My Baby's 10

Now I'm just going to go cry.

(PS: The picture is of Rhys at 14 months. It was a Mother's Day gift. Sniff. Now I'm going to go cry some more.)

(PPS: Notice the cankles. LOVE the chubby baby. Now I'm going to go cry even more.)

For Health or Looks?

Why is it that when I start to work out it's to focus on my health but as I workout, my eyes start to covet the lean bodies of the people on my screen and I think, "To hell with being fit, I wanna be svelte and look great in a bikini!"

What's up with that? I know that even being fat, I can still be fit and help my heart, find more energy, enhance my mood (and that does need some enhancing) and lower my risk for a myriad of diseases. Good stuff.

But when I work out, I just. don't. care. Visions of sugar plums (hard bodies) dance in my head and then I feel nothing but discouraged when I go look in my mirror and see my lumpy, stretch marked body.

*sigh*

Someday I'll get this natural man/child of God thing worked out.

Someday.

BTW...

I totally did this.

Thankfully it happened at home and not during church as I don't think I would have had enough chutzpah; Sacrament Meeting, no; Relief Society, yes.

Thankfully no one was around to watch my interpretive/modern/ballet combo number.

Sitemeter Rocks

Because I found out that someone in New Orleans area is planning to name their baby after me.

Alright, so they just googled "baby names maraiya," but cosmically, it's all the same thing.

Christmas Joys

Christmas was, overall, delightful. I have struggled as an adult, though, to find the Christmas spirit. Rob said to me over and over again that it just didn't feel like Christmas for him this year. Quite frankly, I've had that feeling almost every year since I got married and had kids. Is it just too much of the detail and behind the scenes work that seems to steal so much of the magic? Is it knowing that I placed all those presents under the tree and that they didn't just show up by magic? It was always a miracle to go to bed to a fairly empty tree and wake up with presents and stockings stuffed and everything aglow.

The kids had a great time though and I loved, LOVED seeing their little faces, both in receiving gifts and in giving them.

Lulu said to me, "Mom, this is a gift I made." I began to unwrap it, "It's a pot holder, " she continued before I could unwrap. She's been working so hard to maintain a surprise but I think waiting gets the best of many of us.

My nephew, Nicholas, gave us homemade Peanut Butter Balls. My SIL Julie said that he was wavering between making the balls or buying gifts from the dollar store and decided to make the peanut butter balls because they "are made from the heart."

It was a great day - lazy and fun and full of family.

Surprisingly, though, a friend of mine (Niki) dropped off a gift shortly before Christmas. I put it under the tree because I love the big surprise. I opened it Christmas day and was thrilled to find, "Not Quite What I Was Planning: Six word memoirs by famous and obscure writers." I've read the whole thing. Some of them twice. It was a beautiful book; many of the memoirs made me laugh and I could relate to many as well.

So, in honor of one of my favorite gifts of the day (it's hard to compete with a preschooler's self-colored hot pad), I've been trying to think of what my own memoir would be. Six words is tough.

Today I was sitting in church and it came to me:

Trying daily. Finding joy and God.

(And yes, trying should be taken in both senses of the word - just ask Robert.)

Not nearly as entertaining as being a holy rolling mother but I think it fits.

Anyway, Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night.

Why I Hate Christmas

And Other Odd Thoughts

I have random thoughts in my head and felt the need to write them down. At times, lately, I have felt the need to be funny or particularly insightful and then I remember that this blog is first and foremost for me (God willing, I will never be Perez Hilton!) and what do I care what other people think? Yes, I'm back to that. I talked to an old friend today - almost told her about my blog but didn't; I did tell her about my therapist and Lexapro. I could almost hear the censure and the trying to understand someone who makes different choices. I've been thinking about this all afternoon and am again seeking to embrace the, "What do I care what other people think?" adage.

I am struggling with Christmas. Perhaps it's emotions on a level I can't see, but Christmas is really making me cry this year, even if I just think about Santa.

Because this year, Santa is really just Jesus working for the CIA; Santa is not so much a jolly fat man in a red suit but the Spirit of God, the Spirit of Love, in disguise. I've watched my children gleefully shop for loved ones and have loved their increasing discovery of the joy of giving; I have seen their eyes light up in excitement as they imagine how much so-and-so will like their gift. And then I feel that way as I take them to Santa, a kind man who asks about their dreams and wishes, and as I play Santa in my home searching for gifts to delight and enthrall them. Surely Santa brings out the best parts of ourselves.

Mary makes me cry. I think of this poor young woman, chosen by God to be the vessel for His son. I think of the Law of Moses and it's strict rules for chastity and what a blow this must have been to her to be an unwed mother. Pregnancy is hard enough without your community scorning you for it. I imagine her time with Elizabeth was such a gift from God.

I wonder too at what it must have been like for her to carry the Christ-child and to worry and ponder about how she was going to be His mother; to stare at her newborn babe, covered in birthing goo and Heaven's fairy dust and know that this was her Savior and her son. How overwhelming.

Jesus makes me cry. This beautiful, beautiful baby boy (I have a thing for newborns) is only so significant because of His horrible/magnificent end. I cannot think of the babe without thinking of the man on the cross and I cry. It is one thing to look at an infant and see the millions of possibilities and hopes; it is another to see all of these tied up in pain, sorrow and death.

Joseph makes me cry. To be a father and yet not, to be somehow right there and yet always on the outside as just a stand-in, someone to be present where God the Father could not be. And yet, he was tender and kind when he could have been so cruel. I love how giving he was.

Yup, down the line, wise men (bringing money and gifts to a poor family who so needed the help) and shepherds (humble, blue collar men who had testimonies of Jesus, not to mention symbols of Jesus himself - and there we go, right back to the cross), angels (singing praises and rejoicing in this moment, bearing witness of Jesus) and even sheep (me), are all making me cry in the amazing symbolism of Christmas.

So, in an attempt not to think, and to entertain myself while I tackled my mountain of laundry, I watched the Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants 2, which was much better than I thought it would be. (Not that that's saying much; I believe it best to watch any movie with rather low expectations so that I'm always pleasantly surprised).

I watched Tibby, a 20-something year old, help her best friend's mother give birth and I found it odd; I don't know that I would want to have a child, someone a generation younger with no real connection to me, stand at my side for child birth. But my next thought was just how amazing women are and how we are all so connected by these weird experiences that our bodies give us, whether we choose them or not, regardless of age. And how wonderful it is to be part of this club, this group of people called women. There is something timeless about it.

Of course my next thought was, "I miss my mom." I wonder sometimes if the "acid trips" of grief ever stop. I've been doing so well since this summer and now I ache.

My current thought is, "Maybe I'm crying so much because it's late and I just really need to go to bed!

And in a few days, Christmas will be over. My nativities, which I love, will have to go back into their boxes. Life will return to normal without the constant reminders - HEY IT'S CHRISTMAS - around every corner.

And then I just have to get ready for Rob to leave.

Yep.

I'm crying again.

I'm really not looking forward to up to 6 months as a single parent and away from my spouse. We set up Skype but even video calls are not the same thing as a hug and that feeling I get whenever he's in the same room.

And then I have to move and leave the only community my children have ever known.

Yep.

I'm crying again.

I have to meet new teachers and make new friends and find my place in a new ward when I love the one I'm leaving so very, very much. (Although I am looking forward to having my bishop not being a personal friend as well.)

I don't like change; I don't like it all and that seems to be what the last 3 years have been all about.

The only constant may be my crying.

Maybe it is a gift afterall. :)

A Burst of Creativity

I woke up this morning and what did I see?
Couscous raining out of my pantry.
Morning has brought me such a big surprise,
Pasta falling on my boobs and thighs.
I could take an armful and make a treat,
Teriyaki couscous, yum so sweet!
I wish it could be so,
But it was never meant to be,
Couscous raining out of my pantry.

(To the tune of "Popcorn Popping on the Apricot Tree," of course!)

(And couscous, dry anyway, is very, VERY easy to clean up.)

BTW, did I mention? IT'S STOPPED SNOWING!! Apparently there is snow to the north of us and snow to the south but I am living in a magical, snow free bubble. YEA!! God is good! :)

Snowy Days

It started snowing Sunday night and it hasn't stopped since.

Well, okay. I exaggerate.

Mildly.

We had a brief respite on Wednesday and sort-of Thursday when the snow stopped long enough and it warmed up just enough to allow the children to go to school (this being their last week before break and all). But the cold front came back with full force Thursday night and the kids officially began their Winter Break one day earlier than expected (after just having an impromptu four-day weekend).

So, okay, I'm a mom. It's winter time. I know this is to be expected (the no school thing) and sometimes it's kinda fun. I've taken a ton of pictures of kids making snow angels and sledding and making butt prints - all the essentials.

But now I done.

Time for the snow to melt.

This is why I live in Western Oregon and not, oh, in the mountains or something insane.

This is my last winter before having to survive the certain snow and ice that comes with every Alaskan winter.

This is my last winter not to care about winter driving - ah, the real story behind this post.

I hate to drive in the snow. I don't care if it's only an inch.

I know - y'all are laughing at me and mocking me. I can hear it, "But you grew up in Alaska." Alaska, schmalaska. I can't drive in the snow.

It freaks me out.

It makes me cry.

It makes my heart go pitter-pat and my breaths come faster and deeper. (And you thought Rob was the only one who could do that!)

The reality is I only drove in Alaskan winters for about two season (and then a week or two on Winter Break from college). That's it. I've been living in milder climates ever since.

And what happened during those few experiences? Let's review shall we....

There was the time when I was driving to school from seminary and the car did a complete 360 during rush hour traffic leaving me bumper to guard rail.

There was the time when I slid, while trying to park to go Christmas shopping, on a sheet of ice and ran my dad's truck into a car. I had to approach everyone in the shop and ask, "Excuse me, do you own the Mercedes-Benz parked outside?" Turns out, it was owned by a prominent local attorney.

Yeah.

What can I say? I'm traumatized.

Thursday was probably the best weather of the week and only because it was cold enough to snow (no freezing rain - hallelujah) but not cold enough to stick. I had to run some errands; we were out of milk, eggs, cheese, laundry detergent, kitty litter and dog food. It was Lulu's last day of preschool. Ever. (Damn budget cuts.) So, places to go, things to do, I pumped myself up with fearless power and started up the van. I slammed that baby in reverse and moved about a foot before spinning tires.

I tried again.

I drove forward and then reverse. Now I was closer to the garage than when I started.

I got rocks from our side parking area and placed them under the tires.

That worked for a few feet which got me back to the place I originally started it.

I tried and tried and tried and got no where.

I called Robert. I am not going to cry.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"I'm fine. How's your day." Not going to cry.

"It's okay. Are you crying?"

Damnit - I was crying. "No, I'm fine."

"What's going on? What can I do?"

I burst out, "I can't @&#$ get my car out of our driveway." Now I was sobbing.

I could tell this was going to be a good day.

Robert came home and drove the van out of the driveway as easy as you please.

I felt real smart and super talented.

I soldiered on though (mainly because although Robert had offered to chauffeur me around, he didn't really mean it and he really wanted to get back to work - it's the thought that counts I suppose). I started to tool around town. I had that steering wheel in a death grip. Every pedestrian casually walking on the sidewalk evoked this response, "Hmmm....hope I don't kill you."

I muttered over and over again, "Please God, get me home safe."

In a nut shell (too late), I made it home just fine, despite countless trips to the stores as I kept forgetting everything I needed. But I'm still not any happier about driving in the snow; I was chauffeured about today and I'm sure the same will hold true for tomorrow.

Robert is determined to teach me how to drive in the snow - while I can get away with not driving a day or two here, I'm pretty sure I can't give up driving from September to May after the move.

All I can say is, "Pray for me people."

To hell with that, "Pray for everyone else on the road, especially pedestrians."

At least I'm realistic.

Being Bold

I know I have a photo on here somewhere - but it's pretty buried and when I leave comments, everyone only sees this Picasso image (which annoyingly, but fairly accurately, sometimes only shows the bosoms).

No more.

I've updated my profile picture.

See how bold I've become?

When you meet me on the street, feel free to ask for autographs.

Age of Innocence

Conversations about race.

We went to TKD testing today. Our friend Tony, who's black, had a daughter earning her red belt. Shatley got up there to test along with a black belt to help her in case she got stuck. The black belt was a blonde, blonde white girl and Shatley is a mocha colored girl with dark, tight curls. I told Lulu, "Look - Tony's daughter's right there."

"Which one?" she asked.

I miss that sense of people just being people and the time when distinctions seemed so blurred and were usually nice/not so nice.

Busted!

Okay.

So I like to think that I'm a nice kind bit of chocolatey goodness spewing love and in general just making the world a better place.

But I have to admit - the popular girls? They still make me nervous and feel like somehow I'm wearing plaids, polka dots and flowers all at once.

Every Monday, Tuesday and Thursday I take Lulu to catch a bus to preschool. Another mother there is always dressed professionally (she has a real job). Her hair is perfectly curly and blonde. Why is it always blonde? Make up, perfect figure, the whole nine yards.

Tuesday she was next to the bus saying good-bye to her daughter and I happened to glance at her shoes; one heel was thick and square and the other was spiky.

Oh. my. heck.

This girl - Miss Perfect who never deigns to even smile in my direction - had on mismatched shoes.

I snickered. I inner high-fived and then held my hand out to be slapped by a friend.

My inner chocolately self debated telling her but really, does anyone walk up to a perfect stranger and say, "Hey - you're wearing two different shoes."

So I just figured that, for whatever reason, she had on mismatched shoes and that she was okay and I had a vicious inner glow if only for a moment.

Today at the bus stop, Miss Perfect arrived with more peppish energy than I've ever seen and asked, "Did anyone notice Tuesday that I had on two different shoes."

She scanned the crowd.

Damn my I-cannot-tell-a-lie-self. "I did."

"I knew it!," she said. Then she weaves her tale of tripping over her feet all day because the heels were different heights (I started feeling very small for my inner glowing and high-fiving) and how she has joint issues and wears special insoles and figured she'd just forgotten to put them in (very, very small) until she figured out at 4:30pm, after meeting with clients, that her shoes were mismatched. And that yes, you should always tell a perfect stranger that she does in fact have spinach in her teeth or, in this case, that her shoes are mismatched. (I wanted to hide under her currently perfectly matched shoes.)

*sigh*

I think she'll be back to ignoring me on Monday.

But now, not only does she still make me nervous but I feel guilty on top of that for my less than charitable choices.

Damn perfect little blondes....

Memorization Mondays

So I have started participating in a scripture memorization...thingy (yeah, I know, the brain's exhausted) from Megan at the O-Show. It's been fun for me to memorize scriptures that weren't part of the Seminary 100 nor part of the standard set of LDS references (you know what I'm talking about). It's also been helpful to have these verses at the ready when I study the scriptures.

But the real reason I'm blogging about this?

I'm not so good at memorizing. I solve this problem by making up songs for every single verse. So far, I've only done four and, quite frankly, I'm a little worried that the well of ditties is going to run dry before I memorize all that I would like to.

But most importantly, I have much more compassion and understanding for Vanja J. Watkins.

You know, the lady who set all 13 Articles of Faith to song.

I have always hated those songs. I know hate is a strong word and that I shouldn't use it, but may I say, "I hate those songs!"

They have odd melodies, no sense of theme or rhythm....they are just so dissonant to the spirit!
But now, after composing my own little ditties for scripture, I realize that a HUGE part of that is inherent in writing music for scripture when you're trying to leave the verse intact, word for word. Scripture, as a whole - not saying there aren't exceptions - does not have the poetry and rhyme that we are used to in song.

So, I figure I've gained understanding for someone where there previously was none, memorized 4 Bible verses (Eph 4:29, Ps 16:11; 73:25-26, and Deut 30:19) and come up with 4 ditties.

Not. too. shabby for two weeks work.

From the Bizarre to the Mundane

So, here's last night's dream. Because history shows that y'all are amazingly interested in these things!

This one involved Sylvester Stallone as my love interest (please - is he not old enough to be my dad?!) and Sean Astin as his son. [And seriously, I just got his photo and...eew.] And I'm me. They're working at a mechanic shop when I show up. Sly is under a car and chatter with them and then throw my checkbook down by a pillar next to them. This woman immediately snatches it up. I get angry and start asking for it back but she's rifling through it to get my account information. I go to take it from her and she hands it off to this man. Sly gets it back with physical force hurting the man and the woman in the process. He ends up loading myself and his son up in a big van. I'm in the back up against the windows (the one by my head has a curtain) but my legs can be seen through the other window. I'm eating an apple. Paparazzi are following us and Sly tells me, "Don't wave at the cameras."

At some point too Sean asks Sly about getting remarried and having more family. Sly says, "Well, I know just who I want to have a baby girl with but she won't marry me."

So, we're travelling. The roads are very hilly and have obstacles (mud pits) almost like a BMX track for cars. You also have the option at one point of leaving the roads and driving in the air. We stayed on the ground.

We drove next to this little old lady (Betty White?) with a boxed walker in the back. Somehow we know that this is the mean woman-who-took-my-checkbook's mom. Sly feels bad that the girl now needs a walker. And is touched by the fact that she has a mother who's willing to buy one for her and take care of her.

We come to a widening in the round (a big round spot, like a cul-de-sac but it has a road in and out). Suddenly, we're surrounded my cars. Men with guns come piling out. Betty gets killed and I get taken hostage and we're outta there.

Of course Sly comes to get me! He's just a step or two behind the kidnappers. He ends up killing a bunch of them (shooting them). For some reason Sean is now dressed as Spiderman but it's clear that it's just a costume. (If I were really talented, I'd photoshop a costume onto the boy above but I'm have no idea how.)

Then a bunch of kids come through, all dressed as Spiderman. Sly has been and gone looking for me and there's all these dead bodies. The kids enter, all ready to fight, only to find just dead bodies. Somehow I'm there too and my kids are because I keep covering up their eyes and wondering why I'm allowing them to watch this movie.

Then Quinn woke me up crying because Jenny scratched him.

I think I prefer the mundane reality.

(Then again, maybe if I had another male lead and a story line that didn't involve quite so much killing....)

What I Learned This Weekend

That too much overly rich Truffle Cheesecake can make one sick

That reading when you are too tired is bad for comprehension; that apostate professor is really an associate professor and my sons' school is not "not an equal opportunity provider."

Sitting too closely together on a church pew is very bad for reverence.

When a 5yo girl says, "I want to bear my testimony," believe her intent but believe her eyes will also get wider than the audience is large and that her voice will become inaudibly soft.

Cleaning the house for a potential buyer on Saturday, who then reschedules to Monday, means that you will have to do all that cleaning twice.

That SQUIRT (super quiet un-interrupted reading time) doesn't seem to mean the same thing to my kids as it means to me.

Why Is It...

...that every time I'm a hard ass I totally regret it?

I'm a cub scout leader. The other leader, Jennifer, has been called to YW and works night shift at the hospital (she's an RN). We've asked that she be released from her scout calling due to conflicts in time, etc.

I'm moving so it's up in the air as to how much longer I will be here and be able to be a cub leader.

So last den meeting I told the other two assistants that they were going to need to start stepping up to the plate more and Jennifer and I were going to fade into the background.

Today I talked with one of the assistants. She said, "I just can't be a leader right now."

Now, I could have asked her "Why not?" or "What going on?"

Not me.

Nope.

I push on with, "Well unless you want to ask to be released, you're just going to have to be. Jennifer's got to go and I'm up in the air."

She started to cry.

Oh heavens, I made a sweet woman cry today!

Maybe next time I feel like being a hard ass, I should remember the operative word is "ass."

BTW, is it good or bad that my cuss-o-meter keeps increasing?

Musical Tuesday

It would have been much more alliterative, and in theme, if today had been Monday but as Lulu says, "Today is tomorrow" and therefore Tuesday.

I have been singing. Loudly.

The kind of singing (is it a Freudian slip that I keep typing sinning?) that I only do when no one is around. (See how sinning would fit quite well into that sentence?)

It started this morning when I busted out with, "OOOOKlahoma where the wind comes sweeping down the plain! (Oklahoma) where the...." Really, it was just to belt the "OOOOOKlahoma!" out.

I must confess I was most likely off-key but I was singing with so much gusto, you would have loved it any way.

I have no idea where it came from.

I haven't been reading about Oklahoma.

The musical is one of my least favorite. (I generally don't like musicals by Rodgers and Hammerstein - I know. Sacrilege.)

I haven't heard any news about Oklahoma.

And I haven't met anyone named Laurie, Curly or Aunt Eller recently.

But there it was....

OOOOklahoma!!

Then I moved on to "Hark the Herald Angels sing," "Give Said the Little Stream," which are really more in theme with the season.

What can I say? It's been an odd day and I'm trying to keep my happy bubble afloat despite never ending bad news.

Did I tell you my daughter's preschool is being cut?

OOOKlahoma!

And that our little school district (1 hs, 1 middle school, 2 K-8 and 4 elementary) has to cut 750,000 dollars from it's budget for the rest of the school year?

OOOOklahoma!

And that Robert has less than 40 hours on this semimonthly paycheck?

OOOklahoma!

See? Bubble intact.

It's amazing how little bits of denial things like that work to make my day better.

And when we say
Yeeow! Aye-yip-aye-yo-ee-ay!
We're only sayin'
You're doin' fine, Oklahoma!
Oklahoma O.K.!

God Offerings

Life is...odd/amazing/weird.

Idk.

Pick an adjective.

I've been struggling of late with myself. I'm not sure how to write this - I want to be clear that I don't think it's a self-esteem issue. But I see myself, warts and all (with the warts sticking out more than the all) and I cringe. I see my faithlessness and my tendencies to wander from God and I get heartsick.

God is amazing. The work of Jesus humbles me. All that He does in my life, on a daily basis, is awesome. I love answers to my prayers. I love moments when He hugs me and tells me how much He loves me. I want to give Him something on par with who He is. Being human, I want to give Him the most expensive, shiniest, prettiest, most perfectest gift in the world. I want to give Him gold, frankincense and myrrh. And then I look at myself, this shriveled pinkie toe capillary and think, "Eeew. I don't want that. How can I give that to God?"

And while I know that I can't ever make myself the perfectest gift, I want it to be just a little bit better. Maybe if I work on this or that and get this trait better, then I .can approach God and give Him this gift that is just a bit better.

And so I turn away, sure that my gift isn't sufficient. Because for me, it's not the gift I want to give, the gift I believe God deserves. Of course, the self work never works. In fact, the harder I try on my own, the worse I seem to get.

This morning, though, God and I were talking. His words just poured out like crazy about how I, warts and all, but especially warts, am the only gift He wants to receive. He doesn't want or need big shiny, perfectest gifts but He does want and need me.

I love that.

His love overwhelms me. His mercy, His grace, His tenderness and His knowledge of me. God is good.