There's No Help For It

We are home and I am feeling like Eve.  Cast out of the garden.

And the lone and dreary world feels suspiciously like hell.  Complete with the fire and brimstone and severe heat warnings.  

Am I overdoing it?

(It's one of my talents.)

We had an amazing time travelling through five states and one province and a couple of trips across the ocean. 

And all of it together.

Undivided for three whole weeks.

Yesterday I asked David if he was worried that he wouldn't be able to leave me in the morning and go back to work.  He grinned at me.  And confided he was indeed having his doubts.

But there's no help for it.

Him to the hospital.  Me to the laundry.  The kids set to the dusting.  And the air conditioner back to round-the-clock vigilance.

And then two memory cards full of pictures to sort and print and frame. 

But slowly.  With plenty of wistfulness and nostalgia thrown in for good measure.

Luckily, I am full of both.

How Scrambled Eggs Can Change the World

Yesterday's post was so enjoyable, I thought I'd write another.  Just for the adverbs, if nothing else.

I talked Rachel into yoga class this morning.  I had to compromise and agree to run with her tomorrow, but I'm not thinking about that just now.  (She is very persistent.)  We nearly caught fire during warrior B, but other than that it was a lovely practice.  Though sometimes I wish there was talking in yoga.  I need to get caught up.  Rachel says that's why we need to run.  She has forgotten that I only huff through running.  Or maybe she remembers and prefers a one-sided conversation.  Me, finally, at a loss for words.

This morning while Rachel and I were moving from down dog to child pose and back again, David was leaving me a love note on the bathroom mirror.

In lipstick.  Complete with boyish drawings of lips and hearts.

There's not much that makes me happier than that.

Except maybe this:

With no warning at all, on the way to bed last night David told me that he was going to get me some chickens, so that I can have omelets and egg-salad sandwiches every day for the rest of my life.  I just stared at him.  I have been wistfully asking for a hen house of my very own for most of our marriage.  I could hardly believe it.  Dreams of a backyard with white Silkies and buff Orpingtons filled my head.  (And don't tell David, but maybe even an Ameraucana so I can have blue eggs too.)

I laughed myself to sleep and had dreams about an enormous house that we are always renovating.  (It's a recurring dream, and I know the floor plan by heart by now.  I swear I've taken the wallpaper off the walls in the master bedroom a hundred times.  But apparently, entropy works in my dreams as well.)

I thought maybe I had dreamed the part about the chickens too. 

Amazingly, I hadn't. 

This morning as I was contemplating fresh eggs for breakfast and lunch, it occurred to me that life may never be the same for either of us.

For me, of course, because I may discover that keeping chickens may not be as romantic as it seems in my head.  (Nothing usually is.)

And for David, of course, because he has never been married to a wife with steady and reasonable blood sugar levels.  It is quite possible that I could lose all my charm to protein.  

Luckily for him, I also know how to turn eggs into chocolate cake.

Just to keep things exciting.

Imagine his relief.

Death and Breath and Dehydration

David and I cried ourselves to sleep on Sunday night.

And not for the usual reasons.  (You're asking yourself, are there usual reasons?  Oh, if you only knew.)

Actually, the last few days there's been quite a bit of crying ourselves to sleep all the way around.

I had a really good jag before bed on Sunday night and David even joined me for the end of it.  My eyes were half-swollen shut all Monday morning.

Then late last night after David had already started snoring and I was finally putting the last of my thoughts to bed and starting to drift, Ethan showed up sobbing at the foot of our bed.

Tonight it was the girls.  Long, solemn tracks of tears dripping down their necks and pooling in the hollow of their collarbones.

I tucked Savannah in and let her cry.  Olivia just wanted to sit by me for a while. 

Maybe it's too much sun.  Too much happiness.  And the universe is demanding a little sorrow in return.  Balancing our emotional scales.

The truth is I like the right kind of crying almost as much as I like laughing.  Cathartic and cleansing.  David gave consolation a try tonight, "It's alright.  Don't be sad."  But not me.  I sort of believe in crying.  Let it out, I say.  Howl, even, I say.   And then I join in for good measure.  So they'll know I'm serious about what I believe in. 

Nothing is seriously wrong, of course.  Sunday's tears were over a rough Sunday school lesson and an even rougher personal review of it in my head.  And our oldest boy had his first priesthood interview and we sobbed a bit remembering when he used to crawl around our bed in his white onesie and bare legs.  Ethan's was over a bad dream which he couldn't remember later.  And tonight over pasta e fagioli, I shared the news that our beloved grandmother is on her way back to heaven.  We all dripped salty tears into our soup and mopped it up with crusty bread. 

All things worth crying over, I say.  (But I may not be the one to ask.  Heaven knows, I've cried over less.)

I keep thinking about breathing.  The in and out.  The one breath between this life and the next.  The one breath between giving birth and sending them off.  The one breath between kindergarten and college.  The one breath between madly feeding six ravenous mouths and quietly warming up dinner for one.  The one breath between tending their sick beds and them tending mine.  The one breath between now and then. 

And I want to hold my breath.

Tonight after dinner was over and David and I were staring at each other over the dishes, he told me about his day.  One of his colleagues had teasingly accused him of being a romantic. 

She said,  "Now I heard that you believe that you're married not only for this life, but for ever.  And I told my husband, 'This life is enough!'"

They laughed together at that.

And David and I laughed at it again over our dishes.  Because, really, some days it is.

But tonight when I got in bed, and remembered the one breath between this life and the next, and heard David breathing deeply beside me, I was grateful.  So grateful that I have more than this "one breath" with the ones I love.  Because I cannot hold my breath.  I've tried.  But I keep breathing in and out.  My husband keeps breathing in and out.  My children keep breathing in and out.

And that seems like as good a thing as any to cry about.

But not for long.  Because, as brief as this life is, it is only the beginning. 

And that makes me smile.  In spite of myself.

Entropy, Repentance and Me

Last night David and I stayed up late watching a movie and Jimmy Kimmel's monologue.  (Quit halfway through because it was a rerun.)

And then David put the clean sheets on our bed as I walked through the house cleaning up the bits and pieces of our evening and putting another couple of pieces in the puzzle we are working on.

As I passed the laundry room I sighed. 

Last week my washing machine died.  And could not be resurrected. 

The repairman said to go shopping.  I did so grudgingly.  Partly because my budget doesn't have room for a new washer and dryer and partly because I found out that in an effort to make washing machines more energy efficient, the government instituted new standards (none of which included anything about making clothes cleaner which seems like a gaping hole in standard-making if you ask me [which nobody did by the way]) which only resulted in making the machines more expensive and less effective. 

(Whew.  That might have been a run-on sentence just now.  Too bad.  I've done enough repenting already today.)

Now don't get me wrong.

I like the earth. 

But why are saving the earth and having clean clothes mutually exclusive?

And (dang it) the machines I can afford don't match my laundry room like my old one used to and they also stick out way past my countertop and since my laundry room is really just a hallway anyway, it is really bothersome to have them sitting out so far. 

The guy who came to install them could tell I wasn't happy.

He said, "I can tell you're thinking something.  Do you have any questions?"

"Only the unanswerable kind."

"Try me."

Bless him.  I smiled.  "What do you know about entropy?"

He cocked his head.

I continued.  "I mean I just want to be able to wash my clothes, you know?  And in the meantime entropy is slowly destroying my washing machine bit by bit with every load, and at the same time the government thinks they know better than me and they are secretly conspiring to make me buy a machine that is more expensive and less effective than my current machine, which was slowly falling apart by the way.  And both of these things were happening simultaneously, until we reached this moment, when I have to buy a new machine that requires special laundry detergent and it takes twice as long to wash and doesn't match and costs a lot of money that I had planned on spending at the beach this summer." 

He looked a little nervous at that point, and in his defense, I may or may not have gotten a little teary by the end of it as well. 

Clearly at a loss he asked, "How many kids do you have?"

I told him, belligerently.

"Yeah.  That's a lot of laundry."

Starting to feel a little soothed, and slightly chagrined, I whined quietly, "And they stick out."

He could tell he was starting to make some headway and perked up.  "I think this is a great room.  Yeah, they're a little bigger, but there is still plenty of room to walk and you have a great little laundry room here."

"Okay."  I felt a little better.

But by the time David left for work I was fired up again.

He asked for clarification.  "So are you mad at me?"

"No, I'm just mad."

I gave him the same rant I gave the delivery guy.

A little too buoyantly, he said, "Yeah, but they're more energy efficient."

Which was clearly the wrong thing to say.  (Let's be clear.  There wasn't a right thing to say at this point.  Just walk away, darling.  Which is what he did.)

By the time he came home from work, I had repented.  I had remembered the millions of women washing their laundry in a dirty river, or over a washboard, or with nothing to wash at all.  And I got a little humble. 

And as the day wore on and I folded load after load, I got a little more.

And I remembered that I am not entitled to life without entropy.  I live in a fallen world.  And I could save myself (and my husband, yes please) all kinds of grief by simply accepting this one principle of the plan. 

I spend entirely too much energy fighting the fall.  And I do mean fighting.  Not to mention the exertion of repentance afterwards.

Perhaps I should start implementing my own energy efficiency standards.

Don't worry.  I can already hear RIM and CIM.  It'll never make it out of committee.

Fishing for Compliments

This morning I threw my leg over David's and asked for a compliment.

He smiled.

And then had to think hard for a while.

He finally said, "Well.  You know you're amazing."

"Is that the best you've got?"

He shrugged, still grinning, "It's true."

I thought about it.  I still wasn't satisfied.  "Anything else?" I asked hopefully.

Then he said, "I had a dream last night that you were in a contest for the most perfect breasts.  You won."

Now that's more like it.

On Sunday night, we had waffles and cake at my parents' house.  We got talking about facebook and twitter and how blogs are "so passe" and how narcissistic people have to be to believe that other people really want to know what is going on in their lives.  I am just narcissistic enough, apparently.  In that spirit, here is my life by the numbers.  I know you're dying to know.

After (at least) 307 hours I finally finished the top of my quilt and passed it on to my fabulous and talented Aunt Tori who will spend another

126 hours quilting it. (Bless her.)

For the last 3 days, Savannah has been running a

102 degree fever, and is home with me again today.

We have watched The Princess Bride and Pride and Prejudice and Blue Planet 14 times each and have plans to watch

6 hours of Anne of Green Gables today.  (As you wish.)

We only have 17 more days of school which makes me downright giddy and wish that time could fly,

but only 10 days until the hospital Spring Tea benefit which makes me wish time could stop and is giving me violent panic attacks at random moments

like when I'm buying 22 yards of yellow organza and realizing that I'm going to need to hem it all,

and more importantly, that I only have 9 days to get the perfect party dress and shoes.  (Time to call in reinforcements.  David, this means you, love.)

Tonight we have 3 places to be at once,

1 of which is Caleb's wax museum rendition of Cesar Chavez.

I am off now to find 2 XL scout shirts and khaki's for David, who has a new calling with a new wardrobe to match, a bottle of temporary black hair dye for Cesar, and lunch and liquids for my feverish girl.

You can leave your compliments below.

On Being Dog-ged and Other Canine References

On Friday, I asked David if he wanted to make out.

He said, suspiciously, "O. kay."

I told him I needed a reason to keep going.

That was three days ago, and now I need more reasons than ever.

Last night in the dark, we inventoried the past week.  We only sat down to dinner together one night.  I feel sick just thinking about it.  Persistent heartburn.  We spent the weekend near the border at medical staff retreat, which meant that David was in meetings all weekend, while the kids played, and I tried to attack my threatening to-do list.  The hounds are at my heels, so I hauled my quilt and my starch and my computer and worked through the retreat.  We returned home yesterday afternoon, in time for me to teach Sunday School.  And then an hour later, David and I were both back at the church for other meetings, in separate rooms, while the kids rooted through the cupboards and fended for themselves.

I feel like the washer when all the wet towels end up on one side during the spin cycle and it bangs like the end of the world is coming.

But then, this morning I looked up wearily from the pancakes I was cooking and noticed this:

You have to look closely.

Just in case you missed it:

It is unbelievably, mercifully, blessedly blank.  One day in an entire month.  And it is today.

Hot dog. 

And just in time too.

I was this close to giving up entirely.

Instead, I'm feeling positively dogged this morning.

When I told David about my change of heart, he asked, "What does dogged mean?"

I said, "It's dog-ged.  Two syllables."

"So?"

I said, getting excited now, "The second syllable makes all the difference.  It changes the word from 'being hunted or chased'  to 'being persistent and determined and stubbornly not giving in'."

He's used to this.  More information than he'd ever want to know about "dogged."  Still confused about the line of logic I was following and clearly hoping for another make-out session, he said, "Well, you're definitely stubborn.  I can see that."

Which only made me smile.  I kissed him hard and sent him on his way.  But not before reminding him to be sure to come home tonight.  We have a free night.  The "can't miss" event of the season.   

What Did the Violin Say to the Cello?

David is loading the dishwasher.

The sink has been full since yesterday, and he finally gave up on me.

In my defense though, I did go to a two-hour meeting at the hospital today, and that's usually his job.

Tonight we sat in the dark of the gorgeous Ikeda theatre and watched our son play the Wabash Cannonball with the city youth orchestra.  I leaned over to David and said, "Look at our boy."  He smiled indulgently back at me.  Because he forgets that it was just yesterday that I was feeding Caleb his first bowl of rice cereal, admiring and flattering him for his ability to swallow.  It's harder than it looks.

Olivia spent the concert trying to think up string-instrument jokes and then leaning over to try them out on me.  I didn't try to quiet her.  She has her sixth (!) and final day of standardized testing tomorrow.  Good heavens.  She can do the testing instructions by heart by now, complete with exaggerated eye rolling and a demonstration of the proper way to sharpen a number 2 pencil.  She's had just about enough.  And after all that, even orchestra concerts are hilarious. 

On the way home, Ethan used the word "thrice" in a sentence.  David asked him if he knew what that meant.  He slowly and carefully explained the definition to David, to make sure he understood.  David said, "I don't think I've ever used the word 'thrice'." 

I smiled to myself.  And then Olivia did her material one more time. 

It was a good night.

O'Dell Feeds Berni's Martyr Complex

Quilt Retreat is only nine days away.  (Can I get a hallelujah?)  Not that I'm counting.  Or crossing days off on the calendar.  Or gleefully removing links from my paper chain.

And that means that O'Dell and Bernina have been spending lots of time together again.  The gossip has been flying over egg salad sandwiches and fresh lemonade.  Between sewing seams and proofing invitations for the hospital benefit, they're busy swapping plans for new curtains in the family room and recipes for chicken pot pie and figuring out the Easter dinner menu.

This morning O'Dell told Berni that she looked tired.

"I was up late last night.  It's like this every year.  A mad dash of sewing before quilt retreat."

O'Dell harrumphs loudly.  "Well girl, don't wear yourself out.  You've got quilt retreat next week.  You've got to get some rest before then."

Berni just shakes her head and sighs dramatically,  "I just have to survive the next couple of weeks and then she'll ignore me for the rest of the year."  Berni loves to play the martyr.  Overworked or ignored, it's impossible to make her happy.

We all survived our first day back to life.  Last night we ate dinner out on the porch and listed our grievances:  Fractions and decimals and the upcoming standardized testing were all vociferously maligned.  This morning I planned out our day like we were going into battle, coordinating troop movements and checking supply lines.  It turns out that today is the busiest day of the year (I had no idea), but we all have plans to meet back here around eight and share O'Dell's fried chicken and dumplings together.  I may even whip up a lemon pie just to celebrate our getting through the day.

Spring break already feels like a very long time ago.

Get Your Violins Out, This is Going to Be Good

Last night as we gathered in a circle for prayer, the fussing started.

And the fussing quickly turned into weeping, wailing, and gnashing of teeth as everyone expressed their own personal concerns about the end of spring break and the start of another school week.

I was determined to stay positive.

"It's only nine more weeks!  We're almost there!"  I said with forced cheerfulness.

They weren't buying it.

"It'll be here before you know it,"  I said less confidently, and shooed them to bed.

And then did a bit of weeping and wailing of my own.

Yesterday in Relief Society we were talking about hope.  The teacher asked if we could think of a time in our lives when we felt great despair and an absence of hope.  I'm embarrassed to say that the first thing that came to mind was our imminent return to school and the thought of my upcoming week.  The calendar days filled to almost blackout with "to-go-to's."

There was a bit of crying this morning too.  (It wasn't me.  Hide your shock.)  But we are more or less off and trudging.  The dishwasher is humming and the kids have climbed on the bus.  Even if it was done with a a few heavy sighs.  (Okay, that might have been me.)

The one bright spot of hope for me this morning was the sand all over the floor of my laundry room.  Lovely surprise.  I was filled by the thought of more sandy days ahead.  Just nine weeks away.  I have no intention of sweeping it up.  How about that?  Entropy finally comes through for me.

Things I Believe In

Last night when David got home from work, I was frosting cookies.  Dinner had not been started.  (I have priorities.)  David said that was fine, we could eat cookies for dinner.  But I was already feeling a bit emotional (who, me?) and I knew a really bad blood sugar episode (with the high and low only a sugar cookie with cream cheese frosting and pink sprinkles can produce) would likely threaten the very fabric of my marriage.

And technically, I believe in marriage.  So I made pasta primavera.  And I only cried a little bit when I was sweeping the floor.  (Who could blame me?)

Today was "Dress as Your Favorite Book Character Day" at school.  Which just makes my heart throb.  If they had had such a day when I was growing up, it would have been as good as Christmas.  I lived most of my young life as a book character.  So yesterday I dropped everything and drove around town finding a yellow sweater for Ethan, Eskimo boots for Olivia, and a blonde wig for Savannah.  The yellow sweater proved the hardest to find and I finally ended up altering a yellow sweatshirt I found in the Junior's department.  I told David that I spent more on Book Character Day than I did on Halloween.

But this morning, Ethan was worried because he didn't have any ears.

I heard Savannah say, "Don't worry. Mom can make ears in two seconds."  And then told him about the year she was Lily and I sewed her some ears while she was making her bed.  I don't remember that.  But it's probably true.  I am amazing like that.

When I was doing the girls wigs this morning, Ethan said, "I can't wait to go to school.  Everyone's going to be dressed up."

Not wanting to burst his bubble Savannah said slowly, "Well, actually, not everyone."

"What?"

"Well.  Not everyone believes in books.  Our Mom does."

And how.