant looking things off my own shelves to start doing my homework (Tom's comment: "You're reading Idylls of the King??? Who reads Tennyson to prepare for Cub Camp? I'm scared for those boys!") And guess what? This is going all the way back to the middle of the last paragraph where I observe that the middle ages is more of the same. WAR WAR WAR. Play war. Real war. Weaponry. Building castles for protection. Building trebuchets and swords and long bows and armor for attacking. Practicing the art of war by hunting. Feasting your friends and then (if you're a Campbell) killing them in the night because you decided they were actually your enemies. Oh, we can wring a few puppet shows and maybe a juggling class out of the lighter side of the middle ages, but let's face it. The whole period is death and destruction.
When I first heard about the theme, I thought we'd get creative and do Gallileo, Leonardo da Vinci, Copernicus, but of course all the good stuff is the RENAISSANCE...the END of the middle ages. Why do we choose these stupid themes for our boys? Because nobody is THINKING about the content of the program. They're just thinking that the boys like to play sword fighting. Duh. If I hear one more thing about jousting with fun noodles, I'm going to scream. Our Day Camp program is supposed to be designed around 12 character connections like citizenship, compassion, and cooperation. I'm not saying compassion was not present in the middle ages. I'm just saying that a lot of these character points were not hallmarks of the age. Maybe we could find better themes? Just a thought.
Thursday, March 15, 2007
Work
No new comments from Tim. Zip. He's mainlining books. That seems to provide sufficient social interaction.
The neighbors hired Zach and Alex to dig flower beds around the edges of their front lawn. This involves removing quite a lot of sod. This has reminded me that Alex loves to dig. When he was a little mite of two, he used to walk crisply out the door each morning and go straight to his "office," a little hole in the dirt right next to the house. His "work" was digging. When I say that the hole was right next to the house, I don't mean roundabout. And when I say he worked...well, anyway, he successfully laid bare about a yard's length of the foundation, right down to the foot, of our little house on Radford Drive. He loves the neighbor project too. Today he got off the school bus, dropped his backpack, started digging, and didn't stop until called for dinner at 6:30. (Of course, he left his backpack in a heap right next to the piles of sod, see previous post.) I wonder profession this indicates?
Nigel, at any rate, is going to be a fire fighter. This was always in the cards, but then we went to the fire station on a preschool field trip today. Those field trips to the fire station are always fine--all the moms get scared and collect the red dots for the windows; moms are also the only ones who ever ask questions and the questions are always about pulling over in traffic and whether or not Firefighter Jeff REALLY wants us to sit tight in the left hand turn lane when we hear the siren. This time, though, the station boasted only two firefighters (budget cuts) and either because they are both naturally great with kids, or because the lack of laughing peers reduced their inhibitions, they did a terrific job. One donned all his bunker gear and crawled around on his hands and knees, sounding exactly like Darth Vader, smiling through the mask and urging the kids to pound on the floor so he could find them and get them out. The other took us out to see the vehicles. He let the kids sit in the ambulance, crawl around the engine, open doors at will, sit in the drivers seat and wiggle the wheel, and finally lined them up against the wall, opened the bay door, turned on the truck, and fired up the lights and siren. The moms then asked their questions, murmured approvingly to each other about the obliging firefighters, and turned to go. At that very moment, just like they had one of those "page me" buttons Brett is always talking about, their radios crackled to life and they got called to a fire. They said a speedy goodbye, donned the gear, jumped into the truck, and sped off, lights flashing and sirens wailing.
I've been thinking that it's not a bad idea. You sit around, do preschool shows, tidy up the gear, shine up the truck, have competitions to see who can get on the gear fastest, and then every so often speed off to a fire. Might work out for Nigel. Thank goodness, since I think he's completely and totally sold.
The neighbors hired Zach and Alex to dig flower beds around the edges of their front lawn. This involves removing quite a lot of sod. This has reminded me that Alex loves to dig. When he was a little mite of two, he used to walk crisply out the door each morning and go straight to his "office," a little hole in the dirt right next to the house. His "work" was digging. When I say that the hole was right next to the house, I don't mean roundabout. And when I say he worked...well, anyway, he successfully laid bare about a yard's length of the foundation, right down to the foot, of our little house on Radford Drive. He loves the neighbor project too. Today he got off the school bus, dropped his backpack, started digging, and didn't stop until called for dinner at 6:30. (Of course, he left his backpack in a heap right next to the piles of sod, see previous post.) I wonder profession this indicates?
Nigel, at any rate, is going to be a fire fighter. This was always in the cards, but then we went to the fire station on a preschool field trip today. Those field trips to the fire station are always fine--all the moms get scared and collect the red dots for the windows; moms are also the only ones who ever ask questions and the questions are always about pulling over in traffic and whether or not Firefighter Jeff REALLY wants us to sit tight in the left hand turn lane when we hear the siren. This time, though, the station boasted only two firefighters (budget cuts) and either because they are both naturally great with kids, or because the lack of laughing peers reduced their inhibitions, they did a terrific job. One donned all his bunker gear and crawled around on his hands and knees, sounding exactly like Darth Vader, smiling through the mask and urging the kids to pound on the floor so he could find them and get them out. The other took us out to see the vehicles. He let the kids sit in the ambulance, crawl around the engine, open doors at will, sit in the drivers seat and wiggle the wheel, and finally lined them up against the wall, opened the bay door, turned on the truck, and fired up the lights and siren. The moms then asked their questions, murmured approvingly to each other about the obliging firefighters, and turned to go. At that very moment, just like they had one of those "page me" buttons Brett is always talking about, their radios crackled to life and they got called to a fire. They said a speedy goodbye, donned the gear, jumped into the truck, and sped off, lights flashing and sirens wailing.
I've been thinking that it's not a bad idea. You sit around, do preschool shows, tidy up the gear, shine up the truck, have competitions to see who can get on the gear fastest, and then every so often speed off to a fire. Might work out for Nigel. Thank goodness, since I think he's completely and totally sold.
Sunday, February 11, 2007
Goodbye, Part II
It's not over until the faith community sings, apparently. Since I was present at the coin toss of the IFC Festival, the new Stake Music Chair felt that it was only appropriate that I stick around to award the trophy...so to speak. So today, I carpooled a big group of youth down to Assumption Catholic Church and stuck around for the half hour first rehearsal, the one and a half hour second rehearsal, the insane 15 minute snack and potty break, and the one and a half hour concert.
Actually, since the terrific youth pianist/organist who played for Stake Conference had a doctor's note, I filled in at the piano too. I wasn't sorry to be at the party. The youth sang beautifully. They sang "My Shepherd Will Supply My Need." Set in the middle of lots of befuddled modern music accompanied by everything from electric guitars and bongos to shekeres, their pure sound was extraordinarily beautiful. After they finished singing, the audience literally sighed before applauding wildly.
Not that the rest of the concert was bad. On the contrary, I think this was the best year ever. The 300 voice mass choir sang two Shaker hymns and Vivaldi's Gloria, which I hope was as fun for the youth as it was for me. And many of the choirs, despite their bizarre musical choices, sang well and entertained. One of the greatest moments was at the end. I had looked ahead and noticed that the last choir was singing one of Tom's favorite folk songs, originally written and performed by a local musician who has made it sort of big. About 10 minutes before they came on, I realized that SHE was going to sing the song, and she did. She plugged in to her massive sound system, did a quick sound check, and launched into a fantastic performance, backed by the 40 voice Unitarian choir. They mostly oohed and aahed, and she mostly played and sang a solo. She sounded even better than she does on the iPod. I was so sad that Tom wasn't there--he has supported me every year for this extravaganza, in whatever way seemed most helpful. This year, that meant staying for the last two hours of church and putting Sunday dinner on the table. He's an incredible husband and a wonderful friend.
All I have to say about the Unitarians is that they win on the music. Between David Wilcox and Tracy Spring, they must be singing the flavor of philosophies of men mixed with scripture I love best. I don't think I would give up Mo Tab and Mack Wilberg for that, especially not on a Sunday morning, but... I'm going to have a hard time agreeing with the Stake President that our youth were the best ones on the program. I get his point, though.
In the rehearsal room before the concert, Zach locked his knees, felt queasy, hyperventilated, and fainted. He clonked his head pretty hard on a folding chair and got up disoriented and with tears in his eyes. And was his mother there to hold his hand? Of course I wasn't. When he went down, Rob said, "Keep singing." So I kept right on playing and let Zach sort himself out. He claims he's RELIEVED that I didn't run to his side, but am I real mother? I'm the one that rushes my bashed up children to the tub before examining their wounds. I don't want them to bleed on the carpet.
So now I'm left with a slightly queasy child who has a large bump on his head, a car full of granola bar wrappers and empty foil drink packages, the usual stack of music mixed with programs and maps of Assumption, and my memories. This really, finally, does feel like the end. Good thing, too. I'm tempted to ask Tracy Spring if she might be willing to sing with US next year.
Actually, since the terrific youth pianist/organist who played for Stake Conference had a doctor's note, I filled in at the piano too. I wasn't sorry to be at the party. The youth sang beautifully. They sang "My Shepherd Will Supply My Need." Set in the middle of lots of befuddled modern music accompanied by everything from electric guitars and bongos to shekeres, their pure sound was extraordinarily beautiful. After they finished singing, the audience literally sighed before applauding wildly.
Not that the rest of the concert was bad. On the contrary, I think this was the best year ever. The 300 voice mass choir sang two Shaker hymns and Vivaldi's Gloria, which I hope was as fun for the youth as it was for me. And many of the choirs, despite their bizarre musical choices, sang well and entertained. One of the greatest moments was at the end. I had looked ahead and noticed that the last choir was singing one of Tom's favorite folk songs, originally written and performed by a local musician who has made it sort of big. About 10 minutes before they came on, I realized that SHE was going to sing the song, and she did. She plugged in to her massive sound system, did a quick sound check, and launched into a fantastic performance, backed by the 40 voice Unitarian choir. They mostly oohed and aahed, and she mostly played and sang a solo. She sounded even better than she does on the iPod. I was so sad that Tom wasn't there--he has supported me every year for this extravaganza, in whatever way seemed most helpful. This year, that meant staying for the last two hours of church and putting Sunday dinner on the table. He's an incredible husband and a wonderful friend.
All I have to say about the Unitarians is that they win on the music. Between David Wilcox and Tracy Spring, they must be singing the flavor of philosophies of men mixed with scripture I love best. I don't think I would give up Mo Tab and Mack Wilberg for that, especially not on a Sunday morning, but... I'm going to have a hard time agreeing with the Stake President that our youth were the best ones on the program. I get his point, though.
In the rehearsal room before the concert, Zach locked his knees, felt queasy, hyperventilated, and fainted. He clonked his head pretty hard on a folding chair and got up disoriented and with tears in his eyes. And was his mother there to hold his hand? Of course I wasn't. When he went down, Rob said, "Keep singing." So I kept right on playing and let Zach sort himself out. He claims he's RELIEVED that I didn't run to his side, but am I real mother? I'm the one that rushes my bashed up children to the tub before examining their wounds. I don't want them to bleed on the carpet.
So now I'm left with a slightly queasy child who has a large bump on his head, a car full of granola bar wrappers and empty foil drink packages, the usual stack of music mixed with programs and maps of Assumption, and my memories. This really, finally, does feel like the end. Good thing, too. I'm tempted to ask Tracy Spring if she might be willing to sing with US next year.
Wednesday, February 07, 2007
You Are Not Going to Belive This, but...
I was talking to Tim last night at bedtime. It was a very emotional conversation about what goes on at recess. Tim's best friend moved last year, basically dissolving the club they had together. It has now come to light that this club was called "The Bomb Club." You can guess how thrilled Tom and I were to hear it. The whole thing was pretty innocent--they pretended to blow up inanimate object like rocks and trees--but they might as well have called it the "Please Suspend Me Club." This would have been a sleeping dog except that Tim revived the club this year with a group of extremely impulsive and intense little second grade boys. The result has been trouble. Tom and I have been trying to get him to dissolve or at least rename the club (The Demolition Club?) but he has stubbornly refused. Tearfully, he told me that it was his last link to his best friend and no matter what he would keep the memory alive.
Anyway, last night I was taking another crack at it, which lead to a tortuous discussion of all the ins and outs of second grade male playground culture. I was asking him about different kids, including one I've never met named Justin.
Mom: How about Justin? Are you friends?
Tim: Nah. I never was much friends with Justin. He's all about the army. Me, I'd like a quiet life in a room full of gizmos and gadgets, inventing, while he's using my greatest inventions in the field of battle.
You think I'm embellishing this, but I swear I'm not. I had to break off the conversation to run out of the room and write down what he said word for word.
PS--Are the words in this post going to get my blog monitored? Will I end up on the no-fly list like Colin? I think I'm going to post anyway, which should convince you all of how much I love you.
Anyway, last night I was taking another crack at it, which lead to a tortuous discussion of all the ins and outs of second grade male playground culture. I was asking him about different kids, including one I've never met named Justin.
Mom: How about Justin? Are you friends?
Tim: Nah. I never was much friends with Justin. He's all about the army. Me, I'd like a quiet life in a room full of gizmos and gadgets, inventing, while he's using my greatest inventions in the field of battle.
You think I'm embellishing this, but I swear I'm not. I had to break off the conversation to run out of the room and write down what he said word for word.
PS--Are the words in this post going to get my blog monitored? Will I end up on the no-fly list like Colin? I think I'm going to post anyway, which should convince you all of how much I love you.
Sunday, January 21, 2007
Singing a New Song
Today I was released as the Stake Music Chair (except it has some newfangled title which I can't remember--never mind. It ought to be "chair" since chairs figure large in the calling). This calling (that I didn't want) was the conduit for so many blessings in my life and today it was just a little sad saying goodbye.
The drive from my house to the Stake Center takes 12.5 minutes. I have driven it coming home from 6 am Stake Council meetings, praying fervently for all 12.5 minutes that somehow the children had awakened and gotten themselves ready for church since Tom was already at WARD council meeting and I needed to load up and get to our building in time to play the organ for a sacrament meeting that was starting right away. That particular experience was too painful to blog. I have driven it while overcome with the spirit, driven it while overcome with gratitude, driven it in apprehension and exhilaration, while filled with chagrin, amusement, and exhaustion. I have driven it--often--while listening to the combined BYU choirs singing "Redeemer of Israel" (I can definitely carry the alto part while driving). I have driven it at 6 am Easter morning while praying that somehow the members of the Stake would wake up and get themselves to the sunrise service--and I have realized, in a way deeper than words, that though they might not, even if we had prepared only for the Lord and for ourselves, the preparation was justified, and sanctified. I have driven it while practicing something I intended to say, while singing something I needed to (somehow) play, while weeping over musical beauty I hadn't imagined could exist among a little group of rank amateurs, myself included.
And I drove it again today, 12.5 minutes home from Stake Conference, singing along with the BYU choirs and realizing, incredibly, that this whole experience, this four years of what I often considered challenging service, was really, in fact, for me. I was the one all along. These four years were not my gift to the Lord. They were the Lord's gift to me.
The drive from my house to the Stake Center takes 12.5 minutes. I have driven it coming home from 6 am Stake Council meetings, praying fervently for all 12.5 minutes that somehow the children had awakened and gotten themselves ready for church since Tom was already at WARD council meeting and I needed to load up and get to our building in time to play the organ for a sacrament meeting that was starting right away. That particular experience was too painful to blog. I have driven it while overcome with the spirit, driven it while overcome with gratitude, driven it in apprehension and exhilaration, while filled with chagrin, amusement, and exhaustion. I have driven it--often--while listening to the combined BYU choirs singing "Redeemer of Israel" (I can definitely carry the alto part while driving). I have driven it at 6 am Easter morning while praying that somehow the members of the Stake would wake up and get themselves to the sunrise service--and I have realized, in a way deeper than words, that though they might not, even if we had prepared only for the Lord and for ourselves, the preparation was justified, and sanctified. I have driven it while practicing something I intended to say, while singing something I needed to (somehow) play, while weeping over musical beauty I hadn't imagined could exist among a little group of rank amateurs, myself included.
And I drove it again today, 12.5 minutes home from Stake Conference, singing along with the BYU choirs and realizing, incredibly, that this whole experience, this four years of what I often considered challenging service, was really, in fact, for me. I was the one all along. These four years were not my gift to the Lord. They were the Lord's gift to me.
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