Ad Nauseum

I get nauseated when I get too tired.  

It's like a built-in early warning system to alert me that my body is being overtaxed and is slowly starting to shut down from exhaustion.

"This is a test of the exhaustion broadcast system.  This is only a test.  If you had actually been tired, you would be throwing up now.  We now return you to your regularly scheduled life."

It's awesome. 

I started feeling green around the edges late Wednesday night, "Danger, Will Robinson!", but there was no help for it.  Despite the flashing lights and warning beeps and waves of sickness rolling in, there was no way or place to stop.  And so by the time I woke up this morning the fog of nausea was so thick and heavy, I briefly considered taking a pregnancy test.  Danger!  Danger!

Then I remembered. 

It has just been a very long week. 

And I wanted to lay right back down, but I am chaperoning Caleb at his regional music festival today. It will be a day full of Copeland (oh, Copeland!) and Berlioz and Rimsky-Korsakov (oh, the Russians!). Sick and tired but accompanied by a gorgeous soundtrack.  

When I finally reunited with David last night at 10:30, I pointed out that we haven't sat down across the dinner table together even once this week, trying to emphasize the calamity and grief I was feeling.  I know there are greater tragedies, but in the haze of war, drained and battle-weary, it was hard to think of one. 

Last night before I took Ethan to his baseball practice that started at 8:30 and went well past ten, Olivia reminded me that she had to turn in her NHS application today.   I nearly started bawling as we tried to recreate a record of her service hours from the last two years, which felt especially impossible since I can't even remember what happened last week.

"Let's just bag it, Livy." 

"But I need to do it for my college applications." 

I wavered.

Savannah had me sign her report card earlier this week.  There were plenty of B's and C's, with a couple of D+'s sprinkled in to remind me that I am not spending anywhere near enough time helping her with Algebra and Physics.  

Apparently college may be a long shot for several of us.  "Danger, Will Robinson!"  We're going to need a plan B.  

For his part, David has spent the week bailing water out of his own boat, and when he wasn't in late meetings or staying late to finish projects, he was running to the stake center to go to other meetings or hang lights for a youth dance.  (There happens to be a youth speed-dating activity that he is helping to put on this Saturday.  I am thinking of going just so that I can have 2.5 uninterrupted minutes with him.)

I tell myself that there's got to be an easier way, there's got to be a way to do less. Only I'm not sure what to eliminate: church or school or work?

This is the true dilemma of modern family life.  How do I help everybody fill the measure of their creation, be successful and accomplish all the things they were sent to earth to do, and then still find time for us to eat and talk and connect with each other.  Oh, Anne Morrow!  Tell me what to do!

I have severe rope burns from the constant tug-of-war: Pull!  We must "work while the sun shines," "put our shoulder to the wheel," make the most of the talents God gave us, set goals and make a difference!  Pull! But also, somehow, someway, simplify, be still, and find a place for the peace and joy of simply being together!  Pull!  Pull!  Most days it feels like I'm not pulling hard enough, but maybe it's because I'm pulling in two different directions. 

Worst of all, I have some notion that it's my own choices (Danger! Danger!) that have brought us down this overcommitted path, but when I look around for a better way, it feels like I have no other choice.    Whatever happened to the quiet life in the middle of the woods?  When did that stop being a viable option?  Oh, Thoreau!  Take me with you!  

It is always the same old wrestle and I'm not too proud to admit that the schedule pinned me to the mat this week.  But it's my doubts that really fight dirty. 

Uncle!  Oh, Uncle!

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.

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.

My Kingdom for a Canoe

David and I went skinny dipping last night.

It seemed like the right thing to do, given the heat and the haze of the first full week of school. 

I have wept and complained and moaned and wailed.  I have had more than one vivid fantasy about pulling everyone out of public school and packing up the tent and moving to the rainforests of British Columbia.  Maybe we'd even buy a canoe.   You know, to get around.  In an effort to blame someone for the shock and pain of real life, I have given David the stink eye, the evil eye, and the pleading, don't-leave-me-now eye.

All to no avail.  There is no help for it.  We are back to school.  And somehow it seems like the greatest tragedy of my life. 

I keep asking David, "Why are we doing this?" 

And he just looks at me indulgently.  "Come on, Ap.  We want our children to be educated, right?" 

I'm honestly not sure. 

Ethan came home from the first day of school with a stiff upper lip.  By dinner, though, he had dissolved into hiccupy sobs.  The kind that break your heart.  Halfway through his chicken and artichokes he was in my lap, his head buried in my neck.  His two best friends have moved away and both the lunchroom and the playground had been very lonely affairs. The next day I wondered what kind of person sends her nine-year-old boy back to the same fate, armed only with bolstering hugs and whispered words of encouragement.  It seems preposterous.  On every level. 

The other children are transitioning with more grace and ease.  Especially Olivia.  She started high school and somehow managed to find a group of cute senior boys to eat lunch with.   Life has never been better.  At the same dinner table that Ethan sobbed his heart out, Olivia couldn't stop grinning. 

It's overwhelming. 

How am I supposed to nurture and care for all these children given all that emotion?  At any moment, there are wild swings between the happiness or misery of my four children.  And five days in, I'm exhausted.  And heartbroken.  And worried.  And worn thin.  And sick to death of office supply stores.  And so, so tired.  Did I mention I was tired?  I actually had the thought this week that I ought to have my thyroid checked and then I remembered we were just back in school.  And as hard as I'm working, it's still not enough.  I told David that we need none of me from 9:00 to 2:00 and we need four of me from 3:00 to 9:00.  There are some serious staffing issues around here in the late afternoon.

David says, "Come on, Ap.  It's only the first week."  He says this to be encouraging.  Like, give it some time and it will get better.  We'll get used to it somehow.

But I only hear, "It's only the first week," and desperately wonder how I can possibly manage another thirty-eight.  See?  That place in the rainforest sounds awesome. 

This afternoon I am going with Caleb so he can take his driving test for his license.   

Maybe I will tell him to just keep driving, and driving, and driving, until we find the open ocean and a sturdy canoe. 

Fire and Fog

[In full disclosure, this post was written over a couple of days, with intermittent and international wi-fi coverage...and by now it barely makes sense to publish it at all. And yet, here I am doing it anyway.]

Thursday morning

I was going to share a photo on Instagram this morning, but found I had more to say than the little caption box is designed to hold.  Instagram is not really my preferred format anyway, as evidenced by my pitiful collection of photos. Given the choice, I will choose the 1000 words over the substitute. Every time.

We just passed the 45th parallel, exactly halfway between the equator and the North Pole, and I am carsick.  Out of practice, I suppose. 

The green hills and bouncy clouds of Oregon look exactly as we left them nearly four years ago.  Keeping vigil until our return.  The grasses are slowly turning into pines the closer we get to the Pacific.   No wonder Lewis and Clark kept going. Every mile is more beautiful than the last.  Of course these hills will be shaved bare again before we see the tides.  I love the dressing and undressing of rolling hills.  These road trip stripteases never get old.

Friday

Early last evening we made it to the northern end of Washington, Oregon's dark, foreboding cousin. The greens are deeper, more menacing, and capable of swallowing you whole if you step too far off the road.  It was a shock to step out of the car into the damp and the chill and David and I were forced to climb up and untie the car-top carrier to find jeans and socks and close-toed shoes.  (Though on the morning news they were talking about the heat wave and I couldn't stop laughing.)

We woke this morning to somebody blowing the fog horn over and over, long and low, and the gulls calling.  It already feels like we're in a foreign country even though we haven't yet crossed the watery border a mile or so into the Pacific.  We are headed north.  As far north as we can get.  When your backyard is as hot as the surface of the sun, the only thing to do is head north.  And as Caleb reminded me in southern Idaho, the earth turns slower the closer we get to the pole.  Just what I had in mind.  More time together, more savoring, elongate each gorgeous, precious moment, roll around in it.   I am determined to make the sun stand still.

I feel like I ought to say something about my long absence from blogging, rather than dumping you directly into our vacation.  My life seems pretty magical when the posts go from holiday to holiday, eh?  (Look, I'm already speaking Canadian!)  But now there is too much--too much to say, too much to remember--and the last few months have been like a wildfire, burning out large swaths of my memory and leaving only a few stubby highlights among the smoldering, smoking ruins.

There was school and work and church and lessons and school musicals and finals and an endless lineup of orchestra concerts. Though to say it in one sentence like that does nothing to convey the heat and terror of the firefight.  I also happened to throw an Indian-themed wedding for my youngest sister.  I didn't sleep during the entire month of May.  Mostly from searing and unrelenting fear.  My own mind can be a fearsome thing at three in the morning.  You will be surprised to learn that this made me mildly difficult to live with.  Despite my worries (and David's collateral suffering) it turned out lovely.  People who happened by slowed down and got out of their cars to crane their necks at all that love and beauty. 

And then finally, blessedly, the fire was out.  Summer was here and puzzles and games and movie marathons became the most pressing issues of every day.  And slowly, I have learned to sleep again. Ten minutes more every day.  Soon I will be downright slothful. 

Best of all, here we are in line to board the ferry to British Columbia.  We are headed out to sea, straight into the fog.  North, like I said.   Inside my head they are playing a rousing rendition of "O, Canada" and outside my head the earth is slowing down as it arcs along its orbit through space.

One slow, lazy, glorious turn at a time.

There's Nothing Wrong With Your Eyes

I have been decluttering. The drawers, the closets, the cupboards.

And finally, the blog.

Last and least. But finally, done.

When I went to clean it up, it was in a woeful state. Apparently, I had long-since stopped actually seeing it.

Over Christmas break, I drove Caleb down to the DMV to get his driving learner's permit. Before he took the written exam the woman at the counter said he needed to take the eye test. She had him press his forehead against the machine and then said, "Read the second line."

Caleb was quiet.

"Read the second line."

More silence. He looked up at me. Confused.

"Just read the line," I said, helpfully.

He put his head back in the machine and pulled it out again. "It's blurry," he mouthed at me.

I said, "Just read it." I am nothing if not helpful.

He started tentatively reading.

The woman looked at me. "Are you his mother?"

I nodded.

"Um, he can't see."

"Yes he can."

"No, ma'am. He's reading numbers and there aren't any numbers on the line."

He looked at me and shook his head. He couldn't see anything. Too bad. I had such high hopes for that "Mother Of The Year Award" in 2013.

And I asked myself, all the way home, all the way to the optomistrist, how I missed something like that. Blindness, I mean. What else was I missing?   It's staggering to consider.  When we got to the car, Caleb admitted that the board was blurry at school, but that he was "managing."

I protested, "But you don't have to 'manage.' Just tell us and we'll help you."

In the days and weeks since he got his glasses, Caleb has commented that his vision has "deteriorated." David asked him what he meant. He said that now when he takes his glasses off he can hardly see, everything is blurry. Um, exactly. That's how it has always been and he just didn't know that the world could be different than that.

Was blind, but now I see.

A Day in the Good Life

My Basis kids, Caleb and Savannah, have the whole week off.  Believe me, they've earned it.  They've done the work of an entire year in just nine weeks.  And then some.

My other two, trudged reluctantly back to school today, as I pumped them full of promises of a couple more days off at the end of the week.

Minus David, we all spent the day yesterday playing round after round of Bang! and eating the weekend leftovers.  This morning Caleb and Savannah slept blessedly late and then we played a few more hands and an opening match of Caleb's new game, Power Grid.  Then we went for a late lunch and a lazy trip through Barnes and Noble, mostly just to browse.  It was a near perfect way to spend the day, and I feel nothing but lucky to have them to myself for the week.  Believe me, I've earned it too.  As amazing as I am, chauffeuring and cheerleading and championing has worn me thin.  It is not to much to say that for the past month, the thought of this glorious week in my future has been the only thing getting me out of bed in the morning.

Tonight my three oldest have gone to the temple.  It's Savannah's first time inside.  When I was ironing Caleb's shirt, I overheard Olivia reassuring Savannah not to worry, that she would show her what to do.  And she will. David is on his way home from surgery committee.  He had a terrible day, but I will cheer him up because I could not have had a better day.  I even managed to wash and fold the laundry in between my turns on the game board.  I was fun and efficient.  A near impossible combination.

This morning as I was sorting laundry and doing dishes and picking up pens and highlighters and General Conference notes, I found a treasure: Ethan's careful summary of each talk.  Succinct little sentences of what he heard.  They were a revelation, sweet and tender and unaffected.  Then under the notes from President Eyring's talk, Ethan had written:

President Henry B. Eyring talked about the temple and how you can't see Jesus Christ inside the temple.

Which probably wasn't quite the message President Eyring wanted to convey.

I smiled.  And wondered if there were any talks that I had misinterpreted as well.  What a job those men have!

Speaking of difficult jobs, mine was a very good one to have on a day like today.

Across the River Now

Dear David,

Look at your children. Aren't they gorgeous?

I know I'm supposed to be in bed sleeping. There is a sixteen-hour drive ahead of us tomorrow, after all.

But I know if I don't write this down tonight, it will probably never happen. And sometimes there are days I never want to forget. Today was one of them.

I don't have time to retell everything. Let me just try to say the most important things.

I woke today, to the temple bells ringing, eight steady chimes.

I ironed Caleb's shirt and braided Olivia's hair. (It was so delicious I took my time and made it last.)

And then I took them to the house of the Lord.

They were shining when I picked them up.

We went to the brickyard and and the blacksmith and the print shop (my personal favorite). We ate ice cream and bought souvenirs.

In the evening, we sat under a cloudy dark sky and watched a cast of hundreds sing praises to our God and King. We all wept to be so blessed, and when they lit up the temple, Ethan looked at me knowingly and smiled. He knew it was coming all night.

Tomorrow we take our own trek west. Across the prairies, towards you, towards home. How I am dreaming of the reunion.

As I sat there tonight looking at that glorious temple on the hill, I thought about how that is the very word of all my beliefs and all my faith. Reunion. Reunion here and hereafter. Reunion with each other and with that God that gave us life. Reunion after all. Reunion at last.

We're coming home.

The World Can Wait

The last two days we traded the lazy days of summer for a little bit of industry.

We washed the sheets and beach towels and cleaned out the fridge.

We spent a good thirty minutes standing in front of the game cupboard, carefully picking out the best games for life at the beach.  (The selection committee takes their job seriously.)

Savannah made four kinds of cookies and bars.  They are sitting on the counter, ziplocked and waiting for their big adventure.

Ethan and I went on a Target run for sand toys and wheat thins and sunscreen.

Caleb found the boogie boards and the beach umbrella.  (Check that big box in the corner, son.  The one labelled "salvation.")

We packed light.  Swimsuits and jackets only.  Oh, and books.  A few bags of books and we'll tie the bicycles on the back. 

In a few weeks, we will be back to rising early and kissing goodbye.  We will be back to packing lunches and practicing spelling words and reading only what they're assigned.  Add to that the anticipated pain of looking around the bus stop and classroom and the lunchroom and not knowing a single soul...and I almost can't breathe.

With the calendar looming, David and I lay in the dark discussing our options.  We listed the pros (salvation) and cons (money).  We discussed directions (north, east, west) and locations (the beach or the mountains).  We tried to figure out how capable and brave I am (on my own) or am not (as the case may be).  In the end, the choice was easy.  My children need a few days of glee, a few days of freedom, a few days of salty air and icy waves, a few days of bliss, to store away and keep for the days that are coming.

And so, I am taking my children to the beach where I intend to make the most of these summer days of mothering, when they are mine, and the world and its sorrows are very, very, very far away. 

Something Like Romance

Are you tired of stories about interviews and plane flights and having faith?  Sigh.  Me too.  Believe me, it is even more tiresome to be living them.  (This morning David said, "How do you feel about Waco, Texas?"  Um, yeah, not exactly top on my list.)  This morning then, how about a story of romance?  Don't worry.  There is little or no necking involved.

On Saturday night, Caleb went to Teen Elect.  He dressed in his new suit and his dad's hand-me-down tie, put gel in his hair and let me comb the back down.  I could smell cologne and toothpaste.

Teen Elect is where you learn about manners and dancing and how to make conversation with someone of the opposite sex.  Olivia has been looking forward to it for two years now.

When I dropped Caleb off, he said, "Aren't you going to come in with me?"  I wasn't.  But I parked and led him inside.  He got his nametag, he found out where to go, he gave me a side-shuffling hug, and disappeared into the unknown.

I picked him up three hours later.

"Did you have fun?  How was it?"

"It was interesting."

"How was the dance?"

"Interesting."

"How were the classes?"

"Interesting.  Kind of boring."

"What did they talk about?"

"Wearing deodorant and always having a mint."

"Did you have fun?"

"I'm not sure.  It was interesting.  And awkward.  Very awkward."

Olivia and Savannah were waiting on the couch for us when we got home.  Waiting with bated breath.  They have been waiting for weeks, truth be told.  They were ready for a story of romance, a story of love and lust, of fancy ballrooms and meaningful looks.

"Soooooo, how was it?" 

"Interesting."

"Tell us everything!  Did you dance?" 

"Of course.  They made us."

"Who did you dance with?"

"Lots of people.  We had to."

"Were the girls cute?"

"I don't know."

"What were they wearing?" 

"I don't know."

"What color were their eyes?"

"Oh, come on, Olivia."

And then Olivia sighed hugely, "Oh, it sounds sooo romantic."

I looked at her.  Romantic?  The way Caleb tells it, it was just this side of painful.

And then she said, "I can't wait for teen elect.  My favorite part is the hip part."

I asked, "What's the hip part?"

"You know, the part when the boy puts his hand on your hip." 

Heaven help us.

The next day we pried a few more details from him.  I asked him if he talked to the girls while he was dancing.

"Of course," he said. "They taught us that."

"What did you talk about?"

"I asked them their favorite color."

"O...kay.  Anything else?"

"One girl asked me what school I go to and I said 'Stapley'."

"But you don't go to Stapley."

"I know, but it seemed easier.  But then she said, 'I go to Stapley.  Why haven't I ever seen you?' and I was like 'Umm, yeah, I lied about that.'"

Olivia gasped, "And then did she slap you?  Oh that sounds soooo romantic."