Just Because You're Paranoid Doesn't Mean They Aren't After You

I went to the drugstore early this morning for more provisions.

The woman asked me if she could help and then directed me to aisle 12, where they keep the children's cold medicine.

I crouched in the aisle, blearily reading labels, trying to figure out if I needed "Cold and Congestion,"  "Fever and Cough," "Cough and Cold," "Cough+DM," or the catch-all: "Severe Cold."  And deciding that I probably needed the reading glasses in aisle 7 instead.

The woman came by again.  "Can I help?"

I picked up a box.  "I think this will do it," I said, not at all sure that it would.  I think I have been trying to help Ethan fight this same bug since early December, some sort of zombie virus that keeps resurrecting itself.

She said, "You look like you've been up all night with a sick kid."

Well, okay then.  I smiled weakly and took a little offense. 

Until I caught sight of myself in the car window.

She was being generous.

I looked like I'd been up all night for three straight weeks, with breaks during the day to go to my job at a Siberian work camp.

It was not pretty.  Deathly pale, hair askew, bags as big as jet-puffed marshmallows under and over my eyes, the skin bruised and blackened by yesterday's smudged mascara.  My teeth were coated in thick sleep-slime, and at the corners of my consciousness I could just smell myself.  

Well, okay then.

I have disinfected every surface.  I have wiped down the door handles, the light switches, the desks, the countertops, and the door jams.  I have washed the sheets and the backpacks and every jacket Ethan owns.  I have lathered his boney spine and long, thin feet in essential oils and vapor rub.  I have filled him full of vitamin C, cough suppressants, probiotics, the flu vaccine, fever reducers, and immune system boosters.  I have given him fluids and rest and instructions to wash his hands after every class.  I have run the humidifier, the nebulizer, and the tired path to the drugstore.

But I can't beat it.

Every ten days it shows up again. 

I'm starting to get paranoid.

What am I missing?

I told Savannah I was going to send her to school with a can of Lysol wipes so that she could wipe down the inside and outside of his locker.  And all the handles of the classrooms while she was at it.  She looked at me, horrified.

But I'm desperate.  It's the freaking viral zombie apocalypse.

And apparently, I may already look like one of the walking dead.

Wednesday, 4:17 p.m.

I have two loaves of French bread rising on the counter and a pound of shrimp defrosting in the sink.

I have an eleven-year-old boy, feverish and teary, working his way through a heavy load of homework on my couch.

I have two girls who took the keys and the car, and drove themselves up the road to the temple to spend a couple of peaceful hours.

I have another boy rigorously practicing his Bach partita, providing the daily afternoon soundtrack to my life.

I have a dog sniffing the yard apart and protecting us from all manner of treacherous and cunning birds that might happen to land.  You can't be too careful.

In the whirlwind that is my life, this is an afternoon to be savored.

There Will Be Pie Tonight

I guess the title and the picture already give away the ending (brilliant writing here!), but it's a good story anyway. 

Last fall Olivia turned sixteen.  It was glorious and beautiful. 

With one small snag. 

She failed her driving test.  Three times, actually.  

The first time, I took her to the DMV and five hours later they called her number for the road test.  She bounced out of the room, but returned, downcast and tearful. 

“What happened?” I asked. 

She shrugged, mystified.  “I did so good,” she bawled. 

I retrieved her score sheet, and in addition to missing all her turn signals and coasting through a few stop signs, it said in all caps, “ALMOST HIT A BICYCLIST!!!”  This sentence had been written with such force, there were holes punched in the paper.  I pointed this out to Olivia.  She said, “Oh yeah, but I didn’t see him.”

Oh, okay then.  

No problem.  We believe in second chances.  All I had to do was get up enough love and courage to sit in the waiting room of hell one more time.  I am convinced that hell is exactly patterned after the DMV.   I've really got to be better.  Or do some repenting.  Or both.  Anyway, I girded up my loins and she tried again.  More tears.  Lots of tears.  This time she ran a red light and failed to stay in her lane. 

What?

"Olivia!" I said, completely confounded.

"But, I'm a good driver," she insisted.

I explained that the DMV disagreed.  And theirs is the only opinion that counts.

So then I did what I do to solve all my problems.  I threw money at it.  (David is all too familiar with this problem-solving technique.  The more problems I have, the farther away retirement becomes.  We have no plans for retirement.  Ever.  Because I have problems!)  I hired someone to give her driving lessons.  They drove all over Phoenix.  They drove the freeways, they drove downtown, they drove in traffic, they parallel parked, they practiced stopping and blind spots and staying in the proper lane.  They drove and drove and drove, and she earned top marks.  “She’s a really good driver,” they said.  "She's completely to ready to drive independently."

Ya.  I've heard.

I did then what only true love could make me do and went back to the DMV.  But after another five hours, she failed to yield to oncoming traffic when she was turning left.  Which is an automatic failure.  And scary, too.  The girl administering the road test was clearly shaken.  She said that next time, Olivia could request a different road test administrator.  Please, please ask for a different road test administrator! is what her eyes said.  Olivia was devastated. 

But I was just mad.  I told David I was never going back.  It was his turn.

We let it sit for a couple of months.  Because, really, there is only so much you can take. 

This morning, before it was light, while I was administering cold medicine to Ethan and tucking him back into bed, David and Olivia left the house to stand in line in the cold at the DMV.  David is made for jobs like this.  It requires all the things I don't have:  patience, calmness, tranquility regardless of circumstance, unconditional love.  I don't know why we didn't assign it to him in first place.  Play to your strengths, people!

And wonder of wonders, three hours later I received a text:  She can DRIVE!!!!!!!!  All caps.  Eight exclamation points.

We earned every one.

I spent the rest of the day nursing Ethan and making lemon pie. 

Because it is time for pie.  And I am playing to my strengths.

Sweet Nothings

The skies were overcast this morning.  Quiet and muted.  Just like I like them.

There is so little expectation from a cloudy sky, like the whole universe is telling you that all the work you should do today is internal work, that you should take some time to nurture a few dreams, quiet your mind, be a little slower and also a little more generous.

It was pouring by the time I left yoga.  I put my hood up, even though I was already soaked through.  It seemed like the right gesture for winter.

But it is already starting to clear.  The sun is relentless here.  My sweater just feels silly.  It was winter for a good part of one day. 

I finished the first season of the Serial podcast while I ate my lunch of homemade toast and Noosa.  The rain and the butter dripping, the nutty crunch of the toast, Sarah Koenig's voice winding it's way around a difficult conclusion...believe me, it was delightful on every level.  While I loved the podcast, and while I could listen to Koenig talk about absolutely nothing at all for hours at a time, I have to admit it left me feeling a little dissatisfied at the end.  And a little lonely at its ending at all.  I ate another piece of toast as consolation.  And thought about throwing a Serial-themed dinner party to hash it all out.  Wanna come?  I'm planning a delicious menu, on my good dishes, and poster-sized blowups of exhibits A-L.  Be prepared to make your case.

We had a lovely weekend.  Caleb and Olivia each got roles in their school plays, Caleb the lead and Olivia in the ensemble.  They are thrilled and there was the requisite shrieking and squealing and humming through the entire weekend.  David and I went to the temple Friday night and then had a terrific fight.  The shock of leaving the Garden, I suppose.  Spent Saturday under cloudy skies, culling through closets and drawers dejunking and reorganizing and making up.  We took a trip to Mesa on Sunday and went to church with old friends and had brunch with my parents.  It was like a dry run of resurrection morning, hugs and laughing and remembering when, with the warmest wishes you could ever receive.  I've been feeling the sweet afterglow ever since, like that warm, buoyant pause after a good, hard laugh.

It was a good reminder for me that coming home should always feel like that.  Welcome home.  You've been sincerely and deeply missed.  Even if it was only for the school day or the work day.  Plenty long enough to be missed. 

Plenty. 

Two days removed from a glorious weekend together, I know this for sure.

The Theatrical Aside

Write here...

That is what it says on the screen when I start a blog post.

Write here...

Good idea.  Except that the problem is never really where to write, but what to write.

It is the start of the spring musical season in our house. 

Give me strength.

Auditions and call backs this week.

Oh, the drama!

And then on to rehearsals.

Oh, the commitment!  I am having little heart palpitations every time I think of the strategizing and organizing and troop placement that this will require.

Olivia has been practicing her monologue and requisite sixteen bars for weeks. 

This was to be expected.  Her entire life revolves around the spring musical.  Scratch that.  Her entire life is a spring musical.

But then, out of nowhere, Caleb decided to try out for the lead in his school's spring musical. 

Because he has nothing else to do.  I'll admit I've tried to gently discourage him.  Because I'm a dream killer.  That's right.  A dream killer, who doesn't want her children to succeed or be happy or have any fun.

This morning I was driving David to work after we dropped the car in the shop,

This is the second car we've taken to the shop this week.  Have mercy.  It's only eight days in, but I might hate 2015.

and I happened to be venting a bit about all the activities that every one wants to be involved in and how my whole goal going into the new year was to simplify and reduce our commitments and spend more time around our table, and how there was an easier way to live and I was trying to find just that--the easier way--and how I was being sabotaged at every turn. 

Can I get an 'Amen'?

And David asked why any of these things should affect me and my life, that the kids could get themselves to and from all their activities and it shouldn't really make my life any harder.

Give me a minute.

There are so many things wrong with this comment that I sat there blustering about for a minute, trying to explain and get some traction, but finding that I could not adequately explain what it is exactly that I do and what it is that our children's commitments require of me, the mother.  And how every new thing that the kids want to be involved in requires not only chauffeuring but volunteering and scheduling and planning and time and money and trips to the store for stage makeup and jazz shoes and snacks for the cast, not to mention the watching and waiting and rearranging and encouraging and reminding and bolstering and celebrating and worrying and bracing and busting with pride.  Somehow, it all requires my involvement. 

 I told him to get out of the car

It's the safest place.

and go to work.  He has his work.  I have mine.  Perhaps it is enough just to understand that we do that work for each other.  Even if the other has no idea what that means exactly.  We do it for each other.  And for them.  Always and all of it, for them.

This spring Olivia's school is performing "The Addams Family."  Caleb's school is doing "Little Shop of Horrors." 

That's right.  Halloween all around.  It's going to be a spooky spring.  Believe me, I'm already scared.

Square One

I did my first downward dog of the new year in yoga class today. 

Hello, hamstrings! 

Apparently, while the rest of my body was doing the sensible thing and becoming more and more relaxed every day of Christmas break, my hamstrings were doing the opposite, experimenting with just how tight they could possibly get when left on their own.  Downward cripple dog. 

I really hate beginnings.  Too much pressure.  I even hate the beginning of the conversation.  Excruciating.  It takes David a good twenty minutes to get me to warm up to him at the end of the day.  How are you?  How was your day?  Who can assess and sort and evaluate an entire day and then come up with a quick, adequate, accurate answer to these questions?  They are landmines, full of innuendo and accusation, and I get tripped up every time.  Once we get through the first painful sentences, it's so much easier.  Downward emotionally-cripple human.

Worse than beginnings, I really, really hate beginning again.  Too much pressure combined with too much regret.    A lethal combination.  A paralyzing combination.  Failure behind and foreshadowy threats of inevitable failure ahead.  Downward spiral.

And yet, here we are in a brand new year and I find that I just can't help myself.  As usual, the first and foremost, the constant and eternal, the old and tired, the relentless and unquenchable desire that always surfaces is the word.  To write. 

Yes, to write.  To record.  To create.  To be heard.  To make sense of.  To be understood.  To make art.  To tell the truth.  To find the truth.  To remember.  To love better.  And say it more.  To write. 

Last night as we turned out the lights and spoke the last lines of the day that were all about what I didn't get done and how the year might have changed but I hadn't, I remembered the snow that started Christmas Eve and didn't stop for two days.  The flakes were tiny.  Dry, meager, Utah flakes.  Small and harmless and insignificant.  So small, they almost looked like dust.  But all told, there were thirty-four inches covering the aspens and the pines and our cozy cabin by the time the storm wore itself out.  Tiny flake by tiny flake.  Impossible.  And yet, true. 

That is what I hope for.  One sentence, one tiny word at a time, letter by letter, until I have to shovel my way out.

Downward, ho!

Disparate and Desperate

This post is a little of both. 

Disparate and desperate, I mean.  The online dictionary points out that these two words can be easily confused.  Never more so.  But it's all I've got today.  Prepare yourself.

Caleb is preparing for a solo competition this Saturday.  He has been practicing Praeludium and Allegro for nearly two months.  [I'm including this edited version of part of his practice with the accompanist for the record, for his grandparents, and for Goo.  The rest of you can keep reading, though his vibrato might be the best part of this whole post.  Easily.]  We have been praying for him because, really, he needs another couple of weeks rather than another couple of days.  When I was fretting over this one night, David asked, "And what happens if he messes up?"

I thought about it.  "Nothing."

"Exactly."

Sometimes it occurs to me that I may be making things too hard.  Amen, David says.

Last night I got a mass email from my mom to everyone in the family.  Apparently my youngest brother nearly lost his left index finger in a table saw accident.  Four days ago.  The only reason we even heard about it was that he was going in for surgery today and the email was asking for our prayers.  I like to blow things out of proportion.  Boy, do I!  My mom, on the other hand, likes to minimize things.  Last year I only found out she had breast cancer because she had to have a double mastectomy and she thought we might notice.  Even then she said she thought about not telling us.

But sometimes I don't even try to make things harder.  They just turn out that way all on their own.  Remember a few weeks ago, I mentioned how it was time to overseed the lawn?  Well, we went to overseed the lawn, and realized that the sprinklers which have been doing a passable job keeping the drought-tolerant Bermuda grass alive, were not going to be up to the job of keeping the ground sufficiently wet so that the Rye grass could sprout and grow. 

This is already too much horticulture for this blog.  But wait, there's more! 

Long story short, we had the sprinklers fixed.  Unfortunately, entropy is neither a short story nor an inexpensive one.  Three valves and fifteen new sprinkler heads later and we're finally ready to plant the grass.  Three weeks late.  The worst part is, winter grass is optional.  (Like flossing or retirement planning.  I'm kidding.  A little.)  But my head always tells me that the year we don't plant winter grass is the year that someone will want to have a reception in our backyard and we'll have a yard full of prickly, yellow, dormant straw everywhere.  Of course, if you plant winter grass, no one will ask to do a reception in your back yard.  It's like insurance.  Against receptions.  What?  Your head doesn't work like this?   

On Sunday, David gave his high council talk in our ward.  It was the first time we've heard him give a talk since he was put on the high council and he's talked about little else ever since, asking for feedback, reenacting his favorite parts.  But on Sunday, the reviews were not as favorable.  Savannah was upset.  She asked, "Why don't you ever tell us anything?" because she hadn't heard most of the stories he shared in his talk.  And then came the real indictment, "And do you ever think about what you're going to say before you say it, and what effect it might have on our reputations?"  She was appalled that he had said the words "naked" and "loincloth" in his talk.  Plus there might have been mention of her standing in a loincloth at the bus stop.  Now, aren't you sad you missed it?  Don't worry, David will be happy to give you the highlights. 

Finally, on Sunday night we watched Addams Family Values as part of our month-long Halloween movie marathon, which was both hilarious and delightful.  Afterwards, I was nearly desperate to have another baby so that we could dress him up in a trim little moustache and a Marie Antoinette dress for Halloween.  The kids could even train him to say "Guilty!" as his first word.

Unbelievably, David did not think this was nearly as good of an idea as I did.

Pain Management

Fair warning.  I'm feeling a little cheeky this morning.

I just used a swear word on Instagram, so there you go.  Now I'll probably be banned from Instagram.  Reported as inappropriate.  Don't worry.  It was completely appropriate. 

Did you hear?  It's Friday. 

Just when you thought you couldn't take it any more.  Relief and reprieve.  And not a minute too soon. 

Last night, after a long day of mothering and maiding and parent teacher conferencing and cello lessons and homework and burning up a quarter tank of gas and giving a fireside and not eating dinner til ten o'clock, I was moaning in bed. 

And not the good kind. 

Sometimes I get so tired and frustrated that I can no longer form words.  Swear words or otherwise.  And so I just groan and squall and make primal animal noises.   

It helps. 

My mom used to tell me that it wouldn't help.  That I should just say "hippopotamus" over and over and it would make the pain go away.  But I prefer caterwauling.   

After a few minutes of this, I managed a few words.  "I need some positive feedback," I said. 

"You're doing good," David said with no enthusiasm or conviction.  Like the way he says "We need milk" or "I'm going to mow the lawn." 

Pathetic. 

I protested.  "You didn't even try."   Pause.  "Come on, I need Boss's Day.  I'm the boss of everything and I need a day."

David caught the thread then.  "Ya, isn't that dumb?" he asked, and went on a long discussion about how ridiculous Boss's Day is, my problems forgotten and left on the side of the conversation. 

Ethan has been limping around the last few days.  He scraped his knee at a volleyball game in P.E. and has been using my grandmother's cane around the house.  Yesterday he and Olivia played wall ball on the garage door and he used the cane the entire game.  Not to mention the quart of Neosporin that has been slathered on the wound.  You can't be too careful.

The other kids just roll their eyes.  Ethan's low pain tolerance is legendary.  You should hear him when he has a canker.  On more than one occasion I have considered taking him to the emergency room.  For a canker.  I tell David, "Maybe something's really wrong."  Abscess?  TMJ?  Throat cancer?  David just shakes his head.  But I can only remember the time that Savannah cried for four days after she fell down hard on the sidewalk and I kept telling her to "be happy and put a smile on."  Turns out her arm was broken. 

It's possible that Ethan has shattered his knee cap and I keep making him soldier on--go to school, walk home from the bus stop, play wall ball, take a shower--all with a scraped knee.  Oh, the wails that ensue during the shower scene.  You'd think he was being murdered. 

Every night we listen to his homicide through the walls.  "Maybe something's really wrong," I say.  We're probably going to have to amputate.  David just shakes his head.   He's had lots of experience.  He's married to me after all.  After years of weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth, he knows when something's really wrong.  And it rarely is.

In the meantime, I say, do what you need to. 

Scream.  Yell.  Bellow.   Use a cane.

It hurts. 

Don't I know it? 

Burning Love

I was so tired yesterday. 

(I blame the car-lag or the travel-logue or the abrupt change from mountain air to desert air or something besides me.)  

I yawned most of the way through the day and then last night I started nodding off at 8:30.  By nine o'clock I was gone. 

David came in and laid on top of me.   Disappointed.

"You're going to sleep?" 

(Did I ever tell you about the time we were in bed kissing and the bed actually caught fire?  This was not one of those times.) 

I got up momentarily to put the croissants in the oven for the next morning, but I set the oven 100 degrees higher than I should have.  An easy to mistake to make when you're sleep walking.

The fire alarm went off early this morning. 

Good morning, it said. 

But I just rolled over and told David that someone was whistling in my dream.  And then went back to sleep. 

David got up, put the fire out, and sent Caleb on is way, with a prayer and a kiss and a charcoal croissant.

I am practically Martha Stewart.

High on a Mountain Top

It might have escaped your notice, but I'm really making an effort here.

Thinking of something to say every few days.  Trying to be entertaining, clever, and thoughtful.  (A near impossible combination.)

Hey, it's a challenge. 

We spent the weekend in Utah, admiring the leaves and the mountains and the crisp, fall temperatures and the Cougars, of course. 

We built a roaring fire in the hearth every night and I made serious work of watching Ethan lay on his belly in front of it.   

On Saturday evening we climbed the steps of the stadium to cheer the boys onto victory and at one point David looked over at me and asked, "Could there be a prettier place for football?"   No, there could not.

To add to our delight, the rain even fell on our sturdy log roof Sunday morning, making us snuggle farther under our covers and dream about staying forever, tucked into the mountain and hidden away.  It was still misting around us when we finally rose to bacon and eggs, the fog and the pouring rain making our steaming mugs of cocoa seem both necessary and enchanting.  The perfect pair of adjectives for anything.  It also made me want to buy a teapot for heating water, you know, two days a year. 

On our way into town, David pointed to one of his old apartments and said surprised, "That place is a dump.  I thought it was so nice."

I pointed out that he had lived there twenty years ago.  That's bound to have an effect. 

He looked over at me and smiled, "Oh yeah." 

Because we forget.  We forget that we're old.  That time has passed.  That our kids are nearly ready to be here themselves.   It feels just like it always did.  Like we're just starting out.  Like we're just getting the hang of it.  And mostly just faking it until we grow up.  Like we just started this life together.

I tell David all the time that when you live in the desert it's hard to notice the passage of time.  It's an argument I've perfected.  There are no seasons to mark the turn of the earth, the cycles of the year, the growing and waning, and you lose your place in the story of your life.      

But it's more than that. 

Because we are fundamentally eternal beings, I think it's hard to comprehend the astounding, ephemeral brevity of earth life.  It is impossible to imagine that life won't continue like this forever, David and I in the front seat, driving our children up misty roads carved into hills as old as time.  That my boy won't be stretched out in front the fire, colored in shades of red and orange and shadow, that the girls won't always be visiting on the back porch, heads tucked together while the golden coins from the aspens gather around their feet like gossipy little eavesdroppers, that I won't always be able to hear Caleb's violin singing and pining from the other room, accompanying the falling, dying leaves on their final flight.

But the evidence is mounting.  The kids are growing.  The years are elapsing.  The campus is changing.  The apartments are deteriorating.  The grey on our heads is real and persistent.  The miles on our car are accumulating.

Here among the timeless cliffs of the Rockies, I am a witness:  Time is passing.  Surely.  Swiftly.  The seasons are changing.  And I would weep... 

if the views along the way weren't so spectacular.