My Blog by the Numbers

David and I are in a fight.

I'm not sure what it's about, but I think it might be about rootbeer extract.

No, that can't be right.  And yet, I think it is.

When I got married I had no idea that the big issues would include rootbeer extract.  I'm thinking that that probably wouldn't have even come up in premarital counseling.  Though I could be wrong.

Anyway, add rootbeer extract to my list of regrets.  (I'm as surprised as you.)

In other news, my blog turned 2 today, and so for your delight and entertainment, I give you my blog by the numbers:

In the last 2 years

I have written 370 posts,

including this one,

that have been read by people in 50 states

and 5 countries. 

(Two of my readers are technically Americans just spending the semester in Europe, but I'm totally counting that.  And ya, Canada counts too.) 

And what did I say in those 370 posts?

Contrary to what some people think, I've only mentioned entropy 15 times

and my perfect breasts 3 times. 

(Can that be right?  Clearly a serious oversight.)

Rachel commented once, "This blog has everything...suspense, sex, comic relief, scripture, drama, and oh so much more,"

but looking back I've only mentioned sex twice

and Isaiah twice,

but she's right about the comic relief.  (It has to be in the high three hundreds.)

For the record, there have been 6 kissing pictures,

but my favorite is still this one.

(What rootbeer extract?)

To my surprise, my most revisited theme was pie.  24 times in fact.  Well.  You can't beat pie.

Over the last twenty-four months

I have recorded the celebration of dozens of holidays,

deconstructed scores of days around my dinner table,

noted several perfect gloamings with my darlings,

and counted my blessings hundreds of times

Add to that the fact that this blog has blessed your life in countless ways (See?  More comic relief.  I told you.)

and I think it's a blogiversary worth celebrating.

I think I'll make pie.

The Jet Stream and the Finger of God

At long last the jet stream has finally gone our way.

(According to this map we're as cold as Wisconsin this morning and my joy can hardly be measured.)

After months of high pressure systems and sweltering temperatures, it is not too much to say that I think the dip in the jet stream looks like the finger of God and the reprieve feels a lot like grace.

I opened all the doors and windows in my house this morning to give it a proper welcome.

My girls pulled out their scarves for the winter walk to the bus stop and Ethan and I climbed back into his bed for a Scooby Doo retrospective.

I took Ethan to the doctor yesterday who told me that his "influenza" is actually just strep throat and started him on a course of antibiotics.  This is probably the first time in my life I've seen strep throat as delightfully good news.

Strep throat as grace. 

Strep throat as tender mercy.

I know how to count my blessings, and this morning jet streams and bacterial infections count.

Leftovers

After the weekend

there are six large pumpkins on the hearth, waiting for the knife

a small tupperware of aaloo chole and one of chicken tikka masala, but no more naan to mop them up

a few bits of sugar cookie, two ghosts and half a pumpkin  (never mind, I just finished off the pumpkin)

a drying rack draped with perfectly tea-dyed mummy rags, waiting for a body to bring them to life

a notebook with notes from stake conference, and more determined resolve in my heart

a boy with a blazing temperature and soupy lungs, the dresser next to his bed littered with medicine, nebulizer, thermometer, and drinks with straws

and me, armed with...

a smile from the weekend delights,

a bottle of lysol for all the hard surfaces in my house,

a pair of watchful, vigilant eyes on guard for worsening flu symptoms and new cases in the rest of my darlings,

and a fervent prayer in my heart for protection from the worst of it.

Better Than a B12 Shot

There is a story that is told in my family, especially among the women.  A family folk tale of sorts, but I heard it from my Aunt Margaret who swears it's true.

It goes that when my mom and her sisters were young and my grandmother would get in a particularly bad mood, one of my aunts would call my grandpa and tell him to bring home the B12 shot.  My grandpa was a doctor and on really rough days he would bring his doctor bag home and while my grandmother was madly stirring away at something on the stove he would lift up her sleeve, swab her arm, and give her a shot.  The story goes that neither of them acknowledged that he'd done it, she'd go on doing whatever she was doing without even looking at him, and he'd put everything back in his bag.

(I told this story to David once and he said, "Really?  Did it work?" and then wondered aloud how you go about getting B12.  He said he was just kidding when I protested indignantly.  But sometimes when I am particularly hard to live with and I see him staring off into space, I know he is secretly wondering if there is a B12 black market.)

There were several things this week that just made me happy.  Better than a B12 shot, I say.  The picture above was one of them.  The American Girl Christmas Catalog arrived this week.  When David got the mail he said, "Oh no."  I just smiled.  The girls poured over it, took it to school for conferences with their friends, let their dolls peruse it, and sat with David oohing and aahing over the holiday spreads.  This morning, after the girls had gone to school, I found Olivia's dolls making their own Christmas lists.  The anticipation has begun already.

And while I'm at it, just for the joy of it, here are a few more things this week that made me happy:

I found a get well note under Olivia's pillow from Savannah, that was mostly a long paragraph listing the fun they could have together once Olivia was feeling better and a profession her love.  Eighteen x's and o's with lots of exclamation points.  And speaking of sisters, I got a comment on my post yesterday from both of my sisters and one sister-in-law, all of whom knew exactly what I was alluding to.  I thought how very nice it is to be known.  I was completely delighted at this happy gift and the little impromptu book club on my blog. 

Yesterday David suggested that we meet for lunch.  I put him off thinking that we were both too busy, but then changed my mind after I got ready for the day because I thought I looked so good he really deserved to see me.  We met at In-n-Out and ate outside in the decidedly pleasant weather.  It is so rare to see him in the middle of the day, I have decided that lunch is my favorite kind of date.  The only downfall of the lunch date is there is no place for passionate necking.

Savannah and I have plans to tea-dye her mummy rags after school today, and we are going to pick pumpkins this Saturday.  For whatever reason I am embracing the Halloween season this year and my children could not be more pleased.  Perhaps it is all the spooky movie watching...we have plans for another movie marathon this weekend.  On tap, The Legend of Sleepy Hollow, Casper, and Ghostbusters.  And David and I have our own late-night plans for Wait Until Dark, my personal Halloween favorite which I could watch any time of the year.

Yesterday I took Savannah and Ethan to the school book fair in the afternoon.  They both spent their birthday money on new books.  (Thanks Greg and Becca!)  Can I tell you how happy it makes me that I have children who would rather spend their money on books than anything else?  Deliriously so.

And speaking of books, Caleb has been working on his Reading Merit Badge.  One of the requirements was to read to a child for four hours.  He completed the requirement by reading to Ethan every evening, but they both enjoyed the experience so much that they've continued reading together every night since.  Last night they finished The Enormous Egg.  My heart does little thumps of joy as I hear Caleb reading and Ethan laughing from the other room and see their heads tipped towards each other in a pool of yellow lamp light.  Be still my heart.

Best of all, the weekend is here.  Mine is going to include date night, stake conference, sugar cookies, an indian-food dinner party, a trip to the thrift stores for our missing costume essentials, and maybe even a nap.  Color me delighted.

Allusions and Punctuation and Plot Gone Awry

First allusions, and an apology for yesterday.

When David read the post he said, "Who's Valdez?"

I said, "Just keep reading."

A bit later he said, "Who's Reuben Lands?"

"Reuben Land, in the plural.  Just keep reading."

And then, "You think you're a Swede?  You are definitely not a Swede."

"Not a Swede.  Just Swede."

He read a couple more sentences.  "Wait, who is the she that bangs on the wall?"

"She is Swede."

He got to the end.  "So wait.  Now who's Valdez again?"

I could only sigh and mutter, "Never mind."

I can only say that it seemed like a good idea at the time.

Secondly, punctuation. 

Yesterday my sister and I had to write a few emails for our body image class.  One of them was to someone that we both have great admiration and love for, a person we would normally never have the opportunity to write to.  At the end of the email we made a little joke and added a smiley face with punctuation.  You know the kind:  :).  Yes, really.  I have no idea what got into me.  Nerves, I think.  I mean not only do I have a personal moral objection against using punctuation in such a literal way, it seems embarrassingly childish especially given the respect I have for the person we were writing, like I am some immature texter with no real grasp of the English language. 

After I sent the email I stared at that smiley face, aghast at what I had done.  I always say that if the person can't tell that you meant it to be funny it needs to be rewritten, that you just haven't used the right words.  I rewrote that sentence about a hundred times last night and regretted (oh how I regretted) the use of that punctuation.  Sheer madness. 

I can hardly believe that it seemed like a good idea at the time.

Lastly, plot.  

Olivia's lungs are making their way out of the soup and into a light, gentle wheezing now and then.  She even managed to read her verses of scripture this morning without sounding like she'd run a half-marathon.  We were in the brief Book of Omni, which always needs a roadmap, I think.  The kids looked at me cross-eyed, with lots of "Wait, what?"s as I tried to explain the plot, the comings and goings of entire civilizations that happen over the course of about six verses, the introduction of new characters and new settings that pop up without warning.  Even Mormon had to add a brief word of explanation after it was all over.  It required a more extensive explanation than we had time for and so I gave it up as a bad job and a discussion for another day, and administered antibiotics and albuterol instead. 

I can only think that Amaleki (who, like me, was working without an editor) thought it was a good idea at the time.  

And after yesterday, I have all kinds of empathy for him.

Killing Off Valdez

Yesterday I woke up early, before the alarm, before David, before Caleb even.

I could hear Olivia breathing from the family room.

It's that time of year again. 

The time when our nebulizer gets put through it's paces and really starts earning its keep.  Last night when I was going to bed the ten o'clock news told me not to worry, because those people who have died from the H1N1 flu all had underlying causes like asthma. 

What?

Lungs are not my family's strong point. 

I am surrounded by Reuben Lands.  I imagine myself as Swede by the way.  Is that reaching?  Oh well.  I can't help myself.  I just about die of love when she starts banging on the walls.  I suppose instead I ought to wish I was Reuben's dad and could produce a miracle whenever I needed one.  It is very likely we may need one before this winter is over.

Like a Fire is Burning

Last week we fall-breaked.  Which meant games and "scary" movies every evening (tis the season).  And late night runs to the store for supplies to make cheesecake and pumpkin pie just because they sounded good.  Caleb and I worked on merit badges while the girls had sleepovers with their cousins and their dolls, and we ate dinner on the patio every night.  David is nearly drowning at the hospital these days and arrived home late every night, but it didn't matter since bedtime had been suspended for the week.

On Friday we went camping and played games in the tent and cooked our meals on the campstove and s'mores over the fire.

It was a good week with my children.

Last night on our way to a meeting I told David, "I hate Sunday nights."  He laughed and admitted the same thing.  It's like being born again every Monday, ripped from heaven and thrown back into the lone and dreary world, blinking and blinded by reality and to-do lists.  A feeling made worse last night by the fact that I had had my children home all week and knowing it would be another nine weeks until they were all mine again.

The meeting we were headed to was the dedication of our new stake center, as our old one had burned down nearly two years ago.  I went to the meeting out of duty, aware only of my looming week and temporal worries.  I left the meeting transfigured.  I had no idea that it was going to be a gift from heaven.  I have rarely felt such an outpouring of the spirit, and I have never heard such a beautiful, powerful prayer.  As we rose at the end to sing "The Spirit of God" I was reminded of the rededication of the Manti temple that I attended as a child. 

I felt like I was standing in front of the burning bush.

And I was on fire too.

David put his arm around me to prop me up in front of all that heat and love.

I was overwhelmed by the love of heaven, by the palpable presence of God and his angels, the truthfulness of his work, but mostly by the mercy and kindness of my Savior, Jesus Christ. 

And that fire burned through all the choking anxieties and paralyzing demands of earth life, scorched my burdens and my fears, and left me joyful and stronger and brimming with faith.

I sobbed most of the way home, which wonderfully, did nothing to quench those flames.  The fire is still burning this morning, as David noted with a smile as he kissed me goodbye and I smiled up at him.  I don't think he's seen one of those on a Monday morning since school started. 

Transfigured, indeed.

For Comfort in the Strife

Do you want to know a secret?

Sometimes I don't know what my own brain is thinking.

(I know what you're thinking, but just hush.  Let me at least pretend that was a secret.)

Most days when I go to write a post it's not because I have something to say, but because I need to know what I'm thinking.  (And here you thought it was all for you.)  I can't understand my own brain unless I write it out.  I have all these thoughts and stories tumbling around in there and I know it's trying to tell me something important but dang if I know what it is, and so I tell myself, "I need to write."  And (usually) by the end of the post, I go, "Oh.  That's brilliant."  And I can clearly see what it was I was trying to tell myself.

(I try to put heavy emphasis on the "brilliant" part, as it makes me feel marvelous.)

This morning I am walking around my house with my hair in a messy bun feeling a little lost.  Walking from room to room but not seeing the breakfast dishes on the countertop or the unmade beds or the piles of hair ties and smeared toothpaste in the bathroom sinks, because I know I need to write and sort the mess in my head first.  I tell you this to give you fair warning.  The rest of this could be a bit sketchy.  Then again, there is a very good chance it will be brilliant.  (I don't know about you, but I suddenly feel marvelous.)

Last night David was looking at me across the pillow.  I had my arms folded across my chest in lieu of words.  I was making a point, see?  He ignored my arms and sent me a message with his eyes and then I smiled, despite myself.

He said, "Do you know what I'm thinking?  I was sending you a message."

I said of course and rolled my eyes because I always know what he is thinking and he should stop being surprised at that.

"What was I thinking?"

"That you wanted to kiss me."

He laughed because I was right of course.

I said, "First tell me about your day."

"And then we can kiss?"

"Okay."

And then he told me about his day.  One of the worst in his career.  And we talked for a couple of hours.  As he talked I repented.  Because he hadn't come home to dinner and a smile.  And after a day like that, he deserved to.

As he was winding down, he said, "And then I came home and,"

I interrupted, "And there was no dinner on the table."

And he said, "I didn't need dinner.  Just comfort."

That is what marriage is after all.  Comfort in the wilderness.

Yesterday morning I was in the kitchen making Ethan's lunch.  I drew a picture on his paper lunch sack.  (Our little tradition, a stick-figure message for him in the middle of the day.)  He looked at me and said, "I'm glad you're here, Mom."

I grinned at him and said thanks.

He said, "Dad could keep us alive, but I'm glad you're here."

I wasn't sure if I should feel happy or sad at that.

Last night after David had exhausted his story and rehearsed his sorrows I was quiet for a while.  He turned out the lights and it was dark in our room.  I said, "If our life was a musical I would sing you a song right here."

"Like what?"

I sang the first verse of "Tomorrow" from Annie.  Yes, I really did.  And he didn't stop me, so I kept going.

"When I'm stuck with a day

that's gray

and lonely

I just stick out my chin,

and grin,

and say..."

I stopped then, fearing I had gone too far.  He kissed me and said, "You didn't do the chorus."

We sang it together then.  I'm not even kidding. 

In the middle of the night, the house quiet and still except for our soulful tribute to "tomorrow," which would surely be better than today.  We belted out the last line and even slowed down the last notes for a big, emotional finish.  And then everything was quiet again, and the air was heavy and full like something important had just happened.

David thanked me for the serenade and we smiled at each other even though it was dark.

Both of us, I think, comforted.

And now, another not-so-secret secret.  I've been struggling the last couple of months for purpose and place.  And how to navigate my new world of long, quiet hours.  Struggling to feel useful and joyful and necessary, to find meaningful work.

Perhaps I am here only for the comfort now.  Perhaps it is as Ethan says, that they could all keep themselves alive but it's good I'm around anyway.  For comfort.  For stick-figures on brown paper bags.  For serenades by Charles Strouse and Martin Charnin in the middle of the night.  For my ear and my heart, rather than my hands.  For comfort in the strife.

And you know, it's not a bad job.

Sand in My Eye

How about something fun today?

I'm in a bad, bad mood.

In fact I may be teetering on the verge from "mood" to outright "funk."

It's that bad.

And it's all David's fault, of course.

Now he is reading that last line and I can hear him scoffing all the way from the hospital.  He is thinking, "That's outrageous!"

And it is.  (But don't tell him.)

I'm going to move on to the fun stuff in just a minute, but first, the straw that broke the camel's back.  (Because I know you are wondering.)  I went in the bathroom this morning to put Caleb's hair up for "Crazy Hair Day" and I walked through a substantial sand pile right in the middle of the floor.  I asked, "Who dumped their shoes out in the middle of the floor?"  And everyone said, "Not me." 

I know.  I was shocked too.  And if you are wondering how this is David's fault I will just remind you (as I reminded him) that he was the reason these children (and therefore, the sand pile too) exist in the first place.

I know what you're thinking.  "Wow, she can make a mountain out of a molehill  sand pile like nobody else I know."  What can I say?  It's a gift.

(Don't worry.  It's October.  I should be feeling better any day now.)

Now to the part where I make your life a little better.  Fun, right?

On the way to Utah last weekend, David asked me if I brought any books-on-tape.  I had.  But he wasn't interested in either of them, and so I casually mentioned that I had a bunch of "This American Life" podcasts on my ipod that we could listen to.  I've mentioned this before.  But honestly, David thinks my penchant for NPR is another of my charming character flaws, and has always declined.  But then he got a little desperate on our way out of the desert and I tempted him by saying, "There's a funny one I think you'd like."  And so he reluctantly consented.

We listened to every one of them before the trip was over.

I made a convert.

Some of them are so laugh-out-loud funny David and I just sat and hooted at each other and wiped our eyes afterwards.  Some of them are so sobering we just sat and looked at each other, our eyebrows doing all the talking.  Some of them are so informative we would have to pause the podcast and discuss our take on it, and how it made us think of something else we had to tell the other one right away.

Delicious.

And, as you know, I love being right.  So this was doubly wonderful.  David even asked me when it "normally airs."  Ha!  I told him Saturdays at two with a gleeful, triumphant smile.

So if you haven't already, you really should subscribe to the podcast and next week you can fold your laundry to the joy that is "This American Life."

And can I just say, that when I can't sleep and I am lying in my bed in the dark, I fantasize about being interviewed by Ira Glass.  And the stories I would tell him and the pauses he would make and the questions that would follow.

I can just imagine the one I would tell him about the sandbox I found in the bathroom this morning and after I told him the whole thing, how I harassed the children and made a federal case out of it and was nearly run through by the beam in my own eye, he would pause and ask, "At any point along here did you think 'This is crazy!'?"

And then I'd give a long pause.

And we'd both laugh, because of course I hadn't.

Things That Are Worth Driving 20 Hours For

I call this, "Roadtripping with a Purpose."

On Friday morning, we set the alarm and instead of dressing for school we headed north in the early morning light.

We drove all day.  And tomorrow we will drive all day back home.

But there are things worth driving 20 hours for.  I present them below for your reference. 

1.  For this undivided view.  (This is reason enough, by the way, but there are more.)

2.  To see LaVell Edwards Stadium lit up at night.

3.  To watch the moon rise spectacularly over the Rocky Mountains.

4.  For the bird's eye view.

5.  For these smiles.  (Alma mater's sons and daughters.)

6.  To be this close to the action.

7.  To deliver a baby gift.  (It's better in person.)

8.  But mostly, for this series of pictures here...I post them all because of the story they tell.  Be still my beating heart.

I am nearly undone by the picture of "eternity" I captured, quite by accident, in the first picture, as my husband, and our boy get ready for Caleb's first priesthood session of General Conference.  They are going to the Conference Center where they will sit and listen in the very same room as the prophet of God. 

It was worth it. 

And then some.