Janna-torials

Being a Boy is Hard

2009-01-27T18:44:00.000-08:00

Here is a short Response Paper I wrote for my Young Adult Literature Class.

Being a Boy is Hard

As a young woman, I often found solace and learned important truths from reading novels. In fact, I learned so much from reading novels that I often wondered how my non-reader friends ever learned anything and how they got along in the world. Well, they didn’t or at least not very well. This extra knowledge I gleaned from reading has served me well over the years and that is one reason why I feel it is so important to provide access to books and additional understanding to students who read them.

Boys have traditionally been left to other devices to learn the lessons of life, reading was never high on the list of any of the boys I knew and I always felt like it was a shame. It was especially sad when the other “devices” boys learned by were their idiot friends, their bigoted neighbors or their chauvinistic fathers. Young men need just as much information as young women do in order to grow up to be enlightened, functional and happy grown-ups. Reading is a terrific way to accomplish this search for information on how to become an adult.

I know reading about regular, average boy’s lives is probably not as exciting as the novels the authors in the articles summarized, but, don’t these boys exist somewhere or is every young man in a cage match with girls, friends, dating, drinking, sex, love, emotions and testosterone? Maybe they are. And if they are, they should read more. They should read many of the novels listed in these articles and take the time to think about their situations and possible solutions, or interventions, to their apparently destructive behavior.

Taking time is something that boys NEVER do. The boys that I know are always running: to school where they can see their friends, to practice, to a game, to a party afterwards, to a movie after the party, then to a bonfire out on the Arizona Strip. The only time they slow down is when they collapse into bed after being on their feet for the 20-hour, adrenaline-filled-juggernaut they call a Wednesday. There is no time spent on introspection, future planning, coming to terms, social development, relationships or (heaven forbid) homework.

The problem is that homework, reading and any of the above mentioned skills that are necessary for ending up in a good place instead of prison, or (the closely-related) teen parenthood, are not cool and they are not fun and those are the two things that drive boys: coolness and fun.

It will be up to every English teacher in the country to pay attention to boys and their reading habits and try to develop cool and fun ways to get them interested in books, and especially books that could teach valuable lessons in life that boys need, just as much as girls do.

Emerson, Thoreau and Usefulness

2008-11-14T09:32:00.000-08:00
Here is an assignment I had for my English 2400, American Literature class today.

Self-Reliance 2008

“A sturdy lad form Vermont or New Hampshire, who in turn tries all the professions, who team it, farms it, peddles, keeps a school, preaches, edits a newspaper, goes to Congress, buys a township, and so forth, in successive years, and always like a cat, falls on his feet, is worth a hundred of these city dolls.”
Emerson
I see young men, my townsmen, whose misfortune it is to have inherited farms, houses, barns, cattle, and farming tools: for these are more easily acquired than got rid of.”
Thoreau
Even the most polymathic, dexterous, open-ended individual is, after all, just one guy. He might retreat to Walden Pond for the simple life alone with a hoe, but if he dwells among mankind, he’ll need a veritable Gutenberg Galaxy of tools.
Sterling
This author has taken the transcendentalist ideals and tried to interpret them in a framework for our day. He suggests that in our modern day, a hoe, a wheelbarrow, an axe, is not enough to get by with. He goes on to say that if Thoreau were still at the pond, he would at least have a Leatherman Multi-Tool because they have “a certain tight-mouthed, implacable Yankee quality. They’re a state of mind.”
He next suggests the Apple iPhone as the “post-millennial version of the Leatherman.” It devours other tools: phone, camera, e-mail, Web browser, text-messaging, music, video players, whole plant-girdling sets of urban Google maps, house keys, pedometer, TV remote, seismometer, Breathalyzer, alarm clock, video games, radio, bar-code scanner…the list grows by the day.”
What about us, in our world. We might want to live in the world of ideas and nature, but we have to eat, every day. What tools do we use that inevitably feed us? What tools do we use to get along in the world? The tools we use to feed and clothe ourselves depend on the situations and professions we choose or find ourselves in. If this is true, it looks like everyone under 25 years of age has chosen to feed themselves by the creation, consumption and digestion of banal information. I have seen young men trying to dig a hole with a shovel. It is a pathetic sight. But, they are very good text-messagers, video game players and YouTube watchers. That doesn’t seem very useful to me. But, maybe I am just an old lady. It makes me wonder who will be feeding these people and their hungry families in the future. What marketplace are they preparing to enter? Who will be able to come up with authentic ideas and ways to live? It is important to remember that there was no cell phone coverage, PS2 , or internet connection at Walden Pond.

Poetry Assignment

2008-11-11T22:39:00.000-08:00
Our teacher gave us the assignment to read a chapter out of our book on teaching poetry and then respond to the chapter in poetic form. You should have heard the groaning when she announced it. I might have been the loudest. But, here is my offering. Tell me what you think.

Found

I found myself sound asleep,
alarm buzzing to start my day.
I found myself in a truck,
motor racing me towards school.
I found myself in a classroom,
ears ringing with information.
I found myself in a book,
eyes reading about a sometimes scary subject.

Suddenly,

I found myself learning about feelings, forms, experiences, sounds and language.

I found myself walking inside a beautiful structure of words and rhythm.

I found myself desiring to follow the example of a master teacher.

I found poetry.

And,

I found myself.

Developing a Class-Related blog

2008-11-06T15:24:00.000-08:00
Moenika and I are in class wondering about all the different ways a person can die of boredom.

1.You could drown in your own drool.

2. You could fall asleep and suddenly fall forward onto your sharp pencil.

3.You could hear the word "cool" one time too many and your ears could explode.

4. Your teacher could walk up behind you and read this and you could die of embarrassment instead of boredom.

My Birthday Poem

2008-10-21T21:39:00.000-07:00
It is my birthday on Wednesday, the 22nd and Dan wrote me a poem. He wrote me a poem 28 years ago when we were dating and I loved it. He's been saving up for this one. It's really wonderful. Thank you sweetheart.

Beautiful Symphony

Many, many years ago,
I mustered up all of my brainpower.
To jot down a simple rhyme, in hopes
of convincing you to be my sweet flower.

I cannot remember what I wrote so long ago,
though the words must have touched your heart.
For after all these some 28 years,
we do not like being apart.

I don’t know why,
but I again, feel the desire,
To muster up a rhyme,
on what has transpired.

We did not know what life together would entail,
a wonderful journey we hoped would be had.
We could not have known how much love would be felt,
when our four little ones would call out, “Hey, Mom and Dad”.

As I look back on those years,
the days blend together, full of emotions aplenty.
With happiness and tears coming together,
to create for me a beautiful symphony.

You and I are partners,
on a wonderful journey.
You have been my true friend,
so I look forward to eternity.

In Honor of Brad's Bithday

2008-10-08T22:41:00.001-07:00

Cheshire Cat

As he walked towards the Dairy Queen, he tried not to wear the Cheshire Cat grin he was feeling. He couldn’t help it though. He knew it wasn’t cool and that people were watching; he tried to tone it down, but then only the corners of his mouth gave it away.
He saw her through the window and was temporarily blinded. He allowed the electricity to pass through him, barely acknowledging it. To acknowledge it would mean he would have to admit what everyone was saying was true: he had a crush on her. He didn’t want that, not some high school, puppy love, comedy, or worse yet, drama. He wanted whatever they had to be different, special, something no one else had.
As he opened the door, he saw her sitting there with some friends. He could tell he was moving forward but he couldn’t feel his legs. His body was working of its own accord as he continued to walk towards the group. In slow motion she looked up at him, their eyes met and she flashed a smile so sweet, so expectant, and so pure, he was again temporarily blinded by the lightness of it.
Unable to explain how, he found himself standing right next to her. He’d been listening to love songs on the radio his whole life, his mother was a rock and roll fanatic, but none of those songs had ever meant a thing to him until this girl had smiled at him. Finally, Frankie Valli was making a lot of sense.
It was corny, he knew that, but he didn’t care. He knew what he knew. He knew what she had told him. He knew what they talked about. He knew how he felt when they were together or apart. He wanted to say, “Let me tell you everything I did today. I know you are interested in my every move and I want to share my whole world with you.” Instead, he just said, “Hi.”
Her heart was beating in her throat and what she really wanted to say was, “I have been waiting all day to see you. I have so much to talk to you about, so much to share, a lot can happen in a day and I know you will be interested.” Instead she smiled and said, “How are you tonight?”
Neither of them had very much more to say than that. If other people wouldn’t have been around, and if they had been a couple of years older, and if he was more brazen, and she was more flirtatious, and they lived in Europe, he would have picked her hand up and pressed it to his lips and whispered something soft and meaningful. Instead he looked around at everyone and asked, “What are we having?”
He found it impossible to say everything he was thinking, or anything he was thinking, when she was sitting right there and people were watching. He didn’t have a problem talking when they were on the phone or in the car by themselves or at her house, but out in public it was a different matter. She knew this about him and loved it. It was important to him to keep things private and low-key, special, only between them and she was happy to play along.
On the outside it was no big deal, he was just a guy she knew, we laugh together, he likes to tease me….On the inside she was thinking, “I can tell him anything. I want to know everything about him. I don’t want to make any mistakes because when I look at this boy I see everything all at the same time.” If they had been older and he had been less serious and she had been sillier, she would have thrown her arms around his neck and kissed him on the cheek and shouted, “Don’t ever leave my side!” Instead she just answered, “I’m having a chocolate shake.”
“That sounds good to me,” and he walked up to the counter to order.
He got a few paces away and turned, almost imperceptibly, to look at her again. She was staring right at him. Their eyes met and her face shone with the knowledge that he liked her just as much as she liked him and she liked him just as much as he liked her. Safety, security, ultimate acceptance, unconditional and child-like; all that passed between them in that millisecond as he turned away, trying to hide his Cheshire Cat grin and compose himself long enough to order from the girl at the counter.
As they sat together and talked and laughed about everything and everyone, anyone looking at them would think they were just two kids in a group of kids. Only the most observant would see how, when he spoke, her eyes lowered and she listened carefully, holding her breath a little and straining to hear every word and thought that was being uttered. She would remember what he said and they would talk about it later tonight. She would tell him what she had thought when he said this and that and how it made her feel, share her ideas.
Only someone who knew what they were looking for would see his breath catch when she told the events of the day. The way he fought to keep a cool look on his face and the effort involved in keeping the grin under control. His quietly teasing comments meant to show her that he was listening but to throw everyone else off the scent. He saved his bitter sarcasm for others. For her it was the gentle humor of an admirer.
Only the most seasoned eye would see how she beamed when he told of an activity or accomplishment, or how he winced a tiny bit when someone else jokingly made fun of her. He would remember those things and tell her later that the joker was wrong and stupid and she shouldn’t listen to them any more.
Later that night when he drove her home, he wanted to tell her everything but there was too much to say. So he said nothing. She also had nothing to say, not because she had nothing to say to him but because they had already said it all, in their looks, their laughter, their thoughts.
As he walked her to the door he wanted to sweep her up in his newly muscled arms and squeeze her tight. But he didn’t. He knew she was already afraid of the big feelings she was having and that she was being cautious. She had seen a lot of her friends burn bright for a boy only to burn out a few days later. That wasn’t what she wanted. She was glad he didn’t rush her and hug her and put his big, strong arms around her and hold her. It was so common. She was afraid of what she would feel, of what she would do or be unable to do. But she was sad when he said, “I guess I’ll see you later and stopped walking.
She turned around and in a soft voice answered, “It was fun tonight.”
Fun! Her mind was screaming! Fun! Fun is what little kids have when they play at the park. Fun is what little boys have when they ride bikes or when little girls play dress up. This wasn’t fun, it was bigger, more important than fun. This was sure knowledge. The knowledge that someone wonderful thinks you are wonderful and someone handsome thinks you are beautiful and someone intelligent thinks you are smart. Someone you want to spend time with wants to spend time with you. It isn’t fun, it’s validation. All the time and energy she had spent developing herself had been reciprocated and had turned out to be worth the effort. She smiled and said nothing but her face said everything.
He smiled back at her because he knew exactly what she meant, so he said, “Yeah, I had fun too.”
As she went inside, he turned and walked up the path to the car. He was so full of life and energy that he wanted to run and take the steps three at a time and slide over the hood of the car and then speed off in a shower of gravel, but he knew her dad was probably watching from the window. He carefully walked up to the car, got inside, put on his seatbelt and drove home. Finally, he let the cat out of the bag and grinned his Cheshire Cat grin, just like he wanted to all night.

My Little Rainy

2008-09-30T20:32:00.000-07:00
Twenty four years ago, as I was waddling around our house in Highland, Utah, feeling slightly sick and a little sore, I wondered what kind of baby I was carrying in my giant belly. Was it a boy or a girl? Fat, skinny, long, short, blond hair, brown hair, curly hair, straight hair. What would it be? I went to bed feeling like I was ready to meet this little child sometime soon.

The very next morning, I woke up to labor cramps and back pain. I shuffled around the house, kept Dan home from school and finally, called the doctor. He told us to go to the hospital and he would meet us there. Sure enough, they were real contractions, they were strong and steady and meant business. They put me in a bed, I called Joan (my mom) to tell her the news, and for the rest of the day we waited patiently for our little bundle of joy.

Finally, about 6:00 pm, the nurse came in to check me, scratched my amniotic sac with her fingernail, bursting it and letting a flood of water onto the plastic sheets, and it wasn't 5 minutes before I started pushing. No medication, no IV, no nothing and I am not saying this to sound brave, it is just that I was more afraid of any of those other things than I was of pain.

First, a head, covered with wet dark hair. Then, the slim little shoulders, one at a time. White, creamy, muscular. Then, in a rush, the rest of our beautiful, perfect, little girl. For the first of so many times, she turned around and looked right at me. It seemed that her crystal blue eyes were looking right to my very soul.

It was at this exact point in time that Joan came through the door in her school dress with her pink sweater. She had taught school in California that day, got on a flight at 3:30 and landed in time to be driven straight to the hospital by my brother-in-law Trent.

"Oooohhh, oooohhhh, she's beautiful", Joan cooed while giving me a hug, "Look at her long, perfectly shaped fingers. And all that dark hair."

I was still recovering from the shock that I had a little girl. Of my very own. A little friend to dress up and play house with and read fairy tales to and play school with. Plus, when you are in a stressful spot, the very person you want to see walking in that door is your mother! And she had miraculously appeared. Hormones, fatigue, relief, joy. I was a little overwhelmed at the time.

My mother continued by saying, "Wow, she looks a lot like my little Lorraine." At which point we both started crying like babies. My mother's Lorraine is my little sister, born right after me and Kelley and who only lived three days. She was born with a heart problem and in those old days, medicine had not advanced enough to save her life. We grew up visiting her grave occasionally, celebrating her birthday with a small conversation of remembrance, always knowing that in Heaven we had a sister that we would meet someday.

I choked out, "I have always loved that name. Would you mind if I named my baby girl Lorraine?"

So that is how it happened. My Lorraine is as strong, steady and means as much business as those contractions she was responsible for 24 years ago. I have laughed, cried, prayed and fought over Lorraine and I have been happy to do it. I can't imagine my life without her and couldn't be prouder of the grown-up girl she has become.

Now she has a little girl of her own to dress up, play house with, read fairy tales to and play school with.

Happy Birthday Lorraine!

Who I Am

2008-09-22T16:59:00.000-07:00
I had to write a paper that answers the question "Who am I? It was fun to write and you'll tell me if it was fun to read.

There are many possible answers to the question: “Who am I? I find it easiest to answer the questions in descending order based on the amount of strong feelings associated with each subject. The list looks like this:

First of all, I am a child of God.

Second of all, I am woman.

Third, I am a mother.

Fourth, a wife.

Fifth, an American.

Sixth, white.

I have been brought up in my family’s home, from the beginning, to believe that my Heavenly Father loves me, wants the best for me and will help me when I need it if I am obedient and humble. Because I believe this about myself, I believe it about others also. That’s the beauty of our Heavenly Father, He loves all of us equally and wants me to love others equally too. So, the biggest part of who I am is my strong religious belief that compels me to treat others as I would like to be treated and to care for others as much as my Heavenly Father cares for me. These foundational beliefs are my biggest cultural motivator and make it easy to answer the question of who I am.

I am the oldest daughter of an oldest daughter and there is nothing I can’t do. My very strong mother taught me by example that women are smart, strong, interesting, organized, funny, nurturing, competent, and accomplished. I never felt less being a girl instead of a boy. I never felt like there were things that were off-limits to me as a woman. I always felt that women could do whatever they wanted to do and I have a hard time understanding or enjoying the company of men or women who feel differently. Women who are not taught this powerful idea of womanhood from the beginning have a hard time overcoming their deep-seated beliefs that they are not as good or not as valuable as the men in their lives, and it is crippling. It should be enough to answer the question of who you are by saying, “I am a woman.”

As I became a mother, I understood how important my role was to my children. My thoughts, feelings and responses had to be weighed against what was best for my children, not always for me. Culturally, I felt it was important to continue our family’s strong religious convictions while at the same time building each child up to try and be their best self and to be kind and tolerant of others. A hasty, judgmental remark was no longer an innocent one, small ears were listening and taking every word in. My children grew up in a different world than I did and their perceptions of race and culture are different than mine. They are more tolerant and better at overlooking differences. But, I attribute some of the improvement in their cultural tolerance to my diligence as a mother. My children are a joy to me and help me answer the big questions of self-analysis.

I probably should have put my husband higher on the list but I don’t think he would expect me to. That is how selfless and kind he is. It was easy for me to become the real me because I was given the freedom, love and support to do so. If I wanted to pursue schooling or a hobby or an interest that took me out of the home, he was there to change diapers and make dinner. If I was worried or concerned, he was there to discuss, advise and assist. Every relationship is based on having expectations of your partner. I have plenty of expectations of my husband and sure, my husband has expectations of my role as a wife, but they match my own so it is not a burden. Mostly, being a wife is a joy and has allowed me to include that description of myself as part of the answer to who I am.

I have a great love for my country and oftentimes get very emotional when I hear someone criticize or denigrate America. America is not perfect, but it is still the best, most free, most opportunity-filled country in the world. I also believe that our country is divinely chosen and protected and that we, as citizens, have a responsibility to rise to the occasion and do our best in order to make this country run as efficiently as possible. I take my job as a good citizen very seriously and feel that the best thing I can do for my country is raise smart, responsible, functioning adult children who will help to continue to build the country and keep it strong. I can’t see a waving flag or a man or woman in uniform with getting a lump in my throat and a tear in my eye. Who am I? I’m an American.

Maybe it’s because I am a member of the majority but I never really thought much about the fact that I was white. I just was. I’m white, she is brown, he is black, that’s just the way it is. I understand that my attitude could be construed as naïve but when I considered it, my earlier opinion, that we are all God’s children, really supercedes any of the race, color, ethnicity or religious concerns. So, although I am white, I am not only white, I am many other things that are more influential to me when I answer the question of who I am.

I have had a lot of years and a lot of practice answering the question of who I am and I am glad to have the chance to write it down. It is a good exercise in self-analysis to decide where I stand, what my priorities are, what motivates me and how I want to interact with the world. Hopefully my actions can mirror my beliefs, that would make me a person of integrity and that characteristic is, thankfully, another important part of who I am.

The Little Pink Shoe

2008-09-08T21:57:00.000-07:00

This is a story I wrote in class today based on the prompt the teacher gave us. She asked us to reach inside a big bag, and write about whatever you pulled out. I pulled out a pink baby bootie and it reminded me of a real life incident that happened to me maybe 20 years ago. What I'm saying is , this story is mostly true.

Please tell me what you think. I have been writing daily for 2 1/2 weeks now and have had NO FEEDBACK. It's torture.

As they slowly inched around the curve she turned to her husband and mentioned, again, how much she hated the fog. She especially hated driving in the fog. It was like driving with a blanket over your head. Anything could happen in the fog.

She had a lot of confidence in her husband’s driving ability. She had a lot of confidence in her husband, period. He was good at everything. As they made their way through the early morning haze, her mind wandered up and down the list of things he was good at, happened upon a particular memory, and smiled to herself.

Out her passenger window, she could see some papers floating by. Quite a few of them. As they continued on, a bag, plaid with handles, lay on the side of the road. Next, a pillow. Then, a blanket.

She mentioned all this debris to her husband, warning him to be careful, there was a lot of trash on the highway. She turned to look at her sleeping children in the back of the van. All four of them cuddled up in blankets and pillows, arms and legs flopped over one another like a litter of puppies.

As she turned around, she could see flashing lights up ahead. “Slow down” she stated flatly. He already was.

The truck was parked on the side of the road, pieces of metal in its grill. One front tire was flat, the cab of the truck leaning over like it was tired, or hurt, just needed a rest. Then she saw the driver sitting on the side of the highway in the long grass, head in his hands, rocking back and forth.

Up ahead, she saw the reason for the trash strewn highway, the reason for the flashing lights, the reason for his pain.

The car had been little and red and was now the size of a lawnmower, back and front smashed together like an accordion of agony. Possessions everywhere. Suitcases, books, water bottles, a stuffed Winnie the Pooh.

Then came the figures under the blankets. First a large shape under a navy comforter, next a smaller figure under a flowered tablecloth, left hand sticking out as if to reach for the next pair of small figures sharing one pink fuzzy blanket.

As they were directed slowly past the tragedy, tears were streaming down her cheeks. A low moan came from her throat, her face drawn into a grimace of pain and disbelief. The last thing she saw as they left the scene was a little pink baby shoe, cloth, with a ribbon for a tie and lace around the edges. Her choked outburst woke up the oldest in the back.

“What’s up mom?”

“Nothing, Brad,” her husband answered softly, “We’re all okay. Go back to sleep.”

Politics in General

2008-08-29T14:31:00.001-07:00

Wow, after reading Elise's blog and then reading the comments I have a sudden, almost irrational well-spring of political thoughts rushing up from my guts into my head and out of my fingers. My hear rate is at like 120.

Listen up people. Democratic Washington is your enemy. They are not here to help you. They are here to smile at you and flatter you and tell you exactly what you want to hear and to make promises to you that they will make things better, they will help you, they will be a force for change if you will only go with them.

Democrats are basically Satan.

Let's be clear. They are really only here to feed their enormous egos, surround themselves with their well-heeled, over-educated, pretentious little cliques and try to somehow fill in the hole they have in their hearts for some unnamed crime the people, the United States or the world has perpetrated on them.

Politicians are not normal. No normal person would run for public office because normal people are raising their families, working for real money, going to church and holding church callings that take up a lot of their time or volunteering. And normal people are doing these things without any desire for recognition or without any need of a following.

It's only the kooks who are waving and smiling and shaking hands and looking sincere and regurgitating really well written speeches from some of the best, most misguided writers of our day.

Do you think Obama writes his own stuff?

Do you think his wife writes her own stuff?

None of these people do and elections are like a big game to them, run by these advisors and managers, to see if their guy will win because if he does....it will mean millions for everyone involved. All they have to do is promise to help you.

Why are Democrats willing to give so much help? Why are Democratic voters in need of so much help? Who is paying for all this help? I don't need any help. What I really need is for my elected officials to quit promising to help people and then doing it, and lining their own pockets at the same time, with my tax dollars.

We are idiots for thinking that any of this is fair, above-board or even ethical. Or thinking that our vote matters in the least.

I know it doesn't matter in Utah. Thankfully I live in a Republican state, so my electoral votes go to McCain.

Who, by the way, isn't fancy or shiny and is a little old and something is wrong with his right arm, but he is a bona-fide war hero. Did you go to war? Did you fight for your country? Did you languish in a prisoner-of-war camp for 5 years and wonder if you would ever see the light of day again? Nope, you didn't Mr. Obama and neither did we, but if we had or if you had, you would deserve some degree of respect for putting your life on the line for us so we could go swimming and eat ice cream and read novels and watch our boys play baseball.

The day I heard Michelle Obama say that this was the first time in her adult life that she was proud to be an American, I was finished with her and with the whole black/victim/we-shall-overcome issue.

This is about my right to work, raise my family and keep the money I earn and the Republicans, although not without fault, are the group that most closely matches my own beliefs. Maybe they have read Atlas Shrugged or The Fountainhead.

Is McCain perfect? Is Bush perfect? Is the new VP Nominee Palin perfect? No. But they love their wives and husband, they love their children and all children, born and unborn, and they love their country.

Just like me.

I Am What I Am (I feel like Popeye)

2008-08-26T21:54:00.001-07:00

Lorraine did this on her blog and challenged me to do it also.

Here it is:

i am: alone a lot of the time and I am okay with it.
i think: people are really struggling.
i know: that all the answers are in the Book of Mormon.
i want: my family to be safe, physically and spiritually.
i dislike: teachers who have to prove how intelligent and over-educated they are.
i miss: seeing my family everyday.
i fear: that I am too judgmental and critical.
i feel: like I am doing the right thing going back to school.
i hear: Peter Gabriel's-So.
i smell: can't smell, all plugged up like usual.
i crave: a full body massage.
i cry: when I know that my kids or grandkids are sad or in trouble or indistress or sick.
i usually: do things right away.Or else I forget them altogether.
i search: for something delicious, nutritious and no effort. Does it exist?
i wonder: what Kevin will be like when he gets home.
i regret: not being kinder to people.
i love: having all my family in my house laughing, eating, wrestling, playing kanga-minton....
i care: about my fat tummy, but not enough to do anything about it.
i always: want to help everyone, even if they don't want me to.
i worry: that people I know and love won't make good decisions.
i am not: obsessed with my appearnace.
i know:that Heavenly Father knows my name and cares about me.
i remember: the last time I went to college, all four of my kids were little, I taught early morning Seminary and was the Little League President! I did it then, I can do it now.
i believe: in the Gospel.
i dance: hardly ever which is sad because I LOVE TO DANCE!!!
i sing: in the car, by myself.
i don’t always: think about the other person before I say something.
i argue: with people who need a smack down.
i write: little essays on my blog and assignments for class.
i win: at all my smackdown arguments.
i lose: even though I win.
i wish: my husband would build the Neville Compound like we fantasize about!
i listen: to what people are really saying.
i don't understand: how anyone can care about politics.
i can usually be found: sitting on the couch reading or doing homework.
i am scared: of leeches too!
i need: can't think of anything, pretty content.
i forget: little things that clue me in to the fact that I am realy getting older.
i am happy: because everyone in my family is trying hard to be righteous.

Thanks Lorraine for the invitation. Diana, you are next!

The Joan Syndrome or That's What Mother's Do

2008-08-22T11:31:00.000-07:00

Last week I was lucky enough to spend a few days up in Washington visiting our friends and seeing beautiful places. While visiting in my friend's perfectly clean homes, I tried to do a little housework, like making my own bed, washing and folding my laundry and doing a few dishes. Why? It wasn't my house. I didn't have to do anything. I was on vacation even.

I then traveled to Provo to paint Megan's dorm room and then to Ogden to visit Kelly, Lorraine and Cora. There was no sitting. Only working. Why? Why can't I just relax and visit. Because I like working. I have to feel useful. I have to feel like I have accomplished something or am working on accomplishing something. I have to feel functional and task-oriented. It is part of my self-esteem now. I like to call it "The Joan Syndrome."

Let me explain.

When I was a young mother I was often pregnant, nursing or wrangling small children, which I was happy to do but which I also felt was exhausting. Not to mention the morning sickness and the interrupted sleep and the breast infections and the teething and other assorted childhood illnesses. Needless to say, although I kept a sanitary, livable house, there was much I could have done that I simply did not, could not, accomplish in a day.

Then, about every three months, out of a clear blue sky, a living hurricane would be seen on the horizon and a strong wind would blow my mother into the house. (Any witch reference is unintentional.) Within 10 minutes of entry, the dishwasher, washer and dryer would be running, the vacuumming was done and the vacuum was already put away and she was scrubbing the bathroom with Comet and promising the kids they could play a little baseball out on the lawn.

Then, while I was taking a nap (it was exhausting just watching her) , she would run to the store and stock me up on the basics like eggs, milk, cheese, bread and chocolate chips. Before my husband could get home from work, dinner was in the oven, a batch of cookies was cooling on the counter and all laundry was folded and put away. It was a miracle. She was a miracle.

I got to help Lorraine out just a little bit last week and I had so much fun playing with Cora, who, by the way, is a-cora-ble, and straightening up just a little bit. But what my visit reminded me of is that during those years of young motherhood you never really feel 100%. You are always a little tired, or really, really tired, a little sick, a little hungry, a little overwhelmed and it's nice when someone who loves you and who is through their childbearing years can swoop in and just take over for a day or two.

Thank you Joan. And you're welcome Lorraine.

Gramma Jaaannnnnnaaaaa!

2008-08-07T17:23:00.000-07:00

So I just put my little friend Grace in a car to head back to her mommy and daddy. I didn't think it would be a big deal but I am not ashamed to say I cried a tear or two.

Because Brad was recovering from his appendectomy and Elise had plenty to do taking care of him and Claire, I volunteered to take Grace home with me this week. I knew that I could devote 100% of my time to her; I had nothing else going on. And I also knew that because she was moving to Texas, it might be a long time before I see her again.

The first words I heard every morning this week were, "Gramma Jaaannnaaa, wipe me." It's good to begin your day with a smile. We ate Frosted Mini Wheats every morning for breakfast. We watched Dora the Explorer way too many times. Then Backyardigans. Then Wonder Pets. We went to the water park every afternoon. We got a happy meal on the way home. We played with Polly Pocket. We ate cookies. We bought some school clothes.

I had forgotten how repetetive and monotonous young motherhood is.

But I had also forgotten how wonderful a small child can make you feel when, right before they fall asleep, they say, "You know what, I love you." Or when they pull your hand over to where they are and say, "I want you to be by me." Or when they are trying to tell you something that doesn't come out quite right and you both look at each other and start cracking up.

So, I enjoyed being a grandma this week. Now it's back to reading novels and watching Pride and Prejudice. Also boring, but what's a grandma to do?

A Senti"mental" Fool

2008-07-15T21:01:00.000-07:00

Emphasis on the "mental."

I don't know why I have such a great memory for some things but can't remember other details at all.

For example, all I had to do was look at a picture of Nick and Casey Rushton the other day on their blog and a thousand memories and feelings flew through my head and heart and I was almost overcome with emotion. Sitting right here at my little desk, I practically started crying like a baby. I was wishing I could see those boys again. I remember talking to Nick about the future, he was always so interested in it, and watching Casey play baseball with Brad and basketball at Peninsula and nudging him awake at early morning Seminary.

Casey was a pretty good sport about that whole early morning thing. (He hated it!) I remember that my first week into teaching the Junior Class that year, I made a goal that I would teach an interesting and fun lesson every day and that I would know I was successful if I could make Casey smile at least one time every morning. I did a pretty good job. When I got in the car to drive the girls to school after teaching they would ask me how my class went and I would say, "I got Casey to smile today, so that's good." Thank you Casey for making my teaching job more fun and challenging.

One day I was substituting in Sunday School for the older kids and we were talking about marriage (Nick's favorite subject), and he asked me, "Is there one person who you are supposed to marry, one person in the whole world that you are promised to?" I answered, "Doctrinally, no, but after you have made your choice and marry the right person for you, I hope you go to bed every night and say, 'I picked the right person. I couldn't have married anyone else and been this happy.'" I think Nick says that every night.

I remember these random memories but can't remember to take the trash out on Tuesdays or to send my mom a birthday card or to pay a bill.

I think this is what happens to old ladies and the moral of the story is this: Life is really more about relationships, feelings and memories than jobs, tasks and lists. So, spend time on the important things like loving and helping people and try to get the other things done if you can fit them in.

Old Lady Joins New Age

2008-07-08T21:57:00.000-07:00

Somedays I feel really old. Like on days when I have to go up and down stairs, even more than one time. It is really amazing to me that my body, the thing I have been taking care of, feeding, clothing, brushing, rubbing...etc....this thing that I have devoted so much time and attention to, is now just abandoning me. My muscles don't listen to me anymore. They won't help me off the couch or out of a chair. My memory doesn't need me; it will go where it wants and do what it wants without my permission. My hair now has a mind of its own. As do my abdominal muscles.

Interestingly, at exactly the same moment in time that my body is abandoning me, so are my children. The children that I have taken care of, fed, clothed, brushed and rubbed for the last 25 years.

Megan, my youngest, is going off to college in the next few weeks. Kevin will be home from his mission in a couple of months but he left me two years ago and will only be home as a visitor from here on out. My big girl Lorraine is a mommy now and hardly needs me at all. She is so accomplished and grown-up, all the way in O-town. And my grown-up boy Brad is the best daddy in the world, making his own way with his little family.

So, the crappy/great thing about motherhood is that if you have done your job correctly, all of your children leave you and you are out of a job. Like my muscles, my children don't really listen to me any more, why should they? I can't tell them anything they don't already know. Like my memory, they don't need me, they will go and do whatever they want without my permission. And, like my hair, they all have minds of their own. Strong willed, super-smart minds that I couldn't be prouder of.

So, good for them and good for me. This old lady is ready to move on into the fabulous future, a new age. I will work on keeping my body and my family together, enjoying both of them as the years progress. Hurray for me!