This Morning

 

This morning

I am thankful to be reunited with my kitchenaid

(gorgeous isn't she?)

together we made two pumpkin pies that are cooling on the counter

two deep-dish and stacked-high apple pies that are dripping all over my oven

(let them drip, the juicy darlings...

I'll take care of it on National Clean Out Your Oven Day)

and one chicken pot pie that just went in, because I said as long as we're making pie,

let's make one we can eat today

and she agreed

(brilliant isn't she?)

the new Christmas CD is playing in the stereo,

my house smells like I am a genius with cloves and cinnamon,

(let's face it, I am)

and in a few minutes I will drive to the school where my nine-year-old will put on a play about the First Thanksgiving and I will be filled with wonder at their courage (the pilgrims') and her beauty (my daughter's).

And a few hours after that,

after I have folded wontons and wrapped smokies and dipped pretzels

my darlings will burst through the doors, the anticipation coming off them in waves,

and then David will arrive home and we'll do a little passionate necking right in the middle of the kitchen,

in the middle of all those smells and cooling pies and fruit of our loins,

and I will be thankful, thankful, thankful.

Conversations and Visions From My Bed

I was going to do a quick, effervescent post about my Thanksgiving preparations.  About the 12 cups of shortening chilling in the refrigerator waiting to become pie...(lots of pie, apparently.)  About the scrubbing and the shopping and the aprons I washed and pressed this morning for the occasion, the occasion of one the greatest weeks of the year for domestic goddesses everywhere.  There would have been mention of National Clean Out Your Fridge Day last Thursday and how I didn't clean out mine and how I regretted it yesterday and how it is a terrible thing to live with regret.  And how today I wore my Superman shirt under my apron so the kitchen would know who's boss.

And you would have enjoyed it.

But I have something else entirely coming out.  Don't worry.  You'll probably enjoy it, too.

The talk in our bed lately has been about the coming holidays.  As we're drifting off and slowly waking there is talk about lights and gifts and cards and decorating and budgets.  Last night I was listing the flaws in the current version of the Christmas CD we are giving to our friends and neighbors, the songs that have to go and the songs that just have to be on it regardless of what anyone thinks of us afterwards.  (The integrity of our holiday music mix must be preserved afterall.  We have a reputation to uphold.)  And this morning as I awoke, I told David that I received an email that our Christmas cards had shipped and he said, "Well you know what that means..." and then said the rest of it with his eyebrows, which was all about how I need to get writing and how he was nervous about this but was doing his best to keep it to himself and wasn't I proud of his effort. 

And lately I have been sighing inwardly that this is how it will be (waking and sleeping) for the next thirty days or so, despite my deep need for it to be different this year. 

Every year I think, "Next year will be different."  And every year it isn't.

So far this year has been no exception.  I started having actual nightmares about Christmas Eve in early October.  I have earnestly tried to "do less" and "simplify," thinking that will make it different, but honestly it doesn't fundamentally change the way we prepare and celebrate the holidays.  It just makes me anxious that "less" won't be "enough."  I have also tried to "do it early" but somehow this only seems to prolong the process.  There needs to be a change at the heart of it all.    

Early Monday morning I dreamed that David and I were at a beach house.  He was smiling at me under the sheets, and the sunlight was streaming through the windows setting the white sheets ablaze in light.  His skin was glowing like resurrection morning.  His eyes were pure love beaming up at me.

I woke up breathless, blinded by light and beauty and a feeling of overwhelming contentedness.

This morning under the covers I thought about that dream again.  I thought about how there has to be a better way.  A way full of light and love and contentedness.  I thought about how afterall that was the whole point of the birth we are so madly celebrating.  I thought about how tired I am already and how many lists I've made already and how I want to give up already.  I thought about those blazing sheets and resurrection morning and the love of my life.  And I thought about how to create a space big enough for that, for each one of my darlings.  Big enough that they can each be overwhelmed by love.

When I told David about the dream I said, "That's what I want for Christmas."

He asked, "A beach house?"

"No."

Confused, "No?"

"I want that feeling.  All that light and joy and love spilling out of our eyes and our fingertips and our windows and our doors."

He nodded, relieved, I think, that I did not want a beach house.  But I was less relieved.  Because I am good at fighting.  I am good at anxiety.  I am good at grudges and blowing things out of proportion.  (Boy, am I.)  I am good at stress and short answers and rushing through my days for the sake of a list.  I am good at missing the good stuff.

I want light and love and resurrection morning.  I want it all month long. 

Is this too much to ask?  Perhaps.  Especially given my considerable talent for the opposite.  But I'm asking anyway.  I can see why all that white, delicious fruit was so appealing to Lehi.  I am after a basketful of it myself.  I want light and love and resurrection morning dripping from my chin.

Let's eat.

Lost in Translation

This morning I was paying the bills and stretching the budget.  Robbing Peter to pay Paul and all kinds of creative accounting.  It was exciting.

David came in to tell me that he was taking a conference call and he would be unavailable from eight to eight thirty.

I stared at him, trying to translate.

It was something like:

"I'm taking a conference call so don't come in and loudly ask me to kill a scorpion or a mouse or where all the money went or if I can put the dishes in before I leave, and especially don't let Adele do her morning serenade.  That could be embarrassing.  I just need you to really try and be independent and solve your own problems without bothering me for the next thirty minutes.  Do you think you can do that?"

Which did not seem very nice, and which made me want to pick a fight but he had a conference call and I was exhausted, so I let it go.  (Well, not really...given that I am still talking about it.)

Now it could be that my translator is off.  But let's be honest, that seems unlikely.

The real problem of course is that I used to be capable.  And instead of wondering what is wrong with me lately (I'm thinking brain tumor), it's easier to be offended by the fact that David has clearly noticed the change.  When did I get so easily overwhelmed by my life?  When did everything become so hard?  How long have I been so tired I can hardly think? 

I keep thinking that my life is going to sort itself out, that my new path and purpose are going to reveal themselves to me, but I am as lost today as I was in August, four months ago.  I keep telling myself that it shouldn't be this hard, that I am in charge of my own life, but it's not helping.  I feel like an ex-con who is suddenly terrified by freedom, by a life without restrictions, and is ultimately more comfortable in prison and so he commits a crime just to feel safe and structured again. 

And you thought I was kidding about the brain tumor.  What else could it be?  Low blood sugar?  Anemia?  Hypothyroidism?  A B-12 deficiency?  Outright insanity?

The truth is I don't need a CAT scan, or a sandwich, or a nap, or a couple of pints of A+ blood.  (Though I wouldn't say no to any of them, especially the nap and the blood.)

What I really need is a little revelation, my own personal urim and thummim, with maps and directions for this strange new land.  The sooner the better.  (Preferably before I turn to life a crime.) 

And as an added benefit, traditionally urim and thummims also translate languages.  David should be delighted.

Monday Morning, Mid-November

I've got Olivia home today working on her Reuben Land impression again.  (Will this allusion ever get old?  Not for me, apparently.)

She's making good progress on the likeness, and had me so convinced last night that I was almost scared enough to head to the hospital.

Dr. James, brilliant man, said that she can stay with me until she can move a kleenex across the room with her breath.  So far she can't even get it to twitch, which should give us enough time to make good progress on the holiday movie collection.  He gave us a grocery cart full of prescriptions and now she and I are running the nebulizer like clockwork.

The weekend came and went with the usual mix of play and worship and a surprising lack of the usual chores.  On Saturday afternoon Caleb had a violin recital in which he made both Bach and his grandparents proud.  On Sunday we attended sacrament meeting in my parents' ward as my dad was made bishop.  Afterwards we joined my brothers and sister and their families at the homestead for lunch.  A delightful preview to next week when we will gather again to break bread together and the rest of my siblings will join us.  I can't wait. 

I have been madly trying to finish my applique section on our round robin project in order to pass it on to my lovely and talented (and patient) sister-in-law.  I'm only ten days late, and by my count I only have twenty hours left to finish.  It is just about the cutest thing I have ever seen and can hardly stand not to publish a picture of it for your enjoyment, but there are no reveals until next April, so you'll just have to take my word for it.  (Make a note of my incredible willpower.)  It has been a good reminder that there is almost nothing I like better than handwork.

Well, I am off to administer meds, rotate the laundry another spot, and change the sheets.  And maybe find a sunny corner for a short nap.  It was a long night, interrupted by wheezy little gasps at the foot of my bed. 

The New Addition and the Angel of Death

Yesterday I had a problem in the middle of the day.

So I called David.

Surprisingly, he answered.  I almost dropped the phone.  He is usually in the hospital black hole and cannot be reached until after six or seven when he reemerges into our lives.  I was only going to leave a heartfelt, desperate message.

I said, breathing heavy, "I just saw a mouse."

"Are you sure?"

"Um, yep."  And then, just so we were clear.  "And it's your job to kill it."  There are a few jobs in our marriage that I just can't stomach.  Those ones are clearly his.  And this is one of them.  I'm a traditional girl and I believe in having defined roles in marriage.

He assured me he'd take care of it.

Last night after I returned home from teaching a body image class the girls asked, "Why didn't you tell us you saw a mouse?"  Apparently the subject had come up over dinner.

"I didn't want to scare you."

"Why would we be scared?  It was probably just Shiloh."

"Who?"

"Shiloh.  Our pet mouse."

"Wait, what?"

"We found a mouse in the backyard and we've been feeding her and we named her Shiloh.  It's probably just her."  Given the chance, these girls will mother anything.

I stared at them, aghast.  My mind reeled and stumbled around forming a quick lecture on the black plague.  I was just about to start in on it when Olivia said, "Now that you know about her, can we keep her like a real pet?"

What?

I told David we have a problem.  The mouse in our house has a name.

And that is how David acquired a new job around here.  One that not only includes killing the scorpions and mice, but one which includes killing our children's "pets," along with their hopes and dreams and romantic notions.

Clearly another job I don't have the stomach for.

I just hope that David does. 

The Magic of Minor Holidays

We have a long tradition of getting the most out of our minor holidays.  David once made the best decision of his life on a minor holiday and since then we do our best to joyfully exploit every minor holiday on the calendar.

Yesterday was no exception.

We all slept in, with the exception of Caleb who set his alarm and rode his bike to the church to set up flags around the neighborhood with the rest of the scouts.  Do I love that I heard his alarm and then rolled over, burrowed into David's side and went back to sleep, completely confident that he would get himself up and do his duty?  Yes, I do.

I made a big breakfast of crazy pancakes (which are really German Pancakes, but we call our crepes "German Pancakes" and so we needed a new name for the actual German Pancakes.  This was a mistake perpetrated in the last generation in our family and I don't know why I didn't correct it when I had children.  Make a note Em, this madness can stop with you.)

And then we played games until mid-afternoon when I took Olivia to her viola lesson and stopped at the store for baking potatoes.

David surprised us all by coming home by five, a rare occurrence on any day, and celebrated by kissing me thoroughly while the potatoes baked.  And just when things started taking a turn for the scandalous and he began pulling me towards a more private corner (I'm telling you he has a thing for minor holidays), I raised my head and caught my children enjoying a perfect gloaming together.

At dinner, Olivia bowed her head and thanked heaven for "all the soldiers and all the veterans who had fought in that war."  We all said "Amen" and meant it.  Because of them we enjoyed a perfect minor holiday, free and safe, in the middle of the week in the middle of November.  We could not have been more grateful.

I was humming this morning while I dished eggs onto the plates.  Ethan said, "You're alone again today, Mom."  He had a worried look on his face that said he didn't want to be the one to break the news to me but somebody had to do it.

I said, "Yep."

"Then why are you happy?"

I smiled at him and told him to eat his eggs.

Why am I happy?  Leftovers from yesterday, I suppose.  And the small, delicious taste we got of the major holidays just around the corner.  I really can't help myself.  I have been seduced, yet again, by the bewitching charms of the minor holiday.  After all, she has all the fun and none of the work and stress and pressure of her more "official" sister.  Which is just more evidence of birth-order discrimination, I say.  Apparently, even first-born holidays do most of the work.

(That's right, I said it.  My brothers and sisters may now audibly groan.  It's still true, though.)   

Succor for the Darkness

Last night David gave the lesson at Family Home Evening.

It was just what I needed.

He said it was for the kids, but I think we all know better than that.

After a full day of adrenaline and cortisol on Sunday, I was crashing yesterday.  Emotionally.  Physically.  Spiritually.  We had a wonderful fireside on Sunday night, but after so much anticipation and energy and prayer, I was spent, and just as unsure about what it all meant and what happens next.  David called me a little after noon to check on me.  He knew the crash was coming.  I have no secrets from him.  (I wish he'd share a few of them with me because I am only mostly baffled by myself.)

After flying home, I made a meager attempt at starting the laundry and made a simple (and delicious) Wimmer Truc dinner, but couldn't manage much more than that.  (At the bottom, when there is little faith in myself or my plan, there is still faith in baguettes and sirloin steak and the succor of breaking bread around my table.)

And so last night after we sang and prayed, David had us listing our blessings.  I don't mind saying, he topped my list.  I cried of course, when he had us share them out loud.

Also on the list,

my parents who traveled with me and Rachel to Salt Lake on Sunday afternoon, paid for our room and board (I don't know when a cheeseburger has ever tasted so good), drove us to the stake center where we were speaking, and then sat on a bench and smiled their prayers and good wishes at us the whole time

my two lovely aunts and one gorgeous cousin who came only to give bolstering hugs (I don't know when one has felt so good)

and my sisters, the bravest women I know.  It was because of both of them that I was there in the first place.

Add to that list the kindness of friends: one showed up on Sunday night, another wrote a heartfelt letter from Paris that I have reread a dozen times already, one left a message on my answering machine, one promised to pray for me (and she always keeps her promises), and still others wrote and left their good wishes in comments.  They all blessed me more than you can know.

And so this morning, I awoke with a headache, but a much lighter heart.  Succored, as it were, across another dark pass in my journey through the wilderness.  I awoke brimming with a quiet determination to do what I can, where I can.  I intend to scrub my house down, and finish the laundry, and put the flannel sheets on the beds in anticipation of the coming holidays.  And to be still about everything else.  

I awoke with Henry James in my head,

"We work in the dark.  We do what we can.  We give what we have."

I made hot chocolate and toast, and packed the leftover Wimmer Truc into sacks for lunch, and then we sat and read the scriptures.  We were at the temple with King Benjamin and he reminded us that we are all beggars before God. 

And I knew exactly what he meant.

Yes we work in the dark, we do what we can, we give what we have, but we don't do it alone.

A Salt Lake City Invitation

Last night Rachel and I were supposed to teach a body image class, but she had a fever.

And so I was a one man band.

Running the computer and talking at the same time, and trying to remember her lines on top of all that. 

When I got home David met me at the door and asked with concern, "How did it go?"  He was expecting the worst.

I shrugged, which is short for "it could have been worse, but it also certainly could have been better."

I sighed, "Sunday will be better."  And that is what I told myself all night when I couldn't sleep.  Sunday will be better.  Repeated over and over more like a prayer and a plea than a promise.

And that brings us to the part where I bless your life.  (And you thought we'd never get there.)

If you live in Salt Lake

Rachel and I are coming to give our body image presentation,

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

This Sunday, November 8th at 7 p.m. at the Salt Lake Winder Stake Center,

4366 South 1500 East,

and you are cordially invited.

Bring your daughter if she's older than ten and we will try to bless her life as well.

Best of all,

Rachel will be fever-free and at her best (which you won't want to miss)

and I will be there only doing my lines (which should be better)

and if you already know me you can give me a bolstering hug because heaven knows I'll need it

and if we haven't met yet, we can, and then it will be just like old times.  Delightful, no?

So come, it will bless your life.  (I'm almost sure of it.) 

Halloweening (the noun went as a verb)

Our spookiest minor holiday of the year is officially over.

Marked by the tell-tale sign of only tootsie rolls and dum-dums left in the bottom of the candy bowl.

The rootbeer extract controversy has been long forgotten.  Was I for or against?  I'll never tell. 

The only thing left: pictures of my darlings in their holiday splendor.  Olivia as Miss Earhart (she played the part as romatically as ever), Savannah fresh from the sarcophagus and Caleb from the Transylvanian tomb.  Ethan has been practicing "the force" all month in preparation for his night as Yoda.  He did not disappoint.