I'm Still Siskel:

Or Rather, What Is It With Chick Flicks Getting Serious and Trying to Take on the Big Issues of Life, Particularly Death?

So, I credit myself with some brains, when I rented PS I Love You I figured it would be sad and I would cry and need something to make me laugh. Last night, after blogging about the whole debacle, I put in my second movie: No Reservations. Can I just say that I am 0 for 2?

This movie is about an uptight chef whose sister dies on the way to see her (see, again with the death thing) and leaves her custody of her niece. Add in a male sous chef who rubs her the wrong way initially but is magic with her despondent niece and you have the movie. The ending was quite cute but it took me a not so enjoyable hour and a half to get there. Please. Not even a Jeffrey Dean Morgan backside to anesthetize me.

Can I just say, "What is up with the movie industry?" Why are they messing with the chick flick genre? First came the round of "independent woman" chick flicks where the girl doesn't even have the guy at the end of the film. Now we are into romantic dramas as opposed to romantic comedies. Seriously? If I wanted romantic drama, I would talk to my husband. If I wanted to deal with the impact of death, I would talk to God and my therapist. I. want. to. laugh. Period. That's the whole point of seeking out a chick flick for me. I don't want to get in touch with my sensitive emotional side. NEWS FLASH - I ALREADY AM!!!!! I'M A CHICK!!

I do want to get in touch with the softer, sweeter side of life. I want fireworks when they kiss and witty dialogue that makes me laugh and wish that I could ever remember to talk like that in the conversations of my life. I want dancing and laughter. I want pratfalls. I want the insanity and passion of new romance. In my opinion, there hasn't been a good chick flick, an oh-my-gravy-I-have-to-own-this movie, since, well hmmmm....the most recent chick flick I purchased was Stranger Than Fiction but that one's slightly odd and I'm not sure it qualifies as a chick flick. (Of course, my husband would assure me that it definitely does.) Wimbledon was fabulous. I think those are the most recent. Everything else gets a "Seriously?!?!" or "Ehh." I don't buy movies, for me anyway, that are "Ehh."

The Great Debaters is up next. And no, I'm not expecting a chick flick. But I do have high hopes for Denzel who is uber fabulous!

My Attempt to Be Siskel

I thought I'd pick the dead one as it seemed appropriate; I just finished watching PS I Love You. Seriously, what was I thinking? Why do I do this to myself? Hmmm...the boys are at the Father/Son campout, Lulu's sleeping, I think I'll pick out a movie....Wow, a movie about a married couple and the husband dies and then arranges to have all these letters and such to be sent to his widow post-mortem....How can that not be a hit?

The movie had moments; very sweet moments. A nice shot of Jeffrey Dean Morgan's (aka, Denny Duquette from Grey's Anatomy) naked backside (the whole thing, head to heel) wasn't bad either; Rrrrrrrr. But how could a movie get any sadder? It was like watching Love Story; they totally set you up at the beginning for water works and from some sort of sick female fascination, we watch anyway, expecting...what?! Answers to the great mysteries of love, life and death? I was hoping that she would move on past her husband and there was a hint of that in the end but in all the movie was mostly about her grief and learning to move on. So not a movie I needed to watch.

Oh, and the karaoke bit from the previews? Where she falls off the stage? Damn funny - but it even ends up sad. She actually breaks her nose and breaks/sprains her ankle and that scene took place while her hubby was still living. The karaoke number she sings (in the letter he calls her Disco Queen - yeah, right) after his death is this sad maudlin little "I'll love you till the end" number. I know, I understand why she sings it, but I would have loved a "spit in death's eye, I'm going to be happy and party damnit even if I need a shot of whiskey first" kind of moment.

I also have to say, as someone whose therapist says she has a Cinderella complex (my mom loved fairy tales and I love romance, you do the math) that this movie sets up men for even harder to meet standards. How many men are going to approach their impending death (he dies of a tumor) by planning a set future for their widow? No. one. My husband won't and yet now, when he dies, I'll be cursing him for not. Oh the humanity!!

I'm writing all of this to try and interject some humor into an overall sad and melancholy film and to stop myself from weeping. Seriously, if these water works keep up much longer, I'm going to the hospital to get hydrated.

Final critique: see this only if you want a look at Mr. Morgan's super fine backside; otherwise, invest your dollars elsewhere.

Oh, and I so had to add this photo because, seriously, (yes, I know I use that word far, far too much) he is smokin'! And a little eye candy always makes my day. :)
See? I'm smiling already.

So BiV...

really, I'm just seeing if you're reading...and I need another web lesson. How do I have a feed list like you do on your blog? That said, how do I get my blog to feed properly on your blog? Your husband gave me some suggestions - none of which worked. Do I just have a broken blog? Sniff. I'm trying to stick my neck out further and further and I'm getting frustrated that this blog is not cooperating with that effort.

My Son, the Writer

Rhys has been involved in a writing class at school. I think he's become a bit consumed with the idea of writing as his 2nd grade teacher said it was an area in which he didn't excel. I wondered though, as I was typing up his story (which follows), how much of it is heavily influenced by what he reads. Lord Spar, for instance, comes from The Secrets of Droon series. I haven't read Eragon or Eldest but I have a feeling that there is a bit of both in the story.

I was pleased to see though that the hero and the heroine were ultimately saved by the heroine's magic power and not by the hero's might. Good to see that I am sneakily indoctrinating my son with "woman power." And I was pleased to see Rhys write his first story, by himself, beginning, middle and end. And yes, I'm totally bragging about my son. Sign of a good mom?

Oh, by the way, I was totally corrected by my son: the wolf knight is an actual wolf; the fox princess is an actual fox. I guess I need to work on properly channeling the mind of a 9-year-old.

The Wolf Knight by Rhys

Once upon a time there was a fox princess who lived in a castle. One night she was kidnapped by Lord Spar. He is an evil sorcerer. The next day, a brave knight said, "I will save her." His name is Yartha the Wolf Knight. So he set off on his quest.

The wise man said, "To get to Spar's fortress, you have to go through the Death Valley of Bloodville, over the Sea of Sickness, through the Cave of Dragons and into a volcano. You will see Spar in his Volcano Palace." "Thank you," said the Wolf Knight. So off he went.

Bloodville is full of dead people and monsters. "Must have been a battle," he thought. But just then, the ground started shaking and ghosts rose from the ground. "Ah, man! Just when it was getting good," he said. He pulled out his sword to fight the ghosts, then he remembered ghosts are invincible. He tried out running them. He ran faster and faster till he ran into the Sea of Sickness! Then he saw a boat.

"I must use the boat to cross the Sea of Sickness," he said. So he jumped in the boat and rowed away. Then he fell sea sick. "Oh...oh," he moaned. Then he saw the volcano! "The volcano!" he cried.

He jumped to shore. He ran to the volcano. Then he hit something. "UF," he said. Right in front of him was Lord Spar! Spar laughed his evil laugh. Then the Wolf Knight lunged at Spar; right then and there a battle began.

The Wolf Knight lunged at Spar. Spar shot red sparks at the Wolf Knight but he blocked them with his shield. Spar shot again. This time he hit Yartha and knocked him out. Spar threw Yartha in the Cave of Dragons.

When Yartha awoke, he was surrounded by dragons and flames. "The cave of dragons," he thought. Just then the dragons awoke and roared. "Oops," he said, "I better go now." The dragons blocked the exits. "Ah, man," He said. "I have to battle them," he thought. Then he slayed every dragon with an attack called earthwhack, which is when you stab the earth with your sword and the earth splits, killing everything in its path.

Yartha ran to the volcano. "Naray Saerdy," Yartha said. Then he turned invisible. "Now I can go in the volcano without being seen." But he did not know that Spar could see through invisibility. "I see you," said Spar. "Crasnocks!" said Yartha and he was not invisible. "OK Spar - one on one. No magic, just a sword and shield, "Yartha said. "No, not right hear. In the volcano," said Spar. "OK in the volcano," said Yartha. "Race you to the volcano," said Spar. So they raced to the volcano.

Spar and Yartha raced to the volcano. When they got there, Spar lead Yartha to a huge arena where they would battle. There, on the wall, was the fox princess. "Princess!" yelled Yartha. "No Yartha! Get back! It's a trap," she said. She was right.

Later, as Yartha was inches away from the princess, he got trapped right next to her. "I do not have enough magic to save us," Yartha whispered to the princess. "Maybe I have enough," she said. "But how?" asked Yartha. "I always have a full supply of magic," said the princess. And so she freed them.

"My Name is Amey," said the princess. "OK Amey, let's go. The volcano is going to blow!"

"OK let's go! The lava is going to fill the place!" yelled Yartha. So they ran out. "We need an escape plan," said Amey. "OK," Yartha said. "I have a knapsack of paper." "Great," said Amey. So they drew a way out.

This is what it looked like....So they ran out the door and went home.

THE END

I'm a Big Baby

My mom used to say that having children was like having your heart walk around outside of your chest. I totally agree. Today that heart got up and put on roller skates for the first time.

Quinn was invited to a birthday party at a local skating rink. This place is straight out of the '70's and I was slightly afraid for him to put on the skates - and I normally don't care about such things so that's saying a lot. Everything, even the benches at the picnic table in the birthday room, was carpeted. You stop and think about all the sweat all that carpet has absorbed and held onto over the years and eewwww...pretty sure it hasn't been cleaned lately. But it's a skating rink and, well, I think it's the only one around. So here we were not thinking about hygiene.

Quinn put on his skates (rather, I put them on him) and he did pretty well from the start (didn't fall down too much on the carpeted area) and he had a couple of friends whom I had met before. I thought everything was fine.

Then the birthday girl and a bunch more kids showed up. Quinn would say hello and some of these kids would basically ignore him. Remember Isabelle? Little miss pass out her phone number to random boys whom she's only known for the last three years, not even half her life? Yeah, she barely acknowledged him and that was after several, "Isabelle!"s. Grrr...my mama bear came out and I wanted to start swatting these upstarts. And my heart (no idea about Quinn's - it's hard to know sometimes what effects him and what doesn't) was feeling slightly bruised; how dare these kids not suck up to Quinn, being the fabulous kid that he is!!

Then Quinn gets brave and goes out into the rink. People are whizzing by and he's skating, falling and frantically clutching the side but he goes. I was so pleased, so amazed by this brave little wonder. Finally, enough people had shown up for the party, birthday girl's mother was in charge and I asked Quinn if I should go. He booted me to the curb. I was hoping he would because I was having such a hard time. I couldn't watch my little bird try to fly. Kid you not, I was tearing up as I left. "Will they be nice to him? Will he have a fun time? What if all the kids ignore him? What if he keeps falling down and really hurts himself? What if he gets frustrated that he can't skate and throws a fit?" (Quinn's tendency when frustrated over learning something new.) My biggest concern though was those kids and if they would exclude him or hurt his feelings. I just wanted him to be so happy and have the best party and I just wasn't sure and he was making me leave and ooooh, I just wanted to cry.

I napped in the parking lot in my van.

I felt a bit better.

Although I have decided that when my children go to college or any such post HS adventure, they need to be far, far away from me. I can't take the anxiety and roller coaster emotions of watching them move to the next phase. I just want so much for everything to be golden for him. I struggle to see the moments when everything is less than I wish. I know that he will have heartbreaks, but I have a hard time watching them and I can't imagine that that will ever get any easier.

And I have to admit, there's something about Quinn. He's the middle of three (as was I). He and I have sparked off each other since he was 10 months old. No. I'm not kidding. And he seems to struggle. A lot. In so many areas of his life. He seems to be one of those "learn the hard way" kind of kids. There's also the fact that I felt, when preggo with him, that this child was more delicate, like something bad was going to happen. I didn't feel that with the other two. So while I know he's better off than so many children (no heart surgeries or chemo or any of that) my heart still aches.

*sigh*

I think I'm just going back to bed.

It Has Begun...

Yesterday Quinn came home from school excited but on stealth mode. He wanted to call a friend. "Sure," I said. He whips an index card with 7 digits on it from his school folder. Then tells me, with a sheepish look on his face, "Mom, you remember Isabelle from pre-school?" "Yes." "She gave me her number and said I could call her. Can I?"

My little Romeo. 7-years-old and he's already picking up the ladies numbers. *Sigh* I knew this will come, but now?! Happily, when he tried to call she wasn't home. And really, the conversation would have been (Quinn's side anyway):

"Hi Isabelle."

"Whatcha doin'?"

"Mmmmm...(giggle) Ok."

"I just got home from school."

"Umm...I'll talk to you later."

Hang up. Big. Grin.

Tagged! Again!! Wheee!!!

BiV tagged me. Yea! I love feeling like I belong. Unfortunately, this tag does not so readily adapt itself to me. The last one filled me with thoughts - in fact, I still look at the 5th sentence of every book I read on the 123rd page but have yet to find a quote that I love. The new tag ( notice how this time I'm directly quoting from the tagger's blog?):

The "This is Just to Say" Meme takes its inspiration from Kacy's post at Light Refreshments Served blog. Read it! She has written some hysterical spoofs of the William Carlos Williams poem, This is Just to Say. Do you remember it from high school?

This is Just to Say
I have eaten the plums
that were in the icebox
and which
you were probably saving
for breakfast
Forgive me
They were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

Am I the only one who doesn't remember this from high school? We never read this guy. Sylvia Plath sure but why should we read anything fun? So I've been thinking, what can I just say that doesn't reiterate the ones I read and thereby tainted my whole thought process. (Although I loved BiV's - mwahahaha - and you really should check out Kacy's - too, too funny.)

So, hmmmm....

This is Just to Say
That I'm totally going to book club
even though the kids are still awake
and being rebellious
and whiny
and you have to get them bathed,
brushed and watered,
and into bed,
while I pretend to chatter about books,
but really share funny incidents,
eat pie and hang out with friends.
So. Fun.


Did I do that right? Is there a particular form to this poem? Like a haiku or a limerick? Am I overthinking all of this because I've been blogging too much this morning?

This is Just to Say
That I can't get you breakfast
or help you with your homework
and that I'm sorry
for duct taping you to your bed
because I stayed up too late
playing games
and I really just want to sleep.
Forgive me.
But my bed's so soft
and your voice so piercing.
and...zzzzz.....


This is Just to Say
that I am spending all my time
playing at the computer,
and eating the last of the ice cream
while you are working hard
to give me a paycheck
that I will have already spent
Forgive me.
It was all so delicious
so sweet
and so cold.

Now the fun part: I tag....Laura, Alexa, Carrie, Shelby, Maryann and Liz and Mia (but only if they want to). Oh! And Jill! How could I forget my hilarious emailing friend? And anyone else. If you don't have a blog, just leave one in the comments.

Oh, and BiV, supreme goddess of HTML, how do you leave a link in the comment section?! I've tried but to no avail.

Gay Marriage

I'm not sure how to write this and so I think I will just go with the "blurt now, ask forgiveness/understanding later." This is one of those articles that would probably be easier to write if my local community wasn't reading.

I am troubled over this whole gay marriage debate. I have been pondering this for the last few years since Oregon had their own vote over the matter. Gay marriage was voted down by the people (57% were opposed) and I was one of them. In the weeks and days before the election I talked with friends. Some had no understanding why I was even in turmoil over the issue; homosexuality is an abomination and it is up to us to keep it from being practiced or, at least, state sanctioned. My husband couldn't and still doesn't understand why I go back and forth on the issue despite having a number of gay friends while working on the cruise ships. He sees things very black and white and we tend to clash over this, not only on gay marriage but in other areas as well, because I see things in so many nuanced shades of gray. The final straw for me in the vote was when one friend brought up to me the fact that if gay marriage were legalized, then it would be state sanctioned. Then it wouldn't be too much longer before homosexuality was more fully taught in our schools. I decided I needed to move to protect my children.

If the vote came up today, I would vote differently; I would support gay marriage. I still need to protect my children and to help mold their vision, but part of that vision is compassion and understanding that not everyone believes the way we do or lives the way we do and yet they are still wonderful people whom we need to love and respect. We have gone over this many times while grocery shopping. My children used to walk down the coffee aisle, "Mmmmm...coffee so good," or drink coffee in their kitchen play. I had to tell them time and time again that we believe that God has asked us not to drink coffee. "Well, Grandma and Grandpa drink coffee." And off we would go discussing that our beliefs are not theirs and that we love them, respect them and allow them their right to choose while retaining that same right for ourselves. Doesn't the same issue apply here?

Additionally, reading John's blog has shaped my opinion, particularly this post. I think so often we, LDS and other Christians, focus on homosexuality as a sexual thing. We think that they are sexual deviants engaging in all manner of horrible things. To be sure there is promiscuity amongst the group, just as there is amongst heteros, but it doesn't change that these are real people with thoughts and feelings and love, strong love, for their partners. One of the most compelling arguments for me, for gay marriage, is the idea that without the civil rights of marriage, a man/woman can not see his/her partner in the ICU because they aren't family. Can you imagine loving someone for years, working through the hard times and celebrating through the great times and just seeing them day in, day out through the routine of life and then being denied those precious moments when said loved one's life hung in the balance? How horrific. There are many other rights like those that we who live in heterosexual marriages take for granted. How can we deny gays these rights and at the same time say that we uphold a government which is said to,

"hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness."

Our country is supposed to give all men and women and equal opportunity for these "self-evident" rights. Are we truly going to say that some people can only pursue happiness if they do it according to our rules? I suppose some could argue that Jeffrey Dahmer may have had a right to pursue his happiness but we didn't let him. Seriously, though, is that even a fair argument? Gays are not necessarily pedophiles or rapists. Insofar as they are adults who are making a choice to live their lives, not hurting others around them, can we really deny them their opportunity for life, liberty and happiness?

As Christians, I feel we are even further required to support them. A few weeks ago I was listening to the sacrament prayers.

"O God, the Eternal Father, we ask thee in the name of thy Son, Jesus Christ, to bless and sanctify this bread to the souls of all those who partake of it; that they may eat in remembrance of the body of thy Son, and witness unto thee, O God, the Eternal Father, that they are willing to take upon them the name of thy Son, and always remember him, and keep his commandments which he hath given them, that they may always have his Spirit to be with them. Amen."

In particular, I was struck by our promises to always remember Him and to keep His commandments. I thought, "What are His commandments?" My next thought,

"A new commandment I give unto you, That ye love one another; as I have loved you, that ye also love one another." (John 13:34)

The old commandment, given in the Old Testament, was to love others as ourselves. Jesus changes this to love others as He loves them. How does He love them? Fully, completely with marvelous mercy and compassion. He came not to condemn anyone but that all through Him might be saved. We are not to condemn our brethren either, but to love them fully, completely with mercy and compassion.

I have many sins, not the least of which is a propensity for judging others and pride. Oh golly, but I have so much pride. I fully expect still to have many sins when I die. I just pray that I have lived and endured with a heart for Jesus, that all my sins will be on Him and thus paid. How can I expect that He would not extend the same offering to my brothers and sisters regardless of their sexual orientation? It is not whether we are gay or straight that determines our hereafter, it is our relationship with and our willingness to turn to Jesus and do what He has asked of us. You may argue that Jesus asks us to give up homosexuality. Well, I'm pretty sure Jesus doesn't want me to be the glutton I am or for me to have so much pride, but He accepts that this is not an easily surrendered sin for me and He works with me. And I remember,

"For whosoever shall keep the whole law, and yet offend in one point, he is guilty of all." James 2:10

Not meaning that forgetting to pray is the same as murder, but that any sin keeps us from home. How then can I, who am full of sin, expect salvation for myself and yet set my limitations on a gift that is not mine to give? This is Jesus' gift and He will give it to all who will accept. I have no say on who can or cannot accept the gift, I just need to welcome them and love them as He would.

Sure, part of me still wonders about the whole mess, despite all my above arguments - if this is an abomination unto God, should I be supporting it? At all? Where do my religious beliefs end and the rights of all of us, disunited in Faith, begin? How do I separate my church from my state? There are many remaining questions but I'm trying to err on the side of compassion and pray that God forgives me any missteps.

And if this was poorly expressed, again, forgive me mine inadequacies.

The Real Reason I Didn't Post...

...is because I was up all night playing Zoo Tycoon. One night, until after 3am. Seriously. Robert bought me the game for Mother's Day and I *love* it. You get to make a zoo with all these different animals and you have to design their exhibits just right to keep them happy. You have to set up concessions and entertainments for the visitors to make them happy. You have to have employees and you have to keep your zoo running in the black. Whew! It's exhausting.

I also, after searching for helps online, have discovered a few cheats. My favorite is that by renaming an exhibit certain names you can buy triceratops or unicorns for you zoo. Very cool. Oh and if I put a lion and a tiger and a bear (oh my!) in the same exhibit, I get...yup, yellow bricks to make a walking path.

Too much fun. Apparently, at least last week, more fun than blogging.

What A Morning!

And it's only 7:18am. I didn't get out of bed until 7:10am. But already...

Rhys threw Jenny at Quinn resulting in Quinn being scratched in the middle of his forehead, underneath his eye and in front of his left ear; if it had been a knife, he would be down one ear. I asked Rhys, "Why? What were you thinking?" "I just thought it would be fun." He even laughed when I told him that Jenny was not a ball. But I think I finally got to him about the seriousness of his infraction. Now he's concerned that Quinn won't forgive him. So, I hauled Quinn in and we talked about forgiveness and I left Quinn to ponder because really, I can't force him to forgive, no matter how much I want to. *sigh* Drama, drama, drama. Why are siblings a good thing?

But, on the happy upside, (and yes, I realize that's redundant), Robert actually said to me, at 7:12am, "Hey Baby..." Hey baby! Woo woo!! You have to understand that Robert and I don't talk in the morning. I make sure he's up at 7:45am so he can get to work by 8am and then I stay out of his way, maybe grab him a Mountain Dew or Diet Pepsi if needed but I move fast and try to be invisible. He'll talk to me later when he's feeling more civil. But this morning, he said, "Hey Baby," in a completely happy tone. Like he was okay being awake.

So, it's been an amazing morning in all of 8 minutes.

Salvatore Is Published

Do you ever have days where you feel the dark side is winning in your life? Where you feel as if you are channeling Darth Vader more than Anakin? Today I felt like the bad guy on Fifth Element, sorry about all the sci-fi references, toward the end when the big bad being is hurling closer through space and...what's his name...ah, Jean-Baptiste Emanuel Zorg...and he begins to get nervous that this big bad being is really bigger and badder than he, Mr. Zorg, is, and he, Mr. Zorg, begins to ooze this bizarre black gunk (blood? sweat?). I feel like that. I feel like I am just oozing blackness.

The voices in my head (ahem...self-talk) have started up again. You know the "you suck," "you're a failure," "you're a lousy mom," kind-of voices. On top of which, I discovered that Salvatore Scibona has written a novel. And had it published. And has received acclamations from Esquire. And Annie Dillard, one of his literary loves.

Why should I care? Well, you have to know Mr. Scibona. Salvatore was a dorm-mate my freshman year of college; he was also in my "core group," which meant that he was in every single one of my classes. Every. single. one. We got along okay but we also clashed. At one point I took our initials and put them together: Salvatore and Maraiya = S&M = a bit scary and not so good. Scibona and Lxyxn = S&L = anyone remember the savings and loan disasters of the 80's? This should have been a clear foreshadowing. He became in some ways my arch-rival, if you could say that we even cared that much. We just rubbed each other the wrong way, so much so that when we unexpectedly ran into each one day we both were startled and physically *jumped back.* Seriously, I've never had such a visceral reaction to somebody (ok, maybe Charlie C. but that's another story.) By the time we graduated, we had found a way of functioning positively, maybe even been a bit of friends. But still, when I think of Mr. Scibona, I think, "Grrr." And now, he's not only earned a Fulbright (I got over that last year - at least I thought I did) but has just been published. In hardback. You can buy it on Amazon. And Barnes and Noble. And Powell's. *sigh*

I've been trying hard to redefine my idea of success. I've been married for 10.5 years and we still like each other. No one has died or even been maimed. And while there may be a few scars on our respective hearts, we still plan on being married for...ever. I have three lovely children who seem to be growing up into good adults, in spite of me, and who seem to be fairly happy and well-adjusted. Isn't this success? I have weathered the death of my mother and have begun to set boundaries and discover new ways to have successful relationships. I am working on my faith. I'm a good person damnit! But then I see someone, someone who challenged me and frustrated me and made me...argh!!...succeed so magnificently where I have completely failed and it just gets me.

I know, I know. I should be so happy for his success. I should be so pleased that he has been able to accomplish some of his dreams. But I'm terribly jealous and wondering, "Really, what have I done? What have I done?"

I return to our Sunday School lesson last Sunday in which we discussed the latter half of King Benjamin's talk. I love King Benjamin. I love his talk. He says such beautiful things and he says them so eloquently. We talked a lot about our need to remember the goodness of God and His greatness and mercy and, in contrast, our own nothingness. The teacher warned us that this was crucial because every time the Nephites began to think they were "somebody," they fell into pride and disbelief and well, it always went downhill fast after that.

I struggle with this. I want to be somebody. I want to single handedly save the world, sing an aria so beautiful it would make you weep. I want every one to say, "Look at her! She's amazing!! Did you know I used to go to school/work with her?" Just something so they can find some sort of connection to me. And I want it to be for something BIG, not just for acting in a movie. Instead, I am small. I am a mom in a small town raising a small family. I'm inconsequential. I am the tiniest capillary underneath the bed of your pinkie toe. And while I agree strongly that every part of the body is crucial to functioning, do we really need that one small capillary in our pinkie toes?

See, this is my struggle. I know, I even said it in class, that nothingness is not worthlessness. I have great worth. I am the best damned pinkie capillary ever! E.V.E.R. God loves me just because. But I have such a hard time accepting the nothingness and rejecting the worthlessness. I have a hard time feeling the love without the acclaim.

I don't feel like I'm getting anywhere in life. I feel like I just keep spinning in circles over and over and over and over. I'm a car stuck on a muddy back road and the harder I spin, the worse I'm stuck. See, I just keep oozing this toxicness all over until it infests every part of me.

Tonight I went to our first RS book club meeting where we discussed The Peacegiver. Easy read, brilliant book. James Ferrell talks about the atonement from several different vantage points. On the one hand this book lifted me up. On the other, it discourages me. I believe strongly that Jesus is my Savior and that He is the one who can clean up all this black tar and make me whole; make me really successful and at peace. On the other hand, how the hell do I do that? Again, the harder I try, the harder I get stuck.

Grrr...I'm just feeling lost and frustrated and ooh, yes, I would like some cheese with my whine.

I want my mommy. (Because it just had to be said)

Lulu's Catch of the Day

Monday we put in the garden. As I was helping (read: sitting on the sidelines, soaking up sun and occasionally grabbing a plant or two for my DH), my daughter ran up to me.

"Mom! MOM! I found a snail!!"

She proudly thrust out her small hand to show me her latest catch.


"Wow!" I said with all the pleasure in her find that I could muster, " That's great! And where do snails belong?"

"In the street!" She then made sure to take off his shell and explore first but left him to die in the street.

Sniff. Wipe tear from my eye. I am so damn proud!

*Once again, faces have been changed to protect the innocent, so no, this is not my Lulu. Just a random girl with a snail courtesy of some less paranoid parent.

Excuses, Excuses...

I had planned on posting today. I had planned on posting yesterday. In fact, I've planned on posting every day for the last week. Clearly, I haven't. Today, I have a very good excuse: a deadly stomach bug has declared war on my entire household and I believe it is winning. I haven't actually vomited myself (a small victory on my part) but every other member of my household has. Also, more silver linings amongst all these clouds (although really, after 100+ degrees last weekend the clouds themselves are silver linings!), I have found two new lovers:

So far we've spent the day together and I'm already imagining many more hours of lying in each other's embraces. *sigh* Whoever would have thought I'd have a menage a trois?

Me the Mouse

It occurs to me (okay, people directly asking me the question helped) that most of the people reading have NO IDEA why I would choose to associate myself with a mouse. Mice are icky and nasty in the wild and, having cleaned up my fair share of droppings, no fun when they decide your home makes a lovely nest for them.

For some reason, my nickname is Mouse. The story goes (I'm a bit vague on the details as I was 2.5) that my paternal grandmother took to calling my Mynah Bird because I would constantly walk around with my mouth open - little did she know that I was just subtly begging for chocolate. My dad didn't like Mynah Bird so he started calling me Mouse - not quite sure how that's an upgrade - and it stuck. My older brother knows me only as Mouse, to the point that when he called me (once in four years) at college my freshman year (we had one phone per floor - approx 7/8 students per floor) he asked for Mouse. My dormmate said he had no idea who that was and it took my brother a minute or so to come up with my given name. Seriously? Yes. *sigh* I'm that loved.

I begged and begged and begged and, well you get the picture to have a pet mouse as a child. For some reason my little brother got one and since he had one, well, it was my ace in the hole. So I got one and despite my parents best efforts to avoid such a predicament, we had a boy and a girl and they had babies but we forgot to remove the dad and he ate the babies and it was all very tragic. No. more. pet. mice.

Mickey Mouse used to be my favorite entity on earth (I even knew his birthday - Nov 19th I believe) and I, of course, collected mice. I still collect them but with far less fervor than I did as a teenager. (Then again, I do most things with far less fervor than I did as a teenager.) At last count at had about 50+ figurines which are all lovingly tucked away so my children don't break them and I can still love my children and, the real reason, I don't have to dust them.

I used to sign my letters with a stylized drawing of a mouse. Hmmmm....hard to think of much else but mice have certainly dominated my life. So, when I started to name my blog I picked up my most comforting name (Mouse) and made a home (nest). Et, voila! Here I am.

I know. You were hoping it would be more exciting than that; that perhaps I had fallen in love with the tiniest of all mice and that he had, after many escapades, hatched a brilliant plan to save me from the clutches of a misguided girl and an evil rat....but no, my life is much more boring. Thank. Goodness.

What Do You Care What Other People Think?

I read Surely You're Joking Mr. Feynman while I was in college, shortly before/after the movie Infinity (about his life and quite good marriage) was released. (Shockingly, the movie wasn't as good as the book!) I found it highly entertaining and was surprised by the level of humor; physicists, as a whole, don't make me laugh. Einstein has surprising insights and makes me say, "Ooh," on any number of occasions but I don't think I've ever actually laughed at any of his statements.

The point, the point, what's the point you ask? Mrs. Feynman would say, in the movie quite a lot, "What do you care what other people think?" whenever Mr. Feynman would complain about the opinions of others. I have thought about this phrase a great deal; Robert says I care far too much about what other people think. This is at the fore currently because my blog has been "discovered."

When I first started this blog, it was at the request of Alexa. She had started a blog and invited me to read. It was lovely to know what was going on in her life and her insights into life in general; she is an excellent writer. She, then, suggested that I start a blog of my own so she could stay updated on my life. So, I did. In the beginning, it was just me and Alexa. To say I was timorous would be an understatement and I have certainly vacillated over the last few months between boldness and wanting, fervently, to press the "delete this whole blog" button.

But...I love to read what I write. A narcissist I may be but I'm owning it. I will look at my blog several times a day, reread posts that I have written and sometimes just gaze at what I have created (unlike chores which have to be repeated daily). Part of being a narcissist is that I need others to agree with me and praise me; I want others to stroke my ego and tell me that I am a brilliant, funny, wonderful writer. (Please, if you're laughing out loud at that, don't share in the comments and burst my bubble.) So, I started branching out. I sent my blog address to some friends - none of whom lived nearby, most of whom didn't even bother to read. Then I started commenting on random blogs that impressed me and I, shocked me all to hell the first time I did, got a few comments from other people.

Now, however, I've really come out of the closet and handed out my address to several friends in my local community. Part of me is so excited to be reading their blogs and having them read and comment on my blog - it's nice to share things other than, "Hey, my daughter threw up on me last night." Part of me is terrified. It's easy not to care what Suburban Correspondent thinks as she lives on the east coast and I don't even know her name (really, I know parents can be cruel but Suburban seems like a particularly mean first name). It's harder not to care what Shelby, Maryann, Monica, Carrie, Lacey and Gina think about me. It's harder not to worry if I offend or if someone will become concerned by some of my more liberal views. It's just harder to invite my own back yard into my heart as the possibility of rejection or hurt becomes much more real. I read recently that a turtle only moves when it sticks it's neck out; this, my friends, is why I'm a mouse.

So, (deep breath), I'm posting anyway and I want to be just as brave and bold on my life thoughts as I am on my daughter vomiting thoughts even though my town is reading, not just the world. Good luck to me.

God's Sense of Humor

So, yesterday was a fabulous Mother's Day; probably the best one I've had since I officially became a mother. The evening ended with Robert sleeping early, the kids going to bed on time and I got to blog and catch up on some TV shows online. I chatted with Mia and stayed up until about 1:30am. I had a great time. Then God reminded me what I shouldn't be so self-indulgent.

Lulu woke up at midnight saying her legs hurt. I gave her some medicine, cuddled her and sent her back to bed. She woke up at 3am(?) saying her ear hurt. By now I'm tired and just want sleep, not to mention pain moving from body parts and I'm not sure if I should take her seriously plus she's already had medication. So I haul her into bed with me. She didn't sleep. Not one. single. wink. I know because I didn't either.

Finally, I gave in. I let her suck down some ibuprofen and sent her to bed. She's still sleeping but my *&T%@&$ inner alarm clock has me up. Didn't I already post once this month about the dangers of blogging on very little sleep? I guess I don't learn as quickly as I thought I did.

My Apologies...

Well, I posted happy posts for several days in a row but of late (why do I feel like I right this pretty much every other day?!) I haven't been feeling happy and I've been struggling with posting as I haven't wanted to be too much of a downer or maudlin. Argh, sometimes I just wait for one of you to whip out a violin and play along with my sob stories.

I think my period is coming. I know, cliche. But, it happens to be true. The week before (sometimes two weeks before) my cycle, I begin to get very emotional and crave chips and chocolate like nobody's business. And, well, I've been weepy. Thursday night I cried until both nostrils were so plugged that when I tried to breathe it was like trying to suck a good milkshake through a skinny straw; nothing was moving. Which is unfortunate as it's allergy season and my good breathing days are numbered.

Today,however, was a good day. Robert, after our marathon shopping trip yesterday, went out at 9pm and bought me some computer games. (Yea! And you thought all I did was blog and read other people's blogs....) Today Rob and the chitlins (yes, I know what that means) brought me their cards and presents along with hot cocoa topped with whipped cream. Yum. I love Mother's Day! Then we had brunch with Rob's family - many moments of we women saying, "You can't do that. I don't want you to and it's Mother's Day." It was as if a fairy stood over our shoulder and said, "Zing! Wish granted!" *Loved* it!

I got cookies at church. As per usual, each mother got a gift (cookies, not flowers this year) and as per usual, they had way more than needed. (Seriously, do the powers that be think that Mother's Day/Father's Day is to the LDS congregation what Easter/Christmas is to another Christian congregation? They always plan for oodles more people than ever end up attending!) So, since the young women were passing them out, I simply accosted them for more; I came home with 7 cookies (not including the one I ate at church). Plus, in Primary, my kids made me coupon books (Lulu's aren't really written in so I'm pretty sure I can convince her they say anything!) and packets of flower seeds.

Then, Robert made a fabulous dinner: steak cooked over an open flame (literally - our bbq is broken so Rob set up a fire pit in the backyard with a grill on top and cooked) with stir fried veggies and cous cous topped with wasabi teriyaki from Costco. Mouth. So. Happy!

Now, the kids are ready for bed and watching a movie with Robert and I'm blogging. Good times. (No sarcasm included.) However, back to how weepy I'm feeling, when I sat down to write the following is what came out. I apologize for the constant whining and obsessing over my mother but, it is what it is.

I hope everyone had a wonderful Mother's Day, even if you had to create your own bliss.

Happy Mother's Day!

Thank you for making me practice piano over and over again. Even more, thank you for praising my attempts to play and for encouraging me over and over again. Thank you for always saying how much you loved to hear me play and how it made your heart happy.

Thank you for calling my brothers "heartless dolts" when they were mocking me for crying at a movie, thereby implying that if they had a heart, they'd be crying too.

Thank you for answering all of my questions, no matter how personal (Mom, do you douche?) honestly and openly. OK, I never asked the aforementioned but I do remember asking you if oral sex was okay and that you didn't stammer or hem and haw and change the subject; you gave me a frank discussion about the subject.

Thank you for all of the homemade love over the years. I cannot count the ways your nimble hands have blessed my life: dresses, dolls, clothes for my children (including their beautiful blessing outfits), moccasins, sweaters, wall-hangings, sock monkeys and even a pink poncho (which will be Lulu's someday).

Thank you for so much love. I remember you constantly saying how happy you were that we decided to come and live at your house. I remember one of the "popular girls" in high school being astounded and disbelieving that my mother said such things, but you did.

Thank you for loving my dad and for teaching me how to have a good marriage.

Thank you for being so brave. I remember about a week before you passed as you were contemplating continuing dialysis that you wanted them to use your central line instead of your fistula because the fistula would hurt too much and you were a coward. You broke my heart and I wanted to scream to you that you are one of the bravest people I have ever met. You were sick all of my life but never, ever complained. You often thought of those around you despite whatever challenge you were facing. You were/are awesome!

Thank you for being there when all of my children were born. Thank you for taking photos of those first miracles (even at inappropriate angels) and for helping me at home when the reality of each new miracle became apparent.

Thank you for teaching me how to clean a bathroom, scrub a floor, wash dishes and make my bed. Thank you for passing on recipes for Chicken Divan, Pula and Octopus. Thank you for introducing me to the rule, "You cook, you clean;" unbeknownst to me at the time, my husband would also believe in that rule.

Thank you for letting me find my own dreams and for letting me make my own choices no matter how strongly you disagreed.

Thank you for your faith in and love of Jesus. Thank you for speaking of Him and not being shy about the difficulties in living life His way. Thank you for having the courage to have me and T, regardless of what those darn doctors said. Thank you for believing God more than anyone else.

Thank you for hugs, endless squishy hugs. Thank you for back scratches - every time it itches I still think of you. Thank you for your laughter and for all your songs; I wish we could have sung a duet together and you would have the soprano to my alto.

I miss you Mom. I miss you so much that sometimes I can't breathe. I wish you could hug my kids and tell them stories about life growing up in back woods Alaska. I wish you could sing me "In the sleepy treetops..." just one more time. I wish you weren't so far away. I wish I could email you photos and quirky forwards that I know would make you laugh. I wish I could just hear your voice.

I wish we had lived closer and that I'd never moved away from home. I wish I'd spent more time with you, just was you warned me oh so many years ago that I would. I wish...I wish...I wish for so much.

I wish you happy. I wish that today is a glorious Mother's Day for you. I wish that you are loving on your mother as much as I wish I could love on you. I wish for you to be smiling and singing.

I love you, Mom.

Conversations IV

Sunday, April 6, 2008:

We all gathered around the computer to watch (delayed) the Solemn Assembly from the first session of conference.

Mom: And who's the next prophet?
Quinn: Thomas...Edison!

*****
Monday, April 14, 2008

Quinn: Mom, did you get pregnant in the middle of the night?
Mom: (shocked) What?
Quinn: I heard you on the phone and you said that you got pregnant in the middle of the night.
Mom: (racking her brain) OOOH, no, what I said was WHEN I was pregnant (pointing at Rhys) I had to get up and pee in the middle of the night and then when I got there I couldn't go.

Moral of the story: Not only do little pitchers have big ears, but bigger pitchers have even bigger ones and they don't always hear properly. I'm just glad we had the conversation last night instead of finding out that Quinn had gone to school and told all of his classmates that his mom got pregnant in the middle of the night!

****

Saturday, May 3, 2008

Rhys: Um, Mom, Quinn has both Apple Jacks and Pops in his bowl and I was wondering...um, can we have both cereals?
Mom: Yes.
Rhys: Sweet! Without Cheerios?
Mom: Yes.
Rhys: Awesome!

See how he threw his brother under the bus while trying to make like he wanted to follow the rules?! Rhys is such a good big brother!

*****

By the way, my daughter has the most amazing conversations with other four-year-olds in our van. I wish I had a tape recorder; not so much as to bore you with the details but just to record the moment. I love how quickly they change subject and the sentences that make them say, "Ellaweez, you so funny!"

Wanted: A Real Sense of Humor

Apparently, according to my BFF Lizzie, I am not funny ha-ha, I am funny queer; even after yesterday's valiant attempt to be amusing. Now of course, like any good BFF, Lizzie is sugar coating everything to make it easier to swallow. HA! Never, never have a red-headed BFF. (Then again, she could be sugar coating it and I'm really not even funny queer and am more like Ben Stein - "Bueller? Bueller?") Of course, the fact that I would have to agree that my humor doesn't seem to come across in the written form (I swear in real life I have on occasion made people spew soda out their nose or pee their pants) doesn't help. Some how my dry wit (if I can call it that) doesn't come out of my fingers with the same force as it does out of my mouth.

Oh well, in my next life, I want to by like Sue or Amy. (How many times and ways can I link to Sue's blog?!?! She may start to flee from my stalker like ways and for Sue, that's saying something.)

But that's fine. Fine. Fine with me. I've always said that you should laugh hardest at your own jokes. And I still fully intend to be that crazy old lady in the nursing home, sitting in her wheelchair, facing the wall and cackling every so often for no reason at all. At least I'll be happy.

You Know You're Old When...

You own one of those pill sorter boxes. Even better, yours has compartments for the morning AND the evening.

Your daily vitamins include ibuprofen.

Someone at church points out that you are your children's ancestor. Suddenly 32 is the new 60.

You eat Grape Nuts with minimal sugar and damn, but they taste good!

You can't remember the name for anything: your children become Rhinnlouise; the microwave is the fridge and the stove is the sink; your bedroom is the bathroom; and on and on.

You purposely seek out things with higher fiber.

You can be trusted.

You have to say, "What?" "Come again?" or "Excuse me?" more than once to accurately hear one sentence.

Children you do not know, whom you are not in the process of disciplining, call you ma'am.

You walk into a room and can't remember what in the world you went there for.

Changing the sheets on your bed makes you break out in a sweat.

You put your cellphone in fridge and leave the juice sitting on the counter.

The menopausal woman next to you is complaining of "her own personal summers" and you seem to be sharing it with her.

You are running errands, all the sales clerks call you ma'am.

You remember when gas was less than $1.50 and have listened to the Beach Boys on 8-track.

Seriously...

I should not post after only 3 hours of sleep. Although, my husband thought my second post from Saturday was amusing. Then again, my husband only really finds me funny when I'm dragging my butt across the floor imitating the dog on the latest Stanley Steamer commercial; given his brand of humor, maybe I don't want to make him laugh! I will say, too, that I was reading the post to my husband aloud (Robert doesn't like to read anything other than cookbooks or hunting and fishing magazines but he likes to be read to) and my 9-year-old was standing over my shoulder. I changed "damn" to "darn" but I couldn't think of a ready substitution for "bastard." I know, soon enough he will know all those words and will no doubt be saying them, but still. I'm not ready for him to lose his innocence. Perhaps even more, I'm not ready for him to lose his image of his mother. It's nice to have someone thinking that I'm practically perfect in every way!

More Of My Vomiting Morning Because I Know You're Dying To Know But Afraid To Ask

So here's how my morning is shaking out (because I believe in play-by-play blogging). I finished typing my last entry and was just surfing around when I heard those sounds again. I helped Lulu throw up and then went to bed to snuggle her. The next three hours passed in a haze of snatches of sleep, frantically grabbing the bowl and more hauling ass to the bathroom. At 7am, the alarm went off because that's what it's told to do. Fortunately for me, those damn chirping birds had woken me up prior to the alarm. All kinds of good times here.

Earlier in the morning, during out of our bathroom sessions, I had thought that maybe I should try and get some electrolytes in my dearest, devotedest, darlingest daughter (still not remotely mad or frustrated with her because I don't have to play the piano at the Stake Center this afternoon) as maybe her body was off-balance which then causes more vomiting (and really, while I'm grateful, I would like it to stop at some point). I opened our fridge and we are seriously perishable food and cold drink deficient. We have eggs. We have milk. We have cheese. Mmmm...ketchup. Mustard. All good foods on a sick tummy. Amazingly we have no soda. None. Robert is a soda addict; tweeker, if you will. I had decided that giving my daughter Mountain Dew would be worth any harmful side effects from dyes and caffeine if it made her stop vomiting. There wasn't any Mountain Dew to give her. No Dr. Pepper or Diet Pepsi. No Monster drinks or Rock Stars. I swear, my husband was replaced by a pod person when I wasn't looking. Or he drank it all and just hadn't made it to the store....hmm, that subject bears further pondering, but not now.

Anyway, the net result was that at 7am, I was pulling on pants and driving to the store. Both Walmart and Safeway were open at this early hour (really, on a Saturday I think it almost qualifies at Godforsaken). Safeway is only half a mile away while Walmart is all the way across town (1 mile). I opt for Safeway as I don't think I could sustain my accelerator foot for that extra half mile. Safeway is expensive - they ask for your arm before you ever even enter. But I don't care. I'm on a mission: Gatorade for Lulu and chips for me. The moment I walk in the door, there are sugared cereals on sale. Normally I am vigilant as to what my children eat, to a point of analness. Occasionally I do buy the sugared stuff but I force my kids to mix them half and half with plain Cheerios. They agree and then just pick out the good stuff. We're both happy. Today, however, I learned that shopping on 3 hours sleep for me is like shopping drunk; anything goes. Hmmm...sugared cereal...they'll leave me alone all morning so I can sleep...win/win. I grab two boxes. I walk right past those happy boxes of plain Cheerios. Yellow is just too damn cheerful at this hour. I find my chips. I search for Gatorade. There's Propel and Vitamin Water and all sorts of imposters but no Gatorade. Maybe it's by the Juice. I walk to the other end of the store to search for Gatorade. (Damn it, if I'd gone to Walmart I'd have found Gatorade!) No Gatorade by the juice. I walk back across the store and finally settle on Propel water (the rest of the options were all red color based and that's a big fat no-no when purchasing anything for a vomiting child) as I'm sick of walking and refuse to search any further! As I leave the aisle I spot, in those mini coolers at the checkout stand, Gatorade. I put the Propel back. Buy the Gatorade. Ooh, Odwalla Superfood. I need something to get me through my day and I'm out of cupcakes. I try not to notice the price (damned overpriced bastards!) I go to checkout and the woman is nice but watching me as if she expects me to do something rash and she's got her finger on the silent alarm. (She had watched me stop and start - shoes coming to squeaking halts on the floor - and wander back and forth across the store and no doubt heard me muttering "damn it" and "bastards." I also wonder if I was staggering from all that walking.) I take my bags and leave. As I'm walking out the door I happen to glance up; underneath their big sign they have these wicked 2 foot spike all over the place ostensibly to discourage birds from nesting. Bastards.

I come home. My daughter is up and so happy and chipper. My sons think that I am the best mother in the world as they exclaim over criss-crossed Apple Jacks and Chocolate Peanut Butter Pops. "Can I have some?" "Sure," I say. "Can I have some of both?" "Have anything you want." They are ready to nominate me for mother of the year!! I am ready to sell them all for sleep.

Another upside: I got to call the missionaries at 7:15am (take that evil doers!) and inform them of my, ahem, sad situation. The 19-21 year old boy on the other end told me to have a good day. Seriously? I should send my vomiting 4-year-old to them.

[D]hat [D]y Dearest, Devotedest, Darlingest Daughter Done Did Do During Da [D]ight

DISLAIMER: Please note that faces have been changed to protect the innocent. My husband has not given me permission to post the real pictures of our beloved and perfect children despite my telling him that the war would end and world peace would be initiated simply by allowing everyone to gaze at the angelic visages of our offspring. He wasn't moved by my argument in the least. When did I lose my power of persuasion? As such, I offer this delightful cutie (no where near as good as the real thing) with touches of Lulu; note the crown and the fairy wings all in pink - like a good princess.

Lulu crawled in bed with me tonight. I snuggled her and a while later (time is so relative in the middle of the night) told her to return to her bed. She whined and fussed and didn't want to go (even with my magnanimous offer to carry her) so I succumbed to her pleadings (so easy at 3 something AM) and threw her over to my other side, a little ways away from me so I could have my "sleeping space." This didn't last long. She began to whine. "Lulu, why are you crying?" Next thing I know, she's sitting up and making sounds. Those kind of sounds. "Oh, no, you are not throwing up on my bed." (This is the part where Robert is quite grateful we don't sleep together.) My dearest, devotedest, darlingest daughter promptly clapped her hands over her mouth and clamped her lips together while her stomach was trying to imitate a sea cucumber. I scooped her up, hauled ass to the bathroom (about 10 steps away) to the toilet. Her stomach emptied and I surveyed the damage. Nothing on my bed. (Yea! I don't have a waterproof mattress pad. And I don't want to do laundry - I could hurt myself!) Nothing on the hall floor. A few drops on the bathroom floor. I cleaned the toilet seat with a bleach wipe (the smell of bleach being extraordinarily welcome in the moment), washed my dearest, devotedest, darlingest daughter's hands and face and brushed her teeth and we were done. Oh yeah, I whipped of my shirt for good measure but that was it. At the age of four, she somehow managed to hold onto her stomach's contents until they could be dumped in the toilet. Fabulous. Love her so much. (Wipe away tear in the eye. Sniff. So beautiful.)

But wait, it gets even better. Thursday night we fed the missionaries. (I try really hard not to, but every once in awhile my maternal side takes over and I want to take care of these boys who are getting increasingly younger than me; I discovered that as I tried to compare our childhoods and then realized that these were the boys that I would have been babysitting. Not much to compare.) They started the, "Sister, we hear you play the piano." A sentence that can never lead to anything good. Turns out there is a baptism Saturday and they wanted me to play for the musical number. Robert is going to be working so I hesitated knowing that all my children would be with me and despite their advancing years (4, 7 &9), they are still not so good at reverent behavior while unattended. Lizzie offered to take Lulu so I felt confident that my boys would be moderately well behaved (no one running and leaping into the font). However, no one called me until tonight (at 9:30pm and at 10:something pm - seriously, doesn't the mission pres tell these boys not to call after 9p?) regarding what in the world was going on. Even then the phone calls, on principle I refused to answer the phone, were: (at 9:30) the missionaries asking me to play the piano for the whole baptism (they failed to leave any clue as to what music they might want to have played there - Mia suggested that I play "fairy music" wherein, since I can't play the real songs, I just play whatever comes out of my hands and call it good); and at 10:something (one of the girls who was singing the musical number) suggested that we meet at 1p to practice "I Know My Redeemer Lives." Easy enough song. The practice time is a wee bit inconvenient as it means meeting at our meeting house, practicing for a few minutes and then driving to the stake center (45 min away) for a baptism at 2p. You do the math.

So, how does this relate to my dearest, devotedest, darlingest daughter and our delightful midnight escapades? Since she had "nocturnal emissions," I can't go. Darn. Rascals. I felt guilt about not going to the baptism (which I contemplated in my frustration that no one was giving me information about what to play, etc.) as I think everyone deserves a magical baptism. But now...now I have a perfectly valid, good, solid reason for not being able to go. (Vomit at a baptism would be a downer especially if it was in the font, and then there'd be the floaties, not to mention trying to clean out the font....) Yea for Lulu. *Sigh* She is so my favorite daughter! (Even though she is currently sleeping in my bed - with a bowl, thank you very much - and I am blogging because all of the adrenaline necessary to whisk my child to the toilet resulted in me being very much awake.)

Yesterday's Therapy (FUN STUFF!)

I went to my therapist yesterday. We discussed my current planning for grad school and a teaching license. We even found that we know someone in common - a little odd for me. I don't really want to go up to my friend and say, "Hey, I hear you know my therapist...." Incidentally, it's the same friend who likes to wield our hatchets when I answer the door. Maybe their connection is just the obvious one....

We also discussed my continuing grief for my mother and the fact that even after three years (THREE YEARS!!) I am still actively grieving her. I long to be done with this part of the process. I have come to accept that I will always be sad, for the rest of my life, that she's not here to share this with me, but I want to reach some level of happiness regarding her passing and her memory. Jo (my therapist) has helped in telling me to be mindful that I am grieving only my loss and not trying to grieve for my brothers, their wives or my father. At first I thought she had found my smoking stash, but when I told myself that I didn't need to grieve on behalf of anyone else, my whole body just sighed. Apparently, emotional members of families (me) tend to take on the emotions of other people. Yea -- good times. As if I didn't have enough baggage of my own!

I do long to talk to someone about her but I find it awkward with my father (he's remarried), my older brother (he's the most unemotional person I know) and my little brother (he shares everything with his wife and she, in turn, shares everything with others). Everyone I know down south barely knew my mother and there are no shared memories of her. Also, I'm not sure how to bring up the conversation (again with this theme). I have talked some with Mia but I'm never quite sure what to say. When I think about my mother, it's not as though certain stories come to mind; it is just this overwhelming ache in my core that I miss her. How do you share that, short of just sobbing in someone's ear? (And, yes, I have done that as well.)

Good news, though. Jo said, in response to my yet again plaintive cries, that I was working on graduate level stuff and that I was moving along in the grief process. Yea me!

My current assignment? I need to create a comforting story about where my mother is now. This creates a few dilemmas for me. One, while the LDS faith teaches about the afterlife, so much of it is vague and I'm uncertain of the realities of heaven. Second, I do picture my mother very happy in heaven. She gets to see her Savior - I imagine her touching the prints in His hands and feet and worshiping and praising Him; she gets to see her parents (her own mother died when she was just 1.5 years old); she is without pain; I imagine her weight at a more manageable level; she gets to talk - a lot - and preach the gospel; oh, yeah, and I imagine her singing. All lovely images. I am certain of her happiness. But in a way, that breaks my heart. I want her to miss me. I want her to weep over our separation as much as I have.

My father tells me that he thinks she misses me. I think that she may miss me, but I'm afraid to embrace this idea as that means there is sorrow in heaven. And then I spiral downward from there: if my mom misses me (and the rest of her friends and family), then she is full of grief and sorrow; when I die, I will miss all those I leave behind and instead of passing onto a world without grief, I will continue in sadness. Add this to my concerns about exaltation [if I become like Heavenly Father/Mother (Mormon theology) and have spirit children of my own who then need to experience their own earth life, then I will have to watch my own children become Hitler and other horrible humans - how does God not spend His days weeping over His children?] and I begin to have an image of myself sobbing throughout the eternities. I'm so sick of sorrow in this life. I'm so sick of crying. I can't stand this idea that I will be sad in the next life. So I return to happier thoughts: we will receive a fullness of joy; there will be much happiness and rejoicing in heaven. But like a vicious circle I return to, "Then does my mom miss me?" I can't reconcile the idea of being sublimely happy with experiencing loss or any kind of sadness. I think, really, this is where I stand in the grieving process: I can't reconcile my deep grief and sorrow with being able to be happy and while I find moments of happiness, there seems to be a great underlying sorrow about the loss of my mother and the fear that this sorrow will grow as I lose other people in the course of my life.