Afraid

There are things that have frightened me since I was little. 
Monkeys in my bed at night.  The lion that would roar from my parents' room at night.  (I later discovered that this was my Dad snoring)  Spiders.  Being lost.  Bugs crawling in my ears while I sleep.  (I still sleep with covers over my ears, with the blankets tucked firmly around my shoulders.  It drives Dan crazy.)   Elephantitis.  Heights.  Jumping from heights.  Walking home from the barn in the dark.  Dogs.  Falling down a well. 
When I was little, my Dad would take us to visit an older lady in our ward.  Her little body was bent over and twisted with Rheumatoid Arthritis.  It terrified me. 
After I had Heidi, every joint in my body felt like it was splitting apart.  The doctor had tests done for rheumatoid arthritis, but they came back negative.  I left it at that. 
Meanwhile, my psoriasis stealthily took over my scalp. 
During the last few years, I have felt a slow but steady falling aparted-ness.  I attributed it to my advanced age and my general lack of physical exercise and Ruebenesque weight.  I had carpel tunnel release surgery in my left hand to relieve the numbness I have there.  I've been through physical therapy for my shoulder and my knees.  I lost 16 pounds.
When we went to Idaho for this past Thanksgiving, my ankles swelled on the trip there.  Gasp!  It was like I had Elephantitis.  Even my mom was a little alarmed.  Ever since then, my ankles swell at the drop of a hat.  My feet get so swollen that some days my toes can't even touch the floor.  My left hand can't clasp into a fist.  My elbows ache like crazy.  My toes are hot and tender to the touch.
Today I proclaimed it "Enough is enough" day.  Plus it is the last day to take advantage of meeting our deductible. 
I went to the doctor.  Yeah.  None of what I'm going through is normal.  She asked if any of my family has arthritis.  I said no, but then none of them have psoriasis which is a genetic thing too.  Ahh....  And now it makes sense.  Perhaps it is Psoriatic Arthritis.  I got a lot of blood work done today.  I get to make an appointment with a rheumatologist for further testing. 
I'm frightened that the tests will come back positive.  Psoriatic Arthritis can be just as damaging to the joints as Rheumatoid Arthritis.  It means living on medication for the rest of my life.  Medications which can damage the liver.  It means that this exhaustion that I feel on a daily basis isn't just that I'm not getting enough sleep or am lazy, it means that I will feel like a sloth for the rest of my life.  On the plus side, it means that I can get treatment, that all of this isn't just in my head, and that I'm not as lazy as I think I am.
If the tests come back positive. 
So, for tonight, I'll go to bed.  I'll tuck my covers around my ears.  I'll pray like I did when I was little that there wouldn't be any spiders in my room.  I'll pretend like I'm not afraid. 

The Mythical "Home Date"

Sophie has a dream.  It begins with a full makeover of her mother and father-- coordinated by her sense of fashion.  By fashion, I don't mean the kind that struts down a runway, I mean the kind where my girls put on a stunning ensemble of mismatched finery and pronounce "Don't I look fashion?" 
I will wear my only "formal gown"-- a dress that I frankensteined from a Goodwill find for a Murder Party.  Dan will wear a suit.  Sophie will apply my makeup and fix my hair.  I will make macaroni and cheese for the kids.  They will eat it on a blanket in another room.  I will make some kind of romantic dinner and Dan and I will sit in our finery and eat it at the table, by ourselves, with candles, and plastic wine glasses that I got for another Murder Party.
She likes to practice.  The other day, she asked if she could give me a makeover.  It involved the girls' go to eye shadow:  jade green from when I was a fortune teller for a Murder Party.  It also involved my black liquid eyeliner, which Sophie was scared to get too close to my eyes (I must admit some trepidation on this matter myself) and thus she circled from my eyebrows to the bottoms of my eyelid bags.  I looked a bit like a deranged racoon.
Tonight she asked if she could fix my hair.  She came out with the colored hair gels and asked if she could use them.  I was trying to finish my book.  I said, "Sure.  Anything to keep you busy." Now the top of my hair is a matted mess of purple, royal blue, and golden glitter.  It feels kind of like crepe paper or fruit leather.  I'd love to post the pictures I took of it, but I can't find the cord to the camera.  Dang it! 

Balm of Gilead Did You Borrow?

I love Christmas carols.  I love how they make me feel.  I love that they can bring in the Spirit so quickly.
One of my favorite carols has always been "I heard the bells on Christmas Day."  I love the melody.  I love the message.
I served my mission in Massachusetts, the home state of Longfellow, the author of the poem this carol came from.  The church building where we would have all of our transfers was in the culdesac named after Longfellow.  I think his house was in that culdesac. 

Longfellow wrote this poem in a time of despair.  His wife had just died in an accidental fire.  His oldest son had run away to be in the Civil War and had been wounded seriously.  Those Christmas bells seemed to mock his pain.
I heard the bells on Christmas day
Their old, familiar carols play,
and wild and sweet
The words repeat
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And thought how, as the day had come,
The belfries of all Christendom
Had rolled along
The unbroken song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Till ringing, singing on its way,
The world revolved from night to day,
A voice, a chime,
A chant sublime
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Then from each black, accursed mouth
The cannon thundered in the South,
And with the sound
The carols drowned
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

It was as if an earthquake rent
The hearth-stones of a continent,
And made forlorn
The households born
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And in despair I bowed my head;
"There is no peace on earth," I said;
"For hate is strong,
And mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!"

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
"God is not dead, nor doth He sleep;
The Wrong shall fail,
The Right prevail,
With peace on earth, good-will to men."

After yesterday, we could all bow our heads in despair.  The hearts of men wax cold and hate is strong. 
"Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
"God is not dead, nor doth He sleep:
The Wrong shall fail,
The Right prevail,
With peace on earth, good-will to men."

Christ is the Prince of Peace.  He will always inspire the best in all of us. 
Bless the families in CT with His healing balm.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sXfzp296zhA

Be Careful

Be careful. 
This post is in response to the feminist Mormon women movement.  I doubt any of them will read it, but it must be said.
A commenter that disagreed with you closed her words with "Be careful".  You threw that away.  You threw away her concern because you thought it was for you.  In a part it was.  Instead, that "Be careful" was trying to help you realize the power that you have.  You are in our Relief Societies, in our Primaries, our Sunday Schools, and our Young Women's Organizations.  You are our teachers and the teachers of our children.  You enter our classrooms (like all teachers and friends) and you have our trust.  Be careful.
Be careful how you speak to my children.  Take care that you only teach them doctrine and not how you feel the church as an organization should be run.  Take care that you do not make them feel less than they are because you feel less than someone else.  Do not ever think that you have the right to confuse them or make them angry like you.  Do not think that you were put in their path for a month, or a year, or two years to do anything but to uplift them and to help Dan and I as parents to bring our family back to Heavenly Father.  Do not feel it is your responsibility to correct what I, in faith, am teaching my children.  Be careful.
What you do with your life is your eventuality.  You are responsible for you.  Be careful in your crusade.
 I do not understand you.  I have not been on the path you have been on in order to feel the inequality that you do.  I do not understand your sense of disquiet and malcontent.  It really does break my heart that there are so many women out there who feel that their divine calling and responsibility is not enough.  How could so many of us have repeated the Young Women's motto and walked away feeling that we are not enough or that we deserve a bigger piece of earthly pie?   Be careful.

Serves You Right, Jingle Bells!

I think I was pretty old when I got my first Barbie doll; maybe 10 or 11.  Back then we were allowed to be little kids longer, I think.  Pretty soon the house was filled with naked Barbies.  To my shame, when my little brother picked out and gave me Barbie's pink corvette for my 15th Christmas, I was pretty upset.  That car really took Barbie places and I should have been more graceful.
My brothers were okay with playing Barbie.  Once in a while.  It was pretty awesome growing up with brothers that we could run around playing "Red Dawn" with and then have a side of Barbie fashion show. 
When I was something like 17 and Barbies were plentiful (between three girls aged 17, 13, and 8), we finally got a coveted Ken doll.  FINALLY!  It's tough being 12 inches tall when your only choice in men is 6 inch GI Joe, who can't even change clothes and go to a fancy dance.  Besides, when Barbie and GI Joe have kids, they turn out to be Strawberry Shortcake and her friends.  It's a little creepy, but needs must.
Barbie is little girl soap opera.  We had never seen a soap opera in our lives, yet Barbie's life was as twisted and titillating as anything from "Days of Our Lives".
Our favorite Barbisode happened this way:
Mark was gone by this time, so the rest of us (7 kids-- 3 girls, 4 boys) were playing with the Barbies.  I was Punky Kim.  I only dressed in yellow and purple.  I was married to Steve (okay, so it was a Ken knock off named Steve.) first, but he left me for another of my Barbie sisters. I hated men.  Evan, the baby of the family (aged 6) was Rachel-- the Barbie with the longest hair.  Rachel was getting ready for her wedding to Steve.  I don't remember who played Steve, or the other random bridesmaids Barbies.  Nels (15) was Jezebel, the priestess who would perform the wedding, since we didn't have another Ken.
We spent quite awhile getting all the Barbies into their finery.  Steve probably only had his tux, so he was always dressed to the nines.  The wedding party converged on the cathedral (our living room with it's crystal chandelier and the fancy glitter ceiling).  It began.  Suddenly, Jezebel the priestess was making the moves on Steve.  Steve's wandering eye could not be contained.  The two rejoiced in their "love at first sight" and ran off into the distance. 
Evan Rachel was confused and forlorn.  This was an entire break from the story we were in.  She did what in self respecting scorned woman would do.  She got in her pink corvette and chased down the erstwhile lovers.  Alas.  Jezebel received the brunt of Rachel's frenzied attack as she was run over several times, all the while Evan yelled, "Serves you right Jingle Bells!"
Ahhh.... fun times had by all.

The Tower of Babel

I was talking to my Mom this afternoon.  We were discussing my adventures in parent/teacher conferences.  I couldn't believe the amount of work my kids bring home.  Most of it is on the computer.  Sophie has three different sites she is supposed to go to:  one for keyboarding, one for math adventures, and one for reading/spelling.  Malynn has a science notebook, where the teacher doesn't give the kids any of the answers, she is supposed to go online and find them-- then the class discusses what they learned.  In first grade, the kids are putting together power point presentations. 
Sophie's teacher told me (3rd grade mind you) that the teachers are gearing up to being a totally computerized classroom in two to three years.  No more work sheets.  Hardly any pencils and paper. 
I get it.  It's a brave new world out there.  I remain skeptical.
There is value in the "old fashioned" way of doing things.  Some things are easier (tons!) on a computer.  No more trying to foot note a term paper with a type writer.  My senior project history professor always told us to stop whining about having to write papers.  "Back in my day....." 
Here is what I think is happening.  I think we are creating a possible Tower of Babel.  Not to get to God, mind you.  No way.  Not in this worldly climate.  I mean that we are going run into the situation where we cannot communicate with each other.  People already are losing social skills.  I think I'm one of the rare individuals with a stupid phone who has never even tried to text someone.    Those abbreviated words kill me.  LOL, ROFL are not in the English language!   My stupid phone lives in my purse and more likely than not, is uncharged.  We still have a home phone.   If I'm not home, you're not getting a hold of me.  I'm okay with that.  The crazy thing is that I'll check my facebook status every 1/2 hour when I am home.  I'm not so much okay with that, because a few posts about what my kids say and someone else liking it, isn't a valid relationship with anyone. 
Another social skill that this last election has really brought to the forefront, is that in our anonymity in the ether sphere, we have forgotten how to disagree without being disagreeable.  We have to live in communities and interact with all kinds of people.  It goes beyond the neighborhood curmudgeon.  He/she is endearing.  It's the anger and rage that are seeping into everything around us. 
I'm thinking that if we continue this trend where we unlearn centuries of the valuable skill of writing and throw off our ability to converse face to face with each other, we will become like the people who built their tower to heaven.  I've often wondered if it wasn't so much an actually thunder and lightening curse coming down from God, as what is happening today.  Gradual.  Sneaky.  Tricksy.  Because computers are awesome.  I love them.  I can't imagine how we even lived before the Internet.  I can't remember.  There in lays the problem.  We can't remember and what we don't remember, we lose.
There is a great book out there, "Moonwalking with Einstein".  The whole book is about memory and is incredibly interesting.  Part of it talks about the American Indians.  Their land wasn't just sacred.  It was their collective memory.  You know how you go to a place that you've been before, especially one where you had a good time or evokes good feelings?  You're there and suddenly you remember.  You remember smells, sounds, people.  The stories and histories of the American Indians were wrapped up in certain holy locations.  I look at this tree and it tells me this story.  I look at this petroglyph and it tells me this family history.  So when the Indians were rounded up and displaced they forgot their stories and their culture.  When the landscape of their history was changed, it changed everything. 
Remember.  Remember what happens to people who throw off their heritage for the good moment.  Remember what happens to whole cultures when they lose their ability to communicate with each other, both in written and spoken word.  I hope these are just Sunday musings on my part.  I hope I can remember.

I got it! And I didn't even cry or ask for Dan's help.

Ugh!

I obviously need help with this picture posting endeavor.  It will come.  I hope.

In the end

Alma is my favorite book in the Book of Mormon.  I was going to marry Amulek if I couldn't find any one here on earth who would have me.  I still think he's a pretty amazing man.  For all of the pain and heart ache that happens in the chapters, Alma is a book of hope and life. 
In the last year I have been having a change of heart.  Some things that were so important to me (like good television viewing) have become less so and other things have been brought to the fore front.  I don't think I've ever likened the scriptures to myself and to my family as I have in the past year.  Every night we read around 10 verses, with varying amounts of success.  The verses are read, sometimes shouted, and mostly ignored.  We have our moments when the story interests the kids that they pay attention.  On Sunday night we read about the final battle between Shiz and Coriantumr.  They paid attention to that.  The kids also know that Alma is my favorite book. 
Last night's election left me sick at heart, especially Washington state's.  There is an abandonment of any semblance of morality.  It seriously brings to mind the scripture: 

• 2 Nephi 28:8

  8 And there shall also be many which shall say: Eat, drink, and be merry; nevertheless, fear God—he will justify in committing a little sin; yea, lie a little, take the advantage of one because of his words, dig a pit for thy neighbor; there is no harm in this; and do all these things, for tomorrow we die; and if it so be that we are guilty, God will beat us with a few stripes, and at last we shall be saved in the kingdom of God

I didn't see any of my neighbors physically out in our culdesac digging a deep pit with a shovel.  I do see it in their well-meaning acceptance of a lifestyle that will only bring harm to society in the long run and for the crazy joi de vivre of legalizing a controlled substance (which will not turn out in any way to resemble what they think they are getting.)
I fell asleep comforted by the knowledge that above all, God is in control.  There will be a way for me to worship as I please and to teach my children.  It may not be easy.  We may be bound down and oppressed, but just like the people who followed Alma, the burdens will be lightened so that we can withstand them.  Every day I will be grateful for the counsel that has been pouring from our prophets.  Protect your families with scripture study, family prayer, temple attendance, weekly Sabbath observance, family home evening, and more.  Be kind.  Be thoughtful.  I don't want to feel that in order to be my definition of a good American, I have to hate my neighbors or call them names. Getting angry just means that we are giving Satan an edge in the battle he is forging. I don't want to give him that satisfaction.  In the end, I'm not responsible to anyone else but my Heavenly Father.  In the end, I'm not responsible for anyone elses behavior but mine.

Suck it up, Jill

The other day Morgan called me from school and wanted to come home because he'd overdone it in PE.  P90X.  I told him to suck it up and stay for the hour that he had left.
Now I'm telling myself to suck it up.  The rains have begun.  It will rain until after the 4th of July.  It makes me kind of sad.  I know there will be breaks in the deluge, but it's still depressing.  So, to change my attitude, I'm going to list all of the things I really do like about the rain.

I like the sound as it pitter-patters on my roof
Rain really brings out that Washington smell and that's a good thing
We planted/reseeded our lawn a couple of weeks ago and the rains have kept the temperatures warm enough and the ground wet enough to get a good start.  There's a bright green sheen to our dirt and those little bitty green whiskers make me smile.
I get to use my new ginormous umbrella to walk to the bus stop.  I'm a cool mom now.
Since I'm stuck inside, I can start working on my furniture refinishing projects.  I got some yellow paint today for the hutch that makes me giddy inside.
Hot chocolate
Soup
Not feeling guilty about taking a lazy day to read all snuggled up in a blanket with Gorges.
It makes summer all the more sweeter when it finally arrives.
When I finally get to visit England, I will feel right at home

My glass is definitely looking a little bit fuller.

Slavery.... what is it exactly?

As I clean my kitchen for the umpteenth time, I wonder about slavery.  No one pays me for this job.  I hate it.  The kids have kitchen chores:  set and clear the table, load and unload the dishwasher.  So I shouldn't have to be doing dishes all the time.  Yet I am.  And cleaning off the counters and wiping down the table.  And sweeping up all the crumbs and play dough.  And grinding my teeth over a big sticky spot that no one seems to take responsibility for.
Slavery has been a part of human society for a very long time.  The natural man in us is lazy and wants to do as little as possible.  If we can find someone else to do the work for us, all the better.  If we can get them to do the work without paying them so that we can still spend our monies, we've hit the jack pot. 
When Americans think of slavery, we think of the South and Uncle Tom's Cabin.  Open it up to world history, and that's not what slavery was.  Slavery was not color specific.  The Europeans had the serf system-- slavery for the people who lived on the owner's land.  The Africans and Asians have a long history of raiding their own peoples and taking slaves.  Those slaves built pyramids, fought as gladiators, waved palm fronds, and fed grapes.  I don't know all that they did.  There are many instances where slaves (who were more like indentured servants) earned their freedom.
America's brand of slavery came because of a few tiny little details; mosquitoes and the diseases that they carried like malaria and yellow fever.  The early colonists of the New World (I'm including South America and all of the islands that the plantations were on) tried to bring over work forces from the prisons of Britain and Europe.  They tried to enslave the Native Americans.  The native population either died from the diseases that were brought over or they simply walked away.  The prisoner work force died in droves from malaria and yellow fever-- the same as the plantation owners and foremen. 
As the net spread for a viable work source, it was discovered that many of the Africans were more tolerant of the ravages spread by the mosquitoes.  Ah ha!  A work force that won't die!  Thus we start this huge influx of Africans to the Americas and the islands.  Slave boats would pull up to the coasts of Africa and the Africans themselves would load up their spoils of war-- very profitable for all concerned, except for the slaves. 
Anger and cruelty often times stems from fear.  (some people are just psychotic, but I'm not talking about them here.)  All over the plantations, where ever they were, there would be perhaps one foreman in charge of the private property of some smart man still living in Europe, away from disease.  Mutiny and slave uprisings were prominent.  I think the cruelty that we think of when we think of American slavery comes from this.  The slaves had to be kept down, or there wouldn't be any slaves.  In South America, there were armies of former slaves living and fighting guerrilla style in the mountains.  The slaves of Haiti overthrew their plantation owners to the extent that there were none left.  It was a serious concern, from the owner's perspective.
The natural man also has another fault.  To make ourselves feel better about ourselves, we put others down.  You see this in any caste system from entire populations of a country like India to something small like the pecking order at school.  It was easy to see it as "a kindness" to be taking care of these Africans.  We love them like children because they are children, but sometimes not exactly human children.  They are simple.  They need us to provide food and clothing and work for them.  They NEED us.  We are kind.
Even after freedom was granted, the feelings of even abolitionists remained the same-- they are like children.  Blacks fought their way, tooth and nail, to become acceptable contributors to the communities they live in.  I remember reading an article a long time ago about how hard it was for a black person to become a quarterback in football, because there was a distrust in their leadership abilities-- children simply can't be leaders to grown ups. 
This is why it just makes me cringe when I hear about and see the US welfare system working among African-Americans.  How is it not a continuation of the same old, same old?  They need us to provide food and clothing for them.  It is a kindness. 
How is it a kindness to rob someone of their dignity?  How is it a kindness to make them slaves to a system that robs them of their ability to provide for themselves?  How is it a kindness to keep them in poverty generation after generation because their ancestors paid a horrible price in history?  I just read a comment from a blog and it made me want to shake the writer of it and not just for the terrible spelling and grammar.  "Republicans only think about money.  Democrats help people." (I've obviously corrected the spelling)   Let's put all this partisan crap aside for a minute and help me understand again, how is it help (from anyone!) if you create a system that enslaves?!
I don't have a solution.  I'll have to work on it for when I'm grand high empress of the world.  Until then, I'll just blog and vent my feelings to a very small audience (you all know who you are and that I love you). 

A bad case of the sulks

Today Morgan stomped out of the house for school.  He gets up at 6 in the morning, hurries to get ready (which may or may not include a shower), and then spends a half hour playing on the computer.  This morning's venue included YouTube visions of RONIN training, specifically the Parkour Training.  He got a free week long pass at the Emergency Prep fair and has delusions of grandeur. 
(Am I remembering correctly that there was a movie called "Ronin" and that he spent a good portion of the movie scampering about, controlling the elements?  I think that's where this came from.)
I tried to explain to Morgan that these kids come with gymnastics and martial arts backgrounds.  They get up when they fall down.  They don't cry over bumps and bruises.  They spend 4-5 hours a day working on this.
I asked him where and how he would use this skill.  "To get away from people."  Which people?  "Bad guys." 

It's not what he wanted to hear this morning, but I told him I think he should focus on using his brain and developing his faith.  Nothing thrills a mother's heart like seeing her son become a vagrant because he's used all of his time to figure out how to use the city as a personal obstacle course or that his finely honed skills are used in running from the police.  I'm sure there's one of those memes about it.  What people think I do, What I think I do, What my mother thinks I do.  I'm pretty sure the mothers have it just about right. 

Wonders of Wonders

I just thought I'd brag a little, because there is seldom anything I do that I feel good about having a good old brag fest over. 
I went down (that's descended) 2 pants sizes. 
12 pounds have remained consistently gone.
That's a miracle. 
I'd like to take more credit than is due, but I can't.
I got my IUD out at the beginning of summer.  Apparently this form of birth control not only makes you retain fat, but it makes you crave all kinds of sugar, which can only lead to more fat.
I find that I'm not munchy all the time.  There are 3 humongous bags of Halloween candy that have sat in the pantry for 3 weeks.  I have had nary a bite.  There are unopened Almond Joys on top of the fridge.  Eh. 
I did eat a good portion of the bag of those green wrapped mint chocolates from the Costco gods, so we're still talking about the real me here in case anyone was wondering about alien life swaps.

How the Potato Saved the World

Potatoes are amazing. I can say this because I grew up in Idaho where potatoes are king. My dad rarely grew them on our farm, but plenty of people around us did. We would go out in the fall, after the fields had been harvested, and glean fresh potatoes. We would dump our large stash in the huge bins my dad built in the garage. They would last for a long time.
Here's a little bit of history out there for everyone. Potatoes came from South America; up in the Andes to be more specific. Potatoes are related to nightshade. The plant is deadly. The original tubers themselves were poisonous. Hungry Incans noticed that the llamas were eating the tubers, but that they were also eating clay along with them. The very first potatoes were eaten with a side dish of watered down clay (as an artist, I should remember what that stuff is called, but I don't). For all those passionately against genetically modified foods, be grateful for this: without any kind of modern technology, the ancient Incans modified the potato into an edible and sustaining food.
As the New World opened up to the Old World, there began a large exchange of goods and products. A starving Europe and Asia, just struggling out from under the oppression of the medieval era, found that the greatest things to come from the Americas were corn and potatoes (beside the gold and silver, which only the wealthy ever saw). One ear of corn feeds more people than one stalk of grain. Potatoes can be grown in sandy soil not fit for other crops. It can be argued that because the people were finally being fed, they had the ability to start the Renaissance and move into the Industrial age. Starving people subsist. Full people create.
Next summer Morgan is headed off to the Boy Scout National Jamboree. The Church of Jesus Christ of Latterday Saints uses the Boy Scouts along with it's own Duty to God Program for the boys aged 12-18. Between the two, the boys learn leadership and how to become productive, prepared, and service oriented. Morgan loves Scouts and is only 2 required merit badges away from qualifying to start his Eagle Project-- while some of this is because his dad is the Scout Master, a lot is because of Morgan's drive to learn all he can and accomplish the goals in a timely manner.
The three Seattle patrols that are a part of troop D-244 are getting a once in a lifetime opportunity. They will be travelling the east coast before the Jamboree, visiting sites from LDS church history and American history. They will go to Gettysburg, Washington DC, Rochester, NY, and other things I can't think of off the top of my head. Jamboree happens every 4 years. There they will have amazing opportunities and adventures while they are surrounded by other kids who are excited about Scouting.
Morgan has to earn $3500 to attend this (as does his dad, who is one of the Scout Masters going). Right now, he is doing a fundraiser with fresh-out-of-the-ground potatoes. For only $25 you can get a 50 lb box of potatoes. Think you can never eat that many before they go bad? Consider this: potatoes from the store have been in cellars for up to a year before they reach the grocers aisle. If the potatoes are kept in a cool, dark place, they can last up to a year. That's a year's worth of deliciousness! You can also share an order with friends and family. Because I'm super nice, I'll even put on a link that gives several wonderful potato dishes. http://www.sixsistersstuff.com/2012/10/50-delicious-fall-side-dishes.html?utm_source=feedburner&utm_medium=feed&utm_campaign=Feed%3A+sixsistersstuff%2FTUsn+%28Six+Sisters%27+Stuff%29
There are other side dish recipes on there, too, but potatoes and bacon? Yeah. I'm making these.
If you're hungry for potatoes now, give me a call. I'll send Morgan over to get your order. The money is required up front. The order will be sent in November 1st. We should get the shipment back anywhere from 7 to 10 days, just in time for mashed potatoes for Thanksgiving!
If you want to support Morgan, but don't need potatoes, you can donate to his cause. Checks will need to be written to Troop D-244 and not to Morgan. (the treasurer is making sure that records are kept of how much each boy is earning-- the money goes to that boy)
Also, I'll be putting together 2 lb boxes of candy closer to Christmas for him to sell. You KNOW you want that! Chocolates, cream cheese mints, toffee, and whatever else I can dream up. You're drooling. I am too, kind of.

I Call Heads

This morning Malynn did her usual, "But I still need to do my homework!" after I gave the "time for the bus stop" bellow.  As we walked to the bus stop, we worked on her Scholastic News worksheets.  They had a two page spread on concussions in sports, especially football, but in the rest of them as well to a lesser degree.  The worksheet she was supposed to do had two sides.  They provided the problem (as stated in the SN) and you were supposed to come up with the solution (as stated in the SN).  One of the problems was this:  Over 140,000 children in the US suffer from sports related concussions per year. 
Maynn asked me for the solution.  I said "Stop playing these sports."  Of course, I don't know anything.  It definitely wasn't the answer she or SN was looking for.  Change the rules!  Only let the kids spend 1/3 of their practice time tackling and blocking.  Yes.  Those are the answers. 
I tried explaining to Malynn why I felt the way I did.  Let's compare it to when we make you wear a bike helmet when you ride a bike or ride on your scooter.  "Protect your computer!" we all say.  The likelihood of one of my kids getting hit by a car (although they try to change these statistics on a daily basis) isn't huge.  The bigger concern is that they will fall.  Even then, at the speeds my kids generate, a hit to the noggin isn't going to be super hard. 
Yes, kids wear helmets and pads during sanctioned practices.  No, their coaches aren't trying to hurt them.  Then I read things like this:
Recently, his wife said Karras' quality of life has deteriorated because of head injuries sustained during his playing career.
Susan Clark said her husband couldn't drive after loving to get behind the wheel and couldn't remember recipes for some of the favorite Italian and Greek dishes he used to cook.
''This physical beating that he took as a football player has impacted his life, and therefore it has impacted his family life,'' Clark told The Associated Press earlier this year. ''He is interested in making the game of football safer and hoping that other families of retired players will have a healthier and happier retirement.''
Clark has said he was formally diagnosed with dementia several years ago and has had symptoms for more than a dozen years. He joined hundreds of other former players suing the league.
''It's the same thing as back in the gladiator days when the gladiators fought to death,'' Mitnick, who represents Karras and hundreds of others in the suit, has said. ''Fans care about these guys when they're playing and they are heroes. But as soon as you're not a hero and not playing the fan doesn't really care what happens to them."   ~ Associated Press
I've had three concussions in my life, and none of them came from playing in sports.  The first one happened when I was sledding with my dad down a spectacular jump at some friends' house.  The tube flipped.  I hit the icy bottom head first and then my dad and the tube landed on top of me.  The second was when my dad was teaching me how to drive the big motorbike.  We crashed and my head smacked into my dad's face (breaking his nose).  The last was when I was trying to impress some guys and jumped the bottom 5 stairs in our house, forgetting that there was an overhang from the upstairs.  No sports.  My parents were there for all of them and in fact causing some of them.  Perhaps I should have used a special needs helmet for daily life. 
So, I understand that kids getting hurt can't be helped.  If you allow your kids to live and play, they are going to get hurt.  What I don't understand is when you pay money and send them in to do it knowing exactly what the sport entails.  "Sack that quarterback!  At-tack!"  or "Wow!  That ball was pitched at 80 mph" when that ball is being thrown at a person. 
Does changing the rules make a big enough difference?  I don't know.  The safety gear is improving and there are way more than 140,000 American kids playing sports.  Maybe there isn't a huge risk.  My kids probably won't ever experience a sports related injury because I just am not that mom.  I'm not going to sit in the rain to watch you kick, throw, or catch a ball.  I'm not going to make everyone in the family miserable so that one person can shine.  Well.  We are involved in band and choir, so there is some misery to be had as we listen to 6th graders stumble through "Hot Cross Buns".  But I'm not outside in the rain. 
I guess my soap box ran out of bubbles as I try to justify my view point.  Let your kids play sports or not.  Make sure they are safe.  Even if they don't play sports, beware of sledding, motorcycles, and overhangs.  All this thinking is making my head hurt........

I don't remember that day

As in I don't remember the day I hired on at the local bordello.  Skinny girls with small bosoms can read this post, but they just won't get it. 
A week or so ago, I got myself another pair of Amanda jeans by Gloria Vanderbelt.  While I coveted the red ones, I opted for the slightly subtler plum ones.  Alison was with  me when I was eyeing the reds.  She said I should get them.  I asked her, "Where would I wear these?" envisioning myself sweeping the floor or making banana bread while I glowed my way through the house.  "On your body." was her response.  Yes.  Well.  I guess that would be the obvious choice.
So I have these plum pants with nary a thing to go with them.  A serious problem.  Today I set out to the local FM to find a shirt.  I'm not afraid to admit I shop in the women's section.  The arm space is so much more comfortable and the shirts tend not to gap open at embarrassing junctures while the wearer is gesticulating like an Italian.  BUT what you will get in the women's section is ENORMOUS necklines.  Necklines that I could wear around my waist with room to spare.  So this is my frustration.  Why do designers assume that busty women want to display all of the goods?  Is it a matter of material conservationism?  Since they have to add so much more to cover our Buddha bellies and bosoms that they have to take a little from somewhere else to make their material expenses budget out at the end of the year?  Perhaps it's because they think that with our Jabba the Hut bodies we also have heads to match, so an expanded neckline is put in to make room for the passage of our noggins that have their own solar systems.  (Thank you So I Married an Axe Murderer for that image.)
This look is manageable here.  Layers are not remiss where it scarcely gets into the 80's for a week or two out of the year.  When we go to Idaho in the summer, I still have to layer shirts in 100+ temps or face accidental costume malfunctions that bring horror to my family and myself.  Bending over requires all kinds of yoga-esque moves to keep myself modest. 
I guess this is kind of a clarion call.  All ye women unite!  Smaller necklines for one and all!  Because seriously.  When I hire on at a Miss Judy's House of Girls, Girls, Girls, I'd like to know about it and get paid a whole heck of a lot more.

1st Day of School

 Morgan off to his first day of Jr High.  It's hard to believe he's old enough for this!

 

 Here he is on his first day of Kindergarten, August, 2004.  We were living in Nampa, ID and he went to Greenhurst Elementary School.  His first teacher was Mrs. Dodge.  Malynn had to go every where that he went.  She came to the bus stop every day with her back pack and her clappy shoes.

 Sophie, the big 3rd grader.  She is one of Mrs. Chavez Charmers and totally happy to be headed off to school.

 Alison is only pretending to be sad, though she is a little bit nervous to start this new 1st grade adventure.

 That's the girl I love!  When I asked her how her first day of school went, she said, "There are three recesses!  Three!!"

 Nice.

 Not to be left out, Heidi poses.  We'll take a better picture on her first day of preschool.

 It was a rough start to the first day of 5th grade for Malynn. It means a lot of changes. Being top of the pile of kids. Changing classrooms for subjects. The responsibility of finding the perfect outfit.

I love this picture of her!  She looks so confident and cute!

 

While the picture below isn't from the first day of school, this is Morgan and Malynn in the fall of 2007, when Malynn was in Kindergarten (Mrs. Stensland) and Morgan was in 2nd grade (Mrs. Ostrowski)  at Rock Creek.

 Playing at the bus stop.  These rocks make for a nice game.

 Boarding the bus!

something on my mind?

What could these forays into dream land mean?  The last 2 nights and 1 nap, I've dreamt that we were moving.  The first dream was that we had been called to go to Zion.  We were spending an inordinate amount of time packing.  It kind of reminded me of when I asked Malynn to help clean her room.  I told her that if she wanted to save any of her papers, she had to go through them, save some, and put them in a folder.  She spent 2 of the 3 hours Sophie and I spent cleaning, carefully going through each paper.  It was painful for her to part with her precious garbage.  That's how we were packing.  Trying to figure out what we would take.  Suddenly my Dad and one of his friends appeared and told us that we didn't have time for this.  We had to go NOW.
(My Mom thinks it's a call to move back to Idaho)
Last night I dreamt we were moving to France.  Dan and I were discussing if we should allow Morgan to stay in the US and finish his schooling or keep him with us.
I just woke up from a nap where we were living in England. 

And lest you think this means anything, I also dreamed last night in sci fi fantasy.  I only remember vestiges of the dream, but I remember thinking, "Wow!  This is really cool!  I should wake up and write this down."  I also remember running a lot.  So let's not move there.  Ever.
Also.  I've been watching a lot of British shows and keep up faithfully with a blog about an American family who is living in France. 
Heidi dreamt about zombies.  Maybe dreams don't mean anything after all.

When the rain falls

Dear Children.
I am tired of yelling at brick walls and speaking a language I am sure is English, but must sound like gobbledigook to your sweet shell-like ears. 
If you hear the shower running in my bathroom you should not:
1.  tap, tap, tap on the door
2.  whine
3.  ask me to start a movie for you
4.  ask me if you can have a cookie
5.  tell on your siblings
6.  tell me that you are going over to the neighbor's house
7.  tell me that you've opened the front door against explicit directions and a stranger is standing in our messy living room
8.  oh..... why bother.  the list is endless.
You should on the other hand, disrupt my five minutes of cleanliness for this:
1.  The kitchen is on fire and you've already dialed 911.  Good initiative and poor, harmless fire fighters won't have to have their vision seared.
2.  Nope.  That's it.  I don't have any more reasons for you to tap, tap, tap on my bathroom door. 

Celebration!

We have been in a state of celebration for the last 2 weeks. 
It has been a very long, hard haul.  It has been filled with screaming, crying, cold showers, bribery, grounding, a couple of spankings, candy, rewards, and many, many tears.
Potty training is not for the weak of heart or faint of spirit.  There is a reason you wait until your child is ready and move on from there.  All of our kids were potty trained within a few weeks, maybe months of turning three.  All but Heidi.  Heidi, Heidi, Heidi.  Perfect, "the good child", Heidi.  But not with this.  She mastered peeing in the toilet rather quickly.  It was the messier and stinkier portion of using the facilities that bamboozled her.  And it wasn't that she didn't know how.  There were days at a time where she would make it to the toilet instead of sneaking off to her room.  There was enough incentive.  She got candy every time.  She got praise.  The mom of one of her friends promised her a trip to Bounce It Up if she did it for a week.  "My butt won't let me!" "My tummy says 'No!'" "I don't know!" "Are you going to spank me?"
ARGHHHHH!!!!!
Not excited about our annual pilgrimage to Idaho and Utah, I told her that if she didn't figure it out before the day we were supposed to go, she and I would have to stay home.  We would miss Grandmas and Grandpas and cousins.  We would miss Lagoon.  We would miss the ocean.  For once the litttle monkey did not call my bluff.  The morning we were leaving, she came down and quietly sat on the stairs.  (Note-- she'd pooped in her pants the night before and the night before and the night before)  Usually, she gets up and bounds around the house greeting the day.  There she sat, quiet as a mouse. 
I came over and talked to her.  "Are you really going to leave me home?" 
"Of course not, Hi-Shay".
"Okay.  I'll poop every time in the toilet." 
And she has.  Every single time-- some times even more than once per day.  Glory be!  The whole culdesac knows about it.  She proudly tells complete strangers in the store, "I can poop in the toilet now and I get to go to Bounce It Up."  She got the blue baby doll at Kings that she's been coveting since the last time we were in Weiser.  Today she and Bailey are bouncing joyfully. 
Life is good.  Cause for celebration!

Death Creeps Ever Nearer

I'm 40.  Today.  In my head I'm still 27.  My body objects and says it's nearer to 50. 

The Art of Procrastination

Let's see.  What else can I do to avoid starting? 
Yesterday I bought 3 boxes of gorgeous apricots.  I also picked up 15 lbs of raspberries in their juice and 15 lbs of strawberries in their juice.  It's harvest time for certain!  I'm excited about the apricots because the last few years I've spent on the road during apricot season and only got the tail end leavings by the time I got home.  Our stock of apricots is carefully guarded.  Those will probably be the jars dated "1986" in my pantry when we clean it out because I can't stand to see the rows of jars diminish.  No More!
True story.  About five years ago I helped my Mom clean out her fruit room-- so that would have been 2007.  There were seriously jars of brown mush from 1986.  Gross! 
I need to clean off my counters, bring in the jars, lug out the 6 gal bucket of sugar, reorganize my pantry shelf space, reorganize the freezer, and bring in all of the canning paraphenalia.  I love the product.  I actually love doing it.  The prep work makes it seem daunting.  Once canning season begins, my kitchen is a wreck.  I can't move after the long days.  My breast bone is already getting into the act. 
Must. Get. Moving.
If anyone wants to learn how to can, let me know.  I really like sharing this skill.

Derailment

Whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger, right?  Exercise was killing me; or at least my entirely necessary knee tendons.  Years of muscular apathy/atrophy should not (apparently) be undone by throwing oneself into the sweaty fires of exercise.  Seriously.  Crying when you have to go to the bathroom because you know that you a.  have to sit down and b.  have to get back up isn't the way to live life.  The deep finger scratches in the walls down the stairs and around the toilet cubby could lead future buyers (no, we're not selling) to suspect something sinister was going on. 
I have been doing Physical Therapy for a month now.  I have learned that my poor little knees have held my bulk up for years.  No wonder I have no core muscles and my ankles swoon when I put any stress on them.  No wonder my thighs quiver and beg for mercy when I stand on one leg with my knee slightly bent, because that's all the give I have. 
After three weeks of learning strengthening and lengthening exercises, I have the go ahead to go back to the gym, with specific instructions.  No squats or lunges.  Rats.  Mostly upper body strengthening and walking.  Meanwhile I go through the whole growing litany of hip, ankle, and core strengthening exercises I get from the PT every day.

Warning: Objects in Mirror are Crabbier than they Appear

Something in the air is grating on my nerves.  It's partially my kids' constant summer break bickering and my forced extra laziness (knees), but I must be going through some major hormonal shifts because I am a bear to live with.  I don't even like myself very much.
This is my grumpy story from last Thursday which proves that no good deed goes unpunished.
Morgan and Malynn had back to back piano lessons that afternoon.  I needed a couple of things from Costco, so I took the three little girls during our hour break.  They were really good.  Alison even kept me on task with not so gentle reminders that "You said we were only supposed to get the things on our list and that's NOT on our list."  They were so good that I decided to reward them with frozen yogurt from Costco's quasi restaurant.  When we got to the register I asked for 6 (heck, Morgan and Malynn actually practiced that week-- a miracle) cups, but they only needed to be filled half way.  I felt pretty generous about the $1.35/each cost.  We could go without the full amount.  Not only did she fill the cups all the way (it's such a good deal, what crazy person wouldn't want all of the frozen yogurt?!), but the mix had just been added and it wasn't frozen.
If anyone remembers, last Thursday was our monthly hot day.  We didn't get to the 'Burban before there was melting fro yo trickling down the side of the cart.  Awesome.  The girls were scarfing down chilled vanilla flavored soup as fast as they could.  The drive to piano lessons was only 10 minutes.  My cup holders were filling up every second.  The third cup sat dribbling on the console between the seats. 
I tried to make the left turn on to Witte (pronounced Witty) Rd.  Ooooooh Noooooo!!!!  Sudden red light.  I stopped.  The cup on the console did not.  It landed by my feet.  I reached down and scooped up the goo.  I drove one handed, with the other sticky hand trying to keep the slosh on the console upright.  Thankfully, I bought cleaning wipes.  They were on the list.  I cleaned up while Morgan and Malynn came to the 'Burban. 
"What is this?" 
"Frozen yogurt.  Eat it."
"It looks gross."
"Well, that's not yours.  It's the one that fell on the floor.  Eat your soup and be quiet.  Not one word.  Not one more word."
Ever have a day that just went like that?  It doesn't matter what you do right, there's always a wrong creeping up behind to make it all crummy?  That was my day.  I'm struggling to get out of that funk.

The Art of Growing Up

A couple of weeks ago, Malynn got "the talk" at school; not THE talk, just the talk about her advancing maturity.  It has brought about a flurry of discussion.  I understand the intentions of this program, but much like the stranger danger talks, instead of empowering the kids through knowledge, it freaks the kids out.  We NEEDED to pack her an emergency bag immediately.  "It" could happen any day now.  So instead of getting the message that her hygiene habits need to change (like bathing more frequently than once a week or changing her socks), all she came away with was how embarrassing it would be to start her period at school and not be prepared with a month's worth of pads. 
I've been thinking of how I need to work with her the next few years.  We are too much the same person and are frequently at odds-- screaming, stomping feet, slamming doors odds.  Unfortunately it is not all on her side.  Since I'm right (of course I am), it's hard for me to back down.  Since she's young, it's hard for her to stop.  I know I'm the adult.  That makes it all the harder.
Life with kids is hard. I've determined to make it harder than necessary because that's just how I roll.  I'm anal enough to want things done a certain way.  I'm lazy enough to not teach them step by step.  I am very familiar with the saying "If you want something done right, do it yourself".  I find myself cleaning their pits of despair, doing their dishes jobs, constantly sorting and washing and putting away their laundry.  Why?  Because it's easier for me to do it than to fight them and I know that if I put the laundry away, chances are the next time I see the clothes on the floor, it's because they've been worn, not because they went directly from the clean basket and onto the bed to be knocked to the floor and trampled on while carrying a crumbly cookie and wearing muddy boots.  Dan keeps reminding me of the disservice I am doing them and that my own room looks like a pit of despair because I am constantly cleaning up after them. 
Sorry.  I got side tracked.  Malynn.  Maturity.  Yesterday she was going through the list of things I need to teach her about growing up.  Yes. Yes. and Yes.  We'll go through all of those things.  Then she asked me when I would show her how to shave her face.  What?  We had talked about shaving armpits and legs and that I would show her how to do these things when the time came.  I told her that she didn't need to shave her face.  I'm sure she envisioned herself all hairy and werewolf looking, when she panicked and said, "But you do."  What?!  "When have you ever seen me shave my face?!"  Sure, I get my brows waxed and have a few pesky hairs growing out of moles on my chin and neck that get plucked, but I've never, ever shaved my face.  After I calmed down a bit, it was discovered that my razor in the shower had given her the idea that I was quietly swiping away my beard every morning.  Uh, no.  That will be one to laugh about for awhile. 
Meanwhile, on to the adventure of teaching Malynn how to make delicacies like Bisquick biscuits and macaroni and cheese and chocolate chip cookies and how to crochet and do laundry and clean a bathroom properly.  It will be fun, right? 

Why I will never be thin again

Or in other words, "Why I will always look like my aunts."
When I was much younger than I am today, my Mom would always tell me that I would have to be careful about what I ate because I would look like her sisters if I wasn't.  I wasn't and I do.  A lot of that has to do with shared genetics.  We are Rowlettes.  We grow stocky and sturdy.  Think little Welsh mining ponies.  Think the Welsh themselves.  My Mom is a Hunter.  Even after 8 kids she remains thin-- not scary thin, but healthy thin.  She complains to me:  "I am 125 pounds".  "Boo hoo!" I say.  I can't even fathom that.  I was 130 when I graduated from high school and maintained a ten pound variance through college and mission.  Growing up in a family of Vikings can be hard.  My brothers are all over 6 foot.  My shortest sister is three inches taller than me.  For the most part, they will never deal with obesity.  They have their other problems that I don't have.... wonky prostrates, pcos.
That's the start of why I'm not thin.  The big reason that I will never be thin is that I love food.  If I couldn't cook or we were just into eating for the nutrients, we would have a sustaining gruel for every meal.  It would totally solve the "What's for dinner tonight?" question.  No brainer.  Gruel.  I have thought about it.  Alas.  It is not to be.  My fine tuned taste buds demand (yes demand!) better fare.
I got a message today from my doctor that said I need to cut carbohydrates from my diet to lower my bad cholesterol.  What do people eat if they don't eat carbs?  I guess the secret is to have the best kinds of carbs and to make them really count.  Bread?  Whole wheat stuffed so full of fiber you'll be regular for weeks.  Rice?  Brown and brown and a longer cook time.  Potatoes?  Don't you go messing with my potatoes.  If the Irish and the Incan can survive on them, so can I.  Pasta?  Again with the brown. Oats?  Only if they are soaked in some kind of sugar, so that kind of defeats the purpose.   I guess it's doable. I guess.... If I have to.... 
It's not all bad.  I really love my aunts.  Not only do we come from sturdy stock, we are strong women (and I'm including my Mom in this).  None of them are world leaders.  None of them have powerful careers.  They all had lots of kids on not very much money.  They all raised good kids-- a tribute to my Grandma Hunter. 

The New Me

Or not.
On Friday I joined a local gym-- Thrive.  Today I went in to have my free price included  introduction to the gym and fitness overview from a personal trainer.  Heather took me through all of the machines.  I sampled a few.  I really like the chin up assist machine.  I'm a simple kind of girl, so the treadmill on slow does me just fine, but she showed me how I could change the pace and the incline.  I tried to tell her up front that I am a complainer; that I would rather do anything than exercise.  Those who have conquered the natural man's laziness in fitness cannot grasp that others like to wallow in their unhealthy habits. 
BUT, I'm giving this a go and I'm actually kind of excited about it.  Tomorrow I am going to strength training.  I've lost a lot of my farm girl muscles and I miss them.  I asked Heather if she thought using a personal trainer once a month would be enough.  She started telling me about how beneficial having a trainer is.  I get that.  I need someone to help me stay focused and on track.  I just can't pay over an additional $60 a month to have a cheer leader.  So that's the big issue.  With a personal trainer, though, I would have access to her.  She told me about how one of her clients called because she was struggling.  Should she eat this brownie?  The point was that a personal trainer can talk you down from those self-destructive window ledges.  I would have just eaten the brownie and never given it a second thought.
I know what I look like.  We do have a mirror.  I have seen myself in the rare photos I allow to be taken of myself.  I don't have any delusions of grandeur.  My goal isn't to be the ideal weight for my height.  Even in Jr. High I knew that while I looked thinner than my friends, I was built for endurance and carried my weight cleverly placed so it didn't show so much.  My goal is to get healthy.  Yeah.  I'd like to lose some poundage.  My knees and ankles would thank me.  That Jell-o that was surgically implanted in my belly could be given to feed starving children and models.  I'm hoping that the longer I do this, the more I will be convinced of it's effectiveness and will want to continue for a good, long time.  I'm hoping that this doesn't kill me before it makes me stronger.

The Science Fair

When you become a parent and look lovingly into the teeny little face of your babe, look deeper.  Be aware.  This little light of your life will some day go to school and will have desires to participate in the science fair.  Year after painful year.  Be aware.  Beware.  And be very afraid.
I hate science fairs.  If you have seen Disney's "Meet the Robinsons" it's not like that, until the part where Lewis' project gets a loose screw, blows up, and angers all of the adults.  I'll walk you through the torture, step by walking across broken glass step.
1.  Each child gets their crisp copy of the invitation to join the frivolity of the Science Fair the beginning of March.  A heavenly beam of light shines down.  A harp begins to play.  The child gets a beatific look on her face as she imagines the glories she is about to create.
2.  She tells her parents.  Begs her parents.  Promises her parents.  Parents relent.  Surely our memories are faulty.  It's really not all that bad.
3.  It's now 3 days before the science fair in the middle of April.  Nothing has been done.  The tri-fold cardboard displays have sold out in all of the nearby stores.  Knowing that they now have a product as precious as gold or unleaded regular gasoline, those crafty store managers begin hiking the prices.  What the child could have gotten from the school for $2 is now $7.99 at Office Depot and at least 1/3 again as big.  This means more space to fill.  In a house that's a good thing.  It's not when there is a project due in three days.  Feel free to panic.  But please do not start the project yet.  That's simply not the way it's done.
4.  It's the day before the science fair.  A phone call tells you what you secretly dreaded all along.  Another daughter has also entered the fair.  "Nooooooo!" you wail.  To no avail.  She cries.  At least she finally stops crying when you tell her that the carnations in the colored water project will take too long, but you've found another awesome thing to do.  It involves lamp oil.  You should have just known this was a bad idea, but by now you are desperate. 
5.  It's 11 pm the night before the science fair.  Yes, it's the same day as number 4, but this has been a long day.  The first daughter's project and boards are finally complete.  You knew she was exhausted when you said something about her astounding farting abilities and she started to cry instead of laughing at her superb skills in the flatulence arts.
6.  You finally found the cheap tri fold displays at Target in Kent.  Well.  You hope it's cheap.  You bought a lot of summer shoes for kids, too, so it could have cost $10 and you wouldn't know.  You come home and have 45 minutes to whip up an astounding board describing liquid density.
7.  Whew!  Finally!  We are at the school.  The projects are set up.  Then the crowds descend.  Chaos ensues.  Children wander off and go missing.  Children are sad when they don't win anything from the raffle.  Mom starts hearing the far off whine of a thousand tiny little loggers chopping down an entire 400 acre section of the Brazilian rain forest.  Only it's not loggers.  It's her nerves.  Zinnnggg-na-na-na-ning!

Every year I say I will not be sucked into this madness.  Every year!  Dan helps the kids with their projects (a fact that goes far in explaining why everything is so last minute).  I did do a special intercessory project with Sophie this year.  It seemed easy enough.  I generally get rooked into helping when I see what they are going to do to their display boards.  For crying out loud!  It looks like a 4th grader and her dad made this!  No, no, no.  That simply won't do.  Except, as I walked around the madness tonight, the cutest boards were obviously made by the kids.  I renewed my vow.  We are never doing a science fair again!  Then Alison looked up at her dad with big blue eyes and said, "Dad.  Plllleeeeaaasseee can I do the science fair next year?" 
Well, she does have a good idea for a project.
On the way home from the dentist today, she wanted to know if she let the helium out of her balloon, if the suburban would float.  I told her no.  She is convinced that there is an amount (perhaps if everyone in our family had a balloon in the suburban?) where lift off will be possible.  Future scientist?  I should have known the minute her blurry blue eyes met mine in the hospital.

Ambrosia of my Youth

When I was little, on the rare occasions we got to watch a few stolen moments of TV at a friend's house, we would see this one particular jingle....... "Hey, you guu--yyss!" and an enormous glass pitcher would burst through the screen and parade down the street followed by a dancing mass of children.  The Pied Piper of our day, I guess.  We would beg my Mom for Kool Aid.  We didn't get real Kool Aid.  We got Flavor Aid.  It was cheaper.  And in keeping with my Mom's war on sugar, she would only put 1/2 a cup of sugar in.  We never had ice, just our green water from the well.  While we secretly doubted the veracity of a commercial which portrayed this drink as a kid ambrosia, we felt lucky. 
 Have you looked for Kool Aid in the greater Maple Valley area?  I have.  I have yet to find any flavors beyond the regular one flavor varieties.  So, one of my goals in coming to Idaho this week, was to stock up on those elusive blends:  Blastin' Berry Cherry, Slammin' Strawberry Kiwi, Ice Blue Raspberry Lemonade, and Watermelon Cherry to name a few.  They stopped making my favorite, Kickin' Kiwi Lime.  I suspect it was pulled from the market because  of it's uncanny resemblance to antifreeze.  After spending some $12 on Kool Aid packets, I think we are stocked up for the coming year.  Food storage is SO essential to peace of mind, I always say.
I think there are a couple of reasons that Kool Aid variety is so scarce around us.  It's become the poor kid's drink.  In WA, where we pride ourselves on paying more for everything (the "we" is very loose here.  I hate spending more), the thought of 2 quarts worth of drink available for $0.22 plus the cost of a cup of sugar is abominable.  Then there's that naughty word sugar.  Shudder!  Only the unwashed bourgeoisie eats sugar.  The rest of us fine dine on our freshly squeezed organic juices flavored with agave nectar. 
A couple of years ago, I was out in the culdesac talking to a group of moms.  I said something about Kool Aid.  One of the moms said, "I never let my kids have Kool Aid!  Do you know how much sugar is in that?"  This as she opened up a fresh can of Coke for her three year old and her then pre-teen slouched nearby sipping his Monster drink.  "Yes," I thought to myself.  "There is exactly one cup of sugar in 2 quarts." 

The Little Mermaid

Tonight I told the little girls stories at bedtime.  I felt they deserved my yarn spinning talents since they were pretty good for Morgan while we went to the temple.  And I guess I didn't so much spin yarn as tell them the old classic tales in all of their gory details, not the fancied up Disney versions.  First came Little Red Riding Hood.  I used to tell a different version to Morgan and Malynn when they were little (it involved 3 little pigs and sword fights) and one of our favorite movies is Hoodwinked.  I figured they would know the basics of the story, but Sophie actually knew things and corrected me as I went along.  I said the wolf ate the grandmother in one bite.  Sophie said it was in one gulp, because a bite would have probably killed her.  Alison thought this was a twisted tale.  "But the wolf would have a huge stomach and how could he have pretended to be the grandmother?!  No.  She went on a walk or something."  Then when I told of how the woodsman slit the wolf's stomach open and they replaced Little Red and Grandmother with rocks, Alison shrieked, "Well, was he dead when they did that?!"
Despite the unsavory contents of the first story they wanted another one.  Someone shouted, "Tell us the story of Ariel!"  I asked if they wanted the real story.  "Oh, yes, yes..... we want the real story!"  The real story is sad, but is the story of how true love triumphs over selfishness.  Sophie got sidetracked by sea foam.  What is sea foam?  Well, it's the stuff that floats on top of the waves.  I compared mermaids turning into sea foam like our bodies turning into dirt when they are buried.  I could hear her muttering, "I don't EVER want to turn into dirt!"  Then she said, "What?  There are mermaid skeletons floating in the ocean?!"  Heidi was side tracked by the sisters cutting off their hair  to buy the knife.  I guess with her personal experience in these matters, hair loss is serious business.  "You mean the sisters were BALD?!"  Meanwhile, the story finished to silence.  Alison starts in with a shaky, almost crying voice.  "That is NOT the real Little Mermaid Story!" 
I guess I accomplished something tonight.  I destroyed the Disney bred innocence of three little girls.

Healthy Eating

When I was in 4th grade, we started our chapter on health. We watched these classy movies called "Mulligan's Stew".  Knowing me, I probably thought I looked just like the young tamborine player with her blonde pony tails flipping all over the place.  We learned about 4-4-3-2:  four helpings of fruits and vegetables, four of breads and cereals, three helpings of dairy, and two of meat and protein.  "Tell me what you eat and I'll tell you what you are!" 
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VyZOr-EUs04
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=634-QuYgfMI
Last night I was making no bake cookies-- you know, those delicious fudgy, peanut buttery oatmeal cookies?  Would you believe that those were introduced to me in 4th grade health class?  They were touted as a healthy treat.  The lunch ladies made up a special introductory batch for us and we were in heaven!  We each got to go home with our very own recipe on paper fresh from the mimeograph machine.  I am sure I took a sniff of it, since I really liked the smell.  I wanted to make them instantly, but my Mom was and ever is, my Mom.  Too much sugar and too much chocolate!  It wasn't until I was much older and making my own baking choices that I realized cookies were meant to be sweet and that things like no bake cookies and lemon bars only set up properly with the recipe's full amount of sugar.  My saving grace was that now the school was serving no bake cookies (made with all of the sugar!) at least once a month at school. 
I was explaining this to Dan as I made them.  He's never been too excited when I get that hankering for my no bake kryptonite.  His Mom took the health lessons to heart and made them far too often for his liking.  (I know!  What madness is this?!) 
This is my point.  As I ate a no bake cookie for breakfast this morning, I relived my health lesson.  These cookies are healthy and I'm sticking with that!

Here is my recipe:
1/2 c butter
2 c sugar
1/2 c milk
1/3 c unsweetened cocoa powder
In a large sauce pan and on medium heat, mix these ingredients together.  Bring to a rolling boil.  Let it boil for 3 minutes.  Remove from heat.  Add
1 tsp vanilla (watch it boil!)
1/2 c peanut butter
2 1/2 c quick oatmeal
Drop heaping spoonfuls (or use an ice cream scoop) onto wax paper on a flat surface.  (p.s. not on top of your wood table-- it will leave heat marks in the wood)  Let cool.  Eat.

Yearning

I've discovered that life is pretty full of yearning.  I was reading a friend's blog and the feelings of jealousy yearning arose in my ample chest.  She was spending time with her husband, all by herself.  I would like to do that.  Our date last night was to the evening session of Stake Conference.  Dan spent the minutes before talking scouts to a fellow scout leader and afterwards we scooted right out.  Dan hates to be caught in traffic.  We went out to ice cream after (mmm.... sweet cream w/ raspberries) and were stopped by other members of our church, but not from our stake.  We chatted with them for a minute in the freezing cold.  The man was obsessed with round abouts.  The conversation veered away and he would pull it right back.  People in WA do not know the first thing about round abouts.  Period.  We got home from our "date" to find the house in ruins.  The kids were running around screaming (obviously NOT asleep) in various states of undress.  Food on the floor.  No dishes done.  Heidi's whole toy box dumped on the stairs, along with every elastic band we own.  I guess not every one.....  there are still quite a few tangled up in My Little Ponys' manes and Barbies' Afros.  I felt like crying.  So much for any kind of spiritual high.  So much for our "date".  I yearn for the time when I can leave with Dan, actually spend time with him, and not come home to a bigger mess than what I left.
I spent a big part of my young adulthood yearning for these days.  I would have a perfect husband who would some day be a mission president.  I would have perfect children all dressed so perfectly.  I would be perfect, or at least the Relief Society President, which, as we all know, is pretty darn close to perfect.  I spent a lot of post mission time immersed in the scriptures.  I studied a lot, confident that the ability and desire to do so would always be with me. 
Life is life.  It's messy and dirty and seldom follows our own plans.  It's probably a good thing.  I would be awfully insufferable by now if everything had turned out the way I wanted.  I'm fairly certain that I remained unwed as long (dramatic Mormon single young adult female sigh) as I did because I was intimidating  insufferable. 
Awhile back I read an article about an amazing woman who took the disappointment of not marrying and turned the pain of that into a lifetime of service to children in war torn countries.  I watch my sister-in-law and her husband suffering because they can't have children, yet know that they couldn't be in the position to take care of family members with real needs if they had a passel of children underfoot.  I hate that they have to bear those burdens, but they are an amazing couple because of it.  They are also growing in ways together that most couples have to wait for until all of the cuckoos have flown the nest. 
I guess my point is, that we all have sorrows.  We all have burdens.  We all suffer through a life that isn't always of our choosing.  Yearning comes naturally.  It's what we do with the yearning that counts.  I have the choice to count my blessings that I have a house full of destructive children.  I have the choice to find time amidst the chaos to fill my soul with gospel study.  I have the choice to make what little time I have alone with Dan count, instead of spending watching a few hours of mind numbing TV.

What Happened to Us?

I like the idea of animals.  I don't really like animals all that much, especially ones that traditionally live in people houses.  I grew up on a farm (an actual one where that was/is my Dad's profession and his children's bane) and feel comfortable saying that animals belong outside.  Cows belong outside, for obvious reasons.  Dogs belong outside.  We didn't even have a dog for the longest time because dogs tend to herd and cows in a corral getting herded is a bad thing.  Cats belong outside.  Ours were always feral barn cats.  We'd steal the kittens, play with them for awhile, and then let them back to their native feral-ness when they weren't cute anymore.  [speaking of ferals, there was a neighbor family named the Ferrels.  They were hippies that used to roam through their mini orchard pretty naked]  My mom is terrified of mice, so the possibility of having a rodent animal in the house wasn't to be dwelt upon.  We had a couple of birds.  Mr. Bird the parakeet.  He was a funny soul.  Until we left my brother home during one family vacation and came home to find him dead.  Then we got finches.  Mrs. Finch didn't live very long.  Mr. Finch got one of his feet caught in the nesting material and it fell off.  My brother (the same one that let the bird starve) came home one day with the red turtle from biology class.  That lasted a couple of months and then we released him into the Snake River.  Probably illegal.  We had guppies.  We had them for a long time, until one of my cousins was running through the kitchen with a hammer and hit the tank.  (Yea!  Guppy soup for dinner tonight at the family reunion!)  We would always catch tadpoles from the ditches and put them in the Radio Flyer to either bake in the sun if we forgot or to turn into baby frogs if we remembered to keep them watered.  Our most important rule was that veterinarians were only for useful animals, like cows.  Our animals, not the cows, were usually pretty scabby and if they couldn't care for themselves, they died.  The cows usually died, too-- well, the cows didn't, but the tasty, tasty steers did.  I'm realizing as I write this that it is no wonder why I don't really like animals.
When we got married, we decided (Dan being a country boy himself) that animals would be outside.  I mentioned liking birds.  Dan mentioned always wanting a gigantic fish tank.  On my second birthday after we were married, Dan got me a 30 gallon fish tank.  [See the Simpsons episode where Homer buys Marge a bowling ball with the name Homer inscribed on it for her birthday] All in all, I don't mind the fish.  I hate when the water starts getting low.  The constant trickling noise grates on my nerves and after having 5 kids, is just plain dangerous. 
Last fall, Morgan was trying to beef up his merit badge collection.  He wanted to get the pet merit badge.  He'd just finished up 3 of the hardest required ones and I kind of lost my mind felt like he should be rewarded for his hard work.  We discussed birds (my choice), dogs (not going to happen), cats (nada to this), gerbils or hamsters (Grammy would never visit us again).  Morgan wanted a bird until we told him that Blue from the movie Rio couldn't really talk, only mimic and would never love him.  He really wanted an animal that would love him.  We settled on guinea pigs.  We got two cute little squeakers. 
I'm pretty tired of the squeakers.  They stink to high heavens, even though Morgan changes out their bedding once a week.  He doesn't remember to feed them.  They rattle around all night long (not nocturnal, my big toe!).  Come spring (you know, the one that finally gets here in July) we are building an outdoor cage/domicile for them.   They will not be coming back in the house when winter comes back.  If they live in the cold in Peru, they can live in the cold in Washington. 
We now also have a bird.  He was passed down to us, a culdesac bird, you might say.  Rigoletto is my favorite of our pets.  He sings when we play the piano or when Alison starts whining.  We got him a mirror and he loves his new friend-- he happily chatters to himself.  To get from one roost to the next, he'll slide down the bars of the cage.
So what happened to us?  How could we have gotten ourselves into this menagerie life style?  The girls are already planning their pets.  I dread the day we actually move on to some property.  We've told the kids for so long that we couldn't have a dog or cat until we live somewhere where they will be happy living outside and won't be eaten by eagles, coyotes, or raccoons.   

Taking a Stand

I had an epiphany this morning, or at least the edges of one.  I'll probably get in trouble for this post, prevailing winds being what they are and all.
I'm trying to collect my thoughts on it and they are all over the place  and this has taken me a few days to write.  The GLB lifestyle has become a conundrum for me.  I didn't understand it or want to.  Oh, there are certain aspects I think I get-- it is much easier to live with a woman than a man.  Women pick up things, both emotionally and physically.  As much as having roommates was a pain, at least they didn't expect me to clean up after them and take care of them.  They are also a great emotional support.  That's why I value my female friendships so much.  I need them as much as I need Dan. 
Here is the background to my epiphany.  Personal morality is based on the belief system that one grows up with or finds.  To someone who feels that family can be defined as any group of people that lives together or spends time together and loves one another, they are right.  In so many ways, we can have so many families that are encompassed in this definition.  Work families.  School families.  Friend families. 
I am not saying that traditional families are perfect.  I am not saying that by the world's standards the nuclear family is the best.  What I am coming to understand is my religion's view on family.  I am not speaking for my religion as a whole.  This is me and my epiphany.
The Plan of Salvation is central to God's Plan for our happiness.  I don't want to get into the whole of it, just this:  the family is specifically designed and defined toward one purpose.  Our goal as members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latterday Saints is to return to God with our families, sealed together in one long chain of covenants through our ancestors and progeniters.  We believe that in saying families can be eternal, they literally are.  Eternal increase (though daunting from my mortal perspective) is a blessing for those who keep the covenants they make.  Those things simply are not possible with the GLB lifestyle.   Our genders are not given on earth alone or for this life alone.  If we are female on earth, we were female in the spirit world and will continue to be so.  Upon death, our spirits do not retreat into an amorphous being. 
I fully believe that Satan will do anything to stop this process of eternal families from happening.  I'm not saying that everyone who lives a GLB life has personally gone to the devil and made a bargain.  I'm not saying that anyone has.  I don't think that those who follow this course are bad people.  Some of the brightest, most loving people are homosexuals.  However, I do believe it is a tool used by Satan to destroy the family that God designed, just like alcholism, drug use, gambling, selfishness, and my laziness and anger are his tools.        
I read this article yesterday:  "Crossing the Plains and Kicking Up Dirt, A New Mormon Pioneer" by Jessica Ravitz of CNN.  It set me off on this search for how I feel and understand my "Mormon Morality".  I agree with some of what Joanna Brooks espouses as "an accidental, unofficial, and admittedly unauthorized source for all things Mormon".  I don't agree with a lot of it.  What I really don't want is her speaking for me.  I want it clear that her understanding is not mine.   I know people praise her for tackling the topics of feminism and homosexuality, but to me I see her as a person who wants the blessings of the covenants she's made because she believes them, but she doesn't know why they are made.
I was thinking about this article and the stuff that surrounded Prop 8.  One of the circulating emails that I got was scare tactic based.  Lots of bad things would happen if Prop 8 didn't pass, including the LDS church being forced to go against it's beliefs and marry homosexuals.  That's kind of where my thoughts had gone, so I went with it.  Yesterday, my exact epiphany to the question, "Why do we oppose same sex marriage?" was this:  For the same reason it is opposed in the Old Testament-- as a protection for the family. 
As the Isrealites wandered around in the desert, they destroyed many other cultures and cities on the command of God.  Not a God who hated some of his children and loved some of his children a little bit more.  A God who needed his children to make covenants and return to him-- specific covenants made in the right place with the right authority.  The time and place being what it was (biggest mistake people can make is applying our current morality on a different culture and time), cleaning the slate was the solution.  The Isrealites were already steeped in Egyptian religion.  The laws are exact.  God's mercy allows us to repent and come to Him, but even He cannot break those laws.
We are not asked to go around clearing out neighborhoods so that we can have a nice heterosexual Mormon Utopia.  We aren't asked to blindly believe what our church leaders say.  We are asked to know the gospel through diligent study, prayer, temple attendance, and living it.  We are asked, to once we know the gospel, to stand up for it, no matter how the winds blow.  So here I am.  Standing up.  Explaining why I am taking the stand I am.
I am not accountable to the world.  I am accountable to God.  Through the scriptures and church leadership, we have been asked to guard the family against all evils.  I am accountable if I do not teach my children to understand what a family is and why.  Most importantly why.  That no matter how others define family, God's definition is the only one that can lead to eternal happiness. In teaching my children, I also need to teach kindness and love; that in taking a stand they remain empathetic to the feelings of others.  There isn't room for cruelty or pride.  It's not a personal attack.  It is standing firm on principles as the world changes around us.  I thank the heavens that I live in a country where it is still possible to express my belief and to live my religion.  I thank my Heavenly Father for the blessings he has given me all my life.  I am thankful for the knowledge of the gospel that is a part of me as much as the air that I breath and the blood flowing through my veins.  I am grateful for the strength it gives me in raising my family.