Why I Keep British Columbia in a Jar

There are weeks where I side with Adam.

There are weeks full of briers and noxious weeds, where I spend the entire week wistfully looking over the fence at Eden and questioning Eve's judgement.

(What was she thinking?)

Two days ago David came home from work and when we hugged he quietly whispered into my neck, "When is it going to be a good day?"

It has been a long and trying week, full of to-do lists and have-to-go-tos.  A week full of the usual stresses decorated with serious complications.  A week of verbs, as I call it, with very few happy adjectives to smooth out the rough spots.

This morning as I was running out the door to drive Caleb's bacteria route (like a paper route with less pay and more risk), David met me in the hall. 

"I miss you."

"I miss you too."

"Let's go away."

"No.  Let's run away."

"Mom, we need to go."

"Don't worry.  It's the weekend."

"I'm leaving town this weekend."

"Oh.  I forgot."

"Mom!"

"Tonight, then.  I'll see you tonight."

"Tonight."

A quick peck.

It has been five days of quick pecks.  Our lips jabbing at each other as we go in and out of the doors, a little violence in lieu of affection.

Today I almost made a paper chain to count down the days until summer.  (Can we make it that far?)

But I have a sore throat and a headache and I haven't been kissed properly in over a week, and the thought of all that cutting and pasting nearly did me in.  I'm in no condition to count that high. 

I think I will make summer come to me instead.

Tonight we will eat grilled chicken sandwiches and pasta salad and wear sunscreen and swimsuits under our clothes.  We will stay up late and not look at the calendar once and not set the alarm for tomorrow and pretend

pretend

pretend

that we have nothing to do but be together

that we have no where to go but the beach

that our only concern is the sand transfer from the wet suits to the hot tub

that pecking is for birds and beginning typing students and has nothing to do with kissing

that summer lasts forever

and 

that Adam could talk Eve into anything.

Show and Tell

Our reading assignment for class this week was all about the difference between "showing" and "telling."  I think I get it.

First I have something to show you.

The last three Fridays I've gone to Christine's house to quilt.  We've been working on this.

I know.  I'm in love with it too.

And now I have something to tell you.  Particularly if you live in Utah Valley.

Rachel and I are taking the show on the road again.

We are teaching our fireside on body image,

More Precious Than Rubies: Truths About Body Image in a World Full of Lies

this Sunday, January 31st, at the Grove Creek Stake Center in Pleasant Grove, Utah

1176 North 730 East (in Pleasant Grove) at 6:30 p.m. 

and you are cordially invited.

I hope you come and I hope that it will bless your life.  Better than that, we will finally get to meet.

Which, I'm telling you, will be delightful.

A Glimpse of Eternity in My Fridge

It is the last week of January.

I can tell because the oranges on my trees are ripe and ready for juicing.

It is the last week of January.

I can tell because David took calls all night long, all weekend long from the hospital.  They are busy and so is he.

It is the last week of January.

I can tell because my body has its own special kind of pain it serves when I am stressed and last night it was in rare form.  After the holidays and a brief reprieve, the stress is mounting.  The last week of January is always the week when reality hits (I committed to what? when?) and panic sets in.

It is the last week of January.

On Thursday, Rachel came for lunch.  (Well, technically, Rachel brought lunch but I hosted and provided plates and water bottles.  Scratch that.  I think it was just water bottles.  But that's something, right?)

At the end of the conversation the FedEx man arrived with a package full of transporter swabs.  Rachel said, "Oh, it must be that time of year."

Indeed.  It is the last week of January and science fair is upon us again.

Caleb and I spent a good part of our Saturday preparing petri dishes for their little colonies.  Water baths and bleached countertops and rows upon rows of future prokaryotic houses.  I had to clean out the fridge, which I found amusing.  Cleaned out the fridge to make room for bacteria.  Reminded me of my college days and the fridge full of cow hearts and the freezer full of dead insects I used to keep before they saw the knife or the pin.  Hard to believe I'm still friends with those roommates, huh?

On Saturday night David and I went to dinner and after I talked his ear off about my writing class he asked me again, "Now why weren't you an English major?"

I shrugged, as baffled as he.

But this morning as I drove Caleb around town and acted as instructor and assistant as he collected aseptic samples of the bacterial flora at different offices, I thought there might have been a reason after all.

Perhaps only so that someday I could mother this particular boy in this particular way on this particular last week of January.

It is the last week of January.

I can tell because this morning I remembered that nothing happens by accident.

The Sweet Mojave Rain

Most of my house was giddy this morning.

Rain.

Rain!

There was some digging through the closets for the rain jackets we haven't used since our trip to British Columbia.

There was an unsuccessful trip out to the storage room to hunt for the bent and broken umbrellas that we only use once or twice a year.

Olivia could hardly contain herself.  She must have kissed me four times in her excitement over the foreboding skies.  And as she was leaving she declared dramatically, "I'm off to make wedge history!  Wish me luck, mother!"  (That is a direct quote.)  And then swept out into the wet.

Savannah, on the other hand, clearly felt duty bound to counteract Olivia's excitement and woke up crying.  I could see the storm clouds blowing through her all morning.  One minute weeping, one minute nothing but thunder and lightening.  It was treacherous mothering, I tell you.  She kissed me once, quietly as she left.  A tiny, reluctant rainbow at the end of the storm.

I was exhausted by the time they all left.

The last couple of days have been especially difficult for David at work.  He comes home all chewed up and consumed.  Last night his brow was still sweating when we went to bed. 

And that means, of course, that the last couple of days have been difficult for me as well.  I have to row alone while he stares out at the sea and worries about other things than our swamped little boat.  Sometimes I feel like hitting him over the head with my oar.  When he finally came home last night I was alone in the kitchen because I had sent all the kids to their rooms.  I had had enough.  The storm clouds had gathered.

David asked, "Are you mad at me?"

I said, "I'm mad at all of you."

The lightening was cracking.

When we gathered for prayer we all held hands, but didn't let go of our grudges.  David began.  We bent our heads.  About halfway through his tongue slipped and he said, "Please help us to stop fart..."(then he corrected and said)..."uh, fighting."

When he said "Amen" the room dissolved into laughter.  We lay on the floor and laughed and laughed.  And every time one of us looked at another we laughed again.

And the clouds opened, the rain fell, and washed all the rest of it away.

Rain. 

Sweet mojave rain.

And just in time, too.

Exhibitionism

David met me for lunch after class yesterday and took my "first day of school" picture.

Just before dark last night Savannah and I went to the store to buy a chicken for dinner.

Our world was uncharacteristically wet and dripping and Savannah said that it looked like London with all the car and street lights reflected in the puddles.

About six o'clock I put that chicken in a pie and put it in the oven, and my own Elizabeth Bennett walked in the door after a long stroll in the rain, her hem six inches deep in mud, her cheeks flushed, and her face alight.

I cleaned up the dinner prep and laid down for a minute as the pie baked, and thought about my day.

It was the first day of school for me in a very long time.

I sat in a small, undecorated classroom, with seventeen other students.  The boy on my left had a mouth so full of retainers he could hardly talk.  When he tried to he gently sprayed our table with spit which, rather than disgusting me, charmed me completely and made me want to bring him some of the pie I had just made in case he was living on ramen and popcorn.  The boy on my right had both ears so full of piercings he could hardly hear.  I wondered if he took them out every night and if his head felt ten pounds lighter when he did, and if he lined them all up on the dresser for the next day's battle, or if he wore his armor to bed.

There was a girl in the front row of the class who raised her hand high when the professor asked who in the room was writing a novel.  A few others raised their hands half-way, like they were ashamed to admit it.  I kept my hand down but it kind of jumped a bit in my lap like it had been startled, but I tamped it down tight and held onto my pride and my fear at the same time.

The professor explained that our class will be a workshop class and that means I will not only read the work of the boy in retainers next to me, but I will tell him what I think of it.  And he will do the same for me.  I hope he thinks my writing is as charming as I think his spit is.

So last night with dinner in the oven, my husband on his way, half of my children nursing colds and the other half nursing healthy love affairs with rarely-seen rain, I lay on my bed and thought about the other people in my class:  the boy in the tweed jacket who thinks he can smell academic snobbery even when it isn't there; the girl with wheat colored hair who went up afterwards and asked quietly, with her eyes on the floor what a workshop is; and the rail-thin girl who sat behind me and took notes fast and furiously while the professor read fiction to us.  Everyone around her kept glancing over at her nervously wondering if they should be taking notes too. 

And how in not too many weeks, all of these people will see me naked.

And how while I love being naked as much as the next person, (okay maybe more than the next person), I'm not sure I can strip to my heart and soul in front of these eighteen people.

It is not Creative Writing 170.

It is Exhibitionism 101.

And then I could only think that it is a very good thing I look so great naked.

Oh, To Be As Brilliant As She!

First some news, some anxieties, and then I'll do my best to bless your life.

First news.

Last week I was asked by a real-life editor to write a foreword for a new, soon-to-be-published book.  I know.  You can bet I did a little jig of happiness.

Which leads us, already, to the anxieties part.

I worked on it this morning.  I think parts of it were just shy of brilliant, or at least good.  Not sure about the rest of it though.  I emailed it off to him today with my heart in my throat and my ego on my sleeve.  Gulp.  We'll see.

After the first draft I left the house to get away from it a bit before I edited it.  I have to get a little space before I can start killing and maiming my babies, see?  I went to the college to get my student ID and my parking pass.  The student ID they gave me has my maiden name on it, as the computer refused to believe that I had gotten married.  I told David this morning in the shower that I needed to get a ring between now and next Tuesday just in case some other boy wants to ask me out.  He just smiled.  ("What?" I said, "I was very popular in college."  At which, his smile broadened.)

Anyway, while I was there I went to the bookstore for my required books (can I tell you what a little thrill that was?) and saw that one of the requireds is a book I already own, a book already sitting on my writing table, on top of the stack even!, a book I've already read and tried to learn from.  And I had the brief and horrible thought that what I might need is not more information (i.e. this class I've registered for) but more talent (i.e. no professor can help you there).  And the dream nearly died right there on the bookstore linoleum.

But then RIM raised her voice over CIM's freaking out and I pulled myself together.  That is, until I got home and murdered my forward, gave birth to a new version, and sent it through cyberspace to be critiqued and analyzed by a real-life editor.

Good night, what am I thinking?

There's no help for it.  Best move on to the part where I bless you life.

Last week I went to to lunch with my brother who was in town just briefly, and my sister who lives here all the time but whom I never see enough.  We had a delicious conversation over sandwiches and fries and water with lemon.  Near the end, my brother mentioned a masterful talk he had heard at church that had blessed his life.  I looked it up and now it has blessed mine as well.

So here it is.  It is by Sister Julie B. Beck--the B. stands for Brilliant by the way, and that is always how I refer to her in our house, Sister Julie Brilliant Beck.  I think you'll agree.

And, you're welcome. 

 

(P.S.  I know some of you might be sorely tempted to leave an encouraging comment about my "brilliant" writing, but honestly I can't bear it today.  I am restricting all comments to agreements about the gorgeous and wise, Julie Brilliant Beck, and to those of you who think it is entirely plausible that I could indeed get asked out my some cute boy in my class next week.)

The Secret Delights of the Week

First of all, may I just point out that this makes five posts in five days.  You already know that of course, as I'm sure this was one of the secret delights of your week.

But before the weekend comes, a few more of mine, for the record.

1.  This book.

I am completely in love with Flavia de Luce.  I could eat her for breakfast, lunch and dinner.  Better than pie, I say, and I find myself wildly grinning through Mr. Bradley's every paragraph.  

2.  This game.

Caleb got this game for Christmas and by New Year's we owned the expansion.  We have played hours of it since then, including a stolen hour last night between dinner and Roundtable meeting that David had to rush off to. 

3.  This conversation.

This morning as I was in the shower and David was putting the finishing touches on his tie, we were reviewing my posts from the week.

David remembered the one from Wednesday morning and got a little red under the collar remembering the last couple of paragraphs.

He rolled his eyes at me and said, "I wonder what people think."

I said, "They think you love me.  They think that's crazy, but they definitely think you love me."

"But can't they know that without being inappropriate?"

"Probably not," I assured him.

His eyes did another roll but I just smiled at him and he got distracted because I was just coming out of the shower, remember?

4.  This text.

Hey love hope u r having a good day

This afternoon, quite out of the blue, David sent me a text.  Unheard of.  Especially in the middle of the day with the hospital always absorbing all of his daylight-hour attention.

Of course I texted back.

wow...how nice to be thought of in the middle of the day...cant wait for date night

And then I waited.  For something witty perhaps?  For something steamy perhaps?  But he didn't text back.

I was hoping for something like:

me too

or

where do you want to go

or even

i think of you in the middle of the day every day

But the exchange was over.  Still.  I'll take what I can get and count it as one of the delights of the week.  I am so easy to please.  (That was funny, right?)

5.  The rest of today.

I spent the day at Christine's (my sister-in-law) house quilting.  Or actually, mostly talking and planning and fabric shopping and plotting ways to get my sister, Rachel, to quit her job so she can join quilt day too, but we call it quilting.  We had plans to work on some unfinished projects but mostly got excited about starting a couple of new projects instead.  It was easily among the best hours of my week.

Next week already looks less delightful as I have jury duty bright and early on Monday morning.  I am sincerely hoping I don't consume all of Flavia between now and then as I would love to have her with me through jury selection. 

But the week after that school starts.  And I, for one, can't wait.  This week I went and peeked through the window of my classroom and my inappropriate heart did a fluttery bounce and started pounding madly away, undone by the sight of desks and chairs and whiteboards.

Heaven help me if I ever find myself in a classroom with David.  I will surely spontaneously combust with all that lust.   

Brace Yourself

David told me to be sure to take "before" and "after" shots.

As you wish.

Before:

And after:

I'm still reeling.

(Which tends to make me melodramatic.)

David and I stared at each other over dinner, half-bemused at our children trying to navigate new ways for food to move around their mouths and half-confounded that so much life has apparently come and gone. 

Across the table David asked me quietly, "When did we get so old?"

I looked at him, at the gray hair at his temples, at the creases across his brow, at this man who was just barely one when I became his wife, and the years we've shared together stretched between us.  A brief moment and an eternity at once.  I just shook my head.

Today I went to the temple.  I needed back-up.  Reinforcement and buttressing.  And a reminder about the promises of forever.  When time feels scarce, views of eternity are required.  While I was there being tended to by a lovely white-haired angel who told me several times how beautiful I am, she asked me if I was a member of a student ward.  She could hardly imagine the truth.

And neither can I.

"I was yesterday," I wanted to say, "Today I am taking three of my four children to the orthodontist.  I can't even think about tomorrow."  Time is a bully.

So I find myself staring at my children.  I am at a loss to do much else, the gorgeous creatures.

And brace myself to be undone by beauty, by brevity, by becoming.

I've shared Mr. Hershon's poem before, and now after, I will share it again.  It is only getting truer.

 

Sentimental Moment or Why Did the Baguette Cross the Road?

by Robert Hershon

Don't fill up on bread
I say absent-mindedly
The servings here are huge

My son, whose hair may be
receding a bit, says
Did you really just
say that to me?

What he doesn't know
is that when we're walking
together, when we get
to the curb
I sometimes start to reach
for his hand

Why It Is Good to Marry Well

It was a rough night.

My body, never easy to live with, is especially sensitive to stress, and with the filling calendar and the abrupt change in our schedule back to real life, it is back to its old tricks.

Its old tricks with whipped cream on top.

I rose to read scriptures with my children, grateful it was over.

Then there was the morning dance routine where I gracefully lept from pouring milk and juicing oranges to combing hair and finding socks and lunch money.  Today's performance was one of my best...there was a grand jete in there that would have blown your mind.

Then I went to find my shoes and found this instead.

It looked like Christmas morning to me.  Love embodied.  The grand gesture, as it were.

I went and found David and thanked him properly.  He just smiled at me and his eyebrows told me that he understands more than I think he does.

And on a day like today, after a night like that, it is very good to have married so well.

Plus on my way out of the room he felt me up just to let me know that he thinks my old sweats and camp t-shirt look amazing with day old mascara and that that perfect grand jete did not go without notice.

It is very good indeed.